Getting Together within 10,000 Words or More
by My Favourites From Ao3
Summary: Collection of 10,000 Worded Stories from AO3 (some stories are part of a series and some were extracted from other collections). All of these are Gay Ships. STETER, TYRUS, H800, BOYF, CHACK, TREEBROS, MERTHUR, STEREK, SPIDEYPOOL, DRARRY, KLANCE, STUCKY, 00Q, GERASKIER and More...
1. NOTES FROM EDITOR-SAN

Hi, this is Editor-San.

Please be mindful that all the stories here _**aren't**_**_mine_**and are put here for the sole purpose of being conveniently complied into one giant mess of an Anthology for me to read. Another thing, these are assorted from different fandoms and all these are purely **_GAY _**pairings. I'll put ratings on the title to make it easier for you guys to discern which is just porn and which fics are fluff.

* * *

_**RATINGS ARE GIVEN BY THE STORIES' AUTHORS**_

**E** = Explicit

**M** = Mature

**T** = Teen

**G** = General

**O **= Others (The author purposely didn't tag it with any ratings)

* * *

**STETER **= Stiles Stilinski/Pater Hale from _Teen Wolf_

**TYRUS** = TJ Kippen/Cyrus Goodman from _Andi Mack_

**H800** = Hank Anderson/RK800|Connor from _Detroit: Become Human_

**BOYF** = Michael Mell/Jeremy Heere from _Be More Chill (Iconis/Tracz)_

**IRONWINTER **= Tony Stark|Iron Man/James "Bucky" Barns|Winter Soldier from _Marvel Cinematic Universe|Marvel Comic Books_

**TREEBROS** = Connor Murphy/Evan Hansen from _Dear Evan Hansen_

**CHACK** = Chase Young/Jack Spicer from _Xiaolin Showdown_

**MERTHUR **= Merlin/Arthur Pendragon from _Merlin_

**SPIDEYPOOL** = Peter Parker|Spiderman/Wade Wilson|Deadpool from _Marvel Comic Books_

**STEREK** = Stiles Stilinski/Derek Hale from _Teen Wolf_

**PRINXIETY **= Princey|Roman|Creativity/Vigil|Anxiety from _Sander Sides_

**DRARRY **= Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter from _Harry Potter_

**KLANCE** = Keith Kogane/Lance McClain from _Voltron: Legendary Defenders_

**HANNIGRAM** = Hannibal Lecter/Will Graham from _Hannibal_

**RYERS** = Richie Tozier/Will Byers from _IT_ and _Stranger Things_

**ZUKKA **= Zuko/Sokka from _Avatar: The Last Air Bender_

**STUCKY** = Steve Rogers|Captain America/James "Bucky" Barnes|Winter Soldier from _Marvel Cinematic Universe/Marvel Comic Books_

**00Q** \- James Bond|007/Q from _James Bond Movies_

**REDDIE** = Richie Tozier/Eddie Kaspbrak from _IT_

**BAGGINSHIELD** = Thorin Oakenshield/Bilbo Baggins from _The Hobbit_

**GERASKIER** = Geralt z Rivii|Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier|Dandelion from _Wiedźmin|The Witcher_

**SPIDEYTORCH** = Peter Parker|Spiderman/Johnny Storm|Human Torch from _Marvel Comic Books_

**SIKUS** = PL600|Simon/RK200|Markus from _De__roit: Become Human_

**STARKER** = Peter Parker|Spiderman/Tony Stark|Iron Man from _Marvel Cinematic Universe|Marvel Comic Books_

**KEVEDD** = Kevin/Edd "Double D" from _Ed, Edd n Eddy_

**SIDLINK** = Prince Sidon/Link from _The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild_

**DILLINSKI **= Jake Dillinger/Rich Goranski from _Be More Chill (Iconis/Tracz)_

**LOGICALITY** = Logan|Logic/Patton|Morality from _Sander Sides_

**TODODEKU** = Midoriya Izuki|Deku/Todoroki Shouto from _Boku no Hero __Academia_

**KIRIBAKU **= Kirishima Eijiro/Bakugou Katsuki from _Boku no Hero Academia_

**KOMEHINA** = Komeada Nagito/Hajime Hinata from _Danganronpa Series/Franchise_

**KLAPOLLO **= Klavier Gavin/Apollo Justice from _Ace Attorney Franchise_

**GUMSWORTH** = Dick Gumshoe/ Miles Edgeworth from _Ace Attorney Franchise_

**STONY **= Steve Rogers|Captain America/Tony Stark|Iron Man from _Marvel Cinematic Universe|__Marvel Comic Books_

**SALARRY **= Sal Fisher|Sally Face/Larry Johnson from _Sally Face_

**JAGISA** = Kemuri Jataro/Shingetsu Nagisa from _Danganronpa Series/Franchise_

_To be updated..._


	2. (G) STETER - The Unexpected Marriage of

The Unexpected Marriage of Peter Hale  
moonstalker24

Summary:  
This is the story of how Peter gets married without technically dating anyone.

"You can bring your boyfriend with you," Talia says.

Peter stops giving Henry more bits of dried fruit to stare at his sister "Boyfriend?"

"Of course!" Talia gestures at Stiles who looks around behind him with wide eyes. "I'm sure the whole family would be interested in meeting your young man."

* * *

Chapter 01

Stiles has noticed the shop before. It sits directly across the street from his favorite yarn haunt, The Fiber Factory*. Stiles has never been inside the shop before. He's never been much of one for tea. Stiles and soothing things during school are non-mixy things.

But it's October finally, and the door of Hale Of A Tea is propped open and there is this scent wafting out of the shop. It's deep and rich and chocolatey with a sharp tang of peppermint and Stiles must have that. Whatever it is.

Stiles wanders into the shop following his nose. He bumps into a patron, mumbles an apology and props himself against the counter where a teapot is steaming away next to a little pile of sample cups. Stiles pours himself a little, takes a sip, and moans in delight.

When he comes back to himself, he looks up into an amused pair of very blue eyes and Stiles flushes. The man behind the counter quirks a small amused smile at him and Stiles grins back helplessly.

"I'll have a very large of whatever this amazing, heavenly concoction is. Please and thank you."

The man has sharp cheekbones, carefully styled brown hair and a nametag that says 'Peter'. "Anything else I can get you while you wait?" he asks as he moves to take a canister off the wall. It's a silver, square canister, and when Peter opens the lid, Stiles gets a lungful of that heavenly smell again.

"Are you sure that's tea?" he wonders, watching Peter measure out several scoops into a tea strainer.

"It's our White Chocolate Peppermint Rooibos*. It's seasonal, and one of our best sellers," Peter tells him with a smirk. Stiles gets the feeling he gets this reaction rather a lot this time of year.

Stiles is not ashamed.

He watches Peter pour boiling water into a to go cup and dip the strainer in, hitting start on a timer. He takes a moment to look around the shop. It's got dark, hardwood flooring and shelves with rows of large silver canisters lining the wall behind the counter and halfway down the wall to the right of the counter. On the left is a pair of hot drink dispensers with little sample cups for tasting. There are little cards with what type of tea is in the dispenser alongside a sample of the loose leaves.

Stiles tries them both. He likes the grapefruity herbal one that's iced, but not the hot green one. It tastes a bit too much like muddy grass and he ate enough of that playing lacrosse in high school, thanks.

He peruses the small shelves next to the sample table. It houses a display about the benefits of herbal remedies and each canister extols the virtues of the herb inside. Apparently he could dabble in making his own teas if he wanted. There are a pair of armchairs by the front window and two little tables nearby. The rest of the shop is littered with tea sets, mugs, books, strainers. All the things one would need to tea properly.

Stiles flips open one of the books on the history of tea and gets so absorbed that when a hand appears in his peripheral holding a cup he jumps and drops the book. He stoops to pick up the book and when he turns around Peter is standing there smirking, amusement dancing in his eyes.

He's even prettier up close.

"Thanks," he manages, taking the cup from Peter.

"I threw a couple ice cubes in to make it a tolerable temperature."

"Awesome!" Stiles exclaims and takes a sip, moaning. When he looks up, Peter is staring at him. Stiles blushes and holds up the book. "I think I'd like this, too."

Peter rings him up, amusement in his eyes again and tucks the receipt into the book before handing it over. Their hands brush and Stiles thanks him before turning to leave. He's already making plans to come back.

With the way Stiles' brain works, he devours the book in only a few short hours. He mourns the end of his tea by peering into the empty cup for longer than is strictly necessary. He pulls an all nighter because he gets distracted researching tea online and forgets about the paper he has that's due the next day. When he does remember it's two in the morning and he's already dragging.

He stumbles his way through his morning classes blearily, remembers nothing of either lecture, but takes notes that will probably take as much time to decipher as it would to just go back and redo the reading. Scott is always amused by Stiles when he is sleep deprived, and is helpful only to the extent of steering his best friend around objects that if run into, would injure him.

By one he's gonna die, he knows it.

He makes it halfway to his usual coffee haunt before turning tail and heading for Hale Of A Tea. He practically falls into the shop, earning a disgusted look from a pair of little old ladies sitting at one of the tables and an amused look from Peter behind the counter.

When Stiles slumps over to the counter Peter asks mildly "What can I get you?"

"Something to make the world not seem like a horrible place?" Stiles asks.

"Since you're new to this whole tea thing, I'm going to take pity on you" Peter tells him. "But next time I expect you to be able to answer the question without help."

"You are a god among men" Stiles tells him fervently. He roots around in his bag and produces a knitted scarf in heather gray. It doesn't have an elegant pattern to it, but the yarn is soft and warm and he finished it this morning in a bout of crazy during one of his classes. "If you sell me some of that chocolate peppermint goodness from the other day and teach me how to brew it I will love you forever."

Peter shakes his head in amusement as he scoops several different teas into a strainer and sets it into a cup. He pours boiling water into it from the dispenser by the sink and sets a timer. He turns to the shelf behind him and grabs a tin off the bottom shelf and opens the lid. Stiles can't help himself, he leans forward and inhales the rich aroma with a look of bliss on his face.

"How much would you like?"

"How much is it?"

"We have a minimum of 100 grams. It's $12.95 per hundred" Peter explains. That seems steep to Stiles, but Peter explains that it's just over three ounces and that that amount of tea can make up to twenty cups.

The timer goes off and Peter removes the strainer from the cup and plops a couple of ice cubes into it to make it drinkable and slides it across the tabletop. Stiles inhales and there's something earthy and orangey and it makes him slump a little.

"Lets start with that much, see if I can do this brewing tea thing right" Stiles says.

So Peter walks him through the steps of brewing a proper cup of tea. Explains that if he gets confused there are directions on the back of the packaging as he scoops tea into a blue, foil lined bag. He sticks a label to it and Stiles pays for his tea and a strainer and a little scooper. Peter hands him his bag and Stiles loops the scarf around his neck and takes the bag.

"Thanks," he says and takes his bag of tea and his to go cup and leaves the shop.

Peter watches him go, fingering the heather yarn with a small smile.

Stiles is ashamed of himself when he's run out of tea three days later. He feels an expensive addiction coming on and he can't be fussed because it is A) delicious and B) the facilitator of said new addition is very, very pretty.

"Where are you going?" Scott groans because it is seven in the morning and no self-respecting college student is up this early unless they have a class. And no self-respecting college student has an early class on purpose.

"I have a mighty need," Stiles says, like that explains anything. He stuffs yarn and needles in his bag and crashes out of the apartment with no regard to Scott's tender feelings.

He's already gone by the time Scott decides that yelling at him is worth the effort.

* * *

Chapter 2

Peter likes midmorning in the store. The crush of the early morning rush is over and the regulars that run their errand on their lunch breaks aren't out yet. Peter can take a while to just breathe in the unique scent of the tea shop and remind himself why it is that he opened the place at all.

He loves tea. He loves everything it does and everything it means. It's soothing and tea doesn't nitpick you over the fact that you're headed into your late thirties without a wife and five kids to show for it. Also, the shop is away from Beacon Hills.

He chose Berkeley to capitalise on all the university students who were both getting into tea because of the trend, or already know tea. They spend a lot of money on iced beverages in summer, fall and spring and hot in fall and winter. Students are also a source of cheap labor seeing as most of them only want something part time for some extra spending money.

It's just across the bay from San Francisco so he gets all the news from tea sellers in the city without being in the city. A Hale Of A Tea is also the only true tea shop in city that is locally owned and operated. There is a single Teavana at the mall across town, so he has very little competition. He's got a prime location in the historical shopping district just a few blocks from campus and regular clientele.

Peter looks around the shop with a small smile and that's when he notices him. Stiles is sitting in one of the armchairs in the nook by the window. He's got a mug on the little table in front of him and he's knitting. Peter cocks his head and squints and he thinks it's a bright purple cat figure, but he can't be sure because it doesn't have any ears yet.

Peter wanders over, takes a glance at the mug. It's empty. There's a little gray dog sitting on the table with black button eyes and felt tongue. The yarn matches the scarf Stiles gave him. The scarf Peter has loosely looped around his neck every morning since.

"Stiles?" Stiles starts and looks up. He smiles sheepishly and Peter quirks an eyebrow at him. "Don't you have classes today?"

"No. It's Thursday." Stiles says. "I'm finishing up all the loose ends and then next year I get to hit it hard because it'll be my doctorate year."

So he's twenty-five at the least. Peter feels better because while still more than ten years younger, it makes him feel less like a creep knowing that Stiles isn't a freshman or something.

"What are you studying?" Peter asks curiously. He should be working on restocking before the noon rush. He heads in the direction of the storeroom, but makes sure that Stiles knows he's still listening.

He needn't have bothered, Stiles follows him. "History, Myths in Literature that sort of thing. I want to teach so that I can get paid to argue about things I like and have a nice office, hence the Phd."

Peter nods. Makes sense, before opening the shop he was a highly paid corporate lawyer. Boy, did Talia not take him leaving well. On top of not married and no kids he was taking his fancy law degree and opening a tea shop.

"Wait" Stiles says, leaning on the counter. "What is that?"

Peter looks down at the large five pound bag of tea he just cut open to pour into the tin he's got sitting in front of him. He smiles. "Coconut Ginger Rooibos."

"It smells awesome. What's a rooibos?"

"It's an herbal type tea made from a pea plant from Africa." Peter explains. "The White Chocolate Peppermint you like so much is a rooibos."

"Does it have caffeine?"

"Not typically, no."

"Huh."

For the next hour Stiles quizzes Peter on tea as he restocks the shelves. Peter tells him about the differences in types of tea, what they're good for. Peter gives him the same treatment he gives all new customers. He pulls down the teas and he lets him smell the leaves and explains about them. By the end of the hour Stiles' pockets are several hundred dollars lighter and he leaves the store with a thermos with a built in infuser, an infuser mug and nearly a dozen different teas he wants to try.

Peter watches him leave the store with a small smile. He does like to introduce new people to the joy of tea. He runs his fingers over the soft yarn of the beanie hat that Stiles had left him. The color is a perfect match to his scarf.

It takes him a couple of days to notice the small bright purple cat propped on the shelf between two teapots and the little gray wolf tucked into the gap between the register and the counter where customers put their purchases to check out.

He doesn't move either of them.

Stiles quickly becomes a regular fixture around the shop. He usually pops in for a midday fix. He favors the black and oolong teas and some of the greens during the days. The ones that have high caffeine content and flavor to match. He likes the more delicate white teas and herbals, but those are the ones he buys to take home.

He tells Peter very seriously that those are weekend and days off teas. On the days he has classes he wishes to be tense so he has coffee in the morning and tea with lunch. Peter is a classy tea drinker and drinks whatever he's in the mood for. Whatever he's in the mood for become the samples of the day and the two teas (one iced, one hot) are on sale that day.

Stiles starts leaving little knitted animals everywhere. There's a pair of tiny foxes wedged in the shelves with the single herbs. A green turtle sits elegantly on a tea tray next to an expensive yi-xing tea set. A yellow duck has been stuffed inside one of the iced tea pitchers.

Peter doesn't have the heart to move any of them. He feels like he's being invaded but he doesn't do anything about it, because every time he finds a new one it means Stiles has been back to the shop.

It's not just small knitted animals that appear as well. Stiles forces wearables on him as well. There's a cable knit sweater in cobalt that Stiles insists makes his eyes seem even bluer. A heather gray cardigan to match his hat and scarf. By the time December rolls around Peter has been outfitted for the cold in gray, blue, green and a singular (horrifying) orange and red striped sweatervest.

Thankfully Peter doesn't feel obligated to wear the sweatervest. He shoves it to the back of his closet and prays it stays there until it decays.

One morning just after his last final of the semester, Stiles makes his way to the tea shop wearing a giant cardigan he purposely knitted two sizes too big. It's dark red and matches the hoodie he's wearing underneath it. He has a coat, but it's still warm enough that layering up is still the way to go. He can't fit this cardigan under his coat.

He skips across the street to The Fiber Factory for yarn because it's time to finish up the Christmas gifts (he's a poor college student with a hobby, he makes all the gifts he gives) and spends some time gabbing with the ladies sitting around having class. It's an advanced class, which really makes it a sit around and knit (or crochet) with your friends and gossip class.

Then he makes his way across the road to A Hale Of A Tea and when he steps inside the shop it looks like an old folks home threw up inside it. He looks around at all the ladies (and a few guys), most over the age of fifty, and sees a lot of Fiber Factory bags.

Right, he forgot. The Yarn Crawl.

Stiles uses his youth and leanness to his advantage to make it to the counter. Peter pins him with a look and Stiles is dumping his bag, his shopping and his cardigan in the storeroom. He pulls on a blue apron and dives into the fray.

"Oh my goodness!" a voice cries over all the voices a while later. "Gail! Gail, look at this! Look at how cute it is!"

Gail is a dark haired woman standing next to the sample table trying to drink her weight in iced Strawberry Grapefruit Xue Long green tea. She turns and crosses the shop to a blue haired woman (her friend has embraced her age, whereas Gail is still fighting it) who is brandishing one of Stiles' little animals.

Gail cooes over the cute little animal and the ladies chatter about how perfect they are for stocking stuffers for the littler grandkids. When Gail and her blue haired friend make it to the register they have nine of the handicrafts between then.

"How much are these?" the blue haired lady asks. She's buying chamomile and a tumbler to put it in as well.

Peter stares at her and looks around at Stiles, who shrugs. "Five?" - Stiles shakes his head - no, "six dollars."

The two ladies happily shell out the six dollars apiece and when the crush of people is gone and it's just Peter and Stiles in the shop there isn't a single tiny knitted animal to be seen anywhere. Well, except for the little gray dog by the register. That one Peter had said wasn't for sale.

"Six dollars?" Peter asks, raising his eyebrows. "Really?"

"What? That pays for your labor and gives you some profit. If we split it seventy-thirty they'll pay for themselves and keep me in yarn," Stiles replies with a grin.

Peter doesn't understand the fascination but it did clear out the shop and he knows Stiles will probably just repopulate it anyway. "Alright, deal. I'll sell them, but you keep up with supply and demand on your own."

"You got it!" Stiles replies cheerfully, because score! More money coming in means more money for things like actual food that doesn't come in a box.

That night Peter meets Henry. Of course, Peter doesn't know that his name is Henry. He just knows that after figuring out what that strange sound was he spends an hour running around the shop trying to catch a Hedgehog.

Fast little bugger too.

Once Peter's got him cornered he sacrifices an apron to the cause and sets him in a box that once held a tea set he's got out on display. Henry stares up at him from his prison like Peter's just gone and destroyed everything. Peter sighs because anyone could have left their hedgehog behind and now he's going to have to make found pet flyers.

He spends several hours online researching what hedgehogs eat that night. He feeds it and then spends the whole night restlessly wondering if he's going to get up in the morning and find that the hedgehog has escaped into the house.

Stiles on the other hand flips his lid. He goes to feed Henry and his best tiny friend is gone. He tears apart his room, screams for Scott and the pair of them tear through the apartment looking for Henry.

Scott gets it, he's in veterinary school. Small animals are his thing.

When Allison shows up for movie night she gets roped into helping look and she is reminded, again, that if she ends up married to Scott this will probably be a recurring theme in her life.

It's nearly midnight, Stiles is starting think Henry's dead in a crack somewhere when he spots it. His cardigan hanging innocently by the door. He narrows his eyes and recounts his footsteps from that morning. He'd grabbed his cardigan off the bed, not the rack by the door.

Crap.

Henry loves pockets. He will spend whole days with Stiles riding around in his pockets with a handful of dried fruit for company and no one is ever the wiser. If Stiles' sweater was in range and Henry was out of his terrarium this morning then Henry likely ended up in his pocket.

...Which he took off at the tea shop.

Ooops.

Stiles is hopping from foot to foot outside a Hale Of A Tea when Peter gets there. He looks anxious and he's blowing into his mittened hands and Peter sighs. That answers the question of who the hedgehog that had done a faceplant in his granola this morning belongs to.

"I left Henry here by accident" Stiles blurts out as soon as Peter approaches.

Peter's eyebrows crawl upward, but he doesn't say anything, just lets them into the shop. He flips on the lights and sets the shoebox that was under his arm down on the counter and takes off the lid. Henry appears and Stiles cooes over him in joy because his hedgehog is content and unharmed and traveled in style in a cloth lined box.

"Thanks for looking after him." Stiles says with a grin Peter's direction.

"Thank me by helping" Peter tells him. So Stiles does. He helps Peter prepare for the day by setting out new merchandise and quickly wiping off the counter. Peter opens several tins of tea to make the day's samples. One is a deep, earthy yellow tea that Stiles stands over just to breathe it in. This one Peter brews hot and sweetens with just a little bit of rock sugar to take any bitter edge off.

The other tea is a fruity tea that Peter blends together from Strawberry Creme White tea and Wild Orange Wulong tea. This one will be iced and he doesn't sweeten it. The strawberry is strong enough to cut through the wulong well enough to not need it. Henry climbs out of the box to investigate the tins because it smells very interesting.

Peter won't ever admit to doing it, but he fishes bits of dried strawberry out of the tin and scatters them on the counter for Henry to eat. It's all organic, and Peter does it all the time, so he knows it won't hurt the hedgehog.

"What else can I do?" Stiles asks after taking the broom to the floor.

Peter gestures to the large cast iron teapot sitting in the drying rack. It's black with gold brushed elephants on it. "Make up a pot of the White Chocolate Peppermint?"

Stiles nods and gets to business. If there is one thing he's learned since October it's how to brew this particular blend of tea. He busies himself with measuring things out and pours the water into the teapot. He sets a timer and digs around under the counter for the little sample cups Peter keeps by the samples.

Peter is in the back room of the shop when Stiles stands up. The timer goes off and he quickly pulls the strainer from the teapot and puts the lid on. He turns to take it over to the tea tray where Peter has set up an area where people can set out cast iron pieces to create their perfect tea set. He stops and clears his throat "Hi! We're not open yet."

There's a tall, elegant looking dark haired woman standing just inside the door of the shop. Next to her is a younger woman, not quite as tall, but equally pretty. They are similar enough in looks for Stiles to decide instantly that they are mother and daughter.

"Oh, I know." the older woman says. "Is Peter here?"

Stiles walks over to the display and sets the teapot down on a trivet gently. He futzes with the warmer for a minute, trying to get it going "He's in the back."

Peter appears and he takes one look at the women darkening his doorway, scowls and says, "No."

Talia Hale raises a singular eyebrow at her brother and says "You always say that."

"And I always mean it," Peter says drily. He walks over to Stiles and gently moves him out of the way to light the warmer for him. Stiles smiles gratefully and sets the teapot overtop of it. Then he goes to put out the sample cups. "Talia, this is my busiest time of year, I am not closing up the shop just to spend a week being judged by our family."

"We're not that bad, Uncle Peter," Laura says, flopping into a chair.

Stiles' eyebrows go up and he makes inquiring eyebrows at Peter, who rolls his eyes impressively. Talia observes this and says. "It's Christmas, Peter."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Peter asks, because holidays have never been his forte anyway. Besides it's the busy season and he is no longer a high priced corporate lawyer anymore.

"You can bring your boyfriend with you," Talia says.

Peter stops giving Henry more bits of dried fruit to stare at his sister "Boyfriend?"

"Of course!" Talia gestures at Stiles who looks around behind him with wide eyes. "I'm sure the whole family would be interested in meeting your young man."

Stiles mouths '_young man_' to himself as Peter tries to wiggle out of visiting for the holidays. "I really can't afford to close the shop, Talia," he tells her.

Stiles makes up his mind and bounces his way around the counter. "Besides!" he says brightly "I'm headed home for Christmas tomorrow." He gives Talia serious eyes "And if I can't convince him to close the shop to come home and meet my dad, you've got no chance."

Peter is staring at him and Stiles reaches over and presses a kiss to his lips. "I've got to get to class, babe. I'm leaving Henry here, don't kill our hedgehog."

Peter makes an indignant noise, "I would never!"

"Good," Stiles beams, gives Peter another kiss and leaves the shop.

Peter watches him go and eventually meets Laura's shocked gaze. Her mouth is open in surprise so Peter just rolls with it. He smirks at his niece until she breaks eye contact and then turns back to his sister.

"Still no."

In the end Stiles leaves Henry with Peter, who agrees to hedgehog sit under an assault of sweet kisses bestowed upon him by Stiles. Who has decided that they're dating and is also completely shameless. So Stiles gives him Henry's small house, food and a brightly wrapped present with a tag on it that says _Do Not Open Until Christmas_.

It takes barely a day for Peter to find the hats. Teeny tiny hats that look suspiciously like they would fit Henry perfectly. There is a navy one that matches the one Stiles wears on a daily basis. One in the heather gray of the hat and scarf Stiles made Peter. There's one in red and white candy striping and a green one with tiny reindeer antlers and a tiny red puffball for a nose on it.

Peter is amazed and he can't resist. Henry wears his reindeer hat a lot while he stays with Peter.

The days after Stiles leaves seem longer.

Peter has set extended hours for the store up until Christmas Eve so he doesn't get home until late and when he does he feeds himself leftover chinese and Henry eats on the table next to him wearing a red hat with a little jingle bell atop it so that he tinkles gently while he eats. He decides halfway through the meal that what Stiles doesn't know won't hurt him and reaches for the haphazardly wrapped gift.

When he gets it open he has to smile because it's a pair of mittens and they match the ones Stiles wears. Stiles made him matching mittens.

Peter tries them on for size and grins a little when they're a perfect fit.

* * *

Chapter 3

Stiles gets back into town just after New Years and the first thing he does is go to the shop. He tells Scott it's to pick up Henry, but they both know he's lying. Henry is just a small part of why he's headed to the shop. Peter is the main reason. Scott lets him lie though because he thinks it's funny that after years of Stiles mocking him for being all confounded over someone he finally gets the chance to return the favor.

So Stiles rushes off to the tea shop shortly after he gets home to laughter from Scott, Isaac and Allison piled up on the couch.

Peter is helping a woman with a stroller and two small children with sticky fingers with a gift exchange when Stiles gets there. The baby in the stroller is out cold, but the two little girls keep touching things and every time they leave another fingerprint a muscle in Peter's jaw jumps.

Stiles shouldn't find it adorable, but he does.

Stiles ducks behind the counter, deposits his bag and digs for the suckers he knows Peter keeps behind the counter. "Hi hon!" he says and pecks Peter on the cheek. Peter growls and the muscle in his jaw jumps even as he gives Stiles a helpless little smile. The tired looking mother giggles at them.

Stiles rounds the counter and crouches by the two little girls "Hey, would you guys like a sucker?"

He has two sets of eyes riveted on him and both little girls nod. He leads them off to the chairs at one of the tables and sits them down. He lets each girl pick a color and then extracts a promise that they will sit still until their suckers are gone.

"You are," Peter begins once the woman and her children have exited the shop. He rounds the counter as he speaks and walks toward Stiles, "amazing."

Stiles stands to meet him and grins when Peter cradles his head in his hands and rubs their noses together in an eskimo kiss. He's delighted and he shows it by bouncing on his toes once and throwing his arms around Peter's neck to pull him into a real kiss.

Apparently Peter has decided that he's okay with Stiles' decision that they're in a relationship.

He can work with that.

The ladies at The Fiber Factory all adore Stiles. It isn't that you don't find many young men who knit or crochet. It isn't that he buys his yarn there. It's the fact that Stiles is always willing to stop and talk with them. He can argue over patterns and colors with the best of them. He knits those cute little animals and his hats are wonderful.

So naturally, when they hear that Stiles has been spending a lot of time at a certain tea shop. In fact, that he has been spending a lot of time with a certain sarcastic tea shop owner, they naturally all get together to wander down the street and peer at Peter.

He spends the whole time wishing that they'd at least come into the shop and buy things. That would make feeling like an exotic animal at the zoo a little easier. When he complains Stiles cackles and tells him to be careful what he wishes for.

When the ladies start coming into the shop to window shop his merchandise and talk to him he regrets ever saying anything. Lord almighty these women find him cute. It's like he's lost all his dangerous edge because he's dating Stiles. They take his quiet, sarcastic (caustic) nature as something to find adorable.

He hates it.

So, naturally, eventually he has to venture into The Fiber Factory one day for Stiles. Stiles is having a crap day and asked him to pick up a yarn order. He doesn't want to, and he stands on the sidewalk outside the shop scowling for long enough to garner the attention of the ladies in the shop.

They've started taking bets on how long he's just going to stand there when he finally comes in.

"Good morning, Peter," Muriel chirps. She's grinning from behind the counter and Peter feels like he's in hell.

"Muriel, Louise," Peter nods at the two sisters that own the shop and studiously does not look at the gaggle of women seated around the table in the middle of the room. If he doesn't look at them he can pretend they're not there.

"Did you need something?" Muriel asks sweetly.

"I'm here to pick up Stiles' order," Peter says, finally venturing away from the door. He edges past the table and he's surrounded.

"I have it in the back" Louise says. "I'll go get it, back in a jif."

Peter shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably while the chatting starts back up at the table behind him. They're talking quieter than they usually would and Peter knows they're talking about him. Especially if the bouts of cut off giggling is anything to go by.

"Did Stiles lend you his mittens, Peter?" one of the ladies asks. Peter hasn't bothered to learn the names of any of them aside from Muriel and Louise. "I helped him with the pattern you know. Poor boy just can't get the hang of knitting fingers."

A couple of the ladies coo about Stiles and his knitting as Peter extracts the mittens from his pocket. He fingers the soft yarn and says "He gave them to me for Christmas."

One of the ladies giggles in a high pitched way and hides her face behind the afghan she's working on. The woman who had asked about the mittens in the first place speaks again. "That's so nice. Stiles was wearing his yesterday. I made my husband and I matching scarves this year."

Peter tries not to color as the women start talking about couples sweaters and how to tell couples hats and mittens apart. He knows his ears are red as he looks down at his mittens. Stiles knitted a navy band around the wrists if his and a green one around Peter's so that they can tell him apart.

He does his best not to smile helplessly because the last thing he needs to give these women is anymore fodder for gossip.

When Louise finally returns with a cardboard box nearly overflowing with skeins of yarn Peter flees as quickly as he can, followed by laughter.

He finds himself investing in a terrarium for Henry in February. He stores it on a shelf in the shop next to the little stereo he keeps there. Because apparently he is co-parenting a hedgehog. Stiles comes by in the mornings on his way to classes for his morning tea and drops Henry off.

Peter doesn't understand, but he actually likes Henry so he doesn't say anything.

He meets Scott one morning when Stiles has an early class and had to skip coming to the shop. He sends Scott to drop off Henry and Scott (who is used to Stiles) bemusedly does it. Mostly he does it to sate his own curiosity, but he will also be telling everyone he knows what Stiles' tea shop owner is actually like.

Scott gets to the shop with forty-five minutes to spare before he needs to get to his own class. He steps inside the fragrant shop and peers around curiously at all the tea accessories around the shop. He grins at the sight of Stiles' knitted animals all over the place before he heads for the counter.

Peter finishes ringing up a woman with a gigantic philosophy book under one arm and turns his attention to Scott. His eyes land on the little carrier in Scott's hand with Henry inside it, and smirks.

"You must be Scott."

"That would be me," Scott says, and slides Henry's carrier across the counter.

Peter unlatches the door with practiced ease and reaches in. Henry has no problem being handled by Peter. Peter means he gets to explore the counter and sometimes he gets to ride in Peter's apron pocket when he's stocking the store. He also gets yummy bits of fruit for snacks, so he likes his new co-owner.

Scott watches Peter deposit Henry on the counter and slide the tin of tea he has yet to put away after showing it to the lady now sitting in an overstuffed armchair in the corner. He pops the lid open and a strong fruity scent colors the air as Peter scoops some out to pick out a few bits of fruit for Henry.

"What is that?" Scott wonders, because he can't pinpoint the smell.

"Dragonfruit Devotion," Peter says, fishing around under the counter. He retrieves a little box and pulls out Henry's navy hat and carefully fits it on his head. "It's one of today's sample teas if you'd like to try it" he gestures to the sample stand.

Scott wanders over and fills one of the little sample cups to try it and then turns back to Peter who is watching him with knowing eyes. "Sooo… You're dating my best friend."

"So it would seem," Peter says mildly. He never actually agreed to date anyone, but by now it's a moot point.

"I have instructions to invite you to Wing Thursday," Scott says. "And to not accept no for an answer."

"Wing Thursday?" Peter asks.

"Buffalo Wild Wings has half priced wings on Thursdays. We all go late at night to eat more than we should," Scott explains.

"I see."

"So you'll come."

"Well, since I have no choice."

"Good," Scott says. "It's the one by campus. Be there at ten."

Peter watches him go and when he's vanished around the corner he looks down at Henry and says: "When did hanging out with a bunch of college kids become my life?"

Henry wiggles his nose and nudges a piece of fruit Peter's way in comfort.

Eating food with Stiles' circle of friends is pure chaos. Scott and Allison get into a fight so Isaac sits between them affably eating the celery off their plates with a put upon expression on his face. They do this on a fairly regular basis, so it isn't unusual. They bicker and since Isaac is too classy to bicker, he ends up in the middle.

Stiles pulls Peter down to sit next to him at the end of the table. Peter is grateful for the escape route when Lydia and Jackson arrive with Danny and Ethan. Aiden slides into the space between Ethan and Lydia and spends the whole night aggressively murdering his wings and glaring at Jackson.

Erica and Boyd appear with their usual aplomb. Meaning that Erica very loudly announces their arrival and her opinions and Boyd stoically plows his way through a mountain of wings, eating five for every one of Erica's.

Stiles insists on splitting several flavors with Peter, and Peter doesn't mind. He doesn't actually notice because he's busy fending off the interrogation that Lydia launched as soon as she'd sat primly down and turned her whole body to face Peter with grim determination in her eyes.

She's terrifying. He likes her.

At the end of the night their server gets a gigantic tip because everyone pitches in with whatever loose change they've got on them to go with the tips included in their bills. They pile a bunch of crumpled ones and fives in the middle of the table along with a fistfull of quarters, nickels, dimes and pennies. Peter isn't sure how much it is, but he knows it's got to be more than forty dollars.

They were rowdy, loud and ate a lot of food. She earned it.

Peter decides that Stiles has decent friends and he won't mind doing this again next week. He tells Stiles this and Stiles grins and kisses him in reward when Peter drops him off at his door. Peter goes home full of chicken wings and a pleased feeling in his chest over this thing with Stiles.

Overall it's a good night, but that might just be the heartburn talking.

* * *

Chapter 4

They stay in for Valentine's. It's their first and Stiles just wants to spend it alone. Peter takes this into consideration and decides to invite Stiles over. He'll cook his famous carbonara and from scratch rolls and they'll watch movies and snuggle.

He didn't even know he liked snuggling until Stiles started showing up for movie night twice a week. It is now something he doesn't ever want to give up.

"We need to have a discussion," Peter says conversationally while he whisks the sauce.

"We do?" Stiles wonders, because as far as he knows things are going great.

Peter gives him a completely deadpan look and states, "My apartment is not your personal storage facility, Stiles."

"I don't know what you mean," Stiles replies. He's trying for innocent, but innocent on him always looks mischevious.

"There is yarn everywhere, Stiles. Everywhere."

"That's an exaggeration."

Peter looks pointedly at the bookcase behind Stiles and he swivels around to face it. The bottom two shelves that had at one point held actual books now hold baskets of yarn. The yarn is organized by color.

"There's one by the couch, Stiles."

Stiles shrugs and grins winningly at Peter. Peter raises a single eyebrow at him. "Okay, so I might have a yarn problem."

"I have yet to see you use any of these, Stiles," Peter says as transfers the noodles to the strainer in the sink.

"I will!" Stiles says defensively.

"No more yarn until you use some of this," Peter tells him. "You can't tell me you don't have just as much at home."

Stiles makes a face. "But it's yarn."

Peter smiles at him. "I know, baby."

Stiles sighs, put upon, but agrees to curb his yarn habit until he actually uses some of the yarn he already has. Later, when they're snuggled up on the couch under a quilt Peter's mother made and they're sharing cheesecake out of the pan, Stiles says: "Does this mean you don't want me to make you anymore things?"

Peter smiles and presses a kiss to Stiles' head. "You can make me all the things you want to."

March arrives and with it come spring and that week long break from school all students worship: Spring Break. Stiles packs away all the knitwear because it gets too warm for scarves and mittens very quickly. Peter gets in all the new spring goodies at the shop and spends approximately two days tearing his hair out because of inventory and taxes.

Stiles lets him go out of his mind over it all for about a week before he drags him out of the shop.

They drive into San Francisco and wander around in Chinatown for the afternoon. When they sit down to eat Stiles decides to broach the subject. He waits until he's halfway through his Sweet and Sour before he gets the guts up to say anything.

"Sooo…"

Peter looks up from his meal and raises his eyebrows at Stiles. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to because Stiles just blurts it out.

"My Dad is coming to visit over Spring Break."

"Okay," Peter says.

"And I want you to meet him. Him to meet you?" Stiles sighs and drops his head into a hand. He pouts to himself and looks over at Peter who is watching him.

"Okay," Peter says again.

"That's it?" Stiles wonders.

Peter smiles at him and something inside Stiles settles. This is going to be fine. Dad's cool with it, Peter is cool with it. Dad knows about Peter so it's not like there's going to be any big surprises. Well, barring strange incidents and Stiles making a fool of himself. That's inevitable though, so Stiles decides it doesn't count.

On the drive back to Berkeley Peter holds his hand over the gearshift and Stiles can't help but smile because his boyfriend is okay with meeting his Dad. The boyfriend that never really agreed to being his boyfriend. At least not out loud.

The end of March comes and with it what Stiles has started calling The Visit. Scott mocks him a lot because it's just the Sheriff. Stiles just gives him angry eyes and continues cleaning the apartment.

John arrives on Tuesday. It's mid-morning and Stiles is manic. He's bouncing with nerves and when they go to lunch he just can't sit still. John sits through it because this is his kid and he's got practice, but eventually he's had enough.

"Stiles, stop."

Stiles stares at John, "I can't help it."

"Kid, I like this Peter guy already solely based on how damn happy he makes you," John tells him.

Stiles nods. He knows this.

"Just remember that you've gotta let me have my fun."

"Dad!"

"What?" John asks. His innocent face is much more believable than Stiles'.

Stiles snorts.

Peter will never admit, upon pain of death, that he's nervous… But, well, he's nervous. Peter is the alone kind of person. He's never been in a relationship long enough to have meeting the parents actually be a thing. Now he's trying to muddle through the day trying not to over analyze how badly this could all go.

He wants John to like him.

He goes through an entire pot of the Apple Lemon Pomegranate rooibos he carries all on his own. It's soothing and he likes it a little better than chamomile. He loses patience with a trio of giggly teenage girls who wander into the shop and have to pick up everything in sight. He rearranges the books on tea, first in descending order of size, then by subject, and then he returns it to the way it was before. Alphabetically by author.

By the time four o'clock rolls around Peter has twisted himself around, straightened himself out and then decided it's all for naught. John will like him or he won't and Peter just has to remember that Stiles adores him and that's what matters.

He decides this just in time because Stiles and his father enter the shop right as the clock rolls over on four-fifteen. John is of a similar height to Stiles, and he has a similar facial structure. His facial expressions are certainly similar enough that Peter can see the resemblance. This is all that Peter gets to see before Stiles bounds across the shop and throws himself into Peter's arms.

Peter catches him because by now it's reflex and he can't help smiling and rubbing their noses together in an eskimo kiss like he always does before Stiles kisses him in return.

"Hi!" Stiles breathes at him.

"Hey," Peter returns.

They pull apart and turn to John who is smiling softly at them. Stiles tugs Peter forward and introduces them. "Dad, this is Peter. Babe, this is my father, John."

"It's nice to meet you," Peter says, and offers up a hand to shake.

John takes it. His grip is firm, his hand warm and dry. "It's nice to meet you too."

The rest of the visit goes well. They spend a lot of time wandering around seeing the sights in the city. Stiles drags John to all his favorite restaurants. John eats a lot, but he keeps it healthy because otherwise Stiles will get all his deputies to gang up on him to make sure he's eating right when he gets home.

Again.

Peter spends quite a bit of time with them. He isn't always around, but this visit feels more like John came to visit _them_ than just to visit Stiles. It's really nice. Peter likes the feeling of having someone visit just because they actually might like him and not because they want something.

His family always seems to want something. To nag about not being married, to con him into visiting home… legal advice.

Once John has left, Stiles flops onto the couch next to Peter with a sigh. Peter has his feet propped up on the second hand coffee table Scott and Isaac found at a garage sale back in junior year. He's got his eyes closed and his head leaned back. Stiles snuggles into his side and Peter wraps an arm around him.

They're silent for a few minutes until Stiles says: "That went well, I think."

Peter tips his head to rest on Stiles', "It did."

"He likes you."

"I like him."

they bask in being together for a few minutes and then Stiles says, softly enough that Peter almost doesn't hear it: "I love you, you know."

Peter smiles in wonder and gazes down at the man in his arms. He pulls him closer and presses a kiss into his hair and says: "I love you too."

* * *

Chapter 5

Classes end, Stiles defends his thesis and gets his doctorate and gets hired on by the historical society in San Francisco. Stiles is excited because he gets to work in the museum and talk about mythology all day.

The lease on the apartment ends at the beginning of June and after a talk about how all his yarn needs to live in the same place, Stiles moves in with Peter. It's an adjustment because together they have a lot of books and Stiles brings more yarn into the house than common sense, or so Peter says.

Stiles rearranges their tea paraphernalia. Between the two of them they have duplicate tins of approximately half their teas. He goes out one day and buys a glass, corner display case to show off the nicest of their tea sets. They have thirty between them and Stiles thinks it's a travesty to just box them up and store them.

Peter rolls with the changes. He clears a corner table of the dead plant Talia gave him at Thanksgiving for Henry's habitat. He goes through all the books for duplicates, tracks down another bookcase and reorganizes.

Stiles continues to knit. Now that it's summer he's taken to making blankets (in addition to all the hats) to donate to a couple of local charities. At the beginning of July he participates in the semi-annual yarn crawl. Peter is inundated with a thousand ladies driving around the county from shop to shop again.

Peter is trying to avoid strangling anyone when Laura and Derek appear in the shop. Laura looks absolutely gleeful and waves as she and her brother take up seats at a little table. Derek is scowling and grumpy because they've been driving all morning and Laura hasn't let him stop to eat.

Halfway through the afternoon Stiles comes into the shop. Peter is ringing out the last set of ladies from the most recent wave when Stiles comes in. He's carrying two huge, overflowing bags of yarn and a grin.

Peter sighs, "Really?"

"Really, really!" Stiles chirps as he deposits his stuff in the back room and then comes over to press a quick kiss to Peter's cheek. He's extracting Henry from his terrarium when a loud female voice comes from the other side of the shop.

"See! I told you he had a boyfriend!"

Both Peter and Stiles turn to stare at Laura and the ladies give the table she's sitting at with Derek a wide berth as they leave the shop. Derek has a long suffering look on his face as if he's finally accepted his fate to be embarrassed by his older sister on a regular basis.

Stiles can't help himself, he smiles at Laura sunnily and says: "I'm not his boyfriend, I'm his fiance."

Everyone turns to stare at Stiles. Laura and Derek in shock and Peter with a sort of wondering look in his eyes that tells Stiles they'll be revisiting that statement at a later date.

Stiles is okay with that.

Peter doesn't bring up their apparent engagement at first. He fields phone calls from Talia, his mother and the rest of the family demanding to know why he hadn't told anyone he was seeing anyone. Why didn't he call to tell them that he was getting engaged? When was the wedding? Would they be invited or should they just expect to see an announcement in the paper?

It takes several weeks for Peter to bring it up. Mostly because his family is his family and he can't get a word in edgewise and doesn't want to deal with it at home too. Eventually though he's dealt with the family and he's ready to talk about it.

Right when Stiles' false sense of security was settling in, too.

Peter makes an after dinner pot of tea and joins Stiles in the living room and settles in to stare at him disconcertingly until Stiles acknowledges him.

"Okay, what?" Stiles demands.

"We're engaged?" Peter asks. His voice is mild.

Stiles stops and looks at him, but he can't read anything in his expression. He picks up his tea cup and fiddles with it a bit, sipping nervously. "You don't want to get married?"

"Stiles," Peter says calmly. "We've been dating for nearly a year and we never actually said we were doing it."

"You don't want to date me?" Stiles asks.

"That isn't what I'm saying," Peter says. "Marriage is big, we need to talk about this."

"We do?"

"Yes."

"What is there to talk about?" Stiles asks. "I love you, you love me, we already live together. We're co-parenting a hedgehog."

Peter sighs and he knows that Stiles will continue to talk this in circles unless Peter stops him. "Drink your tea."

Stiles lifts the tea cup to his mouth and sips. Peter watches him with a zen expression on his face until Stiles gets to the bottom of his cup. Then his gaze sharpens when Stiles hears the clinking and peers into the china trying to figure out what that sound it.

"Are you serious?"

Peter grins.

"Are you kidding me right now?!" Stiles demands, fishing a white gold ring out of his cup and drying it with the edge of his shirt. It has a trio of square diamonds embedded in it and it's classic and masculine. Stiles looks up at Peter with wide eyes, "Are you? Really?"

Peter slinks off his feet so that he's kneeling in front of Stiles, whose eyes go as wide as saucers as he lets Peter take his limp hands.

"Stiles Stilinski, every since the first time you walked into my shop I have wanted to know you. As I have gotten to know you you have crept into every crevice of my life until I no longer recognized it. You are the air I breathe and the light at the end of my tunnel and I love you. Will you marry me?"

"Yes," Stiles breathes, eyes still wide, but with his eyes glittering.

Peter smiles and takes the ring from Stiles' limp hand and slips the ring on his finger. He kisses both of Stiles' hands and then leans up to rub their noses together. Stiles grins, remembers himself and cradles Peter's head in his hands to kiss him properly.

"I am the luckiest bastard alive," Stiles says. "You let me steamroller you into a relationship and I feel like I won the lottery everyday."

Peter smiles and says: "I love you too, Stiles."

They get married in October, exactly a year to the day of Stiles first walking into the shop.

The Sheriff officiates, Talia provides cake.

And they live Happily Ever After.


	3. (G) TYRUS - The Best Sleepover Ever by e

The Best Sleepover Ever  
emmagrace13

Summary:  
Cyrus's sleepover wishes have finally come true! When Cyrus plans his first slumber party, his first thought is to invite his best 'bros' T.J. and Jonah. However, when Jonah cancels last minute, it seems as if he and his crush are going to be alone for the night. What could go wrong?

* * *

"Who's ready for my slumber par-tayyy?" Cyrus trilled enthusiastically. He had been planning this outing for ages, and now that all three of them were available on the same weekend, it was the perfect opportunity for one of his biggest dreams to finally happen: a sleepover! And with his two best 'brahs', Jonah Beck and T.J. Kippen!

When he received no response at first, he adjusted his phone so that Jonah and T.J. could see him better on their group video chat. "Hello? Are you guys still there? I said who's ready for my sleepover?"

Jonah was the first to answer him by making a crackly wince, and Cyrus frowned at his friend's reaction; he had never seen that facial expression before. "I'm really sorry, Cy-Guy, but the Space Otters were just invited to a last minute Frisbee tournament! I won't be able to come," Jonah said, guilt lining his voice. At least he sounded apologetic.

Cyrus tried not to show the heart-wrenching disappointment that was occurring in his chest. When would he ever get the chance to have both of them over again? "Oh, that's okay," Cyrus assured him as best as he could manage. He hoped his acting was at least somewhat believable; especially after that whole school video fiasco. Cyrus had learned not to put too much faith into his acting skills since the whole disaster. "We could always reschedule—"

"Reschedule?" T.J. piped up. Cyrus had almost forgotten he was on the group call; he had been pretty quiet for the majority of the video chat. "I just found my sleeping bag."

Cyrus felt a tug in his stomach at the arise of conflict. What could he do? On one hand, he didn't want to leave Jonah out of their bound-to-be spectacular sleepover, but, on the other, he didn't want to disappoint T.J. by canceling on him. What was the middle ground here?

Cyrus took a deep breath, trying to calm himself before he became too overwhelmed about the matter; he knew how he could get when he was antsy. "How about me and T.J. have the slumber party this weekend, and we reschedule one another time for all three of us?" Cyrus suggested. Bless his intelligent mind for finding some kind of compromise!

"Oh," Jonah said. Cyrus couldn't quite detect the tone that Jonah was using. Did he seem disappointed? Completely forlorn? Or was he just being indifferent?

Before he over thought the situation (he did have a tendency to overthink at times), Cyrus tried to shake his worries from his mind. Relax, he reminded himself. You don't need to read too much into his reactions anymore. Despite getting over Jonah a while ago, second-guessing the boy's expressions was still like second-nature to him, and Cyrus often found himself fretting about it.

"I'm guessing that means you can't come to the tournament?" Jonah asked dejectedly. Now he was sure Jonah was upset.

Cyrus bit his lip to keep words from spewing out of his mouth. He wanted to say 'yes, of course, what are friends for?'. But he couldn't disappoint T.J. like that. Besides, Andi was right; Jonah did expect everyone to cater to his needs, and now that Cyrus had taken off the rose-tinted glasses, he could see that. "I'm sorry, Jonah. I promise I'll go to the next game, alright?"

Jonah looked downcast, and Cyrus felt his heart twist. "Yeah, sure. See you later, Cyrus," he mumbled, crestfallen. Before Cyrus could change his mind about not going to the game, Jonah logged off the call, leaving him and T.J. alone in shock at the Frisbee player's abrupt, unexpected exit.

"I guess he's not too happy," T.J. commented after a few seconds of surprised silence.

Cyrus knew that T.J.'s comment was supposed to be his everyday dry humor, but it only made him feel worse about making Jonah upset. T.J., noticing the boy's eyebrows drawn together in worry, was quick to make him feel better. "Hey, I was just kidding. I'm sure he'll be fine," he tried.

Cyrus tried to take T.J.'s words to heart as best as he could. T.J. was right! He couldn't worry about everything, even though his mind so desperately wanted to. All. The. Time. "It'll be fine," he repeated, trying for a small smile. "Anyway, what time are you coming over?"

* * *

By that Friday, Cyrus had every last detail for their slumber party down: all the way from what they would be eating (thank goodness for The Spoon's new carryout policy!) to what games they would be playing (only the classics, of course). It was practically guaranteed to be the greatest sleepover in history!

When T.J. finally knocked on the door that Friday after school, Cyrus opened the door with a flourish, begging the boy to take his shoes off before stepping over the threshold. As T.J. cautiously toed off his high-quality sports shoes, Cyrus took the boy's bag (and almost fell over from its weight, but T.J. didn't need to know that) and urged for the basketball player to follow him. The two boys padded through the house as they shared pleasantries, their footsteps echoing in the seemingly empty home as they strolled along, and Cyrus led him to the spacious, open living room. There was a grand entertainment center nestled against the back wall with a colossal flat-screen perched on top of it. The walls were painted a warm taupe, with the cream-colored double sectional accenting it well. A detailed antique coffee table sat in the middle of the room, covered with a few issues of Therapists Weekly and a few movies that Cyrus had planted there.

In short, it was a large room to take in, and T.J. absorbed his new surroundings with a thorough sweep around the room. After he had given a rigorous glance around the area, he raised his eyebrows in surprise before shifting his gaze back to Cyrus. "Nice place."

"Thanks. I guess being a shrink pays well," he joked. He tried to set down T.J.'s duffel bag as cautiously as he could manage, but it clattered onto the floor with a loud thud despite his wishes . "Sorry!" Cyrus apologized sheepishly. He carefully shoved it beside a resting chair so that neither of them would trip on it later. It could happen!

The corners of T.J.'s mouth turned up, and Cyrus felt his stomach churn. He loved to make T.J. smile. "It's cool."

Cyrus's feelings for T.J. weren't exactly new; he'd known that he'd liked T.J. for a while now, but alas, there was nothing he could do. Well, besides soaking up every smile and laugh directed at him and overthinking T.J.'s every move. But even that he tried to keep at a minimum. His feelings were surely unrequited, and he definitely didn't want another Jonah Beck situation. "So, would you like to hear our game plan for this evening?" he asked excitedly. He had everything planned down to the last tee .

"Game plan?" T.J. asked, raising an eyebrow. He seemed more amused than he did incredulous.

"Of course!" Cyrus exclaimed. "Behind every great slumber party is a master game plan, right?"

T.J. gave him an entertained smirk. "I'm assuming this is your first sleepover?"

Cyrus blushed. "How could you tell?" He'd always wanted to have a sleepover with Andi and Buffy, but it was hard enough for Andi's grandmother to let them over during the day, let alone at night. It was the same situation with Andi coming over to one of their houses for the evening; the request was completely out of the question. And thus began the worst playdate home award: a title still held by Celia to this day.

The basketball player shrugged. "We don't really have game plans at the sleepovers I go to. We usually just play video games and talk about girls," he admitted.

Cyrus's heart skipped. Talk about girls? As in…crushes? "O-oh," Cyrus stammered. He was stunned, but he reprimanded himself for being shocked. Of course T.J. has crushes on girls. He's not like you. "Would you rather do that, then?" he asked nervously. He prayed T.J. said no. He didn't think he could pretend he had a crush on some girl for rest of the night.

T.J. snorted. "No way," he affirmed. "Those sleepovers are lame, anyway." Cyrus raised his eyebrows, and he allowed himself to smile widely in relief. Thank goodness! "So, what do you have planned?" T.J. asked.

Cyrus grinned excitedly. "Okay, so first I planned for us to play the infamous Truth or Dare," T.J. raised an eyebrow in amusement but didn't comment, "and then we're going to watch a movie while gorging on food from The Spoon, and then we're going to have a pillow fight!"

T.J. couldn't contain himself any longer, and he let out a little chuckle. "A pillow fight?"

Cyrus drew his eyebrows together in worry, and he frowned. "Do they not do that at slumber parties?" he asked in confusion. "I got all my information from Wikipage...," he trailed off unsurely.

T.J. put a hand on the boy's shoulder. " Relax ," he assured him. "We can do whatever. But I'm pretty sure I'll beat you in that pillow fight," he teased.

Cyrus felt a wave of relief wash over him. "How do you know I won't win?" he jested back.

T.J. ruffled the boy's hair, and Cyrus let him. Although he normally had an aversion to having his hair touched, he found it endearing when T.J. did it. "I'm not one to tell you what you can or can't do," T.J. said, and Cyrus suddenly got a flashback to when T.J. helped him get a muffin. 'Don't tell him what he can't do.' He smiled at the memory; one of his favorite things about T.J. was that he didn't automatically expect him to fail.

"So, you think I could beat you?" Cyrus asked excitedly.

T.J. grinned, and Cyrus saw a wicked glint in his eye that hadn't been there before. "We'll just have to see!" Then, in a flash, T.J. was grabbing a pillow off of the couch and whacking Cyrus's side with it.

"Ahh!" Cyrus yelped. He tumbled to the floor, and T.J. towered victoriously above him.

"Is that all you've got?" T.J. asked teasingly, but not in a harsh way. Cyrus nodded helplessly, holding out a hand innocently for T.J. to pull up. T.J. rolled his eyes jokingly, and he clasped the hand in front of him, preparing to tug him forward. "I can't believe you're already giving u—!" Cyrus jerked his arm with all his might (which wasn't saying much), and brought T.J. crashing down on top of him.

The floor broke T.J.'s fall, his hands pinning down the hardwood on either side of Cyrus's head, which prevented him from completely falling on top of the boy. "Was…not…expecting that," T.J. managed to breathe out between pants. Cyrus laughed, although he could hardly breathe with their close proximity. For a second the two boys just stayed in that position, staring at each other, and Cyrus gulped. T.J. was too close for comfort, and yet somehow wasn't close enough…

Cyrus ignored the irrational part of his brain that had thought that. T.J. likes girls , he reminded himself for the umpteenth time. Unfortunately, his logic didn't seem to pierce his heart like he was hoping it would . "Um," he managed to say, which shook T.J. out of his daze.

"Right. Sorry," he apologized, blushing slightly (which was not something Cyrus thought the basketball player was capable of. Especially not because of him ). He carefully got up, pushing himself off of Cyrus, and Cyrus took a big gulp of air. Now he felt like he could breathe again.

Once Cyrus cautiously lifted himself up, he brushed his clothes off, avoiding T.J.'s eyes. "Does that mean I win?" he asked, although his voice didn't hold the triumphant tone he thought it would. The butterflies in his stomach were probably just messing with his head, he noted.

"Sure, Underdog," T.J. relented, albeit more than willingly. He faintly nudged Cyrus, causing the boy to meet T.J.'s eyeline at the motion. "See? You can do anything you want to."

A small grin stretched itself onto Cyrus's face. "Thanks, T.J. It means a lot." The two shared a gaze again, and Cyrus, intrigued, almost took a step closer, but the sound of bustling emitted from the kitchen, breaking the two boys from their stare.

"Cyrus!" a loud voice bellowed. Cyrus cringed at its volume. His mother with her perfect timing, as always. "I'm home!"

Cyrus smiled sheepishly at T.J. before turning towards the direction his mother's voice was carrying from. "Coming!" He glanced back at T.J., making a motioning signal with a dip of his head. "Come on," Cyrus said softly. He placed a hand softly onto the small of the basketball player's back, and guided the boy forward. "I hope you like baby taters!"

* * *

After the two boys piled their plates up with food (it was burgers and baby taters and milkshakes galore!), they plopped down on the couch (which was a rarity for Cyrus, but his mom allowed him to eat on it just this once. He guessed even she wasn't going to deny him this one normal teenage experience). For a few minutes they just stuffed their mouth with food, although Cyrus was trying to persuade T.J. to pick a movie in between bites of his delectable tators.

"Come on, T.J.," he insisted. "Just pick one."

T.J. shrugged, popping one absentmindedly into his mouth. He seemed indifferent to all three choices. "It doesn't matter to me."

Cyrus groaned. He studied all three movies in front of him ( Jurassic Park, The Notebook, and The Wizard of Oz ) as if they would inform him what movie would best be suitable for his company. "I picked an action movie, a romantic-comedy, and a classic musical. How much more variety do you want?" he exclaimed.

T.J. snorted, but humored Cyrus nevertheless. "Fine, I'll pick one." He glanced over the titles without much care and pointed to the one on the right. "That one."

Cyrus looked at him with surprised, widened eyes. "The Wizard of Oz ?" he asked questioningly, as if to make sure T.J.'s decision hadn't been a mistake. "I thought you would've picked Jurassic Park, honestly."

T.J. shrugged. "My mom loves that movie, so I kind of grew up watching it," he admitted. Cyrus realized it was the first time that T.J. had ever really mentioned his parents, so he just nodded and wordlessly popped the disc in.

"Do you know what happened behind the scenes of this movie?" Cyrus asked as the introduction began to play. "I hear it's pretty macabre—"

T.J. grimaced. "Please spare me the gory details," he insisted, scrunching his nose. Cyrus smiled secretly to himself. He thought T.J. looked adorable when he scrunched his nose up like that.

Stop! he reminded himself as the thought popped in his head. You just went down this road with Jonah, do you really want to go through this again? When T.J. gave him a sweet smile, his heart melted. Yes, it seemed like he did want to go through this again.

As these thoughts swirled around his head, Cyrus tried to wipe them from his mind and, in better judgement, forced himself to turn his attention back to the movie. He thought that T.J. would find it pretty weird if he was being more attentive to him than to Dorothy.

During the first twenty minutes or so of the movie, Cyrus was pretty successful in his pursuit. He only caught himself glancing at T.J. a couple of times (three, to be exact, but who was counting?) and, by the time Dorothy was prancing around Oz on the newfound Yellow Brick Road, Cyrus tore his gaze away from the television and allowed himself one freebie to ask T.J. a question. "Who's your favorite character?"

T.J. looked at him in confusion, and scanned his face calculatingly, as if he could deduct the reasoning behind Cyrus's random question by his facial expressions alone. "Why?"

"Just curious," Cyrus claimed. Actually, he had learned from his shrink parents that people had a reason behind every action, like, or dislike; they even had a reason behind something as simple as a favorite character in a movie.

What more was there to the guarded basketball player than what was seen on the surface?

T.J. sighed. "I dunno," he said, glancing down at his lap for a second. He fiddled with the hem of his shirt before his gaze shifted back to Cyrus. "Probably the Scarecrow."

Cyrus tilted his head in curiosity. "Why him?"

T.J. shrugged again, and Cyrus wanted to put both of his hands on T.J.'s shoulders to physically restrain him from lifting them. He knew it was a nervous tick of T.J.'s, one he usually did when the atmosphere felt more heavy or uncomfortable than he was used to. "I guess because he ends up being smart and stuff," he admitted, his eyes quickly flickering to Cyrus before flitting away again. "Even though he thinks he's stupid the entire movie."

Cyrus felt a zap go through his body in shock. Was…was T.J. referring to his learning disability? He knew that T.J. was insecure about it but…he seemed so devastated . "The Scarecrow was smart all along," Cyrus pointed out, feeling his throat tighten. His heart hurt for the boy beside him, and he allowed his hand to lightly brush against T.J.'s forearm in order to console the boy. "He just needed someone to believe in him."

T.J. finally fully turned towards Cyrus. "Yeah," he mumbles, a small half-smile on his face. "I guess you're right."

Cyrus beamed exultantly. He wanted more than anything for T.J. to believe that he was worth something; he desired the same for himself everyday. "Of course I'm right," Cyrus said determinedly. Couldn't T.J. see that he was so much more than his disability? Cyrus wished that he could show T.J. how he saw him, how much he admired him, but, then again, that would be outing his feelings to the boy and, even more so, himself, and Cyrus wasn't sure if he was ready to do that just yet.

"What about you?" T.J. asked, a curious tone lining his voice.

Cyrus glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Who's your favorite character?"

Cyrus pondered for a moment. Who was his favorite character? And why were they his favorite in the first place? "I don't know," he answered truthfully. He thought about it for a couple more seconds before giving a definite answer. "The Cowardly Lion," he confirmed for the boy.

T.J. raised his eyebrows. "Because he ends up being brave in the end?"

Cyrus smiled. "Yeah. Because he ends up being brave in the end." Suddenly Cyrus was glad that T.J. chose this movie after all.

About midway through the musical, Cyrus inquired T.J. about their upcoming activity that he had up his sleeve. "When do you want to play Truth or Dare?"

T.J. gave him an indifferent expression. "Doesn't matter to me."

Cyrus leaned forward and turned down the volume so that they could speak at a normal decibel without struggling to be heard over the movie. "How about right now?" he asked ecstatically. The prospect of playing the thrilling game was causing excitement to drum through his veins. It was exhilarating!

T.J. sat up and he adjusted himself so that he faced Cyrus. " Fine ," he said, feigning annoyance. His smile gave his tone of voice away. "You go first."

Cyrus beamed. "Okay. So…," he began ominously. T.J. grinned. "T.J., truth or dare?"

T.J. raised his eyebrows in a challenging manner. "Dare," he said matter-of-factly.

Cyrus racked his brain before coming up with a particularly deadly dare, and he smiled widely. "Okay, okay," he started, gesturing towards T.J. "I dare you to call Buffy and tell her that you think she's better than you at basketball."

T.J. groaned into a pillow. "No," he grumbled reluctantly. Cyrus grinned happily. He didn't know he was going to make T.J. cave so easily.

"Come oooon," he drawled, handing T.J. his phone.

T.J. pouted his lips, just like he had that one day on the swings, and Cyrus felt his face burn. T.J. looks so cute , Cyrus commented. He so badly wanted to move forward, and...well, kiss him.

Cyrus tried to suppress the feelings rising up inside of him. It was becoming harder and harder to fight off his feelings for T.J. with each passing minute…

"Hello?" T.J. said boredly into his phone. Cyrus shook himself from his thoughts. He didn't even remember T.J. calling Buffy! He must've zoned out.

Cyrus heard Buffy speak, but her voice was muffled through T.J.'s phone, and he urged T.J. to put her on speakerphone. The boy's gaze shifted over to Cyrus momentarily, and he followed his request, swiftly pressing the speakerphone button before placing his cellphone between them on the couch.

"—and you have the audacity to call me?" she finished with an annoyed huff. Cyrus looked questioningly at the basketball player, and T.J. shrugged, looking just as lost as he was.

"Buffy," T.J. started, "I have something to tell you."

Cyrus could practically see his best friend roll her eyes cynically, despite her being in her own house at the moment. "It better start with 'Buffy' and end with 'I'm sorry for being such a jerk'."

T.J. tilted his head forward. "Actually ," he began to correct, "I'm calling you because I wanted to tell you that you're better than me at basketball." T.J. scrunched his nose at his own words, glaring at Cyrus for giving him such an awful dare, and Cyrus smiled smugly in return.

"What?" Buffy asked, her voice clearly sounding skeptical. "T.J., you always tell me that I stink and should drop the team, but now you're telling me I'm better than you?"

"Pretty much," T.J. said curtly. Cyrus could tell that some kind of dark energy was thrumming in the boy across from him, but he couldn't place a finger on exactly what it was.

"Which of course I already knew," Buffy said arrogantly, speaking as if T.J. hadn't even said anything at all, "but I'm still not sure if I'm following. How exactly did you come to this conclusion?"

T.J. clenched his jaw frustratedly, and Cyrus reached forward to hold his hand, to squeeze his shoulder, anything at all to help him calm down. He had never really seen T.J. get so worked up before. "I've always known you were better than me," he admitted angrily. He crossed his arms, and Cyrus settled on resting his hand on his knee instead of grabbing his hand. "It's why I lash out at you all the time. I'm just...frustrated because you're better than me at everything ." Cyrus's eyes widened at the basketball player's words; he knew that T.J. wasn't just saying this to complete a silly dare. He actually thought this and was insecure about it. Clearly a nerve had been struck.

Buffy, completely floored, began to speak. "T.J., I—"

T.J. swiped his phone from between them, clutching it so hard that Cyrus was afraid that the glass might shatter in his fingertips. "Whatever. Just forget I said anything." And with that he angrily tapped the hang up button, tossing his phone onto the plush rug underneath them.

Cyrus didn't know what to say at first. He had no idea T.J. felt that way. "T.J., is…is that true?"

T.J. let out a long, deep sigh, and he slumped onto the cushion. "Yeah."

Cyrus scooted closer, and tried to ignore the way the butterflies in his stomach fluttered as their knees brushed against each other. "That's why you hate Buffy so much? You think she's better than you?" he asked in disbelief. The news was shocking, to say the least. Cyrus had always wondered why T.J. had such a vendetta against Buffy, but he had never imagined this. Not in a million years.

"It's just part of my stuff, I guess," he joked lamely, but Cyrus saw straight through his mask and saw the pain that was lying underneath.

"Hey, it's okay to be insecure," Cyrus assured him. In a moment of feeling particularly daring, he moved closer, and his heart soared when T.J. didn't flinch or move away. "I feel insecure all the time. It's just part of being a teenager." Or, in his case, just a part of being Cyrus.

"I don't want it to be," T.J. confessed tiredly. He drew in a deep breath before he sat up, shaking out his arms as if to rid himself of any insecurities he had. If only it were that simple. "Anyway, truth or dare, Cyrus?"

Cyrus gave him a worried glance. "T.J.…"

"I'm fine," T.J. insisted adamantly, although Cyrus didn't quite believe it. "So…?"

"Truth," Cyrus answered.

T.J. huffed out through his nose, clearly expecting his answer. "Not surprised."

"Hey!" Cyrus defended. "Honesty can be more bold than an actual dare."

T.J. humored him. "Fine." He paused, seeming to be deep in thought. After a moment, he looked at Cyrus decidedly. "What is some of your stuff?"

Cyrus froze, his heart pounding in his ears. His stuff? Did he mean…about him liking boys? What would T.J. even say if he told him? Would he react badly? What if he hated him? "T.J., I…" Cyrus felt his throat tighten. Was he even ready?

T.J. seemed to notice the frightened look glimmering in his eyes, and he rested a hand on Cyrus's shoulder, keeping an intense gaze. "Hey, you don't have to tell me anything deep, just…tell me something that you haven't told me already."

Cyrus felt relieved beyond words, and he sent an appreciative smile T.J.'s way. "Alright…um," he started nervously. He racked his brain. What was something he could tell T.J.? "Oh, I know! I'm scared of the dark."

T.J. raised his eyebrow dubiously. "You're scared of the dark?" Cyrus nodded solemnly. Suddenly he felt self-conscious at his sudden confession. He knew that it wasn't normal for boys his age to still be scared of the dark, but Cyrus feared that it was a part of his deeply rooted trauma that he'd never be able to rid himself of.

"That's gotta be rough," T.J. offered, and Cyrus felt relief wash over him at his response. Of course T.J. wouldn't make fun of him! This was the same guy who didn't tease him for singing a song about going down the slide. How could he expect anything less from T.J. in the first place?

"Yeah, my phobia is high maintenance at times," Cyrus admitted. "Especially in the winter when it gets dark earlier than normal. But I usually go to bed at 8:30, so it's pretty manageable," he elaborated.

"You go to bed at 8:30?"

Cyrus didn't think the basketball player's tone could get anymore incredulous. "Yep!" He checked his phone, which blinked back at him with the time. 10:27 PM. Crud! He hadn't stayed up this late since he had a late night fashion show with his new James Bond 'Diamonds Are Forever' collection. " And ...I might crash any minute." Cyrus said in desperation. "We better go to sleep ASAP!" He hurriedly threw a blanket over him, but it landed on his head instead of his lap, which had been his intended target. He heard a small chuckle leave T.J.'s mouth, and the boy carefully unveiled it from Cyrus's head, revealing his now disheveled hair underneath.

"I don't want to go to sleep yet," T.J. told him. Suddenly, the basketball player got a mischievous glint in his eye that made something dark bubble in Cyrus's stomach. Whatever he was about to propose was not going to be good. "Hey, I know. We should pull an all-nighter!"

Cyrus made a face. "T.J., I just told you. I'm scared of the dark," he whined.

T.J. shrugged. "I'll be right here beside you. Besides, we can leave the lamp on."

Cyrus looked at T.J.'s hopeful expression on his face, and he relented. He would be safe with T.J., right? "Can I get my Diplodocus nightlight? It helps me sleep at night," he admitted.

T.J. looked at him blankly. "Diplo-what?"

Cyrus just shook his head good-naturedly at the boy. Perhaps they didn't share an interest for the most fascinating species that had once ruled the earth like Iris had, but Cyrus wouldn't have it any other way. "Never mind, I'll go get it."

When Cyrus returned with his Diplodocus nightlight, he found T.J. at the entertainment center, ejecting The Wizard of Oz disc (that had long been over) and putting Jurassic Park in its place.

"What are we even going to do all night?" Cyrus asked as he struggled to plug in his nightlight. He forced it into the outlet, the prongs of the dinosaur light being reluctant to go into the slits in the wall. With one last shove, the device slid into the outlet, causing it to shadow a faint glow throughout the otherwise darkly lit room. Finally! Now that that was hooked up…

"I don't know. We can keep watching movies, and we can still play Truth or Dare…," T.J. trailed off as Cyrus rose up next to him. "Sound good?" T.J. said, giving him a soft smile.

Cyrus got lost in his blue-green eyes. "Y-yeah, sounds good," he stammered. He felt himself get flustered as he realized he was staring longer than what was considered appropriate, and his eyes darted away in embarrassment. "I gotta go change into my PJs!" he exclaimed, turning his head quickly to hide the blush on his cheeks.

T.J. blinked dazedly, as if he had been broken from a trance. "Okay?"

Cyrus clambered to his bedroom (almost tripping on the way there), and he closed his door in a flourish, heaving behind it. How was he going to last the night with T.J. being so…cute, and lovable, and amazing ? He had absolutely no clue.

After dressing himself into his dinosaur pajamas (they fit the occasion, after all), he took a deep breath, his hand gripping the metal door handle tightly. You can do this, he reminded himself. Just don't be weird. Cyrus almost laughed at his advice to himself. Not being weird was easier said than done in his case.

As he strolled out into the living room, smoothing out his clothes nervously, his eyes swept over the room. Where is T.J.? he asked himself in the painstakingly empty living room. Before he knew it, a loud, "Boo!" sounded behind him, and Cyrus jumped, his heart racing.

"You scared me!" he claimed breathlessly, clutching his hand over his heart. For the first time, he noticed that T.J. had changed as well. He was now donning a pair of sweatpants and a white V-neck that almost made Cyrus flush in comparison.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, but the mirth dancing in his eyes gave away the sincerity of his apology. T.J.'s eyes then flitted down to Cyrus's attire, and he smirked. "Cute."

Cyrus blushed again, and he felt tingly from his head to his toes. "I know it's nerdy to have dinosaur pajamas, but…," Cyrus trailed off, not exactly knowing how to finish.

T.J.'s grin grew even wider. "I wasn't making fun of them." Oh. Was...was T.J. calling his pajamas cute? Or was he referring to Cyrus?

"Thanks," Cyrus mumbled, his cheeks twinged pink. This boy was going to be the death of him.

T.J. flopped down onto the floor, nestling into the narrow space of the double sectional, and he patted the limited space beside him. Cyrus swiped the remote off of the coffee table and he pressed play before seating himself snugly between the L-shaped part of the couch and T.J., and Cyrus couldn't help but hold his breath. T.J. was so close .

T.J. beamed at him, seeming unbothered by their close proximity, and he snatched a blanket off of the back of the couch. "I'm cold," he claimed, pulling it across his body. He threw some of it onto Cyrus's lap, too, and Cyrus snuggled against its warmth.

"Me, too," Cyrus said with a small smile on his face. How he stopped himself from completely melting on the floor, he had no clue.

As the movie started up, the two boys kept up a tame game of Truth or Dare while they watched Dr. Alan Grant and Dr. Ellie Sattler traipse around the park with Lex and Tim. Whenever Cyrus would ask the infamous question ("Truth or Dare?"), T.J. would always answer with 'dare', to which Cyrus had to rack his brain to conjure up for (most of the dares he gave T.J. consisted of prank calling random people from school, since Cyrus did not want T.J. to leave their comfy little spot on the floor). It was a while of back and forth, but, after a round that ended on Cyrus's turn, it was apparent that T.J. was beginning to slowly lose consciousness.

"T.J.!" Cyrus exclaimed as the boy next to him slumped onto his shoulder. His heart began to pound at the prospect of being by himself in the dark. While normally he felt safe with his nightlight on, he still felt like he was being swallowed whole by the surrounding void around him. The living room was a lot bigger than his bedroom!

Cyrus began to tug on T.J.'s sleeve, and T.J. nuzzled against Cyrus's shoulder at the motion instead of waking up like Cyrus had hoped. "T.J., wake up!" he hissed urgently.

A loud, rattling stomp sounded from the surround sound system, and Cyrus felt himself tremble. His favorite cold-blooded friends seemed a lot scarier when it was dark out. "T.J.!" he called out again.

"Hmm?" the boy murmured, lifting his head slightly. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and glanced at his surroundings in a confused manner before his eyes landed back onto Cyrus. "What's wrong?"

Cyrus cracked a small smile at the boy's mussed hair, but a scream from the television reminded him of the fear that was bubbling in his stomach. "The movie is scaring me," he admitted.

T.J. huffed and slumped back onto Cyrus's shoulder. "I thought you've seen this movie before."

"Never in the dark," he said worriedly. He continued to fiddle with T.J.'s T-shirt anxiously, its soft, soothing material feeling nice against Cyrus's fingertips.

T.J. drew in a breath of air and exhaled deeply, and Cyrus shivered from the boy's breath on his neck. This wasn't a normal thing to do, right? Most boys would never (dare he say it) cuddle …would they? He had no experience, really, unless he counted Jonah, and they had never gone as far as pats on the back and slung arms around each other's shoulders.

Before he had a chance to overthink their current situation, T.J. broke him from his thoughts. "Tell me all the dinosaurs you know," T.J. said, adjusting himself into a more comfortable position.

Cyrus's eyebrows drew together in confusion. "What? How—"

"Just tell me about them," T.J. mumbled against his shoulder, and Cyrus swallowed before answering him.

"Alright." He would take any opportunity to talk about his favorite species, even if he didn't know T.J.'s motive behind the request. "There's the Stegosaurus…oh, did you know it only has a brain the size of a walnut? Crazy, right? And the Saltopus…" Cyrus continued to list all of his favorite dinosaurs, and all of the fun facts he knew about them (did you know that a Argentinosaurus was the longest and the heaviest dinosaur?). Despite being on the brink of unconsciousness, T.J. tried his hardest to stay awake to listen to him. He even laughed at some of the puns Cyrus made about dinosaurs, which Cyrus appreciated wholeheartedly. Most people didn't value his well thought out reptile puns to the extent that he wanted them to.

By the time he finished his extensive rambling, the credits were rolling onto the screen, and Cyrus realized what T.J.'s intent had been. He had been trying to distract him from the movie, and it had worked perfectly! That sly boy…

After he turned off the TV using minimal movement (T.J. had just fallen asleep, and he would've felt bad for waking him up again), Cyrus cautiously wrapped an arm around T.J.'s upper torso. Hey, if he was going to be in this position for the rest of the night, he might as well get comfy, right? That's what he told himself, at least.

Before he allowed himself to drift off to sleep, Cyrus looked over at T.J. This was the boy who had just listened to him babble about dinosaurs for thirty minutes instead of laughing at him. Who's to say that T.J. would hate him for being gay? Or would be opposed to it? Maybe he would be indifferent, or maybe he'd be supportive. But, either way, Cyrus really wanted to tell T.J. about his stuff. And he hoped that T.J. would be open to telling him about his, too.

* * *

When Cyrus woke up the next morning, he smelled the distinct scent of sweet maple syrup wafting from the kitchen, and he burst up, completely forgetting that T.J. was leaning on him.

"Ow!" T.J. winced tiredly, burying his head back into Cyrus's shoulder.

"Ah, ah, ah," Cyrus said, shaking him awake, "time to eat breakfast!"

T.J. groaned, but got up nevertheless, fixing his twisted white V-neck as he yawned. "What's for breakfast?" he asked as he rubbed his face, trying to wake himself up.

Cyrus grinned. "If I know my mom, she's making her famous waffles!" He hurried over to the kitchen bar, settling himself into a stool, and T.J. followed suit. Across from the bar was Cyrus's mom, grabbing plates out of the pantry for the two boys.

"Hey, boys," she said cheerfully, setting down a plate and a glass in front of them. She filled each glass up to the brim with orange juice, and Cyrus smiled back at her.

"Good morning, Mom!" he exclaimed. She came over and kissed his cheek as she plopped down a steaming waffle onto each of their plates. "Ooh, these are the best waffles ever!"

"They are, aren't they?" she boasted. She checked the time before grabbing her suit jacket and a briefcase. "Me and your stepfather are heading out to the office, so you boys behave yourselves, all right?"

"We promise!" Cyrus told her while T.J. gave out a weak, "Will do," and with that, Cyrus's mom and stepdad were out the door after a flourish of blown kisses and waves goodbye. Oh, did they love their little boy!

T.J. grabbed the bottle of syrup, squeezing a plentiful amount onto his waffle before cutting off a bite-sized piece with his fork and sticking it into his mouth with a satisfied "mhm". Cyrus dug into his own, making sure to pile tons of whipped cream on top of his. T.J. looked at the bottle with longing eyes before he sprayed some onto his own waffles, too.

"This tastes so good," he murmured to himself as he stuffed his mouth full. Cyrus laughed.

"I told you they were the best!" T.J. nodded in agreement, adding another waffle or two onto both of their plates. After they finished up, scraping their plates prior to dropping them into the sink, they both drifted back into the living room, neither of them having a plan on what to do next. As they plopped onto the couches, their stomachs full, they plunged into an awkward silence.

"Thanks for staying up with me last night," Cyrus said, daring himself to glance at the boy beside him. He was so close to T.J. he could just reach out and touch him. From his spot on the double sectional Cyrus took note of the sharp curve of T.J.'s jawline, the light splay of freckles dotted across his cheeks that were only visible up close, the hue of his eyes (they seemed to vary from color to color, he had realized), and the cute slope of his nose. And—wait, was that syrup on the corner of his mouth?

"No problem, even though I was supposed to stay up all night with—what are you doing?" T.J. asked. Cyrus paused, boring into his eyes and his thumb ceased in motion. I didn't even realize I was doing that!

Cyrus quickly withdrew his hand, almost as if T.J.'s skin had burned him, and he blushed deeply. "Sorry, uh…," how do I explain this without sounding weird? "...you had syrup on your face."

T.J. gave Cyrus that small smirk he had become accustomed to, and the butterflies in his stomach flared up at the gesture. "Oh, okay." Just then, a buzz emitted from T.J.'s phone (saving Cyrus from the tense silence that was sure to follow), and T.J. grabbed it from the coffee table where it had been resting. He read the message and typed a quick reply before tossing it aside carelessly. "My mom's coming to pick me up in twenty minutes."

Cyrus's stomach dropped. He had been planning to tell T.J. his secret today! And now he was pressed for time…maybe he should postpone?

No, a voice in his head (that suspiciously sounded like Buffy) interrupted him. You can do this. It'll be okay.

Cyrus took a deep breath before he returned back to reality to find T.J. staring back at him.

"You okay?" the basketball player asked him with worried eyebrows, and Cyrus nodded once, building up the courage the meet T.J.'s eyeline.

"I hope I will be." At T.J.'s confused expression, Cyrus just shook his head. "I wanted to tell you about my stuff," he admitted.

T.J. grinned. "Oh, so you have other stuff besides being afraid of the dark and swinging too high?" he teased, and Cyrus smiled back, but wasn't able to match T.J.'s mirth with all the knots in his belly making him feel nauseated.

"Yeah. This is worse." he said, his heart beginning to pound. There's no going back now. "I have a crush."

T.J. tilted his head to the side slightly in confusion. "That's not too bad."

Cyrus gulped. Here goes nothing . "On a boy."

T.J.'s eyebrows jumped in surprise. Clearly he had not expected that to come out of Cyrus's mouth. "Really?" he asked in pure disbelief.

Cyrus's stomach plunged. Was he wrong about T.J.? Would T.J. stop being his friend just because he liked boys instead of girls? "Yeah. Are…are you okay with that?" Cyrus asked worriedly, fidgeting with material of his dinosaur pajamas. In order to avoid looking at T.J. (he was probably giving him murderous glances at the moment), he began to list the dinosaurs he saw on his PJs. Oh, look, a T-Rex. And there's a Velociraptor. Ooh, and a Triceratops…

T.J. snorted, shaking Cyrus from his train of thought. "Cyrus, I'd be kind of a hypocrite if I wasn't."

Cyrus's head jerked up in surprise. Had he heard that right? "Wait, what?" he said bluntly. He was in too much shock to be embarrassed. Was T.J. like him? Had he been gay all along?

T.J. sighed, and he twiddled with the tassles hanging decoratively off of one of the couch pillows, mirroring Cyrus's nervous tactics from a few moments before. "I like a guy, too."

Cyrus's eyes widened. He had definitely not expected this at all. "Oh. On who?"

T.J. paused on fidgeting with the tassles, and he gave a raised eyebrow. "Do you really want to know?"

Cyrus nodded fervently at the boy's remark, and T.J.'s expression morphed into a slight smirk at Cyrus's eager response. "Guess we'll have to play Truth or Dare to find out."

Under normal circumstances Cyrus would've laughed and humored the boy, but this was no ordinary circumstance, and he was hungry for information. "Okay, T.J., truth or da—"

"Ah, ah, ah, Underdog," T.J. chastised him, much like how Cyrus had done to him earlier that morning. "It's my turn." Cyrus nearly slapped himself. Of course it was T.J.'s turn. What if T.J. asked him about his crush? And would he tell him the truth? Should he? And what if T.J. liked him back? He hadn't even thought about that possibility…

Cyrus shoved all of his questions and comments to the back of his mind, all of them overwhelming his brain. Just focus on the task at hand , he reminded himself. That seemed to calm him down.

"Underdog, truth or dare?" T.J. asked with a smirk so wide that it made Cyrus feel uneasy.

"Truth," he responded as his heart pounded in his chest. What could go wrong with the truth?

T.J. smiled at his response. Uh oh. This couldn't be good. "Who do you like, Cyrus?"

Cyrus's heart completely stopped beating. That. That is what could go wrong with the truth. "I'm afraid to say."

T.J. lightly tapped his knee. "I won't judge."

Cyrus gulped, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Was it too late to back out? "I like…," I can't believe I'm about to say this, "...you," he breathed out. His heart skipped. "I like you, T.J."

The boy in front of him seemed to remain indifferent to his confession, but Cyrus thought he caught a hint of a smile being fought back. Or maybe he was reading too much into T.J.'s expressions? He did tend to have an overactive imagination at times.

"Your turn," T.J. reminded him, managing to maintain a straight face. Cyrus silently cursed at him for his poker face. He could put gamblers to shame.

"Truth or dare?" Cyrus asked breathlessly.

T.J. pretended to think about it before answering. "Truth."

Cyrus's breath caught in his throat, and he fought back a smile. Normally T.J. picked dare. "Who do you like, T.J.?"

T.J. scooted a few centimeters closer, which didn't go unnoticed by Cyrus. "Well, the guy I like is super smart…" Don't get your hopes up, Cyrus. It could be anyone. "And he really really likes chocolate chocolate-chip muffins." Anyone can have an affinity for those, they're delicious! "I had to help get him one once, actually."

An indescribable feeling bloomed throughout Cyrus's entire body, and he raised his head to meet T.J.'s line of sight. Surely there couldn't have been more than one guy that T.J. had helped get a chocolate chocolate-chip muffin, right? "Really?"

"Really." Before Cyrus could squeal, or do anything to remotely express the unlimited amount of joy he was feeling in that moment, T.J. spoke. "So, Cyrus, truth or dare?"

Cyrus was confused for a second. T.J. still wanted to play? Even after they had confessed their feelings for each other? He glanced at T.J. unsurely; what did he have up his sleeve? "You know what? I'll choose dare."

A smile broke out onto T.J.'s face; Cyrus gave him exactly what he wanted.

T.J. inched closer to him, and Cyrus's breath caught in his throat at the action. "I dare you to kiss me."

Cyrus's eyebrows shot up in surprise. Wait…T.J. wanted him to kiss him? On the lips? Was he serious? Surely he couldn't have meant that…  
His eyes flickered unsurely up to T.J., who looked pretty confident in his statement. When T.J. raised his eyebrows expectantly, Cyrus took a deep breath and, in a sudden burst of confidence, shakily leaned forward. Was he actually doing this? Was this actually happening?

Cyrus's eyes flitted down to T.J.'s lips one last time before he closed his eyes and plunged forward, pressing his lips firmly against T.J.'s. He was actually doing this!

His heart hammered in his chest as T.J.'s lips moved softly against his own, and a warm feeling blossomed in his chest. This was probably the most exciting thing to happen to him, ever!

Cyrus, originally having no place for his hands, ended up cradling both sides of T.J.'s face while T.J.'s hands rested on the side of his neck, his fingers curling around the nape of his neck, and Cyrus was pretty sure that they had both died and gone to heaven. Stuff like this didn't happen to him . Surely this was some beautiful, amazing dream! And definitely one that he never wanted to end!

Eventually they broke apart, both of them desperately needing air, and Cyrus beamed in disbelief as he caught his breath. "That was…"

"Wow," T.J. agreed, running a hand through his tousled hair incredulously. His eyes were sparkling, and Cyrus wondered if his own eyes were mirroring T.J.'s delirious expression.

Their eyes met in their half-dazed state, and T.J. began to lean in once more, causing Cyrus's heart to pound in anticipation. However, before their lips met again, they were both shaken from their mesmerized stupor by a rattling honk! that emitted from outside.

T.J. sighed at the sudden sound. "That would be my mom," he said, reluctantly pulling away from Cyrus. He began to collect his belongings near the entryway, and Cyrus shuffled behind him, unwilling to let the boy go just yet.

As T.J. slung his backpack over his shoulder, he quickly pulled on his shoes and tucked his sleeping bag under his arm. "Looks like I got this out for noth—hmph!" Cyrus cut him off with one last sweet, chaste kiss on the lips, and he abruptly pulled away before T.J. had time to react.

"So, I'll see you tomorrow? At the swings?" Cyrus asked, a deep blush highlighting his cheeks.

T.J. beamed widely in response, and he ruffled Cyrus's hair before he strolled out the door. "I'll see you there," he said, grinning over his shoulder. As Cyrus watched T.J. descend down the porch steps, waving at him one last time before he left his line of sight, he leaned against the door frame with a smile on his face. Sleepovers were more than he bargained for, that's for sure!


	4. (E) H800 - What I Could Do (If It Was Ju

What I Could Do (If It Was Just Me And You)  
ProneToRelapse

Summary:  
Hank has a huge crush on Cole's babysitter. It's all Gavin's fault.

* * *

Hank lets his head fall down onto his desk with a loud thud.

"Rough weekend?" Ben calls over, throwing a screwed up ball of paper at his head. It bounces off and rolls away, prompting a snort of amusement from Chris and Gavin.

"You don't know the _half_ of it," Hank grumbles, cheek smushed against the desk surface. His whole body aches. His _brain_ hurts.

"I'm sure we can guess," Ben says, throwing a knowing glance at Chris who grins. "Let me guess, he's tall, skinny, freckled, with eyes like hot chocolate on a winter evening."

"I told you that in _confidence,_" Hank growls, still not lifting his head. Gavin gives an ugly bark of laughter. "And leave me alone. Stop harassing the elderly. And we took Cole swimming. It was awful."

"Oh, so tall, skinny, freckled, and wearing nothing but speedos and a smile. Nice."

_"Ben!"_

The trio snigger at Hank's expense, which makes them awful friends and he really does need to get new ones. But he's set in his ways and they're the only people that really tolerate him anymore.

Even if they won't stop mocking his desperate situation.

Winning custody of a child as a single parent is hard. No matter how happy Hank was to have Cole with him always, it isn't easy to juggle everything that comes with it. Work, bills, keeping food on the table, school. All the shit that comes with parenthood and adulthood in general and Hank just can't keep up. The child support from his ex helps a little, but _god_ it's been a long time since Hank has actually been able to relax.

Cole is never anything short of an angel, though. He's bright, helpful and kind. He never complains, he doesn't act spoiled. But that doesn't stop Hank from wanting to do _more_. Even if more is just spending some time together over the weekend. He doesn't want his son to grow up hardly seeing his father. Hank has very few memories of his own father from his childhood. He doesn't want that for Cole.

"_You_ are not allowed to laugh at my misery," Hank says, pointing vaguely in Gavin's direction. "This is all your fault, and when it blows up in my face, I'm coming for you first."

"I was trying to help!" Gavin says. "Fuck that noise, this is why I'm always an asshole. Help someone once and they threaten to hunt you down."

"It's not a threat," Hank mutters darkly. "It's a promise."

And sure, maybe for the first time in his life Gavin had actually been helpful. When Hank had been struggling under the weight of everything, trying to find a balance between work and home life, he'd quietly offered a solution to his problem.

The solution came in the form of his tall, slightly intimidating boyfriend, Nines.

Or, more specifically, Nines' younger brother, Connor.

_"He's just started his second year of college," _Nines had explained._ "He could use a part time job. He's very responsible and quite charismatic. I think he'll be able to help you."_

_"What the fuck," _Hank had asked,_ "kind of name is 'Nines'?"_

Tall, imposing brother with a stupid name aside, Connor has actually turned out to be a godsend. He was prompt, reliable, and Cole fell in love with him instantly. He was warm and friendly, if a little goofy-looking, but he was kind and approachable and he never seemed to tire of Cole's endless energy.

His classes seemed to work perfectly with Cole's schedule. Hank would drop him off at kindergarten, Connor would pick him up after his morning classes finished. He'd take him home, make him lunch, play with him until Hank got home, then make them all dinner and leave for the evening. He took Sumo for walks, he cleaned, all things above and beyond the duty of a babysitter, but he'd waved it off like it wasn't a problem.

_"I'm literally living off instant noodles and toast," _he'd said with a laugh. _"So letting me raid your cupboards and fridge is payment enough."_

And now on weekends when Hank has a case and has to work overtime, Connor is there unfailingly, watching over Cole while doing coursework on his laptop. He's never more than a single phone call away, and responds instantly whenever Hank texts him.

He's a miracle. A gift sent from Heaven to make Hank's life easier.

And therein lies the problem.

Because somewhere along the way, Nines' dorky brother has gone from goofy college student babysitter, to stunningly attractive unattainable friend of the family.

"You want me to tell Nines you wanna bang his brother?" Gavin asks. "I'm sure he won't break your legs. Maybe just your arms?"

"I'm gonna kill you, Reed."

Gavin cackles, yelling when Hank's stapler collides with the side of his head. Chris and Ben fall about laughing while he hisses expletives and rubs his temple.

"Hank doesn't want to bang Connor," Chris says. "So stop being a shit, Reed."

"Yeah," Ben agrees with faux anger. "Stop reducing Hank to a gross old man with a crush on a babysitter."

"_Thanks, _Ben."

"Anytime. And it's true, he doesn't want to bang Connor. He wants to _loooove_ him."

"Betrayed," Hank says, about ten seconds away from crawling under his desk and dying. "I hate all of you."

"We're just telling it like it is." Gavin throws the stapler back. It misses. "We're not the ones who has the hots for Nines' baby-brother."

"Who has the hots for my brother?"

Hank sits up so sharply his vision blacks out and his spine cracks. Nines is standing by the entrance to the bullpen, a paper bag tucked under one arm.

"No one," Gavin says quickly. "No one said that. Also, heeeyy, babe. What, uh, what're you doing here?"

"You forgot your lunch," Nines says, putting the bag down on Gavin's desk. "And I said I'd meet Connor after his morning classes are finished." He glances at each of them in turn and tension crackles through the precinct. "Please, don't let me interrupt. I believe I've stumbled into quite an intriguing conversation."

"Oh, we were just messing around," Ben says, shrinking a little under the weight of Nines' stoic gaze. He looks back at Gavin who smiles meekly.

"Love you," Gavin says.

Nines raises an eyebrow.

"A whole lot."

The eyebrow inches higher.

"So much. You're so handsome. Have I ever told you that? Like, all the… tall you've got going on. It's great. A plus."

_"Gavin."_

And Gavin, the traitorous little bitch, crumples like a paper cup.

"Hank does," he mumbles, deflating. "Hank wants to bang Connor."

_"Hey!"_ Hank considers making a break for it. He idly wonders how far he'll get before Nines absolutely destroys him.

"Oh," Nines says, shoulders relaxing. "Okay."

A beat passes before all four officers speak at once.

"_What_."

Nines shrugs. "That's not news to me," he says. "Sorry, Lieutenant, but you aren't exactly subtle."

"If you know, then why am I still alive?" Hank's genuinely curious. He nearly killed a guy on his little sister's prom night. If he were Connor's brother – weird thought – he'd be fighting people off with a baseball bat.

"I think killing you would probably upset Connor," Nines says, mouth twitching in what Hank's come to recognise as his version of a shit-eating grin. "And I'd prefer not to do that."

"_Ohhhhh_," Gavin breathes, grinning. "Well, shit, Hank, looks like your musty ass actually has a chance."

"I didn't say he should go for it," Nines says pointedly. "He's still my brother."

"Nines, c'mon. You're gonna stand in the way of true love?"

Nines clips him lightly round the back of the head. "Stop being a little shit," he says, somewhat affectionately. "And don't give me that look, it was a love tap, I hardly touched you." He looks at Hank, pale eyes flashing with amusement. "I'll see you later, Lieutenant. Have a good day."

"Your boyfriend fucking terrifies me, Reed," Ben says once Nines is out of ear shot.

"Same," Reed sighs dreamily.

—

Hank spends the rest of the day literally in agony. Yes, _literally_, Reed, actually fuck off. He's dreading going home and having to look Connor in the eye now that Nines knows and has probably already told Connor about the old police Lieutenant who has a huge crush on him.

That's if Connor is actually there and hasn't immediately done a bunk.

No, of course not. He'd never do that to Cole. He'll most likely politely tell Hank he's flattered but not interested, and then Hank will have to find a new babysitter while Cole throws a tantrum about the whole thing.

His head throbs as he pulls up outside the house. As much as he'd like to stay in the car for the rest of eternity, he's missed Cole and his stomach rumbles for Connor's cooking.

He hauls ass reluctantly out of the car and slogs up to the door, sighing heavily before he lets himself in.

"DADDY!" Cole comes barrelling through from the living room and Hank stoops to lift him, rubbing his beard over Cole's cheeks to make him giggle.

"Hey there, kiddo. How was your day?"

"Good! Me an' Con made macaroni pictures!"

"Yes, and Cole's was a lot better than mine," Connor calls from the kitchen. He sound of his voice makes Hank's heart flutter like a lovesick teenager's. "I couldn't seem to stop glueing my hands to the paper."

"He was real bad at it," Cole whispers loudly.

"Can I see the pictures?" He puts Cole down and shrugs off his coat and kicking off his shoes before following, taking the bundle of pictures Cole shoves into his hands.

"Oh, wow!" Hank exclaims, looking them over. "Oh, I like this one. It's…" He glances at Connor who mouths the answer at him with a smile. "Sumo!"

"Yeah!" Cole grins, jumping up and down in place. "Can we put it on the fridge?"

"The _fridge?_" Hank asks, pretending shock. "Hell, no, kiddo. This one's coming to work with me." He grins as Cole cheers happily and puts the pictures on the kitchen counter. Connor smiles at him warmly before turning to Cole.

"Alright, Cole, go wash your hands for dinner, okay?"

Cole hurries off to the bathroom while Connor finishes serving up dinner. Hank sits at the table with a groan and without missing a beat Connor places a beer down in front of him.

"You look like you need it," he says with a wink.

Hank is _so_ fucked.

When Cole is back and they settle down to eat, Hank is grateful and also partly jealous of the way Cole easily commands all of Connor's attention. He wonders what it would be like to have Connor's attention focused solely on him. He doesn't think he could handle it. Connor applies himself wholly to whatever he does. Whether it be caring for Cole or his coursework or, in some wildly different universe, Hank. He doesn't think he could take that kind of avid concentration being centred on him.

Nice to daydream about though.

Dinner passes without incident, and Cole goes to bed a lot easier with Connor around. Which soon leaves just the two of them watching tv, Connor tapping idly away on his laptop, while he waits for Nines to come pick him up.

"You seem preoccupied, Hank," Connor says after a while. Hank watches the television harder. "Is there something on your mind?"

"I'm fine, Connor, don't you worry about me. Long day, that's all."

"Okay. As long as I've not done something to upset you."

Hank glances at him. "You? For real? Connor, I don't think you're capable of setting a foot wrong in your life."

Connor smiles. "My mother would disagree with you."

Hank doesn't know much about Connor's family life, other than the fact that he and Nines were adopted at the age of five and seven respectively by a lady called Amanda Stern. He's never met her but he's seen photos. She's a professor at Connor's university and she seems like a nice enough person from what Connor has told him of her, if a little stern, if you'll pardon the pun.

"Well, you seem perfect to me," Hank says, a little too honestly. He manages to stop himself from verbally cussing himself out for sounding like a heartsick idiot.

"Thank you," Connor says, flushing a little. And fuck, it looks adorable on him.

"No problem," Hank mumbles, staring intently at the television.

Connor is quiet for a long moment before closing his laptop. Hank forces himself not to look round as Connor turns in his seat to face him.

"May I speak with you about something personal, Hank?"

Oh, _fuck. _Here it is. Goddamn it, he's gonna murder Nines the next time he sees him. Even if the guy looks like he could bench Hank through a wall with one hand, he's still gonna give it the old college try.

"Sure," Hank says stiffly instead of jumping out the window like he wants to. "You can talk to me about anything."

"I appreciate that," Connor says. "You'll have to forgive me if I come across a little stilted. This isn't easy for me to say."

Hank sighs. "It's alright, Connor. Whatever Nines told you, I'm sorry if it made you uncomfortable. It won't change anything, but I understand if you don't feel comfortable babysitting anymore."

Connor doesn't say anything. He doesn't say anything for so long that Hank finally forces himself to turn his head and look at him before he literally just dies of suspense in his seat.

Connor is frowning at him like he's grown a second nose. "If Nines told me what?" He asks.

"Uhhhhhhh." Fuck. _Fuck. _"Nothing?"

"Hank," Connor says and _fuck_, it's exactly the same tone Nines used to force Reed to 'fess up. He feels a stab of sympathy for the guy. No wonder he'd crumbled so easy.

"I…" Hank sighs heavily for what feels like the hundredth time today. "Fuck it, Connor, I… I like you. I _really_ like you. And I don't want to make you uncomfortable, but Nines knows, I don't know for how long, but I figured he'd tell you and I don't want you to feel uncomfortable, that's the last thing I want because I don't know what I'd do without you. You're important to Cole and to me and I just really really— I'm gonna stop talking now. "

Hank clamps his mouth shut. Connor's eyes, which have gotten wider and wider the more Hank rambled on, are practically the size of dinner plates in his head. It'd be comical if Hank wasn't on the verge of a panic attack. Or a heart attack. Or both.

"Nines _knew_?!" Connor exclaims suddenly, helping Hank on the way to that heart attack. "He knew the _whole_ time and he never _said_ anything?"

"Uhhh," Hank says helpfully.

"This _whole_ entire time he never even _hinted _that he knew anything. And there's me, constantly spilling my guts about how much I like you and he's just _sitting_ there and listening and not saying a _word_?!"

"Maybe he didn't want things to be awkward," Hank suggests, unaware of the point that flies right over his head.

"It's been awkward for _months_!" Connor says. "I've barely been able to _look_ at you! I've been going _crazy."_

"Uhh," Hank says again, brain stalling. "Why?"

Connor takes a deep breath to calm himself. Then another. And another. He breathes slowly and steadily, eyes closed, leaving Hank in a torturous sort of purgatory where he doesn't know what the fuck is happening.

When he opens his eyes again, his pupils are wide and dark and sends something shivering pleasantly down Hank's spine.

"I like you, too, Hank," Connor says softly. "I _really_ do."

"Thanks," Hank says because he's a fucking idiot without a functioning brain.

"May I kiss you?" Connor asks, voice low and soft.

"Uhh, sure, bring it in," Hank says because he's a smooth guy, a regular fucking Don Juan when it comes to flirting. He just about resists the urge to punch himself in the face.

And he's glad he does because not a moment later Connor is climbing into his lap, straddling Hank's thighs and arms sliding round his neck.

"You don't know how long I've wanted this," Connor purrs.

"I think I might," Hank murmurs back, eyes fixed on Connor's mouth. He goes cross-eyed trying to keep focus on them as Connor leans forward, then gives up and closes them when their lips brush together softly, once, twice, three times, and then as Hank takes a shaky breath, Connor's there, tongue slipping into his mouth, soft and warm and _perfect. _

His hands slide round Connor's waist without a conscious thought from him to do so, and Connor's slender fingers curl softly into the loose strands of hair at the nape of his neck. He always keeps it in that messy ponytail now, ever since Connor told him it looked good all those months ago.

It's divine, the soft glide of Connor's tongue against his own, the quiet little hums of contentment that he sighs into Hank's mouth and that fog his brain. Time ceases to exist and all Hank can focus on is Connor. Connor in his arms, Connor in his lap, Connor's breath in his lungs. _Connor Connor Connor. _

Then they're wrenched back to the present by the shrill ring of Connor's cell phone.

"_Shit_," Connor hisses as he pulls back and the curse shouldn't sound that pretty on his tongue. He leans back to snatch the cell off the table and holds it to his ear. He doesn't move off Hank's lap.

"Hey, Nines. Oh, right, the lift. Yeah. I'll be ready in…" He trails off, looking down at Hank.

Oh, this is such a bad idea. But Hank can't stop the slow smile that stretches across his face. Connor's eyes widen for a moment before he grins back and the damn thing light up his whole fucking face.

"Actually, don't worry about it," Connor says, fingers playing with the hair at the nape of Hank's neck. He shivers. "I'll get a lift to class tomorrow. Yeah, I'm sure. Thanks, Nines." He hangs up and tosses the phone away.

"Are you su—" Hank starts, uncertain now the reality is properly sinking in, but Connor stops him with a hand over his mouth.

"Hank," Connor says seriously, though his mouth twitches with a hidden smile. "Take me to bed, please."

Hank would very much like to do that. He will, do that. But he wants to have a bit of fun first.

He licks over Connor's palm, causing him to snatch his hand back with a mildly disgusted laugh. Once caught off guard, Hank surges to his feet, throwing Connor over his shoulder.

"Hank!" Connor laughs. "Put me down!"

"Nope," Hank says, heading for his room. "And keep it down, alright? If you wake Cole we're gonna have a problem."

"Got it," Connor says, dangling down his back and trying not to laugh too loudly. "This is so romantic."

"You're the one who fell for a single dad," Hank points out, trying not to grin like a fool.

"I did," Connor agrees, giving a muted yelp as Hank tosses him onto the bed.

"Oh, I like that," he says, leaning up on his elbows. His eyes are wide and dark. Hank swallows hard and closes the door, standing awkwardly in front of the bed.

Now that he's here, actually has Connor in his room, it's like he's forgotten everything about how to have sex. And alright, maybe it has been a while, but surely it's not something you can actually forget how to do?

Connor seems to have no such reservations about the drastic shift in their relationship. He sits up to tug his Henley off and unfasten his jeans, wriggling out of them. Hank can only watch, wide-eyed, as Connor strips off completely and sprawls out on the pillows all subtle muscle and pale skin littered with freckles.

"Come here," he says, holding his arms out.

Hank wasn't even aware he could _move_ that fast. Like a shot, he's across he room and on the bed, leaning over Connor so he can yank him down into another eager kiss. It makes his mind go blessedly blank, and he loses himself into their kiss with a soft moan as all of him finally relaxes, Connor's hands stroking the tension from his shoulders.

He grapples with Hank's shirt after a long moment of exploring his mouth, trying to get it off him but refusing to stop kissing him. Hank huffs a laugh against his lips and pushes his hands away, pulling back a little to mumble against his mouth.

"It's a button down, stupid," he says, hopelessly fond. Connor whines and gives his shirt one last defiant tug before Hank starts unbuttoning it. Once loose Connor shoves it off his shoulders like it's personally offended him, yanking the tank off before Hank can protest.

"I _knew_ you had a tattoo!" Connor says gleefully, fingers tracing the faded ink. "I _knew it." _He gives a satisfied hum, stroking his palms down Hank's chest, hitching one leg up over his hip. He seems utterly fascinated by all the skin now on show and, while the apprehension burns in Hank's cheeks, they way Connor is downright _admiring _him helps to ease the rush of self-consciousness.

"I want you so much," Connor purrs, winding his hands round Hank's shoulders. "_Please_ tell me you have lube."

"Yeah, I've got lube," Hank says, ignoring Connor's teasing grin. "You stop that or you can sleep on the couch."

"I'll be good," Connor says, then relents under Hank's doubtful gaze. "Within reason," he amends. Hank snorts and reaches into his bedside table for the long disused bottle.

"Is that watermelon flavour?" Connor asks, voice pitching up in amused surprise. Fuck, Hank had forgotten. It'd been a secret Santa gift from Reed, and flavour isn't really something you pay attention to when you're just looking to get the job done.

"Alright, go on, to couch with you."

"Nooo, Hank!" Connor clutches at him. "Look, I'm behaving now. See?"

"Fucking doubtful," Hank says, but there's no heat behind it. Well, there is, but not the angry kind. "Do you, uh, have a preference…?"

"Like this," Connor says at once. "So I can see you."

Hank's cheeks burn but he murmurs an agreement and sits back on his feet so Connor can get comfortable.

"Do you want me to—"

"Yes. Please, Hank."

Alright, no arguments there.

Hank pours the lube into his palm, slicking his fingers liberally before tossing the bottle onto the bed. He strokes his clean hand gently over Connor's thigh, an automatic soothing gesture, and carefully slides in his forefinger.

Connor's reaction is _unreal. _He arches with a soft gasp, catching his bottom lip between his teeth. His eyes flutter closed and he way his legs fall open his downright _obscene. _Hank swallows hard, forcing himself to keep his movements slow and careful. He curls his finger gently before drawing it out to the tip and pushing back in again.

"Oh, _Hank,_" Connor moans, breath hitching. "More, _please_."

Hank thanks every deity he doesn't believe in for sending this coltish, goofy man into his life. This man whose every move seems like it is specifically tailored to drive Hank mad with desire and affection.

As soon as he's able and Connor can take it comfortably, Hank eases in a second finger, twisting them and curling them, thrusting slow and deep and wringing the most perfect of moans from Connor's lips. He arches and clutches the sheets, flushed all across his cheeks and down his neck. He looks stunning like this.

"God, Hank," he whines breathlessly, pushing a hand into his hair. "Please, hurry, I want you so much…"

"Shh," Hank says gently. "Just relax, I've got you. You said you'd be good."

Connor falls silent, Adams apple bobbing hard as he swallows. He's staring at Hank with those wide, impossibly brown eyes, and Hank wracks his brain to think about what he said that could possibly have elicited that reaction.

Oh.

Well.

He can do that, sure.

"Are you going to be good, Connor?" Hank asks, pitching his voice low. "Are you going to be a good boy for me?" Carefully, slowly, he eases in a third finger as he speaks.

A shiver runs the entire length of Connor's body and a soft, needy whine slips past his lips. He nods quickly, seemingly unable to actually speak. For once. Hank's quite proud to be the one to render Connor speechless. Who'd've known a praise kink would be the weakness to exploit to shut him up?

That opens up a _lot _of intriguing opportunities.

Hank curls his fingers a little more firmly and Connor jolts with a whine. He's getting impatient, they both are, but part of Hank wants to draw this out endlessly, keep Connor here secluded away, just the two of them.

"Please, Hank," Connor moans raggedly. "I-I'll be good, but I _need_ you..."

Goddamn it.

Hank is dimly aware of his willpower flying out the window, but he honestly couldn't care less. Not when Connor's begging for him so desperately like that. He sits back to wriggle out of his own jeans and underwear, tossing them to the floor and moving back to kneel between Connor's parted thighs. Connor reaches for him but Hank doesn't surrender immediately.

"Condom?" Hank asks.

Connor wrinkles his nose. "No, thank you."

Alright, Hank tried. He leans close so he can slip his arms up round his neck and his legs up round his waist.

"Fuck me, Hank," Connor purrs, tilting his hips up so Hank can sink into him with one, slow movement.

They groan together, Hank's vision blurring as he sinks into tight, slick heat. Connor's fingers tighten in his hair and he arches up into him, mouth falling open round the low moan that rushes out of him on an unsteady breath. Hank takes a moment, leaning his forehead against Connor's and taking a few deep breaths to steady himself.

Once his pulse slows he gives a slow roll of his hips, delighting in the soft whine Connor gives in response. His legs tighten round Hank's waist, ankles locking together for leverage so he can rock his hips up to meet him.

The pace Hank sets is slow, unhurried, a constant, even rolling of hips that pushes him deep into Connor's ass and drags the prettiest of moans from his throat. He writhes under Hank like something out of a porno and Hank swears he gets harder just from looking. Connor's nails dig into his shoulders like little sharp pricks of pleasure and the heat coiling in Hank's abdomen tries to urge him to move faster.

"_H-Hank," _Connor stutters, panting and flushed all the way down his chest. "Faster, please, _faster."_

Hank already knows he can deny this man nothing. He braces his hands on the mattress either side of Conner's ribs and slowly draws out until just the tip of his cock is inside. With a sharp buck of his hips he buries himself to the hilt, then falls into a hard, rapid rhythm.

Connor pushes his face into Hank's shoulder to muffle a sharp cry, clutches at him as Hank drives into him relentlessly. He pants and whines and – fuck – bites hard at Hank's shoulder to keep quiet, but the sudden sharpness is enough to force a loud moan out of Hank's own mouth. He pulls back, freeing his shoulder from the grip of Connor's teeth and ducks his head to kiss him hard, panting against his mouth.

Connor clutches him tighter, shuddering beneath him and arching up to rub his cock between their stomachs. His breaths come faster as he gets closer and closer to coming, and as much as Hank dearly wants to watch him lose control, he absolutely has to keep quiet, so he keeps kissing him, until they're both breathless and doing little more than passing the same breath between open mouths.

And then Connor is coming, his whole body drawing tight, nails scratching deliciously down Hank's back as pleasure shudders through him. Hank kisses him through it, swallowing the muffled cry against his lips before moving to pepper kisses along Connor's jaw, softly over his neck.

"Hank," Connor sighs softly. "I want you to- As well. Please."

It really doesn't take much. A few more thrusts and Hank sees stars, shuddering with a low groan as he falls apart, just managing to stop himself from falling onto Connor and crushing him under his weight. Instead he pitches to the side and Connor follows, nuzzling into him like a contented pet, head tucked under Hank's chin.

"That... Happened," Hank says when he gets his breath back. He's pleased it didn't take as long as he thought it would. Connor gives a satisfied hum that vibrates through his chest.

"Any regrets?" Connor asks, drawing light patterns over Hank's arm with the tips of his fingers."

"Fuck no," Hank says. "Well, yeah, one. Maybe two."

"Oh?" Connor's tone wavers with uncertainty, fingers pausing on Hank's skin.

"Yeah. I'm never gonna be able to eat watermelon again without grinning like an idiot. And I'm pretty sure Nines is actually gonna kill me."

Connor presses his face into Hank's chest, the force of their combined laughter shaking the bed.


	5. (T) BOYF - Practicing by Abiggaynerd

Practicing  
Abiggaynerd

Summary:  
Micheal is in love with Jeremy. When he kisses him by accident, he has to come up with an excuse. Things escalate from there.

* * *

Michael had been in love with his best friend Jeremy for years.

Some people might wonder why he fell in love with such a huge loser, who jacked off every thirty seconds, couldn't talk to a girl without getting a hard-on, and dressed like a 30 year old mom picking up her kids from soccer.

Michael didn't know, really. He could list a thousand things about Jeremy he loved- about his body, his personality, his little quirks no one but him noticed... Even so, he just couldn't identify what made him fall. But in love with Jeremy he was. Completely, irreversibly in love.

Michael knew Jeremy was straight. And he knew he would never have a chance with him. But just being around him, being his best friend, his player two, his other half, was enough for Michael. Even if it was painful sometimes. He was able to handle it, for Jeremy.

It was the weekend. They were in Michael's basement, and they were taking a snack break from playing video games all day. All around, it was a nice, normal, but perfect day.

Jeremy reached into the chip bag and pulled out approximately half the chips in one go. Michael whistled.

They had been sitting in a comfortable silence, not speaking, until- "Doesn't it bother you that neither of us has kissed anyone before?"

Michael choked on his soda. "What?"

"I mean." Jeremy put a single chip in his mouth, chewed, and swallowed it. "When we kiss girls, we're going to be awful at kissing, right? I read if you don't practice, you'll be bad at it. And the girls have probably kissed before. So they won't like it at all and will critique my performance, and she'll break up with me and tell every other girl how bad of a kisser I am so no girl will date me, and I'll die alone..."

Michael was in tears, rolling on the ground. "Oh my gosh, dude, why are you assuming you'll get girls hot enough to "critique your performance?" Are you hiring professionals? 'Hello, I'm Jeremy Heere and I'd like you to rate my kissing, please.' Cause I kinda doubt a girl with enough skill to professionally judge you is gonna date you like, at all. She's not even real and I already know she's out of your ledge, man!"

Jeremy scowled and shoved the rest of his chips in his mouth. "You know what I mean, Michael. I'm worried my future girlfriend will hate it!"

"Dude, chill out. It's not a big deal. You'll figure out something." Michael lay on the floor, and shot Jeremy a reassuring grin.

"I read I need practiiiiiice," Jeremy whined. He started crawling over, and Michael tossed his head back and laughed.

When he opened his eyes again, Jeremy was hovering over him. Michael's brain short-circuited.

Jeremy was on top of him. Almost pinning him down, if he moved his hands just a little. Michael was blushing so hard he wondered if his head would explode. Michael became hyper aware of Jeremy's left leg touching his right leg. If he moved it a bit higher- no, that wasn't the time to think about that. He smelled good, too, which wasn't fair- they had spent the whole day playing video games. Michael was sure he himself smelled like shit. But he could smell Jeremy's shampoo, and soap, and him, and it smelled good, but it was a little overwhelming. Did Jeremy not realize it was weird for their faces to be so close together? And how had Michael never noticed how beautiful and long his eyelashes were before? And his lips...

Jeremy was pouting, and saying something, and Michael felt so full of affection and love, and he wanted to kiss him. He really wanted to kiss him. So he did.

He lifted his head and closed the short distance between them. Michael pressed into Jeremy's lips gently with his own, unsure if he was doing it correctly. Jeremy was right, this was something you needed practice with.

Jeremy pushed him away, and Michael came crashing back to reality. His stomach dropped in pure horror, as he realized that this wasn't a dream or a fantasy, and his actions do, in fact, have consequences.

"W-what are-were you doing?" Jeremy squeaked, sitting up quickly and covering his mouth.

Michael sat up too. His brain was numb with fear. There was absolutely no positive outcome for this.

Possible response number one: Jeremy hates him, never talks to him again.

Possible response number two: Jeremy doesn't hate him, but finds it incredibly awkward and their friendship slowly dies.

Possible response number three: Michael dies instantly (the ideal option)

Time was running out. What should he say, what should he say...

"Uh- I- I- uh- Practice! You wanted to practice kissing, right? Well we should, uh, practice with each other! It's what friends are for, right? Practice? I mean, its not like it means anything," He laughed nervously, despite the fact that he knew the excuse wouldn't work and he was awaiting Jeremy's response like a prisoner waiting for execution.

Michael didn't look at Jeremy, until the silence that had gone on for too long became too much to bear.

But when he looked up again, he saw Jeremy's brow furled in thought, not anger.

"Practice with each other?" Jeremy slowly began to grin. "That's a great idea!"

OH. Oh dear, sweet, innocent Jeremy. Oh, poor, young, dear Jeremy. Michael has given him too much credit. Of course Jeremy would think he was serious. Of course he wouldn't suspect a thing. The despair and horror draining from his system, leaving him filled with nothing but a light feeling of giddiness and relief, was better than any orgasm he'd ever had.

Ah. Jeremy was speaking again. Michael had been too happy to care.

"Sorry, what?" Michael said, a big, lazy smile on his face.

"I said," said Jeremy, shuffling a little closer to Michael, "I wanna be the one to kiss you this time."

Jeremy might as well have thrown a bowling ball at Michael's head. It took everything Michael had in him to not literally crash to the ground under the weight of the extreme mood swings he had had in the last ten minutes. He didn't even know he COULD have emotions that strong. He didn't even know what emotion it was. Just that it was big, and loud, and extreme.

Jeremy held a finger under Michael's nose, and he realized he had not been breathing for the past minute.

"Are you okay-"

"Uh- yeah! Yeah! Go for it! We are practicing after all!" Michael forced himself to laugh. "Go for it my man!"

"Ah, okay." Jeremy's brow furled in concentration again, which was incredibly cute, but Michael needed to calm DOWN. Nothing was happening. This didn't mean anything to either of them-

Michael wasn't prepared for the kiss. Physically. Jeremy rammed his head right into him.

"OOWWWW," they both screamed in unison.

"What the hell, Jeremy! I thought we were practicing kissing, not bullfighting!"

Jeremy looked crestfallen. "What did I do wrong..."

"You rammed your head right into me. There's your problem."

"I'm sorry... I'll never be able to kiss anyone. I'm going to be a virgin for the rest of my life..."

Michael sighed. Jeremy really did look upset over failing, which was extremely cute. And it wasn't Jeremy's fault he was a hopeless nerd.

"Here, try again. Do it slower, it isn't a race." Michael closed his eyes and leaned in towards Jeremy.

It was a lot easier to stay calm after Jeremy's screw-up. Until the actual kiss happened.

It wasn't perfect, but Michael felt like it was. Even though his glasses were pressing into him painfully. Jeremy's nose was pressed into Michael's and it was a little uncomfortable, and Jeremy was stiff and nervous. But it didn't break any skulls, and Michael felt like he was floating.

"Hang on," Jeremy mumbled against Michael's lips, and a shiver went through him. Jeremy grabbed his phone- not pulling away from the kiss- and began to type.

"What are you doing!?" Michael said, muffled by the lips. He'd be damned if he stopped the kiss first, though.

"I'm googling what to do now," Jeremy said. Michael began to shake with silent laughter.

Jeremy's hand went to his hair and began to pet it gently, and Michael froze and got even redder, if possible.

"It says here to use your hands while you're kissing," Jeremy explained against Michael's lips. "Um, it says you can touch the hair, or the cheek-" Jeremy's hand slid to Michael's cheek, and Michael thought he might melt. "You can also touch here-" shoulder- "Here-" chest, waist- "or... here." Hip.

Michael wondered if this was going to be how he died. What a way to go. No regrets. Jeremy pulled away, and Michael's lips felt cold without them. But the hand on his hip didn't go away.

"There are also other places, but they'd be a little weird since we're just friends."

(Damnit, Jeremy, this is already weird)

"Okay, I'm going to kiss you again."

Michael realized he was definitely going to die at this rate. "Okay."

Jeremy leaned forwards, and their lips met. Michael's eyes fluttered shut. It was much softer this time. Jeremy's touch was feather light. His nose still poked into him, and his glasses still got in the way, but it was a small price to pay. It seemed like the only thing in the whole world was their lips pressing together, the contact they had. It seemed like the whole universe, everything and anything, was in that kiss. Michael felt like he was floating.

"How was that?" Jeremy asked the dazed Michael.

"Uh." The room was spinning. "Pretty good for the second try."

Jeremy grinned. "Let's try again later! For now, we have some zombies to kill."

Michael nodded.

Jeremy began to chatter on about something, acting like nothing had changed.

Michael just kinda sat there, dazed, until Jeremy started calling for him to come over and play.

Michael knew this probably wasn't the best idea, seeing as he had been pining for Jeremy for years. He was pretty much just dangling what he wanted in front of his face, then taking it away. So he never inited the kisses. But he couldn't find it in himself to say no when Jeremy asked- he had wanted it for so long, how could he?  
They had been getting better at kissing, too. Jeremy's nose didn't poke into Michael's uncomfortably anymore, and he avoided Michael's glasses too. They knew each other's faces, and they were able to put them together perfectly now, like a puzzle. Sometimes Michael felt like their faces were made to be put together. He always quickly shoved those thoughts aside.

The kisses were always dizzying and amazing. When they started, it was awkward and a little stiff, but as time went on, Michael found it harder to resist the urge to throw his arms around Jeremy and press his lips against his like his life depended on it, kissing on and around his mouth, trying to make Jeremy feel the overwhelming feelings he made him feel. Jeremy always melted into it, always gentle, sometimes a little awkward, running his hands through Michael's hair.

Michael often had dreams of the kisses turning into much more, but they hadn't yet moved onto anything other than closed lips, until Jeremy spoke up one weekend.  
He pushed Michael away, and studied him for a moment.

"What's wrong?" Michael asked, a little breathless.

Jeremy licked his lips. "I- I think- can I try something new? I read about it online."

Michael's breath stopped. "What do you mean, dude?"

"It's nothing bad! Just- let me show you."

Michael closed his eyes and smiled, wordlessly consenting. He felt Jeremy's lips press against his own, like always. Nothing out of the ordinary here.

Jeremy opened his mouth.

Not far. Just a little. He took Michael's bottom lip in his lips and gave it a gentle, toothless bite. Michael could feel the soft, wet, warm inside of Jeremy's lips. Jeremy pulled away with a wet pop, much too soon.

"How was that?" He asked, looking concerned, like Michael hadn't just experienced the best thing in his life.

Michael stared at him for a moment. "I don't know. You'd have to do it again."

And Jeremy, being an idiot, nodded seriously. But it didn't really matter since he was leaning in again.  
His mouth was already partway open this time, and Michael shivered. He opened his mouth a sliver too, feeling giddy when he felt Jeremy jolt. Michael imitated Jeremy, putting his lip in between Michael's lips. He pressed down a little harder than Jeremy had, and tugged on his lip a little. Losing his grip, he sucked on it to keep it in his mouth.

Jeremy moaned.

Jeremy jumped back. Michael covered his mouth with his hands, forcing himself to not to jizz his pants right there and then.

"Oh my gosh dude, did you just MOAN?" Michael said, after he had calmed down a little. "No!" Jeremy denied quickly. His face was totally red. It was adorable.

Michael burst out laughing. "I'm winning! I made you moan, which you've never done for me... I'm the better kisser!"

"Hey!" Jeremy protested, not any less red, "I'm just a good a kisser as you, we started at the same time!"

"Sorry, Jeremy, I can't hear you over all your moaning. Which you're doing because of how much of a better kisser I am."

"I could make you moan too!" Jeremy pounced on Michael, pinning him down. Michael's breath hitched.

"Yeah, right," Michael said breathlessly, "You-"

Michael didn't finish his sentence, because Jeremy had started kissing him again. It was fast and a little aggressive, and totally different than any of the kisses before. Michael made a tiny sound as he felt teeth biting into his lips- not hard enough to hurt, of course. But hard enough where Michael could feel it. It felt good.

"See?!" Jeremy said triumphantly, sitting up. "You moaned!"

Michael was stunned, but not enough to not regain his dignity. "That was you."

"No I didn't! You did!"

"Don't they say 'the one who smelt it, dealt it'?"

Jeremy burst out laughing. "What?"

"I'm just saying..."

"That literally does not apply here!"

"Whatever." Not giving Jeremy a chance to respond, Michael pulled Jeremy's face down and kissed him again.

This time, he let his tongue sneak out and lick Jeremy's lips. Jeremy squealed, but didn't pull away. Michael smiled into the kiss, and feeling a bit braver, poked his tongue between Jeremy's lips, running over the smooth teeth. Jeremy sucked on it for a moment, then met Michael's tongue with his own, pressing into it as he gave it a lick. Michael became conscious of the drool running out of both their mouths, and it was a little gross, yeah, but honestly he didn't really care.

They pulled apart, both breathing heavily. Michael wiped the spit off his face. Jeremy didn't seem aware of the spit pooling at his own chin, but he still somehow managed to look incredibly hot. Blushing hard, eyes dilated, breathing heavily, wet lips. Michael stared at them, licking his own lips.

"Ya got something right there," Michael said, propping himself up on his elbows and pointing.

Jeremy touched his chin, and noticed the spit. "Oh! Oh, yeah. Thanks." He rubbed it off and gave a little laugh. "I think we need more practice with that."

Michael frowned. "Why? I thought you did fine. Did I do it bad or something?"

Jeremy shook his head. "Ah, no no no! That's not what I meant at all! I mean, what we just did was fine... But if we were girls we'd probably think it was bad. It was kinda spitty. I read girls don't like that."

"Ah." Michael's good mood evaporated as he remembered the guy he was kissing wasn't into him at all, and was probably imagining Christine in his place. "Yeah, I guess."

"But for now, I'm, uh, kinda winded? Haha. Wanna play video games?"

Michael forced a smile and nodded. "Of course, dude."

Michael had gotten used to kissing Jeremy every weekend. Not to say he didn't still enjoy it- of course he did. But he was able to keep his emotions in check now, didn't freak out over every little thing.

Except he was freaking out over a very little thing. Jeremy had come over like always, and Michael had met him at the door. But instead of a high five or a fistbump, Jeremy had leaned forward and given Michael a peck on the lips.

It wasn't a French kiss or anything. Just a light, airy kiss that almost didn't happen at all. It felt disgustingly domestic, and Michael was freaking out over it.

"You idiot! What if someone saw!" Michael hissed, tugging Jeremy inside.

Jeremy tugged off his shoes and put them on the floor, then turned and looked Michael in the eye. "Sorry, are you uncomfortable with me kissing you like that? I won't do it if you don't like it, it's just... I thought I should practice, like, visiting a girlfriend, and what I would do, so I wouldn't be a mess when it actually happens..." He looked at his shoes. "Sorry. I wasn't thinking."

Michael smiles and shakes his head. "Nah, man, don't worry about it. Just don't let people see. Wouldn't you hate that? Kids at school already make fun of us for being gay."  
Jeremy blinked. "I totally forgot about that."

"JEREMY HEERE forgot the rumors? I've seen it all, folks."

"Yeah, you're right." Jeremy smiled, embarrassed. "Let's go downstairs."

So Jeremy wanted to play dating for the day. Fine. Michael could handle that. He wouldn't die.

"So," Jeremy said, wringing his hands. "What does dating... consist of, exactly."

"Dude, I don't know if you know this, but I am literally just as clueless as you are."

Jeremy groaned. "Okay, internet, my old friend, what'd ya got for me."

Michael watched Jeremy for a good five minutes as he scoured the internet.

"Okay," Jeremy said. "Let's hold hands." Without waiting for an answer, he reached out and grabbed Michael's hand. They both stared at their intertwined hands, like they held the great secrets to the universe.

"So... Now what."

"It says to do something you both enjoy."

"Video games?"

"Uh, duh."

Jeremy began to give him little kisses, not just in Michael's house, but in other places too. Whenever they were alone, Jeremy would give him a little smooch, then continue on as if nothing had happened. As a greeting, as a goodbye, or even just because. In fact, it was becoming like a reflex for him. For both of them.  
It wasn't just that, either. Jeremy seemed to want to hold hands a lot more, now. Neither mentioned it, but Michael noticed. It made him happier than it probably should've.

Against Michael's better judgment- (this is even worse than making out, it's like you're actually dating and it'll hurt that much more when he gets that girlfriend he wants so much) he never once protested against it. He still almost never inited, but he always reciprocated with vigor. He shut out the voice in his head that made him feel guilt for tricking Jeremy. He was HAPPY, damnit. Couldn't he just let himself be happy for a little while?

Apparently not.

"Michael!" Jeremy called, waving at him through the crowded cafeteria. Michael grinned and made his way over to him. He kissed Jeremy.

"So how was class?" Michael asked, before realizing that several people were staring at them and holy shit he had just kissed Jeremy causally and in public, in front of the people Jeremy wanted to impress.

"I knew those two losers were gay!" crowed Rich, pointing. The people in the cafeteria laughed.

Michael never really cared much about what other people said about him- the only thing he really cared about was Jeremy's opinion.

But the fact that everyone was making fun of Jeremy made him extremely upset.

Jeremy looked utterly crushed, and like he was about to cry. He was staring at his lap and blinking funny. Michael felt extremely guilty- especially since he had told Jeremy when he first did it to not let anyone see. He had to fix it, somehow.

"HA!" Michael said loudly, catching everyone's attention. "Now everyone thinks you're gay! That's for- uh- stealing the six hundred dollars I was saving up! Bitch!" Michael stomped away, straining his ears for any reactions from his fellow teenagers. They seemed pleased at the drama, that he knew. He just hoped they got off Jeremy's dick.

Michael ate the rest of his meal in the library, hoping he had fixed the problem. For Jeremy, at least.

They went to Jeremy's house at the end of the day. They had been playing video games for a little while.

"Again, I'm really super sorry, man, I guess it just became a habit..."

"Don't worry about it! Some of the kids actually seemed to think it was a little cool I had stolen your money, even though thats kinda a crime? haha. Great thinking with that coverup."

"No prob."

"So, anyway, after lunch, Rich pulled me into the bathroom-"

"What the FUCK."

"No no, it's not bad! He said there was a chip in his head? From Japan? And it helped him to be cool. Called a squip."

"Uh-"

"And he said theres a guy at Payless who'll sell me one."

"Jer-"

"For $600. Said now he knew I could afford it, and thats why he was telling me."

Michael laughed. "Wow, I have never heard of such an obvious scam in my life."

"...weelllllll..."

Michael laughed even harder. "You did NOT agree to that."

"What if it's not a scam, though! This could be huge, I could be popular!" Jeremy paused the game. All I need to do is give my bully... Six...hundred... You're right. I'm gonna be a loser forever. Not even a miracle could ever save me." He flopped back on his beanbag.

"Hey, hey!" Michael leaned over. "Dude, you're cooler than a vintage cassette! Just, no one but me knows that right now. I mean, sure, you're a loser, but we're losers together, right?"

Jeremy covered his face. "No, you're not a loser. You're too cool for me."

"No way!" Michael laughed. He pulled the hands from Jeremy's face and held them in his own. "Well, even if I was the coolest guy in school, I'd still only want to hang out with you."

"Shut uppp," Jeremy said, but he was smiling again.

Michael leaned over and began to pepper kisses all over Jeremy's face.

"Stop, that tickles!" Jeremy giggled, pretending to bat Michael away.

"Not- until- you- stop- being- such- a- downer," said Michael.

"Oh nooo, I guess you're gonna have to kiss me forever then, huh-"

Jeremy's father opened the door. "Jeremy? I've been calling ...for... you.."

Jeremy and Michael were frozen for a moment, before jumping to opposite sides of the room.

"Dad! It's not what you think!"

Jeremy's father nodded thoughtfully. "I can't say I'm surprised. Use protection-"

"No, seriously, Mr. Heere, I tripped and fell on him."

Jeremy's father clearly was not buying it, but he didn't comment. "I'm buying pizza. You boys want anything?"

"No, Dad! Bye!" Jeremy practically pushed his father out of the room, and closed the door.

"Sorry." Jeremy said. He looked like he was about to burn up from embarrassment. "Now he thinks we're dating and I'm gay even though I'm not and you're gay even though you aren't and you're probably really upset about this and-"

"Chill, Jer. It's not a big deal, I don't care." Michael did care, but not about the fact that Jeremy's father thought they were dating. He cared about the fact that Jeremy was so upset by it. He knew Jeremy wouldn't like it, but it still hurt to hear it out loud.

Eager to change the subject, Michael said, "So, we were talking about a squid?"

"Squip." Jeremy sat down again. "Hey, what if tomorrow, we go check it out? Just see if the story checks out."

Michael wondered, for a moment, what would happy if it DID work.

"If it works... Will you be too cool for-" (me) "-Video games?"

Jeremy saw right through it, somehow. Impressive for a boy who believed his best friend's lie that he only wanted to kiss him for practice.

"No way! You're my favorite person!"

Michael couldn't fight the blush from covering his face. "Is is really true? I'm your faworite pewrson?" He tilted his head, almost upside down.

Jeremy laughed, a little embarrassed. "Yeah! It's always gonna be you and me against the rest of the world!"

"Okay," Michael said. "Let's go together."

"Thanks, Michael. You're the best."

Michael couldn't stop the gentle smile and fluttering feeling in his chest. "I know. Now let's kill these zombies."

"Wish me luck," Jeremy said, holding the pill in one hand, and the Mountain Dew in the other.

Michael looked around quickly, then pecked Jeremy on the lips when he was sure it was safe. "Good luck."

Jeremy seemed surprised, but quickly recovered and grinned. "Thanks!"

He downed the pill.

It didn't work, and it was probably a wintergreen tic-tac, but Michael excepted that. He felt a little bad, sure, but he wasn't surprised. Dear, sweet, innocent Jeremy. Michael smiled fondly. A guy who thought the guy who kissed him was purely doing it for practice, would obviously take an offer like this. At least he had a super awesome best friend that stopped him from doing stupid shit... Most of the time.

He payed the guy at Spenser's gifts for his old-ass soda, then went back to the food court to look for Jeremy. Who wasn't there. Which was... Concerning.

Of course, when he saw Christine, it all made sense.

Michael walked over to her and Jake. "Hey, have either of you seen Jeremy?"

Jake snickered. "He was losing it."

Christine looked very concerned. "He started screaming, then began talking to himself and walked away without saying anything? Is something wrong?"

Michael nodded. "Yeah, that sounds like him. Don't worry about it. Which way did he go?"

Christine pointed.

"Thanks."

Michael shook his head as he began to search for Jeremy. What a nerd. But he was his nerd.

He spotted Jeremy walking towards the exit, after a long time spent looking.

"Jeremy! I know you're nervous around Christine, but thats no reason to go so far away from where we were gonna meet up! Lugging this soda around sucks balls, let's go home-"

He reached Jeremy, and touched his shoulder. Jeremy glanced at Michael for a second, gave him a disdainful look, before ignoring him and continuing on his way.  
Michael felt like someone had pulled the floor out from under him. He felt sick. Had he done something wrong? Why was Jeremy mad?

**_Did Jeremy realize he didn't kiss him just for practice_**

Michael felt unable to move, and tried not to cry, watching Jeremy leave without him.

When Michael got home, he tried to call Jeremy, text Jeremy, even e-mail Jeremy, but Jeremy wouldn't respond. He stayed up as long as he could, and fell asleep crying. He had fucked up irreversibly, he just knew it. A black hole seemed to have made it's new home in Michael's stomach.

The next day, Jeremy ignored him entirely. It was almost like he actually couldn't hear him. Jeremy seemed to be in a fine mood otherwise. Jeremy even said hi to several kids. More surprisingly, the kids said hi back. Michael didn't really care about the other kids, though, so he ignored the interactions. Jeremy mumbled to himself somewhat often, which was strange. Michael followed him around like an ignored puppy until he went into drama practice, trying to figure out what was wrong and apologizing the entire time. He sat outside the door, miserable.

When Jeremy came out, stiff and hurried, Michael didn't follow him. He just watched him leave. Again.

Michael forced himself to get up eventually. No point in staying at school when your only friend was mad at you. He walked outside, and saw Jeremy, clutching his head and mumbling something.

Michael decided it wasn't his problem, and continued to walk forward, when Jeremy called, "Michael!"

Michael looked at him, surprised. He then turn around to walk away. He was kinda pissed off. Jeremy couldn't just ignore him for the entire day, then decide to speak to him like nothing was wrong.

"Where have you been all day? I'm so glad to see you!" Jeremy ran up to him, happy as a clam, and grabbed his arm.

Michael's resolve to be angry faded, but he still tried to be a little angry.

"So you weren't ignoring me all day?"

Jeremy took a step back. "What are you talking about? I haven't even seen you since-"

Jeremy stopped mid sentence, and stared into space. Long enough where it got weird.

"Jeremy? Why are you standing there all creepy and stuff?"

Jeremy's eyes flickered for a second, before defocusing again.

"Seriously, what's up with you?" Michael was honestly getting really worried about him. "You've been acting shady ever since...since..."

Jeremy's eyes refocused, and Michael remembered that tic tac. The squip.

"It worked, didn't it? Jeremy! That's amazing!" Michael was filled with relief. Jeremy wasn't made at him, or ignoring him on purpose! The fact that the weird pill made him do that was... Concerning. But more importantly, Jeremy wasn't mad at him!

"We gotta test it, we gotta celebrate, we gotta– get stoned in my basement!" Michael grinned, and grabbed Jeremy's hand to pull him to his house. But Jeremy didn't move at all. His eyes weren't unfocused- they were very focused. Michael felt like he was being analyzed. He felt like his friend was about to do something... terrible.

"Jeremy? You coming?"

Deep down, Michael knew Jeremy wasn't going to come.

It didn't make it any easier when Jeremy turned around and ignored Michael calling for him, again.

Michael knew Jeremy was going to the Halloween party. Everyone cool was going. The squip was doing it's job, he supposed. Jeremy was a lot cooler now. Socially. He was acting like a really uncool friend. It was lonely at the bottom of the social ladder all by yourself. Even though Jeremy said he'd be up there with him.

He was kind of angry, which was weird. Michael was never angry. It was just something he... Didn't do.

He wanted to go to the party and talk to Jeremy. Yell at him for abandoning him, even after 12 years of being each other's only friends, and a promise to NOT abandon him. Michael had written a whole monologue. How could he do this to him?

Then it struck Michael. There was no way Jeremy would do this of his own free will. He WOULDN'T. Michael was positive. Something was fucked up about that "squip", and Michael was going to find out what it was and save Jeremy and everything would be fine again. The squip was the enemy here. Not Jeremy, who had PROMISED he wouldn't be too cool for him-

Anyway.

Michael went searching on the internet, and when that didn't work, began to ask around and rely on word of mouth.

It had been months, and Michael was lonely. Months of only playing one player games. Months of eating alone. Months of having no one to talk to but himself. Still, he was sure it would be worth it. It had to be.

By the time the day of the Halloween Party came, Michael felt prepared enough to confront Jeremy.

Sneaking in was easy- put a trash bag over your head and they'll let you into any high school party. He drank a few shitty cups of beer, looking for Jeremy, until he noticed some people giving him odd looks, so he went to hide in the bathroom.

His plan was simple. All he had to do was scare Jeremy, and the squip wouldn't have enough time to do... Whatever it did. He hoped.

He was going to go and search for Jeremy, but as luck would have it, Jeremy came running right into Michael's monsterhand.

Jeremy screamed.

"Sup," Michael said.

"Michael? I didn't know you were invited to this party."

He was acting so... causal, like Michael hadn't been non-stop crying since the last time they talked. Which was months ago. Michael's stomach clenched.

"I wasn't... which is why I'm wearing... this clever disguise!" Michael raised his hand to lift up the trash bag.

Jeremy just stared at him. Michael began to panic a little- surely he wasn't going to go just yet, right?

"Squip got your tongue?" Michael said, trying to sound like he wasn't about to have a panic attack.

"It's...off."

Michael calmed down a bit at that. "That would explain why you're talking to me."

Jeremy looked a little guilty, which Michael appreciated.

"I've been thinking about this moment," Michael said, beginning his speech on why he thought the squip was evil. "What I would say to you? I had this really pissed off monologue, an epic journey through twelve years of friendship-"

Jeremy had a dopey smile on his face.

"What?"

Jeremy leaned forwards and kissed him. He smiled gently. "I'm just really glad to see you, man."

Well, fuck. Michael can't exactly say his grand speech now. Might as well just tell the facts now.

"There's something you need to know about the squip!"

Jeremy cocked his head. "What could you possibly know that I don't? There's nothing on the internet about them-"

"I know, it's crazy, right? Like, thats pretty suspicious if you ask me, but anyway- I started talking around, and this guy I play Warcraft with told me about his older brother. Went from a failing student to Harvard. Because of that squip. Know where he is now?"

"Happy and successful?"

Michael heroically resisted the urge to punch Jeremy in the face. "In a mental hospital."

"Well, that probably has nothing to do with-"

"Think, man! We're talking an insanely powerful super-computer. You really think its primary function is to get you laid? Who made them? How did they end up in a high school? In New Jersey? Of all possible applications for such a mind- blowingly advanced technology, you ever wonder what it's doing inside YOU?" Michael grabbed Jeremy's arm, looking him in the eyes. Jeremy NEEDED to understand something was horribly wrong.

Jeremy burst out laughing.

"W-what?"

"Oh man, and I thought Chloe was jealous..."

Michael shrugged off the twinge in his heart when he heard a reference he didn't get at all. "I'm telling you because I care about you!"

"Really." Jeremy stands up, and he's starting to look mad. "Funny how you tell me that the thing that's finally getting me what I wanted- NEEDED- is terrible and it's gonna make me go crazy. Maybe I just deserved a break! My life sucked! And it's better now, and I think you're jealous because you don't have one!"

Michael got out of the bathtub and stood up too. "He didn't go crazy because of it. He went crazy trying to take it out."

A moment of silence.

"Well then, you have nothing to worry about. I would never want that."

"Jeremy-"

Jeremy began to walk to the door, and Michael jumped in front of it.

"Jeremy," he cooed, "Jeremy, it's me, your best friend Michael. I'm just worried about you, please believe me-"

Michael tried to take Jeremy's hands in his own, but was harshly slapped away.

Jeremy backed up a step, and burst into loud, angry laugher.

"Holy shit, you're not jealous of me. You're jealous of the squip."

Michael's heart leapt into his throat.

Jeremy grinned. "You're jealous that you can't have my whole, undivided attention anymore!"

"Jer-"

"No no no, this is gold. Wait- does this mean that kissing we did was because you were trying to keep me to yourself?" Jeremy burst out laughing again.

Michael felt like he was shattering into a million pieces.

"Well, I can have any girl I want now, so I don't think I need that "practice" anymore, okay? Go jack off alone in your basement."

Michael felt sick.

"Move it."

"Or what," he said, in a tiny voice. There really wasn't much else Jeremy could do to make him feel worse.

"Move it, loser," said Jeremy. He shoved him aside, hard, and left the bathroom.

Michael stared at the door for a moment, before quietly locking it and climbing back into the bathtub. He curled up into a tiny ball.

Well, his best and only friend, the love of his life, hated him now. So that was cool. Coming was a terrible idea.

He began to sob, loud and ugly and messy. Jeremy was going to make a new best friend, and get a girlfriend, and forget all about him. He was already well on his way, what with the squip not letting him see Michael and all.

Suicide sounded pretty nice. His eyes began to flicker through the bathroom, but everything that he could use to kill himself was either too much work or too painful. He wished he'd never been born. Jeremy probably would've been better off without a gay loser dragging him down. He sure seemed happier now.  
His tears began to decrease, but not his despair. Michael in a bathroom at a party. Nothing sadder than that. He covered his ears at the sound of the banging on the door and the screams of someone demanding Mountain Dew Red.

Is there really any point in living without your other half?

Jeremy didn't try to see if Michael was okay after the fire. For all he knew or cared, Michael had died in the fire.

Michael wished he had.

He decided to stay home from school that day. He just couldn't deal with possibly seeing Jeremy in the hall. It wasn't like his parents would know or care, anyway.  
He didn't do much. He just lay on his bed, numb, for a while. Until his eyes fell on his "Jeremy Mementos" box. He forced himself out of bed, onto the porch, lit a joint, and began going through the box because apparently he loved to feel awful.

"Magic the gathering card he got me for my birthday no one else remembered... Burn it." He didn't burn it. Just put it in his 'to burn' pile. "Ticket stub from our first concert together... Weird Al. Super burn it." He reached into the box for another thing, but someone was barging up to his door and he barely had enough time to hide his joint before realizing it was Jeremy's dad.

"Michael!"

"Mr. Heere, what are you doing here?"

"We need to talk about Jeremy."

Michael bit his lip. "Sorry, we're not friends anymore-"

"You're in love with him, aren't you?"

Michael froze. "W-what?"

"He can be a little shit sometimes, we both know that. But that's no excuse to just sit around burning incense while he turns himself into a monster!"

Michael smiled momentarily as he realized where Jeremy got his naivety from, but his smile quickly disappeared. He began to move towards the front door.

"I'm sorry, I just-"

"Michael!" Jeremy's father blocked the way. "I need you to help him. We both know I'm... not exactly the best father. But I know he's going through something bad, and I know you'll be able to help him."

"But I'm not what he wants..."

"But you're what he needs, Michael! I don't know what happened, maybe he broke up with you, and thats hard, but you need to just suck it up and go! When you love somebody you put your pants on for them."

Michael took a deep breath. "If I try harder to be his... friend, you have to try harder to be his dad."

Mr. Heere smiled at him. "You drive a hard bargain, son."

Michael laughed and scratched his head. "The things I do for my best friend..."

Michael had his Mountain Dew Red. He knew it would turn the squip off, probably. He sat down in a seat. Christine was making a speech. He wasn't paying attention to that. He was antsy and just wanted to see Jeremy.

But Jeremy wasn't on yet, so Michael tried to focus on the play. It was really good for a school play, actually-

It felt like he was watching a movie. This was way too good for a school play. Brooke was fucking terrifying. Everyone must've been squiped.

He ran backstage, searching for Jeremy amongst hoards of squiped student actors. He finally found him... Throwing himself across the room. Landing at his feet.  
Michael raised the Mountain Dew over his head. "Michael MAKES AN EN-TRANCE!"

"Michael!" Jeremy said, overjoyed to see him.

"I was in the audience thinking, "this is really good for a school play," but then I realized "THIS IS WAY TOO GOOD FOR A SCHOOL PLAY!" They've all been squiped, right?"

"You came to see the play?" Jeremy seemed close to tears.

"Even brought my own refreshments!" Michael showed Jeremy the Mountain Dew Red.

"Is that-"

"Mountain Dew Red. Told ya I did my research." Michael preened.

"That's amazing! Give it to me!"

"Hold on a second, buckaroo." Michael took a step back as Jeremy stood up to grab the bottle.

"But I need it!"

"And I need an apology. I mean, I think one's in order. You treat me like I don't exist for months, blow me off when I try to help you-"

"Fine! You want an apology?" A bit more hostile then Michael really wanted, but. "I'm- saaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa. Srrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr."

Michael's confident attitude from before was slowly draining away. His feelings were hurt. Jeremy didn't seem to mean it at all. "Seriously? Is it really that hard to say sorry?"

"YYYYEEEEESSS!" Jeremy screamed. "Come on, man, give me the Mountain Dew, this is important!"

"Well, this is important to me." Michael crossed his arms.

"It's a word!"

"It's a gesture! Gestures matter!"

Jeremy pounced on Michael, and Michael's heart sunk. He dodged the blows quickly.

"This is so YOU! Trying to manipulate me to get the outcome you want! You think you're better than me because you listen to music on vinyl and eat eel in your sushi and don't care about being popular!"

Michael was beginning to regret coming again. "I didn't care because I had you!" He dodged several more blows.

"So you're trying to get me to give up the one thing I've always wanted because you're being selfish?"

"No! I don't care about that! I just want to be a part of your life!"

"I want to be a part of your life too!"

"Then why are you hitting me?!"

"I'm trying not to!"

"Don't try harder!"

Jeremy took a deep breath. "IT'S NOT ME! IT'S MY SQUIP!" He forced himself alway from Michael. "It's taking over my body! I need your help! I'M SORRY!"

Michael grins. "That's all I needed to hear." He began to hand Jeremy the bottle.

"No! If you give me that, my squip will pour it out!" Jeremy said, panicked.

"Ah, right." Michael considered that for a moment. "Well then." Michael opened the bottle and took a huge gulp. Jeremy stared at him, confused.

Michael grabbed Jeremy's face and kissed him, forcing the Mountain Dew Red into his mouth.

Jeremy forced himself to swallow it. Michael pulled back, holding him by the shoulders and looking at him for any changes. Jeremy's head snapped down.

"Jeremy-"

Jeremy's head snapped back up, and unleashed a horrible scream. The other students joined in. Michael had no idea what to do. Was it good? Bad? He didn't know. He hugged Jeremy close until the screaming stopped and until the ambulances someone called came.

Michael woke up to the sound of Rich's voice chattering to Jeremy. He had an awful headache from sleeping sitting up outside their hospital room. He stretched, but stilled when he heard Rich ask Jeremy if Michael was his boyfriend.

Michael quickly went into the hospital room. "I'm sure some special someone would be lucky to have you, Rich."

"You think?"

Rich looked like he was about to say something else, but Michael closed the curtain in his face.

Jeremy blinked slowly. He seemed somewhat dazed, which was to be expected, Michael supposed.

"Michael? What happened? All I remember is noise..."

"Oh man, it was genius! They were communicating with each other – they were  
linked! Which means... when you consider the kind of high-frequency sonic disturbance needed to wipe a system that powerful..."

"Michael," Jeremy whined. "My head still hurts."

"Right, uh... Turns out you didn't have to destroy every Squip. Just one. And the rest..." Michael mimicked an explosion. "Boom boom boom."

Jeremy stared at Michael for longer than Michael felt was necessary.

"I... don't get it," he finally said. "After everything I did... you were still there for me. Why?"

"Because I love you," Michael burst out. Jeremy looked at him in surprise.

"What-"

"I mean, you're my best friend, so... It's not weird to say I love you you almost died! Probably? I was worried. You're my friend. Who I love. As a friend."

"Um-"

"And anyway, I can't take all the credit. Your dad can be pretty persuasive."

"My dad?"

Jeremy's dad came in, and he was wearing pants. Which, to Michael's relief, seemed to be enough to make Jeremy forget about the almost- confession. He zoned out until he heard Mr. Heere mention Christine.

"What do you mean you wanted to date Christine? Why'd I have to hear about it from-"

"It doesn't matter. After what I did, I'm lucky if she wants to go to the same  
school as me," Jeremy said glumly. Michael and Mr Heere exchanged looks. "What?"

"It's reassuring. He still doesn't know anything about girls," Michael said.

"Or boys, apparently."

Jeremy and Michael both flushed. "Daad!" Jeremy protested.

Jeremy and his father got into a somewhat animated conversation about what to do when dating. Michael zoned out again. So Jeremy was going to ask out Christine. At least he wasn't going to throw away Michael like he was garbage again. He tried to push away the heavy feeling in his stomach. This was good. Jeremy would be happy.

It didn't matter how Michael felt about it. That's what he told himself, anyway.

It was early one night. Jeremy had a date with Christine, so Michael was by himself.

He was mindlessly surfing the internet on his phone when it rang. It was Jeremy. Michael picked up almost immediately.

"Hey, buddy. How's your hot date going?"

"Can I come over?"

Michael could immediately tell something was wrong. "Of course, dude."

Michael heard knocking at his door five minutes later, and he hurried to open it. Jeremy waved awkwardly.

"Come on in."

Jeremy took off his shoes and plodded after Michael to his room. Michael waited until Jeremy had settled in a bit, before turning to him and saying, "Dude. What's wrong? You had a date with Christine tonight."

Jeremy was fidgeting with his hands. "We broke up."

"Oh." Oh. "OH! Oh no, Jer, I'm so sorry. What happened? Why'd she break up with you?"

"She didn't break up with me."

Michael honestly wasn't sure how to process that. "What?"

"She didn't break up with me. I broke up with her."

Michael squinted with confusion. "But- you- the whole thing- I- why?"

Jeremy looked at Michael in the eyes.

"Well I was. When I was kissing like, Brooke and Chloe, they. I didn't enjoy it that much. I thought it was because they weren't Christine but." Jeremy paused for a moment. "I kissed Christine and- it was okay! She didn't have bad breath and she wasn't a bad kisser, but. I. Uh."

Jeremy stopped looking Michael in the eye, and stared at his still fidgeting hands.

"I couldn't stop thinking about how much more I liked it with you."

Michael's mouth dropped open, speechless.

Jeremy ignored it and moved on. "And like, maybe it was just a one time thing but I kissed her again and I was just imagining you, and when I held her hand I thought about us holding hands and when I talked to her or looked at her I didn't just feel like randomly kissing her which is weird because I want to do that with you all the time? Haha..."

Michael opened and closed his mouth a few times before being able to speak. "Jeremy, are you saying-"

Jeremy's eyes were screwed shut now. "And so I started thinking and I think I've been in love with you for a long time but I just never noticed, so I broke up with Christine, and I know I don't deserve to date you or even be your friend after everything I've done but you're so good and I love you so much I just-"

Michael interrupted Jeremy by throwing his arms around him and kissing him. Jeremy reciprocated immediately.

The kissing was passionate and hungry. They both tried to touch each other everywhere at once. Michael never wanted it to end, but eventually they both had to come up for air.

Jeremy had a huge, dorky grin on.

"You have no idea how much I wanted to hear you say that," Michael said breathlessly.

Jeremy's hand reached out and wiped something from Michael's cheek. "You're crying."  
"What?" Michael said, and reached up to check. He felt his cheek wet with tears. "Oh. I guess I am. I'm just so happy." He gave a teary giggle.

Jeremy pressed his forehead against Michael's. "I really missed kissing you," he said. "The squip said it was weird, though, so I listened. Said it was gay and that meant being less cool."

"Jeremy..." Michael reached up to stroke Jeremy's hair.

"I think I knew that neither of us did it for practice," Jeremy blurt out. "I really wanted to kiss you but I didn't want to admit I liked you so I fooled myself into thinking it was just for practice. But then when I stopped I finally realized."

Michael laughed. "Jeremy, holy shit."

But Jeremy didn't respond because he was too busy kissing Michael's entire face.

"Guess you didn't need that-" Michael giggled- "squip, huh?"

Jeremy pulled away, serious now. "Michael, I'm really, really sorry. I was an idiot."

Michael grinned at him. "Yeah. You were. But I forgive you because I'm your super cool best- boyfriend. Just don't do it again."

"You want to be my boyfriend?"

"Yeah," Michael said, a little nervously. "If you want."

Jeremy nodded with a huge smile on his face. It was adorable. Michael took a second to appreciate it before pulling Jeremy into another kiss.

"I love you," Jeremy mumbled against his lips.

Michael's heart felt light. He was so happy, it felt like a dream. He giggled with pure bliss.

"I love you too."


	6. (T) TYRUS - Jealous by buffymysavior

Jealous  
buffymysavior

Summary:  
TJ gets jealous when Cyrus talks to another guy at motocross. (Based off the Andi Mack season 3 promo).

* * *

It was after school on a Tuesday that Cyrus was at his house. He was sitting on the couch with his chin resting in his palms, the TV on even though he wasn't really watching it. The past week or so had been rather boring without Andi and Buffy; they were too busy caught up in their drama with each other and Walker to really hang out, so here he was, alone at his house while his parents were out at some business dinner. Even his shrink parents had a busier social life than him; the reminder made him let out a sigh, and he tried not to let the nagging feeling of loneliness he felt get to him.

As another episode of whatever show was on played on the TV, a knock sounded throughout the house. Immediately, Cyrus's interest was piqued; who could it be? His parents weren't due to be home for a few more hours, and they wouldn't have needed to knock, anyway, since they lived there. Andi and Buffy _practically_ lived there, too, so they would have just barged right in and made themselves at home. That limited it down to Jonah out of the only practical options, and he was probably busy aiding Andi in whatever drama she was having with Buffy, so that ruled him out, too. Curious, Cyrus got up from the couch and walked towards the door to find out who the mysterious guest was.

After a few suspenseful seconds, Cyrus cracked the door open (it could be a complete _stranger_ for all he knew) and saw a familiar wave of blonde hair. _TJ_. Of course! How had he left TJ off his list of options when they'd practically spent every day of their summer together? "Not So Scary Basketball Guy!" he exclaimed, opening the door completely now that he knew who it was. "What are you doing here?"

TJ flashed him a grin, one he was so used to seeing nowadays but simultaneously never grew tired of. "Hey, Underdog," he said. He was wearing some sort of uniform that Cyrus didn't recognize, but he shrugged off the unusual detail in favor of the conversation. "You know how we've been working on your list?"

Cyrus nodded. "Yes, of course!" They'd spent the past couple months ticking things off his list of things he couldn't do, working on it here and there whenever they found the chance. "What about it?"

"Well, when I was helping you get that muffin a while ago, I remembered you told me 'dancing with danger' was on your bucket list, so I had an idea," TJ explained.

A feeling of nervousness tingled throughout Cyrus's body, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't excited, too. "What's your idea?" he asked, raising his eyebrows in question.

A sheepish look fell on TJ's face. "Well…," he trailed off. "You should probably just come outside and see for yourself."

Cyrus tried not to frown as he closed the door behind him, trotting down the steps in front of his house and following TJ into the driveway. As soon as he saw what TJ was talking about, he let out a gasp.

Sitting at the edge of the lawn was some sort of mountain bike, streaked blue and white with two helmets hanging from the handlebars. "So, what do you think?" TJ asked.

Cyrus gulped, trying to swallow the lump of fear in his throat, but it was no use. "What I think," he began, obviously petrified, "is that this is _not_ what I had in mind when I said I wanted to dance with danger."

TJ smiled in amusement at the other boy. "What did you have in mind?" he humored him.

He blanked for a moment. The farthest he had dreamed up on his 'scale of danger' was getting that chocolate-chocolate chip muffin all those months ago. But _this_—riding a motorcycle or dirt bike or _whatever_ contraption TJ was trying to get him killed on—was on an entirely different plane of reality, one he, frankly, didn't want to mess with. "I don't know," he blurted out after a moment. "Surely nothing as life-threatening as _this_."

TJ snorted. "You wouldn't be the one driving it, Cyrus, I would. I have a license, too, so it's completely legal. _And_ I even brought you an extra helmet and a first aid kit," he admitted. As endearing as it was that TJ had gone to all that extra trouble for _him_, it did little to dissipate the fear rising in his chest.

Cyrus met his eyes for a brief second, and TJ must have sensed the worry there, because he asked, "What, do you not want to? I mean, we don't _have_ to do it, but I thought I'd at least try to convince you."

"It's not that I don't _want_ to," Cyrus protested, eyebrows drawn together in worry. "It's that I can't! I could barely ride my own bike, much less...well, this!"

"I'll be the one driving, remember? All you have to do is hang on," TJ pointed out. Cyrus gave him another worried look. "I promise I won't let anything happen to you, okay, Underdog?"

Cyrus took a deep breath. If he didn't take the risk of getting hurt, he'd never know what he'd be missing out on. And it's not like he _didn't_ want to—he _more_ than wanted to, especially if it was TJ he'd be driving with. The only thing that was keeping him from saying yes was his own irrational fears.

After a minute or so, he made his decision. He pushed the fear in his chest down momentarily and nodded. And nodded. For a moment, all he could do was nod since the fear in his chest was constricting him from communicating any other way. Then finally, he spoke."Okay." The word came out in a quiet puff of breath, so soft that TJ might've missed if he hadn't been listening.

Luckily he had, ever the keen listener when it came to Cyrus. "Great," he smiled, his eyes lighting up at the answer. "Let's go."

Wordlessly, Cyrus followed TJ over to his bike—that dangerous, potentially life-threatening motorcycle of his—and watched the basketball player climb gracefully onto it. "Are you getting on or what?" he teased, turning around to glance at Cyrus, who was still gaping at the whole situation.

Cyrus shook his head to himself, collectively snapping himself out of his thoughts in the process. "Oh, right," he muttered defeatedly. He stared at the bike in concentration for a second, trying to contemplate how to get on the motorcycle without either breaking something or making a complete fool of himself. After a moment, he awkwardly lifted up his leg and tried to swing it over the other side of the bike, but to no avail, he nearly fell in the process.

"Whoa, hold on, Underdog, I've got you," TJ said, turning around and steading Cyrus by grabbing his sides. The moment made his whole body feel like it was tingling, and he tried to push away the feeling in favor of the current task. "_Now_ try," TJ suggested, strengthening his grip on Cyrus as the shorter boy tried to swing a leg over the bike. This time, his attempt was successful, and he was sitting on the bike in a matter of seconds.

"Thanks, Teej," he breathed, heaving a sigh of relief as he sat safely on the bike.

TJ flashed him a smile. "Of course," he grinned. He grabbed something hanging from the handlebars—a helmet—and gently tugged it on Cyrus's head before clicking the chin strap in place. "Does that feel okay?"

Nothing was poking his head uncomfortably, and the helmet was on snugly but not too tight. "Yeah, thanks," Cyrus smiled. He watched as TJ clipped on his own helmet, this one looking a lot differently than his own—TJ's had a defined point at the tip while his own was round and smooth like a regular bicycle helmet. Then, TJ turned on the motorcycle, the roar of the engine drowning out the noise around them.

"Hold onto me, okay?" TJ yelled over the rumble of the engine, and for a second, Cyrus thought he must've misheard him due to the loud noise.

"What?" he shouted back, making TJ roll his eyes playfully.

"Hold onto me so you don't fall off," he repeated louder this time. The butterflies that engulfed Cyrus's stomach at the words almost felt stronger than the vibrations coming from the engine.

Cyrus gulped nervously before placing his hands lightly on TJ's shoulders. "Like this?" he asked loudly.

Despite the noise surrounding them, he could still hear TJ scoff. "Here, Underdog, like this," he said, taking Cyrus's arms off his shoulders and moving them around his waist. And _oh_. Suddenly the nervousness in the pit of his stomach wasn't _just_ due to the fact that he could possibly maybe be risking his life. Now, it was shared by the fact that he was holding onto TJ, _correction_, clinging onto TJ for dear life, something that made a nervous flurry of butterflies erupt in his chest. "Hold on tight so you don't fall off, okay?"

Now _that_ certainly didn't help matters, not in the slightest. "I could fall off?" he squeaked. Suddenly, he felt faint. Maybe he should—

"Cyrus," TJ said firmly, effectively snapping Cyrus out of his panic, and his green eyes met Cyrus's brown ones. "You'll be fine, I promise. I won't let that happen." He waited a moment before asking, "Ready?"

Cyrus swallowed, taking a deep breath and trying to work his way around the anxiety in his chest. "As ready as I'll ever be," he whimpered. As TJ began to drive off, Cyrus buried his face into the other boy's back, trying to shield himself from the horrors of what was currently happening.

The wind breezed past them as TJ made his way out of the driveway. At first, the driving was a little bumpy due to the rocks, but once they made it to the road, their trek was smoother. Not that it made much difference to Cyrus, though; either way, he was still just as terrified, not even allowing himself to look up. Instead, he just tightened his arms around TJ and buried his face as far as he could into the other boy's back.

Of course, that didn't last long, like most good things. "Cyrus, look up!" TJ shouted loudly. It was a miracle his voice wasn't lost to the wind with all of the noise surrounding them. "Come on, Underdog, look at this!"

Slowly, Cyrus lifted his head, just enough to see the back of TJ's head. Then he leaned over TJ's shoulder ever-so-slightly and realized what he was talking about. Surrounding them on either side were terracotta mountains and rugged terrain, all sitting under a dazzly blue sky. "Woah," Cyrus whispered in awe. It really was a perfect picture, and suddenly, the feeling in his chest felt more light than heavy as he took in the view. "This is exhilarating!" he said as the wind whipped around his face.

He wasn't sure if it was the roar of the wind or the loud rumbling of the engine deceiving his ears, but he thought he heard TJ laugh. Whatever the noise was, it was music to his ears, and Cyrus found himself letting out a high-pitched whoop as TJ continued driving.

It wasn't too long before they were driving down a red dirt road, one that led to a winding series of paths. After a few seconds, TJ pulled up next to the tracks and stopped. Slowly, he turned off his bike, and the loss of the rumbling engine left the moment feeling surreal. "You know you can let go now, right?" TJ asked, but his voice was full of that endearing amusement he'd come to use so much around Cyrus. Still, the question left Cyrus feeling embarrassed as he detached himself from the other boy.

"Oh, right," he said, cheeks inevitably red with embarrassment. There was a pause as TJ hopped off the bike, getting up to help Cyrus. He _did not_ think about the way his chest rose with excitement as TJ grabbed his hands to help him up, and he also _did not_ smile as TJ caught him when he stumbled. Definitely.

"Where are we?" Cyrus asked after a moment, now safely on the ground. Even though they'd stopped driving a while ago, the exhilarating feeling in Cyrus's body still hadn't left him, not in the slightest.

"Motocross tracks," TJ responded. "It's where I race. I was thinking I could show you some of my tricks. You know, if that's okay. I know you're not really interested in sports unless it comes to watching Buffy play basketball."

"Excuse you, I _also_ watch Jonah's frisbee games," Cyrus interjected. "And sports are fine...you know, as long as I'm not the one playing them."

TJ let out an amused laugh. "Don't worry. All you'll have to do is watch."

"And cheer you on," he added. "You forget, that's my best asset when it comes to watching sports."

They shared another laugh, the moment uninterrupted for only a few seconds before the roar of a bike started from behind them. Both of them cut their eyes towards the biker, a red motorcycle of sorts zooming past them and stopping near another part of the motocross tracks. Cyrus watched as the person jumped off their bike and took off their helmet, a familiar head of blonde hair and blue eyes gleaming in the sunlight. Cyrus quickly realized the person was Ethan, a fellow student from the dance class he'd started taking a few weeks ago.

It didn't take long for Ethan to spot him. "Hey, Cyrus!" he called out, giving him a friendly wave. Cyrus gave TJ a glance before walking over to meet the other boy.

"Hey!" Cyrus said, giving him a smile. Ethan had been quite a help in the dance class they'd met at, making sure Cyrus didn't fall and break something whenever the class tried out a complicated dance move. "I didn't know you were into...this!"

Ethan grinned. "Most people aren't into dancing _and_ motocross, I'll give you that." They shared a quick laugh. "What are you doing here? Are you just watching people race?"

"Why, you don't think I'm racing myself?" Cyrus asked jokingly, though it was pretty obvious he wasn't. His jacket and collared shirt didn't even closely resemble the gear Ethan and TJ had on.

"Well, I saw you standing over there with someone else, so I figured you just came to show your support," he explained. Cyrus turned around, his eyes landing on TJ who was standing a few yards away. His jaw was set in a firm line, staring down the empty space in front of him. Strangely enough, he looked almost...angry; a drastic change to the light-hearted amusement he'd displayed just a few moments ago. _Weird_.

Cyrus turned his attention back to Ethan, silently hoping that the sudden change in TJ's facial expression was just a trick of the light. "I'm here with my friend TJ. He wanted to show me a few tricks since I've never been biking before."

"Do you think he'd be interested in racing?" Ethan asked. His smile was so blinding, it reminded Cyrus of Jonah's constantly beaming face.

Cyrus gave him a simple shrug. TJ was pretty competitive when it came to sports, so he didn't see why he wouldn't. "I don't think he'd have a problem with it," he offered.

Ethan gave a nod, cupping his hand around his mouth and yelling, "Hey!"

Immediately, TJ snapped his head towards them, and the glare on his face was undeniable as he met their gaze. His eyes were cold and hard like ice, his jaw tensed like he was grounding his teeth. "What?" he said, his voice sounding angry. The sight made Cyrus's stomach drop. This was Mean TJ, Angry TJ, Old TJ. This wasn't _His_ TJ.

The reaction obviously surprised Ethan, but he quickly brushed it off. "Do you want to race? Cyrus here tells me you're pretty good." Though Cyrus had said no such thing, he didn't deny for one second that TJ was a good biker.

TJ quirked his eyebrows up for a second in surprise, here and then gone. "Sure. Let's do it," he said smugly, the hint of a sneer in his voice. Cyrus didn't know why there was such a change in TJ's behavior, but all he knew was that he didn't like it. Not one bit.

He watched as TJ and Ethan put their helmets back on, both boys mounting their bikes and making their way to the motocross tracks. Cyrus wasn't sure what was supposed to happen next. "Uh, on your mark, get set, go?" he yelled, voice uncertain. That seemed to do the trick, thankfully, and they began speeding around the tracks.

Though Cyrus wasn't really sure how most sports worked, he was certain that this was a pretty close race. Both TJ and Ethan were neck and neck for a good portion of the race as they made their way around the winding tracks. He took turns cheering for both of them. "Go, TJ!" he yelled out as the boy sped around a curve. Quickly, though, Ethan surpassed him, driving ahead of him by a few feet. "Go, Ethan!" he shouted. Even though both of them were Cyrus's friends, he _really_ hoped TJ won, a big reason for that being that he didn't want his mood to worsen.

A few minutes later, that hope was crushed as Ethan drove past the finish line, just mere fractions of a second before TJ did. Both of them stopped their bikes after a few moments, getting off and taking off their helmets. From what Cyrus could tell, Ethan had a friendly smile on his face and TJ looked the complete opposite, face stone cold as he stormed off the tracks. "Congrats or good game or whatever they say," Cyrus said to Ethan, giving him a smile. He could feel TJ's eyes on him, his fixated glare feeling like a target on his back.

"Thanks," Ethan smiled. "But you better go talk to your friend. He looks pretty upset."

Cyrus gave him a nod, the sinking feeling in his chest more present than before. "Yeah, you're right," he said. "I'll see you at dance class."

Ethan gave him one last wave as he made his way back over to TJ, who was pretending to focus on his helmet. "Was that great or what?" Cyrus asked in excitement, hoping TJ would forget about why he was upset.

He didn't. "I lost, Cyrus," he said coldly, not even bothering to look up at him.

Cyrus frowned. He didn't like when TJ got like this, especially when he was the one getting iced out. "You still did great. It was really close," he offered, but TJ wasn't having any of it.

"The point is I didn't win," he snapped, messing with the straps on his helmet. Cyrus grabbed the helmet out of TJ's hands; surprisingly, he let him take it and set it on the ground.

"TJ, what's wrong?" Cyrus asked. "You were fine earlier. Why are you acting like this?"

TJ scoffed, staring off into the distance. "Why don't you ask Ethan? I'm sure he could tell you since you're such great friends."

What did Ethan have to do with any of this? The frown on Cyrus's face only deepened. "We're only friends because of dance class. I barely even know him," Cyrus protested.

The basketball player rolled his eyes, but not in the amused, teasing way Cyrus was so used to seeing. It was in a _sarcastic_ way, an _annoyed_ way. He never rolled his eyes like that, not at Cyrus. "It didn't seem like that when you were cheering him on," TJ spat out.

"I was cheering for you, too. Come on, Teej, you _know_ I wanted you to win," he pointed out. He hated this; he hated feeling like he was fighting TJ when they were always on the same side.

TJ didn't answer, turning so Cyrus was facing his back now. "I have to go to work in an hour," he said. The minute the words left his mouth, Cyrus knew it was a lie.

"I thought you were going to show me all your motocross skills and stuff," he said hurt.

"You already saw them. I lost," TJ said, voice cutting like glass.

Cyrus's face fell at the words, heart stinging like he'd been cut there. He didn't say anything as he followed TJ to his bike, this time getting on without his help. Right then, he didn't _want_ TJ's help, not when he was like this. He even considered not holding onto him as they started driving away, but eventually, his fear—or better yet, common sense—won out, and he linked his arms around TJ's waist.

The ride back to Shadyside was silent besides the roar of the wind and the engine around them. Cyrus wasn't too scared to look up at the view this time around, but it had suddenly lost its appeal now that he wasn't sharing it with TJ.

Several minutes later, TJ pulled into Cyrus's house, the driveway devoid of anybody besides them. Haphazardly, Cyrus tugged off his helmet and rested it on the handlebars, stumbling a little as he got off the bike. "I'll see you tomorrow," he said, but it came out in the form of a question.

TJ didn't give him more than a nod before pulling out of the driveway and riding off, and the moment left Cyrus feeling a lot more upset than it should've.

What was TJ's problem? He'd been fine up until he'd started talking to Ethan. Maybe...no. There was no _way_ TJ Kippen was jealous of _him_ talking to another guy, was there? The very idea was crazy to even consider!

But as he stepped back inside, the faint sound of a motorcycle engine in the air, Cyrus couldn't help but wonder if maybe TJ really _was_ jealous, if only a little bit.

* * *

The next day at school was a bit of a blur. Andi and Buffy _still_ weren't talking, no matter how much Cyrus tried to meddle in the situation, which only left him feeling more down than he had the day before. Jonah claimed that there was nothing they could do about the situation and that all they could do was let the girls work it out themselves. Cyrus knew he was _probably_ right, but the whole thing made him feel more helpless than he cared to admit.

Not to mention TJ was _still_ avoiding him; every time Cyrus saw him in the halls, the basketball player would duck his head down and pretend not to see him, and he didn't talk to him in any of the classes they shared. It was at lunch when TJ's ignoring him came to a boiling point. Cyrus had gone to sit with the other boy at lunch—Buffy and Andi refused to sit together at the same table, and he hadn't wanted to choose between them, so he'd been sitting with TJ the past few days. As Cyrus spotted him at their usual table, TJ glanced up at him for the first time all day. His face looked more defeated than angry now, more _hurt_ than mad. The moment only lasted mere seconds before TJ was looking away again, getting up and dumping the trash on his lunch tray.

If Cyrus had even a glimmer of hope for his situation with TJ before, it was surely gone then and there.

* * *

The week dragged on at a snail's pace, but at last, it was Friday. Cyrus was watching Andi and Buffy argue by their lockers while he looked on helplessly, not even having the energy to intervene with everything going on this week. TJ was _still_ giving him the silent treatment, much to his own dismay. His heart longed to talk to the basketball player—it'd been a _long_ week without him, and at this point, he was ready to march straight up to him and force him to talk.

He was contemplating doing just that as he saw him walking out of a classroom. TJ was making his way right past him, eyes fixated on the other end of the hallway, when Cyrus reached out and grabbed his arm. The other boy gave him a surprised and maybe even a _hopeful_ look, not even bothering to pull away. _This is it_, Cyrus thought to himself. "TJ, can I talk—" he started, but he was quickly interrupted by another voice, one he'd become all to familiar with over the past year.

"Andi, Buffy, Cyrus, and TJ," Principal Metcalfe called out. "I'll see you in detention after school today."

Andi and Buffy stopped arguing just long enough to give him a look, one of confusion and anger. "What did we even do?" Buffy questioned, eyebrows drawn together in agitation.

The words made Cyrus's stomach drop. He'd _never_ had detention before. And especially not for something where he didn't even know what he did! "What for?" he asked worriedly, voice squeaking the way it always did when he talked to authority figures.

"We didn't even do anything," TJ argued.

Metcalfe gave him a simple shrug. "That's what you think," he said ominously. "And tell Jonah Beck he has detention, too."

"He doesn't even go here!" Andi protested. "He goes to Grant now!"

"You heard me," Metcalfe said boredly. "Be at the library after school or suffer the consequences."

As he walked away, Buffy and Andi started their squabbling up again, their voices rising in anger as they tried to blame each other for getting detention. Cyrus let out a tired sigh as the bell rang, TJ taking his arm from Cyrus's grasp. "I'll see you after school, I guess," he muttered, rolling his eyes in annoyance as he made his way down the halls.

Cyrus watched him reach the end of the hallway and turn the corner, somehow dreading and looking forward to detention all at once.

* * *

As soon as the dismissal bell rang, Cyrus, Andi, and Buffy made their way to the library together. It was silent as they trudged down to the room—partially because they were all shocked they _actually_ had detention, and also because neither of them were really in the mood to talk to each other, or at least Andi and Buffy weren't, anyway.

Silently, they filed into the library, the three of them sitting at an empty table. It was empty except for them and the old librarian, the only sound in the room being the creaking of their desks and the loud typing on the librarian's computer.

A few minutes later, Jonah walked into the room, shortly followed by TJ and Metcalfe. "I see you're all here," Metcalfe observed as Jonah sat down with the others while TJ sat at a separate table. "Detention is until four-fifteen. I expect you all to stay until that time, understood?"

Buffy spoke up. "Could you at least tell us why we're being detained in this prison?" she asked, voice dripping with annoyance.

All Metcalfe did was roll his eyes. "You can figure that out while you're in here. I'll see you in an hour," he said, walking out of the room.

What could they all have possibly done to land in detention? Buffy, Andi, and Cyrus were all good students behavior-wise and grade-wise—none of them had ever been in detention before besides that one time Andi fell asleep in class last year. Jonah was a good kid, too, who only got detention every once in a while for not doing his homework. Even TJ hadn't done anything to get himself into trouble lately, maintaining his grades and his behavior ever since last year. None of it made any sense to Cyrus, that was for sure.

The rest of them were clearly puzzled, too. "That was weird," Jonah whispered to the table. "He didn't even give us his usual no talking speech."

Buffy crossed her arms. "This whole _thing_ is weird. None of us did anything wrong and besides, you aren't even in middle school anymore!"

The three of them continued to discuss how weird the situation was (apparently the detention had forced Buffy and Andi into a temporary truce) while Cyrus watched TJ from the table diagonal from them, his chin resting in his palm. TJ was sitting there and pretending to do his homework—it was obvious in the way he had his pencil gripped but it wasn't moving. The longer Cyrus watched the basketball player, the more frustrated and impatient he grew with their situation. At some point, he got up and shoved his chair in, giving his friends one last look before sitting down at TJ's table. TJ looked up at him in mild surprise. "Can we talk?" Cyrus asked in a hushed voice. The _last_ thing he wanted to do in detention was to get in more trouble by disrupting the librarian.

"What's there to talk about?" he asked, sighing. He sounded _defeated_.

"You know what I'm talking about," Cyrus pointed out. "I want to know why you're mad at me."

TJ cut his eyes towards his homework, the sheet of paper blank like Cyrus had suspected. "I'm not mad at you," he said, slight defensiveness creeping into his voice. "And I don't want to talk about this."

"Why wouldn't you want to talk about it if you're not mad at me?" Cyrus questioned, narrowing his eyes. He was going to get to the bottom of this, whether TJ liked it or not.

TJ let out a noise, one full of annoyance. "I don't want to talk about this _here_."

"Then we won't," Cyrus said, dragging TJ out of his seat. As reluctant as he obviously was to talk about the whole ordeal, TJ let him, allowing Cyrus to lead them to a corner of the library hidden by a row of bookshelves. "_Now_ tell my why you're mad at me."

"I already told you, Cyrus. I'm not mad," TJ said defensively.

"You clearly are, otherwise you wouldn't be so defensive," Cyrus pointed out. When TJ didn't answer, he finally asked the question that had been burning in his mind since Tuesday evening. "Is this because of Ethan?"

For a moment, there was nothing but silence and tense energy between them. TJ's jaw visibly tensed, and for a second, Cyrus thought he might storm off. Then finally, TJ blurted out, "Of _course_ this is about Ethan or _whatever_ his stupid name is."

Cyrus's heart stuttered, stopped, but he tried to keep the surprise he felt devoid from his face. "Why?" he asked, voice light as a feather. "Is that...is that why you're mad? Because I was cheering him on? You _know_ I wanted you to win, Teej, not him."

TJ shook his head, closing his eyes. "I told you, I'm not mad," he said, voice on the brink of snapping.

"Then what do you call this, TJ?" Cyrus questioned. "Because this looks like mad to me!"

TJ bit his lip, face torn. "It's—jealous, Cyrus! I'm jealous, okay?"

Cyrus's heart felt like it was beating out of his chest and stopping all at once. All this time, he'd thought the very _idea_ of TJ being jealous was insane, but he _was_, no matter how crazy it sounded to his own ears. TJ Kippen was jealous of _him_ talking to another boy! "You're...jealous? Of me and Ethan?" he asked, just for confirmation. Part of him was afraid that maybe he'd misheard him.

TJ sunk to the floor, leaning against a bookshelf and giving Cyrus a grudging nod. Cyrus sat down next to him, criss-crossing his legs. "Why?" he asked. There was really no _actual_ way TJ was jealous because he liked him...right?

TJ let out a frustrated groan. "Because...I like you, Cyrus. I have ever since we talked on the swings...heck, even before that when I helped you get that muffin. And I know I have no right to be, but I'm jealous." His eyes found Cyrus's, green irises burning into brown.

So it _was_ true! TJ was jealous because he _liked_ him! The realization made his heart feel like it was exploding, like his whole body was made of the butterflies TJ so often gave him.

TJ must've took Cyrus's stunned silence as a bad thing, because he immediately turned away, scrubbing his face with his hands. "Just forget I ever said anything, okay? It's stupid."

Cyrus frowned at the words, grabbing TJ's hands away from his face and not even bothering to let go of them as he said, "It's _not_ stupid, TJ." It was the _least_ stupid thing he'd ever heard in his life; if anything, it was the best news he'd ever received in the history of...well, ever!

TJ gave him a look, skeptical and hopeful all at once. "It's not?"

Cyrus took a deep breath, giving him the slightest shake of his head. "No. I...I like you, too," he admitted. It felt so _good_ being able to say the words without fear of judgement, without wondering if TJ would feel the same way. It felt good being able to finally say the words he'd been holding back. for so long.

"You do?" TJ questioned. Cyrus could visibly see the hope growing on his face, something that made him smile a Jonah-worthy grin.

Cyrus nodded, squeezing TJ's hands as if to remind himself he was still holding them. "I don't know when it started, but...I have for a while now. For months now, actually," he laughed slightly, the relief in his chest more apparent than ever. _TJ Kippen liked him back_. "When we were riding your bike, I got this feeling like...like I was on top of the world. Like I could do _anything_. And...that's how you make me feel, TJ. Every day," Cyrus admitted. Just saying the words made him feel just that again. Like he could do _anything_.

"Underdog," TJ smiled radiantly, his voice quiet in awe. The endearing nickname only made the feeling in Cyrus's chest grow, _ache_. "That's how you make me feel, too." The softness in his voice matched the quiet of the library.

"Really?" he asked in disbelief. This whole situation was so _surreal_ to him. Up until a few hours ago, he'd thought he'd lost TJ forever, but this...this was more than he'd ever dared to hope for.

TJ nodded. "You make me feel like I can be the best version of myself when I'm with you. And I feel like I don't have to _pretend_ with you." He laughed awkwardly, turning away. "That probably sounds lame."

"That's the least lame thing I've ever heard," Cyrus protested, beaming at the words. "If anything, it's the sweetest."

"Yeah?" TJ asked in surprise.

"Yeah." They shared a smile. "And you don't have to be jealous of Ethan anymore. You're the only one that I like," Cyrus promised.

Somehow, that made TJ's smile even bigger than before, which Cyrus hadn't thought was possible. "You're the only one that I like, too."

There was a wild moment where Cyrus thought TJ might kiss him, but it was here and then gone when the creak of a door sounded from the other side of the room, causing both boys to spring apart. They stood up to see Metcalfe striding into the room, that familiar smirk on his face. "Come join the group, boys. It's time we talk," he said, motioning for them to sit down.

They both glanced at each other with a blush, still beaming as they walked over to the main area of the library and sat down. "So, did you figure out why I put you in here?" Metcalfe questioned.

The group shook their heads. "We have no idea," Buffy smarted. "Unless this was yet _another_ one of your infamous social experiments."

Buffy had said the words jokingly, but Metcalfe gave an approving nod. "That's exactly right."

They all shared looks that were a mix of confusion and agitation. "What? Why us? And what was the experiment?" Andi questioned, eyebrows drawn together in confusion.

Metcalfe sat down on top of one of the desks. "I've noticed a lot of tension in your friend group lately," he admitted.

"There's _always_ tension in our friend group," Buffy muttered under her breath.

He ignored her and continued, "Anyway, I wanted to try a new social experiment the school's working out. They're considering adding a peer mediation program here at the middle school. Consider yourselves the guinea pigs!"

This time, it was Jonah that piped up. "So, you're saying we wasted an hour of our Friday in detention so you could test out a new program for the school?"

Metcalfe nodded enthusiastically. "Exactly! See, you catch on fast." The five of them continued to share looks of annoyance, though Cyrus nor TJ could bring themselves to care all that much. "So, did it work? The school needs a report on how well the experiment worked so we can get the green light we need for the program."

Cyrus glanced around. Andi and Buffy didn't seem to be as tense as they were before, not quite back to their old friendship, but not quite icing each other out either. Jonah hadn't really had a problem with any of them to begin with, so there wasn't a question about that. And him and TJ...well, he thought it was _definitely_ safe to say they worked out their issues. "Actually, I think it did," Cyrus said after a moment. Andi, Jonah, and Buffy gave him looks of confusion, so he gave them a smile that said _we'll talk later_.

"Really? Sweet!" Metcalfe exclaimed. "Well, I guess that means you're free to go, then. Thanks for your help."

Andi, Buffy, and Jonah grumbled as they stomped out of the library, Metcalfe following them out.

"So, I was thinking…," TJ started. "Wanna go to the motocross tracks after school? I mean, we never really got to properly cross that off your list."

Cyrus gave him a smile. "Sure," he grinned. "Sounds like a plan."

They both grabbed their belongings off the library tables. Cyrus took a little while to fully get all of his stuff together; the fact that TJ liked him back was so surreal to him that he was _still_ having a hard time believing it. "You okay?" TJ asked gently as Cyrus finally gathered his supplies.

Suddenly, Cyrus remembered what Buffy had said to him after he kissed Iris. He'd asked her if he was going to be okay, and she'd said yes, that he already was okay. It wasn't until this moment that Cyrus realized just how right she was.

"Yeah, I am," he smiled. Hesitantly, he interlocked his hand with TJ's—interlocking _was_ his favorite type of hand holding, after all—and they walked out of the library together, holding hands like they always should have been.


	7. (G) IRONWINTER - Prank Wars Gone Wrong b

Prank Wars gone wrong  
IronEyes

Summary:  
Bucky and Tony are roommates and hate each other from the start. It starts to delevop in a prank war that hurts nobody, until Tony takes it too far. Or does he?

* * *

"I'll see you later?" Steve asks, when Bucky and him enter their future campus accommodation. Their first day of college will start tomorrow, but they still decided to arrive sooner, so they could explore their campus and maybe even meet their roommates.

"Yeah. Still sucks, that we won't be sharing." Bucky says and looks around. His room should be upstairs, while Steve's room is just in front of them.

"We're in the same house, Buck. Pretty sure you will survive it." Steve says and with another hug, he turns around and opens his door. Bucky can hear that Steve's roommate already seems to be there and decides to meet him later. Right now he just want to change out of his wet clothes and fall into his bed.

Since Steve and him don't have a lot of money, they couldn't afford a cab and had to walk from the bus station to their new home. Of course it was raining as hell and they didn't bring an umbrella. Bucky shakes his head at himself and his wet hair sends drops flying everywhere. His prothesis is hurting him again, too.

Bucky looks at the doors upstairs and finally on the right at the end of the hall, is his room. Number 27. Easy enough, Steve's room was exactly under him. Bucky searches for his key and grumbles, when he can't find it. He decides to knock, because maybe his roommate arrived earlier as well.

Soon enough the door opens and Bucky has to look down a bit, to see the other guy. He is a bit smaller, but also pretty slender. Big brown eyes are starring up at Bucky and his dark brown hair is all over the place, but so much shorter than Bucky's. Oh fuck, he is pretty hot. Bucky hopes he doesn't blush, he can't start the year with a crush on his roommate.

"Hello?" The guy asks and he frowns a bit at Bucky.

"Hey, I'm Bucky and this is…" Bucky starts, but as soon as he speaks the guy rolls his eyes.

"Bucky? What kind of name is that? Are you a dog?" The guy asks and this time it's Bucky's turn to frown at him. What the hell is that guy talking about?

"It's James actually." Bucky presses out and he shudders, because it's damn cold in his wet clothes and he just wants his bed and when he looks past Tony, he can see that their room is a mess. There is stuff everywhere and he can't even really see their beds.

"Fine _James_. What can I do for you?" Small guy asks and he already turns around and picks up a screwdriver, that was laying on the ground. Bucky blinks a couple of times. Did he hit his head and this is just a dream?

"I'm your roommate." Bucky says and the guy stops in his movements.

"Roommate? I don't have one, my father paid extra money, so I could live alone." The guy says again and Bucky huffs. He puts his bags down and realizes there is actually a small puddle around him, from all the rainwater. He groans quietly, but manages to find his letter from the college and even his key.

"Here man." Bucky says and throws both things at him, before walking over to the bed, which is only slightly cleaner than the other one. He sits down next to what looks like a really ugly robot. What the hell.

"This must be a mistake." The guys rambles, while he reads the letter, but then he looks at Bucky again. Bucky just shrugs and throws his jacket on the ground. It makes an ugly wet sound. It's nothing compared to his prothesis, which sounds almost rusty now. Fuck.

Bucky feels like the guy checks out his arm and he tries to get it out of view. Normally he isn't embarrassed about it, but the guy stares at it in almost a creepy way.

"Okay since we apparently have to live together, I would like to have some rules. I start with no clothes on the ground." The guy really has some nerves. His robot stuff is all over the room, but sure Bucky's jacket is the problem in this picture.

"Well fine …" Bucky starts but realizes, he doesn't even knows the name of this jackass.

"Tony."

"Well fine _Tony_. Then may I ask where the bathroom is, because as you can see I'm a little bit soaked right now." Bucky says as sweetly as he can. Which is apparently not sweet at all. Tony just points at one of the two doors that are at the other side of the room. Huh. Apparently this guy's father is really rich, if they have their own bathroom.

"Thanks." Bucky mutters and he can hear Tony grumble, while he picks something up from the ground. It's a nice view actually.

"What about your jacket?" Tony yells behind him and Bucky turns around again.

"I will deal with it, as soon as my side of the room is clean from your…whatever it is." Bucky says and slams the door shut. How the hell will he deal with this for at least a whole year?

Bucky groans loudly, when he opens his bag and sees that his food has _gone missing_ again. Tony loves to steal his food, so that Bucky spends the whole day hungry. He doesn't even know how this childish prank war started, but he will end and win it.

"Again?" Sam asks and doesn't even bat an eyelash at the insults falling from Bucky's mouth. Sam is Steve's roommate and while Bucky thinks he is kinda an idiot, too he's much better than Tony.

"This little…" Bucky starts, but then Steve sits down next to him and Bucky swallows his swear down. He doesn't want another lecture from his best friend.

"Here Buck, bought you a sandwich, too. We can still report him, you know. For stealing." Steve says and shrugs. Somehow Steve always knows, when stuff like this happens. Bucky takes the sandwich and starts eating.

"It's just cause the idiot never cooks something for himself and so he just takes my stuff." Bucky says between bites and Sam shrugs bored. Bucky isn't even sure why he is defending Tony sometimes. He hates him. But then… Bucky shakes his head.

"What about last week? He cut the sleeves off your favorite shirt." Sam says then and it's Buckys turn to shrug. That was freaking horrible and Tony knows that. But actually Bucky had _accidentally_ stepped on his new robot the day before that.

"Well I assure you he will be having a very disappointing lunch, too." Bucky says and grins. He knows that Tony always goes to their room at lunch time. Just another reason for him to never step a foot into it at this time. In general Bucky is almost never there, because Tony seems to work all the time and it's freaking loud.

"How?" Sam asks and in the next second, the door to the lunchroom slams open. A very angry Tony is looking around and Bucky starts to grin. Just as he thought. Tony showered. Bucky wants to laugh, but the second Tony comes over to them, he starts coughing on his sandwich.

Tony looks beautiful with the dark lilac hair. Damnit.

"Barnes!" Tony yells and Bucky tries to breath again. Even though he and Tony are hated each other from the second they met, Bucky can't deny, that some parts of his body really like Tony. Bucky shifts in his seat.

"Yes, doll?" Bucky asks sweetly and he knows how much Tony hates that. Tony's face turns an angry shade of red and Bucky can finally grin easier. The red clashes beautifully with his new hair color.

"What is this?" Tony asks and points at his hair.

"Well I assume that is what you call hair." Bucky says and he slowly lifts his own fingers to his long hair and blinks innocently up at Tony, while he rakes his fingers through his hair. He doesn't even realize that he is doing it with his prosthesis. For a second Tony looks at the ground and seems to take a deep breath.

"What did you do to my shampoo?" Tony asks and Bucky just smiles again.

"What did you do to my lunch?" Bucky asks back and Tony huffs loudly. Steve and Sam are at least quiet, so Bucky can really enjoy this moment. Tony just points at Bucky and then pretends to slit his throat, before he leaves. Bucky laughs loudly and goes back to his sandwich.

If he watches Tonys backside, while Tony stomps back out, that's only his own business.

To Bucky's regret Tony wears the lilac hair proudly for the next weeks and Bucky catches himself dreaming midday about that hair. He kinda wants to touch it. Right from the start Bucky knew he was attracted to Tony, but his behavior scared Bucky away.

Well okay. Bucky wasn't the nicest guy himself. But come on, Tony clearly started it.

"Oh look. He lives." Tony says, when Bucky opens the door. It's Saturday night and normally Bucky would be out and trying to forget about Tony. But today Steve is out with Sharon and Sam didn't want him around anyway. Bucky sighs.

"Seems like it. What about you? Still no friends?" Bucky says angrily and he can't help it. Tony always pushes his buttons. Bucky is normally not like that, he stood up so many times against Bullies and now he is kinda one himself. Tony jerks a bit and the look he shoots Bucky is new.

He looks nearly hurt.

"Don't need friends." Tony replies shortly and then goes back to working on…well whatever it is this time. Bucky sits down on his bed and his prothesis creaks ugly. Tony shudders at that noise and then shakes his head. Bucky feels embarrassed. He never liked that prothesis.

It reminds him of his accident and that he would've died if Steve hadn't be there. Bucky looks away and swallows. Steve always tells him, that it doesn't look too bad. But Bucky knows that it looks ugly. Hell, most woman don't even look twice at him and why would they anyway.

"So what are you doing?" Bucky asks and his voice sounds a bit shaky. Tony stops again and looks at Bucky.

"Working." Tony says quietly and he looks at the prothesis again. Bucky coughs slightly.

"Yeah but…I mean what the hell are you always building?" Bucky asks and Tony shrugs and searches for just another screwdriver. Bucky watches him quietly and sighs. He wishes they could be friends, maybe even... Nope not going there. Bucky just goes to the bathroom and changes into his sleeping clothes.

"You're going to stay?" Tony asks and he sounds a bit weird. Bucky looks up.

"Yeah, that a problem?" Bucky wants to know and Tony nods sharply.

"I get no work done, if you're here." Tony replies and then shuts off the little lamp at the desk, before he gets up towards the bathroom, too.

"It's nearly one in the night, why the fuck would you work now anyway?" Bucky asks and Tony sniffs angrily.

"Maybe some of us actually do something for their future." Tony says then and Bucky bites on his lip. He works damn hard for his future too.

"You? Please, you were born rich. Or doesn't Daddy pay for you anymore?" Bucky says and Tony turns back around to him. He looks so angry, that Bucky kinda wants to hide under his blanket.

"Fuck you, Barnes." Tony says and shuts the door.

Five minutes later Bucky can hear him screaming angrily, when he discover that his toothpaste is actually mayonnaise. Bucky doesn't feel good this time.

He feels worse.

The next morning is strange. Bucky wakes up to silence. He can't remember the last time that happened. Normally Tony gets up really early and starts working on his projects. But now it's nearly lunch time and nobody woke him up.

It doesn't matter since it's Sunday, but then again, their Christmas break starts next week and Bucky still has some exams, so maybe he should actually sit down and learn for them.

"Coffee first." Bucky grumbles and sits up. He squints to Tony's bed, but it's empty. Huh that's actually a bit strange. But then again, whatever. It's not his problem, where the little nerd is.

Bucky's heart squeezes weirdly in his chest. Somehow their fight yesterday didn't feel so good as the other pranks did. Somehow Tony was more sad than angry.

Maybe Bucky should apologize. Well not for the toothpaste, but maybe for the comment about Tony's father. Tony never told him much about his family, why would he, but Bucky also has the feeling Tony and his father don't have the best relationship. So Bucky's comment was a low blow.

"Just man up." Bucky tells himself. Yeah he would apologize to Tony and maybe they could even forget about their little prank war. That's a good plan.

Bucky turns to his nightstand to get his prothesis and gasps, when the nightstand is empty. Where the fuck is his prothesis? Bucky tries to swallow his panic attack. Maybe it just fell down, but the ground is empty as well. Bucky searches the whole room and even the bathroom, but it's not there.

_Tony._

Bucky growls and puts on some clothes (awkwardly with only one hand) and rushes out of their room. He knows exactly where he would find Tony. The idiot is sometimes in the lab on Sundays, since it's mostly empty then. Bucky nearly runs to the labs.

He tries to ignore all the looks, he's getting. They always look strangely at him, but now without the prothesis, it's even worse. Bucky tries to swallow his tears and he is doing good at that. He won't show them any weakness. He finally opens the lab door.

"Stark!"

Tony jerks so badly, that he cuts his finger. Bucky doesn't feel sorry even for a second. Tony puts the bloody finger in his mouth and stares at Bucky with his big brown eyes.

"B-Bucky?" Tony asks and he hastily tries to hide the prothesis, that is right next to him on the table. Bucky only sees now, that there are a few other people in the lab. He knows Bruce Banner on Tony's side and also that Janet girl, the others are unknown to him. But they are all staring.

He also ignores that Tony called him by his nickname for the first time.

"Oh that is your Bucky?" Janet asks and she comes over to Bucky. She grins up at him and hols her hand out. Bucky is still too angry to listen to her and continues to glare at Tony.

"I'm not his anything." Bucky says angrily and he hears every single gasp in the room. Janet even takes a few step back and she looks worried over to Tony, who still has the prothesis in his hand. Frozen.

"I-i just w-wanted…" Tony stutters and Bucky shakes his head. Tony goes quiet and he looks down.

"You wanted what? To embarrass me in front of the whole freaking college? Congratulation you did it. You know what, Stark? You are an asshole. I know the prank war was my fault, too but you just took it to another level. And that's it. I'm done. With you. Do you understand that?" Bucky isn't yelling. He is almost hissing it quietly.

But his voice shakes of anger and Tony shrinks even smaller behind his desk. Bucky doesn't care. He never felt this humiliated in his life. Who knows what Tony would've done to his arm, if he would've come later. Maybe he had destroyed it. Bucky's mum could hardly afford this one.

"I will move out, just like you wanted from the very first day. And I swear to god, if you ever just look at me again, I will tell your Daddy what kind of son he really has." Bucky finished and okay, maybe that was a bit much, but Tony hurt him, too.

It's quiet in the lab. The others aren't even trying to pretend that they are still working. Bucky doesn't care. Even Janet went back to her own project, still looking at Tony.

Bucky isn't sure what happens next, but just as he takes on step towards Tony, to get his damn arm back, Tony loses it. He actually starts sobbing and turns around, before he lets the prothesis fall to the ground and runs out of the room.

Janet runs after him and even Bruce seems worried for a second. There are other boys, who start laughing loudly. Bucky doesn't understand what exactly happened, but he goes over and takes the prothesis back. It still looks normal and he is relieved, when it doesn't seem broken.

"I knew Stark was lying." One of the guys says and Bucky turns to him.

"Leave it, Justin." Bruce says and he looks pretty angry, for such a small guy. Bucky wants to leave and goes over to the door, where he came from, when he hears this Justin-guy again.

"What? He is a loser, like I always said. Of course he lied about having a hot boyfriend, he doesn't even have real friends." Justin says and Bucky's heart squeezes painfully in his chest, as the door falls shut behind him.

What the hell. What kind of prank is it, to tell everybody they are dating? Hasn't he embarrassed Bucky enough?

"You sure, Buck?" Steve says on their first day of the Christmas break, when Bucky gets up. He slept on Steve's tiny couch since the …situation with Tony and Sam is already annoyed with him.

"Yeah. I'm an adult you know? I can get my stuff alone. Meet you out there in half an hour?" Bucky asks and Steve nods. When he would come back from his break, he should really start looking for a new room.

Bucky sighs and gets up. Most of his stuff is in Steve's and Sam's room anyway, but there is still a bit of his stuff in his old room. Hopefully Tony will be already home. Bucky doesn't know what to think. To see Tony crying like this, hurt him somehow, but then again he deserved it, right?

Just the boyfriend thing…doesn't let Bucky sleep at night. Well that and Sam's snoring.

Bucky still has his key, so he opens the door and he is relieved, when he can't hear Tony working or anything. He even waits a second, to hear if the shower is on, but is greeted with silence. The rooms looks almost empty too, so Tony already left.

Sometimes he is a lucky son of a bitch.

Bucky goes over to his old wardrobe and packs all his stuff in his old bag. It doesn't even take him ten minutes, but of course his damn prothesis acts up again and he needs a second to make it work again. That's when he looks to his old bed and stops.

There is a present on his bed. Wrapped in red and gold paper.

"What the…?" Bucky says and takes it carefully in his hands. It's kinda big, but not heavy. There isn't a card on it, but Bucky assumes it's from Tony. Maybe he wanted to apologize?

Before Bucky can make a decision, to take it with him or even leave it, the door opens again and Tony is right there in front of him. He looks like shit. His eyes are red and puffy and his hair is even more of a mess, than normally. And he wears…

…he wears one of Bucky's sweaters, which is way too big on him.

And now he is starring at Bucky like a deer in the headlights. Bucky kinda wants to laugh, but he is sure that would break Tony completely. So he doesn't even make a comment about his _favorite_ sweater. Even when they aren't talking anymore, Tony still has the nerve to steal his stuff.

"O-oh." Tony says and then he takes a step back.

"Stark." Bucky greets and alone that words, makes Tony flinch. He nods shortly at Bucky and then goes over to his desk. Seems like he just wants to ignore Bucky.

"What is this?" Bucky asks and Tony turns around.

"It's…well it's a present. I…made it for you…when I…yeah." Tony stumbles over his words and that's not normal. Bucky knows how easily the words normally come to Tony.

"I don't need a pity present." Bucky says and Tony's underlip wobbles. Oh no. Bucky could kick himself. Why is he such an asshole. He should thank Tony and then leave. But somehow he wants to know the truth. He wants Tony to scream the truth at him. He wants to hear it.

"It's not." Tony says and Bucky sees that he struggles.

"Then what?" Bucky asks again and Tony sniffles once.

"I just wanted to apologize. It was way too much to steal your prothesis and I know you won't just accept my apology and forgive me, because I made you something but…I want you to have it. A-and I'm really s-sorry." Tony says and his voice breaks at the last word.

Bucky nods and then grabs his bag.

"Thank you Tony. And merry Christmas." He doesn't look back and leaves.

"Wait, he got you a present?" Steve asks, when they are outside and he sees the big wrapped thing in Bucky's arms.

"Yeah weird, right?" Bucky says and Sam laughs.

"Of course the guy tries to throw his money to you and thinks everything is okay again." Sam says and somehow the words are upsetting Bucky.

"He said he made it himself." Bucky says shortly and looks at the present again. They still have a bit of time, before the bus comes. So he sits down on the bench at the bus station and starts to open it.

"Oh no."

Bucky isn't sure who said it. Steve or him. But it's the truth. Because oh no, there is a newly looking prothesis wrapped in the golden and red paper and it looks so expensive, that Bucky stops breathing.

Tony made him this. Carefully Bucky holds his arms next to his and gasps. It looks as if it would fit him perfectly and … oh no. That's why Tony stole his prothesis in the first place. He needed his measures. Bucky feels like he needs to puke. Now.

"Uhm Buck?" Steve asks and Bucky looks up at him.

"Steve, I fucked up." Bucky says and Steve smiles, but he nods. Bucky fucked up. He fucked everything up. Oh god and he had screamed at Tony and…oh god _Tony_.

Bucky's heart breaks.

"Maybe he is still there? I'll take your bag with me, if you want. Tell your mum, you will take the next bus." Steve says and Bucky nods dumbly.

Before Steve can say anything else, Bucky grabs his new prothesis and runs back to their building. He takes two stairs at once and is completely out of breath, when he stops at their door. Outside on the door is an old sign, where their names are written down.

Tony and "Bucky".

Bucky knocks on the door. It doesn't take too long for Tony to open the door and Bucky nearly pushes him to the side, before Tony could smack the door in his face.

"Tony!" Bucky says and then he doesn't know what else he should say.

"Did you forgot something?" Tony asks shyly and he even fiddles with the sleeves of the big sweater. Bucky swallows.

"Yeah. My Sweater." Bucky says and Tony gasps quietly and then he hastily tries to get rid of the sweater.

"I'm sorry. I didn't… I m-mean.." Tony stammers again, but Bucky shushes him this time. He finally understands now.

"And who's in it." Bucky finishes his sentence and Tony cocks his head to one side. Maybe the first time in his life, Tony doesn't understand what's being said to him and Bucky chuckles. He carefully puts his new prothesis on his bed and then goes over to Tony.

"W-what?" Tony whispers, but Bucky ignore that. He just puts his hands against Tony's warm cheeks and looks him directly into the eyes. Then he looks at Tony's red bitten lips. Tony just stares back, but doesn't seem to be against the idea. So Bucky kisses him.

Bucky didn't kiss many people before in his life, but somehow this feels different. Tony in his arms is such a wonderful feeling and when Bucky turns his head a bit to the side, Tony gasps quietly. Bucky will need to make sure that he hears that sound every day.

Tony kisses shyly and unsure. Nearly carefully and Bucky doesn't rush the kiss, either. He hums against Tony's mouth and there is that tiny gasp again.

"W-what?" Tony whispers, when Bucky needs to breath and breaks the kiss.

"Tony I'm so sorry. God I was such an asshole and I made all the wrong assumptions. This whole prank war just got to my head and I don't know why I was so mean. Tony you have to believe me, I'm sorry." Bucky says and he rushes with his words. Tony seems surprised.

"I…well I mean I did…I stole your lunch and destroyed your shirt…" Tony starts, but Bucky shakes his head.

"It's okay. Really. I'm sorry for all the things I did to you, Tony. From the first second on, I was grumpy and unfair." Bucky says and Tony smiles a tiny bit.

"I was an asshole, too. But you were just so…pretty and I was…well nervous. I'm not good with people." Tony says and Bucky has to chuckle at that.

"I see that now, but don't worry. I'm here now and I understand." Bucky says and Tony smiles before he sits down on his bed. Bucky sits next to him, their thighs touching.

"I'm sorry about the prothesis. I really just wanted to get your new one right." Tony whispers and there his underlip wobbles again. Bucky puts his good arm around his shoulders.

"Don't be. I just should've listened. And I can't thank you enough for this. That is way too much. I don't have anything for you." Bucky says and Tony just shakes his head and gets up to get the new prothesis.

"Do you want to try it on?" Tony asks and Bucky nods. It doesn't take them long and when it's finally on, Bucky can even wiggle his little finger. He gasps surprised, because it's as if he can feel things again.

"Tony - what?" Bucky asks and Tony just shushes him. He takes Bucky's metallic hand in his hand then holds it against his lips.

"It's just a prototype so far, but I wanted you to feel again. Can you feel this?" Tony asks and he kisses the metallic fingertips. Bucky nods speechless. That's why Tony was starring all the time at his prothesis, because he wanted to fix it. He saw how bad Bucky's old one was.

Bucky is sure that he is tearing up.

"Thank you." He whispers and then takes his hand away, so he can kiss Tony again.

"I'm sorry that I stole your sweater." Tony whispers, but he is smiling widely now. Bucky laughs and shakes his head.

"Keep it, you look good in it. Oh and I'm also not sorry for dying your hair. You looked still so beautiful." Bucky whispers and he kisses Tony's cheek and then his temple. Tony giggles this time and that's another sound Bucky needs in his life.

"I can't believe you came back." Tony says and Bucky grins.

"Took me way too long to understand your weird quirks. I thought you starred at my prothesis, because you hated it. Took my sweater, because you wanted to destroy it like my shirt." Bucky says and Tony at least blushes.

"Well maybe I just cut off the sleeves, so I could see your arms." Tony says and Bucky laughs loudly.

"Peace?" Bucky asks then and this time Tony kisses him. It's short and very sweet and Bucky has to smile again. Why did it take them so long? They should've done this sooner.

"Peace." Tony says and he even does the peace sign with his fingers. Too adorable for his own good.

"Also who is Justin?" Bucky asks and Tony's smile vanishes.

"Uhm… he's an asshole. Don't mind him." Tony says, but Bucky shakes his head. He strokes Tony's arm and smiles, when he sees the goosebumps there.

"He said you and I were boyfriends." Bucky whispers and Tony freezes.

"That's…" Tony starts, but Bucky just gets up from the bed and grins. He goes back to his old prothesis and throws into the little trashcan that is at the end of his bed.

"So you wanna be my boyfriend?" Bucky asks and he even smirks at Tony. Before Tony can answer, Bucky goes through their room and opens Tony's wardrobe. He takes some shirts and jeans and put them in one the bags, that are at the ground of the wardrobe.

"Uh yes?" Tony asks and he stares at Bucky.

"Good, because I want to take my boyfriend home with me, since his asshole family doesn't seem to care." Bucky says and he turns around. Tony smiles shyly again and seems to think about it. He doesn't even asks, why Bucky knows that he will be all alone on Christmas. Bucky knew from the start what kind of man Howard Stark is. That's why it's worse that he made fun of Tony for it.

But he will make up for that. For all of it.

"Really?" He asks and when Bucky nods, he comes over and finished packing that bag.

"Steve is every Christmas with us anyway and my mum won't mind." Bucky says and then he takes the bag in his prothesis hand. Tony frowns and takes the bag from him, just so he can put his own hand in Bucky's.

Bucky's heart flutters. Tony isn't ashamed to hold his _bad hand_. No Tony smiles up at him, even when Bucky steals the bag again, this time with his healthy hand.

"Thank you." Tony says and Bucky goes to their door.

"Oh also, what happened to our room? Where is all your stuff?" Bucky says, when they shut the door behind them. He even takes the time to draw a heart on their door sign.

"You were so annoyed when I worked on my things and I had hoped you would come back and I…" Tony tries to explain, but Bucky kisses him again, so Tony mumbles the last words against his lips.

"When we come back, I want our room like it was before." Bucky says and he smiles.

"Okay." Tony says and they go outside hand in hand. The bus will be here in 20 minutes, but Bucky doesn't care, as long as Tony is there with him.

"Oh well maybe we can change one thing? You could easily sleep with me in my bed." Bucky says and winks. Tony bursts out laughing. Bucky feels proud of that.

"Make me." Tony says and lets go before he runs over to the bus station. Bucky runs laughing after him. Seems like the prank war could go into a new round.

Maybe with just a bit more love this time.


	8. (T) BOYF - Talk to Him by TheTwoPlayerGa

Talk to him  
TheTwoPlayerGays

Summary:  
"So let me get this straight," Chloe said slowly, lowering the curling wand in her hand, "you've fallen in love in Jeremy and you don't know how to tell him because he recently broke up with Christine and you don't want to burden him..." She put the wand on the side of her drawer and reached for the hair spray. Making eye contact with Michael in the mirror, she sprayed her hair firm and put down the can. "Did I get it all?"

* * *

Chapter 1

"So let me get this straight," Chloe said slowly, lowering the curling wand in her hand, "you've fallen in love in Jeremy and you don't know how to tell him because he recently broke up with Christine and you don't want to burden him..." She put the wand on the side of her drawer and reached for the hair spray. Making eye contact with Michael in the mirror, she sprayed her hair firm and put down the can. "Did I get it all?"

Michael flopped onto the bed and stared up at the ceiling in thought. "Pretty much yeah," he eventually replied.

He hadn't planned on telling anyone initially, Michael was far too closed off to anyone but his best friend to even think about it. But after The Squip nearly took over the whole school he seemed to get roped into a group of friends who had experienced the whole thing together, and this included Chloe. Michael didn't know Chloe very well before the incident other than the fact that she was one of the most popular girls in the year. Her and Brooke used to look down at people like Michael. But now, they all seemed to get along just fine. Chloe and Jake worked out their differences and now were closer than ever, Brooke forgave Jeremy for almost sleeping with her best friend because she now knew about The Squip and all in all everyone was happy.

However, this only made Michael more anxious. It was no secret to him that he had fallen for Jeremy long before the whole ordeal began, it only made the 'Jeremy ignoring thing' worse. But now that they had returned to normal Michael had been feeling a lot more agitated than normal. For the past few years it was easy to hide his feelings behind late night games and gay jokes. But recently, everything felt a little too much for Michael. He was noticing more things about Jeremy, things which he hadn't bothered to notice before. Like his concentration face during a particularly hard game, or his smile and the way his face would light up whenever someone gave him a compliment. It was nice, don't get him wrong, but it was painful.

It wasn't until a few days later that Michael began to notice a change in someone else too; Chloe. Perhaps it was only because they had started to hang out more but there was definitely something going on. She had started to wear a little bit more makeup, more foundation and mascara to be exact. Her smile grew a little wider whenever her best friend joined the conversation, her laugh higher and more girly. She seemed to be finding more excuses to hang out with Brooke alone, which wasn't hard in the first place but still. They were subtle changes, but they weren't subtle enough as Michael had soon caught wind as to what was going on.

As him and Chloe grew closer, she would sometimes invite him round to curl his hair or do his makeup. He didn't even bother to hide his excitement, Michael enjoyed those little bonding moments with Chloe.

A few weeks in, Michael told her he was gay. She asked a lot of questions.

A few days after, Chloe told Michael about her feelings for Brooke. He was far too happy to help.

And here they were, hanging out in Chloe's bedroom on a Tuesday afternoon with the window open and the fan turned on full blast. Michael had had enough after his short phone call with Jeremy that morning, which had made his face blow up like a tomato and his palms sweat like a waterfall. After hanging up the phone, he went straight out the door and texted Chloe to let her know her assistance was needed. She was the only person he would dare tell.

"I don't see the big problem here Mike," she smiled, finishing up her hair for the afternoon. "It's not like Jeremy is homophobic or anything-"

"No that's not it!" Michael butted in, sitting up on the bed he had previously been contemplating what he was doing on. "I know Jer will be cool with me, he's always cool with whatever I do or like but... He's gonna be curious you know?"

"Who wouldn't be?" Chloe joked.

"Exactly! And I know exactly what he'll ask too! He'll ask 'how did you know?' AND IM GOING TO HAVE TO REPLY TO HIM CHLO! What do I do then?" Michael hadn't realised he was shouting until Chloe had to physically shut him up, resulting in a hand over his mouth and a remainder that the bedroom window was indeed still open. She sighed and lifted her hand in favour of reaching for her curler and signalling Michael to turn around. He complied, of course.

"Mike, you need to chill. Ok?" She began, waiting to the wand to reach it's optimum temperature. "Jer is super sweet! He'll understand if you're not ready to tell him why, right?"

Michael thought for a moment, staring at the picture of Chloe, Brooke and Christine on Chloe's picture collage.

"What about him and Christine? He's already got enough to deal with, them breaking up so suddenly and all..." He muttered, pretty much to himself but loud enough for Chloe to hear.

Michael expected the normal encouraging yet not very helpful answer from Chloe... but it never came. All he got was the sound of his hair sizzling on the curler and the sounds of birds chirping outside the house. "Chlo-"

"He broke up with her." She said abruptly, switching off and laying down the curler. Michael turned and looked at her, puzzled.

"I know. He told me."

"Not the whole story, he didn't. I can tell her didn't." Chloe replied, avoiding any eye contact that may occur between them. She was hiding something, Michael could tell that much. Normally he would just drop it, Chloe was one to gossip after all and he didn't want to get into any unnecessary drama. But this time, it was about Jeremy.

"What do you mean." He said, less as a question and more as a statement. Chloe took a moment to raise her head to meet his.

"Okay, this doesn't leave this room but... He broke up with Christine... because he never liked her in the first place." She said slowly, pronouncing every word with precision. She locked eyes with Michael for a moment and a brief sense of confusion must have been detected because before Michael could say anything she continued. "I caught him a few days ago, in the hallway. Christine was walking away from him with slight tears in her eyes so I know what had happened. But he didn't look sad, he looked... guilty I guess is the word I'm looking for."

She adjusted her position on the bed so that she was sat up straight, facing Michael.

"So I cornered him, demanded to know why he had hurt Christine like that. I was willing to punch him, you should have seen me Mike!" She giggled, attempting to lighten the mood a little. It didn't work though, Michael was far too wrapped in the story he was being told to focus on anything else.

"What did he say?" He prompted, eager to continue. Chloe's smile dissipated and she locked eyes with Michael once more.

"He told me how he had realised he didn't like Christine in that way, in a romantic way I mean. He didn't tell me how he knew, he just knew he knew. So he broke it off before he could hurt her anymore." She explained. "But here's the thing Mike. You would think Christine would be devastated yeah? I would be after being told that! But when I called her that night, she said she was never better!"

"W-what?" He stuttered. It was one thing to hear that Jeremy didn't even like Christine, after all they had done throughout the years, but to hear that Christine was doing absolutely fine was absurd. He couldn't understand it.

"Yeah! I know! She started going on about how she was upset at first but after Jeremy told her and explained it to her, now she was excited! She started going on about his play that she liked... can't remember the name now. Something about star-crossed lovers in an unforgiving world... oh I don't know. Anyway, she sounded WAY too excited for having just been dumped... I don't get it Mike..." Chloe started to slow her speech as her story reached its conclusion. Her gaze never once left Michael, who was shifting though an array of emotions. He looked at Chloe who simply shrugged.

"Maybe you should talk to him."

* * *

Chapter 2

It was about 7am when Brooke got the phone call. She had finished getting dressed for school and was just about to start on her makeup when her phone lit up and buzzed on her dresser. Thinking it was Chloe, she happily spun across the room in her office chair towards the device, laughing to herself quietly. However, when she picked up, it wasn't who she was expecting.

"Christine..?" She exclaimed as the voice came through the phone. Sure, Brooke and Christine were on good terms, they had nothing against each other but Christine wasn't usually one to call any of the girls, especially not Brooke at 7am whilst she was getting ready.

"Sorry!" The voice cried from the other end in her normal excitable and cutesy tone. Yep, that was definitely Christine. "I know you're probably SUPER busy right now but I could do with some advice, you know? You're good at that kind of thing yeah?"

Brooke couldn't help but smile to herself. 'I suppose I do give good advice don't I?' She praised before continuing her conversation with Christine; "Yeah sure, what'cha need?"

"Great!" She replied, "I just wanted to ask you about Michael."

"M..Michael? You mean the red hoodie headphones kid?"

"Yes! That's him. I wanted to know how to get his attention, he's always so BUSY all the time you know? So distracted! He's impossible to work with."

This certainly peaked Brooke's interest. She had never really paid much attention to the boy with the headphones, despite that fact that he played a pretty vital role in saving the school. She knew Chloe was friends with him though she couldn't really see why - for some reason it made her feel quite uneasy and... jealous? No it couldn't be jealousy, Brooke wouldn't be that protective of her friend. That was besides the point, which was that Christine Canigula was asking about his guy. It was certainly strange, considering she had only just broken up with Jeremy a couple of days ago... Brooke certainly didn't see Christine as that type of girl. And with Jeremy's best-

"THAT'S JEREMY'S BEST FRIEND CHRISTINE!" She practically shrieked into the receiver, interrupting whatever the girl was previously ranting about. Brooke couldn't let this happen, not again. She knew about jealously in this field all too well thanks to her experience with Chloe last Halloween. Though she forgave her quite easily, the two promised to never let anything of the sort happen again to anyone and she was not about to break that promise.

"Yes yes I know! Brooke that's the problem, you see Jeremy-"

"Christine, honey, I know hormones can be a bitch. I get it, trust me. But you also have to trust me when I say that Michael is not a good rebound ok? The dude's totally a virgin, he has no idea what he's doing. Damn, he's probably gay."

"YOU THINK SO?!" Christine squealed, but not out of disgust or curiosity. Out of excitement...?

"Umm... maybe?"

"Gosh that would be wonderful news! Imagine how happy he would be, you have to find out for me Brooke there is no WAY I could approach Michael in such a manner."  
Now she was just confused. One minute Christine wanted to hook up with Michael, maybe as revenge for her break up with Jer? Cold hearted much? But now she's getting excited at the thought that the dude's a homosexual? Brooke was just trying to make up excuses so that Christine would stay away from him...

"But... don't you want to date him?" She finally questioned.

"WHAT? NO! No no no Brooke no way, what on earth gave you that idea?"

"Well, I mean, you want his attention right?"

"Oh I see! No I personally don't want his attention," she giggled into the receiver.

"Jeremy does."

"Heere, you got some explaining to do," Is all Brooke said as she charged her way through the school hall. She had spotted Jeremy coming out of English and they both needed to have a serious talk with one another after what Christine had told her that morning.

Jeremy snapped his head in her direction before acknowledging the look of pure anger and determination on her face, but by then it was too late. Brooke snatched Jeremy's arm and hurled him down the hall until she found an empty classroom to which she threw Jeremy into and slammed the door shut. She knew this room, it was barely used so they had a good amount of time before they had to leave. She waited until the voices in the hall began to quiet down before turning back to Jeremy, who now was still standing in the middle of the room with a look of confusion on his face.

"Alright Jer, time to talk," she began, pulling up a chair and taking a seat.

"What- what are you talking about? Brooke I have to get to Math! Can't this wait?" Jeremy tried to reason but she was not having any of it. Brooke crossed her arms and stared up at the boy until he slowly got the idea and shut his mouth.

She sighed. "No Jeremy it can't wait. If we don't settle this now I know I won't be seeing you for at least a month, you're surprisingly good at avoiding people, so now will have to do."

"But- I have to-"

"You like Michael."

That certainly shut him up. Jeremy's face went from a Snow White to a tomato in a matter of seconds, it was quite funny.

"Of- of course I like Michael! He's my-"

"Oh don't gimme that 'he's my best friend' bullshit you know exactly what I mean Jeremy," yelled Brooke who was getting very close to walking over there and slapping some sense into the boy.

Jeremy fell silent. He stared down at the floor and started to fidget with his shirt and stayed that way for a few more seconds until speaking up:

"How... how do you know?"

"Christine told me," said Brooke, but instantly regretted it. Jeremy looked up to meet her eyes with sense of betrayal and guilt. 'Probably shouldn't have mention Christine so soon,' Brooke thought to herself, 'nice move.'

"I mean, it was kinda my fault. She was trying to get advice from me and I pushed her a little too hard. I... basically forced her to tell me." She admitted, hoping it would make Jeremy feel a little less alone in this situation. "Sorry."

Jeremy sighed. "No no it's... it's ok, it was bound to get out eventually. I'm not very subtle at hiding things I've realised. Everyone's going to find out soon enough."

Brooke took a locked eyes with Jeremy and gestured for him to sit down, which he did. He was still fumbling with his shirt which didn't help the already very awkward atmosphere between them. This time, it was Brooke who broke the silence:

"Is that why you broke up with Christine?"

He nodded, slowly sliding deeper into his chair with guilt.

"I realised it about a month ago. Whenever I was with Christine I usually wouldn't be focusing entirely on what we were doing. My mind would always wonder to... to Michael. I would think 'God Michael would enjoy this' or 'I wish Michael was here, he would get the joke I want to make'. Christine noticed it too. She started asking if I was ill or sick on a regular basis cause I was always spaced out whenever I was with her. God I feel awful looking back on it now, lying to her like that."

"You weren't lying to her Jeremy."

"I might as well have been! She deserves so much better than me... I broke up with her out of the blue as well, and for what? Because I have a crush on my best friend!" Jeremy began to shout, throwing his arms up in the air in frustration and anger. Brooke placed a hand on his knee, trying to calm him down. He was getting considerably more upset as the conversation went on.

"You did the right thing Jeremy. Think about it dumbass," She reassured. "Christine's doing just fine... she might have been a little upset at first, which is understandable, but... she wants to help you."

Jeremy's head shot up to meet Brooke's. "W-what? Why would she-"

"Come on she's Christine, our little theatre geek. A bromance turned mutual pining, that's a dream come true for her!" Brooke laughed, lightening up the mood with her soft giggles.

"M...mutual?"

She slowly calmed and locked eyes with Jeremy, who was still sporting the iconic tomato face look. Brooke smiled at the state of him. 'God these two boys are going to be a mess when they get together,' she thought to herself.

"Maybe you should talk to him Jeremy."

* * *

Chapter 3

"This is ridiculous!"

"Chloe shut up!" Cried Brooke, settling her best friend back into her seat. The cafeteria was buzzing today due to the heavy rain outside restricting students to only the school's buzzing food hall or narrow and long hallways. Brooke and Chloe sat at the far left corner table watching from afar as they picked at their food. Across the hall, Christine could be seen eagerly talking to Jeremy, trying to convince him to talk to a certain brown haired boy. Even from where the two girls were sitting it was clear Jeremy wasn't giving in to this idea.

"Two weeks," Chloe grumbled, stabbing her fries with far more passion than was necessary. "It's been two weeks since we told them. And nothing."

Brooke sighed and turned her gaze towards Michael sitting at the opposite end of the cafeteria, humming along to the beat of his favourite song. "I know Chloe, they're hopeless."

"More than hopeless. Idiotic! Blind! Cowardly!"

"You sound like Christine." Brooke giggled, playfully punching her best friend in the arm. Chloe smiled and returned the gesture.

"I suppose I have been spending a lot more time with her."

Brooke hummed in response, feeling a small wave of jealousy rush through her though she didn't quite know why. The two fell into a comfortable silence as they watched the pining boys zig-zag around each other's feelings like flies. It had almost become routine for the girls. Christine was the only one still trying, constantly cornering Michael and Jeremy in hopes of convincing them to spill - but neither were budging.

"We need to help them," said Chloe suddenly, startling the blonde girl beside her.

"Sorry?"

"They're hopeless Brooke, they can't do this alone." She claimed, turning to her partner in crime. "We need to help them."

As Brooke slowly began to catch on, she narrowed her eyes at her friend.

"Help how exactly?"

"Just, give them a little nudge y'know?" Chloe replied, a hint of mischief in her voice.

"A little nudge..." Brooke repeated, mumbling to herself in thought.

"You got any ideas?"

"Maybe..."

"Perfect." Chloe stood from her seat and made her way to the other end of the hall, dropping her lunch tray by the counter. To her left she could see Michael and Jeremy sitting at a lunch table talking, probably completely ignoring the blatant blush on each other's cheeks.

Brooke caught up to her friend and disposed of her empty lunch tray. "Are you sure about this Chlo?" She asked, a sense of doubt in her mind.

"Positive. These two may be hopeless, but they're still human. They have to deal with these feelings eventually, and all they need is a little nudge to tip them off the edge." She turned to her best friend and smiled genuinely. "They'll be happier afterwards."

Brooke returned the smile and grabbed her best friend's wrist.

"Then we're going to need a little help from Christine."

"Is this really necessary?" Jeremy groaned. His arm was caught in the clutches of a miss Canigula who was dragging him through the hallway towards the drama room.

"Very," she replied firmly as she continued to tug her friend along. "No one else would help me clean out the costume closet and as you are also part of the drama club it is also your responsibility."

A couple of classrooms down lay the drama room where Chloe, Brooke and Michael were all gathered. The two girls were aimlessly searching through boxes for Chloe's "missing belt" which according to her was extremely necessary for her next performance with the club.

"I still don't understand why I have to help you look for it Chlo," grumbled Michael who was currently sorting his way through last year's props. 'Some lovely memories these bring back,' he thought to himself.

"Because you owe me," the brunette replied, "besides you know just as well as I do how upset Christine will be when she discovers that I've lost it."

"Yeah yeah..."

"Chloe!" Whispered Brooke, startling her best friend. The plastic vase Chloe was holding clattered to the floor which caught Michael's attention. She smiled nervously and pulled Brooke down to the floor to "help her" clean the mess up.

"What?" She hissed in return once Michael got back to organising the props. Brooke silently pointed to the entrance of the drama room. After a few seconds Chloe spotted the faint figures of Christine and Jeremy slowly inching their way towards the club room, causing her to suddenly jump up from her crouching position.

"Michael!" She exclaimed a little louder than she intended. It went unnoticed by the boy however as he poked his head out of the scatter of boxes to heed the call.

"Yeah?"

"Could you check the drama closet real quick? Maybe the belt is in there..." She smiled as if to further her point. Brooke glared at her from the side, nudging her lightly to 'tone it down on the dramatics'.

Micheal frowned. "Why don't you check it, I'm busy sorting through about a dozen princess costumes," he held one up for example, bowing gracefully to match his new persona. Brooke giggled.

"Just do it hoodie boy, Brooke and I have our hands full."

"Please Michael!" Brooke added, hoping it would sway the request in their favour. The plan worked as Michael begrudgingly got up from his post by the props and walked over to the drama closet in search of Chloe's so-called belt. He brought his headphones up to his ears to help distract himself from the arduous task, turning the music up to as high as he wanted before slipping into the closet. As soon as he stepped in the girls ran over and slowly closed the door behind him without his notice and processed onto phase two of their plan.

The voices of Christine and Jeremy drew near and soon the door to the drama club room swung open as the rehearsal lover stepped forward, closely followed by Jeremy. From the other side of the room, Chloe's head popped out from under the hill of props to greet the two.

"Why hellooooo Jeremy!" She smiled sweetly, waving her arms up and down in greeting.

"Hi Jeremy!" Added Brooke, hoping to ease the suspicion after Chloe's very obvious poor acting.

"Hi?" Replied Jeremy before turning to Christine and raising an eyebrow.

She shrugged. "I needed all the help I could get. The props needed sorting as well. Now," turning Jeremy's attention to the drama closet Christine hurried her friend along.

She stopped just before the door and winked at Jeremy. "Don't come out until you're ready got it?"

Jeremy sighed and nodded, opening the door to the closet. Before he could notice his best friend's presence Christine shoved him inside and slammed the door shut, using her club key to lock it.

"Sorry!" She cried as Chloe and Brooke rushed over to join her. The faint sound of Jeremy yelling could be heard from the sound proof room as the girls turned and walked away.

Chloe nudged Christine's arm playfully. "Nice subtext there Chris," she added grinning.

Christine giggled and beamed as the three waltzed out of the drama room. "I am a performer after all."

Jeremy wasn't quite aware of the fact that he had just been pushed into a closet by Christine until the sound of the lock being turned brought him back to reality. The same sound also revealed the presence of another boy who was currently crouched down sifting through boxes. His red hoodie was a clear give away as to what had just happened.

"Christine..." he said wilfully, stepping backwards and turning only to come face to face with the locked door.

"Christine open up," he said again, shaking the door knob to confirm his suspicions. A faint "Sorry!" could be heard from the other side. Jeremy knew exactly what was going on and was determined to remove himself from the situation before the other noticed. Unfortunately it was a little too late for that.

"Hey Chlo, I think I found your-" Michael's eyes widened as he turned to see his best friend banging on the closet door. He dropped the belt, startling Jeremy into whipping his head to face him. The two stood there for a moment, bewildered as to what they had gotten themselves into.

Michael broke the silence by clearing his throat. Jeremy gulped. The silence returned.

They both knew there was no getting out of this.

"I broke up with Christine," was all Jeremy could manage. His tone was telling of how much he didn't believe the statement to be true, yet it was.

"I know," replied Michael, "why?"

Jeremy gulped again, a few sweat drops trickled down his forehead as he took a step away from the closet door.

"I didn't love her," he stated. "B-but that's fair right?"

Michael remained silent.

"I-I mean, remember that documentary we watched a while back? It stated that it takes around two months for a crush to become love. S...so if I didn't love her by then then I never would have... right?" He stammered, trying to convince himself more so than who he was telling it to.

Michael still said nothing.

"M..Mike?"

"What about two years?" He finally replied, looking up with enough courage to lock eyes with Jeremy as he said it.

The question took Jeremy by surprise. "Two years? What do you mean two years?"

"I mean if you've liked someone for two years, it's more than just a crush isn't it?" Not once did Michael's eyes leave Jeremy's.

"I... I guess so?" He stuttered in reply.

"Isn't it..." Michael repeated quietly, taking his eyes off of Jeremy to look down at the floor.

"Michael I don't understand," Jeremy took a step closer, "what are you talking about?"

"Why did you break up with Christine." Said Michael, not as a question but as a statement. He looked up and took a step forward, locking eyes with Jeremy once more. It unnerved the tall boy.

"I already told you, I didn't love her."

"Was that the only reason?"

Jeremy opened his mouth to confirm but found that he couldn't. His mind flashbacked to his conversation with Brooke in the classroom. She knew exactly what was going on in Jeremy's head before he did. The image of her shaking her head and smiling haunted him for days along with her closing sentence: "Maybe you should talk to him."

Opposite, Michael was having a similar experience. His mind was racing through the many conversations he had had with Chloe on this topic, one of which stood out the most. He remembered Chloe telling him about how Jeremy broke up with Christine but kept something from him about it. He remembered confiding in Chloe about what to do about his feelings for his best friend. After going through their whole conversation in a matter of seconds, one phrase stood out the most as it repeated in Michael head, going round and round like a ferris wheel: "Maybe you should talk to him."

"Talk to him," Michael said slowly, inching closer to Jeremy in the process.

"Talk to him," Jeremy repeated in mutter, realising how close the two boys were at this point.

"Was that the only reason?" Michael repeated.

"No," Jeremy answered, sure of his reply for the first time in weeks.

That was all the confirmation he needed. Before the other could protest Michael grabbed Jeremy's jacket and pressed him lips to his, earning a small squeal from the boy. The surprise quickly melted into wonder as Jeremy returned the kiss with as much eager as Michael giving. The realisation of how much he had wanted this shot threw him, boasting his confidence. His hand flew up to Michael neck, pulling to two closer together. The boy hummed in response, tilting his head to deepen the kiss.

The two found themselves slowly walking backwards until Jeremy's back hit the closer door. Michael took the opportunity to slip his tongue into the others mouth, earning another sound from Jeremy. His hands began to wonder and his mind was still racing and trying to keep up as to what was happening. They broke the kiss for a split second to catch their breath and Michael took a moment to take in the sight in front of him. Jeremy was up against the closet door panting for breath with bruised lips and a flustered face, a sight Michael only got to see in his dreams.

"Two years?" Jeremy managed to mutter.

"Two years." Michael confirmed before returning to the kiss. His hands landed on Jeremy's waist, pinning him closer to the door. He didn't plan on letting go of this dream.

* * *

"Do you think we kept them in there too long?" Christine muttered as the girls walked back into the drama room to let Michael and Jeremy out of the closet.

"I'm sure they're fine," Brooke offered with a smile. "They needed this, a little push, right Chlo?"

"Exactly," Chloe beamed, taking the key off of Christine and making her way towards the closet door. "Besides they probably won't even want to come out. I bet you ten bucks they're in there right now making-"

Chloe's speech was cut short when a soft moan made its way through the door. Chloe stopped in her tracks and stared at the wall, frozen as to what she had just heard.

"Chloe?" Brooke asked, concerned as to why her friend had suddenly stopped.

Chloe stood there not knowing what she had quite expected when she locked the two boys in the closet that day. She hadn't quite taken into account the amount of sexual tension between the two until a small mutter of Michael's name was heard through the door. As if being brought back to life, Chloe slipped the closet key underneath the door unnoticed and rushed over to lead Brooke and Christine out of the room despite their complaints.

She made a mental note to get details from Michael later.


	9. (T) TYRUS - Friends Don't Call (in the m

Friends Don't Call (in the Middle of the Night)  
buffymysavior, Hcpelesshcney

Summary:  
Cyrus spent all night in bed, trying to fall asleep, but he was only met with restlessness. Restlessness for his feelings for Jonah, restlessness for everything going on with his friends, restlessness for his life in general. That's when he decided to call TJ. TJ had always been able to make him feel better, no matter the circumstances. What came next was something that neither of the boys expected.

* * *

It was about two in the morning when Cyrus Goodman finally gave up on sleeping.

He'd had a _long _day—between dealing with the stress of Buffy moving away, Jonah writing a song for Andi, _the boy he'd had a crush on for months now _, and then watching that same boy kiss his best friend—he didn't know how he'd made it without breaking down or crying or _something _.

He'd been trying to sleep for hours now, but the only tiredness he'd felt was of his feelings for Jonah.

Cyrus glanced over to where his phone was charging on his nightstand. He considered calling Andi or Buffy for a moment, but decided against it. As much as he hated to admit it, Andi was part of the problem—besides, he didn't want to drag her down right after she had her first kiss. He remembered how excited he was after his first kiss with Iris, even if he hadn't liked her that way—or any girls, for that matter.

Calling Buffy was also out of the question. He'd already bothered her so much with his _Jonah Beck issues _, and he really didn't want to further put her in a position between him and Andi, anyway. It just wasn't fair to put her in the middle and make her choose between them all the time.

For a quick, sleep-deprived second, Cyrus considered calling Jonah, but nearly laughed at the thought. Even if Jonah happened to pick up, there was no way he could talk about this with him—first of all, Jonah was an _astronomical _part of the problem, and second of all, Jonah Beck didn't _do _feelings. Even after tonight, Cyrus doubted Jonah was so in touch with his emotions that he could talk about _this _—it would only result in disappointment for Cyrus and a waste of time for both of them.

Cyrus sighed in defeat. That basically ruled out everyone he knew that he _actually _felt comfortable talking to about this. Unless…

He yanked his phone off the charger, squinting at the screen despite the low brightness setting. Hesitantly, he opened up his contacts with a wavering finger, his heart rate increasing as he found the person in question.

_TJ._

How he hadn't thought of the basketball player before was beyond him. Over the past several weeks, they'd become a lot closer, talking several times a week in and outside of school, something that continued to shock Cyrus since the day they met.

Cyrus's finger hovered uncertainly over the FaceTime option on TJ's contact information. What if he didn't pick up? Even worse, what if he did and got mad at Cyrus for calling so late? Cyrus debated in his head for a minute or so before finally tapping the face call button. _Here we go _, he thought to himself, practically squinting his eyes shut as he tried to ignore the loud pounding in his chest.

All Cyrus could do now...was wait.

* * *

Picking up his phone before his eyes adjusted to the bright screen had to be TJ's stupidest action in a long time. He pressed his free hand to his eyes, blinked a few more times, then looked at the screen again. The first thing he focused on was the fact that a caught-off-guard picture of Cyrus was on the screen—the other boy's contact picture. The second thing that caught his attention was the time._ 1:57 AM _was written in little white letters at the top of his screen, and the worry that surged through him had all remnants of sleep dissolving immediately.

Answering the call, he pushed himself up so that he was sitting against the headboard of his bed. It took a moment for the call to connect, which didn't help TJ's nervousness in the slightest.

"Cyrus?" The screen finally connected, but both rooms were so dark it hardly even mattered. "What's going on? Are you okay?"

It looked like the screen was being jostled around on the other end, and a moment later, the screen flooded with color—Cyrus had turned on a lamp. He looked like a wreck, white T-shirt all wrinkled and usually-styled hair sticking up wildly. He frowned, trying to figure out how to even begin. Maybe this was a bad idea. Maybe he—

"Cy?"

"I'm sorry, did I wake you? I know it's really late, but I didn't know who else to call and it's just—I just—I woke you up, didn't I? I'm so sorry, this was a bad idea, I'll just—"

"Cyrus," TJ cut in, stopping the other boy's rambling short. "It's okay. I was awake already." Which was a lie. But as far as lies went, this one wasn't the _worst _. TJ would always answer Cyrus's calls, even if he _was _sleeping. That much had to be obvious. At least, it was for him.

"Oh." The relief on his face was so prominent that it was almost overwhelming. "Okay."

"Yeah. So, what's up?" It felt like the wrong thing to ask, but TJ wasn't sure what else to say. He always felt tongue-tied when it came to Cyrus, and it was such a rare situation that he still wasn't sure what to do with that information.

"Oh, right. I… couldn't sleep."

"That much was obvious."

The laugh that came after his comment was shocking. Cyrus's laugh always was, like he was never aware he was going to laugh until after it happened.

"I guess so, huh? It's just that—I don't know. It's been a really long day."

"Is this classified as your stuff?" It was meant to be light-hearted, a way to get Cyrus a little more out of his mind and a little less… sad. Because that's what he looked like, TJ realized finally, Cyrus looked _sad _. "Because if you aren't okay with talking about it, we don't have to."

"I mean—yeah, yes, it is, I guess. But I just—I want to talk about it. I feel like I _need _to, y'know?"

TJ was quiet for a moment, trying to figure out what to say. He _did _know what Cyrus meant, but probably for a much different reason. "Yeah."

"I just…okay, so I'm sorry this probably doesn't make any sense, but I like this… _person _and my friends know I like them but the person doesn't know I like them. At least, I don't think they do. And anyway, I don't think it would even matter much if they did know, because there's no way they would like me back and—I thought I was okay with it, but I'm not. I'm _not _."

_Oh _. The more TJ listened to Cyrus, the tighter his chest started to feel. Was he—? No. He couldn't possibly be talking about him. There was no way. For all TJ knew, Cyrus liked _girls _, so there really was no use in even _thinking _like that. A beat too late, he said, "I know what you mean." And he _did _. He did, because he was in the exact same situation, and it _hurt _, but that was a conversation for a much later time.

"This sucks," Cyrus said, and that hurt, too, because TJ _really _did not know how to make any of this better.

"Do you want to know what I think?" TJ settled back into his bed, comforter tucked around his chest and cellphone resting on the pillow a couple of inches away from his face. The screen tilted, turning the picture of Cyrus's face sideways. The whole situation seemed far more intimate than it had any right to be. "I think that whoever it is you're talking about isn't worth all the pain."

"TJ."

"No, I mean, just hear me out, okay? They don't know you like them, right? But your friends do? Obviously there's something going wrong with that, because you called _me _, instead of one of them. And I know for a fact that either of them would be better at this than me. And I know I'm an outsider to all of this, but if liking them makes you sad more than it makes you happy, then they aren't worth it. _You're _worth more than that, Cy."

The conversation lulled to a stop, and for a brief moment, TJ wondered if he said too much, if he tried a little too hard. Cyrus was silent on the other end, his eyes closed, almost like he was asleep, but not quite. Then he nodded, just once, and that one simple action took all the worry out of TJ.

"Okay," he said, his voice so soft it's barely more than a whisper, "Thank you."

The smile TJ gave him was soft, more of a careful upturn at the corners of his mouth than anything. He desperately hoped his feelings weren't written all over his face in that moment, or at least that Cyrus didn't _catch on _to any of them. Not just yet. Maybe not ever.

They talked for a while longer, the atmosphere lighter now that Cyrus had been able to sort things out a little. He listened to TJ talk about anything, too exhausted in every sense of the word to provide much conversation. Eventually, both of them could no longer keep from yawning every other sentence, so they decided to call it a night.

"Thank you, again," Cyrus said right before he hung up, "I really do appreciate it."

TJ nodded, his hair catching on his pillow case as he did. "No problem, Underdog. Night."

Cyrus echoed a goodnight, then hung up the call. Plugging his phone back into the charger, he shut off the light and laid back down, falling to sleep in the span of a breath.

On the other side of town, TJ was still awake, staring up at his bedroom ceiling. He felt wide awake now, even though he was exhausted, but try as he might, he couldn't fall back to sleep. All he could think about was how sad Cyrus looked when he called, like the very thought of whoever he liked was painful. It hurt that he could relate to that, too.

* * *

After their initial FaceTime, Cyrus had made a habit of calling TJ whenever he couldn't sleep. But as Buffy had pointed out during the school week, their conversations weren't _just _limited to the occasional late night (not that she _knew _they talked at two in the morning, but still, her point was made). It felt like they talked all the time now, during any empty time that either of them found themselves in. They would catch each other in the halls during passing periods, and occasionally, during lunch. If either of them had a substitute teacher in a class that didn't actually care what the students did, they would FaceTime.

"When did this happen?" Buffy pulled Cyrus aside the following Friday, after Cyrus had hung up on TJ. "Are you guys, like, best friends now or something?"

The very notion of it made Cyrus laugh. Not that being friends with TJ was funny, but that it made no sense to him, either. "Buffy, c'mon, you _know _you're my best friend!"

She frowned at him, then at his phone, then back at him. "Do I, Cyrus? _Do I really _?" She was joking, mostly, so when he changed the subject back to the English assignment they were _supposed _to be working on, she didn't make _too _much of a fuss. But still, she wondered. Not so much about Cyrus, but about TJ's intentions. She made a note to call him out about it after practice.

As it were, once Buffy got to practice that day, the note was completely gone from her mind.

* * *

Waking up again in the middle of the night had not been part of Cyrus's plan for the day. But then again, neither was dreaming that he had somehow managed to work up the courage to tell Jonah Beck he liked him and been _immediately rejected _. His breathing was ragged when he finally jolted awake, the anxiety and humiliation from the dream dragged into his consciousness. It all felt too real.

He flipped on the lamp on his bedside table and reached for his phone before his mind even fully registered what it was doing. It was such a familiar action, calling TJ whenever something was wrong, that Cyrus wasn't even surprised when he picked up before the second ring.

"Hey, Cy—oh, geez, what's wrong?"

Cyrus opened his mouth to answer, but he couldn't seem to make the words form. The anxiety that sat in his chest made it ridiculously hard to breathe. Unshed tears burned at his eyes and—God, all of this was so humiliating. He should have just gone back to sleep. He should have—

"Cyrus? What's going on? I'm here, okay? I'm here." TJ's voice was so soft that it made Cyrus's heart ache. "Talk to me."

The first word out of Cyrus's mouth was _Jonah _, and as soon as it was out there, Cyrus knew he was never going to be able to take it back. He didn't even _want _to take it back.

"What?" TJ's eyebrows scrunched up in confusion, "What about Jonah?"

"I—" Cyrus pulled in another shaky breath, still feeling so undone. "I _like _him, TJ. And—and I just had this _dream _."

"Oh," TJ blinked, and the face he made immediately afterward was much too similar to the one he pulled in The Spoon back when he helped Cyrus learn how to somersault.

"_No!_" Cyrus said quickly, pressing the heel of his hand against one of his eyes. His head _ached_. This whole situation sucked. "Not like that. I mean—he's the person I told you about last month. Remember? When I called you that first time? It's Jonah. My crush is Jonah. And I had a dream that I _told_ _him_ and he rejected me and—I hate this, Teej. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to _feel._" And _God_, now he was crying. How much more pathetic could he get?

Watching this all unfold made TJ feel sick. He wished more than anything that he could just _be_ _there_ for Cyrus. Actually there with him, not on the opposite side of town, only connected through a few spotty WiFi signals. "I don't know what to say."

Cyrus laughed, completely joyless. He felt like he was spiraling, everything coming unhinged. All of this was _bad _. "Well, that makes two of us, doesn't it?" He swiped at his eyes, teardrops wetting his fingertips. TJ must hate him for this—for the constant FaceTime calls and the constant drama and the constant tears. _God _.

Things went quiet, neither of them speaking. It was just bordering on awkward when TJ cleared his throat. He said, "I still don't think he's worth it, Cy."

_That _hurt. Because he knew that Jonah wasn't worth it. He _knew _that. Heck, he told _Andi _that every time she came crying to the group chat that he quote-unquote, _didn't understand her _. "You don't think anyone is worth it, TJ." As soon as he said it, Cyrus regretted opening his mouth, because TJ looked so _hurt _. "TJ, I—"

"No," TJ cut him off, eyes trained away from the screen, "You're right. I _don't _think anyone is worth it. Not for you. Because you don't give yourself enough credit. You deserve way better than _Jonah Beck _, than—than _anyone _, really. And I know that probably doesn't mean anything to you right now, but it's true. But that also doesn't mean how you're feeling is invalid. You just… Cyrus, you deserve someone who's going to treat you like you hold the world." TJ had to stop himself from adding _like me _, but he wondered if it even mattered. He'd already said so much more than he ever meant to, it felt like he'd taken his heart and put it on display—like with the addition of every word, he'd gone _here, my heart, take it. _He hadn't meant to.

But it must have been the right thing to say, because Cyrus wasn't crying anymore. And really, all things considered, that _had _been TJ's goal. It always was, even if the situation left _him _feeling raw. At the end of it all, Cyrus was the one who mattered most to him. Whatever unrequited feelings he dealt with in relation to that was nothing Cyrus needed to worry about.

* * *

The day that Cyrus realized his crush on Jonah was gone, he told Buffy first.

They were sprawled out on the grass in his backyard, watching the clouds blow across the sky and reveling in the fact that not only was there no homework given out for over the weekend, but _also _that Monday and Tuesday were teacher training days, which meant that they got an extra-long weekend.

Sometimes Cyrus's favorite thing about his friendship with Buffy was the fact that they could spend so much time together and not feel like they had to fill it with conversation. Sometimes it was the fact that he knew he _could _talk about anything, even if it scared him. He knew this moment was one of those.

"Buffy?" Cyrus asked, breaking the sleepy hush that had settled over them. Buffy did no more than tilt her head in his direction, which he took as an acknowledgement to continue. "I—remember how a couple of months ago I told you that I… _liked _Jonah?"

"What about it?"

"Well, yeah, okay, so about that," it felt like all of the words Cyrus was looking for were just out of reach. He knew what he wanted to say, what he needed to say, but he just couldn't find the right words to fit. All in one breath, he said, "BuffymycrushonJonahisgone."

Buffy sat up so fast she practically got whiplash. "What? When? How?"

"Who? Why?" It was meant to be a joke, and even though Cyrus was smiling, he knew it fell flat. Buffy leveled a glare at him, eyebrow raised. "Okay, _okay _. I don't know when. Or… how, I guess. It's just _gone _."

"Like, gone-gone? Are you sure?"

Cyrus was pretty sure. Whenever Jonah came around, it didn't feel like he took up all the space in the room. When he smiled, Cyrus's stomach didn't fill with butterflies anymore. Jonah was still radiant laughter personified, but Cyrus was immune to that now. The shine was gone. He didn't tell Buffy any of that, though. Rather, he nodded, and Buffy mimicked the action.

"Okay," she said, laying back down, "Cool."

Cyrus sighed, and the weight that was pressing down on his shoulders before the start of the conversation was gone.

* * *

Cyrus called TJ later that day, right after dinner. He meant to call after Buffy left, but then his mom and stepdad came home from work, and he had to help chop the vegetables for whatever dish his mom saw on Instagram earlier that day, and time passed faster than he realized.

Waiting for TJ to pick up the call, Cyrus sat on his bed, back resting against the headboard. The call rang through twice before the other boy picked up. He was outside, hair matted against his forehead with sweat. "Hold on," he said, and Cyrus assumed it was directed towards him because then the phone dropped while TJ rummaged around for something. A moment later, his smiling face was back on the screen, this time with a miked headphone in his ear. "Okay, hi."

"Hi," The fact that TJ seemed busy wasn't lost on Cyrus. "Is now a bad time or—?"

"Nah, it's cool. Just a pickup game, nothing the boys can't handle without me for a while." TJ smiled at him again, warm and bright, and, _oh, _Cyrus's heart practically stuttered.

"Are you sure? Because I can call later."

"Cy, c'mon, it's fine. I want to talk to you." There was an unspoken _always _at the end of his sentence, but TJ wasn't sure if Cyrus heard it, and Cyrus wasn't sure if TJ meant to imply it. It hung there in the air, nonetheless.

"Okay," he said, "I have some news."

"Good news or bad news?"

Cyrus considered this for a moment. "It's just… _news _, I guess." Because it was. Him not liking Jonah anymore wasn't necessarily good or bad. It just _was _.

"Okay, shoot."

He took a breath, counting to four to still his trembling hands. "So, you remember what I told you a couple weeks ago, right? About Jonah?"

TJ nodded, his eyes flicking from the screen to something in front of him that Cyrus couldn't see. He turned his attention back to the conversation, apologizing for the extra background noise his friends were making.

"It's okay. Um, anyway, so about the whole _crush _thing…"

"What about it, Cy? Is everything okay?"

"Yes. Yeah. I mean, I think so?" He rubbed his free hand over his face, sighing. "I don't know why this is so hard to tell you. It wasn't nearly this hard to tell Buffy."

TJ frowned, but it was so quick and small that Cyrus missed it. "Tell Buffy what?"

"That I…well, okay, I'm just gonna say it. Rip the bandaid off, right?" Cyrus laughed nervously, looking everywhere but at TJ. "My crush, uh, it's gone. Like… completely, I think. Or, I hope. For a while now." He waited for TJ to reply, but the silence stretched on for a beat too long, and the tiny pit of anxiety that had settled in his stomach at the beginning of the call started to unfurl. "TJ?"

TJ was dumbstruck, absolutely dumbstruck. And hopeful, kind of, because maybe now he—he shook his head, tuning back in. "That's… great, Cyrus. Right?"

"I—yeah, it is, I think. I just figured you'd want to know."

"Thanks for telling me. I appreciate it. Hey, uh, I have to go. The boys want me to join the game again. Call you later?"

Cyrus nodded, and they exchanged quick goodbyes before hanging up the call. Part of him felt hollow at how nonchalant TJ was the whole time, but the other part was glad he hadn't made such a big deal. Even so, was Cyrus _supposed _to feel weirdly empty when someone who was just a friend hung up before he wanted them to?

He wasn't going to dwell on it.

* * *

For the first time ever, Cyrus was woken up in the middle of the night by a loud vibrating sound buzzing in his ear.

The source of the noise was coming from his nightstand, which was confusing in itself. Who would ever call him this late? Of course, Andi and Buffy came to mind first. Did something happen to them? Were they okay? Was someone in the hospital?

Then his mind shifted to the more logical option: TJ. That didn't make a lot of sense either, considering TJ had never called Cyrus first when it was this late. But sure enough, when Cyrus yanked his phone off the charger in his half-asleep state, TJ's smiling picture stared right back at him.

Puzzled and dazed with sleep, Cyrus accepted the call and settled back against his headboard, not even bothering to turn on his lamp as the call loaded.

TJ's face appeared on the screen after a moment, the only light in his room being the faint brightness cast from his phone. Even though Cyrus was mostly out of it, he could see TJ looked agitated, or at least upset. "Cy?" he asked, his voice weary with distress. That immediately set an alarm off in Cyrus's head, but it felt like a dull ringing in his hazy state instead of the obnoxious blaring it should've been.

"TJ," he said. He meant for it to sound enthusiastic, but instead, it came out hoarse and drowsy. "Are you okay?"

TJ bit his lip at the question, running a shaky hand through his messy hair. That was something he'd been trying to figure out all night; _was he okay? _At this point, he wasn't so sure. There was something he'd been _dying _to tell Cyrus even before they'd started FaceTiming a month ago—something that had begun to keep him awake at night in the most recent weeks. "I don't know," he answered truthfully. "I couldn't sleep. Sorry, I know I probably woke you up and stuff…" What was he thinking? Of _course _he'd woken him up. Cyrus _always _called when he was restless, so he must've been asleep by now.

"Teej, I always wake you up in the middle of the night with my stuff. Don't be sorry," Cyrus drawled, rubbing his eyes. Even though Cyrus wasn't physically asleep, TJ could tell he still was, at least mentally. "What's wrong?"

"I don't know," TJ said again. That was a lie. Maybe he didn't know if he was okay or not, but he for sure knew what was bothering him. That's why he'd called—to talk to Cyrus about what he was feeling. But now that he was here on the phone with him, TJ wasn't sure he could actually muster up the courage to actually say it.

"You do know," Cyrus countered, making the face he always made when he was trying to psychoanalyze someone. "What's bothering you?"

TJ looked away from his phone. He couldn't tell Cyrus about his feelings, not right now, anyway. "I'm just not tired. It's not that deep," he said, forcing a slight chuckle.

Of course, Cyrus was able to see right through it like everything TJ did. "You know you can talk to me. I always bother you with my stuff. You should be able to tell me yours."

"You're never bothering me, Cy," TJ protested. Who was to say he couldn't compliment Cyrus while also getting the conversation off-track? "I'm glad you trust me with your stuff."

"So am I," Cyrus smiled tiredly. However, the grin on his face disappeared almost as quickly as it had come, much to TJ's disappointment. "But that's not the point. The point is you're not telling me what's wrong. You obviously called me for a reason."

TJ sighed. Why did he even try to change the subject? Cyrus was _much _too observant for his own good. "I just wanted to talk to you, Underdog," TJ replied. That _definitely _wasn't a lie. He always wanted to talk to Cyrus; just...not about this. "Can we just talk?"

"Not until you tell me what's wrong," Cyrus mumbled. He was obviously tired; why he didn't go to bed right now and hang up on him was beyond TJ. The dark-haired boy settled back against his pillow, closing his eyes. "I'm waiting."

TJ tried to think of what to say, but all that came to mind was blinding hot panic. What if he didn't feel the same way? Sure, he had a chance with Cyrus now that he knew he was gay, too, but that didn't necessarily mean he liked him back. He only _just _got over Jonah. What if Cyrus didn't say anything? Or if he just hung up? TJ honestly didn't know which option was worse: silence or flat-out rejection.

Worst of all, what if he ruined their friendship? What if the quick greetings in the hallways stopped and the casual hang-outs after school ceased and the late night FaceTime calls just disappeared?

What if he lost the best thing that ever happened to him in a matter of seconds?

But as he stared at Cyrus on his phone screen—eyes closed and a small smile tracing that adorable face of his—he knew this was a risk he had to take. Now that he might _actually _have a chance with him, there was no way he was going to sit aside and not at least _try _.

TJ glanced away from his phone again. If he was actually going to do this, there was no way he'd be able to do it if he was staring at Cyrus the whole time searching for a reaction or tell of some kind.

He took a deep breath; this was the moment that would either bring him closer to Cyrus or possibly destroy their relationship. Then he pushed that thought away; if he focused on the negative possibilities, he'd never be able to get the words out of his mouth.

"I like you, okay?" TJ breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. He didn't even dare looking at his phone in fear of Cyrus's reaction, instead staring at the wall on his right. "I've liked you ever since that day at the park when you were singing about the swings. Or maybe even before that when I helped you get that chocolate chocolate chip muffin," he admitted, scrubbing his hair against his head. He paused for a moment, listening for any sort of response from Cyrus. When he didn't get one, he continued nervously, "I just—no one's ever listened to me or understood me the way you do. Everyone's always just seen me as this jerky dumb jock—which, I guess, they had every reason to think that—but you saw past that, you know? And no one's ever...ever _seen _me the way you do. And you make me so _nervous _that sometimes I swear my heart's just going to jump out of my chest, which probably sounds super lame and so does the rest of this, but...I just like you a lot, okay? And I know you probably don't feel the same way, but I just wanted you to know...," TJ rambled, eventually trailing off. When he was met with more silence, he snapped his head towards his phone. "Cyrus?" he asked hesitantly, staring at the screen. After a second, he realized the other boy's eyes were closed, the only movement on the screen being the slow rise and fall of Cyrus's chest.

_Great. _Cyrus was sleeping. Just his luck. Somehow, this was even worse than the shock or rejection he'd expected. Probably because TJ had _just _spilled his heart out to the boy he liked and he hadn't even been awake to hear any of it.

Overwhelmed with disappointment, TJ took one glance at Cyrus's sleeping face—_ why did he have to be so cute? _—and hung up the phone. The only thing he was for sure of now was that he could _never _try to tell Cyrus about his feelings again. If anything, this whole thing was just proof that he wasn't supposed to tell Cyrus how he felt.

TJ set his phone down on his nightstand and laid back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. If he hadn't been able to sleep before, he didn't know _how _he was supposed to sleep now.

As his mind drifted to Monday morning, TJ knew what he had to do. If he couldn't tell Cyrus how he felt about him, then his only other option was to get over his stupid feelings for him once and for all. And to do that, he needed to stop being friends with Cyrus no matter how much it killed him inside, even if losing Cyrus was exactly what he'd been terrified of in the first place.

* * *

The first thing Cyrus was aware of was the fact that the soft hum of TJ's voice wasn't there anymore. He didn't recall falling asleep. In fact, he wasn't even sure he _did _fall asleep, but he must have. Because one moment, he was trying to convince TJ to talk about what was bothering him, and the next thing he knew, TJ was telling him that he _liked _him. Which had to have been a dream, because there was no way TJ really said that. No way he could actually like Cyrus, no matter how much Cyrus wanted him to. Because he did. Want TJ to like him, that is. But there was no way he could say that without managing to ruin whatever little friendship they had going.

So Cyrus chalked it up to a dream. The kind of hazy, nearly-sleeping dream that left him feeling weightless and cozy, because there was a fifty-fifty chance of it being real and not just something his own mind dreamed up. And he didn't tell TJ about it, even though it sat at the back of his mind all of the next day.

Eventually, he tucked the thought away. Right along with the skip of his heart every time his phone buzzed and the immediate disappointment that followed finding out the notification wasn't from TJ.

They didn't talk for the rest of the weekend.

* * *

The following Monday morning was worse than usual for Cyrus.

It wasn't because something astronomically traumatizing happened or anything like that. In retrospect, the day went pretty okay for being, well, a Monday. His day wasn't bad because something terrible happened to him; it was rather a lack of something.

That something, of course, was TJ.

After that "dream" he'd had last night, Cyrus had been looking forward to and also dreading seeing the basketball player. He was afraid that when they saw each other, he'd either get confirmation that last night _actually happened _and he'd slept through it or it was just another part of his vivid, but cruel imagination. Cyrus really didn't know which was worse.

Unfortunately, he had gone the entire day without seeing TJ, which...maybe wasn't _that _surprising considering they didn't share any classes since they were in different grades, but they still usually saw each other once or twice throughout the day. Usually, they at _least _exchanged good morning's or sat together at lunch or _something _, but today, there was none of that. There was only a sinking feeling in his chest that reminded him of his TJ-less day.

Cyrus couldn't help but wonder if it was something he did, but they were fine up until last night. Maybe that was part of the reason TJ had called so late; something Cyrus did had been bothering the other boy.

That was how Cyrus found himself calling TJ later that evening. He just wanted to talk, to have some reassurance that maybe he was just making a big deal out of nothing. But instead of getting validation that he was just blowing this whole thing out of proportion, he received no answer, something that left him more disappointed than he'd care to admit.

_He's probably just busy _, Cyrus told himself. That wasn't _completely _unreasonable; basketball season was still in full swing, which could be the reason for all of this. Then again, Buffy still managed to make time for him.

Cyrus shook the thoughts from his head. There was no use speculating about all of this when he didn't know for sure what was going on. He would just...talk to TJ tomorrow. That is, if he even saw him.

* * *

The next day, Cyrus _did _see TJ, but a part of him wished he hadn't.

He saw TJ in the hallway with a few of his basketball buddies, goofing around as they walked to their next class. Cyrus took this opportunity to talk to him. "Hey, TJ!" he smiled, waving at the other boy.

TJ looked in his direction with a smile, and Cyrus could feel the hope blooming in his chest. But then the smile disappeared and TJ indifferently lifted his head at him in acknowledgement before turning back to his friends.

That was the only confirmation Cyrus needed to know that his dream had been just that: a cruel, misleading dream.

* * *

The next few days continued similarly, consisting of Cyrus trying and failing to talk to TJ. He'd been ignoring him in the halls _and _not answering his face calls, something that saddened Cyrus more with each failed interaction. Buffy was the first one to notice Cyrus's mopiness, finally bringing it up when she saw the boy staring forlornly at TJ's lunch table. "I can't take this anymore!" Buffy exclaimed, making Cyrus turn his head ever-so-slightly. "You've been mopey all week. Is this because of TJ?"

"What made you think that?" Cyrus asked, absentmindedly taking a bite of his banana-nut muffin. It didn't taste nearly as good as chocolate chocolate chip, not even close.

"For the past week, you've been staring at TJ like he ran over your dog," Buffy explained, glancing over at the basketball player. "Which, knowing him, wouldn't be that surprising."

Cyrus shook his head in disagreement. "He would never do that. Besides, you guys are friends now."

Buffy snorted. "We won't be for long if he keeps ignoring you."

Cyrus felt his heart drop into his stomach. Buffy was rarely wrong about things like this, so TJ really _must _be avoiding him. "I don't know what I did," Cyrus frowned. He glanced over at TJ again; he was sitting with a few of his teammates, laughing at a joke one of them made. The fact that TJ was having so much fun without him while he was miserable stung with a pain he wasn't expecting, and he looked away from him. "I've been trying to talk to him all week and I've gotten nothing out of him!"

His best friend gave him a sympathetic look before turning around to look at TJ. "He's getting up!" she exclaimed. Cyrus perked up, eyes following TJ as he dumped his lunch tray in the trash and started walking towards the door alone. "Here's your chance!"

"I haven't even finished my lunch!" Cyrus protested, gesturing to his half-full lunch tray. That wasn't his only reason for not wanting to talk to TJ; he really didn't want to get rejected _another _time this week. He was starting to lose hope that TJ'd ever talk to him again.

"It'll be here when you get back. Go!" she urged.

Quickly, Cyrus got up from his seat and hurried towards the door. When he walked into the hallway, he saw TJ at his locker throwing away graded assignments and old water bottles from what he could tell. "TJ!" he called out, his voice uncertain.

Almost immediately, the other boy turned around at hearing his name called. It felt so good hearing Cyrus's voice again, something this week had lacked greatly (which was mostly his own fault, but that didn't mean it didn't hurt). "Hey, Under—Cyrus," he said slowly, catching himself on the old nickname. "How's it going?" TJ forced out, a block of ice forming in the pit of his stomach similar to the near coldness of his words.

Cyrus's eyebrows furrowed, the expression being so adorable that it made TJ fight the urge to smile. "Not so good," Cyrus answered. The words sounded a little sad, and TJ mentally cursed himself. Cyrus was sad because of _him _. "I haven't seen you much this week."

The statement stung like a slap to the face. "I've been busy," TJ lied, turning back to his locker. He couldn't keep lying if he was looking Cyrus in the face; the other boy had always so easily seen through his mask of lies, and he knew this time around would be no exception.

"Oh. I thought…," Cyrus trailed off.

"You thought what?" TJ asked, the words sounding much harsher than he'd ever intended them to be. When he looked at Cyrus, he could see the hurt plain on his face. TJ had never meant to hurt him like _this _. All he'd been trying to do was get rid of his stupid, stupid feelings, but look where they were now. He'd hurt Cyrus _and _he was crushing on him harder than ever. Great. So much for avoiding him for the whole week. "I need to talk to Coleman about my tutoring sessions," TJ swallowed hardly, closing his locker door. "I'll see you around, Un—Cyrus."

Cyrus watched painfully as TJ ambled away towards the math classroom. Now he wasn't _starting _to lose hope that he'd ever talk to TJ again; at this point, he didn't even have a glimmer of hope for the situation they were in.

* * *

This time, it was about three in the morning when Cyrus Goodman finally gave up on sleeping.

Normally, he'd call TJ in this situation, but he hadn't taken any of Cyrus's calls this week and barely spared him more than a glance these days.

TJ was also the reason he couldn't sleep. Their fight or argument or...better yet, detachment was really grating on Cyrus, almost to the point of just giving up entirely. It wasn't like TJ would just up and talk to him out of the blue, and clearly his attempts at mending their relationship weren't working. It was only a matter of time before something like this happened, anyway; Cyrus had never been able to figure out why TJ wanted to be his friend, Maybe that's because they weren't supposed to be.

But still, his phone seemed to taunt him from where it sat on his nightstand, practically begging him to call TJ.

It was about three in the morning when Cyrus Goodman gave up on giving up, snatching his phone from the charging port and opening up TJ's contact information. _Here we go _, he thought nervously as he pressed the call button, much like he had that first night. He could feel his heart thumping painfully against his ribs; he hadn't been this nervous about FaceTiming TJ since their first call all those weeks ago. Because much like that first night, Cyrus didn't know if TJ would pick up or not.

* * *

Across town, TJ had given up on sleeping, even though the day had left him so emotionally exhausted that he should have fallen asleep as soon as his head hit the pillow. As it were, he was watching the blades of his ceiling fan whirl above him. Everything felt wrong. With a sigh, he sat up, grabbed his phone off the charger, and crept down the hall to the deck that let out into the backyard.

He sat down on a deck chair, closing his eyes. The beauty of his backyard was best observed cast in sunlight, during the golden hour, but it was still a comfort to listen to the tiny fountain gurgle in the dark. The stars turned overhead, blinking bright and tragic. So many constellations, and TJ knew none of their names. A thought flickered through TJ's mind, here one moment and gone the next—_ Cyrus would. _And _oh _.

Everything felt raw—his soul turned ragged at the edges, frayed over and over again as the week wore on.

He missed Cyrus. There was no pretty, sugar-coated way to put it.

The easiest way to say it was this—TJ was hopelessly smitten with Cyrus Goodman, and it hurt.

The complicated way to say it was this—TJ was hopelessly smitten with Cyrus Goodman, and he had spent the entire week avoiding him in hopes of letting those emotions go, and it _hurt _.

If this had been last week, TJ would have been talking to Cyrus right now, stifling laughter in his bedroom so that his parents wouldn't wake up. If this had been last week, TJ would have been denying that he was tired because he didn't want to hang up just yet. If this had been last week—but it wasn't. It was three in the morning on a Saturday and TJ was alone.

_And it hurt _.

He needed to sleep, he knew this. Needed to hit reset on his whole life and start over. Needed to hit reset on the day and let something new play out. He needed to turn off his mind, and turn off his memories, and stop replaying the look on Cyrus's face when he shut him down in the hallway.

_I hurt him _.

What TJ wanted, though, above anything else, was to hear Cyrus's voice, but Cyrus wasn't there.

_He hates me. He has to hate me._

His phone started to ring in his hand. _Oh _.

Cyrus's caller ID flashed over the screen. And the phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

Call it a lapse in judgement. Or a burst of bravery. Or sheer stupidity. With his hands trembling, TJ hit _deny _, and the call stopped ringing.

But then the guilt set in, and it was overwhelming and cutting and _so damn deserved _. TJ scrolled through his contacts, hesitating before calling Cyrus. It wasn't a FaceTime, just a regular phone call, but at the moment, even that felt like more than he could manage. But he knew, he _knew _that if he had to look at Cyrus while talking to him right now, he would be completely unglued—every single fiber of his threadbare heart would burn.

He'd already done enough burning this week.

"TJ?" Cyrus's voice was so small. And not in the way that it usually was, not in the _we have to be quiet or my mom will wake up _way. It was small in the _I feel like I have to walk on eggshells around you _way, the _everything aches like hell _way, the _please don't push me away again _way. TJ caused that.

His heart jackrabbited in his chest, wild and scared. TJ took a breath, his voice freezing before he spoke. "What's up, Cyrus?"

Even though he tried, Cyrus couldn't stop the hurt that filled his voice. It was a knife to TJ's chest, and he didn't even know it. Or, maybe he did. Maybe he'd always known. "Can we talk?"

TJ pressed the heel of his hand against his eyes, rubbed until he saw the entire galaxy. Just the sound of his voice left TJ feeling shattered, a mosaic of himself. He thought _yes _, he thought _please _, he thought _God, I'm so sorry, I love you, I— _What he said was, "It's pretty late, dude. Can this wait until tomorrow?"

There was silence, and for one terrified, heartbroken, shaky moment, TJ thought Cyrus hung up. But then a rush of air sounded across the speaker, and he realized that he didn't hang up. Cyrus was just ignoring him.

The aching of it all gnawed at TJ's insides. "Hello?"

"I'm here," Cyrus said, and it was weary and watery and _terrible _. "Just… TJ, I really need to see you. Like, now."

"Dude, it's like, three in the morning. Can't this wait?" TJ hated himself, a little more with every word. He needed to stop talking, needed to stop being a jerk, needed—he needed Cyrus.

Cyrus said, "_ Please _," and it sounded like a negotiation, sounded like a prayer, sounded like _just make it stop hurting _.

TJ blinked, slow and thoughtful. He was only wearing flannel pajama pants and a hole-filled sweatshirt and no shoes, but he said, "Okay."

It wasn't an apology, but it was a start. He hung up the call and ran.

* * *

It took twenty minutes for TJ to reach Cyrus's house. He'd been there several times over the past few months, both of them hanging out at each other's houses whenever they weren't FaceTiming or at school. Of course, he hadn't been there in the past week or so since he'd been avoiding Cyrus, but he could still remember the layout of the other boy's house. TJ could also see a lamp light shining from the window on the left of the house, only further confirmation that the room was Cyrus's.

TJ stood in the middle of the lawn for a few seconds, trying to gather his bearings. No matter what, he knew he couldn't tell Cyrus the truth. It would be easier in the end for him to just break it off now, no matter how much it killed him inside. He was only here one last time to give Cyrus closure. Nothing more, nothing less.

With that last thought in mind, TJ jogged up to Cyrus's window and lightly knocked on the pane of glass. Cyrus was sitting on his bed, seemingly waiting for him, and the boy slid open the window. "You're here," he stated, purely in shock.

TJ blinked, trying to swallow the lump in his throat. "I told you I would be," he said. His voice sounded shakier than he expected, so he cleared his throat and said, "Are you that surprised?" It sounded steadier now, confident, which completely contradicted how TJ was really feeling inside.

"Part of me thought you wouldn't come," Cyrus mumbled. Now that TJ saw him again in person, he could see just how worn down he was. There were noticeable bags under his eyes and what seemed to be a permanent frown on his face.

"Well, I'm here," TJ said, shoving his hands in his sweatshirt pocket. This was so much harder than he'd expected it to be. He shouldn't have to stand here and push away the boy he loved away for the sake of getting over those unrequited feelings. _Damn it all _. "Are we going to talk or am I just going to stand here?" God, he hated himself so much for doing this. _Why _did he have to watch Cyrus's expression falter with every word? This was even worse than avoiding Cyrus; he'd much rather ignore him than to kill him with words he didn't mean, would _never _mean.

"The first one," Cyrus responded, voice heavy with sadness and hurt. "Let me just…," he trailed off, trying to pull himself out of the window.

TJ watched him for a few seconds, fighting the smile that so _desperately _wanted to play on his lips. "Do you need help?" he asked, unintentionally sounding amused. Cyrus looked up at him, catching the glimmer of _something _other than coldness coming from TJ.

"I can get it," Cyrus protested, swinging a leg over the window sill. He nearly fell out of the window after that, begin as clumsy as he was.

TJ watched on nervously, hands reaching up to grab Cyrus reflexively. It was hard to ignore the pounding in his chest as he held onto Cyrus's waist. "Duck your head," TJ hissed. The other boy followed the instructions, but not without a look of surprise marring his features. "Swing your other leg over."

Again, Cyrus did as he said, now (albeit unsteadily) on the edge of the window.

"Okay, now jump," TJ said. He was still holding onto Cyrus, and at this point, he wasn't sure how he was ever going to let go.

"You want me to _what_ now?" Cyrus asked, eyes wide. TJ's heart swelled with how adorable Cyrus was, but then he silently scolded himself. This was exactly why he'd began avoiding Cyrus, so something like this didn't happen. So he wasn't fawning over Cyrus the way he _so_ _obviously _was now_._

"Jump," TJ repeated, making his voice more flat. "Come on, you'll be fine." He wanted so _badly _to reassure Cyrus, to tell him that he would catch him, but he couldn't. The only thing that seemed to come out his mouth was the cruel words he kept throwing around, those cruel, undeserved words that made him hate himself a little more with every syllable.

Uncertainly, Cyrus wobbled off the edge and into TJ's arms, wrapping his own around the basketball player's neck. For a moment, TJ forgot how to breath with Cyrus's arms around him and his hands still gripping his waist. "See, I told you you could do it," he muttered lowly, not even _daring _to look at Cyrus's face as he pulled away from him. "You're fine," he said firmly. TJ wasn't really sure who he was talking to at this point: Cyrus or himself.

Cyrus plored at him with those big brown eyes, those big, _sad _, brown eyes as he loosened his grip on TJ. "I'm not fine, TJ," he admitted, his voice full of crushing sadness that only made TJ choke up more. " _We're _not fine. You've been avoiding me all week and I want to know why."

"I don't know what you're talking about." It was a lie, of course it was a lie. TJ knew what Cyrus was going to say before he had ever even picked up his call. He _had _been avoiding him all week. He still was, a little. Even though he had ran across town in the middle of the night to talk to him, face-to-face. He was still guarded, still had his hands clasped tight around his heart to keep it from being hurt.

Cyrus laughed, terse and high. _Oh course you don't, _it said. _You're a liar, _it said. _Why are you acting like this? _it said. He crossed his arms over his chest, his hands curling into the fabric of his sweatshirt. TJ's gaze flickered over the pull of it, the cotton all scrunched up tight. He looked away.

"Don't lie to me." Cyrus said, finally, his voice sharp and cold. TJ was sure that if he pressed his fingers over his heart, they would come away bloody. "It's beneath you."

And that hurt. Because even now, even after TJ's spent the whole week ignoring him, even after TJ took their friendship and tore it to pieces, _even now _Cyrus still saw the best in him. This had to be a fatal flaw. Cyrus was going to cut himself on TJ's rough edges some day. It was better for him to just break it off now, but he wouldn't. Even now, he wouldn't. "You think too highly of me."

Cyrus was quiet for only a moment, but it felt like years. "You know," he said finally, "I'm starting to wonder if you're right." His face was blank, eyes far away. It was like someone switched every good thing inside of him off, like he was a whisper, a breath of smoke, of who he used to be.

And _oh _. The muscle in TJ's jaw tensed, everything tensed. He had no right to feel so hurt by that, no right at all. Wasn't this what he wanted? Wasn't he trying to push Cyrus away? _Wasn't _he? He dragged a hand over his face roughly, but he didn't say anything. The silence grew and grew, a thick blanket that left both of them feeling unnerved.

Eventually, after a million years of standing there, Cyrus cracked. "What did I ever do to you?" he asked, voice drawn tight. He still wouldn't look at TJ, and that made it worse, somehow. It would be easier for TJ to remain angry and cold if he had something to direct it at. But he didn't, he never did, because Cyrus wasn't someone he could guard himself against. He never was, never had been.

"Nothing," TJ replied, hating himself for how cruel his voice sounded. "This is just who I am, Cyrus. You should have realized sooner." The words sounded foreign to him, like they weren't even coming from his mouth. His voice wasn't his, those words weren't his, the tears that are clouding Cyrus' eyes weren't his doing. TJ felt like he wasn't even himself anymore, he was a warped mirror version, a shadow, a _jerk _. "This was a mistake. I'm going home."

Cyrus stood there, frozen as TJ turned and started walking away. As soon as his back was turned, TJ closed his eyes, tight, angry tears slipping down his face. They were the kind you didn't even notice building. One moment, they weren't there, and the next thing you knew, they were falling from your chin and it felt like the end of it all. He kept walking.

And walking.

And walking.

_Don't let me leave, _he thought, _come after me, please don't let this end here._

The moment he felt Cyrus's hand on his sleeve, TJ's heart shattered. _I can't do this, I can't do this, I— _He pulled his arm away, and when he looked back at Cyrus, the ache in his chest was so overwhelming, it felt like he was never going to heal. "What?"

Cyrus was crying, actually crying, and he wouldn't even move to wipe the tears away. That was the worst part, because TJ's mind was shouting at him to step closer, to use the sleeve of his sweater to dry them off, but he couldn't. He wouldn't allow himself that anymore. They were standing beneath a street light, at the edge of the park where they first hung out, and _honestly, _wasn't that just great? Their relationship finally came full circle. His heart ached some more.

"Why?" Cyrus asked, words cracking, voice breaking down at the edges. "What did I _do _?"

"_ Nothing _," the word was a hiss, sharp and volatile, "Can you just stop? Stop thinking I'm so good, because I'm _not _. I'm not better than this. I'm not good enough for you. I just—I can't be your friend anymore, Cyrus. I don't deserve it." _I don't deserve you _hung unspoken in the air, and that was it. TJ came undone, all of the broken pieces of him falling apart, unglued.

Cyrus's voice was baby blanket soft when he said, "But you do, can't you see that, TJ? You spend so much time walking around, acting like some hotshot who isn't bothered by anything. Doesn't that get lonely?"

_Yes _, TJ thought, _lonely like a crowded room. _"No."

Cyrus opened his mouth to speak, but then closed it again. Lips pressed tight, he nodded, eyes cutting away from TJ and up towards the sky. And then he laughed, a quick, cold, joyless sound. "You're a terrible liar, TJ. You're so much better than this. I know you are, because I know you. The _real _you. And I care about the real you so much more than you will ever be able to understand. Don't you get that? Teej, I refuse to stop being your friend because you don't think you're good enough, or whatever. You don't _have _to be good enough, you just have to _be _. I wish you could see that."

And _oh _. Cyrus fell quiet, and suddenly TJ was sure he could hear just how loud his heart was beating. The thrum of it flooded through him, and he thought, _to hell with it all _. He was done, so completely and utterly done.

He was tired of hurting Cyrus.

He was tired of lying to everyone all the time.

He was tired of lying to _himself _all the time.

"I like you, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear?" he spat out. TJ's mind was running so fast, it was too late to go back now. "I like you so much, I don't even think it's right to just call it a crush. And it hurts, Cyrus, it hurts so damn bad because I know you're never going to feel the same way. I mean, why would you? Why would you like _me _when you could date any guy you wanted to? And it isn't your fault, I get that. I mean, I guess I get that, on some level. But I can't wake up every day and pretend to be content with just being friends with you. I can't keep pretending that my heart doesn't race everytime you smile at me, or when you laugh at something stupid I said. I can't focus whenever you're around, because I all I can think about is how much it's going to hurt when you leave. And all of those times you would talk about Jonah and how much you liked him? How do you think that made me feel?"

TJ stopped talking, his breathing ragged. It felt like his chest was going to collapse, his heart had gone supernova, the world around him was falling away. He blinked, and then he was crying, and he was so _angry _at himself for breaking down that it left him feeling cold. But he couldn't hold everything in anymore, he was a match all burned out.

The air felt heavy in the wake of it, the night too quiet without TJ's voice. Cyrus was looking everywhere but at the other boy, and the _otherness _of it was nearly tangible. His voice was trembling when he said, "Why didn't you tell me?"

And _oh _. TJ started laughing, but it was hollow and silent and manic. He swiped at his eyes, wiping away all of the tears collected in his lashes. "I _tried _," he replied, "every single day, but I couldn't. And then the one time I did, the _one time _I was able to figure out how I felt long enough to form the words, you fell asleep and didn't hear _any _of it."

Cyrus looked up at him, and his eyes were so soft and careful that TJ had to look away. He was falling, always falling, the ground beneath him completely gone. Every fiber of him wanted to crumble, wanted to reach out and pull Cyrus to him and never let him go.

A million years passed. Or a handful of seconds passed. Or no time at all passed before Cyrus, voice threadbare and open, said, "I thought that was a dream."

For a second, everything paused. His breathing slowed to a stop and the tears dripping down his cheeks came to a halt. "Wait, you...you heard what I said?" he asked. TJ didn't know how to feel: elated or upset or angry that he put Cyrus through all of this for nothing.

"I mean, I was half-asleep when I heard it, but…," Cyrus trailed off. "I just...I never _really _imagined that you could ever like me back. And then you ignored me at school all week, so I thought it was just a figment of my imagination. That is...until now."

If TJ's heart stopped before, it was _nothing _compared to the way he felt now. Did his ears deceive him, or did Cyrus say he liked him _back _? "You like me?" TJ questioned in disbelief.

"Wasn't it obvious, TJ?" Cyrus laughed, dabbing away the stray tears on his face. "I spent all of my time either calling you or wishing I was. Even _after _you started ignoring me." TJ stared at him in shock. He'd pushed Cyrus away and said some of the worst things he could've said all for _nothing _.

"God, I'm such an _idiot _," TJ exclaimed, turning around. He couldn't look at Cyrus; when he saw his face, he was just reminded of how much he'd hurt him, reminded of every hurt expression of his he'd caused over the past week. "I thought I was doing myself a favor by getting over my feelings for you, but I was actually screwing everything up more. _Great _." He rubbed his eyes, the skin there feeling raw with tears. He hated himself even more than before. _God, _how could he be this _dense _—

"TJ, look at me," Cyrus said, tugging on his arm. Reluctantly, he turned around, not even allowing himself to look at Cyrus. "You're _not _an idiot, okay?" Even after all the horrible things TJ'd said to him, Cyrus was still trying to build him up, to make sure he knew how much he mattered. "We just had a little misunderstanding."

"_ Little misunderstanding _?" TJ blurted out. "I said things I can never take back, _things I didn't even mean, _so you'd stop being friends with me. I _hurt _you, Cyrus, and I hate myself for it. I'm so sorry, I wish I could take it all back and—"

Suddenly, Cyrus grabbed TJ's face, and every nerve in his body stood on end. He was _so close _, he could kiss him if he wanted to, and _boy, _did he want to. "TJ, I don't care about _any _of that," he whispered, his warm breath tickling the other boy's face. "It doesn't matter now because I like you, too, and you were only saying all of that to protect yourself from getting hurt."

"You should care," TJ refused, trying to ignore the way his heart jumped at _I like you, too _. "You don't say things like that to someone you…," he took a breath before continuing. "Someone you love."

Cyrus's face morphed from sadness to shock to the brightest smile TJ had ever seen on him. "You...you love me?" he asked in complete awe, dropping his hands away from the other boy's face. TJ Kippen _loved _him. And there was no second-guessing about it this time, no possibility that this was a dream. This was _real _.

"Wasn't it obvious?" TJ teased, enveloping Cyrus's hands with his own. "I love the way you try to help everyone, _especially _when they don't deserve it. I love your list of easy things you can't do and how much faith you put in me to be a better person, and how you make me _want _to be a better person. I love the sound of your voice when you call me in the middle of the night just 'cause and your smile and your laugh and your eyes. I just...I love _everything _about you, Cyrus. And I'm not scared to admit that, not anymore. _I love you _, Cyrus Goodman," TJ confessed, looking into Cyrus's eyes. Everything he'd just said had been one of the only times he'd been honest with Cyrus this week, and he was finally glad he'd said it all.

The heart in TJ's chest was wild, a bird trying to escape its cage. This was dangerous, the entire situation. What were they doing? Cyrus stepped closer, and TJ was acutely aware of their height difference. Carefully, like he was worried TJ would spook if he moved too fast, Cyrus pressed his hand to TJ's cheek. The touch was feather soft, like he was barely even there. He said, "Are you done yet?" but it sounded like _kiss me _, it sounded like _I love you _, it sounded like _I hope you never leave._

TJ nodded, only once, a quick movement. He felt like he was floating, unmoored. "Yeah."

Cyrus smiled then, soft, bright like the stars whirling above them. "Good." He said, "Will you kiss me now?" And _oh _. TJ laughed, lighter than ever. He rested their foreheads together, in awe of the fact that Cyrus would even allow him to be here, standing so close he could count the dark eyelashes that cast shadows over Cyrus' cheeks.

And he kissed him.

It was clumsy and tear-filled and broken apart by laughter, but it was so completely their's that it didn't even matter. The warmth that bloomed through TJ's chest was so overwhelming, a forest fire set free. He kissed Cyrus again, because he could, and it wasn't as shaky this time. When he finally pulled away, it ached, a little voice sitting in the back of his mind, telling him all of this would be over by the morning. But then he caught Cyrus's eyes, and there was more love and warmth and happiness reflected in them that TJ would have been a fool to believe otherwise.

"I love you," he said again, because the sound of it was intoxicating, and the sappy smile that spread over Cyrus's face made his heart melt.

"TJ," Cyrus's voice was a whisper, warm breath a cloud in the cool air between them, "I love you, too."

The words were so perfect, _so_ _utterly perfect_, that TJ wasn't sure how people ever got used to them. "Come here," he whispered, bringing Cyrus into a hug. He rested his chin on Cyrus's head, the hug so incredibly, unbelievably _warm_, and warmth was something he would gladly accept after the coldness he'd been full of this past week.

But that was over now, and somehow, he'd still gotten Cyrus in the end. That was something that couldn't be changed, no matter what happened.

And just like those words, _those three little words _, everything was perfect.

* * *

It was a few months later when Cyrus FaceTimed his boyfriend.

It was around two AM on a Sunday when he called, the phone only ringing three times before the screen loaded. He smiled as TJ's face appeared, a worried expression on the basketball player's face. "Hey, Cy? You okay? What's wrong?"

The concerned words only made Cyrus smile more. Calling each other so late like this had basically become old hat for them. The late night video calls became less and less since the start of their relationship, though, neither of them feeling as plagued by their problems as they used to be before. "Nothing," Cyrus admitted, grinning at the adorable furrow of TJ's brow. "I just missed you."

Immediately, TJ's face relaxed. "Oh. I miss you, too," he smiled. And he did, even though they had spent most of the previous day together at the park, TJ trying his best to teach Cyrus how to free throw. For what it was worth, Cyrus _did_ try to understand it, though by the end of it all, he still could not shoot to save his life.

"Are you coming over tomorrow?" Cyrus settled back into his bed, phone held above his face so he could rest his head against the pillow. "My mom's making your favorite for dinner."

"Is this a ploy to get me to spend the whole weekend at your house? Over dinner, my dad said I basically live there."

Cyrus laughed, the sound blooming with warmth even through the phone. "You got me there. Mom made up a room for you and everything."

A beat of silence passed, in which TJ had to figure out if Cyrus was kidding or not. You could never be too sure with him. "Did she now?"

"Yep. My stepdad wasn't too happy about it, since it was supposed to be his man cave or whatever, but what can you do?"

And then they were laughing again, because the lie was so ridiculous, Cyrus couldn't keep a straight face anymore. TJ smiled at him, so full of love it was just as ridiculous.

"Okay," Cyrus said. "But in all seriousness, will you come over? I really do miss you."

"Of course. After all, I would never miss out on your mom's homemade pizza. _Never _."

"I knew it, you only love me for my mom's food."

Pulling the straightest face he could, TJ nodded. "You got me."

Cyrus looked hurt, and for a second, TJ wondered if he couldn't tell he was kidding. But then he was laughing at how concerned TJ looked, and the moment passed.

"Okay," Cyrus said, "That's all."

"All what?" TJ laid back down, pulling his comforter up to his chin. He rested the phone on his pillow, the picture flipping from portrait to landscape. He looked so tired, eyes closed even though he was still talking, pale hair mussed up on the pillow, tangled and baby bird soft. It made Cyrus's heart skip when he thought about just how much he loved his boyfriend. _I want to wake up to that, _he thought, _someday _.

He said, "That's all I had to say."

"Oh, are you leaving, then?"

"It's late, Teej, and you're tired." A conversation they've had a million times, worn down and faded by how often it had been mulled over. "Come over tomorrow."

"I will," TJ said, "but don't leave yet. Please?"

So, Cyrus stayed. They swapped _I love you's _until TJ fell asleep, still on the other line. Eyes closed, breathing soft, Cyrus fell asleep with him.


	10. (E) CHACK - To Be a Weed Beside Your You

To Be A Weed Beside Your Beauty  
Everyday_Im_Preaching

Summary:  
There are lines that even the Heylin Prince of Darkness shouldn't cross. Chase knows them, and he typically respects them-but a heat-addled brain and a convenient omega in the same room are too much of a temptation when it comes to testing what little of his morals still remain.

* * *

Chapter 1: Entrée

Chase was no stranger to his yearly heat; it would consume him, beginning with a fiery itch in his palm, too deep for him to relieve—it would spread slowly through his body from there, tickling his bones and infecting his muscles until it became a constant, burning fire in his belly. It typically lasted six days—and Chase was on the _fifth. _And Chase? He was partnerless and horny, therefore _miserable. _It wasn't uncommon for him to be without an omega to keep him company, but that didn't mean that it wasn't a horrendous experience. But, in the midst of one of his somewhat lucid, doleful musings he smelled it. An omega. An omega that he _knew._

_Jack Spicer._

The smell hit Chase like a semi-truck, and he scrambled up from his haphazardly made bed. Claws tore through sheets even as bare feet landed on the floor; the cold of the tile energized Chase and had a growl rippling from his throat. _Mate. _His inner alpha begged, pacing inside his mind. _Breed._

_"Breed. _" Chase agreed, ducking into the shadows and slinking along them. He could hear the clunky sound of Jack's boots against the stone flooring; he could hear every breath, every beat of the human's heart—and Chase wanted to _own them._

"Holy fucking _shit-" _Jack went down easily, head cradled by Chase's hand so it didn't hit the floor. Chase flipped the omega onto his belly, gripping his hands and dragging them behind his back. Chase had Jack pinned with ease, barely hearing the apologies spilling from the boy's lips—instead he pressed his nose to the back of Jack's neck, inhaling the sharp, almost chemical smell of the young omega. _Perfect. _There was something odd layered beneath, but Chase paid it little mind.

"-fuck, I'm _sorry. _" Jack blubbered, and Chase could smell the tears beading in the corners of his eyes.

Chase let out a noise of disquiet—that wasn't the reaction he wanted. He needed Jack relaxed and at ease, if he wanted the omega to produce slick. He kissed the back of Jack's neck, straddling him and rolling his hips forward, grinding down against the omega and letting out a comforting trill.

"Don't be sorry, you've arrived at just the right time." Chase soothed, nosing a piece of Jack's hair out of his way so he could press a kiss to Jack's scent gland. Jack inhaled sharply, wiggling underneath Chase. The immortal growled out and nipped at the skin, causing Jack to go limp.

_Good._

Chase kept a hand around Jack's wrists, lifting them so his other hand could gently massage the omega's lower back, kneading it the best he could and banishing tension from it. Jack let out an uncomfortable grunt, beginning to babble again.

"-Chase, you can't do this." Jack attempted to argue, voice weak and warbling with fear. "You...you don't want to. You don't want me. Come on, let me go." The omega tugged at his hands, and Chase growled. "_ Please."_

"And why should I?" Chase bit out; there was no way he was going to let Jack go—the omega had came to _his _home, when he knew he shouldn't have. The heat in his loins was a near inferno once more, now that he had an omega beneath him. "You can smell my heat, Spicer. Don't tell me you can't—be honest with yourself. Do you think I can stop myself from taking you?"

Jack mumbled something incoherent, cheeks heating with a rush of blood. Chase gently drew his hand up Jack's back, counting the vertebrae as his thumb brushed them, trying to stay calm for a bit longer.

"What was that?" Chase asked gently, rocking his hips down and getting a tiny whimper. Jack shook his head, but Chase nuzzled the back of his neck once more and repeated his question.

"You aren't going to want me." Jack muttered out, louder than before. Chase snorted and rolled his eyes.

"I think we are beyond that point, Spi-" Chase caught himself. The omega's name would help ease him, wouldn't it? "-Jack. Jack. What makes you think I wouldn't want you? So small and pale and perfect. I would love to kiss every inch of you." He placed his hand on Jack's hip, rubbing small circles into the skin. This was so much _work. _It would be so much easier just to fuck the little thing and heal him later. But his honour—the little bit he managed to salvage from his heated brain—refused to let Jack suffer in that way. Even if he didn't like the little, useless twit, he wouldn't injure him. Not in that way.

"That's your heat talking." Jack mumbled out, instantly calling the alpha out.

Chase grit his teeth, then wrapped his arm around Jack's torso. "Would that be so terrible? If your status as an omega made you attractive to me in this moment? I will lavish you with attention—I will love you for the next forty-eight hours-" He let his hand wander down to cup the younger man's stomach. "-and if you sire me a child, a life you can only imagine."

Jack squirmed in Chase's grip, gritting his teeth.

"I'm not going to have your kid." He got out, squeezing his eyes shut. Chase chuckled.

"Ah, birth control then. How convenient for me." The alpha purred, kissing the corner of Jack's jaw, secretly relieved. His alpha, however, howled in rage. It demanded to know why Jack took such a thing—and then questioned why he couldn't smell it. Chase tried his best to push it away.

"I'm not on birth control. Get off of me." Jack told the alpha bitterly, trying to shove Chase off. The alpha nipped at his scent gland again, and Jack fell limp once more, bringing in a shuddering breath.

"I am going to mount and breed you, Jack." Chase warned. "I will pay you any recompense you require, do anything you ask—I will be so utterly _gentle _with you." His voice had softened, and his hand rubbed soothingly against Jack's stomach; the omega winced, flinching away from the hand on his abdomen. Chase pulled his hand away instantly—was the omega injured?

"Have the monks gotten to you again? Are you hurt?" Chase asked, letting Jack's hands go—he was surprised when Jack simply lowered them to the floor. "You are. Roll over for me."

"I'm not hurt. I just want to go before I _get hurt." _Jack murmured. Chase paid it no mind—it wasn't unlikely for omega's to assume that an alpha in heat was going to hurt them—but Chase felt like he was far stronger than that.

"Roll over." Chase ordered. He ignored any further grumbling, eyes darting away to stare at the wall opposite. Chase tugged the omega's shirt up, and was instantly intrigued; a half-moon scar smiled at him as it curled around Jack's belly button, white and raised. There were indications where stitches once were, and he gently ran his fingers along it.

Jack winced.

"Does it still pain you?" Chase asked, temporarily distracted as he walked his fingertips along the scar, counting each and every remnant of a stitch. There were forty-eight. _Forty-eight. _Whatever had happened to the young omega must have been _horrifying. _Shifting his shirt up further, Chase let out a gentle, reassuring trill, and kissed above Jack's belly button. His other hand slipped to fiddle with the button on Jack's jeans, popping it free.

Jack refused to look at him when he answered. "No."

Chase furrowed his brows, puzzled for a moment. That same smell hovered in front of his nose. Off. Unrecognisable. He sniffed the air again, then shrugged. No matter. He let his lips wander up, inching the genius' shirt up as he did so. Finding the omega's nipples, he drew one into his mouth and gave it a light suck—Jack went rigid, and then relaxed when Chase gripped him through his underwear, pulling a moan from Jack's lips.

"Relax, little one. I will take such good care of you." Chase whispered, licking at Jack's breast. He had a brief fantasy of it being swollen and full with milk, a dark-haired child attached to it. Jack smiling coyly, his cheeks heated as Chase watched. Jack would make a lovely mother—as genetically inferior as he might be. Chase would have to consider that, in the near future—omegas weren't fertile forever, after all.

"You aren't going to want me." Jack tried to repeat, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth and biting at it. "Please, Chase, save us both the trouble-"

Chase rolled his eyes once more, feeling Jack's chest hitch with his next breath.

"I will honour you after my heat subsides." Chase argued stubbornly. Jack was back to trying to escape, and Chase growled. _"Omega. _" He snapped. "Lay back and enjoy this, ingrate. After all your pining, you'd think that one such as yourself would be head-over-heels in love with the idea of being my heat partner."

Jack didn't say anything else, simply looking away as the alpha undid his pants. Equal parts fear and despair sparked within his scent, along with a roll of arousal that came in unexpected, uneven waves. It had Chase's mouth watering and his dick insanely hard between his thighs, knot already half-swollen.

Soft kisses were pressed down Jack's chest as Chase continued to fondle the omega, chuckling when Jack gasped—the first rush of slick was heavy in the air, and Chase groaned, bringing his lips down to kiss at the omegas scar. It seemed to cause Jack an intense amount of concern, even getting him to tense when a wet tongue slid along it. Chase chirped at him quietly and rubbed his cheek on the old, puckered skin. Hooking his fingers in Jack's waistband, he tugged the cloth down, slipping it fully off of the human. Chase caught Jack's boxers as well, sliding them down and tossing both articles of clothing away.

"So _pale. _" Chase remarked, near-breathlessly, taking a second to admire the pale, smooth thighs that Jack had. It was like porcelain. Chase felt like even the littlest of pressure could bruise it. He let his eyes linger on Jack's cock, leaking and at attention. He drew it into his hand, giving it a solid pump as his other hand went to slide in the messy slick that the omega was producing.

"_ Chase. _" Jack breathed, neck turned up and breaths heavy. Chase chuckled—Jack was _his. _In this moment, the omega was laying open in front of him, legs unintentionally splayed. Dragging his fingers through the slick and gathering it on his fingers, he made eye contact with Jack as he popped them in his mouth

Horror unfolded on Jack's face and he kicked away as something in Chase's brain _clicked. _The slick in his mouth was ungodly bitter and disgusting, the scar, the _smell. _That smell—he recognised it now, and it flooded his blood with unbidden rage.

_Jack was infertile._

Chase's inner alpha was howling something akin to _traitor. _Demanding that Chase kill the omega—after all, what good was an omega who couldn't be bred? Trying to convince the immortal that Jack had lied to him.

"I'm sorry." Jack squeaked out, bringing his hands up and in front of his face; Chase hadn't realised that he'd drawn himself to his full height, or that he was growling and baring his fangs. "Don't hurt me, please. I told you. I tried to tell you-"

"_ Enough." _Chase snapped, forcing himself backward, away from the frightened creature. "I don't care for the sound of your voice."

Jack let out a soft sob and buried his head in his hands, sweaty, crimson locks spilling over his fingers and curling around them. Chase snarled, watching Jack curl up further, bringing his legs to his chest and turning away from the alpha. Fear had overtaken every inch of his body, causing Jack to shake visibly.

"Get dressed, and get out of my home." Chase barked. _Rude, _his mind supplied, despite the situation. When he didn't hear Jack move, he snarled. "Did I stutter, you incompetent _filth _? I said _get out. _Before I decide to kill you instead."

Chase did spit this time. "What a waste of space you are."

The threat had Jack up and moving, haphazardly collecting his clothing. He skipped his shirt and underwear, only tugging on his pants before he fled the room, murmuring out apologies that he thought Chase couldn't hear. Chase clenched his fists and then his fangs, shaking his head.

_Disgusting._

* * *

Chapter 2: Adagio

Chase didn't _like _Jack. In fact, on a good day, he downright despised the wretched little thing. Jack Spicer was pathetic, unwanted, and largely unneeded in society as a whole—and Jack _knew _it. This fact left a bitter taste in Chase's mouth, like he'd downed a particularly over brewed cup of coffee. As an infertile omega, Jack had most likely resigned himself to a life alone. Without children, without the touch of an alpha—and Chase had come along and _ruined _it. Chase had broken Jack in an unacceptable way.

He'd given Jack the taste of a life he knew he couldn't have. Chase had been sweet, had promised to take care of him—and then had ripped it out of Jack's hands and shoved him away. Spat at him, told him he was _nothing. _A thought occurred to Chase. Was Chase his first? Or were the words something that the omega had heard multiple times in his life—possibly from other bed partners? How many times had Jack been turned away? How many times had he been rejected?

Chase groaned and rolled over onto his side—now that the need to _fuck _wasn't pulsing through his veins, his alpha was whining and whimpering in sympathy for Jack. It wanted to protect him. He slammed a fist against his chest.

"This is your _fault. _" Chase hissed at his inner self. The alpha snarled at the challenge, forcing Chase to his feet. "This is _my _fault." Chase couldn't blame his second gender—it was a part of him, after all. It _was _him. He had stepped out of line, and he had to fix it. His honour demanded it. His _conscious _demanded it.

And that was why Chase found himself standing quietly in Jack's lab, waiting for the omega to notice him. It didn't take him long, and Chase cringed as Jack jumped, and then scrambled away from the alpha, crawling under his desk and away from him.

"Spicer, calm down." Chase told him, voice dry and unpalatable. His arms were crossed behind his back, tightly gripping one another. Now that he had smelled it, the scent of infertility filled his nose, accompanied with that unfamiliar aroma that made up _Jack. _It wasn't entirely unpleasant, he supposed. "Please, return to your seat. I only come to speak with you."

Jack eyed him warily, then slowly took a seat on the opposite side of the table, eyes darting toward the door to his lab. Chase sat on the chair that Jack had abandoned, staring the omega down.

"Uh, hi." Jack muttered in greeting, fiddling with his calloused fingers and looking away from Chase. "Look, I don't know why you're here, but I am sorry. I tried to tell you, but...you...and I'm not putting the fault on you, you were in heat, but-"

"-Spicer, be _quiet. _" Chase ordered.

Jack fell silent, looking at his hands again. Chase took in the smeared eyeliner and unwashed hair—Spicer had to make this hard for him, didn't he?

"I have...hurt you." Chase began, refusing to look away from Jack. The omega flicked his eyes up to look at Chase, red eyes curious and wet. "What I did was uncouth, and unforgivable."

"Don't worry about it." Jack mumbled. "I mean, thank you for apologising, but you really don't need to." He reached across the table and grabbed at the mess of metal he had been working on before Chase interrupted him. "It's just...it's my fault."

"Do not blame yourself. I should have listened. I did not, even though I had the power too." Chase told him. He waited for a reply, but he got none. "Jack, have you ever lain with an alpha before me?"

"No." Jack replied, reaching for a screwdriver. Realising it was close to him, Chase nudged it, sending it rolling toward the omega. Jack picked it up without thinking, and went to fiddling with the thing in his hands. "But in all fairness, I really wouldn't call what we did...sex..."

"Whatever you classify it as, I touched you inappropriately, even after you expressed a desire for me to stop. And then I proceeded to get violent. Again, something you didn't deserve."

Jack shook his head, actually jerking his head up to look at Chase. "You didn't hit me."

"No, but I considered it. And I shouldn't have. It goes against everything, _everything _I have built myself on." Chase brought his hands onto the table, letting them curl into fists upon it.

"Then you should apologise to yourself, not me." Jack told him, voice turning cold. "It seems like you're more concerned about your pride than how I'm doing."

Chase's mouth went dry for a second, and a growl attempted to fight its way up the alpha's throat—Chase swallowed, reminding himself that this was _his _error. Jack was just trying to get him to leave. But to leave would be to accept defeat, to carry around the _guilt _of raping the poor omega.

"The only wound my pride suffers is remorse. Regret for what I've done to you. I am not fond of you, Spicer, and if I were not truly sorry, you know I wouldn't be here." Again, Jack didn't reply. Chase sighed—this wasn't going as smooth as he hoped.

Chase switched to a different tactic. Getting Jack to _talk _about himself. Chase wanted to shudder at the idea, but remained still. He needed to come up with a way to make it up to the omega.

"I imagine that you weren't born infertile. It has to do with the scar, doesn't it?" Chase questioned softly; he watched as Jack sort of slumped over, staring at the floor. "I've never seen one quite like it, I must admit. How did you get it?"

"That's not a happy story." Jack grunted, crossing his legs.

"I didn't expect one. But I would like to hear it." If Chase was honest with himself, he was genuinely curious about the wound the omega had suffered. It must have been life-threatening, grievous at the very least.

"You don't care for the sound of my voice." Jack told him flatly.

"No. I don't." Chase admitted, drawing a leg up and under him. "But I'm also asking, specifically, to hear this story. So it mustn't be that abhorrent to listen to."

Jack took a deep breath, and then turned toward Chase, setting his little..._ thing _down on the table.

"When I was fifteen, I lived in my parents basement. You know this." Jack flicked a metal panel off the machine in front of him. "Well, one night, my parents were gone doing fuck all, it doesn't matter. They weren't home. I didn't know when they were going to come home. I didn't care."

Chase cocked his head to the side, focusing his eyes on the way Jack's lips moved as he spoke. Every word was hushed and slow, falling from the omega's lips like some sort of sick prophecy. Chase didn't know the man could be this quiet.

"Unfortunately, my parents are rich. And back then, they didn't mention me in many social circles. So, someone found out my parents would be out, and tried to rob the house. Didn't know I was home and came in through the basement." Jack propped his chin in his hand, brow furrowing as he frowned. "I had just presented, so I smelled like fresh omega all over. Guy was an alpha. Guess he thought he was going to get a quick fuck and rob the house all in one, you know?"

"Jack." Chase used the omegas' first name, flabbergasted at the lack of emotion in Jack's voice.

"You wanted to hear the story, Chase. So shut up." Jack snapped, eyeing the warlord. Chase's mouth shut on the command. "So he pins me down, I'm panicking. What else do you do in that sort of situation when you're a weak, _useless _omega with literally no muscle mass? Well, I sure as hell wasn't going to let this guy get me, no. Not in a million fucking years."

Chase knew where the story was going, and he had one hand on the table, claws digging into the plastic and toes curling in his boots. He was nothing short of enraged on Jack's behalf. A low growl was building from somewhere deep in his chest, and Chase barely had enough willpower to beat it back down. He didn't need to have feelings for the man _now._

Jack popped up, grabbing the screwdriver in his hand tightly. "So I reach around and I grab a screwdriver, just like this one. And I just. I go for the guy's eye." Jack stabbed forward, and then his shoulders fell. He dropped the tool on the table and Chase could feel the hollow noise it made deep in his gut. "I missed, if you're wondering. Clipped the side of his forehead. Guy was pissed though. He decided that he was going to kill me. Five claws, straight into my stomach. Pierced my uterus."

"What happened to him? This..." Chase couldn't find a word to describe the alpha who _dared _hurt Jack. Who dared take away a piece of the young omega that could never be returned.

"He's dead." Jack replied nonchalantly. "I was screaming for help, my parents had come home at just the right time—my mom tore him to _pieces. _Was howling and screaming while my dad called the ambulance. Guy didn't stand a chance."

Propping his chin back in his hand, Jack smiled grimly. "I guess something good came out of the whole mess. My parents started paying more attention to me. Pampering me and stuff. Which is nice, but kind of overbearing. Guess they're trying to make up for my lack of an alpha."

"Jack, I-" Chase began. "-how are you so...calm?"

"Lots and lots of therapy." Jack responded with a shrug. "So there you go. Did that satisfy your curiosity? Will you leave me to my pathetic existence already? I have enough problems without you hanging around." The omega began to get up from his chair. "And don't worry about me coming around anymore. I learned my lesson last time. Waste of space and all."

Chase was frozen where he sat; he knew the story was going to be nothing short of horrific. But he hadn't been prepared to hear it.

"Your heats. How do you—do you still have them? If you do, how do you survive them?" Chase questioned. Omegas of age were often mated as soon as their first heat came around. It could be deadly for an omega to go through a heat alone—in fact, in most instances it killed them.

"Heat suppressants." Jack answered, kicking what looked like a broken Jackbot. "And yeah, I know. They won't last forever. No need to tell me about my impending death or whatever. Doctor's already on to me about that. Suggests I get a medical alpha, check myself into a clinic." Jack shuddered at the suggestion. "Ugh, sounds like, I don't know. Like I'm getting a seeing eye dog. Plus I don't want to make anyone go through that."

"Go through having sex with you?"

"Yeah, you know they're just going to be uncomfortable the entire time. Grossed out, full of pity, or both. I don't want that." Jack's voice softened. "I've heard that omegas don't really feel it, when they die while in heat. I've heard it's like after all your nerves are burnt off in a fire. Everything just kind of goes numb." Jack bent down and fiddled with the bots chassis.

"You'd rather die?" Chase clarified. Something was aching in his chest, and he restrained the urge to slam his fist against it. He was not about to feel pity for _Jack _of all people. "I thought you were _intelligent. _"

Jack turned to look at Chase. "Why are you still here? Look, I've come to terms with all of this. I'm going to die _sad _and _alone _and in _pain _. That's just how it's going to work for me, Chase. You didn't even need to hear my sob story to know that."

Chase was across the room in a second, one hand fisting itself into Jack's collar and hauling him up to come eye-to-eye with Chase. The omega yelped and flinched away.

"Aha, your bravado falls away so easily." Chase growled, face inches from Jack's. "I see what you need now."

"Get away from me." Jack told Chase, curling his limbs toward him. Chase snorted, hauling the omega over to the table and all but throwing him onto the table. "What are you doing?"

"You need an alpha." Chase told the young man.

Jack's eyes went wide and he reached out for the other side of the table, trying to pull himself away. "No, no, _no. _" The omega grunted out, shrieking when a hand found the back of his neck and gently squeezed against his scent glands.

"I am not going to force this on you, Jack. Calm yourself." Chase murmured, trying to sound as soothing as possible. "Listen to me for a moment."

"No. I can't be a good omega, Chase. You don't understand—I can't be anyone's omega." Jack almost sobbed, chest heaving.

Chase brought his free hand down, pressing it gently against Jack's lower back and rubbing at it with soothing, smooth circles. The omega slowly calmed down enough for Chase to roll him over onto his back, keeping quiet the entire time. Chase's chest panged again when he saw the distraught scrawled across the omegas face, and he felt the urge to kiss Jack.

"I am offering you something that you will be hard pressed to find elsewhere." Chase told the omega, keeping a hand loosely around the omega's neck. Jack swallowed, frantic energy pulsing through him. Chase slowly removed his hand and leaned forward, nuzzling Jack's face. "I am offering to be your alpha. I am willing to take on the responsibility of protecting you, of taking care of you through illness and heat."

Jack whimpered, pressing his lips together tightly. "Why?"

"Because you shouldn't live your life under the idea that you are unwanted. Alpha's are too quick to throw out omega who can't bear children, who are victims like yourself. You are not unwanted."

"But _nobody_ wants me. And especially not _you._" Jack breathed out, shuddering when lips found his cheek.

"And yet this pain in my chest tells me different." Chase almost purred, listening to the squeak the confession drew from Jack. Chase couldn't tell if he was lying. He wanted to say he was, but the ache in his chest spoke differently. He brushed it off as his inner alpha wanting attention. "Again, I will not force you. This is your decision."

"I don't want to die young." Jack managed out, tilting his neck up in submission and squeezing his eyes shut. "And I don't want to die alone. God, I don't want to die alone."

Chase hushed him, brushing their noses together. _Careful. _His mind whispered, as if Chase was handling a piece of porcelain. He didn't want to scare the young man anymore than he already had.

"You would do neither in my care." Chase promised. "I don't want you to make this decision just yet. I want you to think on it." The alpha pulled himself away, and the whimper that left Jack had Chase wanting to dive back down and kiss the omega.

"I...wait, Chase. Please, don't...don't leave?" Jack rambled out, sounding confused.

"And what would I do if I stayed?" Chase questioned, taking a step back. Jack fumbled to sit up, bracing himself on the table behind him. His cheeks heated with a rush of embarrassment. "Would I kiss you? Is that what you want? Or would you like me to hold you?"

The omega kicked his feet, unsure of what he wanted.

"Three days. And then I will return for your answer, _Jack. _" Chase pressed his fingers to the bottom of Jack's chin and tipped it upward. He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to Jack's lips, relishing in the way the man whimpered. "Does that sound like a good time frame?

Jack nodded dumbly, tongue darting out to lick at his lips. Chase chuckled and pinched the younger man's chin. He found himself wanting Jack-and resisted the urge to kiss the omega again. If he was correct, he'd have plenty of time later.

* * *

Chapter 3: Variation

Chase hadn't realised that all this _waiting _would be so nerve wracking for him. His mind briefly entertained the idea of the omega saying no, and he roughly shoved it away. Jack would say yes—it was the smartest decision. Chase would provide for him without the expectation of having a child, routine sex, or the pressure of domestic duties—Jack would live the normal lifespan of an omega, as if nothing had ever happened to him. The very idea of it set Chase's alpha at ease.

_Chase. _The familiar voice of one of his warrior's, Jinjing, slipped through his mind. _The Spicer male is here. What would you have us do?_

_Treat him like a guest; he is here upon my request. _Chase told Jinjing, adjusting his cuffs. He was standing in front of a floor length mirror, buttoning his _changshan _with deft, focused fingers _. _He'd decided that something less…heavy would appeal to the omega. His armour might remind Jack of less pleasant times between the two of them. Chase was not a challenger, after all. He was an alpha, vying for an omega's affections.

Chase frowned as he reached for the brush that was neatly tucked away on a vanity beside the mirror; it was made of pure silver and weighed heavily in his hand, the silver chilly against his palm. He ran the thick, long bristle through his hair once or twice, smoothing his black locks back in place.

The warlord turned his head this way and that, watching as candlelight smoothed across his jaw. The flame flickered, and a knowing, hungry grin unfurled its way across Chase's face.

_What a lucky omega Jack happens to be. _Chase purred, placing his brush back in its place. He carded a hand through his hair, admiring himself a bit longer. After another minute or two, and a soft reminder from Jinjing, he decided to go meet Jack.

"Oh, hey..you…" Jack cleared his throat and let his eyes drop to the floor. "…you look fancy."

Chase let his eyes wander over the slight form of the omega, wanting to purr at the subservient, cowed stance he'd taken. Jack hadn't dressed in anything different than his usual fare, though the shirt he had on was free of grease stains, and his jeans looked as if they'd seen a washer. Jack even managed to rid himself of the sharp scent of oil and acetone that he usually drowned himself in.

"Have you made your decision, Spicer?" Chase questioned, keeping himself still. It would be so easy to take the omega off guard, to slip behind him and grip his skinny hips. To lick and bite at the scent gland on his neck—his fingers curled inward, digging into his palms. _Not yet._

Jack nodded, fiddling with his calloused fingers and clearing his throat. "Yeah, I mean, yeah. I…I want to be your omega." The words were quiet, but they were an affirmative. "But ground rules."

"Ground rules?" Chase question, mildly amused. He cocked his head to the side, then nodded. "What did you have in mind?"

"You need to use my actual name. Not Spicer." Jack managed out, wrapping his arms around himself. "And, uh. My stomach area…I mean, I know we have to go through…" He cleared his throat once again. "I know sex is a thing that has to happen for the mark to take effect. I just...want you to not touch that area. As much as possible. Or really talk about it. But only during sex. Outside of that is fine."

The name wasn't an issue. But not praising an omegas' belly was all but taboo. It was in his very nature to want to kiss the skin there and nuzzle it—he furrowed his brow.

"Jack, may I ask why?" Chase wanted to get it out of the way before it became an issue later.

"I…I just don't like it, alright? I don't really have a reason." The omega was rubbing at his upper arms now, looking uncomfortable.

Chase decided to drop it.

"Neither of those things are issues. Is there anything else you would like to go over with me?" He let the question hang in the air, watching as Jack fidgeted. It was Chase's turn to clear his throat. "I imagine that there is a dowry to be paid, yes? I will have to visit your parents and tell them that I have mated you."

Jack let out a soft squeak and his hands flew to cover his face. Chase chuckled and walked over to the omega, putting a hand on his shoulder. He gently tugged at the hands in front of Jack's face, trying not to smile—the human was so _nervous._

"What else do I need to know?" Chase asked gently, drawing the fingers of his free hand over Jack's bruised knuckles. He frowned at them, brushing his thumb over the hurt and watching Jack shudder. "Where did these come from?"

"I got into a fight the other day." Jack murmured, slowly lowering his hands and risking a look at Chase. His eyes were filled with uncertainty, but it was at least honest in nature. "It wasn't a big deal. I didn't know that Raimundo had such a strong jaw, or I wouldn't have punched him."

"What were you fighting over?" Chase questioned, gently taking one of Jack's hands in his own. He inspected the skin, mouth screwing into a frown. "No Wu activated yesterday."

Jack snorted, watching with interest as Chase brought the omegas knuckles up to his lips and pressed a kiss to each one. Jack's cheeks heated again, burning a bright red at the concerned action.

"Uh, well, the monks don't feel like they really need a reason to come after me." Jack muttered out. He let out an uncertain squeak when Chase pressed his nose to Jack's wrist, and then rubbed his cheek against it, scenting the young man. "Chase, uh, what are you doing?"

"Continue with your story, Jack." Chase ordered, listening to the quickened heartbeat of his soon-to-be mate.

"Okay, I guess. So, I was out at one of these little sandwich shops, right? Getting myself a sandwich, a soda. Haven't really been in the mood for anything heavy. So I see Raimundo, or maybe he saw me first, but like, he got all in my face as I was paying. I don't know why he was in the neighbourhood, but he was there. Small world I guess?"

Chase made an affirmative noise, steadily moving down Jack's arm and inching closer to the omega.

"Well, the asshole tried to hit me. Right there. In a _sandwich _place. Who does that?" Jack let out an unsatisfactory huff. "Completely unprovoked. Worst thing is, this happens all the time. I'm outside, doing what normal people do, and suddenly one of those damned monks show up and act like I'm concocting some evil plan. Are they bored? Is fighting me the equivalent of opening a fridge when you're not hungry?"

Chase hushed him, not wanting to hear Jack ramble off into any sort of tangent at the moment.

"You're easy to pick on. They need validation." Chase replied. "Those who consider themselves on a higher moral ground think that every action they take is excusable."

"Thanks." Jack muttered sarcastically. "Anyway, I got away without any real scrapes or bruises, besides these ones. I've gotten really good at dodging and better at hitting. At least I'd like to think so."

There was silence for a moment, and then Chase spoke again.

"Jack, are there any other rules you'd like me to follow?" Chase repeated, voice soft.

Jack fidgeted with his fingers, obviously nervous. "You're going to treat me like a real omega, right? You're not going to just abandon me after you mate me?" Jack asked quietly. Chase paused, near chest to chest with the young man. He rose his head, levelling his gaze so he could stare into Jack's eyes.

"What is your take on a real omega? Are you not one?" Chase questioned. "I would prefer not to overstep any boundaries, or make you fear me in any way. I will not force you to sleep in my bed, or have sex with me. I have no need for a housekeeper, and you will not be required to remain in my home. There will be no children to tend too, after all."

Jack's face fell, briefly, and then Chase wrapped an arm around Jack's waist and dragged him forward.

Face inches from Jack's, he let out a low rumble. "But I will bed you, and I will have great pleasure in doing so." He took a step back, forcing Jack to walk with him. "If you chose to move in with me, and I hope that you _do, _then every luxury in my castle will be at your disposal twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. My bed will be yours, as well as my company."

"What if I don't want to move in?" Jack questioned, voice quiet.

Chase cocked his head to the side. "Then the luxuries of my castle will only be available when you choose to visit." Jack ducked his head away as he laughed. "Jack, I have no game to play with you. I have thrown myself behind this decision, and I will not back down."

The warlord could smell the subtle arousal on Jack, with how close together they were pressed. Jack was seconds from agreeing to moving in, his nature demanding that he let the alpha pamper and take care of him.

"Are you…are you sure you want me to move in?" Jack murmured.

_Bingo._

"I insist upon it." Chase murmured; he was actively smelling Jack now. It was surprising, but clean, Jack smelled fairly decent. His scent was soft and cold, like rubbing the pad of one's thumb along a dew-heavy flower petal or leaf. It had Chase burying his face against the side of Jack's neck, almost desperately nosing the omega's scent gland. Why was it so _weak _?

Jack, on the other hand, was mildly panicking. His hands were stiff at his sides, even as smooth fingers wrapped around his, cupping them and trying to soothe him. A half-whimper escaped Jack as Chase forced his chin higher; it quickly turned into a giggle as Chase's nose tickled him, and eventually a gasp when lips brushed his scent gland.

"Why is your scent so muted?" Chase questioned, pulling away and looking puzzled. "Are you taking suppressants?"

Jack nodded, lips curling inward as he chewed on them. Eventually he piped up. "They, uh, they'll wear off in a week. That's what my doctor said. She also said I'm good to, you know." He lifted a hand and rubbed at the back of his neck, nearly elbowing Chase as he did so.

"To what?" Chase asked, unwilling to relinquish his grip on the younger man.

"I asked her…I asked her if my body would respond correctly to an alpha mounting me. And, uh…if it would be good for you." Jack's voice was muted and shy.

Chase didn't say anything for a moment, and then laughed. He was _flattered. _But it was so in Jack's nature to be thoughtful—he truly was an omega.

Jack smacked his hands against Chase's chest. "Shut up. Just shut up, okay? I was already there, and you know. You should run this kind of stuff by your doctors. I was so young when the injury happened, I…I didn't care."

"Was there a reason you were with your doctor?"

"Oh, yeah, the suppressants are required by law. I have to have a doctor sign off when I decide to stop taking them. Typically, they need to see a mate mark, or the alpha to come in too, but…" Jack trailed off. He grinned, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together. "…well, I made a convincing argument."

Chase began to lead Jack away, pulling the omega with him toward a nearby hallway.

"Why does the law require you to take suppressants? What good does that do you?" Chase asked; he was walking in stride, right beside Jack now. His arm was looped around Jack, hand pressing gently against his lower back. There was an ungodly amount of tension there. In fact, it was threaded throughout Jack, thrumming through the omega's body.

"Public places have to be safe spaces or something. In the pamphlet they gave me, it said that infertile, unmated omegas create unrest. I don't see how, but I'm not really in the place to argue." Jack squeaked lightly when fingers rubbed against his lower back, trying to chase off the unwanted stress that made its home there. "That's why I don't like leaving the house. I can get away with not taking my suppressants for a couple weeks, until my parents catch me."

Chase continued down the hallway, keeping mum. He wasn't sure how to digest this new information. His silence must have concerned Jack, because the human cleared his throat.

"So, uh. This is a nice place." Jack murmured. Chase leaned over and kissed the side of his head, receiving a small, simpering noise. "Where are we going?"

"Where would you like to go?" Chase asked. "I figured that I would treat you to lunch, and then we could discuss when you'd like to consummate our relationship. I assume soon, perhaps when your suppressants completely wear off? Of course, we could do it before then."

"I…I'd like to wait. Suppressants kind of numb you." Jack mumbled.

"And where would you like your mark? I prefer the right side of your neck, but if you'd like it somewhere more discreet, then I can oblige."

Jack stopped, pulling away for second and staring at Chase. "You've actually been thinking about this."

"I have thought of nothing else." Chase replied. He wasn't being _entirely _dishonest. He really did consider where he would mark the omega. And he'd _definitely _entertained the fantasy of fucking the omega.

Jack didn't seem like he could tell the difference, and looked away again.

"Thanks."

"For what?" Chase questioned as they rounded into the dining room. A long, oaken table was covered in a blood-red tablecloth that dripped towards the floor. Feline warriors slunk around the room tentatively, watching their master and Jack with cautious curiosity. Chase clicked his tongue at them, and they made their way from the room, slipping into the kitchen.

"I know you really don't…I know you really don't like me a lot. And this is a really big decision of you to make. And I want you to know that I really do appreciate it." Jack was fidgeting again. Chase lead him to a seat near the top of the table, and tugged out a chair for him to sit down.

As Jack sat down, Chase leaned beside him and pressed a kiss to the corner of Jack's mouth. "I know you do, Jack." Tilting his head further, he captured Jack's mouth in his and captured the soft, confused hiccup that left Jack's mouth. "Besides, I have no need for an omega that can bear children-it is almost more convenient for me than you. I run no risk of impregnating you, and once mated, I will seek you, and only you, out when I am in heat. Do not think this is merely charity on my part."

"I would never." Jack squeaked, feeling a hand cup his chin and tilt his head upward. Chase pressed kisses down the length of Jack's neck, only pausing when he met Jack's scent gland. The boy's skin was so pale and soft, it made it all too tempting to sink his fangs in. Instead, he nipped at the skin-Jack went limp, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth and _moaning _; Chase's libido roared to life in an instant with the sound. It was so heady and inviting that he unconsciously shifted behind Jack. He turned Jack's head, exposing the rest of the omega's neck. _This _was where he was going to mark Jack. Along the pale expanse of his throat, where everyone could see.

_He is ready. _Chase's alpha whispered. _Take him now._

Chase beat his desire back down fiercely, lifting his head and pressing a kiss to the corner of Jack's jaw. "What would you like for lunch?"

* * *

Chapter 4: Coda

It was two weeks from their verbal agreement; that was how long Chase had to wait to mark Jack. If Chase was being honest with himself, he wasn't keen on the idea of waiting so long, but Jack had brought up valid points during their conversation. His dowry still needed to be paid, and if he could claim the bedroom as his own before Chase mounted him, he would be far more comfortable.

Which meant that Chase had met both Jack's parents, and had been enlisted in helping move Jack's items into his castle. The _moving _had been easy. The meeting with Jack's parents, not so much. He'd decided that it would be best to _buy _Jack the day before they mated. Right now, he couldn't fathom _why _that was a good idea.

Jack's mother had been delighted that Chase was interested in Jack; her bright, yet almost _broken _smile fell as she told him that Jack, was in fact, infertile. And therefore, no dowry had been discussed between her and Jack's father. Jack's face had fallen, and he cradled his hands in his lap like he'd been scolded.

"I know of your son's situation." Chase had told them, lifting a hand to gently tuck a piece of striking red hair behind Jack's ear.

Jack blushed and his eyes flicked up to meet Chase's, lips pursed coyly and looking far more kissable than they ever had. Chase had leaned over then, cupping Jack's jaw in his hand and pecking the omega's lips as chaste as possible.

"I still intend to mate him."

The silence that followed Chase's words was heavy and uncertain, with a myriad of unsure yet hopeful looks between Jack's parents. Jack had all but clammed up, pressing his hands against his face and hiding his beat red cheeks behind his fingers. He occasionally peeked at Chase from between them, and then ducked away again in a hope that the immortal wouldn't notice.

Chase noticed.

Jack's parents had told him, quietly, that they would have to take a brief break to discuss the dowry for their son—Chase had acquiesced, of course, happy enough to sit with Jack. The hopeful glint in Jack's mother's eye was enough to convince him that the omega's parents were surprised, yet glad.

"Why'd you kiss me?" Jack asked in a fierce whisper, once his parents had left.

Chase turned toward him, brow arched in question. "Because I wanted too. And you are to be my omega, Jack. Kisses tend to be a thing that alphas bequeath upon their omegas."

"Then…could you kiss me again?" Jack's request was timid and quiet, almost inaudible.

Chase turned in his chair to face Jack, cupping the omegas face with both hands. He tilted it upward, cocking his head to the side and taking a moment to admire how red the omegas eyes truly were. He'd seen them before, but he'd never seen them up close. Certainly not _this _close. They glittered like crystals, searching Chase's eyes with careful, near-imperceptible flicks.

The kiss wasn't nearly as innocent as the one before, and was interrupted by a set of very surprised parents. Jack pulled away, even as Chase's arms locked around his back, cheeks burning. A stuttered series of apologies spilled out of Jack's mouth, and Chase carefully unwound himself from Jack with an apology of his own.

"The dowry is fairly low." Chase muttered as he looked over the paperwork; he settled a hand on Jack's knee, calming it from its incessant bouncing.

Jack's father cleared his throat and adjusted his tie—before he could speak, Jack's mother spoke up. "Jackie, darling, you can leave while we talk if you'd like."

"Mom, I'm not going to break down and start crying. I already know what dad's going to say. Calm down." Jack muttered, though he slid a hand over Chase's, carefully plucking at the thick fingers. Chase took his fingers easily, twining them together.

"Let him stay, dear." Jack's father murmured; he turned his attention to Chase. "As you stated, you're aware that Jack is infertile. He can't bear children." The older man clasped his hands in front of him. "Which greatly decreases his value as an omega. I'm going to be honest with you, Mr. Young. If it weren't for his status as heir to the company, then I couldn't bring myself to ask for a dowry at all."

Chase tried to ignore the look on Jack's face, the strained, neutral expression that meant he was seconds from falling apart. Jack's mom must have seen it too because her own face became troubled and sympathetic.

"Triple it." Chase ordered, sliding the paper across the table. Jack's mother jolted back in her chair, looking between Jack and Chase. With a shaky hand, she grasped the edge of the paper and brought it back to her, while Jack's father simply stared at him, puzzled.

"You don't have to pay that much for me." Jack told Chase. "You shouldn't. I'm not worth it—"

"—you don't get to decide your worth to me, Jack." Chase told him, voice equal parts stern and exasperated. They had had this discussion the entire way back. He wasn't sure what Jack was attempting to do. If anything, the omega should have been flattered. "Don't you understand the point I am trying to make?"

"That you have too much money?" Jack accused, jabbing a finger at Chase. "What are people going to think?"

"Frankly, Jack, I don't care what other people think." Chase told him, grabbing Jack's hand and tugging him forward. The full-force of Jack's scent greeted him, swamping him senses.

Chase typically had a thing for omegas with full-bodied scents, round and robust and _fiery. _And yet there was something about Jack's that had him constantly sniffing at the air when the human wasn't around, almost drunkenly hunting down the lingering wisps of sunlight brushed leaves and early morning hikes.

"The only thing that I currently care about is you, safe, happy, and healthy." Chase told Jack, tugging gently at a lock of hair that had escaped Jack's temporary ponytail.

Jack became flustered _instantly. _Flustered enough that Chase snuck a kiss in, pressing it to the corner of Jack's mouth. When Jack turned his head, almost enough to meet the warlord's lips, Chase captured the human's mouth fully, sneaking an arm around his waist and settling it there heavily.

"Why did you pay so much for me?" Jack muttered when Chase pulled away, unable to meet his eyes.

Chase rolled his eyes. "Because I don't think that you should be devalued over something out of your control. You are just as viable a mate as any other omega. And yes, your inability to bear children might be a drawback for some—however, it has been proven that omega that still have their scent glands or ovaries intact can still lactate if given an orphaned pup. Therefore, adoption is always an answer."

The look on Jack's face had Chase kissing him again—and then kissing at watering eyes.

"You actually did your research." Jack muttered quietly, letting himself be drawn into a hug. Chase did his best to fully encompass the omega in his arms, rubbing his chin against the top of Jack's head an unintentionally scenting him.

"I said I'd treat you well, Jack. And I will. I needed a broader range of knowledge in order to do so." Chase snorted when he smelled oil in Jack's hair, and he pulled away to cup Jack's face, finding the omega actually crying. Chase wiped the tears away with his thumb, making a slew of coos and comforting noises that he didn't intend too.

"It was nice of them to let us stay for dinner." Jack warbled out, dotting at his eyes. Chase let out a soft grunt of agreement, even though it had been more of an interrogation than anything else. Jack's parents seemed less than inclined to part with their son, yet were happy enough that an alpha wanted him that they didn't know what else to do but agree.

Jack cleared his throat, and then butted his head against Chase's chin. "So, uh, now that all the papers are signed, does that mean that we, we should…" he smoothed shaky fingers over Chase's chest, fiddling with the buttons on his shirt.

"…we can wait until tomorrow." Chase told him. "That was what we agreed on."

"I kind of want to. Now." Jack told him quietly. "I mean, if you're comfortable with it. I don't know if you need to work yourself up to it thought. I just…god, I feel like once I'm actually _there, _in your bed and being…" Jack's voice died, and then he swallowed.

The omega pulled away from the alpha and began to pace, much to Chase's chagrin. He frowned, watching the omega move back and forth, outside of arm's reach. "…I just want to stop being so anxious, you know? I feel like it'll be better to just get it done and over with. Because I'm sleeping here tonight, right? And there is no way that I'm going to be able to sleep thinking about having sex with you."

"Why are you so anxious?" Chase questioned, crossing his arms over his chest.

"I've never been mounted before Chase." Jack muttered, rubbing at his arms and refusing to look at Chase. "What if I don't…god, and mating marks. I've heard they hurt, when you first get them. And some don't stick. What if for some reason, me being infertile has my body reject your mark?"

"That won't happen." Chase answered instantly. "You asked your doctor, didn't you?"

"Well, yeah. But just because there's only a slight chance doesn't mean that it's not a chance." Jack argued. "And…and then…and then—" Jack caught himself, folding his bottom lip into his mouth and pinching it between his teeth.

"—and then, on the off-chance that my mark doesn't take, we will try again when you're up for it." Chase stepped closer, pressing a hand to the side of Jack's neck. "And mate mark's do hurt. That's why they're typically given during intercourse—it distracts you from the pain. Or it's supposed to."

Jack sniffled quietly."You promise you'll try again?"

"I promise." Chase told him, cupping the back of Jack's head and bringing him close. Chase kissed him gently, laying a thick fingered hand on the omegas hip. "Your lips are so soft, Jack. I don't think that I'd ever expected that."

Chase let his hand trail up, hooking the edge of Jack's shirt and tugging it upwards. "Nor your skin. I didn't expect it to be so alluring. Seeing you fully undressed will be something to marvel at. No doubt you will glow beneath the candlelight."

"Stop that." Jack mumbled, tongue tripping over his own words.

Chase rubbed his thumb in soft circles over Jack's ribs, slipping his hand beneath the cloth of the omegas t-shirt and letting the hem rest on the back of his hand. Jack let out a soft breath, titling his head up, eyes darting around nervously. Chase offered him a gentle, comforting smile that had the omega burying his face in the alpha's chest. Jack was shaking and clenching at the sides of Chase's shirt like a lifeline, trying not to sob.

"No matter the odds or unique challenges that our relationship inspires, I will be here. As I told you, I am fully behind this decision. And I will take care of you."

"Forever?" Jack questioned, voice choked with unshed tears and muffled by Chase's shirt.

"And beyond."

* * *

Chapter 5: Pas De Deux

"Jack, you should get ready for bed." Chase murmured; Jack had been sitting on the edge of their bed, body shaking in fear. Jack snapped his eyes up toward the alpha, and then back to his hands. They were folded between his thighs, pressed tightly to each other.

"I…I don't think I should." Jack replied, peering up at Chase through thick lashes.

Chase leaned over, resting his hand on Jack's thigh. He squeezed the skin gently, brushing his thumb over the clothed flesh. Jack shuddered, and Chase cocked his head to the side.

"You're so sensitive." Chase murmured. He removed his hand and gently pat his lap. "Come here."

"You want me to sit in your lap?" Jack asked, voice breaking as it lilted with panic. Chase nodded, scooting back on the bed so he could sit fully upon it. Jack swallowed, and then moved to do so—stopping when he was kneeling in front of Chase's crossed legs.

Chase rolled his eyes and reached forward, sticking his hands beneath Jack's armpits and pulling him up and into his lap like a child. Jack let out a series of panicked noises that quickly quieted when he was lowered into Chase's lap. His nose pressed instantly to Chase's collarbone, and Jack let the scent of the alpha wash over him.

"There we are." Chase murmured, resting his chin atop Jack's head. Seeing the bed had scared Jack's bravado away, and now he was nothing short of an anxious mess. "I'm not going to hurt you, Jack."

"I know you aren't." Jack muttered, face buried against Chase's shoulder now. Jack's neck was painfully close to Chase, and he leaned down to nuzzle the peach-soft skin. Jack shuddered, and titled his head further to the side.

Chase slid a hand down, gently massaging Jack's lower back. The omega's body was slowly relaxing in Chase's arms, and he was peeking up at Chase with these _eyes. _When Chase saw them, he felt that same, familiar squeeze, in his chest. They were wide and soft, and mildly wet with unshed tears. There was so much fear there—a need to protect rose in Chase's chest.

"You needn't be afraid." Chase whispered, clutching Jack closer. Jack squeaked again, but not out of fear. Chase had unconsciously taken to stroking the back of Jack's head, running his hand through the surprisingly thick hair. "Jack, you are safe here."

Jack nodded against the immortal's shoulder, and then took a deep breath. Pulling back, he looked Chase directly in the eye. Leaning forward, he pressed shaking lips against Chase's.

Chase took control of the kiss in an instant, cupping the back of Jack's head and tilting his head so he could get a better angle on the omega's mouth. Jack's breath hitched in his throat, and a quiet hiccup escaped him. Tension thrummed its way back into Jack, taking control of his arms and locking them around Chase's neck.

"Are you sure about this?" Jack asked, licking at his lips. They'd barely done anything, and yet Chase could already smell the arousal wafting off Jack.

"I am." Chase replied, resisting the urge to steal another kiss. "Are you comfortable?"

"Yeah. I want to do this." Jack murmured, pressing their foreheads together. Chase gently moved so that Jack was laying on his back, and he was kneeling above him, one knee on either side of Jack's thighs. "Oh my god, I'm doing this."

"Yes, you are." Chase replied; he was about to lay a hand on Jack's stomach, then decided to grip at Jack's side instead.

"It's just…I never thought that an alpha would—that _you _would—"

"—and that is, above everything else, depressing. You shouldn't feel like you are unwanted or undesired. Your body is beautiful. It has been beautiful." Whether they were lies or not, the words had a positive effect on Jack. He blushed and his hands rose and pressed against his face, hiding it. "Don't hide your face, Jack."

"I can't help it." Jack whined, though he let his hands drop all the same. "I just. You praising me is so..." His legs knocked together, and Chase chuckled. Jack glared up at him. "…don't laugh at me."

"I think it's cute." Chase told him with a gentle purr, nosing at Jack's neck. "And it's not unusual, especially in your situation. You are an omega. To be praised is what is due to you. And your praise is _long _overdue."

Chase gripped the edge of Jack's shirt, kissing at the side of the human's neck whilst trying to avoid his scent gland. He was desperate to mark the omega, but this was an exercise in patience. There would be plenty of time to fuck Jack into the bed once he was comfortable with the idea of it.

The immortal tried his best to avoid touching Jack's stomach as he lifted the shirt, tugging it up—Jack lifted his arms, looking away shyly as his chest was revealed. Chase sat back, taking a good, long look at his omega's exposed torso.

Chase's eyes shot to Jack's stomach _instantly. _He tried to notice the healthy pudge there first, but his attention didn't last long before they flicked to the _scar. _It was there, still curved into a smile around Jack's belly button—but the smile was cruel now, mocking the pain that the omega had went through. Shaking his head, Chase made himself look upward, keeping a hand pressed against Jack's side, massaging the skin.

The second thing that Chase noted was how _pale _Jack was. He was as white as paper, as white as _kaolin. _Pale, pink nipples were already pebbled and erect on the omega's chest. Chase watched as Jack drew his bottom lip into his mouth, cheeks burning even brighter than before at the attention.

"Your nipples." Chase muttered, pushing himself up so that his body covered Jack's. He pressed his lips to Jack's collarbone, scenting the omega's arousal once again. Chase's cock was showing interest, hardening in his pants. "They, are…"

"…I know they're big." Jack muttered, looking down at them. "I mean, not huge. But for a male omega they're on the larger side. It's not weird for you, is it?"

Chase didn't reply, deciding to bend down further and lick at the edge of one. Jack let out a half-gasp, half-whimper. Noting the reaction, Chase moved down, licking across the small bud. The reaction was similar, but _stronger. _The alpha latched onto the nipple within seconds, lapping at it and listening to the whine he received. He took the other one between his fingers, pinching it lightly.

"Why are they so—" Jack's body shuddered when Chase bit down lightly, pressing his tongue against the bud, hard. "—they've never been this sensitive."

"They're perfect." Chase announced, before diving down to kiss at the other, licking at the pebbled flesh. They tasted as clean as the rest of Jack, with the added bonus of Jack mewling and letting out soft gasps and whines when they were sucked on and licked. "Alphas are spurred on by the sounds of their mates—it's possible that, now with the presence of one, your body is attempting to make you appealing to me."

Jack's eyes flickered with melancholy. "Because other parts of me, aren't. Well." Jack closed his eyes, relaxing against the bed and once again looking away from Chase. "Good."

"There are no bad parts of you, Jack." Chase told him, flicking his thumb over one of the nipples. "Society has made you think that way." He kissed between Jack's breast, before nosing the skin. He kissed back up Jack's chest and up his throat, pressing his lips to every inch of the omega's neck that he could.

"You're just saying that." Jack murmured, though Chase felt Jack's legs part beneath him, or try too. They knocked against his inner legs, and Jack instantly clamped them shut again. "Sorry. I didn't mean to knock against you."

"Jack, your legs opened because you are comfortable. You are allowed to be comfortable, when you're with me." Chase shifted above Jack, pressing his knee against the omega's thigh. "And you are allowed to give yourself to me. You are allowed to trust me."

Jack nodded, breath stuttering as fangs pressed against his jaw. Chase captured Jack's mouth again, thoroughly exploring the omega's mouth with his tongue. His hands were busy, pinching and playing with the omega's nipples; between the stimulation, Jack was groaning and _purring, _the noise static and comfortable.

"May I touch you?" Chase huffed out, kissing at the corners of Jack's lips, and then scattered kisses across the omega's cheeks. Jack nodded, cheeks flush and eyes half lidded. He half chased the alpha's mouth with his own, before flopping back and whimpering.

"Yeah." Jack breathed out, licking at his lips. "I, uh."

Chase kissed at him again, agreeing to his silent request. He would kiss the omega as much as he liked, happy to give Jack the small pleasure. The omega attempted to kiss back, and while his kisses were sloppy and wet, they were more successful at getting Chase hard than any other omega he'd lain with.

The scent of slick was heavy in the air, and Chase's nose twitched atthe familiar scent. It was obvious, now, that Jack was infertile. Chase kissed Jack harder, hoping that the omega hadn't noticed his inherent distaste.

"Oh, oh god." Jack felt Chase's fingers against his belt. Jack grabbed at the sheets on either side of him, and the action got Chase to pause.

"Your hands. Grip me instead." Chase uttered out in a low, commanding growl. Jack's hand snapped to Chase's hair, twisting into it and digging in. Chase growled—and almost stopped himself. He scented the air, searching for fear on Jack.

"I'm good." Jack answered, before Chase could continue further. "I'm not scared. God, I am so far from scared right now. Fuck."

Chase chuckled, moving his way back down Jack. He one-handedly removed the omega's belt, tugging it off without a hitch. Jack's fingers were shaking, but were gripping tightly to Chase's hair.

"If you want me to stop at any time, tell me." Chase told Jack, moving his hands down to grip Jack's clothed thighs. "Jack."

Jack took in a deep breath, chest shuddering as fingers walked along the waistband of his pants. "If I want you to stop, I'll tell you. I won't let you force me, I promise."

Chase nodded, and then cupped Jack through his jeans; Chase wasn't surprised to find Jack fully hard, nor was he surprised when the omega's hips jumped at the contact. Chase continued to fondle the omega, rubbing at the clothed, hard flesh with smooth circles as he kissed the omega.

Jack tugged on Chase's hair, opening his mouth—Chase took command of the kiss before Jack could do much more, letting it evolve into something hungry and hot. With every breath, the omega moaned into Chase's mouth, fully wrapping his arms around the alpha's shoulders and keeping him as close as possible.

"Have you touched yourself before?" Chase asked, flicking his thumb against the silver button of Jack's jeans. Chase didn't have to see Jack's expression to know that he was rolling his eyes. "Better yet, have you ever fingered yourself?"

"Who _asks _that?" Jack asked with a squeak; his pitch rose when the button on his jeans was popped free.

Chase chuckled low in his chest. "Your alpha does."

Any other complaints that Jack might have made died in his throat, and he pressed his forehead against Chase's collarbone, hiding his embarrassment.

"You should take off your shirt." Jack told the alpha, fingers tightening in Chase's hair and digging partially into the alpha's back. A hand had slid into Jack's pants, snapping at the waistband of his boxers. "Please."

"Right now?" Chase asked softly, drawing his fingers up the line of Jack's cock. Drifting his hand lower, he shuddered at the slick that had begun to soak through Jack's boxers. "Can you feel how wet you're getting?"

Jack whimpered in response, rubbing his face against Chase's collarbone. Chase kissed his temple and lifted his body up, cocking an eyebrow when fingers dug into his shoulders in an attempt to make him stay. Pulling back and looking at the omega, he noticed how bright his cheeks looked, how wet and kiss-bruised his lips were. Small pants were leaving Jack's lips.

"One moment." Chase murmured, tugging Jack's hands free, trying to ignore the devastated look that was on Jack's face. He easily pulled his shirt off of his torso, and tried not to jump when fingers danced against the planes of his stomach, and then drew away.

Chase looked down at Jack, who was looking shy once again. "You can touch me." Chase told him as gently as he was able. He ran a hand through Jack's mussed hair, briefly comparing it to the white of his sweaty forehead.

Jack's hands were _greedy. _They splayed against his toned stomach, pressing against the muscles there and then gripping at the alpha's side, letting out low noises of appreciation as he did so. They wound their way around Chase's back, tugging the alpha back down to kiss at his mouth.

"You could pin me down so easily." Jack murmured; it was an observation, but to Chase it sounded like a challenge. His body pressed against Jack's tightly, and his hand slid between the two of them to slip his hand back into Jack's pants and further into his boxers.

"Like this?" Chase asked, even as a moan escaped from Jack. "Do you want to be pinned down?"

Jack nodded, turning his neck to the side—Chase began to suck on the omegas neck, rolling the skin between his teeth and leaving bruises in his wake. He tightened his grip on Jack's cock, stroking it firmly. Jack let out a choked whine that turned into a mewl. Chase's fangs grazed the omega's scent gland, and Jack went slack, arms loose around Chase's neck.

The scent of slick doubled in the air, dousing Chase's senses and getting him to visibly shudder. Pulling his hand from Jack's cock, he used it to shove the omega's pants and boxers down. He needed to taste it—the _slick. _Even though it remained bitter in his memory, he _needed _it.

"Where are you going?" Jack asked, almost was a heady sound if Chase had ever heard one. Chase kissed at Jack's collarbone, working a hickey into the skin there as well.

Chase slid a hand behind Jack, running it through the slick there. Jack's body stiffened. In Chase's hurry, he had made it all the way to Jack's hip-he kissed the skin there.

"Relax." Chase whispered against the skin. "You're safe. If you want me to stop, I will." A wicked grin wicked its way across the alpha's face. _I doubt you will, however._

Jack nodded, drawing his bottom lip into his mouth and worrying it between his teeth. Chase kissed along Jack's hip and further down, drawing his fangs down over the skin. Jack's breath hitched in his chest as one of the fingers pressed forward, teasing the omega's entrance.

"Chase, I…I…I haven't fingered myself." Jack answered quietly. Chase tilted his head up, catching Jack's eye. Holding the omega's attention, he pressed a kiss to the area above Jacks cock. He pressed his finger inward and Jack _gasped._

Jack was tight. Tight and _wet _around his finger and Chase wanted the omega's heat around his cock _now. _Instead, Chase groaned and grabbed at Jack's hip, jerking it upward. Jack let out a soft, confused whimper. Chase hushed him, and then pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the base of Jack's cock. Jack's lower body squirmed, hips shifting against the sheets as he whimpered again.

Chase's lips moved over Jack's balls, and he lapped at them—in return, he found fingers in his hair once again, twined tightly in the black strands. Chase nuzzled Jack's cock and then travelled even _lower, _tongue finding the rim of Jack's entrance and lapping at the slick there. It was just as bitter as before, but Chase wanted _more._

The omega _panicked. _His legs kicked out, and he flailed upward. Chase's hands grabbed at Jack's hips, hushing him and clicking at him. He shot up so he could rub his cheek against Jack's as he wrapped an arm around the omega.

"It's okay." Chase purred out, letting his chest vibrate with his words. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Jack was burying his face in Chase's shoulder, body shaking.

Jack swallowed, already calming. His cock was still hard between his legs, so Chase was confident he hadn't ruined the evening. Jack slowly relaxed back against the bed, eyes wet. "I overreacted, I don't mind you…I just…I didn't expect it."

"I should have warned you." Chase admonished, kissing at Jack's wet eyes. "May I continue?"

"Yeah, yeah. I…I can't believe that you're going to." Jack swallowed, the corners of his mouth tipping up in mild amusement. "I can't believe that you're going to eat me out."

"Quiet, Jack." Chase growled, patting the omega's thigh. He drew his nose between Jack's breast, slowly making his way back down between Jack's thighs. Jack had begun to hyperventilate, and had drawn his bottom lip back in between his teeth. "Are you sure you're up for this?"

"Yeah." Jack's answer was little more than a puff of air.

Chase kissed at either one of Jack's thighs, nipping at the milk-white skin and feeling the muscle jump beneath his lips. Jack lifted his hips slightly in assistance—he was looking away from Chase _again. _Chase was all about comfort for Jack, but it was beginning to feel a bit personal.

"Jack, look at me." Chase rumbled out, hauling Jack's hips up higher. The omega grabbed at the pillows behind him, a strangled, startled yelp leaving him. Chase pet his thigh, lifting one over his shoulder and letting it slide over his back as he dove back between the omega's thighs.

Jack jolted when Chase's tongue returned to his entrance, lapping at the liquid there. It was still…distasteful, but not unpalatable. Then again, nothing seemed unpalatable in comparison to the Lao Mang Lone. Gripping Jack's ass, Chase parted the pale, rounded globes and gave them each an individual squeeze. So caught up in what he was doing, he almost didn't notice how Jack was reacting.

Almost.

Jack had quickly devolved into a moaning, blabbering pile of mush, eyes squeezed shut and fingers fisted uselessly in his own hair. "_ Chase. _Fuck, _alpha. _" The word struck a chord with the alpha, and he grunted in response. He pressed his tongue _in, _adding a finger for good measure. Judging by how wet Jack was, there would be little prep needed.

"Alpha, _please. _" Jack whined, and legs locked themselves around Chase's head. Chase growled in response; his cock was heavy and wet between his own legs—pulling a hand up, he wrapped a hand around Jack's dick, beginning to stroke it.

"I want you to cum for me, Jack." Chase told the omega. Jack let out a reedy whine, eyes squeezing shut and mouth falling open as his cock was fisted. "Show me how much you're enjoying the attention." A second finger pushed into the omega, and Chase felt Jack tense briefly.

Chase pulled away from the omegas leaking hole, hushing Jack when the omega whined and tried to tug Chase back down with his legs. Jack's face was pinched and uncertain, as if he were trying to hold back his voice—and his completion. Chase clicked his tongue, pressing his thumb against the head of Jack's cock and smearing the pre-cum there. Chase wasn't going to let Jack's defiance go unnoticed.

"Stop holding back." Chase told him. "You aren't impressing anyone by denying yourself pleasure, Jack." He ended his sentence with a messy kiss to Jack's cock. A sob broke from the omega's lips, and Chase cocked a eyebrow. "I want to hear _everything _."

The next noise that Jack made had Chase trembling. The omega's mouth had fallen open and he had _wailed _as Chase's fingers crooked up, pressing against his prostate almost roughly. Chase let out a resounding growl in return, pushing Jack's legs from where they still hung around his head.

"That's it." Chase snarled out, kissing at Jack's mouth. Jack's nose crinkled in disgust at the taste, but he adapted quickly, letting the alpha dominate his mouth. "Cum for me." Chase's fingers were making a lewd squelching noise as they aimed for the same spot over and over again, getting Jack to tremble beneath him.

Jack's voice rose and cracked as he came, body shaking as he spilled himself all over his belly and Chase's hand. The alpha pressed his forehead against Jack's collarbone, breathing just as heavy as Jack—it was taking every inch of his self-control to not tear off his pants and fuck into the omega—the young man was so _ready _for it. He could feel it.

"You are so loud." Chase puffed out, one of his hands working on the front tie of his pants. "I love hearing you. It lets me know that I'm doing a good job." He kissed at Jack's neck, pulling his fingers from the omega.

"That was amazing." Jack breathed out in response, letting his head loll to the side. "I didn't know that just…_ fingers _could make me feel like that."

"Regretting not playing with yourself?" Chase teased. Jack had easily devolved into a rag doll state, his entire body relaxed and a dazed, comfortable look overtaking his face. Chase pushed his pants down and then kicked them away.

Jack furrowed his brow, then shook his head. "It wouldn't have been the same. Fuck that was," Jack closed his eyes, easily letting Chase push his legs apart. "That was fantastic."

"I'll have to finger you often, if you enjoyed it that much." Chase purred, licking at the side of Jack's neck. Jack let out an indignant squeak, and then inhaled sharply when he felt Chase's cock press against the inside of his thigh.

"Oh, shit, is that—that's _huge. _" Jack hissed out, looking down. Chase sat up so that the omega could get a better look at his cock. "That's not even fair. How is that going to fit in me, anyway?"

Chase made a soft, reassuring noise and gently gripped Jack's hip. "Your body is slick, wet, and excited. So fairly easily I'd say." Chase kissed at his collarbone, and then Jack's neck. There was worry in the omegas scent, and Chase wanted to sigh, but didn't. "We can wait. You are under no obligation to be marked today, Jack."

"No, I want to be. I've just never even seen another cock—I mean, in person. Can, can I…" Jack's mouth worked for a moment, then Chase nodded.

"Yes Jack, you may." Chase told him; he really didn't have the patience for it, but he couldn't tell Jack _no. _The omega was equal parts skittish and curious—even his interest in being pinned down seemed to be fleeting. Chase had to be patient with Jack, and even if the omega never became entirely submissive, he'd make it work.

Jack sat up, wincing at the mess on his belly. He inspected Chase's cock for a second, shuffling closer; Chase watched hungrily as Jack's cum dripped onto the blankets from his stomach, and he realised he hadn't even got to taste it.

"It's even bigger from this angle." Jack muttered, gently brushing his thumb across the slit at the top. "Tear anyone in half with it?"

"No." Chase replied, taking a deep breath as Jack began to palm him, running his calloused hand along the length. "I supposed you've never seen an alpha's cock before, hm?"

Jack's cheeks heated once more.

"Well, I have in _porn. _But I didn't think that they were, uh…" He squeezed Chase's cock gently, and the alpha let out a soft breath of air. "…I didn't think they were an accurate representation. I guess I was wrong." His fingers slid lower, and Chase _groaned. _Jack had unintentionally fondled the beginning of his knot. Jack's eyes widened. "Your…your knot. It's already starting to swell. Is that normal?"

"When I have an omega that I want to knot, yes." Chase replied, gently cupping Jack's chin and turning it up. He met the genius' crimson eyes with his own. "It will get much larger when it's inside you."

Jack swallowed dryly, then sat back, legs cockeyed. Chase let his eyes wander between Jack's legs, where slick was staining the comforter. Chase laid a hand on Jack's knee, rubbing his thumb into the skin gently.

"Jack, will you accept me as your alpha?" Chase asked, even as Jack's legs fell apart, granting Chase the space needed to slip between them.

Jack swallowed, then nodded. "Yes, I…just go slow, okay?"

"I will take the greatest care that I can with you." Chase promised, reaching between his legs to line himself up with Jack's entrance. Jack let out a soft hiccup and closed his eyes, twining his arms around Chase's shoulders.

As soon as Chase began to push in, he stopped—Jack had whimpered loudly in his ear, and he wondered, briefly, if he _was _too big for Jack's tiny body to fit.

"Are you okay?" Chase asked, kissing at the shell of Jack's ear. Jack let out a shaky affirmation, keeping his face buried in Chase's shoulder. "Are you in pain?"

"No." Jack replied. "I'm just scared. Just…just do it."

Chase kissed Jack's cheek in reassurance, and then pushed forward, not stopping until he was in to the root—Jack was so _hot _on the inside. Squeezing him. He nearly choked on a low groan, but buried his face in Jack's neck instead, inhaling the cold, crisp scent that was rolling off of the young omega in waves. Jack was all but hyperventilating, nails digging into Chase's back and breath coming to him in raspy whispers.

"Fuck, fuck that, that." Jack's legs were shaking, and Chase gently placed a hand on Jack's thigh, rubbing it soothingly. "Feels weird, feels good. God."

Chase smiled against Jack's neck. "So, there's no pain?" Chase asked, running his tongue over the hickies that he'd sucked into Jack's neck.

Jack shook his head rapidly, bringing his bottom lip into his mouth and biting it.

"Doesn't hurt at all." He whispered. "Just, so full. I'm so full—are you all the way in? Fuck you've got to be." Jack threw his head back on the pillow, revealing the full length of his throat to the alpha. Chase littered kisses across it.

"I'm going to move." Chase warned, rocking forward. Jack's eyes lit up brightly and he groaned.

"Please, please do that again." Jack whined, grabbing fistfuls of Chase's hair.

"As long as you promise that you won't try and quiet yourself." Chase bargained, slipping his hand behind Jack and forcing him to arch up against the alpha.

"I won't muffle myself." Jack whined. "I don't see what you get out of me making gross noises, but each to his—" Jack was cut off as Chase rocked forward again, pressing Jack into the sheets. "—oh, fuck."

"You're so vulgar." Chase noted, nosing one of Jack's nipples. "I wonder if you could say my name with the same level of passion, hm?"

"Rude." Jack croaked out as Chase continued to rock deeper, barely moving but enough to have Jack scrabbling at his neck.

"Hopeful." Chase corrected, latching onto the nipple in front of him. Jack whined and wiggled—that was, until Chase pulled out part of the way and pushed back in.

_"Chase. _" Jack's voice was needful and raw. "Alpha." The word dripped from Jack's lips like candy.

"Omega." Chase replied, digging his claws into Jack's thigh and thrusting forward again. He pressed his tongue flat against Jack's nipple, and then took it back in his mouth, sucking on it. _Omega. _Chase's alpha crowed. "My omega."

"Yes, yours." Jack agreed, hiccupping when Chase thrust into him again; he was going slow, so as not to cause Jack any panic or accidental pain. "I didn't know it would feel this…this…" He arched his body up higher as Chase caught his prostate on his next thrust.

"I will make sure that you always enjoy our couplings." Chase assured, hiking Jack's leg up over his back. It locked itself there, tight and unforgiving in its grip. "You will never have to worry about pain, with me. I hope you realise this."

Chase turned to press his cheek against Jack's chest. Every languid piston of his hips had Jack's breath hitching in his chest. They interrupted all whines and soft groans that came from his lips, giving them a jackhammer like quality. Jack's cock was becoming hard between his thighs, pressing against Chase's stomach teasingly.

"Faster." Jack whispered suddenly, and Chase's head snapped up.

"What was that?" Chase asked, pulling his arm from around Jack and sitting partially up. "Did you just request that I go faster?"

"I…yeah, please?" Jack asked, his voice incredibly small in his mouth. "I mean, if you're happy with this pace then—" He was cut off by his own voice turning into a strangled cry, body arching up as Chase shoved into him. The alpha leaned down to cup the back of Jack's head, staring him in the eye as he twined his fingers in the omegas hair.

"Faster is a request I can accommodate." Chase purred, hips pushing forward with a newfound pace that Jack sounded more than pleased with. In fact, just the introduction of it had the omega squealing and letting out a slew of new noises and a rise in arousal that had Chase growling out little praises and pressing open mouthed kissed down Jack's neck.

"I can't wait to see your face when you take your first knot." Chase got out as he mouthed at Jack's neck. Jack made an uncertain noise, but Chase cooed at him, rolling his hips forward and letting Jack feel the knot that was rapidly swelling at the base of his cock. Jack's cock twitched against Chase's stomach, breath coming in heavy pants. Chase ground forward again, and actually got a sharp cry from Jack.

"I want it." Jack breathed out in a sob. Chase nipped at Jack's ear, happy to fulfil the request. The sound of slick covered skin slapping together was music to his ears as he pinned the omega down fully, bottoming out inside of him with every thrust.

"You want my knot?" Chase asked, letting his quiet pants bleed in. Jack nodded against the pillow, his hair like a tentacled beast, clinging to the black case of cloth. "Do you want to be filled?" Chase moved his hand between Jack's thighs, gripping the omega's cock and giving it a rough pump.

Jack nodded and whined, twisting his hips and trying to meet the ass-reddening thrusts that Chase was delivering. "Please, please. I'm close—god I just—I want you to knot me and mark me and please give me this. Please let me have this."

Chase frowned—the last bit wasn't spoken toward him. Chase tightened his grip on Jack's hair, pulling it backward and exposing the white of his throat.

"You will have this." Chase told Jack—heat had been pooling in Chase's abdomen for a long while now, churning in his gut and tightening with every pulse of his knot when he thrust inside of the omega beneath him. "You will always have this, Jack. I am your alpha; do you hear me?"

Jack's fingers twisted in Chase's hair, and he nodded. "You're my alpha."

"And you're_ my_ omega." Chase told him, licking at Jack's scent gland. He bore down hard against Jack's body, instinct driving him blindly forward as he tried to slip his knot into Jack. There was a little resistance on Chase's grip in Jack's hair, and Chase flicked his eyes up at Jack, grinding harder against the omega. Jack looked an odd mixture of terrified and aroused—far from ready but ecstatic at the idea of having an alpha.

As soon as Chase's knot slid home, he bit down—and he bit _hard. _Jack screamed so loud that Chase's ears protested, but he refused to pull away. The pain in Jack's voice was evident, but the cum that spilled over Chase's hand and Jack's stomach for the second time was enough to convince Chase that Jack was enjoying it.

Chase didn't bother holding himself back—he happily dug his fangs into Jack's neck whilst pouring his own release into the omega. Jack's legs curled up around Chase and he whined as Chase smeared cum all over Jack's stomach in a half-assed attempt to clean his hand off.

"Get off." Jack whined after a minute or two. Chase growled and tightened his grip on Jack's head, forcing him to be still. He needed to be sure that his mark would stick on the omega. Chase pinched Jack's side when the omega whined again, this time more plaintive and begging.

"Did you want to be marked?" Chase demanded as he pulled away, only find tears in Jack's eyes. "I warned you that it would hurt, Jack." He leaned down, gently licking at the bloodied skin. He could sense his venom beneath, already working on staining the omega's skin.

"I didn't know that you'd have to bite down for so long." Jack whimpered out, tears thick in his throat. Chase trilled gently at him, stroking Jack's hair.

"It most like hurt worse for you due to your current state—not to mention how long you've spent upsetting your body's chemical balance." Chase replied, licking up the blood—his inner alpha was sated, knowing that he'd secured a proper mate. "However, the mark has already taken."

Jack perked up instantly. "It has?" He went to sit up, and then winced. He looked between his legs, then inhaled sharply. "Oh, oh god your knot is still in me." He slowly lowered himself back on the bed. "Your knot. It's still—we're still connected."

"Yes?" Chase had half a mind to be annoyed. "That is likely to happen whenever we have sex. Is that an issue?"

"There's so much cum in me. Jesus." Jack pressed a hand to his stomach, ignoring Chase's question. He nudged Chase, who took a moment to look at Jack. There was a sparkle in his eyes, and his mouth was half open in wonder. "_ Thank you. _"

Chase snorted, pressing a kiss to the corner of Jack's mouth. "It was, and will forever be a pleasure to fuck you, Jack."

It took a good fifteen minutes for Chase's knot to deflate, and another ten to convince Jack to let Chase carry him to the bath.

"Let me clean your neck." Chase ordered. Jack had been admiring the bloody mess on his neck in the mirror, hissing at Chase whenever he tried to clean it. "Do you want it to get infected?"

"Well, no, but look at it. I'm an omega now, like a real one. A wanted one." Jack told Chase in awe. "This blood means something."

"It means that you are messy." Chase told him dryly. "And you have always been an omega. Once I get your neck and wash you off, you can go soak in the bath."

Jack rolled his eyes, tilting his head to the side so that Chase could wash away the blood. They had tackled the mess down below before anything else, which had been a task on its own. He'd then moved across Jack's stomach, then his shoulder and arms. Next, upon request, Chase had carefully washed and dried Jack's hair, leaving the marked skin for last.

"What if I don't want to soak in the bath?" Jack asked, shuddering as a washcloth ghosted down the side of his neck.

"As if that's an option." Chase told him with a snort, admiring his handiwork. The fang marks weren't gruesome or needlessly rough, but they were deep and any alpha would be hard-pressed to find a stronger claim. "You do understand why I bit you as I did?"

"So the mark would stick?" Jack supplied, and Chase nodded. "Don't worry, I get it. Thank you."

"You're welcome." Chase pulled the cloth away. "Come now, into the bath."

"I'm too tired for the bath." Jack whined; Chase ignored him, easily tugging the small omega into his arms and then into the air. "Wait, let me see the mark now that it's cleaned."

"I will give you a hand mirror once you're in the bath, you vain little creature." Chase told Jack with a soft purr. "Are you that happy to be mine?"

"Uh, yeah? Duh." Jack told him, staring down at the dark water of the pool. "What kind of question is that? I get a cool castle, I don't have to die early, I have a heat partner." He risked nuzzling against Chase's chest, looking up at the immortal with big, red eyes that had Chase resisting the urge to chirp at him.

"What is that face for?" Chase questioned, wading into the pool with Jack. He set Jack on a nearby, underwater seat. The water was up to the omega's waist, lapping at his pale skin and kissing at fingerprint-sized bruises and hickies that were along Jack's side.

"For my alpha." Jack told him. "Does this mean that I can be incessantly clingy?"

Chase gave him a quick once-over, before nodding. "Very well, yes. Be as clingy as you'd like, Jack."

The omega rose his arms, curling his fingers in a gesture that was similar to 'come hither'. Chase leaned down, pressing his forehead against Jack's.

"You're a great guy, Chase." Jack pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to the warlord's lips. "Thank you."

"Stop thanking me." Chase told Jack, cupping the omega's jaw. "Simply relax."

A stocky lynx slipped in through the doorway, carrying a silver mirror and brush from the week before. They were set down gently by where Jack was sitting, glinting in the low light. Chase gently picked up the mirror, even as Jack craned his head to look at it.

"These are yours." Chase told Jack, handing the mirror to Jack, before picking up the nearby brush and running it through Jack's hair. Jack's face pinched as a strand of knotted hair caught on the brush. He then turned his neck up to look at the mark on his neck, allowing Chase to brush his hair.

"It's so pretty." Jack breathed. "Why are these mine?"

"Because I've given them to you—they are very old, coming from a time when my own vanity inspired me to seek out Hannibal." Chase pressed a kiss to Jack's forehead. "Does the mark fit your standards?"

"Oh, Chase, it's… it's so wonderful." Tears had begun to bead in Jack's eyes once again. "God, I didn't think this would ever happen. We need to show my parents. They'll be so happy." He looked up at Chase, grinning. "Why would you give me something so old? I mean they must be important to you, if you've kept them around so long."

Chase cocked an eyebrow at him, setting the brush down on the ledge of the tub. He simply stared at Jack for a moment, waiting for the self-proclaimed genius to realise the reason behind the gift.

"Wait, are you. Chase, I can't be more important than these. Can I?"

Chase nodded, slow and affirming. Jack flicked his eyes from the mirror, and then back to Chase. He slowly placed the mirror beside the brush, lifting a hand and letting it hover inches from Chase's cheek before tracing them down it.

"You can't just pull romantic shit like this out of your ass." Jack told Chase fiercely, his wonderment replaced with tearful, playful rage. "You jerk."

"I can do whatever I wish." Chase informed him, kissing his forehead again. "Now, enjoy your soak in the tub. I have things to attend too." He pulled away from Jack, going to leave the tub. "In about twenty minutes I will have a warrior come in and put both antiseptic and a bandage on your neck-so you best look at it all you like now, because it needs to heal. Dinner will be served in two hours—I will return to guide you to the dining hall, so you don't get lost—and then, if you aren't exhausted, I will give you a short tour. "

"Is that all you're going to say?" Jack asked, flipping around to straddle the stone seat; he winced, but continued. "After mating me, marking me, and giving me expensive, emotional gifts, you're just going to leave?"

Chase turned toward Jack, noting the curious look on the omega's face. "Is there something more that you desire?"

"I, uh," Jack's face heated, and he began to fiddle with his fingers. He tilted them down, drawing them along the tile next to him, playing with the condensation there. "I don't know, I thought we could cuddle or something. After I get out of the bath."

Chase let out a soft hum, then nodded. "I don't see why not. Give me half an hour, and then I'll return, and we can…_ cuddle _as you desire." Proceeding to the open doorway, Chase tried to ignore the tacky fist pump that Jack proceeded to jam into the air beside his head. Jack was going to be just as needy as expected.

Chase looked forward to it.


	11. (T) BOYF - Smooth Operator by reptilianr

smooth operator  
reptilianraven

Summary:  
See, just a few hours ago in the hallway, Jeremy may have told a little tiny lie to Jake. Just a casual, offhand comment in reply to Jake's casual, offhand, "Yo, just curious, but have you ever had sex?"

It's a question so out of the left field that Jeremy practically has no choice but to answer, "Pfft, yeah, of course."

It's all downhill from there.

The rumor-filled totally false account of how Jeremy Heere allegedly slept with basically everybody.

* * *

Literally just ten minutes after Jeremy gets home, two seconds before he crawls into bed, dead set on curling up into a blanket cocoon and perhaps dying in it, leaving future archaeologists to wonder just what kind of sad, pathetic life Jeremy Heere had led, his phone blares the Final Fantasy Victory Fanfare, signalling that his best friend is calling.

Jeremy swipes his phone to answer and is greeted by the sound of Michael trying but ultimately failing to hold in laughter. Jeremy is an embarrassing person, so it's a common sound he can easily recognize.

"Hiya, Jer, uh," Michael says and Jeremy can tell he's trying so hard. "Is there, uh, anything you wanna tell me?"

"No," he grumbles, throwing himself onto his bed. He really hopes Michael isn't talking about what he thinks he's talking about. It's been less than a _day_. "Why?"

"Well, you've been pretty popular on the local grapevine of gossip today." Michael says, grin oh so evident in his words. "Like, you are the big buzz—"

"Michael."

"—the main cheese—

"_Michael_."

"—the _bangin'_ blues—"

"That one doesn't even make sense anymore. Please just say it and put me out of my misery." Jeremy buries his face in his pillow.

It doesn't do much to muffle Michael voice, tinny and loud and laughing his ass off through Jeremy's phone, saying "APPARENTLY MY BOY ISN'T A VIRGIN ANYMORE!"

Jeremy mashes his face into his pillow and hopes that if the universe had any mercy, any mercy at all, his pillow would magically turn into a bear trap and snap his head off. Evidently, this doesn't happen, but after what Jeremy's just done, he figures he should be allowed to hope.

(See, just a few hours ago in the hallway, Jeremy may have told a little tiny lie to Jake. Just a casual, offhand comment in reply to Jake's casual, offhand, "Yo, just curious, but have you ever had sex?"

It's a question so out of the left field that Jeremy practically has no choice but to answer, "Pfft, yeah, of course."

Jake brightens up like a labrador retriever being told he's going for a walk, "What, really? Congrats!" He slaps Jeremy's shoulder chummily. Jeremy's pretty sure he's got a bruise. "Anyway, I've got class. See you later, smooth operator."

"Haha, yeah," Jeremy mumbles to Jake's retreating form, a churning in his gut very helpfully telling him that this was far from over.)

"Shut up, oh my god, c'mon, you know it's bullshit." Jeremy groans. On the line, Michael is still snickering, but it's thankfully starting to die down.

"Of course I know it's bullshit, man. If you ever actually had sex with something that wasn't your hand, _I'd_ be the first guy you'd tell," Michael says, finally composed again. "No offense to Jake, of course. He's rad, but I'm higher in terms friend hierarchy, y'know? I'm the _highest_."

"Are you high right _now_?"

"No, no. God, if I was I'd just be cackling the entire time, holy shit." Michael sort of assures him. "But hilarity aside, how did this happen?"

"Jake just asked and I couldn't help but lie," Jeremy sighs. "Like even though we're friends now I'm still kind of intimidated by him because he works out and has perfect teeth? I couldn't say 'oh, no, I haven't because I'm a loser and nobody will ever love me let alone have sex with me.'"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, back up. We just spiralled down into self-deprecation-ville at startlingly high speeds. I think I might have to ticket you," Jeremy snorts. Michael says, voice soft and sincere, "Dude, you aren't a loser and you are loved as _fuck_. So loved. Pretty sure the only person who doesn't love you is, well, you. But that's okay! It's difficult, so take your time, man. In the meantime, I'll love you _for_ you.

Jeremy thinks he hears something that sounds like a facepalm followed by a screech on the line, but he can't be too sure. He's too busy feeling warm and happy from Michael's words.

"Thanks. You're a really great friend." Jeremy hugs his pillow to his chest. "How'd, uh, how'd you hear about this anyway?"

"Jer, the real question is who _hasn't_ heard about this," Michael tells him. Goodbye warm fuzzy feeling, hello buzzing anxiety hellscape. "I think Jake told Rich and Rich told Christine who told Brooke who told Chloe who told Jenna—"

"Who probably told the entire school."

"Pretty much. Everybody's just in such a tizz because they think you're cool, y'know? You're hot news, right now."

"But I don't wanna be hot news," he says petulantly. "Can I die? Michael, can I do that? I'll donate my skull to the school as a prop. I'd make a great Yorick."

"Absolutely not," Michael huffs, "I'm pretty sure everybody will get tired of it soon, alright?"

"God, I hope so. If people keep talking about it, they'll figure out it's bullshit and that'll be pathetic because then everybody will know I lied and—"

"Hey, shhhhh, dude." Michael says. It's a product of years upon years of Michael calming him down that it's almost a Pavlovian reaction for Jeremy to take a deep, calming breath. "Everything's gonna be fine, and if it isn't, I've got your back, okay?"

"Okay," Jeremy says. "Okay, yeah, you're right. You've got me."

"I sure do, buddy."

"And everybody will forget about all this and it'll all be fine."

"Right on," Michael says, and Jeremy believes him. Everything is going to be fine.

_Everything is not fine._

When Jeremy gets to school the next day, he's followed by not-so-subtle glances that people do a shit job of averting. It's almost as if they don't know humans have peripheral vision. Jeremy can see every raised hand to whisper to a friend, every doubtful once over. In his classes, he tries his best to concentrate past the murmurs of _holy shit, really, congrats to him, right, wonder who it was, what if he's just lying. What if he's just lying._

"You look like ass," Michael greets him with a smile later at lunch. "What's up?"

"What do you think is up?" Jeremy stabs at his carton of chocolate milk with a straw. Before he can whine his woes out to his best friend, they're interrupted by Rich.

"Yo, dudes!" Rich slides onto the bench in front of them, smooth as you can. "How's it hanging? Jeremy I heard you had sex. Congratulations!"

Jeremy wants to put his face into his hands and scream, but Rich is holding his hand out for a high five. Michael nudges him. Bros don't leave bros hanging. Jeremy puts his Everything Is Okay face on and high fives Rich.

"What the hell is going on with your face, man?" Rich asks, appeased by the high five.

"This is how my face normally looks like," Jeremy says.

"Like you swallowed a sewer rat?"

"So, Rich!" Michael says because Michael is Jeremy's best friend. "How's your life? How's your hamster? How's that paper crane I gave you last Tuesday?"

"Life? Awesome. Hamster? Pudgy as ever. Crane? On my desk in my room next to the feather Jake gave me," Rich counts off on his fingers, returning his gaze to Jeremy, damn it. "Jeremy, we're bros, right?"

"Yeah," Jeremy croaks.

"And bros tell bros stuff, right?"

"Of course," Jeremy squeezes Michael's wrist under the table, so not looking forward to where this is going. Michael must agree because he makes a tiny, pained noise.

"So I gotta ask," Rich leans in, shifty and secretive. He whispers, "Who was it?"

"Who was what?" Jeremy plays dumb.

"Who did you do the do with, man?" Rich laughs. "It'll just be between us three bros and I'm just super curious. Mega curious."

"Oh, well, haaaaaa," Jeremy is going to die. He's going to die here at a lunch table in a suburban high school in New Jersey because the answer is nobody, and his two choices are to either own up to it or figure out another lie to tell.

Rich, oblivious to the mental armageddon raging through Jeremy's mind says, "Michael, aren't you curious?"

"Haaaaaa, well," Michael draws out, smiling. Jeremy can see the _abort abort abort mission_ flashing in his eyes though. Michael is such a good friend who does not deserve to be pulled into this, but is diving right in anyway. "You see—"

"No way," Rich groans, slumping over the table. "He already told you? What about me? Bro triumvirate, c'mon."

"Triumvirates usually ended up killing each other," Jeremy says.

"Yeah, and you're killing me here, Heere," and Rich pouts. God, he's pouting. _Pouting_. Jeremy and Michael share a pained glance. Rich had told them once that he's always afraid of being left out and forgotten, and right now he looks like the saddest thing on two short legs in the world.

"It's not that I don't want to tell you, okay, it's just—" Jeremy sends _oh god please help me_ looks to Michael.

It's at that moment something in Michael's eyes steel with determination. Michael takes a deep breath, squares his shoulders, and says heroically. "It was me."

What.

"What," Jeremy says.

"What," Rich says, lifting his head from the table.

_What,_ Jeremy tries to convey with his face to Michael, hoping to get the message past just how much he must be blushing right now.

"We had sex!" Michael says again, confident, _loud,_ and at the exact moment everybody the cafeteria is overcome with the inexplicable urge to simultaneously shut the hell up. It's dead quiet save for the faint echo of _sex, sex, sex_ probably reverberating through the hallways, because Jeremy is sure the school decided to have incredible acoustics _right now_ just so that this mortifying moment can be broadcasted to everybody with working ears.

"What the hell, nice one, guys!" Rich grins, breaking what felt like eons of silence. "Congratulations on finally getting together!"

"WE ARE NOT TOGETHER," Jeremy blurts out, releasing Michael's wrist. Jeremy can barely keep up with one lie, there's no way he can keep up with living _two_, especially not one that would tie Michael to him against Michael's will. Michael, for some reason, looks hurt, but it flickers away in a second, replaced instead by an easy smile.

"We are not together," Michael nods sagely. Jeremy, who has no idea what to do in this situation, nods along, drinking his chocolate milk in an effort to calm himself down. "We are not together but we had sex."

"So," Rich looks at them, eyes darting from Michael to Jeremy to Michael to Jeremy. He looks like he's trying to solve a Rubik's cube with his eyes. "So you guys are, what, best friends with benefits?"

Jeremy coughs, violently wheezing on artificially flavored dairy as Michael pats him on the back like the champ he is.

"Nope," Michael says, face impressively unperturbed. "Jeremy just has a lot of sex with lots of people."

Jeremy is about to launch himself into the sun.

"Uh," Rich says.

"So much sex. With people. So many people. Like, uh," Michael says because he's a great friend who's just created the ultimate clusterfuck of a lie to save Jeremy's ass. It just so happens that it's kind of making everything eight thousand times worse. "People like—" Michael darts his eyes to Jenna Rolan who just sat at the table across them. "Jenna!"

"Jenna?" Rich says.

"_Jenna?_" Jeremy squawks.

"Jenna?" Jenna says, looking at all three of them, an eyebrow expertly raised like it's about to cut up a bitch. "What are you guys talking about?"

"Apparently you had sex with Jeremy?" Rich asks cautiously.

Jenna's eyes narrow upon the sight in front of her; Jeremy Heere who looks like he's two seconds away from the sweet embrace of death, Michael Mell who looks like he's going to pull Jeremy kicking and screaming out of the river Styx with his own bare hands, and Richard Goranski who looks like that that one meme of the confused lady with the equations. Whatever she sees, Jeremy has no idea, but it doesn't really matter because she shrugs and says, "Yeah, okay."

"_Oh_-kay, then!" Michael yells, probably as shocked as Jeremy is. "He's fantastic, right?"

"Sure is," she says dead serious.

Slowly, Jeremy looks at Michael thinking _what in the fuck_ so loudly that he's sure Michael can hear it. Michael does this weird smile wince thing which means that he has no idea what he's doing either.

"Huh," Rich sits back, reassessing reality and how one understands and experiences it. "Wow. I didn't peg you for the type, Jer. Which! I'm totally not shaming you, or whatever! Go get it, son! I just really didn't expect this. Wow. Wow."

"Wow," Jeremy says.

"Wow," Michael says.

The bell rings before the heavy awkwardness can become tangible and sentient enough to stab all three of them between the ribs with a shiv. Jeremy's never been happier for lunch to end in his entire _life_.

"I am so sorry—"

"Michael, it's okay, you were just—"

"—I just complicated everything so much—"

"—backing me up in, uh, the only way you knew how and—"

"-and Jenna! I have to apologize to Jenna too and—"

"_Michael,_" Jeremy grabs him by the shoulders, stopping Michael's pacing. If he paced for a second longer, he might've started wearing down the floor of Jeremy's room. "It's okay. You didn't do anything wrong, alright? And if you did, I forgive you."

"Okay," Michael deflates. "But Jenna—"

"About that," Jeremy sits down on one of the beanbags. "She actually uh, talked to me after class?"

(Jeremy tries his best to scuttle out of his classes to the parking lot without anybody else seeing him and his lying ass, but Jenna quite literally grabs him by the back of his bag and drags him into a weird deserted portion of the school because Middleborough High is littered with wormholes, or something.

"Please don't kill me," Jeremy says. "Or Michael. Or Rich. Michael and I are really sorry for bringing you into this and—"

"Why are you apologizing?" Jenna interrupts. "That's what I was going to do."

"I—you. What?" he says, officially lost. "What?"

"I mean, I figure I owe you one," she shrugs. Jenna still looks like she could kill Jeremy, but there's also this vulnerability there, too. A bitterness. "I lied to up my image, so, yeah. Sorry."

"Image?" Jeremy says, still lost.

"Jeremy, I know you're a bit slow on the uptake, but people think you're awesome," Jenna rolls her eyes. "I agreed to whatever the hell was going on at lunch because honestly? It's actually gonna get people to see me as a person and not just some glorified gossip dispenser."

"Whoa, wait, you're a person whether you have sex or not. Dumb shit like this doesn't define you," Jeremy says, stamping down on the urge to hug Jenna and validate her. He's pretty sure she'd kick him in the gut if he tried.

"I know that," she tucks her hair behind her ear. "But this helps. So, yeah. I'm sorry for using you."

"I—uh. Apology accepted. But just for the record, thank you."

"What? Why?"

"Because I didn't actually have sex with anybody," Jeremy confesses, concentrating on his shoelaces. They're suddenly very fascinating. "I, uh, lied. And it blew up. So, if your lie is beneficial to you, would it be okay if—"

"If I kept it up so that nobody will figure out that you're lying?" Jenna smirks.

"Yeah. That," he scratches the back of his head nervously.

"You know what? Deal. I'll even spice it up some more," Jenna holds her hand out for a shake. "To liars."

"Uh," Jeremy shakes her hand. "To liars.")

"Oh, well," Michael blinks, taking in what Jeremy just told him. "I'm kind of surprised at how well that worked out."

"Tell me about it," Jeremy sinks into the beanbag, exhausted at everything that happened today. He rubs his palms into his eyes. "Can we just, I dunno, do whatever and forget about everything outside this room for a few hours?"

"Now that I can do," Michael tosses Jeremy a controller and ruffles Jeremy's hair. "Who needs sex when you've got video games, right?"

"Who needs sex when I've got you?" Jeremy smiles, glad that he's got somebody like Michael who's always by his side.

"Yeah," Michael croaks, looking away. "Absolutely. Now come on. Zombie killing time."

Since Jenna is how everybody gets to know everything, the news that Jeremy is some suave bisexual bicycle that tons of people have taken a ride on spreads faster than most news outlets could only dream of doing. Once Michael stops beating himself up over the lunch conundrum, he's back to his usual teasing self, more than happy to regale just how (hypothetically) great Jeremy is in bed to anybody who has enough misfortune to ask. Jeremy, for one, is still mortified by the entire ordeal, worried beyond belief that it'll all come crashing down as one big lie, but it never does.

So in the usual pattern of high school gossip; life goes on. All Jeremy has to do is keep his head down until it all blows over and this'll just be one of those things Michael and Jeremy will laugh at years in the future.

Honestly, Jeremy shouldn't have even entertained the idea of being that lucky.

Jeremy gets ambushed by Brooke and Chloe on the way to play rehearsal. It's all a blur. All he can remember is Brooke happily greeting him and looping her arm with Jeremy's before Chloe comes up from behind in a way that wouldn't look too out of place with the Jaws theme playing in the background, her hand a tight grip on his shoulder like a vulture ready to fly off with his carcass.

"Jeremy," Brooke says, voice sugar sweet. "Chloe and I have to talk to you."

"Yeah, Jeremy," Chloe says, voice sweet in the way poisons probably taste like. "We've gotta talk to you."

"Oh my god," Jeremy says, wondering just how many near death experiences a seventeen year old can have before he spontaneously combusts out of stress.

Brooke and Chloe subtly steer him through the hallways into a janitor's closet. Vaguely, he realizes that they could murder him here. It's not a productive thought, instead sending him into a subdued panic when the door clicks closed.

"Jeremy Heere, I want to have sex with you," Chloe says. Behind her, Brooke smiles.

"Uh," he says intelligently.

"Hypothetically, of course," Chloe amends. "Jenna told me about this whole sex thing being a sham, and I want in."

"Jenna told you?" Jeremy shrinks. At this rate, everybody's going to know soon enough. But right now, the pressing matter is a bit more puzzling. "Wait, uh. Why?"

"Because of this, idiot," Chloe rolls her eyes and holds Brooke's hand delicately, fingers intertwining, fitting together as if they were always meant to. Chloe glances at Brooke, and for the first time in Jeremy's life, Chloe doesn't look terrifying. She just looks in love; face slack, soft, and painfully honest. It kind of makes Jeremy's chest feel like it's going to explode.

"Chloe and I are dating," Brooke says, raising their laced fingers to her lips, giving Chloe's hand a soft kiss. It's such a tender moment, Jeremy feels like he's intruding. "But I'm not out to my parents. And it's kind of better that way."

"Brooke's parents are dicks," Chloe says viciously. There's the terror again. Oddly enough, Jeremy is relieved. "And I'm worried that they'll catch on to how we're dating, seeing as how neither of us are dating anybody else. What we need is a little distraction to affirm how we're totally not girlfriends. With my reputation, it's a bit more in character for me to just suddenly have sex with a dude. With you."

"Okay, I think I'm catching on now," Jeremy says slowly.

"Good," Chloe nods. "You don't even really have to do much. All you have to do is go along with it. I'll tell Jenna and Jenna will tell everybody else and—"

"Problem solved," Brooke grins, but it falters. She bites her lip nervously and says, "Of course, I know this is a lot to ask of you, Jeremy. Lying all the time can be hard and it wears you down so we totally understand if you don't want to do this."

"I'll probably be pissed at you for weeks," Chloe admits, but grimaces when Brooke elbows her in the side. "But yeah, I'll understand, or whatever."

"No, I'll—I'll do it," Jeremy finds himself saying. "If it will really help you guys out, I'll do it."

"Jeremy!" Brooke tackle hugs him. Alarmed, Jeremy glances to Chloe who thankfully just looks fond. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!"

"It's no problem, really," Jeremy awkwardly pats Brooke's head. "Just, uh, don't tell anybody else that this is all one big lie?"

"Of course," Chloe scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "That wouldn't benefit anybody."

And it would also cause the downfall of Jeremy's entire life, but he figures that that's a more apt way to say it anyway.

By this point, Jeremy's frankly in awe with Jenna Rolan's disseminative powers. During rehearsal, there's a wave of message dings and text buzzes. A bunch of students blink at their phones before glancing at Jeremy, murmuring softly.

Christine, who is sitting next to him reading over her lines checks her phone, looks at Jeremy, checks her phone again, turns back to him and says, "Huh."

"Yeeaaahhhh," Jeremy drawls. His shoelaces are so great. So interesting. Positively captivating.

Christine blinks owlishly at him, "You're being safe, right?"

"_Oh my god_," Jeremy squeaks.

Christine continues, headstrong like the cutest battering ram in a denim jacket. "Because I've heard the news and I'm really proud that you're getting confident with your sexuality and exploring and having sex and stuff, even though I don't really see the appeal, but you are using protection, right? Right? STDs are no laughing matter, Jeremy—"

"I am not laughing at STDs! I am using so much safety," Jeremy says, wincing internally. _Using so much safety_, what the _fuck?_ "Condoms? Love that." His hand is shaking. It wants desperately to smack his forehead. "So protected. One hundred percent."

"Okay, okay, good, I'm glad you're having fun." Christine smiles, but she's always been one of Jeremy's more perceptive friends. "You—Jeremy, is there something wrong?"

"No. Yes. It's," he takes a deep breath. "It's nothing. Just usual stress."

"Okay," she nods. "But if ever you need to talk about anything, I'm right here okay? And if you don't want to talk to me, you can talk to somebody else. We're your friends. You can tell us anything."

Jeremy feels a stab of guilt pierce his soul. "Thanks."

"Alright, people!" Mr. Reyes walks in, clapping his hands to grab everybody's attention. "Let's stop talking about the local heartthrob and start practicing."

Jesus Christ.

Later, he goes over to Michael's place because Michael always makes him feel better. Michael stuffs him in a soft blanket and shoves a tub of ice cream into his hands. Together, they sit on Michael's kitchen counter and shovel cold sugary cookies and cream heaven into their respective mouths as Jeremy tells him all about today's unmitigated disasters.

"Dude, you're kind of awesome for agreeing to that," Michael says around the spoon in his mouth. "Not all heroes wear capes. Some heroes wear stripes and thumbhole cardigans."

"Thanks, I guess," Jeremy says, idly excavating a cookie bit. "I'm just—worried."

"When are you ever not?"

"Fair point," he says. Jeremy's spoon gets stuck in the ice cream, a mocking Excalibur. "Ugh."

"Oh, you poor thing," Michael snickers as Jeremy tries to extricate the utensil from the ice cream's cruel cold grasp. "Jer, stop, it's hopeless. Your noodle arms won't be able to handle it."

"Fuck off," Jeremy huffs, but gives up.

"Don't worry, I'll get it, dude," Michael says, using his own spoon to scoop up the very specific bit of ice cream Jeremy wanted. With no preamble, he pushes the spoon into Jeremy's mouth. "You're welcome."

"You're the best," Jeremy lays his head on Michael's shoulder, puzzled at Michael's sharp inhale, but not enough to ask about it. "Thank you."

"It's just ice cream, man."

"No, I meant—Thanks for always having my back," he tells Michael. "This whole thing is kind of stressful and you're the only one I can really talk to about it. You're the one who knows I'm a lame-o who lied in the first place, but you're still here."

"I'll always be here for you," Michael says sincerely.

His hand goes for Jeremy's face slowly, and suddenly Jeremy isn't breathing anymore. Despite the cool feeling of ice cream on his tongue, everything is very, very warm. He has no idea what's going on. Michael's hand lands on Jeremy's cheek, thumb swiping at the corner of Jeremy's mouth.

"Uh," Michael recoils his hand back. "You just had a little something."

"Oh," Jeremy blinks, dazed, warm. His stomach churns with something that feels like anxiety but is...fluttery-er. "Thanks."

"Wanna get high and watch Back to the Future?" Michael says.

Jeremy knows an opportunity when he sees it. "Absolutely," he says, pushing back whatever weird feeling his gut was doing.

The anxiety of the lie doesn't go away, but it's dulled down a bit for two reasons in particular. The first is the fact those who are part of the lie seem _happier_. Jenna smiles a bit more often and she talks to people more. When she sees Jeremy in the hallway she nods respectfully, as if he's done her an incredible favor. Brooke and Chloe go through their classes in a worry-free fashion, hands held, easy grins, and soft laughs. Sure, the looming possibility of everybody finding out he's a good for nothing liar makes him feel like thirty seven hornets live in his ribcage, but those hornets calm down when he sees Jenna, Brooke, and Chloe. If this is helping them, he'll deal. He's got another matter on his hands, anyway.

Which leads Jeremy to the other reason; Michael.

Something has changed for Jeremy. He has no idea what it is, but it's a buzz in his bones that he can't seem to ignore whenever Michael is around. It's a buzzing that gets louder whenever Michael does, well, anything. When he smiles, when he puts his headphones on Jeremy to let him listen to a new song he's found, when tries to balance a pencil on his nose, when he looks at Jeremy, best friend of twelve years, and grins.

He can't possibly tell Michael about it since Jeremy doesn't even really know what it is anyway, so he tucks the buzzing away and hopes it doesn't get loud enough for Michael to hear. On the bright side, the buzzing drowns out the stress Jeremy feels about the lie.

Well, at least until,

"Jeremy," Rich says when Jeremy gets out of play rehearsal. The hallways are empty. "I've gotta, uh, tell you something. Two somethings. One is a something and the other is a favor that might help the something."

"Oh, sure," Jeremy says, pocketing his phone after sending a string of emojis to Michael. The fluttering buzzing is pretty strong right now, what with Michael sending him eight awful puns in a row. _What does the largest bird do when it wants to be longer? It os-stretches._

"I know." Rich says.

"Know what?" he asks, still thinking about the puns. _What do you call a deer that can write with both left and right hooves? Bambidextrous._

"About the whole sex thing," Rich clarifies. Slowly, Jeremy feels the horror trickle into his bloodstream. "About how it's uh—Well. Y'know."

_What do you call somebody who's fucked? Jeremy Goddamn Heere._

"Oh," Jeremy says, taking a wheezing breath. He doesn't know why this time it's more stressful than it was with Jenna, Brooke, or Chloe. Maybe it's the buildup. Jeremy takes another breath, sounding a whole lot like somebody who's got a kazoo stuck somewhere in his throat.

"It's just—Jeremy? Oh my god, Jer? Jeremy are you okay, holy shit?" Rich flails his hands around. "Is this a panic attack? Oh my god, did you make you have a panic attack? Jeremy, I'm so sorry, oh my god, what do I do?"

"Not a panic attack," Jeremy breathes. Pretty damn close to one, but not. He figures he should be thankful, or something. "I'm okay. I'm sorry."

"_I'm_ sorry, oh my god, I should've never said anything," Rich says, face a perfect picture of alarm. "It's just, these assholes in my chem class we're talking about you and how all the stories weren't adding up, or whatever, then they started ragging on you. Then I was like, 'hey fucknuts I'm not afraid of creating a flamethrower right here and setting this place on fire if you don't shut u—

"Rich, that's arson."

"It's called being bros," Rich tells him. "Anyway, because of that I kind of just, figured it out? Because they were kind of right, with how nothing added up and how everything was just hearsay. I'm not mad at you for lying! I know you've got that anxiety shit, so it must've just happened somehow, but uh. Uh. God, I had a point here."

"Wait," Jeremy says, backtracking through everything Rich has just told him. "People are starting to figure it out."

"Yeah," Rich winces. "I am so up for threatening anybody who tries to drag your name through the mud, but, yeah."

"Oh god," Jeremy leans against a locker. In his pocket, his phone vibrates, another pun from Michael. "Oh _god_."

"Jeremy? Are you okay?"

"For a given definition of okay," Jeremy runs a hand down his face. "What was the second something? You said you were gonna ask a favor?"

"I don't think it's a good idea anymore, considering how freaked you already are," he says.

"Please just tell me. Best to get it all out now while I'm already freaked."

"Okay, well. I just got to thinking that, well, if you needed to keep up this story by, say, having hypothetical sex with somebody else—"

Jeremy's had this conversation two times already so he knows where this is going. "You want to say you had sex with me? Why?"

"Having sex with Middleborough's hot news?" Rich grins, "Best bi coming out _ever_."

"Oh, yo, congrats," Jeremy high fives rich. High school is so, _so_ surreal. "I'm up for it. Just tell Jenna and she'll tell everybody else."

"Yeah, but that's the thing, Jer. Telling isn't working anymore," Rich says and he's right. If what Rich said about those guys in his chemistry class are true, this will just make everything look even more obvious. "So, I had a bit more of a plan?"

"Plan?" Jeremy says nervously. Most of Rich's plans involve either vast amounts of regret or pyromania. Both, if they're lucky.

"Jakey D is having a party this weekend, right?" Jeremy nods. "Well, my plan is we show up, make a scene, lock ourselves into a room and—"

"Oh my god, I'm not actually going to have sex with you, Rich!" He screeches. "No offense."

"None taken," Rich waves a hand dismissively. "And I was gonna say have fake sex."

"Fake," Jeremy says, cogs turning in his head. "Sex. Fake sex."

"Fake sex," Rich nods. "Fex, if you will. Sake? Saxe? Nevermind. It's a stupid idea, I know—"

"No," he says. If the school finds out Jeremy was lying, it isn't just him who's going down. Jenna, Brooke, and Chloe will get flack too. _Michael_ will go down with him. Jeremy is pretty sure he's done dumber things in his life, so what's one more to add to the pile?

"No," Jeremy says. "Let's do it."

Jeremy and Rich arrive when Jake's party is already in full swing. They're both acting wasted as shit despite the fact that Rich literally just drank a bottle of soy milk and the hardest drink Jeremy's ever had in his life was a Crystal Pepsi. The only reason why they don't look sober and decent is because they ran the plan through Michael who did a good job of making sure the both of them looked like the utter catastrophes they're trying to be.

("Rich, mess up your hair. No—you're fixing it. Ugh, let me," Michael ruffles Rich's hair into what can be kind of described as sex hair. "There you go."

"How about me?" Jeremy asks awkwardly, shivering under Michael's calculating eyes looking him up and down.

"For an anxious wreck, you dress like you've always got it together, man," Michael steps towards him. "A button up to a high school party? You're my mom's dream come true."

"I can change—"

"No, don't," Michael holds him by his shoulders. His hands travel to Jeremy's collar, fingers deftly unbuttoning the first, then the second, then the third button. "The whole contrast between proper and disheveled adds some more scandal."

"O—Oh, okay," Jeremy's breath hitches when Michael fingers turn one bit of his collar inwards, brushing against the skin of his neck. Jeremy almost _dies_ when Michael's hands reach his hips, quickly tucking one of his shirt tails _into his jeans._

"Ahem," Rich says loudly, grinning, one eyebrow raised like a Dreamworks promotional poster. "You fellas done?"

"Yeah," Michael steps back, turning away, finally letting Jeremy breathe.)

"Jeremy! Rich! You guys look wrecked!" Jake greets when they're through the door, red solo cups in each hand.

"Wassup Jakey D," Rich slurs convincingly, arm around Jeremy's waist because he can't really reach Jeremy shoulders without tiptoeing. "We maybe did some pre-drinking before coming here."

"Tons of pre-drinking," Jeremy smiles, hoping it comes off as drunk and ready get down and dirty instead of screaming with fear like what is actually happening in his head. He pitches his voice louder, loud enough to hear past the thrum of music in the air and says, "Do you maybe have, like, a room, or something."

"I was just telling Jer this rad story," Rich sidles up to Jake, or at least tries his best to. Jake is very tall. "And I was hoping, you know, to finish telling him, _if you know what I mean._"

It sounds ridiculous, but it must work because Jake steps back, mouth a thin line, and says, "There's a guest room just down the hallway."

"You are the man, Jakey," Rich grins, pulling Jeremy along through throngs of people who had stopped to watch the exchange.

"Thanks!" Jeremy calls out to Jake, but oddly enough, Jake's eyes are dark. His face upset.

Jeremy can't dwell on it for too long though because Rich pushes him into the guest bedroom and locks the door.

"Okay, Operation Fake Sex is now in action," Rich whispers like some sort of spy. "Eagle 2, get the blinds."

Jeremy rolls his eyes, tamping down on the urge to laugh. He shuts the blinds while Rich honest to god duct tapes the keyhole of the door, as if people still actually look through keyholes. When the room is adequately sealed off, they both fall back first on the bed.

"So, uh," Jeremy looks at the ceiling. "How do we do this?"

"Start, like, grunting," Rich says.

"Mmmmrr?" Jeremy tries. It's met with silence, so he sits up to look at Rich who's wheezing silently, hand over his mouth, muffling laughter. "Shut up!"

"Jeremy, dude, oh my god, that sounded like you weren't sure if the milk was bad or not." Rich wipes a tear from his eye. "You've watched porn, right?"

"Of course I've watched porn!"

"Then just do that."

"Oh, fine, if it's _so_ easy you do it," Jeremy huffs. Rich, the kind of person who takes everything as a challenge, grins and does just that. Loudly. Shamelessly. Dramatically. Over and over again.

"Oh god," Rich groans out. Objectively, it sounds incredibly sexual, but the context just make Jeremy want to laugh hysterically. "Oh god, yeah, _Jeremyyyyy_."

Jeremy, worried that this sex scene is sounding awfully one sided, decides to at least try, "Aw yeah," he covers his eyes with his hands. "God, yes, Rich, just like that."

"Now we're talking, buddy," Rich whispers before moaning loudly. "_Fuck_ yeah."

"So good," Jeremy moans, hiding his face in a pillow. What the fuck is his life right now.

"Yo, dude," Rich nudges him. Jeremy turns his face to see Rich standing on the bed. "Let's give these weirdos something to really talk about, yeah?"

"Fine. Let's fucking do this," Jeremy says, finally understanding that whatever the hell his life has become, it's still his and his alone. He stands up on the bed.

Rich beams and starts jumping on the bed. It creaks and the headboard bangs against the wall. For the lack of anything else to do, Jeremy bangs on the walls too.

"Aw yeah, god Jeremy!" Rich yells.

"God don't stop," Jeremy groans before he even realizes what he just said. He pitches his voice softer, "Yo, in this hypothetical scenario, who's doing who?"

"Does it matter?"

"Well, I dunno, I figure it's gotta add something to the auditory experience of it."

"Auditory ex—Jeremy you are thinking too much. Just let go. Jump on the bed. Moan like you're in a porno. Have _fun_," Rich says before letting out a long, drawn out whimper. "Jer! I'm so close!"

The ridiculousness of the entire situation finally hits Jeremy, so he gets over whatever semblance of dignity he's still pretending to have and starts jumping on the bed, moaning his heart out. "Yeah, yeah, keep going, Rich!" Jeremy muffles any laughter he has into his hands.

"_God,_ I'm so bisexual," Rich groans loudly.

"So good!" Jeremy yells just to stop himself from doubling over in laughter.

"Damn right I am," Rich says to which Jeremy can't help but laugh softly at. "Time for the grand finale, man."

"How does that go?" he asks, breathless, a little giddy.

"Really loud groan. Almost pained. I can push you off the bed so it sounds natural."

"Okay sure," Jeremy shrugs. "On three?"

"Alright," Rich nods, "One," he counts, then he pushes Jeremy off the bed.

Colliding with the floor does actually make for a loud, pained groan, which Rich punctuates with his own high moan. When this is all over, Jeremy needs to remember to ask Rich if he's interested in acting.

"You okay, dude?" Rich hops down and helps Jeremy up. "Sorry for pushing you early. It wouldn't have been as loud if you expected it."

"It's fine," Jeremy lies back on the bed, panting. "How long do we stay here?"

"Maybe like five? Ten minutes? We're trying to make it seem like this was incredible, earth shatteringly fantastic sex, so the afterglow us gonna last for a bit," Rich tells him. "Thanks for this, Jeremy."

"No problem, Rich," Jeremy offers him a fistbump. "It's called being bros."

Rich looks like he's about to cry. He solemnly taps his fist to Jeremy's, with goofy, sincere smile.

Jeremy grabs his phone to pass the time and is bombarded by messages from everybody on his contact list. Brooke sent him a long string of "omg"s, Jenna sent him one hundred forty winking emojis, and Chloe sent him a vaguely ominous message that just says "I'd avoid Jake for a while, if I were you."

He's just about to ask her what she means when he gets a message from Michael.

From marshMELLow

somebody just livetweeted your SCANDALOUS TRYST with the incredible bisexual richard goranski

fhhkdsjfhs wait this thread is hilarious im sending it to you

To marshMELLow

Please don't, oh my god.

I kind of don't wanna read whatever they're saying about me.

From marshMELLow

ok

are u alright?

To marshMELLow

Omg, dude I just jumped on a bed and moaned. It wasn't surgery.

I'm fine.

From marshMELLow

haha ok just checking

do you want me to send u pics of cute animals?

To marshMELLow

You are my favorite person.

From marshMELLow

AND DONT U EVER 4GET IT!

From there, Michael starts sending him pictures upon pictures of kittens and ducklings and puppies. The fluttering buzz starts up, getting louder with each picture as he smiles at his phone like a dweeb. Michael is incredible. Michael is a great friend. Michael has a folder full of animal pictures to send just to send to Jeremy because he can tell when Jeremy is nervous. Michael is—

Michael—

"Oh my god," Jeremy says. Or he thinks he says it. The buzzing is so, so loud.

"Hm?" Rich faces him. "What's up?"

"_I like Michael._"

The rest of the night passes in a blur caused by Jeremy's Holy Shit I Like Michael epiphany. He gets home, phone still buzzing with cute animal pictures. Michael is sending him armadillos now. _Armadillos_. He muffles a screech into his bed and goes to sleep, vowing to figure out how to deal with the fluttery buzz tomorrow.

The next day, he thankfully doesn't see Michael in the hallways in the morning, buying Jeremy some more time to think of a game plan. He walks through crowds of students, a bunch of them high fiving him for last night. Jenna shoots him a finger gun. Christine gives him a thumbs up. When he passes by Brooke and Chloe, Brooke smiles, bright as sunshine, but Chloe's face is unreadable. Vaguely, Jeremy feels as if he's forgotten something.

He can't figure out what it is until it's lunch and he's nervously walking to the cafeteria, anxious to see Michael, the guy he likes, when suddenly somebody grabs him his jacket and drags him into the bathroom.

"Aaaahhh?" Jeremy says, head reeling from the whiplash. He looks up slowly, not eager to find out whoever is about to beat his ass, when he sees, "_Jake?_"

"Jeremy!" Jake snarls, slamming Jeremy into the wall. For all that this is very aggressive, Jake still reminds him of a labrador retriever. "Fuck you!"

"What?" Jeremy squeaks. "What did I do?"

"You slept with Rich in the guest bedroom of my house at my own goddamn party," Jake yells. Jeremy is sure that everything he said was an intelligible word, but all together, they don't make any sense.

"I still don't get why you're doing, uh, whatever it is you're doing?" Jeremy hazards. "Jake, why are you holding me up against the wall like you're about to punch me."

"I don't know!" Jake says, letting Jeremy down enough that his feet can touch the floor again. "I...don't know."

"It's, uh, okay," Jeremy pats Jake in a manner he hopes is soothing. "Wanna talk about it?"

"I guess," Jake lays his head on Jeremy's shoulder. "I just, I dunno. I'm angry? For no reason?"

"You said this had something to do with Rich," he hazards. "Maybe he's the reason?"

"I think so," Jake grumbles. "I just got really angry when I heard you and Rich had sex? Like, I'm not biphobic, I swear, I'm so proud of him for coming out and having fun and I'm okay with you but when it's you and Rich. Or, or the concept of _anybody_ with Rich. It just makes me angry? But not angry? Not at him, just at, the—the other—"

It's confirmed. New Jersey is filled with emotionally stunted teenagers.

"Jake, I think you might be jealous," Jeremy says very, very slowly.

"Oh," Jeremy swears he can see the lightbulb go off in Jake's head. "Oh! I am! Why though?"

Jeremy decides to not say anything, hoping that Jake can put two and two together just like Jeremy did last night.

"Ohhhhhh my god," Jake says. It's like the enlightenment flashes through his eyes, except instead of the truths of the universe, it's probably just a bunch of scenes of Rich. "Oh my god, I like Rich."

"Congratulations," Jeremy laughs.

"But you slept with Rich," Jake frowns, and Jeremy scrambles to get himself out of this mess.

"I actually didn't." Jeremy winces. The things he does for love. "Uh, god, just. Just ask Rich and tell him I'm fine with him telling you. But I swear, I didn't actually sleep with Rich. And I'm not planning to."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Oh my god, I like Rich and you didn't sleep with him," Jake says, hands coming up to cup Jeremy's face. "You rock, man. You—"

"Oh, wow, okay, totally interrupting something, sorry, uh Jake—" somebody walks into the bathroom, somebody who is Michael. Jake turns to greet him and Michael's expression falls when his eyes land on Jeremy. Immediately, Jeremy is aware of how this must look like. Jeremy up against the wall, Jake with his hands on his face, the both of them very close. "Jake and—and Jeremy. Jeremy and Jake. Jake and Jeremy together. Okay, I'm out."

"Michael!" Jeremy calls out frantically, but Michael's already bolted out of the bathroom. "Oh, no, no, no."

"Dude," Jake takes him by the shoulders, pushing him towards the exit of the bathroom. "Go get your boy."

Jeremy spares Jake a thankful nod and takes off, sneakers skidding against the floors to do just that.

It's all a hunch, but he follows it anyway, running past the cafeteria and out to the back of the school that overlooks the field where they play sports, or something. There, Michael is leaning against a wall, trying to light a cigarette.

"Michael," Jeremy pants, out of breath. "I can explain."

"You don't have to, it's chill man. I'm glad you're with somebody for realsies, now," Michael says, shoulders hunched, clicking hopelessly at his lighter. "Fuckin' stupid—"

"I wasn't making out with Jake," he says. "I swear. You have to believe me. He was actually going to punch me for fake-sleeping with Rich."

"What? Why?"

"Because he likes Rich," Jeremy explains.

"Huh," Michael blinks, popping the cigarette out of his mouth. "Well, good for him. You didn't have to get so panicked, though. I just felt super awkward because I thought I walked in on you guys."

"You didn't. There was nothing going on."

"Okay, I believe you, it's okay." Michael pockets his lighter and cigarette. "Are you okay? Do I have to kick Jake in the shins for scaring you."

"No, no, you don't, I just," Jeremy says. It's a little windy out, so he can blame the loud buzzing he feels on that. "I just wanted to make sure you knew. That nothing was going on."

"Why," Michael steps forward. "Why was that so important to you?"

"Because," Jeremy says. It's so loud, right now, but his words feel louder. "Because I—"

"Jeremy?" Michael asks, concerned.

Jeremy takes a deep breath and steels himself, stepping closer to Michael. Fuck lies. Fuck it all. He says, "Can I show you? Just, uh, tell me to stop if ever you don't want—"

"I really doubt I'm going to do that, Jer." They're so close now Jeremy can feel his words against his face. "Jeremy," Michael says.

"I'm going to kiss you," he says.

"Oh god, please," Michael says, and that's all the invitation Jeremy needs.

It's clumsy and Jeremy has no idea what he's doing and Michael's glasses clunk against Jeremy's face, but the simple press of his lips against Michael's is enough to make all that go away. It all seems so trivial now that he's got his arms around Michael's neck, Michael's hands holding Jeremy's face as if it's something precious. The buzzing gets louder and louder until finally, the pin drops, and there's only silence. No more hornets or flutters, just silence. Silence and Michael.

Jeremy pulls away and he's downright blessed with the picture of Michael fluttering his eyes open, gorgeous and grinning and perfect.

"I like you," Jeremy says. "I really, really, really like you."

"I get it, you listen to Carly Rae," Michael laughs, looking too happy to be real. "I like you too, if you haven't noticed."

"I mean, I noticed now," Jeremy says, and it slowly dawns on him that maybe he's been a bit of an idiot. "How long have you liked me? I'm pretty sure I liked you for a long time but I only figured it out last night."

"I am not telling you how long I've known, Jeremy. It's embarrassing," Michael buries his face into Jeremy's neck.

"Why didn't you—ah," Michael is _kissing his neck_. Jeremy is going to die, and for the first time ever, he's perfectly fine with how it's happening. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"You seemed really offended at the idea of us being together," Michael pulls back to look at Jeremy. "That one time at lunch? I was so sure you knew I liked you and that was your way of turning me down."

"Oh my god, no, I just thought you wouldn't want to get tied up with me and my lie then feel obligated to act like you liked me!"

"This is definitely not acting," Michael kisses Jeremy, just a short peck at the corner of his mouth. It's the most endearing thing since the fucking armadillos. He does it again. And again.

"Does this mean we're dating? Can we be dating?" Jeremy smiles at each tiny kiss.

"Never in my wildest fuckin' dreams have I ever thought you'd be asking me that," Michael says. "Yes, we are dating. Yes, yes, _yes_."

"Yes," Jeremy says, not an ounce of it a lie. This is as true as it gets.

(To everybody at Middleborough who wasn't in on the lie, the story they knew was something like this: Jeremy had sex with Michael, but wasn't ready for a steady relationship, so with Michael's consent, he goes off and sexes half the student body. Everybody who Jeremy sleeps with ends up miraculously happier than they were before. Eventually, this gets old and Jeremy returns to Michael, and they start dating in the earnest.

Everybody who _was_ in on the lie knew the infinitely more complicated story that really happened, but it all worked out in the end. It all worked out pretty okay.)


	12. (G) TREEBROS - The Vampire Prince by con

The Vampire Prince  
connormurphyfangirl (hamburrfangirl)

Summary:  
There's a vampire prince at school and Evan wasn't exactly pleased about it. Not only had the prince's presence caused the entire school to go ballistic, Evan was terrified of vampires! They were horrifying creatures, sucking the blood right out of live animals. What kind of monster did that? Evan was going to stay away from this vampire prince. Far, far away. His mother had told him enough stories for him to know that vampires were no good.

But a new student threatened to change Evan's entire view.

* * *

Chapter 1

Evan stared at the shelf, panic slowly filling him. Where the hell were the luna moth wings? He needed them to finish his potion making lab. Not only did he have to create an invisibility spell, but he had to test it out and document the results. The whole lab was due tomorrow, but he had been so swamped with his other homework he'd been unable to complete it early. God, this was the exact reason he hated leaving things to the last minute.

Still desperately reading the labels on the vials, he was startled when the door to the brewery flung open with a loud bang. A twinge of annoyance flashed through Evan when he saw his only friend Jared walk in. Jared was very distracting, and he did not need that right now.

"You'll never believe the news I have brought," Jared said, plopping down on the desk chair.

"J-Jared, I'm a l-little busy-"

"There's a newbie." Jared grinned and leaned forward, a spark in his eyes. "And he's royalty."

That made Evan paused. "Royalty?" He said. It was strange that someone of royal decent would be here. Any royals in the five races rarely ventured out of their castles. There were various safety reasons for it, assassination being one. With the recent five-way peace treaty, it was safer to keep the royals in their homes.

"Yup!" Jared shrugged. "Apparently the vampire king and queen wanted their misfit son to learn proper discipline seeing as the tutors at home were no help. But I mean that's just the rumor that's going around."

"Wait, he's the prince of the vampires?"

The vampire race was notoriously violent. Before the peace, they were the leaders in war. Whether they caused them, or took part in them, vampires were never far from the battlefield. Evan had grown up, like all human mages, with stories of the awful things vampires were capable of. He knew just how dangerous they were and was wary to go near one.

"I know right? Why the hell would a vampire prince be at a mage school?" Jared shrugged. "Maybe he's just bad at magic."

Evan frowned. "Maybe."

"Anyway, I know how pathetic you are about vamps, so I thought I'd tell ya." Jared stood up and stretched. "Also," He tossed Evan a vial. "Here are your luna moth wings." He grinned at him. "See you around loser!"

Evan clutched the vial close and scowled to himself. Jared and his stupid teleportation magic. He was a near master in the art, but despite being so skilled, all he ever did was steal other people's things and pull pranks. Evan himself had been the butt of his amusement more times than he'd care to admit. It was no matter. He had the wings and he could finish up his lab. At least Jared had returned the item before Evan could spiral this time.

He ended up getting a B on the lab which he would take. Crafting potions was difficult. It required concentration and strong magic. Considering that Evan still hadn't found a familiar to aide him, a B was about as good as he could get.

Stuffing his grade into his bag, he hurried through the hallways. Ever since the vampire prince had arrived a week ago the students had been going ballistic. Not only did they flock to the prince like a bee to honey, but they blocked the hallways making it difficult to get around. Nowhere was safe. Students clumped together both to gossip about the prince, but also to catch his attention. Apparently, he was quite the looker and considering he was filthy rich, Evan wasn't surprised boys and girls alike were attempting to court him.

Really, Evan didn't understand all the fuss. The prince was just a person. Sure, he was a vampire and royalty, but he probably had little quirks about him like everyone else.

He ducked passed a few students and scurried into the library. The library was the only space that wasn't overrun by vampire prince groupies. Plus, it was nice and quiet and few students actually went in and stayed. Most just grabbed whichever book they needed and they left again.

He wandered through the shelves, breathing in the musky smell of the books. The library was definitely his favorite place to be. With its massive books and quietness, it was Evan's ideal place. He loved it so much in fact that he had made his own little corner. He'd brought a couple of blankets from his room and draped them over a cozy chair near the back on the library, right beside a fireplace that was never lit. It was comfy, quiet, and, most importantly, away from people.

He rounded the corner to his secret place and was horrified to see a boy sitting on his chair, boots tucked under his knees. He stumbled to a stop and gaped at the boy who looked quite content reading his book.

Evan hurried back around the corner and peeked out, scowling a bit at the boy. That was his chair, and he was getting his grubby boots all over it! Evan fiddled with his staff, but only sulked further into the shelves. He hated confrontation. He would just stand here and wait for the boy to leave. It looked like he was almost done his book anyway.

And so he stood, silently studying the boy. He was startlingly handsome. Long lashes, soft-looking brown hair, and pale skin. His eyes were fascinating. They were a brilliant blue and when Evan squinted, he could make out a splash of red. His lips were pink and stretched into a small smile. The boy was just pretty overall. A little too pretty. Evan's eyes narrowed. Was the boy using an enchantment spell to appear so beautiful? But if that was the case why was he hiding all the way in the back of the library?

The boy snapped his book shut and Evan internally cheered, waiting for the boy to get up and leave. Instead, the boy reached for the side table and grabbed another book.

Are you kidding? Evan thought. Another book, another fucking book. Wasn't one enough? He stiffened when a wide grin spread across the boy's face, revealing sharp fangs. A stifled gasp escaped Evan's mouth. The boy was a vampire! Shit, shit he had to get out of here!

"I know you're there, mage." The vampire said.

Evan froze. His chest stuttered and his throat closed up. A gloved hand flew up to his neck and he cowered away when the vampire rose and strolled over to him. Despite not being a huge height difference, the vampire still managed to tower over Evan. The panic was growing now. Was he about to die?

"Is this your spot?"

It felt like the air was punched out of his lungs. "W-what?" Evan choked out.

The vampire gestured to the chair. "Those blankets smell like you." He stated. "I figured you probably spend a lot of time there." He shrugged. "And when you just stood there, waiting for me to leave I felt a little bad." The vampire gave him a crooked grin. "Sorry for stealing it. I just needed to get away for a bit."

With that, the vampire collected his books and walked off. Evan watched as he went, eyes glued to the elegant way he walked. How the vampire managed to walk around in those heels, Evan had no idea. But he pulled them off and goddamn did they look good on him.

Fire climbed up Evan's face and he hurried to his chair, completely flustered. He couldn't help but feel a little proud. He had survived meeting a vampire! Look at him go. He eyed his blankets, wondering if he should wash them. When he studied them, he could see no dirt, so he decided against it. Setting his staff down, he settled in.

It wasn't for another week did Evan see the vampire. Once again, the vampire was in his spot. This time though, he appeared to be asleep. Cautiously, Evan approached him. Upon closer inspection, he could clearly see dark circles under the vampire's eyes. They looked like bruises against the pale skin. Evan pursed his lips before gently draping one of his favorite blankets over top of the vampire. He could barely contain his smile when the vampire made a sleepy snort and snuggled into the blanket. He really shouldn't find a vampire this cute, but here he was.

Now that his spot was most likely going to be taken for a while, Evan braved the front of the library to complete his homework. It was a Friday afternoon, so hopefully, there wouldn't be too many people.

As suspected, the library was mostly empty so Evan settled in one of the back tables. An hour into his homework, he was feeling completely drained. Potion formulas and spells floated in his head creating a whirlwind he couldn't control. His head swarmed, and he slammed his book shut. A quiet groan escaped his mouth, and he traced the title of his textbook. He startled when a blanket was draped over him and he whirled around. His eyes connected with the vampire's and they both froze.

"You, uh, you looked tired." The vampire said awkwardly.

Evan's throat completely dried up, and he gaped. The vampire licked his lips and his eyes flickered away. Evan watched as he fiddled with his nails. He wondered if they were painted or just naturally black.

"I'll, I'll um, leave you to it then." With a stiff nod, the vampire made his way around the table and to the exit of the library.

"Wait!" Evan cried. His voice echoed through the silent library and he grimaced when the librarian shot him a glare. The vampire turned around and staring at him curiously.

"What's uh, what's your name?" Evan asked. Surprise flickered across the vampire's face.

"Uh, you can just call me Connor." The vampire said.

"My name is E-Evan." Evan held his hand out, and the vampire stared. He blinked at Evan, confused. "U-um, humans s-shake hands when they m-met each other..." he trailed off, his hand lowering.

"Oh!" Connor said. Evan's breath escaped him when cool hands grabbed his. "Like this?" Connor asked and oh god, his eyelashes were so long and pretty what the hell.

"Y-yeah," Evan said weakly. Connor gave him a bright grin and didn't move his hand. "We uh, do this now." Evan continued awkwardly and lifted his hand up and down. Connor followed his movements.

"How bizarre." He said, head tilting slightly to the right. Evan pulled his hand away, hyperaware of his sweaty they had become.

"How do vampires greet each other?"

Connor reached out and Evan stumbled away with a cry. He stared wide-eyed as Connor frowned and looked away.

"Sorry." He whispered, staring at his boots.

"It's f-fine!" Evan said. "You just startled me is all. Go ahead."

Connor looked unsure but he stepped forward. Evan was not prepared to be pulled against the vampire and to get a faceful of pale neck. He felt Connor inhale before stepping back. Evan could feel the heat radiating off his no doubt red neck.

"That's how vampires greet each other," Connor said. "Pretty different from humans, huh?"

Evan could only nod.

"Well, I hope I'll see you around." Connor gave him a small smile. "Good luck with your homework."

"T-t-thanks." Evan stammered and with a twirl, Connor walked away in a flurry of red and black.

* * *

Chapter 2

After the first two meetings, Evan and Connor met in the library most days. Evan was typically huddled in a corner, pouring over notes. Sometimes, Connor was doing the same. More often, he was reading one of his many books. They were all in a different dialect, so Evan could never tell exactly what he was reading. He was hoping Connor could teach him the language but when he had shyly inquired about lessons, Connor had flushed and stammered his way through an explanation of how he probably wouldn't be a good teacher. Not wanting to pressure him, Evan had dropped it and Connor brought English or Latin books from then on.

Evan never thought he could trust a vampire, but Connor was quickly becoming a close friend. Connor was kind. He never mocked him, never laughed when his anxiety was acting up. Whenever Evan spoke up, he gave him his full attention and never complained. However, Connor was silent about himself. Any time Evan asked him about his family or his home, he would shrug him off. If he continued to press, Connor would sometimes snap at him. It was frightening, seeing Connor so angry. He would bare his fangs, snarling, and his eyes glowed red. He was always quick to back down and apologize. Evan learned quickly that the subject of family was off limits.

"Who's that?" Evan asked, staring down at the ginger cat that was lounging in the vampire's lap. Classes had just ended for the day and despite Evan trying to get to the library as quickly as he could, Connor still beat him. They had a small competition going. Evan couldn't remember exactly how it started, but they raced to see who could get to the library first. Connor always won.

"I dunno," Connor said, scratching the cat's ears. It purred loudly and pressed its head into Connor's hand. Connor's eyes widened, and a grin broke across his face. "It's so cute." He mumbled, cooing softly.

"You don't have cats back home?"

"Well yes, but I'm not really allowed out so I've never seen one." He shrugged. "Besides, cats are kinda like snakes to humans, not exactly the most popular pet. Bats are far more common. My family has a whole cloud."

Evan's face twisted. "Bats, huh? Are they vampires too?"

Connor blinked at him before bursting into laughter. "What?" He managed between giggles, eyes glistening with tears. "Vampire bats? Are you on something Evan? Where on Earth did you hear about that?" His grin was teasing and Evan flushed.

"It's not my fault vampires are so secretive!" He said defensively. "Few humans have met a vampire and lived to talk about it."

That drained all the laughter and joy right from Connor's face. They fell into silence, Evan staring at his boots and Connor staring at the cat.

"I-I'm sorry-" Evan started.

"The vampire race isn't that bad you know," Connor said softly. "Our country is beautiful and we live just like the rest of you. We have shops, music, traditions, and families we love and care about. We're not the deadly, bloodthirsty monsters people make us out to be. We can survive on high iron foods; we don't even need blood to live."

Connor held the cat to his chest, ignoring the meow of protest. "We feel things aside from bloodlust." He gently put the cat on its back and stroked its belly. "We have compassion, we feel love. We are kind. I just wish more people knew that."

"W-why don't you tell people?" Evan stammered. Connor's gaze went to him and Evan looked down at his shoes and shift his staff around. "I mean, vampires were always secretive before the peace treaty, so the other races only really have rumors and the stories from the battlefield to g-go off of, y'know? So maybe you could um, open your country up. Allow other races in? Share your culture and s-stuff..."

"We've tried. Our borders are wide open, but no one comes. If we enter another country, we're met with distrust and fear." His face fell, and he cradled the cat to his chest. "There is nothing we can do. The myths surrounding us are too deeply rooted."

"Maybe the king and queen could send ambassadors to the other races? I mean, if they talk to the other rulers, surely that would help." Evan suggested.

Connor hummed. "That could work, but I don't see how I could get close enough to the king and queen to suggest it."

"What about the prince? You're one of his bodyguards, right? If you talked to him, maybe he could convince his parents. Wouldn't he listen to you?"

Despite being secretive, Connor had given in after continuous probing why he was attending a mage school.

"I'm here to keep an eye on the prince." Connor had quietly confessed. "But it's so boring that I tend to sneak away more often than not."

When questioned further, Connor had just shrugged and changed the subject. It didn't come up again.

Connor pressed his face into the cat's fur. "From what he has told me, he's not very close to his parents." The cat squirmed in his arms and he released it. It fell to the ground and walked over to Evan, rubbing against his legs. "Even if he agreed to talk to them, I'm not sure they would listen. The king and queen mainly listen to their advisors. Not the commoners or their young son."

"It couldn't hurt to try."

Connor sighed. "I guess. How was class? Still struggling with potions?"

Evan nodded. "Yeah, I just, my magical strength is so much lower than everyone else."

"Because you have no familiar right?" Connor glanced at the cat that was now curled up by his feet. "What about him?"

Evan looked down and stared at the cat. The cat's eyes opened and stared back, its eyes looking too intelligent for it to be just a cat. Crouching, Evan held out his hand. The cat leaned forward just a tad and gave him a sniff. Evan stiffened when he felt a nudge inside his mind, but relaxed a moment later, welcoming the slight pressure. He stayed still and quiet as the animal briefly searched his mind, nudging memories that were long forgotten back into the present. A moment later spells pushed in and Evan gasped. Vaguely, he heard Connor let out a startled cry, but he couldn't focus. Words, spells, and memories ran, chasing one another in a relentless race.

Then suddenly, everything stopped. His brain slowed and his breathing became steady. Hazel eyes bore into his and Evan kept his gaze steady. The cat relaxed a margin and went up to him, meowing softly.

"What just happened?" Connor asked, staring with wide eyes as Evan picked up the cat, a grin on his face.

"This is Miray." Evan said, cradling the cat close. "She's my familiar."

Connor blinked, gaze going from the cat to Evan and back again. "That's all it took? Just... staring into an animal's eyes and then they're your familiar?"

"Um, n-not exactly." Evan gave a stiff laugh. "It's more like the familiar chooses you. And not every animal out there is a familiar." He shrugged. "Mages can normally tell when an animal is more than just... an animal. They've got this look in their eye. After you recognize one, it's up to the familiar whether they chose you to be their mage."

"Huh." Connor's brow furrowed. "That definitely explains how she randomly appeared. From what I was told, a familiar appears to their mage when they're needed and offers their assistance? Do you think she was waiting for you?"

"I dunno. It doesn't happen very often, I doubt it would for me." Evan shifted and Miray dropped.

"Why not? I mean, you're a hard-working mage and you have a good heart."

Evan's face flushed. "I-I'm not really anything special... My magic level is mediocre at best, I can't, I can't talk to people, and I just. I doubt I can make a difference. No one will remember me, so why would a familiar appear just for me?"

Connor was up in such a flash that Evan had no time to react before cool, pale hand were surrounding his cheeks. His eyes widened and heat raced when he felt Connor's breath against his neck.

"C-Connor-"

"Never say such things about yourself again." Connor's eyes glowed, red shining through. "You do not need to impact the entire world. Impacting those around you is enough." Connor's eyes shifted away and dimmed slightly. "I was... very lonely before I met you. At home, my family is cold. I know I am not welcomed. When I was sent here, I was hopeful for a new beginning, but it didn't happen. The other students... they don't look at me the same as you." He met Evan's eyes again. "You make me feel important. Like I'm not some tool for others to use for their own gain. And that... that takes something special. So what if you never impact the world? You impacted me and I will never forget you for it."

Evan tried to swallow around the lump in his throat but found he was unable. Before he knew it, tears streamed down his face, and he collapsed in Connor's arms. He didn't know how long he cried for. Time seemed impossible as Connor's strong arms held him and whispers of reassurance were murmured to him.

Eventually, the choked gasps quieted and disappeared. The seemingly endless stream of tears dried up, and it left Evan exhausted, clinging to Connor's cloak.

"You going to be all right?" Connor asked softly when Evan took a reluctant step back.

Evan sniffed and wiped at his eyes. "Y-yeah." He grimaced when he saw the tears soaked into Connor's shirt. "I'm sorry for making a mess of your shirt."

"It's all right. I have tons of them." Connor grabbed his hand. "You're more important than a shirt."

Evan flushed and sniffed again. "Y-you're important too."

"Huh?"

"Ever since you came into my life, the world seems brighter." Connor's eyes widened and his cheeks flared red. Evan wanted to go hide under the covers of his bed, embarrassment flooding him. But Connor needed to hear this. "You'll always be welcomed here."

It was Connor's turn to sniff, and he did just that. "Look at us," he chuckled. "Making each other bawl their eyes out."

Evan laughed too. Miray wandered over to him and rubbed against his leg, purrs barely audible. Evan smiled at her while Connor wiped away any stray tears.

"At least you've finally got a familiar now. That'll help you in class, right?" Connor said once they had both calmed down.

"Yeah. My magic will be more powerful and casting spells and creating potions should be easier." Evan practically vibrated with happiness. Having a familiar was a huge thing in the mage community. Having one meant you were not only powerful but respectable. Any mage over twelve who didn't have a familiar was looked down upon. At long last, Evan wouldn't have to hide in shame during magic classes. "I'll finally be seen as a true mage."

"I'm happy for you." Connor's eyes glittered and his smile was wide. A bell rang out, indicating the hour change and Connor stiffened. "I'm gonna be late!" He cried, springing up from the chair and gathering his things in a rush.

"Late for what?" Evan asked, getting up as well and handing Connor his sword.

"My tutor is going to kill me." Connor bemoaned. He clasped the sword to his belt. "I have to go. We'll meet again tomorrow?"

"That sounds good. And I'm gonna win this time!"

"Ha!" Connor flashed him a grin before disappearing into the shelves.

Evan wore a stupid little grin as he studied, familiar in his lap and a certain vampire on his mind.

* * *

Chapter 3

"I have to say, you humans come up with the weirdest things."

Evan looked up from his textbook. "Huh?" He asked half of his attention on his familiar. Miray was almost constantly curled up on his lap, demanding attention. And if for whatever reason Evan's lap was unavailable, she went to Connor for love.

"You know that thing called puns?"

Evan nearly groaned out loud. Oh no.

Connor's grin was bright as he held up his phone. "Humans have made many puns about vampires. Like this one! What is a vampire's favorite holiday?" Connor's grin widened and his fangs poked out. "Fangsgiving!" He said gleefully.

This time, Evan groaned out loud, but Connor burst out in laughter.

Evan froze when the joyful sound escaped his friend's mouth. God, he was screwed. He was so royally screwed. He knew it the moment Connor laughed at his own fucking joke. And his laugh wasn't just some small little chuckle or giggle. This laugh was a full-on bellyaching, chest wrenching, laugh. Connor's eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open with laughter, his fangs on display. The look of joy was something Evan rarely saw on his friend's face and he found himself unable to look away. Miray nudged his hand, meowing with protest. In his staring, Evan's hand had ceased petting her.

"You're a needy cat." He mumbled, but still gave in. Connor, who had finally calmed down, giggled.

"She just wants all the love." He said, draping himself over Evan's shoulders. Heat flared up Evan's neck when Connor pressed his cheek against Evan's. Connor nuzzled him briefly and Evan could feel his breath against his heated neck. He pulled away a moment later and Evan stared intently at Miray. He would not look at the cute vampire. He would not look at the cute vampire.

Miray nudged him again, glaring. Connor grinned before suddenly grabbing Miray right off of Evan's lap. Miray yowled in surprise but it quickly turned to purring when Connor cuddled her in his arms and stroked her ears.

Evan's mouth hung open. "You're supposed to be my familiar." He protested. "Little traitor."

"You need to love her more." Connor tsked, but there was a wide, teasing grin on his face. Evan drank in the sight before him. Miray snuggled further into Connor's arms and Evan's heart melted at the soft look in his friend's eyes.

"You really like cats, huh?"

Connor nodded. "I wonder how one would get along with our bats." He hummed. "Misty probably wouldn't appreciate my attention being stolen."

"Misty?"

"Misty is my bat. She's very cute but very tiny." Connor gained a faraway look in his eyes and his smile grew. "She really loves to cuddle." He cradled Miray closer. "I miss her."

"When are you returning home?"

Connor shrugged. "Probably the same time as the other students. Vampires don't celebrate the same holidays as humans though."

"What type of celebrations do you have?" Evan asked.

Connor flushed and fiddled with Miray's fur. "We have a lot of parades, actually." He licked his lips. "We um, we have a parade for the peace treaty."

Evan blinked. The vampires celebrated the treaty? Many were under the impression that the vampires loathed the peace, especially considering their history. Mind you, the vampires really weren't what Evan thought they were. A sense of shame settled in him when he realized that he had judged an entire race on their ancestors, expecting each person to fit the stereotype.

"What's the parade like?" Evan asked. It was obviously the right thing to say considering how bright Connor's eyes got.

"It's beautiful." He breathed out. "We have a parade of performers, each dressed in the armour of a specific race. They dance and coerce the crowd to dance as well." Connor smiled grew soft. "The parade is filled with music and laughter. Once we reach the palace, the dancers perform an amazing dance, detailing the many battles and finally ending with the peace treaty. Afterwards, we have our veterans come out and join the crowd, allowing them to spend precious moments with their families and giving them the chance to tell their stories. It's an amazing day, truly."

It sounded magnificent. "I would love to see it one day," Evan said.

Connor's smile was blinding. "I would love to show you."

Evan soon realized human culture fascinated Connor. Every time they were around each other, Connor would mention yet another human thing he had discovered. Evan was extremely amused when Connor brought a mechanical pencil.

"We still use quills, Evan." Connor had exclaimed. "This is amazing!"

Evan found Connor interest endearing. In fact, he found most things about Connor endearing. From his tiny fangs poking out, to the silly way he sat, to his childish wonder. All of it made Connor who he was and Evan loved it.

Evan's breath caught and his eyes widened. His magic cackled softly and Miray crawled into his lap, nudging his hands.

"Fuck." He breathed out. The revelation of Evan liking men was no surprise. He realized he was bisexual at a young age, but god. Connor was a vampire. Even if Connor somehow liked Evan back, it wouldn't work. Interracial relationships were so rare and still stigmatized. Plus, Connor worked for the royal family. There was no way he would be allowed to date a human mage.

Evan's hand curled. He had to keep his feelings to himself. They would eventually fade out. It wouldn't be a problem.

It was a problem. It was a huge problem.

Once Evan became self-aware, he noticed more and more things about Connor. With every small smile and soft look, Evan fell further in love. He couldn't take it. He wanted to be with Connor so much.

Late at night, he made his decision. Leaning against his wall was his broom. He stared at for a long while before nodding firmly. Tomorrow, he would ask Connor if he'd like to go on a broom ride. For whatever reason, Evan always felt so much safer and confident up in the air on his broom. If Connor agreed, Evan would confess. But if Connor said no, Evan would shove his feelings so far down they would never see the light.

Evan nervously breached the subject while studying in the library. This time it was Connor attempting to memorize notes while Evan read or played with Miray.

"Have you ever been on a broom ride Connor?" Evan blurted out and immediately wanted to smack himself. So much for staying calm, cool, and collected.

Connor looked up from his notes, blinking with surprise. "A... broom ride?"

Evan nodded, trying to contain his nerves and failing. "I-it's the main way mages travel." He stammered out. "I thought um, maybe you'd be interested?"

A look of fear entered Connor's eyes. "We won't fall off, will we?"

"No!" Evan exclaimed. "There, there hasn't been a broom incident in years. Magic developed a lot during the wars, so there are so many new spells to prevent falls."

"So there's no chance I'll fall?"

"None."

A breath of relief rushed out of Connor and his shoulders relaxed. "I would love to take a ride." He said with a smile.

Unable to stop himself, Evan sputtered out a choked wheeze and red crawled up his neck. Connor frowned as Evan tried to compose himself.

"R-right." He stammered. "After dinner, is that time g-good?"

Connor nodded.

Evan waited nervously on the front lawn. His broom hovered beside him. His hands threaded in the bristles, twisting them and breaking a few off. Connor had said. Connor had agreed. Evan squeezed his eyes shut and took in a breath. He told himself that he would confess if Connor said yes. And he had. So now Evan had to tell him how he felt.

His stomach lurched, and he resisted the urge to be sick. His palms became clammy, and he quickly wiped them down his pants.

"C-calm down Hansen." He stuttered. He tried to steady his breathing but failed miserably when he caught sight of Connor. His air became stuck in his throat when he saw the black jacket with golden buttons. It hugged him so wonderfully and Evan's throat was suddenly parched. His nerves increased, and he tried his best to focus on calming his racing heart. God, why did Connor have to be so pretty?

"Hey," Connor said, hands fiddling with the fur lining his cloak.

"H-hey!" Evan stammered, his voice rising a pitch.

"Is that your broom?"

Evan nodded and whistled. The broom went horizontal and Evan quickly stepped on it. Connor nervously followed. He awkwardly clambered on, knees bent more than Evan's.

"Um," he stuttered, hands twitching.

"Y-you can wrap them around the b-broom, o-or um, m-my waist." Evan's face flushed and Connor's did as well. Once Connor's hands were securely wrapped around the broom, Evan muttered a quick ready? and shot off. Evan could hardly contain his grin when they flew up. Ever since he was a boy, riding was his absolute favorite thing to do. The feeling of the wind and the pure freedom that came with riding was exhilarating. When he heard Connor's screech of surprise, his grin widened.

Evan swung his leg over so that instead of straddling the broom, he was sitting sideways. He looked behind him and laughed when he saw the terrified look on Connor's face.

"It's okay Connor!" He shouted. Connor's eyes flickered to him. Evan grinned at him. "Don't worry, you won't fall off."

Shifting his leg over so he was once more straddling the broom, he carefully reached behind him and wrapped Connor's arms around his waist. "Just pretend we're on a motorcycle." He said, barely containing his blush.

He felt Connor exhaled on his neck and he went stiff when his friend pressed himself to Evan's back. The blush was in full force now. Connor was so warm, especially for a vampire. Eventually, Evan slowed the broom so they were flying along at a slower pace.

Connor let out a tiny gasp and Evan looked back to see a smile stretched along his face.

"It's amazing." Connor breathed out, eyes fixated on the ground.

"Y-yeah," Evan stammered unable to look away.

They flew around the school's campus three times before landing. Evan was so distracted that confessing slipped his mind. As they climbed off, Evan couldn't help but notice that Connor was unusually quiet. Evan had expected his friend to talk his ear off about the flight and an overwhelming wave of insecurity flooded him. Did Connor not like the ride? Did he think Evan's driving was too bad? Did he hate Evan now? His thoughts spiraled further and further, conjuring up more negatives.

"Evan," Connor said softly. "I... I need to talk to you."

Evan froze, panic blinding him. "W-what?" He barely choked out. He was so panicked that he didn't even notice the distressed look on Connor's face.

"I..." Connor's face fell, and he looked away. "I'm not a bodyguard Evan." He whispered.

Evan's panic cleared a bit, leaving confusion. "Huh?"

"I'm not the prince's bodyguard," Connor repeated.

Evan's anxiety-ridden brain didn't connect the dots and he could only stare blankly at his friend. Slowly, ever so slowly, the pieces fell into place. All at once, Evan recalled their first meeting. Connor had appeared confused when Evan hadn't already known his name.

"You're the prince." He whispered wide-eyed.

"Evan, I'm sorry. I'm _so _sorry." Evan was frozen, his feet couldn't move. His throat wouldn't work and he could only stare helplessly as Connor fell apart.

"I never wanted to lie." Connor gasped. "I never wanted to hurt you like that. But I just, you were there and you saw me. _Me_. You didn't see a prince to use to your advantage. You saw an equal, a peer. I just-" his voice broke and the tears finally slipped down. "I couldn't let that go."

Evan gaped at him, mind scrambling.

"I'm sorry," Connor whispered before fleeing, ignoring Evan's startled shouts.

* * *

Chapter 4

Evan couldn't sleep. Over and over, his mind replayed what Connor told him. Connor distraught expression remained trapped in his mind every time he closed his eyes. He rolled over and hugged his pillow to his chest. He trembled and squeezed his eyes shut. He had to find Connor tomorrow. He needed to talk to him, explain to him that he didn't care if Connor was a bodyguard or the vampire prince because he liked Connor for Connor. Who cared about his title? To Evan, he was just Connor.

The next morning, Evan searched for him. He scoured the halls, and when that proved fruitless, he waited in the library. He continued to do this for a week, and when he didn't see Connor once, he started to become desperate.

"Jared," he said, walking up to his friend. He hadn't spoken with Jared for a while. Connor had provided an ample distraction and if he was being honest, Jared hadn't crossed his mind once. "Do you know where the prince is?"

Jared looked up from his scroll. "What?" He said. "Why are you trying to find him? You're terrified of vampires."

"Yes, well." He paused. How did he even begin to explain everything to Jared? "I just need to talk to him. It's important."

Jared seemed suspicious and Evan didn't blame him. Only a few weeks ago, vampires petrified Evan.

"Please, Jared?"

Jared sighed as if it was a big inconvenience before grabbing a spare scroll. He took out a phoenix feather and muttered a location spell. The scroll transformed into a map of the campus with a red dot to show where Connor was. Based on the scroll, Connor was outside on the field. Evan's stomach twisted at the memory of Connor's heartbroken expression.

"Thank you," Evan said and gave Jared a brief hug. He didn't notice Jared's look of mild discomfort as he rushed to the field. He slowed his pace and came to a stop at the door. He peered out the window and there Connor was. He was picking daisies and looked to be threading them together. His cloak and hair chased the wind. Evan watched him for a moment being mustering up his courage and marching out to the field.

"Connor!" He shouted. The vampire flinched and his eyes widened. Evan barely caught his wrist to prevent him from escaping.

"Please, I just want to talk," Evan said. "Please, Connor."

Connor sank to the floor. His shoulders pressed against his ears, his body tense to the point that it looked painful. He looked defeated.

Evan knelt beside him and took a deep breath. "I don't care." He blurted. "I don't care that you're the prince. I don't care that you lied because I understand. You wanted someone that saw you - the real you. Not the prince, not the vampire, you." Connor looked at him. "I know that desperation," Evan confessed.

"You're just... accepting that?" Connor said. "What I did, it wasn't okay Evan. I lied to you."

"And that wasn't okay, but we can move past that. I _want_ to move past that."

Connor stared for another moment, looking conflicted.

"I forgive you, Connor," Evan said firmly. "Maybe you should forgive yourself."

They soon settled back into their routine, but there were differences. Connor answered any question Evan asked, but never tried to push Evan. Sometimes, he brought snacks or a book Evan had mentioned. He even brought Miray cat treats though Evan wasn't sure if it was because he liked her or because of guilt.

It took another two weeks on near constant reassurance for Connor to relax. His smiles became more genuine and his eyes held less guilt.

They were sitting on the field again. Evan had just taken Connor on another broom ride though this time he took him through the step-by-step process of how to fly. Connor was fascinated the entire time and Evan's heart sang at the returned curiosity.

"Do you know a lot of magic?" Evan asked. He stared at the clouds, smiling when he saw one that looked a bit like a cat.

"Not a ton," Connor said. "Back home, we're mostly taught blood magic. Before the peace, we learned offensive magic, but my parents changed that. There's no need for it since we no longer fight."

"What exactly is blood magic?" Evan had heard of it, it was hard not to considering it was the vampires' typical way of fighting, but that didn't mean he knew much.

Connor shrugged. "It's powerful I guess, but not everyone uses it. The strength of the spells depends on the type of blood you use. At home, we have tons of psychics and prophets who claim they can tell your future by consuming some of your blood."

Connor laughed at Evan's disgusted face.

"Vampires drink blood remember? We aren't squeamish. Most of the psychics and prophets are complete felgercarb."

"Felgercarb?"

"Oh, it means bullshit."

Evan giggled. "Felgercarb." He repeated and laughed again. It was just such a ridiculous word.

"So, if you aren't bad at magic like the rumors suggest, why are you at a human mage school?" Evan asked. The reason Connor had given before was obviously a lie, and Evan couldn't help his curiosity.

"My parents sent me here because I was acting out," Connor admitted. "Almost every day I got into fights, snapped at servants, screamed at my sister, and I shut myself away. My magic spiraled out of control along with my emotions." He shrugged, picking at the grass. "I dunno, I guess they hoped sending me here would get me back under control."

"I don't know your parents, but maybe they hoped sending you here might make you less lonely," Evan said.

Connor scoffed and looked away. "I'm not lonely." He said. "There are hundreds of people in the castle. I'm never alone"

"That doesn't mean they're your friends." Evan licked his lips and placed his hand over Connor's. "The only people you've ever know are those who wish to control you or use you for their own gain. Everyone else is impersonal or burdened with the responsibilities of running a kingdom."

Connor stared at their hands, blinking rapidly. Evan carefully laced their fingers together and squeezed gently. He smiled at the prince before leaning forward and resting his forehead against Connor's.

"I'm lonely too," Evan confessed. Connor stiffened and his hold on Evan's hand tightened. "I miss my mother and the boy I've known for ages claims I'm just a family friend." Evan swallowed. "I think you may be the first person to be a true friend to me. And I," he closed his eyes. "I think I may love you for it."

Connor's breath hitched. He held Evan's hand in a death grip and Evan felt his eyes burning into him. "You love me?" Connor repeated. "Even, even though everything was a lie?"

"In the weeks I've known you, I don't think it was all a lie. I think that was the real you. The you that's not burdened by expectations and responsibility."

"When did you get so wise?" Connor's voice cracked and his eyes filled with tears. He sniffed. Evan shifted until he held Connor. He pressed Connor's head to his collarbone and Connor shattered. Evan's heart ached at the sounds of his sobs, but he could do nothing but hold him. Hold him tight and offer any love and comfort he may need.

"Did you ever plan on telling me?" Connor asked. They were still pressed together, but Connor had stopped crying. His arms curled around Evan's waist. His grip was tight like he feared Evan would get up and leave.

Evan smiled bashfully. "I was actually planning on telling you during that broom ride. I guess I got so distracted that I forgot."

"The campus was beautiful." Connor murmured. Evan kept the fact that he'd been distracted by Connor to himself. He shivered when Connor pressed his nose closer to his neck. He squealed when a wet tongue pressed against his skin.

"Connor!"

Connor pulled away, laughing. Evan blushed and shoved him a little. Connor's cheeks were flushed, and he held his stomach while he wheezed with laughter. Evan couldn't help but smile at the sight. If Jared were there, he'd probably mock him for it.

But god, Connor was just so pretty. His hair was around his head in a mock halo, his pearly fangs poked out, and his pale skin looked gorgeous when it was flushed pink. It was impossible to not love Connor.

"You think I'm pretty?" Connor asked. His flush now went all the way down his neck and he suddenly looked very shy.

Evan turned red at the realization that he'd spoken aloud. "Uh, yeah. Your face is um." He wanted to bury himself in the ground he was so embarrassed. "Your face is nice to look at." He squeaked.

"I like your face too," Connor said. His smile was small, a bit shy, a bit amused. He sat up and kissed Evan's nose. Evan grabbed his shirt and pulled him down into a real kiss. Evan felt Connor's soft hair brushing his cheeks, tickling him.

They kissed softly. Evan couldn't resist sucking on Connor's bottom lip and Connor retaliated with a gentle nip of his fangs.

"Does this make us boyfriends?" Evan asked breathlessly. Connor took another sweet kiss before resting his forehead against Evan's.

"Do you want it to?" Connor whispered. Evan swallowed and nodded. Connor's responding smile was blinding. "Then I guess we're boyfriends."

Evan reached up and tucked Connor's bangs behind his ear before leaning up to kiss his cheek.

"I really really like you." He said, sitting up.

Connor helped him stand. He laced their fingers together. "I really really like you too." He said.

Evan's chest felt tight, ready to burst with happiness and love. He couldn't stop staring at his boyfriend and kissing him. He was so stupidly in love and he never wanted it to stop.


	13. (T) MERTHUR - True Love by platonic bone

True Love  
platonic_boner

Summary:  
AU where soulmates can't lie to each other.

(That's okay, Merlin wasn't planning to lie to Arthur anyways! Haha.. ha.. ha…)

* * *

**MERLIN**

Merlin's in trouble.

Firstly, he's a sorcerer in Camelot, of all places. And as he found out upon his recent arrival, the ban on magic is definitely _not_ taken lightly (unlike sorcerers' heads). To add to that little problem, he's just been appointed as Prince Arthur's manservant, which means that not only does he have to have to scrub floors and muck stables, he has to try to be _polite_ to someone who can otherwise have him thrown in the stocks. And politeness does not come naturally to Merlin. So, yes, he's definitely in trouble.

He doesn't know just how _much_ trouble he's in until the day he tries telling Arthur how hideous he looks in that particular shade of red. It's a perfectly normal thing to tell the prince you're serving when he asks if he looks all right, thank you very much, and Merlin has previously insinuated a number of insulting things about the prince, so he expects no problems with uttering this one.

But instead of an insult, what comes out of Merlin's mouth is, "You look very majestic, sire."

He then promptly stumbles and drops the bucket of water he's carrying. Merlin did not mean to say that. Merlin meant to say the opposite of that, but instead the truth came out. Oh no. No no no.

Arthur snorts at the dropped bucket and growing puddle. He doesn't seem to think anything is amiss, probably because he already knows that Merlin trips and breaks things and throws things around way more than is normal.

"Go fetch a rag and clean that up," Arthur says. Merlin scurries to obey; Arthur calls after him, "And Merlin? Cut the sarcasm."

Merlin wonders, as he attempts to mops at the puddle with a rag, if maybe his tongue _had_ just decided all on its own to be sarcastic? Merlin quite likes that explanation. It sounds much more pleasant than the other option, the one Merlin thought of immediately, which is that _Merlin can't lie to Arthur because Arthur is his soulmate_.

Merlin pauses his mopping to bang his head on the stone floor.

Merlin is a _sorcerer_ who can't lie to the _Prince of Camelot_. How long can he possibly expect to live?

Merlin spends the next few days saying very little to Arthur at all, because ignorance is bliss and denial is very healthy for the soul, and all that. But this annoys Arthur and bores Merlin, and besides, ignorance is probably pretty dangerous in this instance. So Merlin decides to test it.

(After all, a few days after the original incident, he's almost convinced himself that he _was_ just being sarcastic. Clearly he's not _soulmates_ with _Prince Arthur_; that would be ridiculous.)

So, as he and Arthur walk down the steps into the courtyard, Merlin says, "The sky is a beautiful shade of green today."

At least, he tries to.

Of course, what actually comes out is blue.

Arthur looks at him like he's out of his mind. "Have you been drinking, Merlin?"

Drinking. Now _that_ sounds like a great idea.

Gaius notices something is wrong, of course, because he always does.

"What have you done now?" he asks, demonstrating a worrying lack of faith in Merlin that is, sadly, entirely warranted.

"I haven't really _done_ anything," Merlin says. (He finds he appreciates the ability to lie much more now that he realizes he's taken it for granted all his life.)

Gaius fixes him with a beady gaze and a raised eyebrow.

"I can't lie to Arthur," Merlin blurts.

"Merlin!" Gaius scolds. "You _must_ keep hiding your magic from him. I know you feel guilty about lying, but he'd feel even worse about beheading you!"

"No, you don't understand," Merlin says. "I _literally_ can't lie to him. He's my soulmate."

Gaius stares at him in horror.

"Sorry?" Merlin says. He's not quite sure what he's apologizing for. In fact, he thinks the universe owes _him_ an apology for this whole, awful situation.

"You're going to be the death of me," Gaius says.

Merlin supposes that's likely to be true, but he's also pretty sure he'll be the death of himself first.

The dragon thinks it's _hilarious_.

Merlin finds he can get around the not lying to Arthur problem by judiciously using a combination of sarcasm and silence. It helps that, when it comes to the magic, it's not like Arthur would ever believe him. He just laughs every time Merlin claims to have been using sorcery to save his life.

"Daydreaming this much can't possibly be good for you," he'll say. "Or for the state of my chambers."

Arthur doesn't seem to mind that Merlin and he have this running joke about Merlin being a sorcerer. In fact, he seems to think it's funny. The only time he got annoyed was the one time Merlin mentioned using sorcery in front of other people.

It was only a couple of guards, but they had their hands on their swords almost immediately.

"He means nothing by it," Arthur had assured them, putting a hand on Merlin's shoulder protectively. "He's very new here and he has a horrible sense of humour. Too thick to realize magic _isn't funny_, aren't you, Merlin?"

"No," Merlin had said defensively, because he's very clever, actually, and he knows magic isn't funny. Magic is going to get him beheaded.

"Very thick," Arthur had said, shaking him slightly. "I'll get it through his head, don't worry," he'd told the guards. "There's no need to mention this to...anyone."

"Yes, sire," they'd agreed, and Arthur had dragged him off and given him a lecture about how he couldn't talk like that in front of anyone else, _especially_ not nobles and absolutely _never_ in front of the king.

Merlin had nodded and agreed that it was dangerous, treasonous, and stupid, but he'd only been able to promise to _try_ not to do it in front of other people. Fortunately Arthur has taken it to heart that his manservant is incredibly loose-lipped, and has stopped asking him hard questions like "Where were you last night?" anywhere other than the safety of Arthur's chambers.

Merlin is incredibly grateful to have such a dunce as a soulmate.

**ARTHUR**

Arthur notices from the minute he meets Merlin that there's _something_ about him. Perhaps several somethings.

First of all, ugly uneducated peasant or no, Merlin's _funny_. Arthur first ends up laughing at Merlin's humour unwillingly, when Merlin's insulting him in front of his own knights and the townspeople of Camelot. It's not exactly the best first impression, but when Arthur finds himself forced to keep company with Merlin, Merlin's humour is something he actually appreciates. It ensures that his company isn't boring in the slightest. Most people are either too respectful of Arthur's position to tease him or not clever enough to come up with witty remarks, but Merlin has precisely the opposite of both those problems. Arthur would claim that Merlin's banter is his favourite thing about him, but that would be a lie, because Merlin's got even more impressive qualities.

Because, ugly peasant or no, Merlin is the bravest person Arthur has ever met. Arthur notices this, too, when they first meet: Merlin stands up to him even though he's the prince, even though he's way bigger than Merlin, and even though he's clearly able to kill Merlin with his bare hands. Arthur notices it again when Merlin hunts monsters with him, and when Merlin drinks poison for him, and many other times between. Arthur's known hundreds of warriors, some of whom have been hailed as heroes, but none of them have had courage to equal Merlin's.

And finally, frankly, Merlin's just… _good_. He has faith in people. He acts with kindness and compassion. He genuinely believes in justice and equality. From time to time, mainly when Merlin is disappointed in him, Merlin's goodness makes Arthur ashamed of himself. But mostly it makes Arthur want to be a better man himself.

Yes… there's definitely _something_ about Merlin.

(Also, not that it's important, but for an ugly peasant, Merlin has really pretty eyes and gorgeous cheekbones and adorable ears and possibly he isn't actually ugly at all. So. There's that.)

Regardless of what exactly the _something_ about Merlin is, it has a very strong and unusual effect on Arthur.

Case in point, around two months after being blessed/cursed with Merlin's servitude, Arthur comes back to his chambers earlier - and more quietly - than usual, and receives a rather large shock. Merlin is poking at the embers and slightly damp wood in Arthur's fireplace, and as Arthur watches, he sighs with frustration and mutters something.

Merlin's eyes glow gold, and the fire bursts to life.

Arthur will reflect later that, as the crown prince who is sworn to uphold the laws of Camelot, he should have drawn his sword and run Merlin through immediately. The thought of doing so doesn't even cross his mind now, however. Instead, he immediately and silently backs out of his own room.

Arthur leans back on the wall just outside his room and takes one deep breath, then another.

Merlin is a sorcerer. That's news. Merlin is an incredible fool. That's not news, though it is a problem.

Once the shock passes, Arthur finds himself… forgiving. He can't summon any anger. He feels vaguely upset and betrayed to have been lied to, but this is tempered by the fact that Merlin can't have known he'd be safe in telling Arthur, given that Arthur himself can't believe he's not going to turn Merlin in.

And he's definitely _not_ going to turn him in. Arthur cannot think of an instance in which he has ever disobeyed one of his father's laws so flagrantly, or with so little cause, but he is absolutely not going to report Merlin's sorcery. He flinches from the mere idea. The thought of Merlin dying is… well, it's unthinkable.

Arthur collects himself with a final steadying breath, and then enters his chambers again, making sure to slam the door loudly this time around.

In the time Arthur spent in the hall, Merlin has moved across the room and is tidying Arthur's clothes. Upon Arthur's entrance, Merlin turns and his face brightens with a huge smile. He drops what he's holding, transferring all his attention to Arthur, and starts some inane tale about his day, as if it's _Arthur's_ job to listen to _Merlin's_ stories.

Arthur half-listens to Merlin's animated tale of his misadventures with the hunting dogs, as he comes to a realization. He's going to have to protect Merlin, the _absolute fool_, from the entire world and from his own foolish self. But there's absolutely nothing Arthur would rather do, and absolutely no one Arthur would rather be stuck with.

Merlin is annoying and disrespectful and aggravating and brave and beautiful, and, in short, Arthur's in love with Merlin, _something_ and all.

**MERLIN**

After a couple months of living in Camelot and serving Arthur, Merlin's perspective has changed slightly.

First: he's willing to admit that the universe might be onto something after all. About Arthur being his soulmate, that is. True, the prince is a huge prat and occasionally a big bully. But he's also brave, kind, honourable, and frankly gorgeous. Merlin has only known him two months, but he'd lay down his life to protect him, and he'd do anything to earn one of his smiles. So, yes, _maybe_ he's a little bit in love.

Second: Merlin may be in slightly less trouble than previously feared.

Arthur clearly hasn't found out about the magic yet, as Merlin is still in possession of his head. Merlin would think it was just a matter of time, except that he's quickly discovered Arthur is the most oblivious person Merlin has ever known. (This is evidenced by the fact that two entire _months_ have passed and Arthur still hasn't realized they're soulmates.)

With the immediate danger postponed until Arthur gets a clue, which will seemingly take a very long while, Merlin can focus on the positive. Specifically: he's found the love of his life and he gets to spend every single day with him. It's kind of great. Sometimes when Merlin wakes up, he just lies there grinning for a few minutes before Gaius yells at him to get out of bed.

Merlin finds it hilarious that Arthur hasn't figured out that they're soulmates. How could Arthur _not_ notice that he can't lie to Merlin? They talk almost constantly. How hasn't Arthur tried to lie to him even once?

To be fair, it does make _some_ sense that Arthur would be the last to know. Besides his general lack of observation skills providing a hindrance, it's also definitely true that Merlin has a lot more to lie about.

Merlin doesn't want to outright tell Arthur, though. First of all, there's no fun in that. Also, Arthur often reacts badly to being told things outright. No matter what it's about, it's much better for all involved for Merlin to drop hints and help Arthur figure out what's going on, and then let him believe he found out on his own.

So Merlin hints. He prattles on about soulmates and stories of true love, to no effect.

(Okay, not _no_ effect, just not the _intended_ effect. Instead, Arthur concludes that Merlin's an incorrigible romantic and starts teases him by making him lie to random passersby in case they're his soulmate.

"Try that woman, Merlin," Arthur says, gesturing to an old woman across the courtyard from them.

"Try what?" Merlin asks.

"Go on, check if you can lie to her," Arthur says.

"Her? She's got to be older than Gaius!" Merlin says.

Arthur shoves him until Merlin crosses the courtyard towards the woman and tells her that grass is blue. She glares at him and says, "I know what you're trying, laddie, and I'm too good for the likes of you!" and beats him away with her broom. Arthur nearly pisses himself laughing.

This event happens to coincide with Merlin's decision to find new tactics.)

Next he starts asking questions he thinks Arthur will lie to, but this fails as well because Arthur just refuses to answer. Sometimes he also shoves Merlin for his impertinence in asking, and sometimes he tackles Merlin and they end up play-fighting or wrestling, which is fun and so Merlin keeps prying, though he never succeeds at his main objective.

Merlin drops all the hints he can think of, but Arthur never reacts - never realizes.

And eventually - after three months living in Camelot, after an entire month of increasingly bold hints about their status as soulmates - Merlin comes to terms with the idea that there is no way Arthur hasn't noticed by now. He _must_ have realized, right? But - he hasn't said a thing, hasn't started treating Merlin any differently, hasn't reacted to any of Merlin's hints. He has to know, but he's not saying anything.

Merlin stops dropping hints.

It's clear that Arthur's rejecting him.

Merlin tries not to take it personally. They're _soulmates_; Arthur _has_ to love him back. Sometimes Merlin even sees flashes of that in Arthur's eyes, or in the way Arthur touches him. He tries to console himself with the notion that Arthur must want him, at least a little.

Merlin's pretty sure he knows what the problem is. Arthur is the only heir to the throne of Camelot; Merlin is a peasant and a boy. Arthur needs to marry a princess, someone who will make Camelot stronger and who will be able to bear Arthur's children. Merlin can't do that.

If Arthur wasn't the prince, if he didn't have a duty to Camelot to secure an alliance through marriage and produce heirs, then maybe…

But he does have that duty. And he obviously prioritizes that over Merlin. Not that Merlin blames him - he loves that Arthur's so dedicated to his people - but it still hurts to know that Arthur doesn't love Merlin enough to fight for him. (Doesn't even love Merlin enough to offer him an explanation, or any discussion - but Merlin's not going to challenge that, it's fine, he can deal with it. As long as Arthur lets him stay.)

The only thing that makes it bearable is that Arthur's letting Merlin stick around. Merlin isn't sure he can bear living without his soulmate's love, but he _knows_ he couldn't deal with Arthur being far away from him, with not being able to protect him and cheer him up and hear his laugh. The only thing that could be worse than sticking around to watch Arthur marry some princess someday would be not being at Arthur's side when he does. So Merlin suffers through the torture of watching his soulmate but not being allowed to have him, because the other option is so much worse.

**ARTHUR**

It's another couple months after discovering Merlin's magic that Arthur figures out the "something" about Merlin is not his magic, or his personality, or whatever. It's that Merlin is his soulmate.

In Arthur's defense, he just hasn't _bothered_ lying to Merlin. Lies are things Arthur uses in politics, when trying not to offend a lord by telling him his son resembled his neighbour more than him, or a lady by telling her his truthful opinion on her dress. Lies aren't things he should have to bother with when talking to his servant. He's the prince, and Merlin isn't allowed to judge him. Telling Merlin things is easy, anyways. So, he hasn't tried to lie to Merlin enough to notice he can't lie to Merlin, if that makes any sense.

But then, as Arthur is putting away his old cloak after he's gotten a new one, Merlin asks him about it. Well, the way Merlin asks about things.

"That isn't where that _goes_, Arthur, give it here and I'll put it in the usual storage. Why are you trying to tidy up after yourself, anyways?"

Arthur opens his mouth to give a perfectly reasonable explanation about Merlin's incompetent cleaning skills and/or mothballs.

"I'm putting it away for your Christmas present," Arthur says instead, then freezes.

That was supposed to be a _surprise_.

"Aww," Merlin coos. "You're getting me a present? Should I get you one too?"

"Maybe not anymore," Arthur snaps back.

He doesn't mean that, but he could say it. Does that mean he's not -? Or is it because he said maybe?

"Merlin," Arthur says, slowly.

"Arthur," Merlin replies in kind, looking at Arthur questioningly.

"Your ears are incredibly large," Arthur says, and winces, because he just tried to call them tiny. "You could use the cloak to cover them."

"Ha, ha." Merlin crosses his arms.

Arthur stares at his _soulmate_. His gorgeous, amazing, wonderful soulmate, whom Arthur is already madly in love with. This means Merlin loves him _too_. This is the best day of Arthur's life. He can walk over there and grab Merlin and kiss him _right now_. There's nothing stopping him. In fact, why haven't he and Merlin been kissing _already?_ Like, _all of the time_?

Does Merlin know? No, wait, of course Merlin knows. He probably tried to lie to Arthur a lot when he was first assigned as Arthur's servant, and kept breaking things and making messes instead of cleaning them up. Why hasn't he said anything? Has he been laughing at Arthur this whole time? Does he think it's funny that Arthur's completely oblivious?

"Arthur? Why're you staring at me? Do I have something on my face, or have you just forgotten how to hold a conversation again?"

He _does_, doesn't he? He's probably snickering into his sleeve all the time; it's hilarious to him that Arthur hasn't figured it out yet. Actually, set Merlin aside for a second, _Arthur_ thinks it's ridiculous he hadn't noticed. He'd spent all day, every day for _four months_ with Merlin, and half that time he'd been in _love_ with him, and it had taken him until now to realize Merlin was his soulmate? Arthur feels like the biggest fool in the room, which is saying something considering who's in the room with him.

He can't believe he didn't think to try lying to Merlin when he realized he was in love, but it honestly hadn't crossed his mind. He supposes he'd just unconsciously assumed Merlin wasn't, based on the improbability of going months without even _trying_ to lie to Merlin, and the hundreds of love-at-first-sight soulmate stories he's heard all his life. But that's not important. What's important is that Arthur knows now. So what is he going to do about it?

Arthur grins. Yes, swooping over and kissing Merlin right now would be _highly_ enjoyable, but there's something to be said for delayed gratification, too. Merlin's been laughing at Arthur for ages, and now Arthur can turn the tables on him. He can keep acting oblivious, and start courting Merlin, and see how long it takes Merlin to crack. This is going to be hilarious.

Arthur can't wait.

A few days later, Arthur is at Merlin's door with a small wrapped gift for him in one hand. Arthur's got _lots_ of plans for courting Merlin: flowers and candy and picnics and dinners with just the two of them, for a start. And even though he thought this up as a joke to turn the tables on Merlin, he's also really looking forward to it seriously. It'll be nice to court Merlin, to treat him like someone precious to Arthur for once, and to make him happy, and …

Arthur decides to stop smiling at nothing outside Merlin's door, and barges inside.

Merlin's back is to him, so Arthur can't see Merlin's eyes, but he knows they're golden, because everything in Merlin's room is hovering a few inches off the floor. Merlin must hear him, though, because he frantically ends the spell and whirls around.

"Did you see that?" he asks.

"See what?" Arthur asks, as always.

"Uh, never mind, there was… a total lack of nothing that was not natural to see here! Nothing that wasn't illegal definitely didn't not happen here!"

Arthur cannot, after several moments of trying, figure out what Merlin is saying, although that's not an unusual occurrence for him. Merlin is weird. But this reminds him of something that makes his heart sink into his boots: Merlin has lied to him.

Merlin has pretended not to be a sorcerer for _months_. He must've told Arthur countless lies - _successful_ lies - in that time. Merlin can lie to him.

_Merlin can lie to him._

Arthur shoves the present down deep into his pocket. He mutters an excuse to Merlin about forgetting what he was doing here. Halfway through Merlin's teasing reply, he turns and stumbles back out the door. He nearly trips down the stairs in his haste to get away, and maybe because his vision is a little blurry from tears.

Merlin can lie to him.

Merlin is Arthur's soulmate. But Arthur isn't Merlin's.

**MERLIN**

Arthur's been acting weird for a couple weeks when Lancelot shows up.

Lancelot is brave and noble and handsome and wonderful, but the thing is, he's not Arthur. He isn't a great big blond prat and apparently, in Merlin's eyes, that's a bad thing, so when Lancelot asks him out, Merlin blushes and turns him down as gently as possible.

"I'm flattered, really I am," Merlin stammers out. "You're great! You're really great. But, there's someone else. I mean, there's _the_ someone else, so…"

"Oh! Oh, congratulations!" Lancelot says. He then takes in the sour look on Merlin's face and adds, "Or not."

"Yeah, well," Merlin says. "It's complicated, but… he's it, for me."

Lancelot wishes him luck and is exactly as chivalrous about it as you'd expect him to be. Anyways, there isn't time for it to be awkward before Lancelot leaves again, as quickly as he'd come.

And it turns out that the fact that Merlin didn't ever technically sleep with Lancelot doesn't stop him from bringing it up with Arthur the next time Arthur's being a huge prat. It's not very mature, of course, but who ever said Merlin was mature? And is Merlin _really_ expected to hold on to civility when Arthur's shoving Merlin's lack of lover in his face, like it's not entirely Arthur's fault Merlin doesn't have anyone?

It happens during a night at an inn with Arthur's knights, who are competing for the serving girl's favour. Arthur leans over to Merlin and teases, "Not even trying? Have you given up because you know you don't stand a chance?"

On one hand, it's the same sort of insulting mockery Arthur hassles Merlin with continuously about absolutely everything else. If they weren't soulmates, Merlin would expect and accept this subject of teasing from Arthur as well.

But Arthur _is_ his soulmate, and he's rejected Merlin, and Arthur can't seriously think it's okay to tease Merlin about not being good enough.

So Merlin snaps back - hoping this wounds Arthur at least a little, that he experiences at least a fraction of the agony Merlin would in his shoes - "I'll have you know I'm highly attractive to _many_ people. Lancelot, for one."

"Yeah?" Arthur says, and _yes_, he winces. It makes Merlin feel simultaneously victorious and awful.

"You slept with _Lancelot_?" Arthur asks.

Merlin doesn't feel awful enough to outright deny it, though. "A gentleman never kisses and tells."

Arthur gives a very fake-sounding chuckle. "You're no gentleman, Merlin, spill."

Merlin crosses his arms over his chest and keeps his lips firmly shut.

If he tells, he'll lose Arthur's jealousy - the only proof he has that Arthur cares at all.

**ARTHUR**

Arthur draws his sword and viciously attacks the practice dummies set up on the training grounds.

He's in a quandary.

It's all Lancelot's fault. Arthur hates Lancelot.

No, that isn't fair. It's not _all_ Lancelot's fault. If Arthur hadn't brought it up, he'd still be blissfully ignorant. If only he hadn't thought, _I should tease Merlin about girls; it's weird if I don't_, then he wouldn't have had to listen to Merlin talking about _sleeping with Lancelot_.

And he shouldn't hate Lancelot. Lancelot saved Merlin's life. He also saved Arthur and Camelot. Arthur shouldn't detest someone just because his manservant likes them better than he likes Arthur.

…Arthur hates Lancelot.

Arthur brutally stabs a practice dummy; straw rains down onto the ground.

The thing is, even though Arthur feels like he's being stabbed every time Merlin mentions his admiration of and attraction to Lancelot.

Even though Arthur has made himself sick thinking about Lancelot and Merlin sharing Merlin's tiny room with its single, tiny bed.

Even though Arthur may have cried himself to sleep last night.

There is one, very small, piece of goodness to come out of this whole debacle with the gryphon and the gorgeous warrior: Arthur now knows Merlin likes men.

And Lancelot is gone. Which is of course unfortunate, because he was a strong warrior and a valiant knight, but Arthur isn't going to ignore the positive implications. Specifically: for the moment, Merlin's heart is free.

Arthur knows that he isn't Merlin's soulmate, and Arthur will, inevitably, always love Merlin more than Merlin loves him. But what if he could have some small amount of happiness with Merlin anyways? He could court Merlin, and even if it doesn't last, maybe it would be better to have a small taste of what it could be like, than to never have anything at all.

On the other hand, what if it ruined everything? If asking to court Merlin changed their relationship forever and destroyed their friendship? Arthur has managed to live without courting Merlin so far, and he thinks he could bear it if friendship was all he was ever allowed; but he isn't so sure he could live with less than that.

Arthur gives a low yell and hurls his sword into the dirt at his feet. He stares at the small army of practice dummies he has decimated. Suddenly he is exhausted, and sad, and defeated.

The worst part of having problems with your soulmate, Arthur thinks, is that you can't go cry on the shoulder of the one person that always makes you feel better.

**MERLIN**

Being rejected by his soulmate isn't exactly a pleasant experience. Merlin can't bring himself to date anyone else, and his constant solitude (and celibacy) earns him mockery from some and concern from others. Some days he mopes around, wondering what the _point_ is when his life is doomed to never include a partner to share it with. The bards' stories about soulmates are probably not just there to taunt Merlin, but it feels like it. And some days Merlin can't keep his bitterness from invading his attitude and he's going to ruin even his friendship with Arthur at this rate.

And yet, Merlin swears he would never complain about any of this ever again, if only the damn Princess Deidre would go away.

The rumours of her and Arthur's impending betrothal have been flying for days, and it's making Merlin miserable. Even worse, Arthur _isn't_ miserable. Usually he frowns and objects when Uther brings up the inevitability of Arthur's strategically arranged marriage, but he isn't doing much frowning at the princess.

They go riding together (Arthur compliments her seat) and on picnics together (Arthur smiles when she politely thanks Merlin for carrying the food and blankets). Arthur gives her flowers and makes her laugh when they sit beside each other at dinner.

Merlin has never hated anyone this much in his entire life.

It's not that he thought he had a _chance_. He wasn't that naive. If he had a bloody chance Arthur would've mentioned it by now.

But, okay, maybe a little part of him _did_ wonder if Arthur's objection to arranged marriages had to do with his soulmate being _right here_. Maybe that part of him _had_ thought he had a chance.

Merlin had thought he couldn't feel worse, until he and Arthur talk, and he discovers that not only does he not have a chance, he apparently isn't even a _consideration_.

Arthur opens the conversation out of the blue. Merlin is just minding his own business, mending Arthur's shirt (and regretting being snappish with Gwen), when Arthur ambushes him with, "Princess Deirdre is very beautiful."

Merlin jabs the needle through his finger. "If you say so, sire," he mutters, sucking on his injury before the blood can stain Arthur's shirt.

"She's kind, intelligent, a good rider - _far_ better than you," Arthur says.

"Right, well, that's not hard." Merlin somehow manages to choke out the self-effacing joke despite the needle of pain stabbing his heart. How can Arthur compare Merlin to someone else, and think _Merlin_ is the one who falls short? Merlin is his _soulmate_, his _destiny_, how can he -

"I think she'll make a very good queen."

Merlin gapes at him. Actually, he gapes at Arthur's back, which is turned to him as Arthur stares out the window, because Arthur isn't even bothering to _look_ at Merlin for this horrible conversation. It's not that something interesting is happening outside - all is quiet and it's dark as pitch out there, clouds covering the full moon, so Arthur can't be seeing anything but blackness. It's just that Merlin apparently isn't worth his attention.

Merlin closes his mouth before Arthur turns around and demands what Merlin's problem is. He knows Arthur will get cranky if he doesn't respond, so he manages a halfhearted, "Oh?"

"Of course, I obviously don't love her now," Arthur says. And then he stops Merlin's heart with, "But maybe, someday…"

"_Oh_," Merlin repeats, the sound practically punched from him.

Arthur finally turns away from the window. "Can you say _anything_ else?" he asks, crankily.

Merlin blinks back his tears and snaps, "I can say _clotpole_."

Arthur smirks. "Congratulations. Anyways. I suppose marrying the princess won't be so bad."

"_Really_ now," Merlin says.

Apparently some of his bitterness seeps through - how did that happen! like maybe he has too much to contain or something! - because Arthur scowls and demands, "Just what is that supposed to mean?"

"Well, I always thought you cared a little about marrying someone you loved?" Merlin says, because he is a fool, an absolute fool, and likes to poke bears and sleeping dragons.

Arthur's eyes turn steely and cold. "Did I ask for your opinion, Merlin? No. And frankly, your opinion on who I should marry is completely irrelevant."

"_Oh._"

**ARTHUR**

A week later, Uther tells Arthur that the treaty is going to be possible without a marriage, and that Arthur would be better off marrying a richer princess anyways. Arthur is perhaps a little rude in receiving this news, because his manservant hasn't been speaking to him in a week and he discovered partway through this meeting that his shirt has a huge and only half-mended hole in it. Uther doesn't notice, though, as he thanks Arthur for his cooperation and praises him on his dedication to his duty.

Afterwards, Arthur goes back to his quarters to change his shirt. Merlin is there, cleaning his armour in total silence.

Arthur's been trying to keep up their conversations, no matter how one-sided they've been lately, and Uther's news is good in that it gives him a new topic. As Merlin brings him a new shirt without actually looking at him, Arthur tells him about it.

"So I've just been to see my father," he says. "Apparently I'm not to be asked to marry Deidre after all. Her father asked for help from some of Camelot's knights, you see, and Father thinks that having some of our knights move to his lands will be almost as solid a link between us as a marriage."

Merlin's eyes actually flick towards Arthur. Encouraged, Arthur goes on, "So nothing's to come of it, although I suppose it wasn't a total waste of time to court Deidre. At least I know now that it won't be so horrible to marry a princess - might actually be quite nice."

Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, as Arthur now has two ripped shirts.

*  
Arthur endures another entire week of Merlin being respectful and subservient and just generally giving Arthur the cold shoulder before he cracks.

"By your leave, highness," Merlin says as he goes to leave for the night.

"Merlin, wait," Arthur says to his back. "Look, I'm _sorry_, all right? I don't know exactly why you're mad, but I know I'm, well, a bit of a clotpole sometimes, so I'm sure you're in the right - but will you just forgive me and be my friend again? Please?"

Merlin's shoulders are stiff, and there's a few moments of silence. Arthur waits. Then Merlin blows out a huge breath of air, shoulders relaxing, and turns around. His eyes are bright and wet.

"You're a _huge_ clotpole. The absolute biggest," Merlin says.

It's the first time Merlin's insulted him in _days_, which makes it the most beautiful thing Arthur's ever heard.

"Try not to make me regret apologizing already," Arthur says, and throws a pillow at him.

Merlin goes, and Arthur's chest feels lighter knowing they're back to normal, even if normal is nothing near what Arthur actually wants.

**MERLIN**

Merlin has given up all hope of living with his soulmate by the time he and Arthur get captured by enemy soldiers just outside Camelot's border. (What were they doing in hostile territory outside the border? you may ask. It has absolutely nothing to do with Merlin running away from a bear, thank you very much.)

Fortunately, their cell isn't closely guarded, and they quickly liberate themselves into the relative freedom of the maze-like castle they were stashed in. Unfortunately, there's about twenty guards and soldiers between them and the way out - and they don't even have any weapons.

"I'll distract them," Merlin hisses. "You run."

Merlin is about to jump out at the guards without waiting for agreement - Arthur can't argue with the logic that the crown prince's life is more important than a servant's, after all - but he's quickly yanked back by a strong grip on the back of his neckerchief.

"I'm not letting you sacrifice yourself for me," Arthur says. "There must be another way out."

"Must there?" Merlin says sarcastically. "Every second we waste arguing about it means we're that much closer to _both_ of us being caught."

"Fine," Arthur says. "Then _you_ run, and _I'll_ distract them."

Merlin laughs humourlessly. "Arthur, even if you weren't the prince of Camelot, I would never let you do that. I'm not living without you. _I_ can't bear living without my soulmate, but _you_ were planning to anyways. So just leave me and _go_."

"What?" Arthur says. He's staring at Merlin in shock, his grip on Merlin's neckerchief loosening like he's forgotten all about the enemy guards that Merlin wants to throw himself at. "What - I'm not - but you can lie to me!"

Arthur didn't _know_? "Wait, you didn't _know_?" Merlin demands. "Test it, right now, tell me you're a dancing bear."

"I know _I_ can't lie to _you_," Arthur says. "But you can, to me."

"When have I ever lied to you?"

Arthur stares pointedly at him and says, in an imitation of Merlin that for some reason involves a very high-pitched voice, "No, Arthur, I'm not a sorcerer! It's just that I have very good luck and trees have very weak branches!"

What.

Merlin was ready to have a conversation about how he and Arthur are utterly doomed soulmates. He's been preparing for this conversation for a while now. He's pictured having it in various different situations, from yelling it in front of the court to whispering it under the covers of Arthur's bed. He's _more_ than ready.

He is not ready to have a conversation about how he's a sorcerer and _Arthur apparently knows_.

He steps back. "Oh _gods_," he says, and then puts the sorcerer thing aside for a minute - because what _else_ is he supposed to do with it - and addresses the other issue at hand. "I think you'll find what I said was, 'yes Arthur I'm the most powerful sorcerer you'll ever meet,' and then I relied you being too much of _an enormous clotpole_ to believe me."

Arthur takes a minute to think about this, then he whispers, "Oh."

Merlin takes that minute to think as well, about what must have been going through Arthur's mind, if he thought Merlin could lie to him. When he realizes, he wants to wrap Arthur up in a big hug and never let go. "You thought I didn't love you?" he asks.

"Yes," Arthur admits. "And...so did you?"

Merlin shrugs slightly. "I thought you loved me, just… not enough."

"Well, I've always said you're an idiot," Arthur says. "I guess now we have proof."

"And you're a prat," Merlin says.

They beam at each other.

"So," Arthur says. "How's this for a plan: you knock all those men out with magic, and then we run away and make out?"

"Sounds good to me," Merlin says.

**EPILOGUE**

It always seems, during their life-or-death experiences, that life won't go back to normal afterwards. It seems impossible to go on as usual after, for example, Arthur nearly sacrifices his life for Merlin's, or gives one of his grand speeches about equality. Still, somehow Merlin always ends up back to polishing armour and fetching meals, with only a new scar or two to show for their adventures, and this time is no different.

"Merlin, once you're done staring at absolutely nothing, how would you like to polish my armour?"

"I'd love to, sire," Merlin says. He stretches out a hand and his eyes flash gold, and the armour starts polishing itself. He smiles cheerfully at Arthur, and then flops back onto Arthur's bed.

Well, maybe this time is a little different.

Arthur smiles back as he reclines in his chair. It's not a very restful smile; it's almost predatory. "You know what I find amusing, Merlin?"

"I imagine you find many small things amusing, such as poop jokes and children's clowns," Merlin says.

"You can't lie to me," Arthur says, ignoring Merlin's hilarious witticisms. "You really would love to polish my armour. You like to pretend you're being sarcastic, but you forget that I know now that everything you say to me is completely true."

Merlin blushes and tries to redirect with, "Took you long enough."

Arthur cannot be distracted. He goads, "I know I'm your favourite person. You liiiike me."

Merlin retorts brilliantly, "I do _not_."

Except, of course, he obviously _doesn't_ say that, because it is the opposite of true. Instead what comes out is, "I like you a lot."

Arthur grins in delight. "I bet you think I'm handsome."

"Ridiculous," Merlin says, because it is: "It is ridiculous how adorable you are. I mean, you're easily the most handsome man in Camelot, but you're just so _cute_."

"I am a _warrior_," Arthur says. "I have been trained to kill from _birth_, I am not _cute_."

Merlin sits up, realizing he has the upper hand. "But Arthur, I can't lie to you, and I think you're _adorable_. You're the absolute _cutest_. You're like, so beautiful and cuddly and I just _can't_."

"You're the adorable one!" Arthur argues. "With your ears and your … everything. You're the cute one!"

Merlin stares at him, and Arthur stares back. Finally Merlin breaks and starts giggling.

If all he and Arthur have to fight about is who's cuter, Merlin thinks they'll be okay.


	14. (T) SPIDEYPOOL - Are You Sure You Wanna'

are you sure you wanna' love me?  
scarlett_starlett

Summary:  
Spider-Man is everything Peter Parker wishes he could be—witty, confident, loud, sassy, and sexy…

This is no more apparent to him than when Deadpool walks past him without a second glance the first time they meet. It sucks, considering Peter Parker has an embarrassing crush on the ex-merc.

* * *

"At least Mr. Stark pays a living wage. You can't beat that in New York!" Mike, his co-worker, points out, jotting down some final details of the summary report on his clipboard. He stands on the other side of the lab counter while Peter drums his fingers on the surface in front of him. "Y'know, I interned at Oscorp when I was a sophomore in college, and lemme' tell ya', _worst _experience of my entire life! They didn't follow safety procedures—like, can you _imagine?_ One of the guys spilled some formaldehyde and an unknown chemical compound all over their arm and he just _washed it off_ in the sink like it was nothing! He didn't report it—he didn't follow the emergency procedure! We all saw it!"

"Well, did _you_ try to do anything about it?" Peter asks, pushing his horn-rimmed glasses up his nose. His lab coat dwarfs him, the sleeves rolled up to his cuff; he had forgotten his own so he borrowed one of his supervisor's spares. Unfortunately, his supervisor is a big guy and Peter, for all his five foot nine and lean muscle, barely manages to fill the coat. It makes him seem skinny and small, but Peter would rather have it on than nothing at all. Walking around the lab without a coat on is more of Mr. Stark's shtick; Peter always feels more secure underneath something.

Peter blames it on the four years of hell Flash put him through in high school.

"Uh, well, no. But—!"

Whatever his co-worker is about to say dies in his throat, eyes bulging and jaw dropping as he stares ahead. Peter blinks, and looks over his shoulder, breath hitching at the sight of Deadpool plastered against the glass wall that divides their lab from their work station by none other than Iron Man himself.

"W—Deadpool?" Peter frowns, wincing when Iron Man drags him across the glass. Having web-slung his way into a couple windows in his youth (and also last week), Peter is _very _aware of how painful sliding down a windowpane can be.

Deadpool muffles something that sounds vaguely like _motherhugger._

"Is this really happening? Is that really Deadpool—l-like, _Deadpool_, the real Deadpool—_being punched by Iron Man?"_

"I think so, Mike. Honestly, it's not the weirdest thing I've seen this week," Peter quips. "Or this year." Not that Peter can blame him; sometimes, when dealing with Deadpool, one had to wear a super suit. Peter straightens up when Mr. Stark grabs Deadpool by the strap of his katana holster and storms down the hallway, the ex-merc flailing and shouting furiously the entire time. He can't clearly hear what they're arguing about, but he hopes it isn't anything too violent; Mr. Stark has been very stressed with the whole Inhuman ordeal. Not to mention that more and more X-Men had been visiting Stark Tower lately. Since Peter works in the R&D department in the basement, his lab space faces the main hallway, so he usually knows who goes in and out of Mr. Stark's tech cave since it's right along the way.

"Oh, man, this is too good! C'mon!" Mike urges, grabbing his arm. "Let's go check it out!"

"Uh, actually, maybe we shouldn't, Mike. Mr. Stark wouldn't want us snooping around," Peter immediately says, sticking his feet on the floor as Mike tugs him harder.

"Peter! Live a little!"

"I like how I'm living now, thanks."

"Live some _more, _c'mon! We'll just take a peek! Don't be boring _now _of all times!" Mike flashes a coaxing grin, and Peter reluctantly unsticks himself from the floor.

"I guess it can't hurt too much. I'm kinda' curious, too," Peter mumbles. Mike lets out a victorious whoop. "But Mr. Stark would be so pissed if he knew we were eavesdropping. You saw how mad he got when he thought we'd been standing outside his door during a meeting he had!"

"Pete, that was, like, a _year_ ago! He didn't know us then! He thought we were just tryin' get an upper-hand on him or something! We'd never do anythin' like that; he knows us better now!" Mike reasons, but Peter still moves reluctantly, slowing down even more the closer they drew to the looming steel door down the hall. It's even cracked open, as if beckoning them to press their ears against it and listen in.

It all would have _probably _been fine if Mike wasn't so totally wrong.

Mr. Stark didn't _know_ Peter Parker. He still doesn't.

Don't get him wrong, Mr. Stark knew Peter was hard-working, creative, quiet, but pleasant once he grew comfortable with someone, and extremely nerdy. Mr. Stark's favorite past-time seemed to be poking fun at Peter's obsessions with pocket-protectors and unnecessarily complicated calculators. It was fun, yes; Peter enjoyed their good-natured ribbing and pun competitions. But he didn't know what was possibly the _core_ of Peter Parker.

Peter Parker was Spider-Man; New York City's watchful protector, its most iconic superhero alongside Captain America, and someone whose identity is so tightly guarded that Mr. Stark has _no idea that he has employed the infamous, the amazing, and the friendliest neighborhood Spider-Man._

Now, the money-shot: how can be Peter be sure that Mr. Stark doesn't secretly _know _that Peter is Spider-Man?

Well, because the Avengers have been trying to _recruit_ _him_ for the past couple of years and Mr. Stark is growing more and more frustrated with his inability to I.D. one of the most iconic superheroes in New York. Peter suspects it's more of a pride thing now than an actual recruitment effort. After all, Peter's managed to evade every rooftop call, every elevator pitch, every _mention _of joining a crew of superheroes to save the world and beyond with his handy-dandy spidey sense. The fact that Mr. Stark was _reaaaallly _careless about who he let into his cave of inventions once he trusted them had to do with why Mr. Stark himself had such trouble tracing him..

Which made Peter feel _like absolute garbage_, and it could be summed up in three easy words: _Mr. Stark_ _trusted him. _Mike is right about that; they'd come a long way from Mr. Stark's dismissive attitude to someone who makes sure Peter _takes _his lunch breaks and _has a lunch _that isn't cup ramen or a bland sandwich; someone who gave Mike a Stark-exclusive metro card so he doesn't have to empty nearly half his paycheck in bus and train passes to get around; someone who makes sure Jenny, their research lead, was paid equally and could take time off to be with her kids regularly.

What does Peter do? Betray his trust. Alter evidence, delete it sometimes if he can afford it, in Mr. Stark's personal computer to ensure he was never close to identifying Spider-Man as Peter Parker. He can reboot F.R.I.D.A.Y. _just long enough _to do this because Mr. Stark had blurted out a security vulnerability to Commander Rogers while Peter happened to be nearby.

_EAVESDROPPING._

Yes. Peter is aware of the irony.

Is that shitty of him? Yes. Is he going to stop? _Hell no._

Spider-Man's identity is, like, the _ninth _wonder of the world at this point—villains are willing to pay _billions _in cash for any sort of hint. Civilians try to _catch an unmasked Spider-Man _around the city like some sort of cult trend. Newspapers are willing to give out cash rewards for any sort of hint of Spider-Man's identity, even his home or friends—Peter has taken to wearing _two_ masks, and buffing up his suit from spandex to spandex-_Kevlar_ _and_ _leather_ in order to ensure that no one got a peek of anything that could I.D. him. Peter has gone as far as altering his voice _just so _with a voice moderator he installed in his mask so that when he took off his mask, his more natural baritone voice was strikingly different than the deeper, louder voice of Spider-Man.

Hell, if Peter knows he's going into a tough fight, he'll wear _blue_ contacts just in case his lens breaks because they were annoyingly easy to break, and he doesn't have enough money to afford any better materials like Hawkeye or Iron Man. He blew his savings on upgrading his suit to Kevlar. _Man, is Kevlar expensive…_

He has no idea how Deadpool affords it. He's always ruining his suits in explosions or gunfire.

Actually. Scratch that. He does.

Life's easier when you're a gun-for-hire—or _he was. _Last Peter heard, Deadpool was some mutant-for-hire for the X-Men. But he still gets _paid _for it.

Peter doesn't get _paid _to do anything!

Unless he joined the Avengers and successfully _sold _ his rights to be a free agent... he's literally doing this out of the goodness of his heart and sometimes, well, life's hard.

But Peter's always been good at commitment.

"_Relax, _metal man!" Deadpool's voice drawls out from beyond the looming doors. Peter snaps back to the present, to where Mike is trying to peer between the crack of Mr. Stark's ajar door. "The worst that can happen is someone accidentally runs into my swords a few times! No biggie! They usually miss anything vital. Unless you count blood loss as vital. Then it's a _little bit _of a problem, but nothing duct tape can't fix."

"Wilson, if there's even _one injury _from this, I'm taking you out myself. I'm not sending you on this job to fuck around—I'm sending _you _because you _can't die, _and Thor is busy. Fuck this up and you'll be in a world of pain."

"Ooh, kinky. I've always wondered what it'd feel like to be choked by a metal hand, if you catch my drift!"

_He's talking about Cable, _Peter thinks immediately, frowning. He hasn't met Cable either in his suit or out of it, but he _has _known Deadpool personally since he was nineteen, so he's heard a lot about the cybernetic time-traveler. It's no secret that Deadpool has the biggest man crush on the guy. Spider-Man follows as a close second, much to Peter's eternal anguish. But there isn't much he can do about it when Cable was so open about his identity, and in good standing with the X-Men, _and _the Avengers, _and _the Fantastic Four.

Maybe if Peter stops being a huge anxious baby about his personal life, and Aunt May's safety, he'd be able to team-up with Wade enough to bump his ranking to number one.

_Oh, to be young, _Peter thinks wryly. At twenty-eight, there was no way he'd be willing to reveal his identity now. Aunt May's health had declined over the years and she'd been in out of hospitals more and more, growing weaker and weaker each time. Peter can't always be there to protect her, and he's had close-calls with villains nearly discovering her relationship to him. Aunt May is very fragile right now so she doesn't need a villain accosting her or, worse, _kidnapping_ her. Peter's biggest fear is that Aunt May won't be able to recover from another stroke, and after the Green Goblin came so close to figuring out her relationship to Spider-Man a few years back, he's been extra paranoid about revealing any bit of his identity to, well, _anyone._

Except Felicia Hardy that one time, but he called in a favor from Dr. Strange to mindwipe _that _mistake…or at least his real name and face from her memories which _worked out fantastically_ since Felicia _would _sell his identity for a chance at a quarter mil and a paid vacation to Puerto Vallarta for a month.

She told him so, once.

It's lonely, but Peter figures that's a fair price to pay until Aunt May recovers.

"—be outta' here in a jiffy!" Deadpool kicks the office door open suddenly. Peter and Mike both guiltily jump back a whole two steps. Instantly, Peter hides behind Mike, wide-eyed. Peter's never met with Deadpool as Peter Parker, only Spider-Man. He's frustrated to know Peter Parker remains the wallflower he's always been when Deadpool squints his eyes at Mike instead, dismissing Peter. "Well, _hello _there! If it isn't the nerd patrol! What'cha up to, Spock?" He grins, cocking his head at Mike assessingly. He leans against the wall, grinning at Mike when all he does is stare at the taller man. "_Spyin' _on your boss? Hah, _I _would if I worked for that nuts-for-brains over there! He's gotta' be hidin' _something _behind all those suits of his—he's like a small, angry matryoshka, and I've only been to Russia _once _in the future," Deadpool winks and Mike balks. "Or was it the past? Actually, what Earth is this, I feel like I accidentally came back to the wrong one. No one's shot me yet. I think," he adds, glancing down at his suit. "Nope, still in one piece! Did you know? Once, I lost part of my chest in a horrifying space accident and now there's a little Alien-Pool out there, all alone, _hated by all those he comes into contact with! _Destined to live out the rest of his alien existence without anyone to looove!" Deadpool fists his hand, shaking them at space. "My writers are _fucked up_, man! That was a wild issue."

"I...what?" Mike croaks out.

"I knew it. You were eavesdropping, weren't'cha?" Deadpool guffaws, clapping a hand on Mike's shoulder and bringing him in closer before he can react. Peter scowls at the gesture and crosses his arms over his chest, but he barely gets a glance.

"I—er, we totally weren't—wait, what—I mean, _how are you doing that with your mask—?!_" Mike sputters, but Deadpool laughs and gives him one last clap on his back. Without another glance at Peter, he happily skips down the hallway and around the corner, waving jauntily all the while. Mr. Stark shuffles out of his lair, deciding to leave the Iron Man suit behind for now. His hair is wild from constantly running his fingers through it, scowling but otherwise resigned.

And Peter would totally be defending himself, too. He _totally_ would be; he's done it before. In fact, he's got a list of _great _quips for nerd comments like the one's Deadpool said; honestly, his comments were lacking, and Peter will be disappointed in him later. Except he has _never _been _unacknowledged, or not cooed over, sighed over, squealed over, touched, or stared at _by Deadpool since he met him and he is _shook, _okay.

Deadpool _always _pays attention to him…

_"What the fuck,"_ Peter mouths to himself, absolutely offended.

_He didn't even say HI—he always says hi to me! Well, he always says hi to **Spider-Man**, _Peter corrects immediately. He can't even hide the way his shoulders droop at the realization. Mr. Stark frowns at him when he notices while Mike rapidly explains that they were totally _not eavesdropping, _they had just been walking by to ask him some questions about tomorrow's gala event. _I didn't think…I don't know what I thought. That he'd always notice? Me? Peter? When I…_

And that was the kicker, wasn't it? With Deadpool, it had never been an _if, _but a _when, _he revealed himself as Peter Parker.

Peter never thought about how Deadpool would react when Spider-Man unmasked for him; if he'd still even _like him_ as Peter Parker. He never thought about if Deadpool would appreciate Peter Parker for _more _than Spider-Man, _more _than an icon… more than a _hero._

_I mean, okay, I've always tried to work up my courage to tell him, but this isn't something I ever worried about. I never thought he'd just…walk away from me like that. I thought he'd maybe make a comment about my stupid eyes or something. I mean, they're **brown**, but that's the joke, they're boring! Not blue, or green, or...what did he say once? Paisley? _Peter thinks with growing dread. _Oh. Oh, man. You are in so deep, Parker._

"You alright there, Pete?" Mr. Stark calls out, bringing him out of his deepening heartache. Peter tries for a smile, but it falls flat. "You look a little pale. Did that degenerate say something to you?"

"He didn't even look at him because we _just got here_!" Mike insists.

"Yeah, what Mike said. Uh, don't worry about it, Mr. Stark. Deadpool didn't…he didn't say anything to me."

_And that's the problem—he didn't even **look** at me, _Peter sighs as Mr. Stark starts to bicker with Mike about eavesdropping techniques and how theirs is subpar and how he _must_ teach them how to do it properly because no Stark employee could be anything but _great at everything._

_Teach me how to make Deadpool date me seriously, then we'll talk, _Peter thinks broodingly as Mr. Stark grabs him by the shoulder and drags them into his office for some painstaking one-on-one.

Peter's off his game after that.

He's _so off_ his game that when Deadpool _coincidentally _meets him on their favorite rooftop—right above _Taco Bueno! _actually—Peter is subdued and less animated than usual. Deadpool notices instantly, and it only makes Peter, like, eighty percent happy that he's being noticed again. Only eighty, because the twenty that _matter_ aren't being noticed, _and he's super bitter about that._

"Somethin' wrong, Spides? You've been real quiet and you didn't even yell at me when I told you about how I kicked Agent Hill outta' the helicarrier."

"You're lucky she didn't file an APB on you."

"Eh, she tried _something, _and by something, I mean she nearly blew me up when she stuffed a live grenade in my pouch. But Fury's been on my ass lately since I've got an _in _with the X-Men," he crosses his arms, grumbling. "He pissed them off."

"Isn't he always?"

Deadpool snorts. "I don't buy _for a second_ that it's all part of whatever masterplan he's yapping about now, okay? He's totally _making it up _as he goes along, and that's the genius of it all! I appreciate a man who can make shit up on the spot."

"Like you?"

"Hah! Now you're gettin' it!" Deadpool manages to get a huff of laughter out of Peter despite his bad mood.

Peter doesn't linger like he usually does after that. He even turns down Deadpool's offer of tacos despite being a little hungry—which makes Deadpool all stiff and prickly afterwards. Peter feels like a total douchebag for it. He can tell Deadpool _knows _something's bothering him, and he can tell just how much it's killing the guy inside to _ask. _But Deadpool's always been a super-bro in the sense that he never intentionally made Peter uncomfortable, and he respected his boundaries. Sort of. Well, the ones that really _matter _to Peter, anyway. After Peter told him about how he doesn't like the prying, Wade actively_ tried_ not to be so nosy or stalk him like he had in the beginning.

It's something Peter's grown to appreciate about Wade, how conscientious he could be if he wants to. Or if he likes you enough. Which wasn't super rare, but not being shot at _was, _according to Wolverine. Apparently, Deadpool likes Spider-Man enough to not intentionally shoot him. Small miracles.

Peter has never been as grateful for Deadpool's lack of prying until _now. _He feels—_insecure, _which is a weird thing to think about in regards to Spider-Man, but absolutely normal when it comes to Peter Parker. Peter's never had the best self-esteem, even _after _he woke up with abs and the ability to crawl on walls, however Peter's always been _extra self-conscious _when it came to how the people he cared about thought about him.

Gwen would tell you, if she were alive, just how _pathetically _Peter had pinned after her during Freshman year in college. Totally pathetic; not his best moment. Correction: not his best _year_. At least she thought it had been cute, that's probably the only saving grace Peter has. Like, he was so into her, he would write _Peter Stacey _in his notebooks, that's how pathetic it got, okay, she was just _amazing._

Wade Wilson is _spectacular, _and though Peter wouldn't dare to doodle _Peter Wilson _on the margins of his notebooks at his age, that doesn't mean he's never _thought_ about it. A lot. Because Peter is a huge sap. That doesn't _mean_ Peter isn't as pathetic at pinning as he had been when he won over Gwen Stacey that day; only to tragically lose her on the Brooklyn Bridge a few months later—the same bridge he can barely stand to look at some days.

Now he just pines in _different_ ways—like learning how to cook Mexican food so he could give Wade homemade food every now and again or taking every opportunity to _hang out _with Wade. Peter counts being _extra extravagant _with his flips and aerial stunts and webbing when he and Wade team-up because Peter _loves it _when Wade squeals over him afterwards. Peter would even count listening to Wade when he goes on manic tirades because he can't help himself or not treating Wade like he's some sort of plague because of his skin, his boxes, his _everything; _defending Wade from others criticisms, especially Johnny's, because he's still bitter about that one prank Wade pulled on him with the glue and shampoo. However, Peter thinks his pining has morphed into some sort compulsive urge to ensure Wade was taken care of when he hurt himself on his missions or their team-ups. Just because he could heal from everything or come back from the dead doesn't mean it isn't _painful _or _traumatic._ No matter how much Deadpool laughs it off and thinks his concern is _adorable, _Peter knows that Wade appreciates the effort. Peter can see it in the way his head bows a little after he's done fussing; how he softly touches the bandages Peter's wrapped his wounds in, even if they'll be useless in about ten minutes or so, how he tends to walk a little closer, lean a little further, into Peter after he comes back from the dead…

Or…like how Wade calls him when he has really, _really_ bad nightmares, and Peter's _never _blown him off to go back to sleep. He just asks if he can come over to his place for some late-night soap operas or video games. Sometimes Peter can, other times he can't, but whenever he _can_, Peter makes sure to bring a lot of ice cream—_vanilla-strawberry, Wade's favorite—_and some spoons because they can both finish four whole cartons of ice cream no problem with their metabolisms.

_But that's all Spider-Man—he does all of that with **Spider-Man**, not me, _Peter insists to himself that same night, hanging out on the ledge of a rooftop alone. He's reclined on the ledge, foot swinging off the edge. It's an unusually quiet night, and he'd be shooting the shit with Wade right now if he hadn't been in such a funk.

His phone vibrates with another text from Wade. He doesn't look at it immediately, caught up in his thoughts.

_If Wade found out who I was, it'd be like Felicia all over again, _Peter thinks gloomily. His one attempt to get over Deadpool has been Black Cat. She'd been _mean, _but he sort of knew that when he became involved with her. Honestly, he should have known better. She hung out with him _once _outside of his suit and she ditched him without missing a beat. It had been a really tragic affair, actually. Deadpool had been downright _murderous _about the way it had all blown over when Peter finally fessed up to it after about a week of intense moping.

He was nice like that, Peter supposes. Being a super-bro and making sure no one bullied Peter. Or Spider-Man, he corrects again, because he's sure someone could be bullying Peter Parker in front of Wade and there would be a 90 percent chance Wade would ignore it or watch for funsies.

_She…totally blew me off when she got to know me. If it hadn't been for Doctor Strange and his weird magic mind-wipe voodoo, I would've been in hot water. But maybe he wouldn't do that? Oh, man, maybe he'd laugh at me instead, and make fun of my everything. Like my brown eyes and my mint condition Star Wars collectible figures that I have in display cases in my living room. _Peter groans, thumping his head on the brick as he falls onto his side. _And my—my wonky smile! It's crooked—Gwen thought it was cute, but I know she was just being nice! Sort of. Gwen was the nicest person ever. I think she genuinely liked my smile, _Peter trails off curiously, sighing when it did nothing to cure his issues.

_Ughhh. Are you serious, Parker, are you REALLY gonna' spend the entire night bitching about your sad love life? This is worse than with Gwen—this is just—this is a new low even for me. All hail Peter Parker, an actual teenage drama queen._

He is _totally_ going to mope about this for the next foreseeable future.

"Ngh," Peter whimpers, curling up on the ledge. "This sucks _so bad_. I want ice cream…"

"AHAH! SO YOU _ARE _MOPING!"

"AH!" Peter jumps off the roof and clings onto the wall immediately, heart rabbiting in his chest. He crawls up the wall and peeks over the ledge, the white lens of his mask wide. "Deadpool? What are you doing here—how did you _do that_ without me noticing you first?! My spidey-sense didn't even go off until you were here!"

"Teleportation belt, baby," Wade grins, patting his crotch lovingly. Peter squints doubtfully. "Finally got it touched up and now it's _super accurate!_ No more teleporting to strange and mythical places. Like Wyoming."

Peter sighs, unable to help the way his lips twitch up. "Of course. How did you find me, anyway?" He pulls himself up, sitting on the ledge as Deadpool draws closer. "I didn't even tell you where I was going this time."

"Oh, y'know me, finding people is basically in the job description of a merc. Aaand_ I might have tracked_ _your location using your DS because I hacked it for reasons…"_

"My what?"

"Oh, heeeey! Lookit what I brought!" Deadpool shrieks, distracting him with a full body flail. "THE CURE FOR DEPRESSION!"

When he brings out his arms from behind his back, Peter perks up at the sight of the Ben & Jerry's logo through the plastic bag. "Is that…is that ice cream?"

"Cherry Garcia because fuck your vanilla. I figured you might need some, since you were all mopey earlier!"

"I _wasn't—_!"

"Ah-ah-ah-ah!" Wade shushes, pressing a finger against Peter's masked lips. Peter jerks away, grumbling, while Deadpool drops the pint of _Ben & Jerry's _onto his lap along with a plastic spoon. Peter doesn't even _pretend _not to want it. He pulls his mask up his face haphazardly with one hand while the other tears the top of the carton open. Peter shoves a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth without another word, his stupid heart thumping at the thought of Deadpool buying him a carton of ice cream. "Just eat, my mopey, little spider-boy, and tell mama Deadpool what's wrong so he can make it all better."

"Ha!" Peter snorts, then curls in on himself some more when Deadpool looks sharply over at him. "Uhh, I mean, this is…this is something you can't really help me with. I just…" He sighs, shoulders slumping. "It's really dumb. I don't even know why I'm angsting over it so much. It's expected... I should have expected this," he says, defeated. "They shouldn't be _obligated _to acknowledge me, y'know? They didn't know! They _still _don't know! But it…_bugs me_…" Peter rambles anyway, unable to help himself. Maybe if he keeps it anonymous, Deadpool might, who knows, give him some advice? God. That sounded stupid even in his head. "It…" He stares down at his stupid ice cream cup and feels that hurtful stitch in his heart whenever he remembers Felicia.

"It what?" Wade asks, unusually soft. "Spidey?"

"It reminds me of what happened with Black Cat," he finally says. Because that's what it is. Deadpool brushing him off hit too close to home. Maybe he _isn't _as over that slight as he thought he was. Deadpool really has no idea who he is. He isn't obligated to pay attention to Peter Parker like he does to Spider-Man because he has no idea they were the same person. Wade has _always, always _been fiercely loyal to those he cares about. Peter should be relieved, right? That Wade didn't stray so easily?

Except it's a _damn dirty lie_ because Deadpool's _always_ flirted with whoever the fuck he wanted.

And Cable _still_ beats Spider-Man in the rankings.

And Deadpool _can't_ be as in love with Peter Parker as Peter Parker is with Deadpool because they're so starkly different. Deadpool is obnoxious to his polite, loud to his quiet, confident to his meek. Peter has no idea what to do about it because he is who he is and he just—

_"I always fall for the worst people," _Peter whispers bitterly, stabbing his spoon in his ice cream furiously. "I know they won't like _me, _and I still go and like _them! _And then I'm _so surprised _when it turns out that they don't actually like _me._"

"What'cha goin' on about, sweetheart? Who was the dumbass who said they didn't like you? _Everyone _likes you, you're just a super likable dude—!"

"_No_," Peter snaps, crushing his spoon. Wade's eyes widen. "Everyone likes Spider-Man! Everyone _loves_ Spider-Man! He's great! He's confident, he's smart, he's quick, he's really funny, that Spider-Man, but no one ever likes _me!" _Peter turns to him, mouth pulled tight, tone hurt: "Because _I'm not Spider-Man!"_

Deadpool stares at him, and Peter stares back, breathing hard, then realizes that he just unleashed a whole decade full of angst and bitterness on someone whose two defining characteristics were probably angst and bitterness (with a dash of fatalistic humor). Peter quickly looks back down to his melting container of ice cream, glad he's wearing a mask to hide his hot cheeks.

"Uh, Sorry, I shouldn't have unloaded on you like that," Peter says stiltedly, after a few more seconds of silence. "I just—sorry. Thanks for the ice cream. I'll be back to normal soon, I promise, I just—!"

"Who was the motherfucker who made you think you weren't good enough this time?" Deadpool snarls, grabbing Peter's arm before he could swing away. "Huh? Who was that sonofabitch, I'll fucking kill them dead!"

Peter instantly panics because if he says _it was you, _then he'd make things awkward, and Deadpool probably doesn't remember Peter because he barely looked at him. Deadpool's absent-minded on the best of days. Sort of. He _is_ a Special Forces discharge, and can kill a man with a freaking toothpick, but—

_Oh, god, if he doesn't remember me, that'd just make my day **worse**. I can't handle that for the sake of my already deteriorated self-esteem and mental health, _Peter thinks in a blind panic, and the only thing he can blurt out is _the slight truth_ which is: "I don't feel comfortable talking about this. Can we please drop it?" Which only makes Wade even _more _pissed because he thinks that that person really did/said something horrible to him, like Black Cat did, but that's not true at all.

Deadpool just didn't look at him, and that's not his fault. This is Peter's bag of issues rearing its ugly head; he's just using that as an excuse to be even more angst-y than usual.

"Can we please not do this right now? No—wait, can we not—_Deadpool!_"

"I'll find that sack of shit and _shove my katana so far up her vagina, she'll be bleeding for a whole fucking month—_!"

"It wasn't _his _fault!" Peter shouts, helplessly.

Deadpool shuts his tirade and turns wide-eyes on him. "_HIS?!"_

"He doesn't know my identity, and it isn't his fault. Him overlooking me was just the last straw for something bigger. These are just my issues, okay, Wade? I was always bullied in high school, and getting my powers was a—a _way_ to create another version of _me _that wasn't that sad, pathetic, _loser _that everyone saw at school. So, I guess I just realized that I did too good of a job at playing that other version of me that, when I think about _me as a person, _I'm starting to see just how unimpressive I really am."

"Wait, nonono, pause. Backtrack—_HIM?!" _Deadpool screeches. "I was under the impression that you were the patron saint of the heteros!"

Peter eyes him weirdly. "What gave you _that_ impression?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe your _hundreds of serializations featuring that feisty red-head of yours, Tiger!" _Deadpool spits out, gesturing wildly with his arms.

"Red-head? Umm…_oh!_" Peter cocks his head, bewildered. "No way? She's been engaged to my best friend for the longest—hey, wait a second, how the _heck_ do you know about _MJ—?!"_

"Ah, ah, ah—shh, shh, shh, shhhh!" Wade shushes, waving him off. "That's not important right now, honey, right now what's important is to address these issues of self-deprecation that you've got going on! And I'm not talking about Zdarsky."

Peter shifts, but makes sure to file _that _conversation for another time. "It's...it's alright, Wade. I just, uh, well...it's not a big deal. I'm just more stressed out than usual, you know me. It's getting to my head."

Deadpool squints at him.

Peter rubs the back of his head awkwardly.

"Something smells fishy and I know it wasn't you because you didn't eat any fish tacos!"

"Oh, c'mon! For the last time, it _wasn't me! _It was totally DD..."

"Listen, I'm gonna level with you," Deadpool suddenly says, drawing close to him. "Even as a normal person, you're not _unimpressive, _Spidey, because you can't be! I get the whole alter ego thing, okay? I'm _Deadpool," _he insists, raising a hand when Peter opens his mouth to argue. "But I'm also _Wade Wilson, _but not always. But you gotta' realize that you're _also _Spider-Man. You've got it in you, kid, you really do! You just gotta' _tap into it!" _Wade says, encouragingly. He gently prods Peter's shoulder with his forefinger. "Don't think of Spider-Man as someone who only comes out to play during work hours, think of him as your _wing-man_ that you can reach out to whenever you need their advice on how to get some hot piece of ass!"

Peter stares, slowly nodding, _realizing._

_That's...true…I never tried to talk to Deadpool that day, _Peter thinks slowly, still a little unconvinced but getting there. _I never reached out and said 'hi' or anything. I just…let him walk away from me, and then freaked out over it like some angsty pre-teen. _"You're…_right_," Peter agrees, with more confidence. "You're right. I _am_ Spider-Man, and maybe I've been going about this the wrong way this whole time…"

"Exactly! Own it, baby, don't hide your swagger from the world!" Wade says, cheerfully. Then he suddenly stops, horrified. "Wait—um, _shit_—fuck, you're right, I didn't think this through! Abort!" He shouts at one of his boxes. "Except this one time! Don't listen to your swagger this _one time_ coz, uh—coz fuck that guy, date me instead!" He shouts, hopefully.

Peter softly snorts to himself, endeared. "Real funny, DP," Peter chuckles. "No, seriously, you're right! Y'know, I've been extra angsty over this since Black Cat dumped me because she thought I was boring, but I never really _tried _to be interesting. I let other people do the work, and that wasn't fair of me. I shouldn't have ever thought of it so negatively. You've really helped me realize something today." He stands up, stretching, and holding his ice cream carton in his hands cheerfully.

Deadpool, meanwhile, flails in a panic and chants "no, no, _no!" _repeatedly, but Peter just marks it off as Deadpool being Deadpool; he can see why he'd be worried about Peter giving it another go with that mystery guy since DP was under the impression that he was a jerk, but he doesn't know it's him. He'll just have to let him _know_ it was him, but he can't do that right now. He has a master plan he has to put in action—after he wins Deadpool over as Peter Parker, of course, or at least convince him that Peter Parker is a pretty stand-up guy before he unmasks himself to DP—only then can he pop the question.

But first, Peter thinks as he squeezes Wade's shoulder in warm thanks before he swings away, he has to think of a way to encounter Deadpool _naturally _and try and win him over.

Somehow.

It's easier than expected to find Deadpool naturally. He spots Deadpool dragging himself down the hallway in Stark Tower a few days later and Peter happens to be the only person in the lab because Mike stepped out to take a phone call. That had been twenty minutes ago, so Peter's convinced that Mike has _literally stepped out _of Stark Towers to lurk around that Starbucks down the block. Mike likes to fawn over that pretty barista that he's been over the moon about lately. Peter's stopped trying to convince him that it's creepy and really sad.

Peter's so surprised to see Deadpool so soon after their talk that he almost lets Deadpool stalk past, but he shakes himself of his stupor just in time to shout, "Deadpool!" and waves a little awkwardly when the guy perks up and snaps his head over to him.

Deadpool waves back at him slowly, and cocks his head, eyes widening incrementally the longer he stares at him.

Peter puts down his pipette and removes a glove, his fitted lab coat swishing behind him as he heads over to the cracked-open door. The whites of Deadpool's eyes widen enormously when Peter peers out fully, smiling charmingly.

"Hey! Weird seeing you down here again!" Peter beams.

"Holy _shit, _aren't you the most _adorable_ thing this side of New York," Deadpool strangles out. Peter's smile widens a little more, pinks flooding his cheeks. "Oh—_oh_, my _GOD, _you're _killin' me here! _Are you new here? I haven't seen you around? Or were you not here last time I dropped by—did you know I dropped by, did anyone say anything?_" _he giggles maniacally. 

"Uh," Peter clears his throat. "I, uh...I _was_ here. I saw you. You were talking with Mike by the door?" He thumbs over to Mr. Stark's sealed office door. "You were in a hurry so you might not have noticed me."

It takes Deadpool a whole three seconds to realize what he's talking about. "OH _shit, _you were that guy in that huge lab coat, right? No, yeah, I remember you! _Damn _does a change in size really make a difference," Deadpool leers, and Peter feels his face heat up when his eyes very clearly roam down to his rear. "Actually, I'm pretty sure I would have dug ya' anyway if you weren't hidden behind that douche canoe with the undercut."

"You mean Mike?"

"Yeah, Chad."

Peter snorts out a soft laugh, and he jerks back when Deadpool is suddenly _right in front of him, _hands under his cheeks, blinking wide-eyed at him. "So, what brings you to this side of the lab?" He grins at Peter, who smiles dopily again because _yes, _this was how it was supposed to go. Not that sad, dismissive, pass like last time. But this—Deadpool, engaging him, _paying attention to him. _Wow, he is really needy. He never thought about how needy he actually was until Deadpool stopped bathing him in constant attention.

Well, everyone had their character flaws.

"I just wanted to let you know that Mr. Stark isn't in his office right now—he's in a meeting up on the 55th floor with some business magnate," Peter informs. Mr. Stark had mentioned that if anyone dropped by, he should direct them to the upper floors. It was the perfect opportunity to talk to Deadpool, and see if he actually liked him as a person which, it seemed, that he really did. So far.

Peter's messed up second and third impressions worse, so he's not too confident yet.

"So he wouldn't _mind _if I spent some quality moments with you, huh—wait, what's your name?"

"P…eter," Peter says, slowly, with a growing smile. "Peter Parker."

"_Peter Parker, _huh? Ooh! Alliteration buddies!" Wade squeals. "I'm Wade Winston Wilson! But I also respond to _Daddy_ and _The Merc with the Mouth!_"

Peter barks out a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand because he hates his smile.

"Noooo," Wade whines, pressing impossibly closer to Peter. "Don't cover it up! Lemme' see those pearly whites. It's about the best damn thing since Spider—!" He chokes off and, suddenly, that awful heaviness that he had come in with crashes around him. Peter's so surprised by it, he doesn't even question when Deadpool grabs his shoulder and herds him to one of the lab stools. The ex-merc throws himself dramatically over the table, letting out a pathetic moan of distress.

Deadpool tries to take a shot out of a test tube. Peter immediately swats his hand and glares at him _no, and _Wade lets out another whale noise of sadness.

"What's wrong, Deadpool? You look…" Peter eyes his deflated form and his sad mask eyes. "…_miserable_. Not a good look for you."

"Excuse you, I think you mean it's the _only _look on me! I can't help the way I'm drawn!" Deadpool bursts out, groaning again. "The love _of my life _just realized what a hot piece of ass he really is and went to _go woo some sonofabitch that I haven't found yet, _but when I do, ohhh, when I _do…_" he trails off ominously, muttering indistinctly to himself while Peter tenses, tries not to let his fears get the best of him.

"Love of your life?"

"_Yes, _the love of my life!" Deadpool repeats, impatiently. "Listen, you're a _dreamboat, _don't get me wrong! With eyes like that and that smile, I'd have been an instant sucker for you, but right now this Pool Guy is only interested in being in _one guy's _man-water and it isn't your kiddy pool. No offense," he adds.

Peter blinks. "None taken?"

"Right! So, back to my woes in love! SPIDER-MAN IS GONNA' ASK OUT SOME _GUY WHO DOESN'T LOOK LIKE FREDDY KRUEGER'S LOVECHILD AND I…can't do anything about it," _Deadpool trails off into a pathetic sob. Peter parts his mouth. Closes it. "I can _kill the guy, _but then I'd _really _lose any chance at being with Spidey and, let's face it, I haven't killed a man in _months _and this is probably the best I've ever been since…_the army,_" Wade realizes, tone odd and stilted, a distant look in his eyes before he dismisses it, adding: "It's been _years! _You'd think I'd have mustered up enough _cojones _by now to confess my undying love for him, but it's _infinitely harder _when he thinks everything I say is a fucking joke! Granted, I never let him _know _that I'm not a fucking joke generator all the time—only, like, _sixty percent of the time—_but when I asked him out a couple of days ago he thought I was joking _again _and I…I couldn't tell him I was for realsies," Wade whimpers. "Because…."

Peter watches in mute fascination as _his _love of his life spews their relationship drama to _their own (allegedly) love of their life._

"Because what, Wade?" Peter asks, softly.

"…_How can such an amazing hero like him like someone like me?" _Wade mumbles, upsettingly vulnerable. Peter clenches his fists in his lap to keep from reaching out and cuddling him closer to his chest. "I'm a _monster! _Seriously, my face is…haunting…and I've been compared to old people and avocado's a lot, watch my first movie," he adds with a wink before he deflates again. "I was okay thinking he just didn't _swing _my way, y'know? That's not total rejection, that's like…_preference _and I respect that…but he _does _so now I don't have an excuse! I'm just _that guy _now!"

Peter takes this in quietly, scraping his master plan instantly. He can't go through with that agonizingly slow wooing plan; not now that he's heard all of this, there's no way he can be patient enough for it now. He flicks his eyes over to the camera that watches them from the corner of the room. It's one of the few camera's in the space that isn't mic-enhanced since there's generally very little chatter that happens in the lab spaces. So, that means…

"Hey, you're a _great_ listener, y'know?" Deadpool sniffles. "Do you charge by the hour?"

"Wade," Peter says, flicking his eyes back to him and smiling warmly. Deadpool startles at that, goes as far as jerking away from him at the soft look. "Do you really love Spider-Man? No jokes this time. Just the truth."

Deadpool hesitates for a long moment, shoulders hunched up defensively before he slumps over and drops his eyes to his lap. "I love 'em more than I love tacos and chalupas_," _he mumbles, fiddling with a seam on his glove.

"That must be an awful lot," Peter says gently, and leans forward. He grabs Deadpool's cheek and raises his head up, smiling affectionately at the look of surprise and wonder that's apparent on his masked face. "Did you know? There's a sale on _Ben & Jerry's _ice cream going on right now at Target. Maybe we can get some and talk about this more in your apartment? Just make sure Al isn't there this time, okay? She nearly took my head off the last time I cracked a joke about her grandma bun," Peter adds, his smile widening when realization and shock widen Deadpool's white eyes.

"How do you know about _Ben & Jerry_ ice-cream nights, _assassin!_" Deadpool screeches and reaches for his katana, but Peter immediately stops his wrist with a sharp hand and squeezes, forcing Deadpool to drop his weapon. He kicks back his stool and grabs Deadpool around the neck when he snarls and tries to fight him off, gripping him tight, making sure Deadpool can't reach for a gun.

"Wade, it's _me," _Peter hisses. "Stop—_stop squirming, you idiot, _I'm trying to tell you something important here!"

"NAY! You're trying to win me over through your sexy good looks and charm me into letting down my inhibitions, therefore extracting all of my vulnerabilities and using them to your advantage!" Deadpool bellows, struggling against Peter's iron grip. "Well, _jokes on you! _It was my momma_ and _my pa who beat the shit out of me when I was a kid! Take _that, _you psychological fiend!"

"_WADE!"_ Peter snaps, gripping his chin and forcing his head up. "That Thursday five years ago, on the roof of _Taco Bueno!—_do you remember what you told me? _What you told him?" _ he adds, lowly, gaze burning into Deadpool's wide ones. "About how you wanted to change and be _worthy _of something for once in your life?"

Deadpool narrows his eyes.

A beat passes and then Peter squeaks when he feels a hand grope his ass firmly, kneading the flesh thoughtfully.

"Wh—hands _off _the goods, dude!"

"Spidey?" Wade whispers, looking oddly lost. "Is that….is that really you...?"

"Shhh," Peter hisses, glancing nervously at that camera. "I can't figure out if that's just a video feed or if it has a voice feed, so don't go yelling my name—!"

"BABY BOY!" Wade squeals excitedly, climbing over the table to clutch Peter to his chest tightly. Peter stumbles, but holds Wade's upper body steady as the merc balances precariously on the edge of the table on his knees. "You're _the cutest cutie to ever cute! _Ohhh, look at your _hair!" _He gasps, petting Peter's unruly brown locks reverently. "It's so _proper _and reminds me of every mission statement in the fucking Bible, you suburban white boy, you! And your _eyes—_they're so pretty! You never told me you had brown eyes!"

"Wade, brown eyes are the most common eye color in the United States," Peter complains, but he flushes when Wade coos even more, Peter's hand sliding down to grip Wade's side firmly. Peter's always noticed how much bigger Wade was compared to him, but he's pleasantly surprised to find that he's just as warm and cuddly and _strong _as Peter's always hoped he'd be. "Wade…I think we were talking about something really _important_?_"_

Wade freezes.

"Did you mean it?" Peter asks, leaning further into Wade. He presses his cheek against the merc's jaw, murmuring, "_Wade?"_

A shudder runs through Wade and Peter grips him tighter, not allowing any wiggle space in case Deadpool got any ideas and tried to run away or, worse, harpoon gun away like the last time they tried to have a heart-to-heart.

Deadpool does none of those things.

Instead, Wade cracks out, "_Yes," _and waits with baited breath in his arms, as if preparing himself to be thrown off. Peter smiles brightly and pulls Wade off the table, the merc sliding to his feet unsteadily, full weight landing on Peter. Peter squeezes him tighter against himself, his fingers digging into the black straps of Deadpool's katana holsters.

"Um…Spidey?" Wade mumbles.

"Hm?"

"Is that a…yes?"

"Yep."

"What about that other guy?" Wade asks reluctantly. "The one you were bitching about the other night?"

Peter snorts. "Wade, you idiot," he leans back and smiles warmly. "I was talking about _you_. _You_ were the guy who ignored me that day, remember? It just threw me off. I'm so used to always being smothered with attention from you that, when I wasn't, I guess I overreacted," Peter laughs awkwardly, looking up at Wade again when he doesn't make another noise. "Wade?"

"Oh my _god!" _he squeals. "You're _adorable _and you're _mine," _he growls lowly, clutching Peter's hips possessively.

"Wade, no!"

"Wade, _yes!_"

"Wait—!"

"DEADPOOL, GET YOUR MANGY HANDS OFF MY EMPLOYEE!" Mr. Stark roars immediately after Wade pounces on Peter and drops him on the floor with a well-executed, Black Widow-style, chokehold that Peter will _never _admit got him hard. But Mr. Stark is pretty much the best at killing whatever arousal Peter's ever had so he's proud to admit that, that day, Wade is the only one who has to awkwardly adjust while one of Mr. Stark's Iron Man suits hung him from the back of his straps in his hands, snapping at him about assaulting his employees and being a general nuisance.

Peter dusts himself off awkwardly, patting his face and realizing he forgot his glasses. He grabs them from his lab coat's pocket and slips them on, flushing bright red when Wade groans out: "Oh, _fuck, _guys, he wears glasses, too! I think I just came in my suit."

"OUT, WILSON!"

"I'll call you!" Wade winks at Peter, cackling when Mr. Stark lets out a noise of frustration and aims his repulsors after the sprinting merc.

"Mr. Stark, just let him go," Peter smiles, holding his hands out in peace.

"You sure? I can make sure he never crosses paths with you in the lab ever again." Mr. Stark says, seriously. He steps out of the suit, letting it return back to its docking station once he's sure Deadpool is out of sight.

"Nah," Peter laughs softly, smiling genuinely up at him. "He was just being Deadpool. He's pretty harmless, y'know? He didn't do anything I wasn't comfortable with."

"Being _touched _by that degenerate is something you're _comfortable _with?"

"Everyone deserves to be cared about, sir," Peter replies, honestly.

Mr. Stark stares at him for a moment before smiling wryly, ruffling his hair a little. "You've got heart, Pete. More than any one of us, that's for sure."

Peter beams, and tries his hardest not to squirm too much in excitement when he feels his phone blow up with messages in his pocket from one Merc with a Mouth.


	15. (T) TYRUS - TJ Kippen (Cyrus Goodman) Vs

TJ Kippen (+Cyrus Goodman) Vs. The World  
ruinedwords

Summary:  
"Just make sure he's alone, he's usually with that basketball player, Buffy or whatever." Noted Mike. Oh shit, TJ only knew one (1) boy who was always with Buffy.

Cyrus.

And they weren't allowed to touch Cyrus! Not under any circumstance.

Or

5 times TJ protected Cyrus, and the one time it was reversed.

* * *

Chapter 1: Nailed It

It was fourth grade, everyone traded those rubber bands that were in the shape of animals (even though they hurt like hell), Disney Channel was in a Golden Age (Jessie was better than Jake for Miley…. In TJ's humble opinion), and Little TJ Kippen had the hugest crush on notorious King of 5th grade, Nate Chu.

His darling pale skin with the prettiest jet black hair that TJ had ever seen. His brown eyes were gorgeous and every girl was in love. Well, as much love as you can be in Elementary School. And then, there was TJ. The only boy in school who had a crush on the said boy, Nate. Or at least, from his knowledge.

Truthfully? He didn't even know he had a crush until his Mom told him. Correction: his Mom _indirectly_ told him. For as long as he can remember, it's only ever been TJ, his twin sister Amber and his darling Mother, Teresa. His father had died at a very young age, his Mom said when TJ and Amber were about two years old. TJ and Amber accepted this and usually didn't bother with details.

Except, sometimes. Sometimes TJ would feel like he's missing out when others talked about the great relationship they had with their Dad's. It made TJ jealous. Even if he wouldn't admit it. But those days, he would ask his Mother to tell a story about his Father. Just so he could pretend he wasn't really gone. Even if it was just for a few moments.

Amber was different, it never bothered her not having a Dad. Sure, she's admitted to her brother she wished they had a Dad so Mom wouldn't feel so stressed all the time, to which TJ agreed. But she said she doesn't care for a close family bond like that because she had TJ. And regardless of Amber being a few minutes older, Amber has always said that TJ was much better than any Dad.

But one night, right before bed, when Amber was gone at a friends sleepover, right TJ asked his Mother to tell him a story about his Dad. And of course, his amazing Mom, complied. His Mom described their love as the cutest 'High School Romance.' When TJ asked what that meant, her eyes brightened as she retold High School memories.

"Well, I was in 10th grade and your Dad was in 11th. We met in English class when we got paired for a group project. I remember having the biggest crush on him-"

"Mom, what does it feel like to have a crush on someone?"

His Mom's eyes softened, "Well, my heart would race so fast I thought I was running a marathon! My palms-" She held up the palm of her hands. "would get warm and there would be a fuzzy feeling in my tummy." She poked TJ's tummy before he let out a little giggle.

"And I was _obsessed _with him. He was the prettiest thing to me. I would want to look at him all the time and whenever we were together, I never wanted to leave."

TJ's eyes brightened. "Like how I feel around Nate!" He blurted out. TJ thought Nate was the prettiest thing ever. The best thing to look at.

TJ's Mom's eyes widened just slightly before reverting back to their soft look. "Yeah, sweetie. Exactly." Her voice was gentle and soft, reassuring almost. TJ smiled at her. "And that's ok?" He asked. She smiled sweetly, "Absolutely."

* * *

"- Absolutely _disgusting _!" Yelled an enraged Mike Weather. TJ was just putting on his T-Shirt after Gym had just ended when he overheard Mike Weather start yelling. About what? TJ couldn't tell you, but he couldn't care less about what goes on in the locker room.

Middle School Locker Room Talk was infamous. In a weird way. It's known that most teen boys like to make homophobic jokes and talk about "banging chicks". Two topics TJ could never participate in because he was gay and he was gay. The same reason x2. TJ never cared about what went around, unless they talked about harassment or assault, TJ let them talk.

Because what can he do?

And really, they don't talk of assault often, one time a guy in gym claimed he was going to, "Rape that chick who sits in front of me in English."

TJ was suspended for three days.

That conflict seems eerily similar to the one playing out in front of TJ right now.

"Right? It was so gross." Agreed a Jason Fern. "Like I guess be gay, just don't like force that shit on me, dude!" "Right?! It's like people are _forcing _everyone to be gay. Like, leave me alone. Gross." Complained, Mike.

TJ was confused about who they were talking about, no one he knew was wearing nail polish today, not that he checked. TJ wanted to intervene but didn't know how. Like, did he really care?

"You know what we should do, corner him tomorrow after school and throw a bunch of nail polish remover at him. That'll show him." Said Mike, his confidence was infuriating. Now, TJ had clearance (from his conscious) to intervene.

"Holy shit, yeah, just buy that cheap shit from CVS and just dump it on him. Film that and post it on YouTube, make it go viral." Laughed Jason. Glad they thought assault was funny. Ha.

"Just make sure he's alone, he's usually with that basketball player, Buffy or whatever." Noted Mike. Oh shit, TJ only knew one (1) boy who was always with Buffy.

Cyrus.

And they weren't allowed to touch Cyrus! Not under _any _circumstance.

And so TJ came up from behind the lockers, seeing the boys look a little startled but nothing extreme. "Hi." He forced a smile at the boys. The boys do the 'bro nod' towards TJ. "Whatcha talkin' 'bout?" TJ smiled at the boys, sitting down at the bench across from them. His smile was almost… unsettling. The boys didn't pick up on the signals TJ was sending.

"Just talking about the homo that keeps wearing nail polish in the halls. Gross, isn't it?" Jason laughed. TJ's face hardened, "Not really." TJ shrugged. Mike laughed, hitting TJ's upper bicep playfully. TJ glares at Mike. He didn't appreciate being touched by a _homophobe _.

"C'mon, Kippen! Wouldn't you like to just play around? We're thinking of throwing some nail polish remover or whatever that is on him, teach him a lesson, yeah?" Mike tilted his head up at that. Almost like a 'agree?' Head tilt. But TJ didn't agree.

"You guys do know I'm gay, right?" TJ said, standing back up. His glare was unsettling and Jason gulped slightly before stuttering out a "N-n-no." Mike looked a little off-put but didn't let it show. (Even if TJ could see right through his facade.) "And we have no problem, Kippen. You're fine, you're cool, you're a great basketball player and captain. It's just so gross when people do that. Aggravate it. Like wearing nail polish when it's not meant for them. It's gross." Mike stood up too, trying not to look intimidated. (It failed when TJ noticed how shaky his legs were.)

TJ chuckled before shaking his head, "Don't touch Cyrus, don't look at him, don't think of him… ever or I'll make sure you'll never set foot in this school again." Mike shrugged, "Try me." TJ shrugged. "If I see you within 15 feet of Cyrus, you'll regret being born. Don't test me." Mike glares at TJ, "I can call a bluff when I see one."

"Remember Kyle Lern? Wondered why he hasn't shown his face in school, again? You're looking at it."

Mike scoffed before signaling Jason up, "Let's go, a homo isn't worth getting beat up by a puny basketball captain."

Right after the two boys left the locker room, TJ immediately texted Buffy with the number she gave him a few weeks ago.

**TJ**

**hey, can you and andi keep a close eye on cyrus? i overheard some…. colorful threats to him and even tho i think i stopped it, i just wanna make sure he stays safe.**

**Buffy**

**_really? like what?_**

**TJ**

**throwing nail polish remover on him cuz of his nails or whatever.**

**it was made by jason and mike. douches, anyway.**

**_Buffy_**

**_i'll kill them._**

**_but thanks for telling me._**

**TJ**

**absolutely**

* * *

The next day, after school TJ invited Cyrus to hang out. Half because TJ would take any time to hang out with Cyrus and half because he wanted to make sure that Jason and Mike didn't _try _anything.

TJ and Cyrus were leaving the school, Cyrus talking animatedly about some topic that truthfully, TJ couldn't pay attention to, he kept getting distracted by Cyrus's cuteness. It was unbearable.

Out of the corner of his eye, TJ could see Mike and Jason eyeing them, TJ tightened his fist and threw his other hand over Cyrus's shoulders. TJ grinned as he noticed the two boys look defeated and walked off, turning his head to notice an embarrassed looking Cyrus, his cheeks a flushed pink and his jaw slacked open, ever so slightly.

"Sorry, my arm just got tired." TJ winked at Cyrus, who, in turn, just blushed harder. Cyrus broke eye contact with TJ, only to notice TJ's black painted nails, ones that mirrored his own. His eyes widened as he looked back at TJ who just looked ahead, trying not to notice how Cyrus was looking at him. The boy's glance was blinding and TJ couldn't help himself to turn his head, making eye contact with the gorgeous boy under his arm.

"As you were saying before my arm so _rudely _interrupted you?" TJ hummed. Cyrus completely broke out of his trance, with a "Right! As I was saying-" before rambling on again and TJ looking at the boy fondly.

"Are you listening?" Cyrus frowned a little, halting their walk.

"Absolutely."

* * *

Chapter 2: Spooky Scary Sleepovers

It had been two weeks since the infamous* debacle between Jason, Mike, and TJ over if boys can wear nail polish (they can, by the way), and TJ was still afraid that the boys would act up and hurt Cyrus like they had claimed. But then again, they were _boys _in _middle school _, they never did half the stuff they claimed to have done or will do.

_*Infamous meaning only five people knew of it, Mike, Jason, TJ, Andi Mack & Buffy Driscoll, for insurance purposes.*_

TJ and Cyrus had a sleepover planned, and TJ was nervous. His big fat and sadly unrequited crush on Cyrus was sure to be exposed tonight. TJ could barely keep his hands to himself when they were conscious and awake, who knows what an unconscious TJ could do! So TJ had come up with a set of rules for the night.

Stay at a reasonable distance. Hands. To. Yourself. No horror. (For reasons to be explained.)

And TJ thought if he could follow these rules he could come out of this sleepover with a strong friendship. And nothing else. No sad hour where TJ outed himself and his true feelings for the younger boy. Nothing. It will be a fun night. That's all! Right?

TJ was a nervous wreck going to Cyrus's house. His hands are shaking, slightly and he can hear his heart and he's sure the rover on Mars can, too.

TJ rings Cyrus's doorbell and takes a step back. (As taught to him by his mother.) Cyrus opens the door with a huge grin on his face. It's so warm and inviting TJ feels himself breaking out into a similar grin.

"Hello, Tyler…. John?" TJ's smile was soft before shaking his head no, "Nice try, Underdog." Cyrus shrugged.

"Are you ready for what could possibly be the best sleepover you have ever attended?!" TJ feels himself chuckle at Cyrus's enthusiasm. It's so heartwarming he feels his heart grow just a bit bigger. "I have no doubt it will be the best." And TJ stops there, scared he'll continue into run-on sentences about how amazing Cyrus is. Scared he'll tell Cyrus how he really feels.

Cyrus's grin grows impossibly bigger, it's almost concerning if his eyes didn't light up as well, making TJ feel all fuzzy on the inside. Cyrus opens the door a bit wider to give TJ room to come inside with his duffle bag.

In front of him was an array of every snack in existence. Cheez-its, Oreos, Chocolate Chocolate Chip Muffins (no surprise), Nutter Butters, and even more. How Cyrus managed to buy everything on a short notice, TJ could not tell you. TJ was just invited this morning by Cyrus.

Cyrus wore a little bit of a more noticeable nervous expression now, "Is it okay?" TJ swells. "This is amazing, Underdog. You really outdid yourself. This is the best I've ever been to." Cyrus smiled wider at that.

TJ was whipped. No doubt.

After settling in, the two boys sat on the couch. (Rule #1 pops up, keep a reasonable distance.) It completely goes out the window the minute Cyrus scooched closer to TJ, their arms touching. (Rule #2, keep hands to yourself.)

But TJ keeps justifying it as It's Cyrus's doing. TJ has complete and utter control. Until Cyrus pulls out a horror movie. A mediocre horror movie, if anything. It's just Stephen King's IT, the 2017 remake. TJ saw the movie in theaters and got bored. He doesn't know why he wasn't scared, he's actually very bad with horror, the movie was just _bad _to him.

"Cyrus Goodman, choosing a _horror _movie, as I live and breathe?" TJ teased. Cyrus blushed before shrugging, "I thought you like horror, besides I'm not afraid of clowns so…. is it ok?" He seems uncertain and TJ was torn. He picked this _because _he thought TJ would like it, how cute is that?! It's infuriating!

See, the main reason that horror was such a big deal because he _knew _Cyrus didn't handle horror well. He was scared that if Cyrus got scared, his stupid protective instinct would kick in and want to comfort him. Which only leads to more unrequited feelings. Which, he understands is a cliche but does he care? No! Irrational fears have no regards for cliches.

But then again, Cyrus picked this _for _TJ! And he said it himself, he won't be scared! Really, it's fine, the more TJ thought about it. And before he could think any harder he replied with a: "Yeah, sounds great, go ahead."

The minute Cyrus put the DVD in and the eerie music started, Cyrus flinched.

Maybe… this was a bad idea.

* * *

Halfway through the movie, TJ was bored but kept his interest going so Cyrus wouldn't be upset. Cyrus, on the other hand, looked terrified. TJ was resisting all urge to just go over and cuddle the boy. (As he had increased the distance between him and Cyrus.)

Then, another jump scare showed up on the screen and Cyrus yelled. TJ didn't even hesitate before reaching over and wrapping his arms around Cyrus. Immediately, Cyrus relaxed into TJ's embrace, snuggling into TJ's side. TJ smiled softly.

"Scared?" He teased. Cyrus looked up at TJ, a mischievous look on his face, smirking slightly, "Never!" As he cuddled more into TJ's side, making TJ chuckle. "It's okay if you are," TJ whispers in Cyrus's ear, "I'll always protect you." TJ winked. Cyrus looked into TJ's eyes, his own eyes widening, his cheeks flushed.

"Really?"

"Absolutely."

"Why did you paint your nails a few weeks ago?" Cyrus blurts out. TJ was taken back by surprise by the question about his nails. (Which have chipped off by now, only a faint memory of the nails that were so nicely done. His mom did them, as he's said, proudly.)

TJ shrugged, "I got inspiration from yours. Thought yours were nice, thought why can't I have them." Cyrus nodded, "Yeah, anyone can wear nail polish, right?" TJ nodded, "Absolutely."

"Like if a boy was into girls and only into girls, he wouldn't magically like boys because he wore some paint on his nails, right?" TJ nodded along to Cyrus's words, not letting it show how deflated he felt inside. Cyrus was straight. 100%. No doubt now. "Of course." TJ strangles out.

"Yeah, everyone threw rumors that I was into boys… and it's only started because I wore nail polish." And TJ was on the verge of tears. Why did he let himself get this far? He turned an amazing, platonic, friendship into something it won't ever be. TJ feels his heart shatter. Cyrus held onto TJ tighter as TJ started to feel like he couldn't breathe.

"You wanna know the worst part of the rumors?"

"What?"

"They're…. right."

That stopped TJ. "What?"

"Yeah, I am gay…. and I feel almost _guilty _about it. Because I want to show that _anyone _can wear nail polish! No labels have to be placed upon someone because of _paint _. But they're _right _. And it kills me." Cyrus croaks out, the movie long forgotten. Honestly, TJ turned down the volume on the movie a while ago without realizing it. Because he notices he doesn't hear the terrorizing screams of the Loser's Club anymore. All he can hear is his beating heart and Cyrus.

"And then, you wore nail polish and no one really said anything. But I felt better when you did because maybe I am gay, but you aren't, so it does prove my point, anyway."

Before TJ can think it through he blurts out: "I'm not straight."

Cyrus's head snaps towards TJ's once again, his eyes the size of two dinner plates. "What?" He croaks out. Almost sounds like a voice crack but not _quite _.

TJ gulps. "Yeah, I'm.. I'm gay." Cyrus's eyes widen impossibly bigger than before, his eyes practically bulging. "R-really?" TJ nods, "Yeah, why would I lie?" Cyrus just shrugged.

"How did you know?"

"I had a crush on a boy in fourth grade, told my mom, she supported me instantly. I didn't know what that meant back then. She taught me."

Cyrus looked in awe of TJ, "That's… amazing." Cyrus sputters out.

"What about you?"

"I…. used to have a crush on Jonah Beck….." Cyrus sounds nervous. And TJ feels his heart break for the second time that night.

_Of course _, Cyrus has a crush on Jonah freaking Beck. Everyone does. That kid is so freaking amazing, he's not really surprised. He's seen Cyrus around Jonah. Only briefly, really, but it makes sense. What's worse? Falling for a straight guy who will never like you back? Or falling for the _only _other gay guy you know, only to have him pine for _another _guy?

They're both equally bad, TJ decides.

"Oh? You do?"

"Did. Past tense. It… it disappeared a while ago…."

TJ nods along but doesn't buy it. "I like someone else." Cyrus blurts out. TJ continues nodding. "Anyone, I know?"

Cyrus shrugs. "I mean… maybe. Have you ever met a boy about… ye' tall," Cyrus puts his hand up, signaling a height taller than his.

Goddamn, a cute height difference?

"Blonde hair, probably dying from all the gel put in it daily,"

Sounds like a player, TJ thinks.

"Plays basketball,"

Even worse, someone who is better than him at not _just _getting the heart of the boy he yearns for, but _basketball _, too! Today is not TJ's day.

"Occasionally likes horror movies…."

Oh great, now Cyrus will confess this hunky and handsome boy that is completely out of TJ's league and won't ever be able to compete with TJ, because of how amazing he is. And he'll get to cuddle Cyrus during horror movies, too!

"And wore black nail polish just to make me feel better?"

Wait….. what?

Now it was TJ's turn for his eyes to widen into dinner plates. "M-me?" He sputters. Cyrus looks into TJ's eyes with a new found confidence. "Yeah…." He says softly. "Is that okay?" TJ nods excitedly. "Yes!" He says, a bit too loud and happy, making Cyrus let out a giggle.

TJ leans down and lands a quick peck on Cyrus's lips before he can start beating himself up. Then, after that split second is over, they're both looking at each other in a daze, their hearts _racing _.

The rest of the nights they ditch the horror movies and opt for doing each other's nails. They're a little messy but it's just so uniquely _them _. It's heartwarming.

TJ's light red nails are drying as Cyrus's light blue nails are drying when Cyrus pipes up, "Does this make us boyfriends?"

TJ grins.

"Absolutely."

* * *

Chapter 3: Nightmare In Gym 101

TJ and Cyrus have been established boyfriends for two months now and they're the healthiest relationship out of all of Middle School. The Monday after they started dating, they wasted no time and strolled into school, holding hands. The student body was a little confused but got over it quickly, besides, no one thought they'd last _anyway _, it's middle school, nothing lasts.

Everyone was shocked when the two boys celebrated their two month anniversary. Well, everyone as in anyone who paid attention. It wasn't like the two boys were _that _public with their relationship, mostly just hand holding and cheek kisses. But whenever the two boys were together, they would always be touching each other. Call it a quirk.

Now, they tried to always be close, especially in school but it was decently harder when they remembered they're in different grades, the only exception being that Math. TJ had dyscalculia, that made math increasingly hard.

So, unfortunately, Cyrus did not have Gym with his boyfriend. The only one who could ever push Cyrus' physical state. At first, Cyrus never thought much of Gym. Then, a new kid came to school and worked exceptionally hard to make sure Gym was _living hell _for Cyrus. Why? He couldn't tell you.

Cyrus always found it so funny because that same exact kid was _always _kissing up to his boyfriend. But I guess, that same boy hadn't noticed the nature of TJ and Cyrus' relationship.

The boy's name was Steve King. He had moved a month ago and Cyrus was trying to dissect why Steve targeted Cyrus. Really, it was only in Gym. And maybe, he's grateful, it could be _a lot _worse. And Cyrus had never seen TJ with Steve, only a few mentions of Steve from TJ during dates.

(Which, totally killed the mood for Cyrus, but he refused to tell TJ about how he was being treated… it's embarrassing!)

The first instance where Cyrus noticed Steve targeting Cyrus, in general, was during track. It's no secret Cyrus is less than athletically inclined, but he can run _decently _well, which just means he's not the last person.

Well, Steve was the opposite. Obviously, he was a strong jock with a _huge _ego, could probably to rival TJ's old attitude. Cyrus was just running, minding his business, not trying to _die _in seventh grade P.E. when he ran into something. _Or _, something ran into him.

It was just a knocking of the shoulder with Steve and Cyrus brushed it off.

Steve finished another lap, catching up to Cyrus, yet _again _. Which is perplexing on its own. But then, Cyrus feels a hit to his _torso _this time. And Cyrus looks mildly offended by now. If Buffy was in the same class, she would probably have tackled Steve by now. But she isn't. So she didn't.

Then, Cyrus noticed Steve slow down a little bit ahead, maybe due to exhaustion?

_Big _mistake.

The next thing Cyrus knows he falls flat on his face. Because _someone _tripped him. Thankfully, he moved his head to the side so it hit his cheek and _not _his nose. But still, it hurts. Cyrus groans out as his Gym teacher just tells him to get up and "keep it moving." Incredibly unprofessional, if you asked Cyrus.

When Cyrus got up he could see Steve snickering out of the corner of his eye. He frowns. Why was he laughing? What could possibly be so funny to Steve? Unless Cyrus was suddenly deaf and missed a joke, he didn't understand. Until he did.

A fellow classmate and someone Cyrus really never spoke to, stopped by and asked if he was okay, to which Cyrus put on a fake smile and nodded, "Absolutely."

* * *

A month had passed since the first time Cyrus noticed. Steadily all of it has escalated. Usually, it's not that bad. Sometimes Steve just makes a dry comment about Cyrus' athletic abilities (or, lack therefore of), brushes shoulders with Cyrus, or on the extreme side, Cyrus got a dodgeball to his stomach. But really, it wasn't _that _bad. Really, Cyrus could survive. What's seventh grade without a little peer pressure? It's normal. That's what Cyrus told himself when he got hit by a dodgeball for the second time that week.

Still, TJ was consistently oblivious of what was going on in seventh-grade Gym with Steve and Cyrus. And Cyrus felt guilty because on one hand, he never keeps secrets from TJ but on the other hand, TJ and Steve are _friends _! How crappy would it be on Cyrus' part to be like, "Hey, TJ, stop being friends with Steve, he annoys me in Gym." It's completely and totally controlling!

And Cyrus did _not _want to police his boyfriend. It wasn't like Cyrus was jealous, just kind of scared of Gym. But, that's normal. He's used to it. He shouldn't be worried. Right?

But as the days passed by, Cyrus was losing his ability to keep up his facade of 'Gym is great, I love Gym!'

There was even a day when TJ did happen to notice how exhausted Cyrus looked after school when they were at the spoon.

The two boys were sitting in a booth, across from each other after Cyrus voiced his opinion on couples sharing one side of the booth when they weren't waiting for anyone else.

("It's so stupid! You're making _less _space for yourself, for what?! So you can put your arm around my shoulder? That's what movies are for, _not _meals!")

But anyway, after ordering, TJ nodded his head toward Cyrus, who looked in tired and zoned out. "Hey, you okay?" Cyrus just did the fakest smile and nodded, "Yeah! Absolutely."

On the inside, he was totally dying.

"I just… uh-uhm…. hit my hip with the table when I got into the booth." Cyrus smiled at TJ. Truthfully, it wasn't exactly a lie. He did hit his hip. But also he tripped and fell in Gym. He can't exactly say it was Steve's fault since he wasn't nearby so Cyrus can't point fingers. TJ, who didn't want to press any harder, narrowed his eyes a little bit before easing up. "How were your classes today?" Cyrus smiled at the distraction, "Good, I guess. How about yours?"

TJ smiled and talked about his day, going on about how _exhausting _Math is and Cyrus is grateful for the distraction. His boyfriend's problems are so much better to talk about than Cyrus' own. Not that he wishes pain on his boyfriend, he just finds it easier giving advice rather than seeking it. How do you even go about talking about that one weird white kid in Gym who kinda makes fun of you? You don't.

Until you do.

"Hey, can I ask you about Steve King?" Cyrus hears himself ask. TJ shrugs. "So, are you guys friends?" TJ smiles a little, "I mean, yeah, he's cool. We play one on one a lot, he's actually really good. Not better than me, but you get it. He's cool, we hang out sometimes. Which, by the way, is accredited to you, Cyrus,"

When TJ says this, he puts his hand on top of Cyrus's. Cyrus's heart stops.

"Before you, I barely had _any _friends. Like, my teammates but we only ever talked about basketball and hung out at practice. You made me a better person, Cy, without you, I wouldn't have any friends right now. Much less a boyfriend." And TJ's smile is so wide, his eyes could light up a million Las Vegas'. He's glowing and looks so happy.

And Cyrus's heart resumes. Only to be beating so fast he can't breathe. His smile falls only a smidge but makes himself smile wider at TJ. He can hear his chest hurting, his heart thumping, and his hip _throbbing _.

"That's great, I'm so happy for you." He hears himself say.

This makes Cyrus's life even harder.

* * *

The final straw was a nice and sunny Tuesday. It was an actually really nice day outside, despite what was to happen in a few short hours.

Cyrus was dreading Gym for multiple reasons.

Steve King He hates Gym anyway

But today, he had a gut feeling it was going to be worse. It all started when he got to school, he was _late _. He was never late! Which also means he's stressed and he didn't even get to see his boyfriend this morning! The absolute worst.

His first few classes were pretty crappy, too. They were completely and utterly boring and Cyrus kept trying to fall asleep. Cyrus couldn't find one (1) good reason to stay awake. The teacher's voices all meshed together and felt like a bad documentary. Their voices were monotone and Cyrus felt sleep deprivation taking over his entire body as his eyes would not stay open. It was a mess overall.

But then, of course, by Cyrus' bad timing, the wretched Gym arrived. And today, was basketball. And despite his boyfriend being the captain, Cyrus was really bad at basketball. Except once, TJ helped him make a shot. Where was TJ, by the way? Cyrus usually saw TJ a few times in-between classes, even just once. Cyrus maybe puts it towards he was late so maybe TJ just forgot his schedule for the day or something. Cyrus felt himself missing TJ, despite having seen him yesterday.

The first 20 or so minutes of Gym was not _that _bad. He kept getting pushed around a little but he's light, he'll give it to Steve. A free pass. Not that Steve deserves it, but he'll get it.

10 minutes later, Cyrus is running around the court, trying to stay out of the main action, he's actually doing okay, really, he stole the ball from someone and even though it lasted like half a second, he was still so proud.

But, alas, all good, must come to an end.

And that end is a basketball straight to his face, Cyrus can feel his nose start throbbing as he lets out a horrible screech. There's blood dripping down Cyrus's face and it's not pretty. Cyrus feels his eyes water up and he can feel his body in the worst pain it's ever been.

He's never broken a bone or hurt himself drastically. (Maybe his hand when he went skateboarding with Jonah, but he doesn't like thinking of that experience. It was weird and embarrassing.) Mostly because he never goes out of his comfort box physically, and when he has, it's because TJ is right by him. Physically and emotionally. Mostly physically.

He can hear footsteps clamor him as he hears whispers and talking over Cyrus's physical state. He then feels a hand on his upper bicep and he immediately recognizes the soft touch. Before he can stop himself he lets out a soft, "Teej?" He opens his eyes to see his boyfriend with an indecipherable look on his face. It's a mix of worry, elation, anger, and sadness all in one. It's perplexing and Cyrus would dive further into the situation if his face wasn't in the worst pain imaginable.

"You're really here?" He whispers out, his head feeling a little dizzy.

"Absolutely."

* * *

Cyrus wakes up in the nurse's office. In the chair across from him is his boyfriend, his leg tapping the ground as he waits, anxiously. Cyrus sits up and then notices how TJ shoots up and reaches over to Cyrus, embracing him in a hug. After a few seconds, he lets go and gives Cyrus a once over before speaking,

"Jesus Christ, I was so worried! How are you feeling? Oh! Wait! The nurse said to tell you that your nose isn't broken or anything, the impact just made it bleed or something I wasn't paying attention but you're supposed to be physically okay, how are you?" TJ rambles. Cyrus feels himself smile softly at his boyfriend's concern. "I'm fine."

The nurse is gone, Cyrus assumes because TJ lands a soft kiss on Cyrus's forehead. "Please, don't ever scare me like that again. I was worried _sick _." Cyrus chuckles, "I mean I kind of didn't have any say in it, but sure." Cyrus says as a joke but Cyrus guesses that was the wrong thing to say because TJ's facial expression immediately locks up, his face is stone cold and he looks like he could kill. Correction: will kill.

"I saw Steve throw the ball at your face. Why did he do that? I know it wasn't an accident so don't even try." Cyrus looks speechless, he wants to try and claim blame for himself but he realizes it doesn't make sense. But he doesn't want his boyfriend to lose a valuable and trustworthy friend. He's torn and he feels tears start up again.

Tears start streaming down his face as he opens his mouth to speak. "I'm sorry! I didn't realize he would go this far! It's my fault I should've stopped it sooner. But I couldn't! I couldn't! And I couldn't tell you because you guys are such good friends! And I couldn't make you hate him. I couldn't! I didn't want you to lose a valuable friendship. I'm sorry! I thought maybe he would just get bored and move on or something. Or he would just eventually stop, but he didn't! And I was like well better me than someone else but mostly because I couldn't let you lose another friendship! I'm sorry!" And by the end of the confession, Cyrus is sobbing. All the pent-up emotions he had from the past few months are let out and he's so emotional.

TJ shushes Cyrus, "No, babe, it's okay. Just tell me, for how long?" Cyrus hiccups before answering, "A while I guess." He shrugs. TJ's eyes widen. "How long is a while?" TJ's face seems a little softer and Cyrus just shrugs. TJ sighs and Cyrus looks apologetic.

TJ takes a deep breath before nodding, "Cyrus, I'm sorry you felt like you couldn't tell me. But you can, okay? Who cares if I'm best friends with them or they're related to me or…. anything! Nothing justifies you getting hurt. Nothing! Who cares if I lose a few friends? I'll still have _you _. And that's what I care about. _You _, Cy. _Not _Steve. He's not that great, anyway. I can live without him. What I can't live without is _you _. So, remember that, okay?"

Cyrus feels himself smile a little and nod, "You mean it?"

"Absolutely."

* * *

TJ tells Cyrus to let him know the next time Steve or anyone hurts him. Which, funnily enough, Cyrus hasn't had to. In fact, every time Steve sees Cyrus, he freaks out a little and turns away. And it's been happening, _frequently. _Like every time they make eye contact.

It's been two weeks.

So, Cyrus doesn't know what happened but he can't complain. Gym is increasingly better but not by much because Cyrus' athleticism is just sad. But, hey! At least he's not being pelted by basketballs.

One afternoon, after school, TJ and Cyrus sit at the Spoon, in a booth just like usual when TJ pipes up, "How was school?"

And this time, Cyrus can tell TJ the truth.

"Really bad, actually. I think I'm failing History, which, I don't get, History is easy, everyone just killed everyone and took the land. But I guess it's not that simple in Mrs-"

TJ just smiles at Cyrus.

* * *

Chapter 4: Munchkins, Attack!

TJ has been working at the Kiddy Gym for as long as he can remember. So like… less than a year. He loves the kids there and wouldn't trade them for anything in the world. TJ wants to adopt the minute he can. He loves every and all kids, which is incredibly ironic because he's always been terrible with his own age group, but with kids? He feels at his peak.

That was until he met Cyrus. Because now, he can be decent with both age groups which, surprisingly is a good plus. He didn't realize the power of actually having friends until Cyrus. All negative and all positive.

(They never speak of it, but there was an incident with one of TJ's kind of friends and them _bullying _Cyrus. And it's not public knowledge, but TJ gave said bully a pretty good threat. A good summary is: "If you want to keep all your limbs, you'll stay away from Cyrus." And maybe if someone walked away with a little more blood on the outside than before, that was no one's business.)

But regardless, TJ loves all the kids that regulate his Gym (he calls it that, but currently owns 0% ownership in the company.) and even the kiddos that drop by once and a while. And yeah, TJ will die for them, but who else would?

Cyrus.

The perfect and amazing Cyrus. He doesn't work at TJ's Gym, but he stops by often, usually to drop stuff off for TJ. He stops by so often that the kids are used to him. They were completely enamored by him the first they met him, and it was the same for Cyrus.

They all took a love towards Cyrus. And thankfully, for a kind of a conservative town, they were all progressive. I.E. the parents noticed the nature of TJ & Cyrus's relationship and immediately gave the boys their blessing. (In the form of, "You and your boyfriend are so cute!")

Honestly, TJ was relieved, because his job was _technically _at risk if a parent was homophobic and didn't approve. It would be TJ's fault, not the parent. But it's been smooth. To which TJ is pleasantly surprised and hasn't resisted. Because why would he? If anything, he's over the moon with support. TJ hasn't been used to this much support in months. The only support he's ever gotten in masses was only if he won something huge in basketball.

But this… this was a different feeling of accomplishment. He's beaming and he suddenly loves work _even more _.

Cyrus loves his work, too. He drops by more frequently ever since the parents have been accepting. Cyrus loves the kids so much, TJ is almost worried he might lose his job to Cyrus. TJ then has a flash to what that would look like, Cyrus working with TJ. And TJ's met with a picture that looks almost identical to what's happening in front of him. The kids are tugging on Cyrus's sleeve and pushing him to go in the ball pit with them. Cyrus happily complies, laughing and giggling with the kids like its second nature.

For some reason, TJ not only has the entire parents and kids behind his back, but his management also had his back. For some reason, Jake - his manager - more than supports them. He doesn't pay Cyrus, but he also doesn't charge Cyrus for hanging around the Gym. TJ is _overwhelmed _. And Cyrus doesn't know, but Jake more than supports them only because he was raised in a house of two Moms. So he understands more than TJ could ever hope for.

TJ immediately stops his stroll down memory lane to go join Cyrus in the ball pit. Their ball pit is relatively small and has fewer balls and more foam cubes. On top of the pit is the climbing net, which kids usually climb on and can ring a bell at the top. Truthfully, it does get a bit annoying, but TJ lives with it. Cyrus is currently engaging in a fight of the foam cubes. Purple, blue and red cubes keep getting chucked at him as Cyrus fails at defending himself.

Currently it's 5 - 0. Cyrus has 0. But to be fair, there are like 3 small monsters against Cyrus's lone self. TJ laughs which causes Cyrus to turn his head and glares at TJ playfully, "Teeeeej," He draws out, his face turning into a small pout which makes TJ melt on the inside but on his exterior, he just lets out another laugh before nodding. "Yes, your highness?" His tone is playful, which makes Cyrus giggle.

"They're attacking me! It's unfair! There's so many!" Cyrus whines. The kids giggle at this and continue to throw more cubes at Cyrus. Cyrus just gasps and turns back to TJ. "Do you see this?!" His voice is exasperated and joking which just makes TJ happier. Cyrus begins throwing cubes back at the kids again, making it look so hard but really just throwing it softly, tricking the kids.

The kids are having a ball (in the cube pit) and keep throwing cubes back at Cyrus. TJ keeps laughing but notices a few more kids running around, playing tag. Today is a relatively quiet day, only around 8 kids are here today, as it's a calmer weekend. Most kids do go up north for the weekends.

A kid runs by TJ and hits TJ's leg and yelling out a, "You're it!" and runs away, giggling. TJ scoffs but smiles nonetheless, running a lot slower than normal and trying to "tag" the other kids. The kids not in the cube pit love this and keep giggling, making TJ's smile go wider.

After a few minutes of running around and playing tag, Cyrus hops on TJ's back, making TJ grab the back of Cyrus's thigh in reply. "What?" TJ says while Cyrus just yells. "Help me! They're out of the pit! They're coming for me!" Cyrus dramatizes, making TJ laugh and shakes his head. "Oh, are they really?" TJ drops Cyrus to the floor, turning around, so TJ can see how _ridiculous _Cyrus looks which just makes TJ grin. Cyrus pouts for a moment before getting a few kids to jump on him. Cyrus yells and throws his hands in the air, making the kids giggle even louder. Cyrus pouts as he yells. "Oh no! They've got me! I'm going down!" The kids full out a belly laugh at Cyrus's ridiculous antics. Cyrus gasps one last time before collapsing into the ground, playing dead. The kids laugh and start shaking Cyrus.

Cyrus uses this opportunity and sits back up, gasps dramatically and then falls back to the ground, playing dead once again. The kids love this, now all 8 kids are shaking Cyrus only to get the same reaction. TJ's having a ball with his over-dramatic boyfriend playing dead on the ground to entertain kids. TJ decides to have a little fun with this.

TJ falls to his knees and lets out a mournful yell with a "Nooooooo!" The kids turn their heads at TJ's antics, "Not my boyfriend!" He yells out. His eyes are shut and his hands are clasped together in a fist. The kids start giggling. TJ lays on top of Cyrus. "How could you?!" The kids laugh at this. "I have failed in my boyfriend duties!" The kids laugh again until a small voice pipes up, "You have duties?" Her eyes are wide with wonder. The kids quiet to this, looking at TJ curiously. TJ smiles.

"Yeah!" The little girl looks confused, "Like what?" TJ shrugs as he notices all the kids have sat down, Cyrus sitting up, everyone looking at TJ as if he was telling the most interesting story. Which, is wild on its own because none of these kids _ever _sit still. TJ's eyebrows rise slightly before he crosses his legs.

"Well, as Cyrus' boyfriend I get to protect him. You know, from bullies," Cyrus flashes TJ a soft smile. The kids 'ohhhh….' at this, which makes TJ giggle. "And I get to make sure he's always happy, I always hang out with him, and most importantly, I get to love him with all my heart!" Cyrus' eyes widen and for a moment TJ's worried he's said the wrong thing. But Cyrus gives TJ another soft smile and nods. And TJ feels his heart stopped.

"Is it just for boyfriends and girlfriends?" The same girl pipes up. TJ shakes his head, "No! It's universal for any friendship!" The girl grins.

The kid's attention span cuts short when a little boy jumps up and taps the same girl's head and yelling a loud, "Tag!" All the kids' flight response kicks in and they all start running around. Cyrus looks at TJ before quickly moving and giving him a short peck on the lips. "I love you," Cyrus whispers. TJ is just about to whisper it back when a small child jumps on Cyrus' back.

"You're it!" The high pitched voice yells out. Cyrus yells before getting up and running around with the child on his back. TJ's flashforward starts again and he can completely picture this with Cyrus when they're older.

He can see a future with Cyrus. And for once, the future doesn't scare TJ. If anything, he _cannot _wait.

* * *

Chapter 5: Knock Knock, Who's There? Self Doubt!

"Are you still watching?" Says TJ's computer screen. TJ rolls his eyes and scoffs, "It's only been three hours, Netflix underestimates me." TJ sits on his bed, his laptop propped up on his lap, his back against the wall and his phone in his hand. He couldn't stand watching stuff whilst being preoccupied. Currently he was reading an E-Book and watching Parks and Recreation for the fourth time. Say what you want, but that show never gets old. TJ reached over and took his water bottle and took a swig of it before putting it back down when his phone started ringing at an impossibly high volume for 3am.

"Shit!" TJ quickly picks up the phone, not bothering to look at the caller ID, "Hello?" The other line is quiet and it's almost eerie. TJ can hear a bit of heavy breathing and a few hiccups. He pulls the phone away from his ear and sees the contact as his boyfriend. TJ's interest is piqued and his eyebrow raises as he speaks into the phone another time. "Babe?" He calls out this time, hoping the pet name will draw out Cyrus's intentions.

"Sorry, did I wake you?" Is the first thing TJ hears over the phone from Cyrus. TJ can immediately pick up on Cyrus's exasperated voice and heavy breathing. TJ frowns, "No, of course not, I've been awake dicking around. What's up?" TJ doesn't want to press on Cyrus's tone in fear of him clamming up. "Nothing, I just. I can't sleep." TJ frowns for a second time, "Want me to come over or something?" Cyrus lets out a wet chuckle, "No, it's fine. I don't think I could sneak you in, anyway."

"Do you just want to talk?" TJ offers. "Yeah… just talk to me about what you were doing. I need a distraction." _For what? _Rattles TJ's brain and he wants to press on and get to the bottom of what's bothering his boyfriend but he just purses his lips and start rambling on about his opinion on season 7 of Parks and Recreation and how it's the best and no one will ever be able to change his mind. He hears Cyrus chuckle here and there and it makes TJ feel better knowing that his boyfriend is feeling a bit better.

After a good 10 minutes of _pure rambling _, TJ finally musters the courage to ask Cyrus why he _really _called so early slash late. Cyrus sucks in a breath. "Truthfully? I had a nightmare and I don't think I can go back to sleep." TJ feels his heart melt a little at that. "What was it about?" TJ winces at himself being so brash, he almost feels guilty provoking Cyrus. "Is it bad if I say I can't remember?" Is not the answer TJ was expecting, but is glad to hear it. Relatively.

"No! Not at all." TJ is quick to say. "I mean, like, there's some I remember. The basis. I guess I just had a dream that everyone ignored me and I guess everyone was extremely mad at me. I don't know. It's stupid." Cyrus explains and TJ feels his heart break a little. He feels _so _bad and he doesn't know how to help Cyrus from so far away. He can't cuddle Cyrus, hug him and reassure him that he doesn't hate him, he can't kiss Cyrus's forehead like he wants to _so badly _right now. He's just, _here _. Being _useless _.

"It's not stupid! That sounds really rough, I don't know how I'd take it." TJ speaks and he doesn't know if he made the right decision in words. "It just felt so real. The minute I woke up I knew I had to call you. To hear you say you didn't hate me." And it's official, TJ's heart is broken. He yearns for his boyfriend right now. "I don't hate you." TJ reiterates. "Thanks." Cyrus says and TJ smiles. "I could never hate you, Underdog," The nickname slipping off his tongue effortlessly.

"You're my best friend, my _boyfriend _. I can't imagine my life moving forward without you. I cannot imagine a future where you're not there, hugging me and telling me I'm smart and telling me you care for me. There's no future I want without you. You could break up with me and I'd still love you. You could beat me up and I'd genuinely thank you. I love you so much, Cy, I could never hate you in a million years. Please don't ever think I could. I love you."

TJ can hear Cyrus tear up a little as he chuckles. "You sap." Is the first thing TJ hears and he's so happy to hear Cyrus believe his words. "Just for you, babe." TJ winks but he knows Cyrus can't see him. "I could hear the wink in that." Cyrus laughs and TJ laughs too. "What were you doing before I called?" Cyrus asks once the laughing subsided. "Uhh… reading and watching Parks, as previously mentioned. Season 7 is perfect and you can never change my mind." Cyrus laughs again.

"What were you reading?" TJ shrugs, "To All The Boys I've Loved Before. Call me sappy or whatever, I just know you liked it so I thought I'd give it a shot." And now he's nervous and doesn't really understand why. Why does he feel so nervous telling Cyrus this? Does he think Cyrus will laugh? Because quite the opposite often. Cyrus coos. "That's the sweetest thing I've ever heard." TJ chuckles. "Really?" And his voice is playfully offended, "I've threatened people for you, Cy!" Cyrus just giggles, "No you didn't." TJ's suddenly confused because, why would he lie? That seems like such an outlandish thing to joke about.

"Yeah, I did." He just states as if it's obvious because he just assumed Cyrus knew. But Cyrus is quiet, "Is that why Steve looks so terrified to make eye contact with me?" "Well, yeah, I thought you figured that out." Because why other would this guy who was weirdly obsessed with harassing Cyrus just suddenly _stop? _TJ can hear Cyrus think so hard. He doesn't really remember how they got this part of the conversation but TJ can't tell if he's happy or not.

Cyrus sounds like he wants to say seven billion things but eventually settles on, "Thanks." And that's all. TJ is still deciding if that's good or not. "I didn't do anything, though. No worries. We're good. You're good, right?" Cyrus sounds like he's thinking. Like really thinking before he responds again.

His responses usually tend to be thought-provoking and beautiful. Or they can be messy and nervous. TJ isn't sure what he's going to say next. Cyrus can seem extremely well written and mysterious but other times he's a dork who never has a clue about life. TJ doesn't think he prefers one part over the other. Without both, he wouldn't be the beautiful Cyrus he is today.

Cyrus decides on an, "Absolutely." And TJ is mesmerized.

* * *

Chapter 6: +1 Cyrus Goodman Vs. The Homophobic Agenda

Cyrus was dreading the first day of school. And this wasn't normal dreading. This was bad, horrible, no good, dreading. Which, sounds completely redundant to use those words but Cyrus is dramatic. After spending most of the seventh grade with TJ by his side, Cyrus is dreading going into eighth grade without TJ. He's completely ignoring his rational brain telling him that he survived all the other grades without TJ. Because now that he knows what's it like to be with TJ, he can't go back!

Like a cocaine addiction but like….. healthy? Questionable.

But regardless, Cyrus stands at his locker feeling his hands _shake _. He's terrified and he doesn't know what to think of it! Everyone's so used to seeing TJ walk Cyrus to class, Cyrus feels a few eyes on him. He feels like he's missing a part of him. Luckily, he has Buffy. He always has Buffy. She appears at his locker and grins at Cyrus.

"Replacing TJ as your escort and the best basketball player at Jefferson. I mean, he wasn't the best even when he was here. But it's nice to feel the recognition." Buffy lightens the mood for Cyrus, who feels most of his worries dissipate. "Thanks, Buffy." Cyrus smiles. Buffy just nods and the two walk off to Cyrus's first hour.

You know, Cyrus can survive this. He can do anything.

* * *

Update: it's been two weeks and Cyrus cannot survive. Cyrus feels like school is more of a hell than normal. He's not pulling some edgy prank, but he genuinely feels like every time he enters the halls of the school, he seriously considers just ditching. Cyrus never ditches.

Let's review. Cyrus had his first day down pat. Right after school Cyrus even got to see TJ at The Spoon, so it was a successful first day. Relatively speaking.

The next day Cyrus didn't feel so bad going into school. But he now realizes what a fool he was. The minute he got to the locker and opened it, it was immediately slammed shut. Cyrus was confused when his eyes went upwards and were met with a tall pale boy with brown hair and blonde highlights.

Which, first, who told him he could pull that off? His figure was off-putting, like a half puny and half muscular. Like a few weeks ago he decided to do a push-up. His face was in a scowl, his thick brown eyebrows looked upset and his brown eyes were shooting daggers at Cyrus's own brown eyes.

Cyrus was confused why this tall boy was so upset with him. To him, he hasn't done anything. He's never even seen this boy before. The boy sniggers, "I just wanted to introduce myself, I'm Mark." Cyrus smiles and nods, "Cyrus." Mark nods, "Just wanted to say good luck. Have a _great _year. Senior year, yeah?" Cyrus just nods, "You, too." He says. Mark nods but then flees.

Cyrus is _puzzled, _to say the least. Mark seemed cool, he guessed. He doesn't understand at all what happened, but he brushes it off. Mark was new, Cyrus supposed, that's the only plausible theory. New kids can be weird so Cyrus just shrugged before going off to his class.

He could not be more wrong.

* * *

Over the next twelve days, Mark had made Cyrus's school days _hell _. And Cyrus would tell TJ, as he promised him when they first started dating, but nothing has become physical and TJ's already stressed enough in High School, it's almost _cruel _bringing up his Middle School problems. Freaking age differences!

One day, Cyrus's entire English class a drawing was passed around, depicting Cyrus "burning in hell" with a pride flag. Which, is kind of cliche if Cyrus thinks about it. Most of his classmates didn't find it funny. But some of them did. And it hurt.

Another day Cyrus was denied access to the boy's bathroom. Mark had blocked the boy's bathroom the entire lunch. Cyrus doesn't know _how _he did it, but anytime he tried to go _wash his hands _, someone pushed him back and told him _No _.

For some reason, no teacher has ever picked up on the _torture _Cyrus is endearing. But he remembered he was genuinely _abused _in Gym and no one noticed, so he's not exactly surprised.

Another day Mark passed by Cyrus's lunch table and dumped a bunch of water on Cyrus's food, rendering pretty much everything inedible. (Okay, maybe not _really _, but it was really gross. They had pizza and wet pizza is gross. So maybe inedible.)

Buffy was in shock that day and almost punched Mark but Cyrus told her to stop. Told Buffy it wasn't worth it. Buffy disagreed but Cyrus refused to sink down to Mark's level.

And weirdly? It only _ever _happened in school. One time Cyrus saw Mark while he was out with TJ at the record store. Mark glared at Cyrus and then suddenly left. Which perplexed Cyrus but he shut his mouth, per usual. Cyrus is just surprised Mark didn't make a comment about his boyfriend. Not that Cyrus would be okay with it, it just seemed out of character for Mark.

I mean, they didn't really _look _like a couple at that moment. They were at opposite sides of the records and looking at different things, not even really speaking to each other. So there was that. Or Mark is afraid of TJ. Both are possibilities.

The next day, Cyrus's water bottle kept getting stolen all day. This was just _so effing _annoying to Cyrus. He just wanted some water and tap water is gross. He ended up buying a water bottle at lunch only for it to be stolen minutes after.

And truthfully? Cyrus is getting really effing annoyed. He always has been, but now he's ready to just tell Mark to _stop it _. But Cyrus doesn't have _any _guts.

Cyrus enters The Spoon after his fifteenth day of Middle School and feels more drained than usual. He doesn't look as clean as usual. He kind of just looks dead. He doesn't understand why he's feeling so weak, he literally had injury after injury in Gym and played it off longer than right now.

Buffy slides in next to Cyrus and looks a mix of angry and sad. It's been a common look as of late. "Why? Why do you keep letting Mark do this?" She says. Andi nods in agreement. Cyrus shrugs, "I don't have a good answer." Buffy lets out a huff. And Cyrus is suddenly reminded its a Wednesday which means Amber isn't working. Good. She can't tell TJ.

Cyrus feels himself tear up slightly, "Why? I don't get why he does it."

Today was especially bad, the entire day Cyrus couldn't get his locker open, and he doesn't know _how _, but Mark has something to do with it. He just knows it. Then, his lunch got ruined, _again _, only this time by _soap _. _Soap. _Mark walked past them and dumped liquid soap on Cyrus's sandwich.

Cyrus orders four baskets of baby taters. Two for him and one for each of the girls. Buffy purses her lips. "Cyrus?" Cyrus swallows another baby tater and turns to look at Buffy, she, for once, looks unsure and almost _upset _. More than she has been lately. "Has he ever…. used….. a slur…. against you?" Her sentence is drawn out and she sounds uncomfortable.

Cyrus feels his eyes widen at the question, "Slur? Like…." and it's unsaid, but the girls know what Cyrus means. It's scary, really. Someone being so _violently _homophobic towards Cyrus. Especially when Cyrus hasn't really _dealt _with true homophobia before. Sure, sometimes when TJ and Cyrus kiss, they get odd stares, maybe a few whispers. And when he wore nail polish to school he also got the same reaction. But no one has _ever _used a slur against Cyrus.

"N-no. No. He hasn't." Cyrus manages to get out. Andi reaches over and puts a hand over Cyrus's shaking hand on the table. "Why? Has he said something?" Buffy immediately shakes her head, "Not to me, no. And nothing I've overheard. It's just.. a thought?" Cyrus feels his pulse go down slightly. But it's still jumping hoops.

Cyrus wants to _cry _. But this isn't the place. It's a safe spot, but it's still in public. Buffy senses this and leans over and side hug, Cyrus. Andi squeezes Cyrus's hand.

* * *

With this newly found hypothesis, Cyrus feels off-put. The next two weeks of school are useless. He pays even less mind to Mark, which makes Mark angry and up his pranks. His locker glued shut, his Gym clothes hidden, he can't even get lunch anymore, his notes being torn, it's just _bad _. And Cyrus is _fed effing up _. But he doesn't do anything.

Buffy is even more fed up. But with his sudden realization that Mark is _homophobic _, she tries not to interfere. Per Cyrus' request.

But Cyrus knows how badly Andi and Buffy want to glue Mark's mouth shut and throw him a river. But he refuses to pay _any _mind to Mark.

The only solace Cyrus has is the weekends, which he spends with TJ pretty much the entire time. Their weekend dates make Cyrus suffering through the week all worth it. Cyrus never really talks to TJ about school, which TJ is okay with.

Or so it seems. Cyrus just likes to admire his boyfriend. Holding his soft hands (because he and Amber cornered TJ and made him do hand scrubs weekly), his pretty smile, his soft attitude, and his overall stature. TJ is so happy and confident and said he made some good friends in High School. Which makes Cyrus beam.

There was an unsaid joke of none of his new friends abusing Cyrus. But he didn't want to get into that. Cyrus is overwhelming happy at his boyfriend's success as a Freshman. He deserves it. After a bunch of rough years, he deserves happiness. So Cyrus doesn't know why he, himself can't get it.

It all sort of changes on a cool Sunday afternoon. The two boys are at the movies and just got out of the theater watching Mamma Mia 2: Here We Go Again! Cyrus squeezes TJ's hand, giggling softly as the boys throw their empty soda cup away. The minute Cyrus exits the theater into the hallway, he regrets it. He locks eyes with Mark, who is also leaving a different movie. Mark smirks and walks over to Cyrus and TJ.

"Awww… Cyrus. You never told me you had a boyfriend." Mark coo's which makes it seem almost…. nice. But Mark's tone has a slight mocking sense to it and Cyrus wants to leave, immediately. But TJ just looks confused but with a decently happy smile on his face. "Sorry, who are you?" TJ says. Mark laughs. "He hasn't told you?" TJ shakes his head.

"We're great friends! I'm _offended _you don't share your personal life with me, Cyrus." Mark frowns and Cyrus's fight or flight response kicks in. "Go. Away." He grits out. Mark just laughs while TJ looks seemingly more confused. "Oh, C'mon, Cy, don't treat me like this." Mark walks closer to Cyrus, raising a hand to touch Cyrus's cheek. Which, fails pretty hard when TJ's hand jets out and stops Mark's hand.

"He said go away." TJ looks less confused and angrier now. God. Mark draws his hand back and lets out a hearty laugh. Cyrus just tugs on TJ's hand, "Let's just go." TJ opens his mouth to protest but Mark speaks first, "Yeah, just do as Cy says. After all, that's all he's good at. Running away." TJ and Cyrus freeze.

TJ looks like he can and _will _murder Mark. "TJ.. please," Cyrus begs. Mark laughs at TJ's stone-cold expression. TJ suddenly relents and let Cyrus pull him away. Mark doesn't like this because he immediately yells out, "Whatta shame! A basketball legend… a _fag _." The two boys freeze for a second time.

And surprisingly, Cyrus feels himself whip around, shooting daggers at Mark. And he just feels himself just _snap._

"What the _fuck _did you just call my boyfriend?!" Cyrus yells out. He understands he's attracting a crowd but he can't find himself _caring _. Mark laughs, "Oh? Now you're bold? I called your boyfriend a f-" and he doesn't get to finish his thought because Cyrus runs over and pushes Mark, who falls to the ground.

"I'm so sick of you, Mark! You act so fucking high and mighty because you've been pulling these stupid, petty pranks on me this past month but I'm _done _. I don't even know _why _you're so against me! I don't hold a pride flag everywhere I go, TJ doesn't even go to our school! We can't be mushy and gross in the halls! I can't even bring myself to care that you're so fucking homophobic. But the fact that you're so insecure with yourself you have to _block the boy's bathroom _from me, is gross. I don't want to date you! And neither would any girl! You're so annoying!" Cyrus rants.

Cyrus pants but is prepared to go again.

"And I usually let this shit slide, but if you _ever _bring up my boyfriend _again _, you'll fucking regret it." And Cyrus considers kicking Mark. But refrains, just because he's caused so much of a scene, his cheeks are _burning _, his heart is _racing _and his pulse is going completely _wild _.

Cyrus just turns around, grabs TJ's wrist and leaves the theater completely. TJ looks in shock but the adrenaline from the recent events is causing Cyrus to not care.

The minute the boys exit the theater, they stop in their tracks, turning to look at each other. They stare at each other for a moment before TJ speaks up. "Holy shit." Which causes Cyrus to break out into a fit of smiles. "Thanks… I think?" TJ grins. "What was that?" His confusion is brought back.

Cyrus sighs before giving a short summary, "I don't know. He's just been pulling bad pranks on me this past month. It's been _exhausting _." TJ frowns, "You never told me." Cyrus blushes, "I didn't want to worry you… besides… he didn't like… hurt me…. I guess." TJ scowls, "I don't care. If something upsets you, please tell me." And TJ looks genuinely upset now and Cyrus feels a pang to his heart.

"But thanks for defending me." TJ smiles at Cyrus. Cyrus nods, "Absolutely." TJ grins at him. TJ then leans down and connects their lips for a swift kiss. When they connect, moments later, TJ is grinning ear to ear.

"I love you." He says.

Cyrus's eyes widen, but almost immediately soften

"I love you, too."

The two boys smile at each other.

They'd do anything for each other, and it was written in the stars. No going back, now.


	16. (E) KLANCE - The Royal Treatment by magi

The Royal Treatment  
magisterpavus

Summary:  
"You've met me, congratulations," Keith said shortly. "Now go meet someone else."

"Ouch," he said. "And that's not true; I don't even know your name yet!"

Keith wrinkled his nose. Maybe telling this irksome creature his title would scare him off. "I am Lord Kethyr, second son of Emperor Zarkon," he retorted. "Satisfied now?"

The Altean, unfortunately, was not deterred in the slightest by this. "Ooh, a royal? How exciting. I'm Lance."

* * *

Altea was very…bright.

That was Keith's first thought as they broke through the clouds and began their descent down towards the planet – the surface was covered with scattered deciduous forests and lush, rolling hills as far as the eye could see, framed by bright turquoise seas and snowy mountain ranges that were like nothing Keith had ever seen before. Altea hurt his eyes – it was so vibrant, too vibrant, like someone had turned the saturation all the way up. But it was beautiful, he supposed, in a blinding and nauseating sort of way.

Keith had to squint when they landed and stepped outside; walking down the gangplank with the rest of the Galra ambassadors amidst a roar of sound and a crowd of people that made Keith duck his head and flatten his ears uncomfortably. Already, he hated this.

As if reading his mind (or perhaps his not-so-subtle body language), Shiro draped an arm easily around his shoulders. Keith glanced up at him cautiously – he was waving to the onlookers and smiling, of course, the perfect picture of what an ambassador should be. And he was human, so he had an unfair advantage when it came to popularity, but still…Keith swore Takashi Shirogane could make any crowd adore him in five ticks flat.

"Wave," Shiro said out of the corner of his mouth. "And at least try to look like you're enjoying this, c'mon. It's not every day you get to visit Altea."

"Thankfully," Keith muttered. But he grudgingly raised a hand and gave the crowd a halfhearted wave. He needn't have bothered – they were sufficiently distracted by Shiro, and, of course, Lotor. If Shiro could make crowds like him, Lotor could make them grovel at his feet, and enjoy doing it. Keith would never understand his half-brother's natural charisma – it had certainly never made him like Lotor any more than usual. But, he admitted grudgingly, charisma was a good thing to have on a mission like this. Lotor was here to negotiate his own wedding, after all.

Their arrival was being announced by a pale male Altean with bright orange hair and an impressively curly, equally orange mustache. Keith tried not to stare at him too much, but he found the brightness of his hair fascinating – Galra hair came in three shades only; white, purple, and black. Alteans, as far as he could discern, had hair of every shade and style imaginable.

Shiro elbowed him lightly. "Keith, focus."

Keith blinked, muttered a hasty apology, and hurried after Lotor and Commander Sendak, who were being ushered towards the gleaming white palace steps. Keith didn't want to go in there. He wanted to go back to his quarters on Daibazaal, where there were no painfully bright colors and stressful crowds and obligatory talks he had to attend.

It was infuriating, because it wasn't as if anyone would even listen to him at the talks – he was attending as a prop only, not as the son of Zarkon. Lotor was the son of Zarkon that mattered; he was the half-Altean heir who had inherited his mother's beauty and wit and his father's strength and leadership, the perfect result of the alliance between Alteans and the Galra. Lotor was the one who would be marrying a member of the Altean royal family to continue that alliance.

Keith was just the half-human bastard who had killed his concubine mother during childbirth and retained neither his mother's beauty nor his father's strength. But he was convenient for diplomatic missions like this one, because he was less intimidating than his half-brother or any of Zarkon's fearsome commanders. Potential allies were more likely to become actual allies if they didn't think every Galra was eight palmacs tall and heavily scarred. On Planet Arusia, one of the locals had politely told Keith that they'd never seen a Galra child before, and while Lotor laughed and laughed Keith was forced to reply through gritted teeth that he was an adult, thank you very much, but understood the source of their confusion.

He wasn't even that short. He was as tall as Shiro, and Shiro was considered a very tall human. Or maybe Shiro just told him that to make him feel better about himself. Keith sighed, and ascended the palace steps, finding some relief when cool shadows washed over their party as they entered the castle proper. Their orange-haired guide was going on and on about the royal family and the history of the palace and any other time, Keith might have actually been interested, but right now he was tired and grumpy and already done with this mission.

Evidently their guide noticed Keith's lack of enthusiasm, because halfway through the tour he paused and said, "I realize you must be tired from your long journey! If any of you so wishes, a servant can escort you to your guest chambers now, so you can rest before the gala tonight!"

Keith had forgotten about the gala. He swallowed his pride and raised a hand coolly, ignoring Lotor's eyeroll, and was thankfully spared from the rest of the tour by a tall female Altean with long magenta hair and a cheery yellow markings on her face and arms. She tried her best to make small talk with him on the way.

"I'm Florona! And you're the Emperor's younger son, right? You must be so excited to be visiting Altea for the first time! It is a simply beautiful place, as I'm sure you've gathered already."

"It is very colorful," Keith offered, not wanting to be rude. "We don't have many plants like this on Daibazaal."

She gasped. "No plants? Oh, how terrible! I have a flower garden at home, you know, it's my pride and joy. We have all sorts of flowers here on Altea. Do you have any at all on Daibazaal?"

"Um…a few. But they're not very pretty. More like…weeds. And they have many thorns."

Florona looked disappointed. "That's too bad. What do you have on Daibazaal, if not flowers?"

"We have impressive mountain ranges," Keith said. "And mines full of valuable minerals."

Her eyes lit up at that. "Ooh, like jewels?"

"Some," Keith said, confused, "but mostly minerals to be used for energy purposes."

Florona's excitement dimmed again. "Oh. Well, here on Altea, we mine many jewels simply for aesthetic purposes! For example, the prince is particularly fond of sapphires, and is never seen without them. They match his markings so perfectly! He'll be at the gala tonight, perhaps you'll meet him! I believe he's around your age."

Keith sighed and hoped the prince wasn't twelve years old, though he wouldn't have been surprised.

"Ah, and here we are, sir, the chambers where you'll be staying!" Florona came to a stop in front of an extravagantly carved door. Keith squinted and thought he could make out some kind of large aquatic beast with tusks in the design. Intriguing.

"Thank you, Florona," he said.

"Will you be requiring anything else, sir?"

He shook his head with a tired smile. "I just need a nap."

"Sleep well, then!" she trilled, turning on her heel and practically skipping away.

Keith heaved another, bigger sigh, and hoped the bed was at least soft.

"Keith. Wake up. _Keith._ Kethyr!"

Keith grumbled into his pillow. "Shiro. What." Then he bolted upright, eyes wide. "How did you get in?!"

"You left your door unlocked," Shiro retorted. "Anyone could have walked in and assassinated you in your sleep; unfortunately for you they did not and it's time to go the gala."

"Can I fake my assassination instead?" Keith asked hopefully.

"No, but you can get dressed right now," Shiro said.

"I don't want to go," Keith complained as he tugged on the fancy outfit he'd been assigned. At least it was black, but it was uncomfortably low-cut and the pants were rather too tight for his liking. He had no doubt Lotor was behind it. "I look ridiculous, and I have no desire to stand around watching Lotor charm everyone into submission. You and I both know there's no reason for me to go to this," he pleaded, standing in front of the mirror and tugging in frustration at the hem of the tunic.

"You're a part of this mission, Keith," Shiro said, coming over to stand beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder reassuringly. "You should be there. And who knows, maybe this time you'll do more than stand around and watch. You could engage a little, you know."

Keith frowned. "I thought you said I was an 'introvert,' and that it was fine for me to dislike social interaction."

"Not all the time, Keith," Shiro said, shaking his head fondly. "Just…try, alright? Just try. You might be surprised." He smiled. "And for the record, I think you look great. The tunic makes your shoulders look wider and the cut defines your muscle. It makes you look strong – like the Emperor's son that you are."

"But Lotor –"

"Don't compare yourself to Lotor," Shiro said sharply, and Keith blinked in surprise – Shiro never snapped at him, but he sounded insistent now. "Being more human than Galra isn't a bad thing, Keith," he added, gentler. "And maybe those traits are more attractive to some Alteans than what Lotor has to offer."

Keith sighed, unconvinced. "You know I'll go," he said dully. "It's my duty, so I'll go."

But this gala would be no different than the others, Keith was sure of it.

As expected, the gala was torture. Prolonged, painful torture. Keith couldn't wait to leave.

He'd been trailing Shiro for a while, but eventually Shiro was taken away from him by some impertinent old Altean who wouldn't shut up about interplanetary trade routes. Which left Keith standing awkwardly in the corner beside a stone pillar, attempting to hide behind some large ferny plants, mentally debating whether it was worth the terrifying trek across the room to get a drink.

"Wow, you're kinda short for a Galra, aren't you?"

Keith stiffened and turned to face this newest annoyance…and faltered. It was an Altean – a shockingly _pretty_ Altean, to be specific, young with bright blue eyes and brighter blue markings, smooth brown skin, short silvery hair, and a perfect smirk. Somehow, his prettiness just made him even more annoying…that and the fact that he was only a couple palmacs shorter than Keith even while leaning casually against the stone pillar. The other Galra towered over the Alteans in comparison.

Keith opened his mouth and closed it before settling on a scowl. "And you're kind of an asshole," he retorted, eyes narrowing.

The Altean looked taken aback. "Whoa, calm down, it was a simple observation, not an insult. Promise."

Keith's eyes remained narrowed. "Well, I suggest you make your simple observations _elsewhere_," he gritted out.

The Altean's smirk grew. "What if I just like making them about you?"

Keith blinked. This wasn't…what? "What?" he said, eloquently. "Why?"

"Because you're cute, duh?" he said, arching a thin, silver eyebrow. Keith swallowed. "And I'm admittedly curious about you guys – thought I should probably meet a real, live Galra properly, before the negotiations begin." He jerked a thumb back to where Lotor and Sendak were lounging in a secluded corner with a great deal of alcohol. "And to be honest, they're terrifying."

Keith sniffed, eying him uncertainly. "So, what, I'm not?"

The Altean shrugged, pursing his (really nice) lips thoughtfully. "I mean…you probably could be; you've got the claws and teeth and all, don't you? And those freaky eyes, too. But right now? Nah, right now you just look like a pissed-off cat."

Keith bristled. Shiro had said something similar to him, once, but Shiro was allowed to say things like that. This was a stranger – a pretty stranger who thought he was cute, but a stranger nonetheless. "You've met me, congratulations," Keith said shortly. "Now go meet someone else."

"Ouch," he said. "And that's not true; I don't even know your name yet!"

Keith wrinkled his nose. Maybe telling this irksome creature his title would scare him off. "I am Lord Kethyr, second son of Emperor Zarkon," he retorted. "Satisfied now?"

The Altean, unfortunately, was not deterred in the slightest by this. "Ooh, a royal? How exciting. I'm Lance."

"I'm a Lord, not a Prince," Keith said.

Lance's brow furrowed. "But you're Zarkon's son, so that makes you royal –"

"If you want a royal, go meet my half-brother Prince Lotor," Keith snapped. "I'm sure he'd be _delighted_ to chat with you."

Lotor would be delighted to do more than chat with this impudent Altean boy, but Keith figured he would find that out on his own soon enough.

But Lance didn't budge. "I don't want to meet Lotor," he said.

Keith paused. "Then what do you want? To continue irritating me?"

"I want to get you a drink," Lance said.

Keith froze. "Uhm," he said. "A…drink?"

"Sure. Galra drink, don't they? Or something to eat, if you prefer. Or flowers…I can do flowers, too."

Keith needed to sit down. "Flowers?" he squeaked.

"Let's start with a drink," Lance declared, and hurried off to get one, leaving Keith standing there and gaping like a fish.

"What the quiznak was that," he whispered to a nearby plant. Its turquoise leaves waved around like it was laughing at him.

He thought maybe he should make a run for it – maybe go find Shiro and tell him…well, tell him what? Shiro would probably just laugh at him too. And…and if Keith rejected the Altean named Lance, he might change his mind about wanting to meet Lotor, and Lotor certainly wouldn't reject him. That thought made something curl low and sharp in his belly – jealousy, and determination, he realized. So he decided to stay. He was here to have _fun_, after all.

Lance returned with a frothy pink drink that smelled like some kind of sugary fruit. "It's called razzle, it's great," Lance said, holding it out to him like an offering. "Very alcoholic too."

Keith took the glass gingerly. "Trying to get me drunk?" he asked, sniffing it and raising an eyebrow.

Lance blanched. "Oh – no, quiznak, no, that's not, I wouldn't –"

Keith grinned a little. It was sort of fun to make him squirm. "I like alcohol," Keith assured him, and took a sip before holding it out to Lance, brows raised. The drink burned the back of his throat before dissolving into a fizzling warmth. "Do you?"

Lance blinked, smiling slowly and nodding, taking the offered glass and tipping it back. "Mm," he said, smacking his lips. "What would you say if I suggested we _both_ get drunk?"

Keith tilted his head. "And why would we have to be drunk?"

"We don't have to be, I 'spose," Lance admitted, his ear tips slightly pink. "But I might want to be a little less sober."

"I can do a little less sober," Keith agreed. "But you still haven't answered the question. What do you have in mind that would require us to be 'a little less sober,' Lance?"

Lance took another sip, and licked pink foam from his lips slowly. "I can't honestly tell if you're flirting or interrogating me right now."

Keith's lips quirked. "Guess."

"Well, I know which one I _want_ it to be," Lance drawled, stepping closer.

"You do seem to know what you want," Keith agreed, looking down at him.

"Yes," Lance murmured. "I can think of quite a few things I want you to do to me, Kethyr." Keith snorted despite his best efforts to keep a straight face. Lance frowned. "What?"

"Kethyr is my more formal name," Keith explained, taking another sip of the razzle, the warmth spreading from his throat into his chest. "Makes me think of boring courtly duties. Those I am more familiar with just call me Keith."

"Keith," Lance repeated, and smirked. "Are we familiar, then?"

"I thought that was your goal," Keith replied. "Continue your wooing, and we shall see."

"Ooh, this one plays hard to get," Lance said, clicking his tongue.

"Who said I was playing?" Keith retorted, and instantly regretted it. This drink was far too strong for its own good.

Lance's eyes widened. "Ah, I see," he said. "You really don't do this sort of thing often…or at all."

Keith hunched his shoulders and did his best to hide in his drink. "Go on, say what you mean to say," he muttered. "I doubt it's worse than anything I've heard from my own family."

Lance's ears flicked back, and though among the Galra that tended to convey displeasure or shame, Keith read it in Alteans as more of…concern? Lance's tone of voice was certainly concerned. "It is entirely up to you how you prefer to spend your time; they should not make you feel badly about that."

"Coming from someone who prefers to spend their time in a very particular way?" Keith said archly.

Lance must have realized he was desperately trying to redirect the conversation, but he still rose to the bait. "As a matter of fact, I do. And I quite like my choices, thank you."

"Well, I'm glad," Keith said, again without meaning to.

Lance's brow creased. "Glad?"

"Glad that you, ah, are enjoying yourself, I mean," Keith stammered, "and that you don't regret…putting yourself out there. As it were."

"That is the politest way I've ever heard anyone say it," Lance chuckled. "And here I thought you Galra were supposed to be blunt in your manner of speaking…and acting."

Keith swallowed another mouthful of razzle and regarded him more seriously than before. "And is this knowledge about my people all theoretical, or have you actually experienced it in person?"

"Are you asking if I've ever fucked a Galra before?" Lance said, smirking, startling Keith with the sudden vulgarity. Not a bad startle, though. "Because the answer is no," he added, gaze never leaving Keith's. "You'd be my first."

"Oh," Keith said. "I. I see. That is. Interesting."

Lance rolled his eyes. "Interesting, yes, perhaps you should ponder it in greater detail…in a more private setting."

He looked pointedly at the throngs of people around them, all chatting and absorbed mostly in each other…but Keith saw a familiar face across the room, and saw with some chagrin that Shiro had been engaged in conversation with a beautiful Altean woman with dark skin and fluffy billows of platinum hair. Emphasis on the _had_ – Shiro was now looking at Keith with a raised brow and an amused tilt to his lips, and had the audacity to wink when Keith made eye contact and flattened his ears.

Lance followed his gaze. "Friend of yours?" he asked casually.

"Earth's permanently stationed ambassador to the Galra," Keith said shortly. "Takashi Shirogane. Who's that woman he's speaking to?"

Lance took another sip of razzle, a much longer one. "Princess Allura," he replied. "King Alfor's eldest child, and the heir." He sighed. "But I'm sure you'll learn such details at the talks later, and now is not the time for that. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," Keith said with feeling. "I am dreading those talks, truthfully."

"They are dreadful," Lance said. "You know what else is dreadful?"

"Hmm?" Keith asked, distracted by the curve of Lance's neck as he leaned forward – it was long and smooth and _soft_, perfect for bruising, biting, marking.

"Not being able to kiss you this very moment," Lance said, eyes glittering.

Keith startled back. Lance's face fell. "I…you really want to?" Keith whispered.

"Well, of course, did you think I was just making empty promises?" Lance said. "Honestly, I'm shocked no one has spirited you away to some secluded alcove already, Keith – you're really beautiful."

Keith was sure he must be joking, but Lance was still looking up at him, hopeful and smiling playfully. "You're…really beautiful, too," Keith said.

"Aww, you flatterer." Lance beamed at him, and took the last sip of razzle before tossing the empty glass into the potted plants. "So? What do you say; shall we make our grand escape? You don't seem to like parties, and I can't say I blame you…not when there are so many other, better things we could be doing tonight."

Lance was charming. Frighteningly charming. But Keith was hopelessly enamored by him, and now that Lance had planted it there he just couldn't banish the idea of kissing Lance from his mind. So he nodded, and said, "I'll hold you to that, Lance. Lead the way."

"I thought you'd never ask," Lance giggled, and grabbed his hand, tugging him off into the night.

"You…had this all planned out, I see."

Keith gazed with no small amount of wonder at the high, vaulted ceilings and beautiful mosaic tiles in what appeared to be a private bathhouse of some sort. Lance had brought him through a veritable maze of hallways and courtyards and staircases to reach this building, but now that they were there, Keith could see someone had been here recently.

Everything gleamed as if freshly cleaned, one of the baths was filled with steam rising from it that imbued the air with a sweet, heady scent, and there were dozens of bathing supplies on the side of the bath ranging from towels to lotion to brushes to several items that were, upon further examination, not bathing supplies at all. Keith flushed, and knew it wasn't just from the steam.

"You got me there," Lance said, unashamed by his obvious preparation. "Admittedly, I saw you arrive at the palace, Keith. And I knew from that very moment…"

"That you wanted to take a bath with me?" Keith blurted, ears immediately flicking back in chagrin when Lance laughed.

But Lance wasn't mocking him, and he threw an arm around Keith's shoulders, walking him over to the waiting bath. "That would be a good start, but…not the main event I had in mind. If you're feeling adventurous..."

Keith didn't want to make any promises he couldn't keep – all this set-up was making him feel quite nervous. Lance clearly had high expectations. Keith didn't have a good history with high expectations. He chose his words carefully. "I…appreciate that you did all this," he gestured to the bath, "with me in mind. But..." Keith wrung his hands a little helplessly. "I don't know that I'm worthy of such attention, Lance. This can't have been easy for you to procure and…I'm afraid that it might all be a bit of a waste."

Lance blinked at him, brow furrowing. "Excuse you, I believe I'll decide for myself whether you're worthy of such attention, of _my_ attention, and I have decided you most definitely are. So that's quite enough of that, Keith. The only way any of this will be a waste is if you leave –"

"I don't want to leave!" Keith exclaimed. "That's not what I –"

"Well, good, then it's settled," Lance said with a bright smile. "We shall bathe together, and do more together if you wish, and it will be lovely and everyone stuck at the party would be terribly jealous of our fun if they knew the half of it."

Keith opened his mouth, then closed it, deciding further argument was not going to dissuade this stubborn Altean. Stubborn, but charming. "Alright," Keith conceded. "So we shall, Lance."

"Good!" Lance declared, and promptly began stripping his fine clothes from his body. Keith hadn't realized how fine they were, before, and his gaze snagged on the sparkling blue jewels at Lance's throat as he unpinned his cloak. Lance noticed his stare and raised an eyebrow. "Enjoying the view? I don't blame you, though I wouldn't mind if you joined in."

Keith cleared his throat and, because he figured fair was fair, unbuckled his belt and slipped off his tunic with minor difficulty, certain his hair was a mess as he emerged shirtless from the heap of black fabric. Lance had blue jewels in his ears, too, small and glittering but hard to ignore nonetheless. "Lance," Keith said slowly, "if you don't mind me asking, are you a noble, too? Your attire looks very…ornate."

Lance waved a hand at his discarded clothes and started on his breeches, not missing a beat. "Oh, this? I know you Galra are quite austere and simple in your fashions, but all Alteans tend to gravitate towards extravagance. I am but the youngest son of a youngest son, you see." He laughed, and the sound was like bells chiming, musical and nothing like Galra laughter. "But, my father's position in the court does give me access to venues like this one, which is a lucky thing, because my frequent late-night liaisons are not something my father likes to know about."

"Does he try to stop you?" Keith asked. "Surely you must be an adult and can do what you like."

"Oh, an adult, yes, but one kept on a very tight leash." Lance rolled his eyes. "If my father had his way, I'm certain I'd be confined to my rooms every night, having no fun whatsoever."

"That doesn't sound so bad," Keith countered timidly. "I like staying in my rooms on Daibazaal. It's quiet there; peaceful."

"But it must get lonely, mustn't it?" Lance asked, batting his eyelashes and stepping into Keith's space, down to his underclothes, which were…Keith's eyes widened and Lance smirked, snapping the waistband of the sheer, lacy blue garment. The sweet scent in the air was getting stronger, making Keith dizzy. "Do you like them? I do. They're my favorite…I have a pair in every color. What's your favorite color, Keith?"

Keith hadn't ever considered that before, truth be told. Galra weren't big on personal preferences and individualism. But the first thing he thought of was his home, with its crimson peaks and maroon deserts, and he said, "Red."

It must have been the right answer, because Lance's smirk widened. He reached out and took ahold of Keith's wrist, moved it slowly towards the blue lace, until one of Keith's claws hooked onto the fabric. Keith bit his lip, he didn't want to rip it; Lance had said these were his favorite after all. His hand looked too large and rough beside the delicate lace, but maybe that was exactly why Lance liked it.

"Red," Lance repeated. "It suits you, Keith. That's the color of passion, you know…are you passionate, Keith? Is there a fire inside you, just burning to be released…?"

Keith's claw curled dangerously in the fabric, and he snatched it away hastily before he could do any damage. Lance was undeterred, just hooked his own long, clawless fingers into the waistband and tugged the garment down, his cock springing free. At least, Keith supposed it was a cock. He tilted his head at the long, curling appendage – it almost looked like one of the potted ferns at the party. But made of flesh, obviously, and _glowing_, from the thicker root to the thinly tapered tip. It was smooth save for some kind of ribbing on the underside, where most of the glow seemed to emanate from.

Lance was very glowy. Now that the Altean was fully naked, Keith could see all the patterns Alteans kept hidden away under their clothes – and he thought hiding them was a shame, because they were incredible. Long lines of bioluminescent blue curled like elegant, symmetrical vines over Lance's chest, thighs, and upper arms, breaking off into smaller curls and swirls at his hips and down between his legs. The bathhouse was dimly lit, whereas the party had been brighter, hiding Lance's glow. But here…unthinking, Keith reached out to touch one of the lines on Lance's chest.

The Altean jolted at the contact and Keith hastily stepped away, stammering out an apology, but Lance smiled and said, "No, no, your claws are just cold. Don't worry. You can touch me. Can I touch you, too?"

Keith gulped. He still had his pants on, but Lance was eying his bare chest with something like hunger. "Yes," he whispered.

Lance smoothed his hands over Keith's chest immediately, his lips parted. "Soft," he murmured, glancing up at Keith. Keith had less fur on his body than most Galra, just a fine layer of lavender fluff, heavier at his shoulders, jaw, ears, the backs of his calves, and between his legs. Lance seemed entranced by it, and even more so by Keith's muscles. They were also inferior to most other Galra, but Lance had no problems with them. "And so strong," he added, squeezing at Keith's bicep and tracing the corded veins through his forearms.

"I have heard Alteans are quite strong, too," Keith managed, looking down at him.

"Oh, well," Lance chuckled, "I suppose we are. You wouldn't know it just from looking at us though, would you? But you Galra make your strength ever so obvious. I can't say I find it unappealing."

"I'm not considered very strong, comparatively," Keith muttered, his head going warm and fuzzy whenever Lance touched him with those small, soft, curious hands.

"Really?" Lance made a thoughtful sound. "Are you not fully Galra, like Prince Lotor?"

Keith bit his lip. "Half human, yes," he said. "Have you, um, ever been with a human?"

Lance considered it. "Hmm…actually, yes, a human female, once. She was wonderful, though as I understand it there are some key differences between human males and females."

"Aren't there key differences between Altean males and females too?" Keith asked.

Lance grinned. "Not many. Female Alteans have more mammary tissue and slightly wider hips, but the function is the same."

Keith blinked, eyes darting downwards, and then back up to Lance's face. "So…Alteans are hermaphroditic?"

Lance inclined his head, and his cock curled between his legs. Dazedly, Keith wondered how far back it could curl. "We are." Lance's expression turned sly. "But these need to come off, first. Are you more Galra or human here, I wonder?" His palm pressed lightly over the visible bulge in Keith's too-tight pants and Keith's breath hitched.

"More Galra," he said unsteadily, "I think. Oh…"

Lance unlaced his pants deftly, giggling when Keith almost tripped over his own feet in his attempts to peel them off. "I think those are a size too small," he told Keith when he'd finally wrestled his feet out of them.

Keith scowled. "Yes, they are. I certainly didn't pick them out."

"Oh? Then who did?"

"Probably Lotor," Keith mumbled, "just to make me…suffer…"

Lance was shaping Keith through the thin black fabric of his underwear, pressing closer until his cock slid over Keith's bare hip, leaving wet patches on his fur. "But you're not suffering now, are you, Keith," Lance drawled. Keith shook his head jerkily, and bit his lip hard when Lance's hands slipped into his underwear. The Altean's eyes went wide.

Keith, who was rapidly running out of patience, shoved his underwear down. Lance squeaked, sounding surprised yet delighted. His cock looked huge in Lance's hands, Keith realized as he looked down – it must have seemed huge to Lance, it was as thick as his forearm and nearly as long. "Is this normal for Galra?" Lance breathed, still holding Keith's cock and running reverent fingers over it, coaxing it into full hardness and gasping as the purple-pink head emerged from its sheath, already slick.

"Normal?" Keith repeated stupidly, hips stuttering into Lance's grip as his exploration continued down to the faintly rounded base, where his knot resided. "I, uh, I mean I'm shorter than most Galra, so, it's not considered large, if that's what you mean –"

"Not considered large?!" Lance squawked. "Quiznak, you really are a race of giants. I suppose it's a good thing I didn't try to go for any 'normal-sized' Galra, or I might be torn in half!"

Keith's brow furrowed, alarmed. "I don't want to hurt you," he said hastily.

Lance blinked up at him as if caught off guard. "You're sweet," he said after a pause, sounding like he really meant it. "But don't worry about that, we'll make this work – there is absolutely no way I'm wasting this gift."

"Gift?" Keith snorted. His dick had never been referred to as a gift before, that was for sure.

"Yes," Lance declared, "now let's take a bath, and you can show me how this gift of yours works." He took Keith's hand and waded into the warm water with him, the glowing markings looking strange under the water and sending rippling reflections all across the sides of the bath. Keith followed him in hesitantly as Lance settled on a shelf where the water came up to the Altean's mid-chest, but barely covered Keith's hips.

"How it…works?" Keith eyed him uncertainly. "It's not exactly complicated."

"It's different, and I want to know how different," Lance retorted. He couldn't seem to stop touching Keith, especially the tip of his cock and just under the sheath, which made Keith squirm. His hands wandered further to cup Keith's sac, squeezing lightly as Keith sucked in a sharp breath. "What are these?"

"Uh," Keith said, "that's where – hormones, and our seed, that's where they come from – you don't have anything like that?"

Lance shook his head, rising up to kneel so his body was out of the water. "Not externally. I do have this, though." And he took Keith's hand and guided it between his legs, behind his cock. Petrified, Keith didn't move a single finger, eyes widening as his sharp claws delved into soft, wet heat, and something almost like the water around them but thicker and much warmer. "You can touch," Lance reminded him.

Keith hesitated, and then sheathed his claws, the loud _scchhnick!_ sound startling Lance. "That's handy," Lance joked, silencing when Keith slid a finger inside of him. Keith was entranced by the copious amount of slickness trickling out of Lance's hole and covering his hand in pale blue ooze, and couldn't help but wonder if there was usually so much or if Lance's body was instinctively trying to prepare itself for Keith's cock. The thought made his blood run hotter and his cock harden further. That smell…that smell in the steam was overpowering, now, making it harder and harder to think. Keith shook himself. _Focus._

"Even your fingers are – ah – large," Lance gasped, slumping forward into Keith's chest as Keith carefully worked a second finger inside. It wasn't difficult, Lance was pliant and more than willing, his breath ruffling Keith's fur as Keith worked him open. "You're good at this, have – have you really never – _mmm_ – done this before?"

Keith shrugged, the movement shifting his fingers deeper inside Lance, who shuddered encouragingly. "Only on myself," he said. The Altean whined at that, gazing up at him with disbelief and definite interest. Keith licked his lips. "Most male humans – aren't self-lubricating and cannot bear children, but, there is an…internal gland that can be stimulated and…L-lance?"

Lance's hand was creeping around Keith's hip and over his ass, fingers slipping between the cheeks and rubbing tentatively at the furl of his hole under the water. "Here?" Lance asked, voice low.

"Um, yes, but – should I stop? What do you want me to –"

Lance kissed him, and Keith hadn't even realized that they hadn't kissed yet, and felt a little bad that he'd put his fingers inside Lance before giving him a kiss first. Lance was so soft, so smooth and pretty as he crawled into Keith's lap and licked into his mouth, making sweet little purring sounds when sharp fangs clicked against his teeth.

Keith still couldn't decide whether Lance was brave or stupid, only knew that he wanted to fuck him desperately.

Galra had a superior sense of smell to most species, including Alteans, so Keith knew Lance had no idea how divine he smelled right now. The scent of his arousal was what he'd been smelling in the air, Keith realized as they kissed, not perfume in the steam at all. It was _Lance_, and though Keith had never smelled the distinct scent of _mate_ before, he imagined it was not dissimilar from this. Lance was not a Galra, but he was fertile and receptive and the most gorgeous thing Keith had ever seen.

Keith had never considered himself to be bold; his life thus far had been one of keeping quiet and knowing his place. But Lance's open, untempered lust gave Keith the nerve to treat him the way his instincts were telling him to. His hands were large on Lance's slender hips, so large that his thumbs met in the middle of Lance's stomach as he lifted Lance up, claws unsheathing and digging into his skin to hold him in place, the Altean squirming and breaking away from the kiss at the rough handling. Keith tucked his head into Lance's neck, fangs grazing delicate skin, nostrils flaring.

"Keith?" Lance gasped, pawing at his chest and trying to wriggle free, stilling abruptly when the head of Keith's cock nudged at the wet, open place between his thighs, another gush of slickness leaking out and coating Keith's aching cock. Keith growled, wanting to yank Lance down onto it, but managed to stop himself.

"Are the anatomy lessons over?" Keith gritted out. "Because you smell…incredible."

Lance's pupils dilated. "You can _smell_ me?!"

"Yes," Keith murmured, nosing along his jaw. "I can smell how much you want me, how much your body wants me."

Lance's chest rose and fell shallowly. "So there's a fire in there after all," he said faintly. "Is…is this some kind of Galra mating drive?"

"Mm," Keith replied, licking over Lance's markings and rubbing the head of his cock against Lance's slit, which was equally swollen with arousal. "Wanna fuck you and knot you and fill you up, knock you up…"

A thin, needy whine fell from Lance's lips. "Hate to break it to you, but I'm on the most effective birth control on the planet," Lance informed him, patting Keith's back shakily. "Can't have dozens of future heirs running around, now can we."

Distantly, Keith registered the words _future heirs_ and thought, _Huh?_ but more importantly he registered Lance sinking down on him with a moan, the water rippling around them as his smaller body stretched around Keith's bulging cock and struggled to accommodate it. Lance clung to him, Keith's cock only halfway inside, and let out a strangled whimper when Keith's hands tightened on his hips and forced him down further. "K-keith, nngh, it's too – too much, I – _ah!_"

"You can take it," Keith crooned into his ear, nibbling at the shell of it, swirling his tongue around the blue jewels and feeling Lance convulse around him, the Altean's blunt nails digging into his shoulders. "You were made for this, made to impale yourself on cock, you little slut."

Lance sniffled and shook his head, hiding his face in Keith's chest. "N-no, no, I'm not, I –"

"Sluts don't get to argue," Keith growled, still working Lance down onto the rest of his length. "Besides, you know it's true. You practically threw yourself at me at the party. Was this what you wanted all along? Or did you just think I was easy prey, did you think you'd get to fuck me instead, on my hands and knees in this bath where anyone could find us?"

Lance gasped, mouth falling open as Keith's cock settled inside him in its entirety. "Wanted you to," he pleaded, "wanted you to fuck me all along, please, please fuck me, Keith!"

"What are you?" Keith asked, low and dark against his twitching ear. "Tell me, say it."

"A…a slut," Lance whimpered, looking up at him, revealing his tearstained face. "I'm a slut, I am – mmph!"

Keith kissed him, deep and possessive, moving one of his hands to Lance's untouched cock, which curled eagerly into his palm and wriggled frantically when he pressed a claw carefully into the tip. Lance cried out into the kiss, hands scrabbling at his chest, and Keith released him, sheathing his claws so he could touch the Altean's cock properly and, more importantly, brush the tears away from his shining eyes.

Lance's lower lip trembled. "_My_ slut," Keith said in an undertone, satisfied as a blush spread over Lance's face. "So pretty, even when you cry…but I don't want you to cry, Lance."

"Sorry," Lance croaked. "This is a lot, Keith. You're…a lot. Oh, dear, are you…baring your teeth at me? How utterly _bestial_…this was hardly what I…expected from you…oh, oh please, yes, _Keith!_" Keith's hand stroked Lance's cock in earnest, which was somewhat difficult because it kept trying to curl around his fingers, but it made Lance shudder and tighten around him so it was worth it.

"Do you think you can fuck yourself on my cock now?" Keith asked him, enjoying the slick heat and tightness around his length but wanting more friction and more of Lance's pleasure. The Altean nodded eagerly, using Keith's shoulders as leverage to lift himself up, moaning at the drag of hardened flesh against his sensitive rim, rocking his hips down in small circular motions.

"Please, Keith, can you – move with me, fuck me," Lance whispered, voice ragged already.

"Make yourself come first," Keith retorted, claws running over Lance's arched back.

Lance made a dismayed sound. "Wha – why?"

"I want to knot you," Keith explained, "but I don't want to…to risk hurting you, so you have to come first, and then you'll be looser."

Lance pouted, but he went back to rocking his hips, riding Keith's cock as best he could. It was so large that he was mostly just shifting around on it, getting used to the fullness and sighing when the head dragged against his softest spots.

Keith's knot began to swell as Lance neared his finish, moving faster and letting out little whimpers and moans every time he came down, biting his lip so hard Keith feared it would bleed. To prevent that, Keith tipped Lance's head up and kissed him, not searing and filthy like the other kisses but long and soft and gentle, swallowing every beautiful sound Lance made for him.

His claws scratched lightly through Lance's hair and he moved his hips as much as he dared, not enough to drive his knot up into Lance but enough to match Lance's rhythm and bring him to finish. Lance keened sweetly and pulsed around Keith's cock, the bathwater around them turning faintly blue as he spilled from the inside, cock remaining hard.

That was…interesting. Keith vowed to make Lance come in every way possible by the end of the night.

The hot rush over his cock buried inside Lance felt incredible, and it was all Keith needed to wrench Lance up and flip him so that his chest was flush to the Altean's back. Lance didn't resist the change in position, rather the opposite – he slumped against Keith and pushed his hips back, grinding on his cock insistently.

"Please," he whispered, and Keith complied happily, rutting into him as hard as he'd wanted to earlier. Lance writhed, legs squeezing at Keith's thighs where he straddled his lap, trying to change the angle, deepen it further – Keith understood and wrapped an arm around Lance's front, tipping him forward towards the surface of the water and shuffling around until he was kneeling and thrusting into Lance from behind.

Lance shrieked and grabbed for the edge of the bath, his voice shaky as he yelped, "You're holding me up with one hand, okay, wonderful, glad we've – ahh, _fuck me_ – established that, you absolute brute!"

"Brute?" Keith questioned, his voice rumbling, almost unrecognizable as he filled Lance again and again, the Altean's head thrown back in pleasure, neck bared for Keith to bite and kiss to his heart's content.

"I mean that," Lance gasped, "in the f-fondest of w-ways."

"Sure you do," Keith chuckled, scraping his fangs over Lance's shoulder, pleased when Lance arched up into it.

Lance's body wasn't resisting the intrusion anymore; rather it was welcoming him in, so slick that the sounds of their coupling filled the air obscenely, slaps and squelches with every inwards thrust, Keith's low grunts and growls overlaying Lance's higher mewls and moans.

Keith leaned over him further, pressing Lance closer to the water, and saw where the unyielding girth of his cock split Lance open impossibly wide, the Altean's puffy slit fluttering when Keith brushed a claw over their joining. He was tempted to sink the finger in alongside his cock, to see just how much Lance's marvelous body could take, but he knew it would have to take more than just an added finger soon enough.

Keith had only managed to knot on his own once before, so the sensation was unfamiliar and slightly disconcerting as the half-formed bump at the base of his cock grew, catching on Lance's rim while his thrusts sped up and increased in strength. Lance swore, splashing at the water as he jerked futilely in Keith's grasp and stammered, "Is – is that –"

"Yes," Keith panted. "Do you want me to?" He had to be sure; he would not force this upon Lance, even through his haze of possessive, primal lust he was aware of that much.

But to his relief Lance nodded and begged, "Yes, yes, I want to feel all of you," and that was it, Keith grabbed Lance's hips, hauling him back up into his lap, and shoved as deep and hard as he could. Lance cried out as Keith's knot breached him wide and hot, shivering and sobbing in his lap, head falling back limply onto Keith's shoulder.

Keith continued to fuck him through his climax, pumping him full of cum and holding Lance to him in a tight, warm embrace; one hand covering Lance's on his wriggling cock and the other holding Lance's waist firmly in place. He felt Lance come around him and in thin spurts of glowing blue-white from his cock, loud and overwhelmed, calming only when Keith nuzzled at his neck and enfolded Lance fully in his arms.

Lance's breathing was shallow and his heart was racing, eyes squeezed shut, smooth skin soaked in a layer of sweat. Keith nosed worriedly at his throat and cooed softly in concern, hoping such symptoms were not indications of anything seriously wrong among Alteans. But then Lance stirred, eyes opening and locking onto Keith's, a slow smile spreading across his tired yet blissful face. Keith cooed again, bumping at Lance's face with his nose, and Lance giggled, reaching up to pet clumsily at his hair and ears.

Keith was unused to anyone touching his ears, and they flicked in slight annoyance, but it was Lance so he would allow it. "Just like a cat," Lance laughed, and when Keith cocked his head in confusion Lance just laughed more and scratched behind his ears, and that…actually felt quite nice. Keith hummed and dropped his chin onto Lance's shoulder. "Not that I don't appreciate the snuggling," Lance added, "but how long are we stuck here for?"

"Not long," Keith sighed, eyelids heavy. "A few more doboshes."

Lance made a thoughtful sound. "You know Altean units of time?"

"I may not be given the title of a prince but I am given the education of one," Keith replied.

"And why, if I may ask, are you not given the title of a prince?" Lance asked. Keith stiffened and Lance most certainly felt it. "Apologies, I don't mean to pry –"

Keith shook his head, sitting back against the edge of the bath, Lance leaning back with him. "My mother was a human woman in Zarkon's harem," he said. "She was…as I have been told, a favored whore, but a whore nonetheless."

Lance turned his head, frowning. "Who told you such a thing?"

"Lotor," Keith muttered, and Lance's brow creased. "Anyway, whatever status she had did not matter when she became pregnant and died of a hemorrhage after giving birth to me prematurely. Humans and Galra do not mix well." He looked up at the vaulted ceiling, chewing his lip. "I realize this is rather awful pillow talk, but you did ask."

Lance shook his head, touching Keith's face gently, brushing his thumb over his cheekbone and the bridge of his nose. "You don't look like Zarkon," he said.

Keith snorted. "Thanks. That's one thing I have going for me, I suppose."

Lance kissed his cheek. "You have many things going for you, Prince Kethyr."

Keith flushed. "I'm not –"

"You should be," Lance said, firm and confident, leaving no room for argument. Keith fell silent, and closed his eyes, the warm water lapping against their sides as they waited. Then Lance shifted a little and let out a small groan, and Keith's eyes snapped open anxiously. "Keith, fuck," he breathed, "look."

Bewildered, Keith followed Lance's gaze and looked down. "Fuck," he growled in agreement. Lance's flat belly wasn't quite flat anymore, and it was barely noticeable but there was a slight distension where Keith was filling him, and when Lance placed his hand lightly over it they both shuddered, unable to look away. "Are you in pain?" Keith managed.

Lance shook his head. "Just…full. There's a sort of…ache. I'm going to feel it tomorrow, I'm _not_ looking forward to the ball, ugh."

"Sorry," Keith mumbled. "I would suggest a warm bath, but, uh…" He looked pointedly at their surroundings.

Lance chuckled, ears twitching in amusement. "And everyone told me Galra weren't funny," he said.

"Mostly true," Keith said. "Maybe humans are funnier." He shifted and felt himself softening, finally. "This probably isn't going to feel great," Keith warned, and Lance waved a hand, wincing only a little when Keith slipped out of him. Keith winced at the resulting mess. "I sincerely pity whoever has to clean this bath," he said.

"Well, it's not going to be me," Lance declared, shakily rising to his feet and offering Keith a hand, which seemed a little backwards, but Keith accepted and let the Altean pull him up and out of the bath.

Cum was running down Lance's legs, and there was so much of it that Keith was a little stunned. It was a normal amount for a Galra body, but for an Altean body…it was a bit much. Lance started towards the towels and soap and Keith beat him to it, picking out the softest cloth he could find and dampening it with the floral oil Lance had been reaching for.

"Let me," Keith insisted, and Lance gave him a strange look, somewhere between surprise and uncertainty, but nodded and let Keith clean him off. He was careful and thorough, and saw Lance's throat bob with a hard swallow as Keith went to his knees to get the last of it. Keith didn't particularly like the oil, it masked Lance's natural scent and the scent Keith had left on him, but it wasn't unpleasant and Lance seemed to like it. "There," he said when he was done, tossing the dirtied cloth aside.

"Thank you," Lance said quietly. He opened his mouth, then closed it, and turned quickly to fetch his clothes, dressing hastily. Apprehensive, Keith did the same, glancing over at him periodically and trying to read his expression. Was Lance displeased? Perhaps sore, or tired? Keith couldn't help but fret, he'd grown attached. When they'd both made themselves decent, Lance caught his gaze and sighed.

"What's wrong?" Keith asked.

Lance shook his head, smiling weakly. "Nothing, nothing. This was…this was fun. I'm glad I…glad that _we_ did this, Keith."

"Me too," Keith said, smiling and ducking down to kiss him briefly.

Lance's smile looked even weaker when he broke away. "We should return to our quarters, you especially, before anyone sends out search parties."

Keith blinked. "I doubt they care enough to do that."

"Best get going anyway," Lance said briskly. "Follow me, I'll bring you to the main courtyard and hopefully you can find your bearings from there."

"Alright," Keith said, and walked out with him, back the way they'd come. It was late, the palace dark and quiet, the party long over. Lance looked straight ahead, hands clasped behind him, and Keith tried to tell himself nothing was wrong.

They reached the main courtyard and Lance said, "Well, this is where we part ways, then. Goodnight, Keith."

"Goodnight, Lance," Keith said, reluctant to leave him. "I…I'll see you around?"

Lance smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm sure you will," he said, and hesitated before taking Keith's hand in his own and lifting it to his lips. He kissed the back of it gently, and then let go. "You are a prince to me," he said, and Keith's heart skipped a beat. "Farewell." He turned on his heel and hurried off around the corner.

Keith looked at his hand where Lance had kissed it, and held it close to his chest.

Thankfully, his presence was not required at the talks the following morning; unthankfully, his presence was demanded at the ball. Usually, Keith was content at least in knowing that Shiro was as reluctant to attend these events as he was, but the morning talks must have gone well because he was uncharacteristically perky when he came by to walk Keith to the ballroom.

"What has you in such a good mood?" Keith asked him, fiddling nervously with his cloak and wondering if he'd see Lance tonight.

"I think we may be here for less time than expected," Shiro said with a smile. "King Alfor was very open to the marriage discussion, and it seems he is willing to support an engagement between his son and Prince Lotor."

"Not his daughter?" Keith said, raising an eyebrow. "I thought that was the goal."

"Princess Allura has loftier plans for her future," Shiro chuckled. "She was quite adamant about not being sent off to Daibazaal – she is deeply involved in helping those in need throughout the city, and leads several outreach programs for rural areas across the country. She aims to expand her work across the entire planet."

"Charity work and kindness aren't turn-ons for Lotor, I bet," Keith said dryly.

Shiro elbowed him. "Prince Lotor was quite civil about the whole situation, actually. Unsurprising, since he was eying Alfor's son from the start. He is an attractive young man, and charming…ah, here we are, and you've managed to make me late to an important event yet again because of your naps, Keith."

"Sleep is important, I recommend you try it sometime," Keith grumbled, and put on his politest expression as the servants ushered them into the ballroom. They were slightly late – the first dance had already begun, and as they made their way through the crowd of nobles, Keith saw Lotor on the dance floor, offering his hand to…

"Ah, speak of the devil, that's Prince Lancellien," Shiro murmured.

Keith couldn't breathe. He could only watch with a numb, detached kind of horror as Lance took Lotor's offered hand with a sly, sweet smile and Lotor swept him up into his arms, a hand low on Lance's back, Lance's head tipping up to Lotor's, Lotor leaning close to whisper in his ear –

Keith stumbled back, needing to leave at once. He couldn't watch this any longer. Couldn't even think about it – he felt as if he was going to be sick. Shiro caught his arm. "Keith, what's wrong?" They were causing a stir. Other nobles were staring and moving away unsubtly. Keith yanked his arm out of Shiro's grasp and accidentally bumped into a tray of empty glasses, which went tumbling to the floor with a spectacular _crash_ and a chorus of shrieks from everyone in the vicinity.

Lotor and Lance faltered in their dance as the sound carried over the music, and Lance looked towards the source of the commotion…and met Keith's gaze. Keith stared at him, hoping whatever awful expression he had conveyed the betrayal and anger and hurt he felt right then. Lance's eyes widened and his mouth opened, face twisting in surprise or guilt or both, and Keith didn't see anything else because he shoved past the guards who had come to investigate and ran out of the ballroom as fast as he could.

The cold night air was better than the stuffy crowd but it did nothing to quell the roiling emotion in his chest. The prince. Lance was the prince. He hadn't known who Lance was, but Lance had known full well who _he_ was. And he'd seduced Keith anyway.

Keith stormed off into the nearest courtyard and sank down on a bench, putting his head in his hands to drown out the cacophony of unfamiliar scents around him, all of them coalescing into a single one, the only one that mattered. But he hadn't mattered to Lance. Keith supposed he had been naïve, stupid, even, to think that Lance would care at all. It may have been Keith's first time, but there was no telling how many countless nights Lance had spent fucking strangers in the past. Clearly it was a sort of hobby for him, and he was not in the habit of forming attachments.

But he had been a damn good actor. _You are a prince to me._

Keith's hands curled into fists. He wasn't going to cry. Galra didn't cry.

Humans did, though.

"Keith? Keith!"

Keith jolted upright, every muscle poised to run, or fight, he wasn't sure yet. It was Lance, or Lancellien, whoever he was, dashing through the courtyard towards him. Somehow he'd untangled himself from Lotor, though he'd surely go crawling back to him soon enough. Keith said nothing, Lance did not deserve his words after what he'd just seen.

"Keith," Lance said, panting, coming to a halt several palmacs from the bench. At least he was smart enough to not try to come any closer. "Keith, I'm so – I'm so sorry, I –"

"One more lie to add to the collection," Keith said, cold and flat.

Lance bit his lip, eyes wide and sad. "I did not lie to you," he said. "I just – omitted truths, and –"

Keith stood up, only slightly gratified to see Lance flinch when he loomed over him. "Does it amuse you to make a fool out of me? Do you often toy with and discard foreign visitors like the spoiled brat you are?"

"I didn't!" Lance exclaimed. "I didn't discard you, Keith, I'm here now, aren't I, I'm trying to apologize –"

"Your apologies mean nothing when you're signing yourself away to my brother!" Keith snarled. "Is that what this is; are you so sick that you just wanted to check both of Zarkon's sons off the list?"

Lance blanched. "The – the list? Keith, that's not, no, that isn't what I meant at all!"

"Then what did you _mean_, Lance," Keith growled. "What did you mean, exactly? Because I don't think you meant anything at all. I think you wanted an easy fuck as usual and you went for me, not Lotor, because to you I'm no-strings-attached. He's a _real_ prince, after all, so if you fucked _him_ it would actually mean something!"

Lance reacted as if Keith had slapped him, his face red and expression mortified. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "This isn't what I wanted, not at all."

"No? Well, maybe it'll do you some good to learn how it feels to not get what you want, for once," Keith retorted.

"Brother, you caused quite a scene back there!"

Both of them tensed as Lotor strode into the courtyard, pausing as he saw Lance. "Lancellien," he said, tone carefully neutral, gaze flicking to Keith, then Lance, and back again. "Have I interrupted something?" One perfect eyebrow arched upwards.

"No," Keith said shortly. "Nothing at all."

"Keith, please," Lance said, taking a step towards him, but Keith pinned him with a cool glare.

"I would prefer you called me Kethyr from now on," he said, his gut twisting as Lance's face fell as spectacularly as the glasses had. "Enjoy the rest of the night, Prince Lancellien. Lotor." He inclined his head stiffly and left the courtyard as quickly as his feet would carry him.

He did not cry until he was safely locked away in his guest chambers.

Keith looked at himself in the mirror for a long while before the talks the next morning. He looked as exhausted as he felt; there were bags under his eyes and a tired set to his mouth, no way around it. He'd made a halfhearted attempt to make himself presentable, but what did it matter, really? He had been right all along, he never should have come on this mission.

Shiro knocked at his door. Keith took a deep, steadying breath, and went to meet him.

Shiro took in his appearance and said, quiet and unhappy, "Keith."

"I don't want to discuss it," Keith said, closing the door behind him and pulling his cloak tighter around himself.

"Lotor told me you and the prince had a quarrel last night," Shiro sighed. "He seemed to think it was a lover's quarrel."

"Stop," Keith snapped, voice breaking slightly. Shiro looked at him in alarm and Keith ducked his head.

"I'm sorry," Shiro said, brows drawing together. "I'm…Keith, come here, hey." Before Keith could jerk away Shiro drew him into a hug, and Keith swallowed back a sob, leaning into it. Galra did not hug, but Shiro did, and Keith would never stop being grateful for that. "It's okay," Shiro murmured, rubbing his back. "It'll be okay."

Keith highly doubted that, but he gave a little nod, and let Shiro squeeze him a few ticks longer before stepping away. "Thank you," he mumbled as they continued on. "I hope you're right."

"You know I'll fight that prince for you if I have to, right?" Shiro told him seriously, though there was a playful tilt to his lips.

"He's a valuable ally, I think that would be highly frowned upon," Keith said, rolling his eyes.

"He should have thought about that before messing with you, because anyone who messes with you, messes with me too. You have my word, Keith."

Keith didn't know if he was kidding anymore, so he just patted Shiro's metal arm and said, "Thank you," again, softer, knowing that Shiro knew just how much he meant it.

Walking into the negotiations chamber felt like walking onto a warzone. Keith staunchly avoided eye contact with anyone, and made his way to his seat between Lotor and Shiro in silence. The Altean members of the council watched his entrance with interest, as he had not been present the day previous…all except Lance, of course.

As Keith took his seat, Lotor touched his leg under the table and leaned in far too close for Keith's comfort. That was bad enough, but his whispered words were even worse. "I thought I smelled someone familiar on my fiancé. I never would have guessed it was _you_, brother. Our prince is a bit naughty, don't you think?"

Keith dug his claws into his own thighs and ignored him with great effort, every fiber of being rebelling against _our_, bile rising in his throat. He may have been upset with Lance, but nobody deserved to be married to Lotor, not even him. _Especially not him._

King Alfor, who sat at the head of the table, rang a small crystal bell to begin the meeting. Carefully, Keith's gaze drifted to Alfor's right, where Princess Allura sat, the woman he'd seen speaking to Shiro at the party. Up close, she looked not unlike Lance, though her face was rounder, her eyes larger and bluer, and she had pink markings on darker skin. She was also older, with a more dignified and mature air about her, emphasized by the bright circlet shining upon her brow.

Oddly, the man sitting beside Allura was the orange mustache guide from their arrival at the palace. Keith was easily distracted from any temptation to look at Lance by watching the man's mustache move as he talked. Keith had no idea what he was talking about, however, so when King Alfor cleared his throat and said, "Lord Kethyr?" he was totally lost.

Thankfully, Shiro came to his rescue. "Lord Kethyr expressed great support in favor of Princess Allura continuing her work here on Altea when I explained the details to him," he said. "Right, my Lord?"

Keith nodded. "Yes, it's a worthy cause, Princess, and should not be hampered by a foreign marriage."

Princess Allura looked at him with some surprise, then gave a small nod. "I appreciate your support, Lord Kethyr. However, I'm afraid I must raise the question – why are you not given the title of Prince like your brother?"

There was a ripple of murmurs at the table, and a flicker of movement to Alfor's left that must have been Lance, but Keith didn't look. Keith went still. Lotor leaned forward in his seat, clearly relishing giving the sordid explanation. "Well, you see, Princess, Kethyr's mother was –"

Allura raised her hand, mouth set in a thin line. Lotor fell silent. Keith decided he liked Allura very much. "The question was directed at Lord Kethyr," she said. "I would prefer if he answered it."

Lotor smiled thinly and sat back in his chair. Keith wet his lips. "My mother was not the late Empress Consort Honerva," he said quietly. "She was a human in the Emperor's harem, who died soon after my birth. Thus I was raised under Honerva's care alongside Lotor, but not given the royal title because I am a bastard. I was lucky to be given a noble title at all."

Allura's brow furrowed. "But you and Prince Lotor are Emperor Zarkon's only sons, correct? Would it not benefit him and the strength of his Empire more to have two princes, rather than just one?"

"Kethyr is already a prince in all but name," Shiro interjected. Allura gave him a warm look. Perhaps a bit too warm. Hmm.

Lotor bristled, and beside him Sendak glared. "Kethyr is correct, he was lucky to be made a Lord in the first place," Lotor snapped. "Zarkon could have just as easily banished him, made him a servant, or done what most rulers do to unwanted competition and done away with him altogether!"

"But he didn't do that." A new voice, yet not new at all. Lance. Keith resolutely did not look, though everyone else did. "Emperor Zarkon did not kill Kethyr; he chose to raise him with you. As a prince. There are no other common Galra lords on this mission, are there? No, there is a respected military commander, a senior human ambassador, and a prince. It would not make sense to bring a lord along, and you know it. Kethyr has the blood, status, power, and patronage of a prince, even if the title is different – so really, there are two eligible Galra princes in this room."

"You dare," Sendak growled, but Alfor's thunderous expression shut him up.

"There will be no threats exchanged at this table, especially not directed towards my son," he warned. "Lancellien, speak plainly."

"I wish to marry Prince Kethyr," Lance said.

Keith looked at him.

Lance looked back, his gaze steady through the resulting explosion of voices from around the table. And as Keith stared at him, disbelieving, shocked, yet so very hopeful, Lance mouthed, _I'm sorry._

"I accept," Keith said.

"_What?!_" Lotor screeched. "You cannot just – expect me to put up with this disrespect –!"

Keith had disliked many aspects of growing up in the Galra Empire. But one of the worst aspects, by far, had been the constant pressure to dominate others, to be the strongest, the biggest, the most powerful. Keith had never been that person, and in hindsight, maybe that was why his title was what it was, why Zarkon had not accepted him fully as his son, why Lotor had always been one step ahead. But at that table, in that moment, he felt more like that person than ever before.

So Keith didn't flinch when he turned to Lotor and said, "That is exactly what I expect. I have put up with it my entire life, brother. We are here to secure an alliance and if you cannot set aside your personal pride and do what is best for our people and our future, you are a very poor prince indeed. Prince Lancellien has made a proposal; I have accepted it as is my right."

"You have no _right_ to Altean royalty," Lotor hissed, though his ears were pinned back in a way Keith had never seen on him before. "I am the one with Altean blood."

Allura spoke up. "This is no personal slight on you, Prince Lotor. But upon further consideration, it has become clear to me and Lancellien that it would be unwise for him to marry you and bear your children."

"Unwise," Lotor repeated, seething. "How _so_."

"It would be inbreeding," Allura said coolly. "Honerva was our father's sister, making you our first cousin. Children of such matches are often born with various defects. And we all know the Galra Empire's stance on defects of any kind." She nodded to the orange mustache man. "Coran has run various tests and simulations, and I assure you that many of the results of such a union are…unfortunate. Some could even end in severe complications for Lancellien."

Alfor's eyes widened. "Severe complications?! Why didn't you say so earlier? I will not condone a match that puts my son in danger."

"There is one other thing," Lance said, biting his lip and trying not to smile. Allura had failed, and was hiding her smile (badly) behind her hand.

Lotor's claws were leaving marks in the table. Keith could care less.

"What," Alfor said warily.

"Prince Kethyr and I have already consummated the marriage," Lance said. Alfor heaved an exasperated sigh and Lotor gritted his teeth. "So, you understand, it would be _terribly_ improper for me not to wed him."

"Is this true?" Alfor asked Keith, eye twitching slightly. Keith felt bad for him; he doubted it was easy to have Lance as a son.

"Yes, Your Highness," Keith said, lowering his head respectfully.

Lotor banged his fist on the table. The guards tensed, and he slowly unclenched his fist, though he didn't look happy about it. Alfor raised an eyebrow at him. "Prince Lotor, do you have an objection?"

Keith knew that for all his arrogance, Lotor at least knew when to back down; knew when he'd lost. Sure enough, he shook his head. "I do not," he gritted out, "given the facts presented."

Sendak did. "My Prince, you cannot seriously allow Zarkon's runt to –"

"It is what is best for the Empire," Lotor said curtly. "I…" He looked as if it physically pained him to say it. "I support the marriage between Prince Lancellien and my half-brother Lord Kethyr."

"Prince Kethyr," King Alfor corrected. "I will speak with Zarkon about elevating his title, as should have been done years ago. And yes, I support the marriage as well…and I am glad at least one of my son's late night escapades resulted in a good match."

"The last of my late night escapades," Lance added, smiling brightly at Keith. "I think I have all I could ever want, now."

Allura made barfing sounds behind her hand. Lotor pouted like the spoiled brat he was. Shiro hugged Keith again as they all left the chamber.

And Lance? Lance looked up at him, took his hand, and kissed it. "My prince," he said.

Keith kissed him, and felt Lance melt into it with pure relief, his arms winding tightly around Keith's neck. "My prince," Keith agreed, and bumped their noses together with a smile.


	17. (T) CHACK - Unrequited by peachpandabear

Unrequited  
peachpandabear

Summary:  
Jack has had a crush on Chase for what feels like forever.

Who can blame him, really? it's not like it's difficult to have a crush on the man, Chase is beautiful and strong. Jack's always done his best to be careful with it though, keeping enough distance between them so as not to fall for real. He's done a good job of it over the years, settling into hero worship easily and avoiding any real connection as much as he can. Of course Chase had to ruin it all by actually talking to him.

But the coughing up flowers things is definitely new.

* * *

Jack having a massive crush on Chase Young is old news.

Anyone with eyes can see it. The monks, Wuya, Chase himself, it's as obvious as the red of his eyes and the paleness of his skin. At first, it was funny, the hopeless sort of way he followed Chase around begging for any scrap of attention he could get, now it's just the way things are, just a part of who Jack is alongside the robots and the trench coats. He's had a crush on Chase for so long it might as well be stamped on his forehead.

But that's all it is, a crush.

Jack admires Chase more than anyone else he's ever met. Been in awe of his strength and grace for years, has wanted nothing more than to grow to be as grand as him, maybe if he's lucky even surpass him. It doesn't help that Chase is unfairly beautiful to sweeten the deal even further, he's only human, he was bound to fall hard. But love? Real, actual love? He's smart enough to know that what he feels for Chase is nowhere near love.

Still, he admires Chase from afar and from as close as he can get, never bringing up the obvious crush he has on the man but not hiding it either. It settles into a part of who he is, feeling more like a personality trait than emotions as the years pass. Perhaps the feelings should have faded or shifted into something deeper as he grew, but Jack never dares allow himself to fall completely, keeping a careful distance between them as a small act of respect to Chase and a form of protection for himself. So they stay the way they always have, Jack never letting go of the admiration he holds for Chase, keeping the man on a pedestal for years as Jack grows into an adult and continues towards his own goals.

Of course, once Jack is comfortable in the way things are, they change before he realizes what's happening.

Jack could never quite pin down when it started, their slow shift into more than nuisance and idol. It seems like things changed between one blink and the next, leaving him feeling dizzy and disoriented but just about giddy with excitement at the same time. One moment, Chase is ordering him to connect his citadel to the modern world with the help of his Bots, before he knows what happening he has an open invitation into Chase's home. The warriors don't attack him on sight, and he's holding semi-comfortable conversations with Chase himself.

He tries not to question it, he's afraid he'll wake up from a beautiful dream if he looks too closely.

It's not the same as the fantasies he'd had as a teenー for one thing Chase isn't training him to be his apprenticeー but it's still somehow better than he could have ever imagined. He and Chase actually talk now! Without him being punched or maimed or kicked out of the citadel or anything! It was surreal and mildly terrifying at first, talking to Chase almost normally, but he gets used to it eventually. From there they slip into a different sort of relationship, Jack wouldn't call them friends, or even allies unless they're forced to be, but there's an understanding between them that wasn't there when Jack first met Chase. It's nice.

Jack still tries his best to keep some distance between them, but it's hard not to get slightly personal when he stumbles upon Chase in his own home, doing normal everyday things that he would have never thought Chase would do before. It's hard not to fall a little when Chase talks to him without snapping or answers a question he has about the place with a story of some form or another from his past. It doesn't matter if that kind of stuff makes his heart race a little faster or if learning more about Chase is the highlight of his week. It doesn't, really.

But then he starts coughing up flowers.

* * *

It starts with a couple petals on his pillow when he wakes up in the morning. They're obvious from the moment he opens his eyes, stark white and red against the black of his sheets. He picks one up from his pillow to look at it more closely. It's a relatively large petal, wide and fanned out slightly. Jack shrugs, rubbing his thumb against the softness of it before picking up the other one and throwing both away. He must have tracked them in from the Wu hunt yesterday.

The coughing starts up later that day.

It starts as an occasional cough, something Jack can brush off as breathing in some dust or a dry throat and go about his day. He starts sucking on cough drops when the cough persists, though the tingling feeling in the back of his throat lingers. They become more and more frequent as the day passes, though they're still no more than one or two coughs every thirty minutes or so. They're annoying, for sure, but nothing more worrying than him coming down with a cold.

The first time he coughs up a petal happens later that night.

He's finishing up the last of his repairs to the Jackbots when it happens, putting away his tools and making sure everything is in its place before he heads up to bed. It starts as a single cough, but that builds into a small fit that stops just as soon as it began. He covers his mouth with a hand on reflex, leaving it there for a few seconds before he pulls it back, a stark white petal sits in his palm, the flecks of red bright against the paleness of his hand. He stares at the petal in bewilderment, mind racing to find a reasonable explanation for how the petal could have possibly gotten there. He has none, but he's tired enough that it doesn't seem like that big of a deal, so he shrugs it off and throws the petal away before heading up to bed.

There are more petals resting on his pillow when he wakes up.

Contrary to popular belief, Jack isn't actually an idiot. So when the coughing continues throughout the day he gets a bit concerned. He waits until he coughs up a few more petals before bringing out his medical bot and orders it to examine him. The bot is far easier to deal with than a regular doctor, it examines him quickly and without pause for small talk, asking questions only when needed to complete its work. Jack's glad he decided to build it on a whim several years ago, he has a feeling this is some sort of magical thing and trying to explain that to a doctor would only lead to him either being put in a mental hospital or under some scientist's microscope.

The medical bot finishes its examination soon, but the results are less than ideal. According to the several scans the medical boot took, along with the x-rays taken of his chest, there are flowers growing in his lungs. Peonies specifically, from the analysis another Bot takes of the petals. Jack spends several minutes panicking over the results, asking the Medical Bot question after question to make sure the results are accurate. His first instinct is to run to Chase's citadel, surely he'll know what kind of magical thing is happening to him, but he hesitates. As close as they are, Chase is still Heylin. Wuya has taught him more than once not to trust other Heylin, as much as he wishes he could. He needs more information about what's happening to him before he goes to Chase, even the smallest amount is better than going into that discussion totally blind.

So instead he does the next best thing, he goes to the internet.

Searching "flowers growing in lungs" leads to far more results than Jack originally expected, with several sources for fanart and fanfiction. The only thing that seems constant is a name: Hanahaki Disease. Searching that leads to more fanart and fanfiction, but it also gives him an urban dictionary entry which is the first genuine hint he has.

_Hanahaki Disease: A fictional (emphasis on fictional) disease, often used in fanfictions, where the victim regurgitates and coughs up flower petals when they suffer from unrequited love. Some sources put special emphasis on the meanings of the flowers coughed up, though it varies from source to source. The illness can only be cured through surgical removal; however, any existing romantic feelings are also removed with the infection._

So apparently he has some sort of fanfiction disease, fantastic, he's not even really shocked anymore. Magical Shen Gong Wu are a thing that exists, why not made up diseases too? Jack rubs his eyes roughly with the heels of his palms, blinking away the spots it makes in his vision before sighing and opening a new tab. Might as well learn all he can about this if he's committing to it.

According to various fanfiction sites ーa dubious source but he doesn't exactly have a lot of optionsー the flowers themselves could mean various things. A popular one seems to be either the flowers describing how the person with the disease is feeling or they describe the traits the person with the disease fell for in the person they love. It sounds like a bunch of bullshit to Jack, but it doesn't stop him from looking up flower meanings anyway. It turns out peonies have several different meanings; Shame, bashfulness, anger are the general meanings, which Jack feels is fitting, he's feeling a good bit of all of those right now. They mean masculinity and bravery in Japan, which is less fitting, but it's the meanings in China that are the most alarming. Prosperity and honor, he definitely knows someone who he admires those qualities in, a certain Chinese dragon lord fits the bill pretty well. Clearly, the world has decided he hasn't been punished enough.

He just had to be in love with Chase Young, didn't he?

* * *

He ends up ignoring the problem, for the most part, it's not like he can do anything to fix it anyway. Confessing to Chase is not an option. He can't ruin all the progress they've made, not with his stupid feelings. Whatever surgery urban dictionary mentioned isn't an option either, the fact that it's purely hypothetical is enough to deter him regardless but knowing his luck he's more likely to die from magical backlash than be cured if he tried it. Really though, even if it did work, he doesn't want to lose these feelings for Chase.

Now that he's realized they're there, they're just as obvious as his crush always was. His crush on Chase was stubborn and near manic in its intensity, a constant low buzz that followed him around wherever he went and spiked into an overexcited frenzy in Chase's presence. Pathetic really, but Jack's never been one to do things in moderation. Being in love with Chase is quieter, a warm glow in his stomach that flutters at the thought of him. A gentle feeling that makes him smile at the thought of the man. Don't get him wrong, he still gets excited in Chase's presence, but it's a manageable sort of excitement, one that settles into contentment the more time he spends with him. He recognized the changes in his feelings for Chase as they were happening, but he figured it was just him mellowing out and settling into a friendship type relationship with Chase. Obviously, he was wrong about that.

He likes these new feelings, even if they're trying to kill him now. He knows Chase would never return them, he's not stupid, but he'd rather stay quiet and keep them than open his big mouth and have them ripped away from him by a disgusted dragon lord. He wants to keep things between them the way they are for as long as he can. Chase will realize what's happening at some point, he's too intelligent not to, but until then Jack is going to cling to what they have as much as he can. It hurts, both the rejection and the coughing fits, but Jack has been through worse over the years. Has been hit, thrown and smashed against just about any surface you can think of, so he can deal with this.

So, he continues through his usual routine as usual. Going to showdowns and working on his Bots, occasionally spending days in the citadel with Chase and Wuya and pretending that everything is fine. The coughing gets worse, he has to be creative with hiding the petals he coughs up regularly, but it's manageable for now. The first time he coughs up a whole flower is a terrifying moment, with him coughing so hard he's afraid he'll pass out from the lack of oxygen but in the end, a single peony sits in the pile of petals at his feet. Luckily, he's alone in his house when it happens, and he can take the time to sit on the floor and panic about it without anyone there to see him. It becomes a regular thing after that first time, though it's never not terrifying.

He starts to avoid the citadel after that.

His Jackbots start to gather the flowers into vases when they clean up the petals and Jack lets them do it without complaint. It's a rather morbid thing to keep around, though no one but him will know it, it's as good an excuse as any for the smell of flowers that lingers around him these days if anyone cares enough to ask. The foyer fills with flowers quickly, and the smell of flowers lingers throughout the house.

Jack settles into his life from there, still going to the occasional showdown to avoid suspicion, but does his best not to get into any showdowns at all, in case he's hit with a coughing fit suddenly. It's not great, Jack's not particularly happy, but it's what he has to do to avoid being found out. He missed Chase, which is stupid because he's doing this to keep Chase from finding out, but that doesn't stop him from longing to spend time with him. He just wants to talk to him one more time, but Chase's heightened senses would pick up on the smell of flowers before Jack even entered the same room as him and Jack would be found out before he could so much as open his mouth. So he goes through the motions as usual, unhappy but coping decently enough. This has to be enough, he can't risk the alternative.

* * *

Jack probably would have gotten away with hiding it if not for Wuya deciding to meddle.

He's minding his own business when she shows up at his house as he's taking a quick break to eat while the Jackbots clean up the flowers covering his lab from another coughing fit. The front foyer is absolutely filled with peonies now, their perfume heavy throughout the house no matter where he goes, even the lab smells sweet beyond the scent of motor oil. The smell is getting to him a little, making his stomach turn a bit at the memory of coughing those flowers up, it distracts him enough not to notice he's no longer alone until the intruder speaks up.

"So, this is where you've been."

Jack flinches in surprise, whipping around towards the voice and glaring at Wuya's smug face. She's leaning against the doorway to the kitchen, looking far too pleased about scaring him. Jack groans, turning back to the island in the center of the kitchen and returning his attention to the sliced apples a Jackbot had left for him, "What do you want, Wuya?"

"Now, Jack, is that any way to greet your oldest friend?" Wuya teases, walking into the kitchen to stand on the other side of the island from him.

Jack pauses to roll his eyes pointedly, making sure Wuya can see him do it, "Yeah right, you going to tell me what you want, or should I make the Jackbots kick you out?" He asks again, shoving one of the slices into his mouth and crunching loudly, he smirks when a flash of annoyance crosses Wuya's face.

"Can I not come check on my favorite inventor?" She croons to cover up her annoyance, batting her eyelashes sweetly.

Jack snorts, "Try again," he says, turning on his heel with his fruit and walking out of the kitchen.

He hears Wuya follow behind him, but he ignores her to settle in on a couch in the living room, setting his fruit on the coffee table in front of him. Wuya drapes herself across one of the armchairs next to the couch, but her expression is more serious than before, "You've been avoiding the citadel lately."

Jack blinks, not expecting her to say it outright. He glances away, not sure what to say, Wuya knows all his tells so he can't exactly lie, "Wuya…" he begins, hesitating.

"Did Chase do something?" she asks. Jack blinks in surprise, when he looks up Wuya looks strangely serious, "He's been moping for the past week, if he has done something to upset you I need to know what it is, Jack."

Jack shakes his head rapidly, "No! No, it's fine. Chase hasn't done anything," He says, covering his face with his hands and sighing, "It's me, it's my problem."

Jack hears Wuya stand up from the armchair and walk over to him, he doesn't fight her when she pulls his hands away from his face, "What's wrong, Jack?" she asks, brow furrowed and mouth twisted into a frown.

Jack snorts, shaking his head and standing up without a word. Like hell he's going to tell Wuya he has Hanahaki disease, he has no doubt that she knows what it is and he knows she'll tell Chase if he tells her. Wuya lets him walk away, but he can hear her following behind him as he heads back towards the lab. She makes a surprised sound when they reach the front foyer. Jack has to pause when the smell makes him dizzy, and Wuya makes a concerned noise in the back of her throat. Jack opens his mouth to tell her he's fine, but he feels the tingle of a cough in the back of his throat and freezes.

"Jack?" Wuya calls from behind him.

Jack whips around and starts dragging Wuya towards the door by her arm, "You need to leave, now."

Wuya yanks her arm out of his hold, "Why? What's going on, Jack!" she demands, voice loud and body language near screaming her refusal to move another step.

Jack opens his mouth to yell back, but his breath stutters in his chest.

The first cough nearly sends him to his knees, a spray of white and red petals falling to the floor. Wuya gasps in front of him, but Jack can't look up to see her reaction, to busy trying to stay standing while a fit of coughing wracks his body. He's helpless to do anything as flowers continue to fly out of his mouth. He falls to a knee without realizing it, and his hands shake from where they clutch at his chest. He feels dizzy from the lack of oxygen, mind too hazy to do anything but cough. He doesn't realize he's stopped coughing until Wuya makes another sound, when he looks up he's surrounded by flowers. It takes him a second, but he focuses on Wuya eventually.

And Wuya? Wuya looks horrified, but Jack doesn't have time to think about that as his eyes roll into the back of his head and he passes out.

* * *

When Jack comes to he's beneath the blankets on a lavish and strangely familiar bed. He blinks blearily up at the gray stone ceiling above him. His chest feels tight and his throat raw, but he ignores that to lift his head and look around the room he's in. It takes him a few seconds of staring to register why the room seems so familiar, but eventually it clicks, this is his room in Chase's citadel. Well, technically it's just a bedroom connected to the makeshift workshop Chase let him set up in some empty guest quarters so he didn't have to constantly go back and forth from his lab at home and Chase's place, but privately Jack thinks of it as his room. He spends a confused few seconds wondering how he got here before remembering Wuya. He lets his head fall back onto the pillow with a soft whump, whispering curses under his breath, no doubt she'll have already told Chase what happened. Fuck.

He's proven right a few moments later when the door opens and Chase walks into the room. He's dressed in full armor with his usual cool and collected expression in place. It should make Jack feel better, instead it makes his heart rate kick up with a tiny jolt of anxiety. It doesn't help that Chase's expression shifts when he looks over at him, shuttering off into an unreadable mask as he approaches the bed. Jack opens his mouth to give Chase an awkward greeting, but he's unable to force any sounds out of his throat. The tingling feeling of a cough builds the longer he tries, and Jack shuts his mouth with a click of his teeth to try and prevent it from building further.

Chase doesn't speak as he approaches, ignoring Jack completely as he walks over to the bedside table and picks up the ceramic pitcher sitting there. Jack watches as he pours water into one of the matching cups next to the pitcher, forcing himself to sit up when Chase finally shifts his attention to him so he can take the cup from Chase's hands. He drains the cup, the cool water soothing his throat immediately and washing away the urge to cough. He takes a deep, rattling breath in as he passes the cup back to Chase, giving him a half-hearted smile.

"Thanks."

Chase hums in response, refilling the cup again and setting it on the table close enough for Jack to grab if he needs it. He sets the pitcher back down before shifting his attention back to Jack. Jack resists the urge to squirm under his gaze, they're past that now. At least, Jack hopes they're still past that now. Chase doesn't speak as he moves to settle on the edge of the bed, purposefully sitting towards the end to give Jack space. The gesture makes Jack relax a bit, Chase could be surprisingly considerate when he wasn't trying to intimidate someone into doing what he wanted.

"Who is it?" Chase asks, keeping his expression carefully blank.

Any relaxation Jack once had is gone now, his entire body tensing as his stomach rolls with anxiety. He stares down at his lap, heart pounding in his chest as he clenches the dark silken sheets under his hands tightly. Heat pools in his cheeks as embarrassment and shame mix with the anxiety in his stomach, leaving him feeling nauseous. He wants nothing more than to get up and run. They're really about to have this conversation, huh? He's going to miss spending time with Chase, he doubts the warlord would take the time to make him say it out loud if he wasn't about to tear into Jack for it.

"I only ask so I may assist in convincing them to rethink their decisions," Chase continues as if he can't hear Jack panicking from two feet away, "I would not ask otherwise, Jack. I understand this is a, hm, private matter." The word private comes out strangely like Chase has to force the word out of his throat.

Jack's head snaps up at the words, he stares at Chase with open bewilderment, shock allowing words to slip past his lips before he has the chance to think about them, "C'mon, Chase, this is cruel even for you."

Chase's eyes narrow slightly at his words, "Excuse me?"

Jack huffs out a weak breath, pressing his lips together hard and running his hands roughly through his hair, "You have to know, Chase, I'm the most obvious person on the planet!" he insists, hurt despite himself that Chase would play a game like this with him.

Chase looks considering, head cocked to the side slightly and mouth twisted at a strange angle, "Enlighten me, Jack."

Jack wheezes a bit as he tries to suppress a cough, two petals slip past his lips anyway, stark white and red against the dark silk. His eyes sting with unshed tears, shame and hurt warring in his chest, "It's you, Chase, I'm in love with _you _," he looks away from Chase as he speaks, staring down at the petals in his lap.

The bed shifts slightly as Chase stands. Jack doesn't look up, not wanting to see the look on Chase's face now that he's gotten what he wanted. He bites the inside of his cheek to try and keep the tears from falling, he has to wait for Chase to leave before he can get out of here with the last of his dignity. If he's lucky they can go back to how things were before they got closer, he can live with that for whatever length of time he has left, but he's not sure he could handle Chase turning cruel on top of the flowers trying to choke him from the inside.

Jack doesn't get the chance to escape, instead Chase moves until he's standing in front of him before grabbing the front of his shirt roughly and pulling Jack towards himself. Jack flails to his knees as he's pulled forward, breath hitching in his chest as a spike of fear goes through him, "Chase, whatー"

Lips meet his before he can continue.

The kiss is hard and possessive, but careful. Chase holds him close by his shirt, his other hand coming up to curl around the back of Jack's head and tangle in his hair. Jack takes a few seconds to realize what's happening, eyes wide and body frozen in shock, but once it clicks he melts into Chase's hold, closing his eyes and kissing back with all he's worth. Chase makes a pleased sound against his lips, releasing his hold on Jack's shirt to wrap his arm around Jack's waist, pulling him closer. Jack shifts to rise higher on his knees, struggling to untangle his legs from the sheets before he steadies himself and presses closer to Chase's chest with a content little sigh. Jack's arms come up to wrap around Chase's neck, one arm staying loosely draped across the warlord's shoulders while Jack's other hand trails up to tangle in his hair.

Chase breaks the kiss first, the hand still tangled in Jack's hair sliding down to rest on the back of his neck and pulling back just far enough to growl something indistinct into Jack's mouth. Jack hums in response to whatever it is Chase was trying to say, mind content and slow in the aftermath of the kiss. He moves his hand from Chase's hair, shifting the other arm so he can loosely interlock his fingers behind Chase's neck. His forearms resting along broad shoulders. He leans forward to steal another kiss, but before he has the chance to do more than brush their lips together, he feels a familiar tingle at the back of his throat.

He wheezes out a hoarse sound in warning to Chase, shoving back from his chest as the first cough forces itself out of his throat. Jack ends up half hunched over the bed as he coughs out a nearly endless stream of peonies. It feels like it goes on forever, Jack struggles to breathe his body shaking and heaves heaving against his will. Petals and whole flowers cover the bed beneath him, the pile growing and growing as Jack continues to cough. He feels Chase's arm slide around his waist, shifting him gently so his back is pressed into Chase's front as he continues to cough. Chase runs his hands up and down Jack's sides, a low grumble building in his chest as the coughing fit continues. The coughing stops just as quickly as it began, Jack's body gives one final heave before he's drawing in his first clear breath in weeks.

Hopefully the first of many.

Jack slumps back against Chase's chest, just breathing for several minutes. Chase is nearly purring behind him, arms wrapped tightly around Jack's middle as he waits for Jack to catch his breath. The sound makes Jack smile, he huffs out a hoarse laugh as a wave of relief crashes over him, "I guess I don't have to ask if you mean it, huh?" he jokes, voice wrecked and tired.

"No, I do not believe you do," Chase answers, lips pressed to the back of Jack's neck, "you are mine, Jack Spicer. I will not give you up now that I have you."

Jack grins at the room around them, settling fully into Chase's arms. The bed is covered in red and white peonies, their perfume heavy in the air, but for once the smell doesn't turn his stomach. Instead, the sight of the flowers fills him with a giddy sort of happiness, giving him enough energy to turn in Chase's arms and throw his arms around the warlord's neck again. He tucks his face into Chase's neck, laughing a bit as Chase picks him up off the bed to settle him into a standing position next to it. Once he's steady on his feet he pulls back to look at Chase; the warlord's face is uncharacteristically soft, eyes a gentle molten gold and a soft set to his lips. Jack doesn't even try to resist the urge to kiss him, he's allowed now.

"I'll make you regret those words, just you wait." He whispers against Chase's lips, unable to keep the grin off his face.

"Hm, we shall see." Chase cups the side of his face, drawing him closer for a proper kiss.

Maybe flowers aren't so bad after all.


	18. (M) SPIDEYPOOL - Gravitation by WillowSo

Gravitation  
WillowSong

Summary:  
In a universe where Spiderman never exists, young Peter Parker makes an unlikely friend in Deadpool.

Based on a prompt that the lovely taetastic texted to me awhile ago. ^^

* * *

Chapter 1

Okay, so Peter was an idiot. That was something about himself that he had come to terms with long ago, but even he was surprised when, instead of running away like a normal, sane person, he turned and faced the three men about to mug him.

He was no stranger to muggings considering that he had grown up in New York, but he had always managed to avoid being the victim. He was good at monitoring his surroundings, but for some reason, that night on his way to buy eggs for Aunt May, he had let his thoughts run away with him. And look where it had gotten him- stuck in an alley, about to get mugged.

There was an exit down the alley behind him, but he ignored it and stood with his fists clenched and his feet wide apart, watching as the men formed a semicircle around him.

One of them laughed and flicked open a penknife. "You seem awful eager to get robbed, kid."

"Not really, I just don't find you to be that scary," Peter replied.

His words were met with more rough laughter as the men moved toward him.

"Three against one. I'd say that's a pretty good reason to be scared."

Peter nodded. "True. Come back with a couple other guys and maybe you won't find me to be so intimidating."

"Don't try to get cute, kid."

"I'm not trying to be cute, I'm trying to supply you with the out that you clearly need."

The grins vanished off the thugs faces. "You calling us cowards?" one of the other muggers grunted.

"It was implied, yes."

Peter was pinned again a wall with a fist sunk deep into his gut almost before the words has finished leaving his mouth. "Say that again," the thug breathed into his face.

"You really need to brush your teeth," was all Peter managed to gasp out.

As the fist jabbed his gut again he could feel one of the other muggers fishing around roughly in his pockets, yanking out his phone and wallet.

"Don't-" he tried to say, grabbing for the man, but was stopped when the man pinning him down shoved him into the wall again, so hard that his skull cracked painfully against the brick.

His vision blurred slightly and he heard the muggers laughing, only the sound was muffled like he was hearing things through a vacuum. The laughing cut off abruptly when a red and black clad figure dropped down and landed directly on top of the thug holding Peter's belongings, knocking him hard into the ground.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you how to play nicely?" the red figure asked the thugs.

Through his blurred vision he saw the thug with the knife point it at the newcomer and said, "Get lost." Was it just Peter's imagination or was the man's voice shaking with fear?

"Naw, but I'm having so much fun." The red figure certainly did sound like he was having fun.

There was a blur of red and black, followed by several grunts and howls of pain before the two thugs raced out of the alley.

Peter closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear his vision. When he opened them he was staring into a pair of black eyes sewn into the bright red mask. He would know that face anywhere. It was one of the most infamous faces in the world. He had even written an entire paper talking about that face and the man underneath it.

"You okay, little nerd?" Deadpool asked, holding out his hand to help Peter to his feet.

Peter hesitantly accepted the hand, rising unsteadily to his feet. "Yeah, just a bump on the head," he replied, wincing as he gingerly touched the sore spot on the back of his skull. At least it hadn't drawn blood.

"Good," Deadpool replied. "Hold on for a second." He whirled and kneed the third thug, who had been trying to sneak away behind them, hard in the groin. The man fell to the ground, howling in pain as Deadpool bent down and plucked Peter's phone and wallet out of the man's hand. "I'll take these back, thank you. Play nicely next time." He turned and tossed Peter's things back to him. "You might want to keep a closer eye on your shit," was all he said before turning to leave.

"Wait!" Peter practically shouted.

Deadpool turned in surprise. "What's up, pudding cup?"

"Um..." What was he supposed to do now? Peter blurred the first thing that came into his mind: "I can buy coffee?"

Peter could see the amused grin stretching out underneath Deadpool's mask. "So can I, but I don't think I'd want to."

Peter turned bright red. "No, I just meant... Let me buy you some coffee. As a thank you. For saving me. I mean, for saving my stuff."

God, when did he become so awkward? And wasn't Deadpool supposed to the Merc with the Mouth? Why was he just standing there grinning?

"Can I buy you a cup of coffee as a thank you?" Peter finished babbling lamely.

Deadpool studied him for a minute before replying. "You can buy me a thank you, but who the fuck wants coffee? It's gross and bitter. Come with me and I'll introduce you to the wonders of substenances that'll put hair on that scrawny chest of yours. Come on, men!" he shouted like he was leading a battle charge before grabbing Peter's wrist and hauling him out of he alley.

It was going to be an interesting evening.

Peter really didn't know what he had expected, but for some reason, this wasn't it.

They were seated at a two-person table by the window of a little Mexican restaurant with a pile of tacos big enough to feel a small country on the table between them. Somehow he had expect the world's most ruthless mercenary to have finer tastes in dining, but considering how quickly it had taken Deadpool to haul Peter halfway across the city, apparently this was one of his favorite places.

"Why did you help me?" Peter asked as Deadpool squirted enough hot sauce into his taco to start a forest fire.

Deadpool shrugged. He had left his mask on, only rolling up the bottom so he could eat. In the dim light Peter could see some strange markings on his skin, but he didn't mention them. "Just felt like it," Deadpool replied.

Peter shook his head, not accepting the answer. "That's not your style. You don't just go around helping people for the heck of it. You don't step into things unless you're getting paid and I seriously doubt you were paid to stop me from getting mugged."

Deadpool studied Peter with interest for a moment. "Cute AND smart. Jackpot," he grinned.

Peter flushed red, not liking the change in subject. "I am NOT cute."

"Ooooooh, you're blushing!" Deadpool said around a mouthful of half-chewed taco.

"I am not and stop talking with your mouth full," Peter snapped. "And answer my question."

Deadpool made a very theatrical show of swallowing his bite before replying. "I was on a rooftop, I saw what was happening, I was going to ignore you, but I didn't. End of story." He went back to his taco.

"Yes, but why not?" Peter persisted.

Deadpool sighed. "I thought this was supposed to be a thank you, not an interrogation. Can't you let a man eat his tacos in peace?" he grumbled.

"Not until you tell me the truth," Peter replied stubbornly.

"Fine, you win," Deadpool groaned. "I decided to help because you didn't run away. You stood your ground and were about with get pulverized for it. I found it to be extremely sexy. Good enough for you?"

Peter shook his head. "That's still not your style."

"How do you know so much about my style anyway?" Deadpool asked, leaning his chair back onto its back legs.

"I might have written a paper about you for school last year," Peter muttered.

Deadpool's eyes lit up under his mask. "Really? You did? I thought kids only wrote about heroes."

Peter shrugged. "You're kind of an antihero. It's more interesting."

Deadpool grinned. "Finally! Hallelujah! Someone has finally seen the light!" he shouted, gesturing toward Peter like he was a sign from God during a revival. It attracting the attention of most of the restaurant and several of the diners near them edged their chairs away. To Peter's surprise he was more amused than embarrassed by the show and couldn't help the grin the that spread across his face as Deadpool let his chair crash back to the floor as he leaned in toward Peter.

"Nobody gets it!" he said excitedly. "Whenever I say that it's more interesting to not have any loyalties and to keep people guessing, they just think I'm nuts! Which, I guess I am, but that's beside the point. You get it though, right?"

Peter nodded thoughtfully. "I can definitely see where you're coming from," he said. "I don't think I would want to live that way and it might not be right as far as ethics go, but it would definitely keep you from getting board."

Deadpool nodded his head so violently that Peter was afraid it was going to fly across the room. "Screw ethics," Deadpool agreed.

"I wouldn't go quite that far," Peter laughed.

Deadpool picked up another taco and began drowning it in hot sauce. "So what about you, kid? What's your story? Most people are scared when they're about to get mugged and you just looked passed."

Peter shrugged. "No real reason. I just don't like bullies."

"You avoid answering questions almost as well as I do," Deadpool said, pointing his taco at Peter for emphasis. "Not quite as well, but close. I played ball, now it's your turn. Why didn't you run?"

Peter picked up a paper napkin on the table and began twisting it in his hands, avoiding looking at the black eyes sewn into the mask that was staring at him. "Because I don't want to be the kind of person that will run away from trouble just because of fear."

Deadpool studied him in silence for a moment while Peter avoided eye contact. "Well," Deadpool finally said. "That was unexpectedly deep and philosophical." Peter looked up to see a grin on the bottom half of Deadpool's face. "What's your name, kid?"

"Peter Parker."

Deadpool stuck his hand out and Peter took it uncertainly, only to have Deadpool start pumping their arms up in down in such an enthusiastic handshake that Peter was worried his arm might come off.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Petey," Deadpool said. "I'm Wade Wilson."

Peter grinned back. "Nice to meet you, Wade."

Wade insisted on accompanying Peter home. Peter was equally please and embarrassed to have an armed guard walk him back to Queens, but soon forgot about the embarrassment as Wade strolled easily at his side, chatting about the time he had gotten run over by a train.

"But didn't it hurt?" Peter interrupted.

Wade shrugged. "Well yeah, but I regenerated."

"That doesn't mean you should go jumping in front of trains for the hell of it!"

Wade laughed. He had left his mask rolled up, but Peter still couldn't tell what the markings on his face were. "It was fun though! It made an awesome noise! And you should have see the look on the engineer's face when I started reassembling."

Peter shook his head. "That poor guy is probably going to be in therapy for the rest of his life."

"Aw, he was fine after he breathed into a paper bag for awhile."

They stopped outside of Peter's house. Aunt May always kept virtually every light on in the house until Peter got home every night. It was a habit she had developed over the past several months.

"Nice place," Wade commented. "Your parents did a good job with the decorations and shit."

Peter laughed. "That's my aunt's handiwork, actually."

"You don't live with your parents?"

Peter raised an eyebrow. "No. Why, do you live with yours?"

Wade smiled under his mask. "Okay fine, point taken. I won't pry. I was just curious."

"Damn! I forgot to get her eggs!" Peter shook his head. "Can't be helped now. I better go in before she gets worried that I'm not home yet."

"Sure, sure," Wade replied. "Wouldn't want you wandering off again. Just try not to do anything stupid again, okay?"

"Says the guy who got squashed by a train on purpose."

"Hey, I have a healing factor. You, on he other hand, don't. So ha!" Wade stuck his tongue out for emphases.

"Very mature," Peter grimaced as he turned toward the door. "Goodnight, Wade."

"Goodnight, little nerd."

"By the way," Peter said turning back. "Thanks agains for-"

He stopped when he realized that there was no one there. Wade was gone.

After dinner Peter replayed through his mind the events of the evening. He hadn't told Aunt May everything because he didn't want her to worry. He had just said that he had run into a little trouble and forgot to get the eggs. He didn't mention that he had also run into Deadpool.

As he brushed his teeth, Peter began to wonder if he had made the whole thing up. It seemed so unreal that he had spent his entire evening being escorted around New York by Deadpool.

However, when he entered his room, he stopped and stared at the open window, which he was completely positive that he had shut earlier.

On the windowsill sat a carton of eggs.

* * *

Chapter 2

A week had passed and still Peter hadn't heard anything from Wade. He didn't know what he had expected, it wasn't like he had made that much of an impression on Wade. He didn't even know that much about Wade, besides what he had learned from researching him. But it wasn't even that Peter wanted to ask him about his past or his job, though, he just wanted to talk to Wade. He had made Peter laugh harder than he had in months.

And that's how, Friday afternoon after school, Peter found himself standing outside the restaurant Wade had taken him to. It was stupid, there was no reason that Wade would be there, but Peter squared his shoulders and walked in.

The bell on the door jingled merrily as he entered. The entire place was deserted except for the grumpy looking cook behind the counter. It had been a gamble for Wade to be there anyway, so Peter tried to ignore this disappointment that settled in his chest as he walked up to the counter to order.

While he was ordering, the door jingled open behind him and a second later he felt a heavy arm drape across his shoulder. He didn't have to turn to know who it was.

"What's up, baby boy? Buying me dinner again?"

Peter smiled without turning. "I paid last time, Wade. It's your turn."

They sat at the same table they had before while they waited for their food. Peter watched as Wade rolled up his mask in preparation for the food and felt his stomach drop as he realized what the marks on his face were: scars. They covered the bottom half of his face in angry red blotches. It looked painful, but Peter didn't say anything.

"So how was your week?" Wade asked.

"Boring. Lots of homework, lots of jackasses at school. Nothing out of the ordinary. What about yours?"

"Decent. I was in Egypt for awhile. Don't piss off drug lords, by the way. It doesn't end well."

Peter shook his head. "I don't even want to know."

"I couldn't tell you without shooting you after anyway."

"Then yeah, let's definitely skip it."

The grumpy cook stalked over to them and slammed their food down in front on them like it had personally offended him before slouching away.

"Do you always eat this much Mexican food?" Peter asked, eyeing the impressive array of chimichangas Wade had ordered.

"Yep! Breakfast of champions! Or, I guess in that case it would be dinner of champions."

They were silent for a few minutes as they are their dinner before Wade spoke again. "So who are these school jackasses you mentioned?"

Peter frowned at him. "I told you to stop talking with your mouth full. And there's actually just one jackass. His name is Flash. I've known him for years, but for some reason he finds my existence to be a bit insulting."

Wade snorted. "I hate bullies. Always trying to compensate for something. Maybe he has a crush on you."

Peter choked on his bite of taco, coughing violently. He chugged half of his water glass before turning back to glare at Wade. "He does NOT have a crush on me."

Wade grinned. "Just a thought. Sometimes people express their affection through violence. Not me though. I mean, if I did that then that would meam I'm basically in love with every crime syndicate in the entire world. That would be weird."

"Do you ever not like what you do? Killing people, I mean?"

Wade looked at Peter thoughtfully. "No, no really. I've always been pretty content."

"But you kill people."

"Everyone dies eventually. Except me, I guess."

"That doesn't make it right."

Before Wade could respond, Man! I Feel Like A Woman began blaring from somewhere under the table. Wade pulled out his cellphone.

"Hello?" He sat silently for a moment before he began to make faces and mime in a very unflattering way whatever the person on the other end was saying. "Yeah, yeah," he finally said. "I'll go clean it up. Yeah. Fine."

He hung up.

"Sorry to dine and dash, baby boy, but apparently somebody isn't as dead as they're supposed to be and I've got to go take care of it."

Peter shook his head. "I can't believe you just to me that you're going to go kill someone."

Wade stood up. "You can't get too queezy when you run with Deadpool, Petey. See ya!"

He ran out the door before Peter could reply.

Peter was woken up at 8am on the next morning to his phone playing You Sexy Thing as a text tone. Considering that he had never liked that song, let alone set it as his text tone, he was thoroughly confused until he looked at the screen.

Underneath a number he had never seen before was a caller id picture of Deadpool, wearing a cowboy hat, sitting on a bull, giving the camera a thumbs up.

Against his better judgment, Peter opened the text to read it.

Wade: good morning, sunshine! XOXO

Peter: when did you highjack my phone?

Wade: last night after you went to sleep. you snore, by the way.

Peter: you were here last night?!

Wade: yeppppppppp.

Peter: why?!

Wade: i needed somewhere to sleep and i figured your floor was more comfortable than a roof or something. the family who owns apartment i've been crashing in came home from vacation a week early because one of their kids was sick. how rude is that? they didn't even give me time to find another apartment! they just walked in and started throwing shit at me and screaming stuff about breaking and entering. rude. so rude.

Peter: wait... you stayed the night in my room last night?!

Wade: try to keep up with what's important, petey! they took my apartment! well... i guess it's technically not mine, but still!

Peter: wtf?!

Wade: i know! what the fuck is wrong with those jerks?!

Peter: no, the wtf was directed at you!

Wade: ... what did I do?

Peter: you can't just come sleep in my room without asking!

Wade: ... why? i do that to people all the time. Although, to be fair, they're usually not home. and i stayed on the floor last night.

Peter: that doesn't matter, it's still creepy! especially since this isn't the first time you've done it to someone! stop it!

Wade: fine, fine.

Wade: you should probably get up soon though.

Peter: why?

Wade: your aunt made us pancakes for breakfast! :D

Peter: YOU'RE STILL HERE?!

Peter didn't wait for a reply, but leapt out of bed and dashed downstairs. He stopped short in the doorway of the kitchen and stared at the scene before him.

Sitting at the table, in full mercenary gear and pink bunny slippers, was Wade. A mountain of pancakes sat on the plate in front of him and Aunt May was standing beside him, pouring him another glass of orange juice. They both looked up as Peter emitted a strangled squeak of surprise.

"Peter, I was just about to come wake you," Aunt May smiled as she turned to pour a glass of orange juice for Peter. "You'd better come get some of these pancakes fast before Wade eats them all."

Peter plopped down in a chair, glaring at Wade as he took some of the pancakes.

"You didn't tell me you were having a friend over last night, Peter," Aunt May said cheerfully as she started washing dishes.

"Yeah, it was kind of a last minute thing," Peter replied, glaring at Wade who was trying to muffle his laughter.

"You didn't tell me you knew Deadpool either." Peter could hear the warning in her voice and knew she was expecting an explanation later. Apparently Wade heard it too because he cleared his throat and spoke up.

"He hasn't known me for very long, Mrs. Parker. We've been bumping into each other on and off for awhile now and he was kind enough to offer me a place here when I got kicked out of my apartment last night. I hope that was alright."

"Of course it was alright, dear," Aunt May smiled at him. "If you have nowhere to stay the couch is yours for as long as you need it." She picked up the syrup bottle and went in to the pantry to put it away.

As soon as she was out of sight Peter rounded on Wade. "We've met twice, that's not 'bumping into each other on and off for awhile!'" he hissed.

"Okay, fine, but I got you out of a lecture," Wade whispered back.

"You're not staying here! I barely know you!"

"You're aunt said I could!"

"She knows you even less than I do!"

As Aunt May walked back into the room Peter and Wade sprung apart and pretended to be very interested in their pancakes.

"Deadpool-" Aunt May began.

"Please, Mrs. Parker, call me Wade."

She smiled. "Alright, Wade. Just to clear the air, I am aware of what you do for a living. But I'm also trusting you and believing that, despite your poor life choices, you are still a good person. Don't prove me wrong."

"Yes, ma'am," Wade replied, looking appropriately terrified by the steel in May's voice.

"Good," she smiled. "I've got some shopping to do today. You boys have fun while I'm gone."

Wade's phone buzzed as he received a text. He glanced at the screen with a grimace.

"Actually Mrs. Parker, I'm going to be leaving after dinner. I'll be gone for a couple days."

May nodded, ignoring the implication of what he would be doing while he was gone. "The sofa will be waiting for you when you get back. Until you leave you can help Peter with the chores."

"Your aunt is scary," Wade commented, leaning on the rake that he was supposed to be using to help Peter rake up the dried autumn leaves that were strewn across the yard. "But in a super badass way."

Peter nodded. "Yeah, she's great."

Wade studied him for a moment. "You really don't want me here." It wasn't a question.

Peter stopped raking and faced Wade. "You make me a little bit nervous," he said bluntly. "I don't know why you're here. I don't know why you picked my house to crash at. I feel like you have ulterior motives and I can't figure out what they are."

"Maybe I do have ulterior motives but they aren't what you think they are."

"What does that even mean?" Peter asked, exasperated.

"Look, I picked your house because you're nice and you don't treat me any differently than you would any other random guy you just met. You treat me like Wade, not like Deadpool. I want to be your friend."

Pete let out a startled laugh. "You know that's not the way people usually make friends, right? They get to know each other gradually, they don't just ask people if they want to be friends."

"Why not? That dog from the movie Up did it. Although he told people that he loved them too. Would it help if I said I love you?"

"God, no!" Peter yelped.

"Just give me a chance, Petey. I promise I can be a good friend. Or at least a good houseguest."

Peter sighed and rubbed his eyes. "Aunt May seems to like you, so that's pint in your favor." He dropped his hand. "Fine. We can be friends. And you can stay. But you're not allowed to sleep in my room. Got it?"

"Got it!" Wade crowed, scooping a protesting Peter up in a bone-crushing hug.

"Why do I feel like I'm going to regret this somehow?" Peter wheezed.

* * *

Chapter 3

Over the next several weeks the Parkers and Wade fell into an easy routine. Wade slept on the couch at nights and helped with the housework during the day. He never removed his mask, although he did consent to wearing a hoodie and jeans at home after he had almost given one of Aunt May's friends a heart attack when she came to visit.

Sometimes he would get calls on his phone and disappear for a time, sometimes just a few hours, sometimes a few days. Peter began to notice that he hated those days when Wade vanished. It became quiet and oppressive without his loud voice carrying from one side of the house to the other.

It didn't help that Wade often came home from assignments covered in blood. The first time it happened he had been gone for an entire week.

Peter had walked into his room, determined to stop worrying about where Wade was and finish working on an English paper, but when he opened the door he froze: Wade was lounged on his bed, his legs stretched out in front of him and his arms tucked behind his head. Then Peter saw the gaping hole in Wade's stomach that was still bleeding profusely.

Peter opened his mouth, but he had no idea what he would have said because Wade was across the room in a flash, one hand clamped over Peter's mouth and the other softly closing the door behind them.

"I know it looks bad, but it's really not. I just don't want your aunt to see."

Peter batted Wade's hand away. "What happened to you?"

"I kind of swallowed a small bomb."

"Please tell you're kidding."

"No really, I swallowed it. It tasted surprisingly like mint. I was expecting a more metallic kind of taste, to be honest, but there was definitely some mint in there and- hey, where are you going?" He broke off as Peter turned and left the room without a word.

He was back a minute later with a damp towel and a first aid kit.

Wade laughed. "I'll be healed soon, Petey, you don't have to bother with that."

"You're bleeding all over my room, so shut up and pull your shirt up."

Peter immediately regretted his words as he saw a grin spread across Wade's face under his mask. "Why Petey, how forward of you," Wade tittered.

"Oh, just shut up and do what I said," Peter blushed.

Still grinning, Wade pulled his blood soaked shirt out of the way. The part of his chest that wasn't gaping open was crisscrossed with scars identical to the ones that Peter had seen on his face. Peter ignored them and began to gently dab at the fresh wound with the damp towel.

"Owww," Wade winced.

"Your chest just literally exploded and you're complaining about a cloth rubbing you?"

"I told you that it's going to heal soon, so you don't have to do that," Wade said, wincing even more as Peter neared the wound.

"Yeah, I can see that," Peter replied, watching as the skin slowly knit itself back together. "But I'm pretty sure that even you don't want an infection. Now stop being such a baby. I'll be done faster if you stop squirming."

"That's what she said," Wade muttered. He yelped sharply when Peter brushed gently over the wound.

"Almost done," Peter murmured. "Tell me about one of your missions, maybe that will distract you.

Wade thought for a moment. "Did I tell you about the time that someone tried to hire me to kill a boy band?" he finally asked.

The corners of Peter's mouth twitched. "No, I don't think you did."

"Classic case of jealous boyfriend wanting his girlfriend to stop mooning over other guys."

"Killing them off doesn't sound like a very good way to keep her affection."

"I think he was hoping that she wouldn't find out he was behind it."

"Did you do it?"

"Of course not! He was only going to pay me $50! Plus I might listen to the band frequently. And no," he said as Peter opened his mouth. "I'm not telling you who it band is."

"I've never been into boy bands. I'm more of a classical music kind of guy," Peter commented as he began to wrap some bandages around Wade's chest.

Wade grinned. "You're such a cute little nerd, Petey."

Peter flushed. "Quit saying that."

"It's true, though."

Peter tied off the bandage. "There, all done."

Wade looked down at the crisp white bandages that were wrapped around his chest. "You should be a doctor."

"Not a chance," Peter laughed. "I only take care of people with healing factors so I know I won't kill them."

Wade nodded. "Very wise. Most doctors go bald anyway and you'd look really funny bald." A wicked grin spread over Wade's face. "Hey, that's an idea! Petey, can I give you a haircut?"

Peter scooted backward away from him. "No! No way!"

Wade giggled and lunged forward, knocking Peter off the bed. They landed on the floor in a tangle of legs and arms. There was a short-lived wrestling match, which resulted in Peter being pinned to the floor by a grinning Wade.

"Just one haircut."

"No!" Peter laughed.

"I promise I'll only make you half bald!"

"Never!"

Wade leaned down so he hovered over Peter's face. "Please?" he asked softly.

Their eyes locked and they both froze. Peter opened his mouth to reply when-

"Dinner time!" Aunt May shouted from downstairs.

Wade leapt up and was across the room in seconds shouting, "Food!"

The door shut behind him as Peter sat up slowly, wondering why he felt like a thousand butterflies had been let loose in his stomach.

On the other side of the door, Wade leaned against the doorframe and closed his eyes wearily. His head pounded in his chest and his skin under his bandage still tingled from where Peter had touched him.

This was bad. This was really bad.

* * *

Chapter 4

Peter hunched over his desk, math equations dancing before his exhausted eyes. He sighed and let his forehead hit the desk with a thud.

"Why don't you just call it a night? You've been at it for six hours straight," Wade commented from where he was reclined on Peter's bed eating potato chips.

"I can't, I have a test tomorrow," Peter replied, voice muffled by the wood of the desk.

"Yeah, well you're going to be sorry when you fall asleep in the middle of it because you didn't get enough sleep tonight. That actually happened to me once. I feel asleep in the middle of a job and I ended up getting my head chopped off a couple times before I finally woke up."

Peter sat up and swiveled his chair around to face Wade. "You know, you're really not being very helpful."

"What are you talking about? Helpful is my middle name."

"I'm pretty sure it's not."

"Hey, I can be super helpful," Wade said, springing off the bed and grabbing one of the papers in front of Peter. "I'll test you to see what you know." He peered down at the page. "Oh, dear god, what is this?! It looks like some kind of unbreakable military code!"

"It's chemistry," Peter replied, snatching the paper back. "Go to bed, I'm fine." He flapped is hands at Wade in a shooing motion. "Scram."

Wade sniffed. "Fine, I can see where I'm not wanted."

"I never said I didn't want you, I just want you to shut up."

"I can shut up."

"I'd pay money to see that."

"You're so untrusting."

"Says the guy who's lived here for over a month and still doesn't trust me enough to take his mask off around me."

The words slipped out before Peter could stop them, but he instantly regretted them.

Wade froze before plastering a forced grin across his face. "Yeah, point taken. I guess it is hard to trust someone when you don't know what they look like. Guess that's why most people don't trust me."

Peter shook his head. "Wade, that's not what I-"

"Oh my god, is that the time?" Wade cut in as he skipped to the door. "Time for bed. Goodnight, baby boy. Good luck on the test!"

He was out the door before Peter could answer.

The next morning there was no sign of Wade anywhere in the house. His things were gone and his makeshift bed on the sofa had disappeared. It was if he had never been there at all.

The week was a blur. Aunt May became more somber as the days passed and Peter couldn't seem to concentrate on anything. He tried calling Wade's phone, but the number had been disconnected.

Peter was fairly certain that he failed his chemistry test because of distraction, as well as his English test later in the week, but he couldn't bring himself to care with Wade missing. Nothing mattered to him, not when Wade was gone, thinking that Peter didn't trust him.

But he did trust Wade. It had surprised him to realize it, since it had come on so gradually. But there was something bizarrely reassuring about Wade's presence in Peter's life, something he hadn't felt for a long time.

It was because of his distraction throughout the week that when he was leaving his English class on Friday, he ran straight into Flash.

Peter was pinned against a locker before he could say anything, with Flash glaring only inches from his face.

"Watch where you're going, Parker," he snarled.

"Sorry, Flash," he muttered, not even bothering to think of a smartass reply.

Flash grinned, sensing Peter's distraction. "What's this, Parker? No witty comebacks? What's wrong, cat got your tongue?"

"I've seen that happen before," a voice behind Flash said.

As Flash turned, Peter felt his heart stop. Standing directly behind Flash was Deadpool, in full gear, with arms crossed and a withering glare directed at Flash.

"Drop him." Wade said in a low voice.

Flash let go of Peter and stumbled back a few steps. "D- Deadpool? Parker, you know Deadpool?"

"Damn right he does, asshat," Wade said, taking a step toward Flash. "I'd keep that in mind, if I were you. Now get lost."

Flash raced off down the hall. The rest of the students gave Wade a wide birth as he and Peter faced each other in awkward silence.

"You haven't been home all week," Peter finally said. "We were worried."

"Yeah, I got a last minute job and I figured while I was out I should probably start looking for other accommodations."

"Oh." Peter felt like he had been punched in the gut. "Did you find anything?"

"Yeah, I actually found a pretty nice house. I'm renting it though, so don't worry that I'm creeping on anything. Although I really do love people's reactions to coming back to their places being Deadpool-ized."

Peter nodded, not sure what to say. Wade looked around him at Peter's classmates who were trying to listen without being too obvious.

Wade grinned. "Want to get out of here, Petey?"

And that was how Peter found him on the back of a motorcycle, halfway to his and Wade's Mexican restaurant.

"Not bad for a jailbreak!" Wade crowed. "They didn't even shoot at us!"

The grumpy cook behind the counter grimaced when he saw Wade and Peter enter his restaurant.

"You'd think he'd be more happy to see me since I'm pretty sure I'm the reason they're still in business," Wade grumbled as they sat down at their usual table.

Peter studied him silently.

"What?" Wade asked, suddenly self-conscious. "Is my arm on backwards again?"

"Why did you come to my school today?" Peter asked.

Wade was silent for a moment. "I wanted to make sure you were okay," he finally mumbled.

"You could have called."

"I didn't want you to know I was checking up on you."

Peter shook his head. "Look, I know you're mad about what I said about not trusting you and I don't blame you. It was a stupid thing to say and I only said it because I was cranky and tired. I do trust you and I'm really sorry, Wade."

"Wait," Wade said uncertainly. "You think I left because I was... angry?"

"Didn't you?"

"No! I left because you're right now to trust me! Life is dangerous around me and I wouldn't want you or your aunt to get in any crossfire. You're totally justified in not trusting me and- Wait." He froze, staring at Peter. "Did you just say... you trust me?"

"Of course I did. I trust you completely. So does Aunt May. She's worried sick about you, by the way."

"And I thought I was the crazy one," Wade muttered. "You shouldn't trust me, Petey. I'm a bad person."

"You do bad thing, but that doesn't necessarily mean you're a bad person."

Wade shook his head. "I promised myself that I wouldn't try to see you again after I left. That's what happened the first time we met, too. I had to stop myself from going back to your house. But the more time I spent with you, the more awful it was to be away from you. So I always ended right back up by your side, like some weird gravitational pull. You're like a little sun," he grinned. "It's impossible to stay away."

"Then stop trying to leave." Peter replied simply.

"It's too dangerous, baby boy," Wade said sadly. "I might heal from a bullet to the heart, but you wouldn't."

"So stop taking jobs."

Wade jerked in surprise. "What?"

"Go straight. Stop killing people."

Wade made a choking noise. "Stop being a mercenary? But that would be boring!"

"Not as boring as you think. You'd have me and Aunt May to help keep you occupied. Maybe we could even find you a real job somewhere. You could even become a regular hero, instead of an anti-hero."

Wade picked at a chip in the table. "I still have enemies, whether I'm an active mercenary or not, but I guess I wouldn't be making new enemies..."

"I think you'd be a lot happier," Peter smiled.

Wade sighed. "Fine, I'll try. But only because you suggested it."

"Does that mean you'll come back to live with us?"

Wade looked strangely embarrassed. "No. Well, I mean, yes. Sort of?"

"Wade, what did you do?" Peter asked, almost dreading the answer.

"I might have rented the house next to yours," Wade grinned. "Neighbor."

* * *

Chapter 5

"You really don't have to do this, you know" Peter said.

He was sitting on the couch in Wade's new living room. It was small but cozy room, with a TV on one side of a room across from the single couch where Peter and Wade sat facing each other.

Wade toyed with the edges of his mask. "I want to," he replied. "It's just that every time I show someone my face…. It hasn't ended well."

Peter smiled and gently took Wade's hand. "I'm not going to be scared, Wade. It's okay."

Wade nodded, took a deep breath, and in one smooth movement pulled the mask off.

Peter sat in silence, studying the man in front of him.

He was some years older than Peter with shockingly blue eyes and a bald head. His face and head were riddled with scars and scabs that looked painful and raw. He wasn't meeting Peter's gaze, but studying the sofa cushion with an alarming intensity.

Peter reached out and gently lifted Wade's chin to look him in the eye. "It's nice to finally meet you, Wade Wilson," he smiled.

Wade looked at him uncertainly for a moment before a matching smile lit his face. "Nice to meet you too, Peter Parker."

Little by little, over the next few days, Wade got used to having his mask off in front of first Peter and then Aunt May, although he always put it back on when he went out or when someone else came to the house. Neither Peter not Aunt May ever asked about his scars, treating him the same as they always had before.

Despite having his own house to live in, he still spent most of his time at Peter and Aunt May's house. While Peter was at school, if Wade wasn't sent on a job, he would stay at home with Aunt May, who began teaching him how to cook more than Mexican food and pancakes.

One night after dinner, Wade was sitting on Peter's bed cleaning one of his guns while Peter did homework at his desk, occasionally glancing over disapprovingly at Wade.

"Why do you keep glaring at me? It's not like I'm going to kill anyone. I told you that I wouldn't."

Peter sighed. "I guess it just strikes a little too close to home. You know the pictures in the living room of that old man with glasses?"

Wade nodded. "Your aunt said he was your uncle."

"He was," Peter agreed. "He was shot in cold blood right in front of me a couple months before I met you. We were at a convenience store and some guy robbed it. Uncle Ben tried to stop him and the guy shot him through the chest. We called an ambulance, but they were too late getting there. I couldn't do anything except sit there and watch him die. I was so useless. We'd had an argument right before that, too."

Peter trailed off, staring at the floor in silence. He felt a hand covering his and looked up to see that Wade had gotten off the bed and was kneeling on the floor in front of his so they were at eye level.

"He knew you loved him, Petey, and he loved you, too. There's no way he wouldn't. And you're not useless. You may not have been able to save him, but you loved him. And that's the best thing anyone could ever ask for."

They were silent for a moment before Wade continued speaking. "You know... If you gave me a description of the guy, I could probably find him and take care of him. It would be pretty easy."

Peter frowned. "No, Wade. You're not going to hunt him down and kill him. How would that make you any different from him?"

"I'm already no different from him, so what does it matter?" Wade shrugged.

"I refuse to believe that. You're one hundred times better than him. And anyway, you stopped killing people."

"That's true. I could make an exception this once, though."

"Absolutely not!"

Wade nodded. "Okay, then that that settles it." He stood up and went back to throw himself back on the bed.

"That settles what?" Peter asked suspiciously.

"I'm going to track him down. But!" He held up a finger stopping Peter who had opened his mouth to reply. "When I find him, I won't kill him. I'll turn him over to the police or whatever you want me to do with him."

Peter stared at him. "Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious. I'm always seriously. I'm Mr. Serious. I'm-"

His words were cut off as Peter flung himself across the room and hugged Wade tightly around the waist. Wade froze in shock before timidly wrapping his arms around Peter in return.

"Thank you, Wade," Peter whispered, his face buried in Wade's chest. "Thank you."

Wade had spent most of the next day on the phone with some of his old connections, trying to find leads on Ben's murderer. Peter didn't leave his side the entire time. Neither of them told Aunt May what they were doing since she was out with a friend. They decided to surprise her with dinner after Wade's calls didn't get them anywhere.

Luckily, Wade remembered most of what Aunt May had been teaching him, so the burned food was kept to the minimum.

The mess, however, was of extraordinary proportions. It was made worse when Peter snuck up behind Wade and smeared some gravy on the top of Wade's head. Wade retaliated by chasing Peter around the kitchen island several times before giving up trying to catch him and instead throwing olives at Peter with the aim of a true marksman. After that it turned into a free for all.

After a vicious twenty minute battle, they sat on the floor of the wrecked kitchen, covered in edible carnage, and laughing so hard their sides hurt.

"Believe it or not, that's actually the first food fight I've ever had," Peter giggled.

"It's the first food fight I've had that I didn't start," Wade laughed, leaning his head against the cabinet behind him and leaving a smear of gravy in his wake.

"I can believe that," Peter replied. "I bet you were really popular in your cafeteria when you were at school."

"The lunch ladies loved me," Wade said, winking.

Peter laughed, but stopped short when Wade suddenly sat up straight, an odd look on his face.

"What is it?" Peter asked.

"I thought I heard something," Wade whispered, standing up and looking around.

Peter stood up next to him. "I didn't hear anything."

"It was faint, but it sounded like it was coming from outside.

"You're not messing with me, are you?" Peter asked, suspicious of Wade's sudden mood change.

"More like the opposite," Wade replied, still turning and looking around the room. "I'm trying to protect you."

Peter laughed in astonishment. "Protect me from what?"

"Since retiring, I've been getting some pretty nasty messages from my old clients. I figured people would be pissed at me, but I didn't think anyone would act this soon."

Peter put a gentle hand on Wade's arm. "You're imagining things," he said softly. "We're both safe. Nothing is going to happen."

Right has the words fell from him lips, he saw a dark figure loom up behind Wade.

Before Peter could shout a warning, a hand reached around from behind him holding a cloth and clamped down over his mouth and nose. He tried not to breath in, but in seconds his eyesight blurred. He heard a roar of fury from Wade and then he was falling.

The last thing he saw before the darkness closed in was Wade's severed head hitting the floor.

* * *

Chapter 6

Peter opened his eyes slowly, trying to clear his head of the remaining haze that lingered. He was seated in a cold metal chair, his hands tied behind its back and his ankles tied to its legs. The room around him was dark and damp, a cellar of some sort. There was a set of stairs to his right leading up, but he couldn't see anything beyond them. The room was empty besides his chair and an empty chair side him.

He was completely alone.

Where was Wade? Peter remembered seeing Wade's head hit the floor seconds before he passed out, but what had happened to him after that? What if this was the time that he didn't regenerate? What if he was dead?

Peter shook his head, trying to dispel the increasingly darkening thoughts that were plaguing his mind.

To his right, he heard a bolt being drawn back and heavy footsteps sound on the stairs. He turned and what he saw sent pang of relief rushing through him.

Wade, his head intact, was being marched down the stairs by a pair of giant, and very angry looking, men. Behind then walked a man with white hair, wearing white suit and horn-rimed glasses. He had a sour look on his face, much like someone who had just eaten a lemon.

"Petey, you're awake!" Wade chirped as they approached him. Peter could see several new cuts and bruises on Wade's face. They were already beginning to heal, but the fact that they were even there to begin with sent a thrill of anger though Peter.

"How're you feeling, baby boy?" Wade asked as the two huge men shoved him into the vacant chair and began to tie him up.

"Never better," Peter replied. "What about you?"

"Not bad, not bad," Wade nodded. "Could've done without losing my head for awhile, but hey, could be worse! I had my dick chopped off once. Now that was unpleasant."

"Would you shut up?" The man in the white suit interrupted, rubbing his temples as if he had a headache.

"That's rude," Wade noted.

"I brought you here to finish the job I hired you to do, not to listen to you babble about all the body parts you've had chopped off. And that's all I've been hearing for the last two hours!"

Peter laughed. "You can talk about that for two hours?"

"Three, if I really get going," Wade replied, winking.

"Enough!" Peter was surprised that the man in white didn't stomp his foot in frustration.

"Will you or will you not do as I asked?"

"You technically never asked me to do anything. You hired me and then after that you just kept giving orders and telling me what to do. You're really bossy, you know. I don't like bossy people. Except Petey. I like Petey."

"I'm not bossy!" Peter interjected.

"You're totally bossy. You remind me to brush my teeth after every meal, you yell at me if I talk while I'm eating, you won't let me draw with crayons on you bedroom walls, you even told me to wash behind my ears one time!"

"In my defense you came home smelling like you had been swimming in the sewers that night."

"I was swimming in the sewers that night, funny you should mention it."

"ARGH!" The man in white let out an anguished scream before lunging forward and grabbing Wade's chin, jerking his face up so they were staring into each others eyes.

"This is what's going to happen," he hissed. "You are going to kill who I paid you to kill, or my boys here will start aiming bullets at your boyfriend. Got it?"

Wade stared at him for a moment. "You really shouldn't have done that," he finally said.

"Done what?" The man asked triumphantly, letting go of Wade and straightening back up. "Threatened him?"

"No, called him my boyfriend. I was totally planning on asking him out this evening, before you invited us over to play, but now you just completely ruined it."

Peter made a squeaking noise. "You were going to ask me out? Really?"

"Yeah," Wade said, nervously looking over at him. "What would you have said?"

Peter laughed. "I would've said yes, you dummy."

Wade face split into a grin. "Really? You mean it?"

"You have got to be kidding me!" The man in white burst out. "This is not how hostage situations work!" He turned to his men. "Untie them," he ordered.

One of the men began untying Peter while the other untied Wade, and hauled them to their feet.

The man in white pulled out a pistol, cocked it, and placed it at Peter's forehead. "You will do as I ask, or the boy dies," he said.

Wade stilled, looking from the gun Peter's face.

"Don't do it, Wade," Peter said. "It's not worth it."

"Shut up!" The man in white snapped, slapping Peter hard across the face.

A snarl ripped out of Wade's throat. "_Big _mistake, fucker."

He twisted and pitched the giant man holding him forward, sending him crashing into the man holding Peter and sending a three of the sprawling. Wade leapt at the man in white before he could move, knocking him to the floor and wrestling with him as he tried to get the gun away from him.

Wade's hand closed around the man's throat and, as Peter picked himself off the floor, he watched in horror as the life began to drain out of the man at Wade's fingertips.

"Wade, don't kill him," he yelled.

Wade looked back at him, his fingers loosening around the man's throat just a fraction, but it was enough for the man in white to move. Lifting the gun, he fired, a look of triumph stamped across his face.

The world stopped.

Fire ripped through Peter's stomach and a look of horror passed over Wade's face. Peter looked down in confusion as a sticky dampness began to spread across his shirt.

His knees hit the floor.

He heard a sickening crunch followed by a howl of pain and then Wade was at his side, lowering him gently to the ground.

"Oh no, don't do this Petey, don't you dare do this to me. Not right after I asked you out, that's just not fair. No!" he cried as Peter's eyes began to flutter. "You stay with me, baby, do you hear me? You're going to be okay."

Peter weakly clutched at the front of Wade's shirt. "Don't do what he wants," he whispered. "Don't become a mercenary again."

Wade shook his head. "I won't. I'll stay right here. I'll do anything you want me to. Just please, stay with me, Petey, please!"

As Peter's eyes closed and his body went limp in Wade's arms, the last thing he saw were unchecked tears rushing down the Wade's scarred face.

* * *

Chapter 7

Light filtered through Peter's closed eyes, pulling him out of the comforting embrace of unconsciousness.

The sterile smell of hospital filled his nose as he opened his eyes and stared up at a white tiled ceiling. He was lying on his back in a hospital bed with scratchy sheets, propped up by a ridiculous amount of pillows. His room was tiny, with only one bed and a tiny window to his right. Across the room, under a blank TV was a stack of cards and an alarming amount of flowers.

"Peter?"

He turned his head to find Aunt May seated in the chair to the left of his bed. She had dark circles under her eyes like she hadn't gotten much sleep.

"Where's Wade?" Peter's voice came out in a rasp. Aunt May stood up and helped him take a sip of water from the glass next to his bed.

"I haven't seen him since he brought you here," she replied as she sat back down and gently picked up Peter's hand. "You both went missing overnight. I worried sick, but then I got a call from Wade saying that you were shot and had passed out and that I should meet him at the hospital. I got here at the same time he did, carrying you. As soon as he saw that you were safe, he left. You've been asleep for most of the day."

"He's been missing all day?" Peter asked in alarm, struggling to rise. A sharp pain shot through his abdomen and he fell back onto his pillows with a gasp of pain.

"You can't move like that, sweetheart," Aunt May scolded, hovering over him as she straightened his blankets. "You were shot I the stomach. It wasn't life threatening since Wade got you here so fast, but you still need to be careful."

"I'm fine, Aunt May," Peter said, taking her hand to stop her fretting. "Really. I'll be fine."

She shook her head. "You and your uncle always made the worst things seems like nothing. I'm going to go find the doctor and tell him you're awake. I'll be right back." She gave his hand a squeeze before leaving the room.

Alone in the room, Peter stared up at the ceiling. "Where are you, Wade?" he whispered.

"Right here, baby boy," a voice near him said immediately. "Hospitals really stink. You'd think they'd do something about that."

Peter turned and saw Wade, sitting on the ledge of the window, smiling nervously at him. He wasn't dressed as Deadpool, but in a pair of jeans and red hoodie, no mask in sight.

"Where have you been all day?" Peter asked.

"Sitting outside your window, waiting for you to wake up."

"You could've come in, you know."

"I don't like hospitals," Wade replied, getting off the window ledge and walking around the bed to seat himself in the chair Aunt May have vacated.

"What happened to those guys that kidnapped us?" Peter asked.

"I broke the wrist of the fucker that shot you. The other two have some bumps and bruises from getting tossed across the room, but other than that they're all holed up nice and cozy in jail."

Peter shook his head. "I can't believe I got shot. How badass is that?"

"Extremely," Wade grinned. "You're Mr. Popular now. See?" he gestured to the table of flowers across the room. "You even got flowers from that kid, Flash. He totally has a crush on you."

"He does not," Peter said, glaring at Wade.

"He totally does, but if you want to be in denial I'm completely okay with that. Less competition for me."

"You don't have any competition. Although if you were wanting to go on a date, I don't think that's going to happen any time soon. Aunt May isn't going to let me out of her sight for months after this."

"That's okay," Wade said, reaching over and taking Peter's hand gently in his. "I'll bring the date to you. I'm thinking eating Mexican takeout and watching Breaking Bad."

Peter nodded. "I'd be down with that."

Wade grinned. "I knew you were awesome." He stifled a yawn.

"When was the last time you got some sleep?" Peter asked, watching him closely.

"Umm, sometime before we got kidnapped? I think?"

"You need sleep. Go to sleep," Peter ordered.

"But I don't like hospitals," Wade complained.

"I'll be right here," Peter said.

Wade stifled another yawn. "You're so bossy. I'll do it, but only because you want me to."

Wade was still for a moment before leaning across suddenly and placing a long, gentle kiss on Peter's surprised lips. He pulled away and settled back in his chair, a satisfied smile of his face. "Goodnight, Petey."

Peter's heart was pounding and a huge smile stretched across his face as he closed his eyes. "Goodnight, Wade."

A few minutes later when Aunt May returned with the doctor, she found Peter and Wade fast asleep, Peter in the bed and Wade in the chair next to him, their hands held tightly between them.

"He's not family," the doctor said. "He shouldn't be in here."

Aunt May shook her head and smiled. "No doctor, they're both exactly where they should be. Together."


	19. (O) TREEBROS - You Didn't Mean To Me

You didn't mean to message me but  
Bersenev

Summary:  
When some girls from jazz band give Evan a phone number that is supposed to be Zoe's, Evan is sure that nothing good will come out of it.

At least until the person he messages instead proves him wrong.

* * *

When Evan came back to school on the first day after his summer vacation he didn't think that anything would be different that year, except for the cast on his arm.

He was right.

Jared was sick for the whole first week, because he had caught a summer flu and then decided keep acting sick for a few days to not have to deal with the boring beginning of the year classes. Evan thought that he was probably just nervous about going back later than everyone else and drawing unwanted attention to himself, but he didn't comment.

Alana Beck talked to him a few times to tell him about the volunteer work she did over the summer and other such things and also handed some articles on broken bones and how to properly treat them to him. He appreciated the effort, even though he wouldn't ever read the articles because then he'd freak out about whether or not what he was doing was right and whether to trust his doctor and surgeon or articles from the internet.

Zoe Murphy went past him a few times, which might count as an interaction in a way if you really stretched the meaning of the word interaction.

Other than that the first week of school and then the first month and then some more time passed quietly and quickly. Nothing out of the ordinary.

_This isn't gonna be an amazing week or year because why would it be?_

The words still rung loud in his ears despite the fact that he had deleted the letter shortly after writing it. The ink of the printer in the computer lab had to be refilled effectively stopping Evan from printing anything. He hadn't wanted to save it on a school computer or anything like that and after a moment he just decided to delete it since it wouldn't do him any good in therapy anyway.

He still remembered everything he had written.

Maybe if he didn't this particular day would have gone differently and right now Evan would give everything for that.

The day had started out normal enough. He had just gotten his cast off last week and today was the day of the first jazz-band concert of the year, which Evan of course attended.

Today, he had vowed to himself, was the day he would talk to Zoe Murphy. No sweaty hands, no stuttering, he would finally do this.

Just that he didn't. He watched the concert and he watched Zoe and he was reminded of the fact that she was so far out of his league he might as well not even exist at all because it wouldn't change a thing about his chances of getting together with her.

Not that he really knew a lot about her, as in the real her. He knew a lot about the person the appeared to be, but he didn't know a lot about who she was on the inside or even who she was on a daily basis outside of school.

So he probably would chicken out again and just not talk to her, even though he'd already gotten up and walked towards the back of the stage where a few of the band members were already leaving.

He could still turn away, act as if he hadn't been there or something. He could look at his phone as if he had gotten a text and wasn't able to wait for whoever he came for.

"Hey you! You've been at our last few concerts too right?" A voice said behind him.

He couldn't place the voice but once he turned around way too quickly and panicky he did recognize a few from the girls. One of them played the piano the other two he wasn't completely sure about but he knew that they played something? Maybe the trumpet? It was a bit embarrassing how little he knew about the rest of the band.

"Yes? I was?" It sounded like a question but Evan knew for a fact that he hadn't missed a single concert during the whole time he had crushed on Zoe, but he wasn't about to say that and honestly he was just extremely nervous and didn't want to reply at all but that would be worse and he couldn't really help sounding as if he was questioning his very existence right now.

He didn't question his existence, he knew that it was probably a cosmic joke just to spite him for some reason.

The girls exchanged a quick look and Evan wondered if one of them was in his Biology class? Or maybe it was English Lit? He didn't know and honestly he didn't care too much he just wanted them to leave him alone before Zoe saw them.

But fate really didn't care about what he wanted and Zoe was a few feet away, looking at their small group with confusion and a frown. Her attention wasn't on them for long at least, so Evan just hoped that maybe she would forget about this. About him.

He hadn't noticed that one of the girls had apparently talked to him while he watched Zoe, so when someone waved a hand in front of his face he couldn't help flinching.

Why did people always have to do that? It was better than being touched, but a lot more embarrassing because everyone could see that hand being waved in front of him and then they'd know that he wasn't listening to someone and think that he's an awful person that doesn't listen to women because he's some kind of sexist that talks over people all the time and-

"You know, there's actually a reason we wanted to talk to you! Zoe wanted us to give you her number because she was too nervous to do it herself."

"She did? Why would she-" He couldn't even finish the thought before the girl on the right grabbed his left arm and started scribbling something on it with a pen.

"There! Just remember to message her later, yeah? I bet she'd be super disappointed if you don't."

"But I don't-"

And they were already on their way away from him and there was no way of following them without causing a scene. Well, more of a scene, because he did notice how people kept looking at them and then walking around them quickly.

He waited for another moment, just long enough for everyone that had witnessed the scene to be gone, before he nearly ran towards the nearest toilet and locked himself in a stall to hyperventilate in peace.

This either was a really sick joke or the universe finally decided to make up for everything it did to him so far. Probably a sick joke he should just ignore, but maybe that was his anxiety talking and if he didn't message the number he might miss his only chance to ever get to know Zoe Murphy.

He'd regret it his whole life if this was real and he screwed it up.

But he'd also regret it his whole life if this was a prank and he fell for it and then his whole high school life would be hell and filled with bullying and everyone would talk about how pathetic he was for ever thinking that Zoe might like him and he'd have to drop out of high school and then his mother would probably hate him for wasting her time and he'd be homeless at 19 and die at 21 from some kind of infection or sickness that wasn't treated and nobody would be at his funeral.

Which was a ridiculous overreaction, he knew that, but there was a chance of it happening and with his bad luck it might and his vision was hazy and his gasps were kind of echoing in the bathroom stall and that just made it worse because he couldn't- he couldn't breath right.

Normally he'd just take his medication now, but of course he was between medication right now, of course he had to discontinue Xanax because his dose was already high and his psychiatrist was worried about a possible addiction if he kept using it and it was only supposed to be a short-term solution anyway so of course he was without any medication right now because he wasn't allowed to try his new ones while he was still on his current one.

It was just such a bad time for this, he wanted to go home and sleep but he couldn't because he was about to choke in a bathroom stall at school because he couldn't even breathe right.

Nearly an hour later and multiple failed attempts at breathing exercises and similar things Evan left the bathroom stall and then school.

He was too exhausted to care and his head hurt from crying even though he couldn't even remember that he cried and there was a small patch on the inside of his left wrist where he had scratched himself a bit bloody at some point.

All in all he felt horrible.

The school buses already stopped driving and since Evan didn't have anyone that would come pick him up he anyway he started walking home slowly.

At least his brain was quiet, granting him a brief reprieve from worrying and insulting himself and everything else it usually was filled with. He wasn't sure if the emptiness was actually good, but he also didn't care.

He reached his front-door and went inside quietly, noticing the note and money on the counter but not acknowledging it any further. The house was empty, as always and his walk up to his room uninterrupted.

It wasn't even dark yet, the summer sun still high in the sky, but he couldn't be bothered to stay up any longer.

He woke up again during the night several times, staying awake long enough to change his clothes and greet his mom when she came back from classes. Then he went back to bad and didn't wake up again until the next morning.

It was a Saturday and Heidi had to rush to work in the middle of their breakfast, she was needed because of an emergency but when wasn't she? But that was fine, everything was fine, Evan was fine.

That's why he messaged Jared and asked if he could come over. Because he was fine and people that felt okay invited over their friends.

The thought actually made Evan smile a bit, just a little.

Saying nothing had changed during the year wasn't completely accurate, because Jared admitting to being friends Evan was new. They had a fight a while ago when Jared asked Evan to hang out with him so his parents would pay for his car insurance and Evan refused because he didn't want to do that anymore. They were either real friends or none.

It had taken a few days of sulking and angry looks across the hallway, but eventually Jared walked up to him and apologized and they talked it out. Or at least talked about it as much as two emotionally stunted teenagers could.

They were trying to be better at this whole friend thing and Evan liked to think that it was working okay.

So he didn't feel horrible about messaging Jared and when he agreed to come over in a while it didn't even surprise Evan. Maybe a bit, but not as much as it would have before. It felt nearly natural.

Waiting for people was kind of uncomfortable in Evans opinion because you couldn't really do anything? Starting someone just to be interrupted was annoying so he was just stuck doing small tasks like putting away some dishes to be washed later.

Later, when Evan finally decided what to do with the number on his arm, because the dish soap would probably smudge it or wash it off and if he wore gloves and the water got into them anyway then it would also be ruined so it was just easier to not do the dishes yet.

He could also just write down the number on a paper but just looking at it made him nervous so it would just have to wait.

"So what's up with you writing me at like 9am on a Saturday morning? Did you actually talk to Zoe yesterday?"

Sometimes Evan forget that Jared actually had a key to his house and could just let himself in. It was always kind of like being in a horror movie before his brain caught up with the situation and realized that it was Jared.

He didn't get to reply before Jared walked into the kitchen and looked at Evan's arm in shock, before he quickly grinned to cover it up.

"Does that number mean you talked to her or how did that happen?" Jared tried to sound joking and upbeat but the tension in his shoulders said otherwise, or at least Evan thought it did.

"No I- Some girls came up to me while I was waiting for Zoe? I actually wanted to leave already, but they said that Zoe wanted them to give me her number? Which doesn't make sense, right? But they left before I could ask about it more though."

"So...Do you believe them?"

"Not really? I mean it would be amazing if it was true, but, you know." Evan shrugged, trying not to look as hurt as he felt and failing spectacularly if Jareds frown was any indication.

They stood in silence for a moment before Jared nodded and held out his hand with a look of determination.

"I say we just message the number and see what happens. And no, don't look like that it's going to be fine. I'll stay here until we get a reply, okay?"

It was a plan, probably the best they'd come up with and the fact that Jared offered to help made Evan want to go along with it, so he just took out his phone and gave it to Jared before the panic and doubts could set in and stop him.

Jared took his phone with a grin and walked towards the living room, Evan followed him wordlessly and sat down next to him when they arrived at the couch. This was going to be terrible he knew it.

"Okay so-" Jared unlocked his phone and grabbed Evans arm to type in the number „We should probably write something short without your name in it. That way if it's not Zoe's number nobody knows that it was you that wrote them. Sounds good?"

"I guess?"

"Great!" Jared said it with a lot more enthusiasm than it deserved but that was fine. For a moment it made Evan feel as if maybe this could be fun, a small adventure in a way.

Evan watched as Jared started typing the message, deleting and rewriting it several times before he seemed satisfied with it and handed the phone back to Evan with a proud smile.

"'Hey-" Evan read out lout, looking at Jared who nodded encouragingly. „Some girls from Jazzband said you wanted them to give me your number. Is that right?'Do you think that's going to work? What if it's her number and she doesn't know who's writing her?"

Jared huffed out a laugh at that. „How many people do you think she gives her number to by asking other people? If it's her she'll know who you are and if it's not her, then the person we are texting probably never talked to those jazzband girls."

"So what do we do if it's not Zoe?" Evan asked, fidgeting at the hem of his shirt with the hand that wasn't holding his phone. It felt like it was burning him.

"Then we apologize and never mention this again or we talk to them or something. Bond over being pranked by mean jazzband girls."

Evan sighed and quickly hit send on the message before putting it on the couch table, out of his immediate reach so he wouldn't start compulsively checking for a reply.

"So what do we do now?"

"I don't know. Watch some Netflix and I order us some pizza? Your mom left some money again, right?"

It was a few hours later and they were currently in the middle of watching some old school cartoons when the screen of Evans phone lit up with a new message.

He exchanged a look with Jared who immediately dove towards the table and snatched up the phone, unlocking it quickly and reading the message with a frown that told Evan all that he needed to know. It would have been to good to be true anyway. Why would Zoe Murphy ever notice him?

"I'm pretty sure I've never even fucking talked to someone from jazzband so no I didn't fucking ask anyone to give you my number. Maybe try to be a bit more creative with your pranks next time asshole." Jared read out loud, his tone confused and yet also somewhat amused.

"They think we're trying to prank them?" Evan asked and Jared just shrugged at him.

"Apparently. Want to clear that up? They don't know who you are so we could just leave it."

That didn't feel right. Sure, Evan felt like crap and tried hard not to think about the implication of being given a wrong number as a prank and he didn't really feel like dealing with whoever this was but it still felt wrong to make someone else feel bad as well.

"No- No I think we should probably explain it."

Jared nodded again and looked at the screen with a small frown, his fingers hovering above the screen hesitantly.

"Do you want me to describe the entire situation? Without names of course."

"I mean it probably doesn't make sense otherwise? Here let me-" Evan took the phone from Jared, his hands only shaking a bit.

"How about 'Sorry, I didn't mean to prank you-" He looked at Jared and started talking again once he had nodded in confirmation. „I think that it was probably me that got pranked. They said a girl I like asked them to, so I'm sorry for dragging you into this.' Does that work?"

"You said sorry two times but it works." Jared shrugged again and Evan felt like they've been doing that a lot today. Then again it was a situation that warranted a lot of shrugging if not a lot of panic. Forced calmness.

He hit send again and that was it. The other person probably wouldn't reply again and Evan would just act as if this never happened.

The thing was just that the universe didn't let Evan be right, not if it could help it.

It took no time at all for his screen to light up again and this time it was Evan that grabbed it in a haste. Jared raised a single eyebrow, something that still felt weird to Evan in the way that he couldn't move his eyebrows independently from another and seeing it on Jared always made him want to try it and see if maybe he could suddenly do it too.

Stalling, that's what he was doing by thinking about that again and he knew it, but looking at the new message was a daunting task. One he felt pressured to do when Jared prodded him with his elbow while looking at Evans phone with the same raised eyebrow.

Ignoring it wasn't an option now, so Evan opened the messenger again and started reading the reply out loud, while a smile slowly formed on his face.

"Well that's just the saddest fucking thing I've ever heard, considering that I'm not even a girl. Also it's not your fault they decided to make both of us part of their shitty prank. Honestly, I don't want to give them the satisfaction of it working so fuck it. You didn't mean to message me but I got nothing else to do so if you want to we could talk anyway."

"I didn't expect this-" Jared started, looking a bit flabbergasted „-but this is good, right? You look as if it's a good thing."

"I think it's a good thing." Evan agrees, already typing out his reply.

"I'd like that actually. I kind of got really nervous about the possibility of it being a prank but now I'm kind of glad I messaged you and not her. It's a lot less embarrassing? Anyway, do you watch those Marvel shows on Netflix? Because if yes we could talk about those?"

Jared was reading what he wrote over his shoulder, shaking his head with a smile but not commenting outside of that, which Evan took as a good sign.

They kept watching shows together afterwards, while also replying to the mystery person occasionally. Sometimes Jared would point out spelling mistakes, knowing that sending messages with typos could make Evan nervous and other times he insisted that Evan mentioned his opinion on a show as well.

At ten pm Jared decided to go home, even though he offered Evan that he could stay if he „needed a wing-man", which Evan declined laughing, but not without awkwardly thanking Jared for his help, who accepted the thanks with just as much grace.

For once the awkwardness didn't matter to Evan.

He kept talking to the mystery person until late in the night and then the next day, and then the following week and month.

They didn't message each other daily. Sometimes the person would be gone for a day or two, even if he usually announced it beforehand so he wouldn't scare Evan like he did the first time it happened. Sometimes Evan would be so overwhelmed that he just couldn't make himself talk to anyone, they decided on an emoji Evan could send on days like that.

The days they didn't talk never felt quite as complete as the once they did talk to Evan, so before he knew it they were talking to each other more and more.

He also found out that the person was male, a few months older than Evan and in the same grade as him as well as visiting the same school. Evan didn't know if he was happy about the last part of just extremely worried. The thought of the person knowing or finding out who he was was daunting.

What if he would stop talking to Evan if he knew who he was?

It seemed unlikely but then again so did being able like Evan.

Evan wasn't popular or charismatic. He was the kind of person popular girls pulled pranks on because they found his crush on Zoe embarrassing. At least that's what he thinks the reason was, he couldn't be sure really.

They had actually asked him about it during school the Monday after the concert.

"So, did you call her?" They tried to make it sound innocent but Evan could see that they were trying hard not to laugh.

_I don't want to give them the satisfaction of it working_

Evan didn't either, so he smiled at them as sincerely as he could.

"I- Yeah, I did actually message the number. It's not Zoe- obviously, but the person and I- we've actually been getting along great, so thanks for the number. Maybe- Maybe try a less obvious prank next time though?" He tried making his voice as disgustingly sweet as he could despite the fact that his heart was racing from nerves.

After saying his piece he walked away, not waiting to see how they all reacted. It wasn't the smoothest come back but he still felt just a tiny bit proud for standing up to them in some way. It wasn't anything big, but he looked forward to telling the person about it later. Maybe doing that would help with the feeling of dread speaking his mind out loud usually resulted in too.

A few lockers away from the girls Evan nearly ran into a boy with long hair. He apologized for it immediately, the nervousness from the conversation before making him panic more easily, but the boy just looked at him in bewilderment before walking away with a small shake of his head and a „No problem."

Evan felt like he knew him, until he remembered that of course he did. He was pretty sure that he had just run into Zoe's brother Connor. They haven't ever really interacted before, so outside of worrying about how rude running into someone is Evan didn't pay any more attention to the event.

Running into people and then apologizing ten times was the exact kind of thing that made Evan hope that the person he was messaging never found out who he was. What if he ran into him right after he found out who Evan was and just started disliking him because he was even more of a nervous mess in real life than he was in text messages?

He'd probably find it annoying and ridiculous and then he'd stop talking to Evan and it would be horrible because Evan really liked talking to him. He felt like he knew him, actually knew him.

It wasn't like it had been with Zoe where all Evan knew where appearances.

Evan knew about his problems at home and at school and which superhero he liked as a child and what book he was reading at any given time and his opinions on them and just so many other things. Evan knew that he wasn't a happy person and that he has been getting better lately because he was finally able to go to therapy now because his parents said he could do what he wanted when he turned 18 which he apparently did a while ago. Evan knew that he just tried his first medication and felt sick for days until the side effects got better and also that he was a lot more comfortable with talking about things like this than Evan.

It made Evan want to confide in him too and he did. Being able to talk about it without feeling ashamed and knowing that the other person got it and didn't pity him was amazing.

He was amazing.

And okay so maybe Evan kind of developed a small crush on him and maybe it stopped being a small crush when Evan found out that he was gay, which meant that maybe Evan might have a tiny chance, but that didn't matter.

What mattered was that there was no way in hell Evan would ever want to ruin this.

So that's why he couldn't find out who Evan was.

Keeping his identity secret seemed to work perfectly fine anyway. They never talked about it but it seemed to be a silent agreement that they wouldn't ask for each others name.

Evan came close one time while they were watching old superhero cartoons they liked as children. They had found a video sharing website that allowed them to watch things together online while chatting at the same time and they used it a lot, sometimes with Jared joining them.

On that evening nothing was really different but he made some kind of really stupid knock knock joke in reference to a scene and Evan couldn't even remember the specifics but in that moment he just wanted to ask who he was so badly, where he has been all his life until now.

It wasn't fair that they were so close and yet Evan couldn't see what kind of face he made while he typed that joke. It wasn't fair that Evan couldn't hear whether he laughed at his own jokes or not or if he would smile when Evan laughed. It wasn't fair that Evan didn't know what expression he made when he was happy or if he had dimples or anything else.

And he could have asked that evening, had wanted to ask but he couldn't.

So they kept watching cartoons and making jokes and commenting about the bad plot of most episodes and argued about which Spiderman cartoon was the best and it had been nice but Evan couldn't shake the feeling that maybe it wasn't quite enough.

It was already autumn the next time Evan seriously considered asking who the person was, but it was for a completely reason this time.

Connor Murphy and he had somehow kept crossing paths at school. Not in any special way, just the normal way. They had a class together and sometimes got assigned to work on exercises together. After that they sometimes nodded at each other in the hallway.

Alana would probably say that they were acquaintances and for once Evan felt like the word probably fit.

At least he did until one day Evan was walking into school while texting the person and came by Connors locker. He didn't know that it was there and he hadn't meant to eavesdrop when he saw that Connor was talking to Zoe. Or rather Zoe was talking to Connor while Connor smiled at his phone. Something about the situation just made him stop dead in his tracks and pay attention to the scene.

"Honestly Connor, just ask him who he is already. You've been practically glued to your phone for months now." Zoe sounded frustrated, but not unkind.

Connor just rolled his eyes without looking up from his phone at first. He seemed to type something and only looked up once he had put his phone away.

"I already told you I can't. I have a suspicion who he might be and if I'm right he probably wouldn't like me. I don't want to fuck this up." He wasn't speaking particularly loud so Evan had to listen closely to actually hear all of it. Listening closely, however, had the uncomfortable side effect that it wasn't very subtle, so when Connors eyes fell onto Evan he was ready to die from shame and embarrassment.

He didn't expect Connor to flush slightly as well and then walk away after mumbling something to Zoe without confronting Evan about the eavesdropping.

Evan blinked in bewilderment a few times before his gaze fell back on his mobile, which he was still holding in front of him. There was a new message from the person that arrived just a moment ago. Probably about the same time Connor had put his phone away.

It could be nothing, Evan thinks as he makes his way towards his own locker. It could also be something.

Connor being the person would make sense, at least as far as Evan could tell. He knew that the person had a sister that he has been getting along with better lately and he knew that Connor and Zoe talked during school sometimes now, he even saw Connor at the last jazzband concert.

He knew that the person didn't like the last book they had to read for class and Connor complained about the same thing when they were in the same group during an exercise.

They also both said fuck a lot and missed school a lot but had been showing up more lately and both painted their nails black and liked the same bands if the pins on Connors bag weren't just random.

His locker door was being closed in front of his face and Evan slowly blinked before turning his head to look at Jared who was eyeing him with concern.

"I think Connor is the person I've been messaging." He just blurted it out, not really thinking about it.

"Okay? So, what's the problem?" Jared frowned at him now, the way he did when Evan talked about something like how vegetables weren't meant to be mixed on the plate.

"That's- I'm- I'm not sure? I think I just don't know what to do and it's freaking me out?"

"Well, you better think fast then because he's currently walking towards us." Jared said while waving at someone behind Evan smiling.

"I'll leave you two alone for now, just try not to freak out too much and tell me how it went later." He briefly put his hand on Evans shoulder before he walked away into the opposite direction from Connor, who was pretty much standing in front of Evan at this point.

Connor was shifting from one leg to the other and he was picking at his nail polish a bit, but Evan didn't think that he was aware of the fact that he did either of that. They probably looked a bit ridiculous, both fidgeting while avoiding looking each other in the eyes.

"So... You heard my conversation with Zoe, right?" Evan knew that Connor was trying to sound relaxed but he failed at it spectacularly, which was good, because so would Evan and that meant he didn't have to feel too bad about it.

"I kind of did? But I didn't- I don't agree with it." Connor was looking at him now, a bit panicked and it made Evan speak before thinking just to stop him from looking like that.

„With the part about not liking you I mean! Because I do like you! At least if you meant me, because otherwise this is going to be very embarrassing? Like confessing a kind of crush to the wrong person would be very awkward, so- what I meant to say is-" Shit. What he meant to say was shit, because he didn't mean to say the part about the crush. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, waiting for the inevitable rejection but nothing happened.

When he opened his eyes again Connor was starring at him smiling.

"I'm guessing you didn't mean to say that?" He didn't sound as if he was about to yell at Evan or end their friendship or tell him that he didn't know what he was talking about.

"Not really, no." Evan admitted, trying to smile but probably only managing to look horribly nervous.

"Did you uhm... Did you mean it?"

"Yes! I wouldn't- I wouldn't joke about that." He hadn't meant to say that as loudly as he did, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care about the people that were looking at him because Connor was smiling at him so brightly and happily and-

"Well, I'm glad you mean it because otherwise I'd feel really fucking stupid right now, considering that I wanted to tell you the same thing for a while now."

"What?" It was a stupid question. Evan knew what Connor just said it just didn't make sense. Why would he-

"I'm saying that I like you too." Connor was still smiling at him and Evan remembers wondering what the persons smile looked like and now he knew and it was perfect.

"You do?"

"Yep." He popped the p and Evan didn't know he did that and now he knew and it made him smile back at Connor who had started swaying on his feet self-consciously again, but he hadn't stopped smiling and Evan could kiss him right now if they weren't still standing in a crowded hallway in front of his locker.

That didn't mean he couldn't take out his phone and write it. For a moment Connor looked confused when Evan just took out his phone, but when his own phone alerted him to the new message he seemed to catch on and quickly looked at it.

The small laugh Connor let out was already enough to make up for all the anxiety and awkwardness of the day.

But Evan wouldn't complain about the kiss later when they had some privacy either.

Maybe it was going to be a good year after all.


	20. (G) TYRUS - Red String by CaithyCat

Red String  
CaithyCat

Summary:  
When T.J. was 8, he read a book about the Red Strings of Fate. And when he was 10, he started seeing strings EVERYWHERE.

* * *

Chapter 1 - Black String

When T.J. was 8, he stumbled upon a book in his mother's bookshelf. The cover was pretty – it had flowers, a cat, and a funny looking face and it was splashed in colors of black, white, and red. When he opened it up and started to read, it talked about something called "The Red String Of Fate".

This string or thread runs from your heart to your pinky finger and stretches further on through time, space, and distance. And at the end of that string is your fated person, someone who is meant to stay by your side for the rest of your life.

The concept excited 8-year-old T.J. that he ended up tying a red piece of thread in each of his parents' pinky fingers. They had been fighting a lot and he hoped that the string would keep them together.

When T.J. was 10, his parents divorced, he moved with his mother to Shadyside, and he started seeing strings…_everywhere_.

Some were red, others were blue, and there were some black ones. Some were strong and firm, others were tattered and hanging by a thread (literally), and some were broken beyond repair. Some people had multiple strings on all of their fingers while others only had a few, even just one.

By this time, he was old enough to know that this was something that only he (as far as he knew) was able to do: see the strings of fate. It was strange and he had no idea why he could see them and what any of the colors meant. There weren't exactly books that detailed such an ability, aside from the one he found about the Red String, and the internet was no help, either. And it seemed like the strings were more complicated compared to how the book he read when he was 8 described them.

T.J. may not be the smartest kid in class, but he wasn't exactly dumb. So, he made his own observations, jotting them down in a little notebook.

By the time he was 13, he _almost_ figured everything out.

Red strings were for love, obviously, and they're on your pinky finger. Blue strings were for platonic love like family and friends and usually found on your pointer or thumb. And black strings were for hate, tied around your middle finger.

Sometimes, strings would break and re-thread with someone else. For example, his mother's red string was broken after the divorce and for a year, just limply hung there. And, then, one day, she came home with a smile and a brand new, re-threaded string. She had just met her soon-to-be boyfriend who was going to be like a second dad to T.J.

Sometimes, strings would change color and slowly move its way to another finger. For example, his father's red string had faded into blue and moved to his thumb. Right after that, he filed for a divorce.

And, sometimes, strings would disappear forever. Like T.J.'s fourth blue string when his grandfather passed away.

And he discovered that the stronger the feeling, the brighter the color. But when those feelings start fading, so did the color of the strings.

T.J. had three – blue for his parents and his grandmother - all on this thumbs. Black strings would appear now and then on his middle finger but would eventually disappear when he stopped caring. However, his pinky finger remained empty.

Soon, seeing strings form, break, and disappear just became another normal day for T.J. He never interfered in anyone's business, though. It was up to those people to maintain the quality and strength of their strings, not his.

Sometimes, though, he found himself jealous of people with so many strings that you couldn't even see the tips of their fingers. Despite having "friends", none of them developed a blue string with him. That was how he knew they weren't genuine and they were all just using each other, somehow. Sometimes, T.J. wished he didn't know. Sometimes, he wished he couldn't see the strings. They burdened him, sometimes.

Kids his age were starting to have their red strings appear. And even if they couldn't see it, T.J. could. He could see the girls giggling among themselves when a friend's crush passes them, their strings bright and connected because the crush was mutual, but they didn't know it. He even witnessed a boy's broken red string sadly hanging from his pinky as he stared at another boy across the hall, talking to a girl. A lot of red strings were broken, in fact - unrequited crushes. Normal for middle-school kids. Most of those strings would disappear, eventually. And, sometimes, a new one would pop up - a new crush.

Meanwhile, T.J.'s pinky remained empty. He wondered if he was ever going to have his own red string. Not even a broken one for him. Maybe because he didn't really like anyone.

And, then, one day, he developed a new string but not one he expected: a black string. He hadn't had a black string in a while. And all because the basketball team's new player, Buffy, was better than he was. He could see the feeling was mutual. Along with several blue strings and one red one, he could see a black string on her middle finger.

He watched as she lined up for breakfast with a friend, wondering how to approach her when he loathed her presence so much. As he walked closer, he gave his own black string a small tug. She raised her eyes in his direction and rolled her eyes.

"Incoming," she murmured to her friend.

"This is how it is, Buffy," T.J. spat out. "You have to tutor me." He tried to look more intimidating. "I'm team captain."

She smiled with poison at him. "Sure, T.J. Here's your first lesson: X times Y equals ain't gonna happen!"

And it resulted in another bickering session between them. He didn't know why she rubbed him the wrong way but she just did. Maybe his insecurities flared whenever she was around. Maybe he was jealous of all those strings on her fingers. Whatever the reason, he couldn't back down.

He ended up making a deal to pass the ball to her in exchange for tutoring. As well as one more thing.

"You get my friend, Cyrus, here, a chocolate-chocolate chip muffin."

She pulled said friend to her side. The smaller boy squeaked in surprise, his brown eyes connecting with T.J.'s. What a funny little guy. His fingers were _covered_ in blue strings and his pinky had a lone broken red string.

T.J.'s own fingers twitched.

"Then we have a deal."

"You can't get your own muffin?" T.J. blurted out, amused.

"I didn't need this extra level of humiliation," the boy said to Buffy before turning to T.J. with a sheepish smile. "But, no."

T.J. didn't know what made him do it. It was so easy to just walk over, grab him a muffin, and the deal was done. But he ended up teaching the kid how to fish, to walk to the muffin like it was his, and just take it.

And he didn't know what made him stalk over when the other students began protesting and announce, "He's with me." Even though this kid, Cyrus, wasn't with him. He was just using him to get Buffy to tutor him so he could pass his stupid Math class.

It wasn't until he was at his locker, switching his books, that he finally noticed it. He couldn't believe that he didn't even feel it. And he was more confused than ever at seeing it.

A short pink string was hanging from his pinky.

* * *

Chapter 2 - Blue String

Despite the surprising appearance of a pink string around his pinky, T.J. opted to ignore it. He didn't want to waste any time wracking his brains trying to figure out why it showed up… or who triggered it to show up.

Besides, he had more pressing matters to pay attention to. Like Math.

For as long as he could remember, T.J. hated Math. He hated numbers. He hated the way other kids could add, subtract, multiply, and divide like it was second nature but every time T.J. tried, the strange symbols just looked like some kind of alphabet soup, but with numbers.

Somehow, he managed to make it to Middle School, only passing by a hair each time. (He may or may not have become an expert in subtle cheating but that was beside the point.)

But, now, his position on the basketball team was in danger because of stupid Math. And what more was that his teacher decided to assign his black string as his tutor.

T.J. wondered if he hated Buffy, not just because of the number of strings on her fingers, but because she, admittedly, was good at almost everything. But, he would never say that to her face.

"You do know the multiplication tables… right?"

T.J. couldn't help but glare while feeling a painful pang in his chest. But, he refused to cry in front of Buffy.

"You think I'm stupid?" he accused.

Buffy looked surprised but immediately defended herself, "I never said that."

She may not have said it out loud but she was thinking it. T.J. _knew_ she was thinking it. Everybody thought he was stupid.

"Well, I am."

Standing up, he grabbed his backpack, not bothering to take his notebook or textbook with him. It wasn't like he would need them, anymore. He was stupid at Math and that was a fact.

Without another word to the girl, T.J. practically ran out of the room. His eyes were stinging and his heart was beating, painfully, against his rib cage.

He had to get out of school. To not be reminded of all the things he was lacking in.

His feet took him to the park. Something was tugging him there and he didn't feel like fighting it that day. The walk kept him calm on the outside, but on the inside, he was still filled with turmoil.

"Legs go up, legs go down. That's how we make the swing go 'round..."

T.J. heard him before he saw him and he couldn't explain the reason why he was drawn to that familiar voice.

Buffy's friend, the muffin boy, was on the swings, kicking his legs into the air in a gentle manner as he continued to sing to himself.

T.J. wasn't familiar with the song. Was it made up? That was pretty creative.

Dropping his backpack on the ground, he calmly walked over and placed his hand against the pole.

"Nice song," he commented before a little kid's squeal distracted him and he turned to see a little boy sliding down the slide before turning back. "What do you sing when you're on the slide?"

The other boy had paused while he was distracted, almost looking fearful of him. It bothered T.J.

"We go down, we say 'yay'," he sang, immediately. "Don't climb up, that's the wrong way."

How amusing. T.J. felt himself chuckle as he smiled.

"Huh. Did not expect you to have a song for that."

It appeared to be the right thing to say as the other boy's face immediately lit up.

"Chocolate-chocolate chip muffin, right?"

The boy pointed at him. "Scary basketball guy."

Immediately, T.J. felt his face fall in disappointment. "Actually, T.J."

The other boy continued to smile, almost teasingly. "I know." He pointed at himself. "Cyrus."

And that was how T.J. found himself getting on a swing and kicking himself into the air, feeling the wind rush against his face. For the first time in so long, he felt light. Free.

And Cyrus? He was great company. T.J. could see why he had a ton of blue strings. Cyrus was friendly and sweet. He had a way with words that could ease T.J.'s anxious thoughts and relieve him of the tension in his body. He had T.J. feeling like a little kid again, with no worries, no "stuff". Just a normal kid on the swings with a friend.

And despite Cyrus claiming that he was scared of swinging higher, T.J. discovered that with just a little push (both literally and figuratively), the other boy wasn't opposed to dancing with danger (as he so proclaimed it being on his bucket list just days prior). He was insecure but, really, what kid their age wasn't? T.J. had his own insecurities, though he would never tell anyone.

He felt the tug on his middle finger before he heard the "Cyrus! You okay?!"

Buffy was running up to them and T.J., though he felt like a coward for doing so, tried to run away.

But Cyrus stopped him, insisting that Buffy was really cool. Of course he would say that! They were friends. Their friendship ran so deep that they were connected with a blue string!

Unfortunately, staying back just an extra minute to thank Cyrus for his help allowed Buffy to catch up with him.

"Cyrus, can you give us the playground?" she asked the other boy.

"Yeah, you know where to find me." Cyrus, then, turned to him with a kind smile. "And so do you."

T.J. felt his lips twitch in response, threatening a smile as Cyrus walked away.

His good mood immediately dampened as soon as Buffy started talking to him. And what more, she decided to web-diagnose him with a learning disability?! As if he didn't have enough problems already?!

He was so angry and upset that he didn't even notice the tingling in his fingers.

It wasn't until he was attempting, for the millionth time, to do his Math homework that he saw it.

A new blue string was wrapped around his previously empty pointer finger.

* * *

It didn't take T.J. too long to figure out who was on the other side of that new blue string.

He had been talking to a classmate about a group project for English when he felt the tug.

It was followed by a "Hey, not-so-scary basketball guy!"

Immediately, T.J. ended his conversation with the kid and turned to greet Cyrus.

"Hey, Underdog! What's up?"

Clear as day, a light blue string hung between them.

And it meant only one thing…

"If I could get an RSVP ASAP, I think I can get you into my Bar Mitzvah parteee," the boy cutely stated.

He handed over a heavy envelope and T.J. could hardly believe that it was really for him as he stared at it for a moment. He rarely got invited to his peers' events unless their parents forced them to. But, his name was right there, scrawled at the center of the envelope in a neat cursive.

Cyrus was personally inviting him to a party. Cyrus saw him as someone worth having at his special day of all days. Cyrus saw him as a friend.

Looking up at the other boy, T.J. smiled and gave him a short nod. "I'm there," he replied, coolly.

He had a friend. A real, genuine, blue string friend. He was so happy.

* * *

As T.J. watched Buffy tear it down the basketball court as the crowd cheered her name, he felt his black string tighten even more. His team was out there, dominating…without him! And all because he failed his last Math test!

And he hated the feeling. He felt useless. A loser.

"You're not playing?"

T.J. looked up at him, glaring as he felt his anger flare. "Nothing gets past you," he said, sarcastically.

The other boy frowned. "I'm not here as a punching bag. I'm here to see if you're okay."

Normally, he would feel touched at that. Cyrus was his only real friend, after all. His blue string was still tied around T.J.'s finger. It didn't disappear like T.J. initially thought it would.

But, his anger and insecurities were all at the forefront. He ended up snapping at the boy, instead.

"How about...you're not here at all?" he sneered before walking away, ignoring Cyrus' concerned looks.

That boy didn't deserve a friend like T.J. He didn't deserve to be tied to him. He deserved better.

He found himself leaving the gym and grabbing a snack from the vending machine.

As he watched a bag of cheese puffs fall from their perch, he felt the tug on his blue string.

The door opened and Cyrus appeared beside him.

"Eating your feelings?" the other boy stated, casually before smiling. "I do that!"

T.J. felt annoyed but he didn't have the heart to push him away a second time.

That was how he ended up telling Cyrus about his possible learning disability: dyscalculia. He felt so ashamed and he hated feeling so less than. There were so many things about himself that he didn't understand.

Why couldn't he do simple Math?! Why was his brain wired differently from everyone else?! Why did he have to be different?!

But, with just a few words, Cyrus made the worries about dyscalculia disappear, even for just a moment. With just a few words, he made sure T.J. knew that nothing was wrong with him. That he wasn't different.

If only Cyrus truly knew about his ability to see the Strings of Fate. Would he think differently of him then? Something told him that Cyrus wouldn't care. Maybe he would even find it cool. But, should he tell him?

In the end, he decided not to.

"She may have been right, but you're the one who really helped me," he told the younger boy.

Cyrus broke into a small smile, blushing almost, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

They talked for an hour before Cyrus realized the time and decided that he needed to get back to Buffy.

T.J. felt almost disappointed but knew that Buffy's blue string with Cyrus was far stronger than his ever would. She was probably unknowingly tugging on it without realizing.

As he got up to throw away the trash (between the two of them, they finished an entire bag of cheese puffs and two packets of cookies), his pinky finger caught his eye.

Curiously, he brought it closer to his eyes, examining it.

Was it just him or was the string getting longer? That was different.

* * *

Sometimes, T.J. would lie awake in bed at night, just staring at his strings. Specifically, he would stare at Cyrus' blue string.

A lot had happened ever since that fourth blue string appeared. And, every day, with no fail, T.J. could feel it getting stronger…firmer. Even the color was getting brighter, a calming blue that reminded him of the sky.

Cyrus was sadder these days, though. Buffy had moved away and T.J. felt guilty for not patching up before she left. The black string felt less tight but didn't completely go away. He wondered what it would take for it to disappear.

And, then, that pink string. And he still hadn't figured out who made it appear. He thought he would know since he figured people knew who they ended up liking and falling for, but he truly had no clue. (He added that little tidbit to his notes.)

Absentmindedly, he tugged on the blue string around his pointer finger.

Not even a minute later, his phone ping-ed with a text.

**Hi! Watcha up to?** Cyrus texted.

Smiling, T.J. texted back. **Nothing much. Staring at my ceiling. Wbu?**

**Ooohh, must be an interesting ceiling. Taking a break from studying. History test tmrw.**

**Ouch. U got Carter, rite?**

**Yep. He's a nightmare.**

**Sorry 2 hear that. But I'm sure you'll do great.**

**Wish Buffy was still here. We always study 2gether.**

At that, T.J. sighed. He wished there was something he could do.

Pursing his lips, he typed a respond. **Well, I'm decent at history. Want me to help?**

Heart pounding, he anxiously waited for Cyrus' reply.

It arrived quickly. **Will you really? I don't have history 'til 6th period but I have study hall at 4th.**

**I have class 4th period but I can meet you at lunch, if you don't mind spending an hour of your life with me.**

T.J. sent the text before realizing how it sounded. It sounded so…flirty. Was that an okay thing to send a friend?

Before he could send a follow-up, Cyrus had responded.

**Sounds perfect! I'll see you there! Got 2 get back to studying!**

Feeling giddy, T.J. replied,** Okay! See u 2morrow!**

He put his phone away now and laid back down on his bed, sighing. He raised his hand up again, looking at his strings. The sight of them used to dampen his moods, reminding him that he was someone unworthy of having a real bond with, since he had so few.

In fact, Cyrus had a lot, most probably from his family and a couple of good friends. T.J. knew of Buffy, Andi, and Jonah and T.J. was sure he had other friends as well because he was just that great of a person. He even had a red string, granted it was broken, but still. He wondered who was on the other end of that string. Such a shame that person didn't return the other boy's affections, Cyrus was a great guy.

Because of him, T.J. didn't really feel jealous of other people's strings anymore. He had all the important ones wrapped around his fingers (except for Buffy's black string, of course, but he was working on that).

His gaze went to the pink string that seemed to be getting longer and closer to red day by day.

That string was still such a puzzle to him. It changed everyday. But, what did it mean?

* * *

Chapter 3 - Red String

Since Andi was apparently wallowing in her own loneliness with Buffy gone, Cyrus was now spending more of his free time with T.J. Not that T.J. complained about it. He was happy to spend time with the other boy. Most of the time, they just walked each other to class or studied together.

The weather was still a little chilly but some days, it was warm enough to be outside and not freeze to death.

It was during one of those days that Cyrus invited T.J. to study and do homework on one of the picnic tables at the front of the school. The other boy had a history quiz coming up and T.J. was trying to do his Math homework.

After letting the school know about his case and getting assigned a specialized tutor for his dyscalculia, he had been doing… better. Still a long way from an A+ but Cyrus was proud every time he showed him a passing grade. A smiling and proud Cyrus always left T.J. with a warm tingle in his chest and it made him just want to work harder.

"Hey, Teej, do you have those notes from the last chapter?"

Not even looking up from the problem he was concentrating on, T.J. gestured with an elbow to his backpack on the table. "It's in my bag. The blue notebook."

"Thank you!"

The sounds of Cyrus rummaging through his things reached his ears but T.J. couldn't tear his eyes off his homework. He was almost finished and he was sure he got most of it right. He would have to double-check the answers with his tutor but for once, he was confident about his work.

"This seems rather small for a history notebook."

Immediately, the warning bells rang out in T.J.'s head and he looked up so fast that his neck almost broke.

"Underdog, wait-."

But, it was too late. Cyrus had already opened the small notebook to the first page.

T.J. watched in horror as the smaller boy's eyes widened as he read. He should have been more specific. His notebook where he wrote his observations on the Strings of Fate was also blue.

Now, Cyrus was going to think he was weird or crazy. He was going to distance himself from T.J. His blue string would disappear and T.J. didn't know if he could handle that.

"Wow, this is fascinating," Cyrus commented, raising his head to beam at T.J. "Did you write these?"

T.J. blinked, feeling confused yet relieved. "Um… sort of?"

"What are they, exactly?" Cyrus asked as he laid the notebook on top of the table, open on the first page. "The Strings of Fate?"

T.J. cleared his throat, putting his pencil down. "Well… when I was little, I read this book about the Red Strings of Fate. In Japan, they believe that people who are meant to be together are tied together with a red string. That no matter where they are in life, they will always find each other. I, uh, thought it was pretty cool." He chuckled a little bitterly. "I even tried to string my parents together with a red string but they divorced, anyway."

"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that."

T.J. shrugged. "I'm over it. They're better off as friends anyway."

Cyrus looked down at the notebook. "You wrote about two other strings. Blue and black. Did you make them up?"

T.J. swallowed. "Um… In a way." He left it at that.

Cyrus flipped to the next page. "I bet Andi and Jonah are tied with a red string," he mumbled to himself.

Oh, they were, T.J. wanted to tell him. But, the string was so beaten and tattered that he knew that it would break any day now. And he could tell that their blue string was stronger, anyway, so they would always be friends. Plus, Andi had an extra red string, this one not as tattered as the other one, so that probably meant that she liked two people at the same time.

(That was a new thing, so T.J. had written it down in his notebook. Apparently, you can also have 2 strings for the same person, depending on their relationship. He added that to his notes, too.)

Meanwhile, Cyrus sounded so forlorn that it made T.J. want to reach out and hold his hand. But, he wasn't sure if he was welcomed to do so. Instead, he gently tugged on the blue string around his pointer.

Cyrus looked up with a smile at him. "And I bet _we_ have a blue string!" he piped.

It made T.J. smile, warmth flooding in his chest. "I'm sure we do," he agreed.

"I wonder if I have a red string with anyone," Cyrus wondered out loud, staring at his pinky.

His broken red string was hanging limply there. It looked shorter than T.J. last saw it. He wondered what that meant.

"Probably not, though," the other boy continued, chuckling humorlessly.

T.J. wanted to protest, so badly, because Cyrus deserved an actual red string with someone, not a broken one. How can he not?! He was sweet and kind and was like a ray of sunshine to everyone he came across! That type of person deserved a _real_ red string.

"Anyway, I think this would make a great theme for a mini-movie," Cyrus continued, sounding excited now. "Did you know I write screenplays? My last one wasn't so good though, so I almost gave up."

No, T.J. did not know that but he liked learning new things about Cyrus.

"I can help you," he blurted out without thinking.

He couldn't take it back because Cyrus was beaming.

"Would you, really?! Oh my god, I gotta get started on the script, right away! And do my own research! Mind if I take pics?"

"Go ahead."

While Cyrus enthusiastically snapped a photo of each page of T.J.'s notes, the jock couldn't help himself from staring.

Cyrus didn't think he was weird. He even wanted to work on a movie with him. T.J. had never worked on a movie or written a script before. But, if Cyrus wanted to make a movie out of T.J.'s secret ability, he was willing to learn how. Besides, it sounded like fun. And they would probably spend a lot more time together.

On the table, he spied his pink string spread all over his notebook.

* * *

It was several days later that T.J. ran into Cyrus and Andi at The Spoon… with a trash can they claimed as Buffy. Well, they said it was a time capsule and the snarky side of him wanted to tell them it was a trash can, but he was trying to change so he held his tongue and played along.

Andi didn't like him, he could tell, but once he apologized to time capsule Buffy, she allowed him to hang around. For that, he was grateful.

At some point, while Cyrus was discussing his woes with somersaults in gym class and T.J. offering to help him, Jonah came and Andi immediately left them to speak with him.

"So, how are you helping me with the somersaults?" Cyrus asked him.

T.J. grinned. "You'll see." He looked at the list of tasks Cyrus had texted him earlier. "You can't finish a horror movie?"

"I can't help it! I get nightmares!"

"Well, we can work on that next."

"I-I don't know if that's a good idea-."

"Hey, guys."

Both looked up to see Jonah and a girl T.J. didn't recognize, but he could clearly see the blue string that connected the two of them

Jonah had dragged a chair so he could sit at the head of the table and the girl slid into the booth next to Cyrus.

It was right then that things got awkward when Andi announced that she was no longer joining them and, quite literally, ran out of The Spoon. Her red string floated behind her, strained and close to breaking.

T.J. thought Jonah would run after her, but he stayed seated. And these two were connected by a red string?! No wonder it was so tattered! (Plus, her second one had disappeared, somehow.)

"I should… probably go too," T.J. announced. "I have to go to work."

At that, Cyrus looked legitimately frightened. His eyes were begging T.J. not to leave him. How cute.

"Wanna come with me?" he offered.

"Yes! Please!"

And, with that, they were off.

T.J. took him to the children's gym where he worked part-time. His dad was friends with the owner and had offered him a job so he could stop asking his mom for things he wanted. He knew money was hard to come by in a single parent household, even with the monthly sustenance his dad sent.

Besides, he realized that he liked kids. They were pure and innocent and didn't care about his reputation at the school. They just liked having fun and playing with him as their blue strings trailed around the gym.

Helping Cyrus learn how to somersault was a success because of the kids. They were so encouraging and cheered the boy on, even if he failed a few times. And T.J. could tell that Cyrus had fun.

An hour later, while the kids were taking their snack break, the two teens also took one of their own. They sat cross-legged on one of the gym mats, munching on fruit snacks and juice.

"Thanks for today," Cyrus said to him.

"Anytime," T.J. replied.

"And… sorry about what happened at The Spoon earlier."

T.J. raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"

Cyrus made a face, his nose scrunching, cutely. "That whole… awkwardness with Jonah and Andi. And Natalie."

So that was the other girl's name.

"Yeah, about that… aren't they together?"

Cyrus sighed. "Together. Not together. To be honest, I don't really know anymore. They have a complicated relationship that I can't explain with simple words."

That explained the tattered string. It wasn't well taken care of.

"Kind of makes me glad I'm not a part of it, now that I think about it," Cyrus continued.

That was an odd thing to say.

"What do you mean by that?" T.J. asked.

Probably realizing what he said, Cyrus just smiled and shook his head. "It's nothing. Don't mind me. I just… realized something."

T.J. was curious but he chose not to pry. Cyrus would tell him when he wanted to.

The other boy spent another half hour at the gym with him before deciding that it was time for him to head home.

He thanked T.J. for the afternoon, hugged all the kids goodbye, and headed out the door with lighter steps. Like a big weight just left his shoulders.

It wasn't until Cyrus briefly turned back to wave one last time that T.J. realized that the other boy's pinky was now empty and free of the broken red string.

* * *

When Buffy came back, Cyrus plotted to make sure she and T.J. would talk again. And by talk, he meant play a one-on-one game. Basketball was the sole language they both spoke and Cyrus used that to his advantage.

And T.J. never felt so grateful that the boy was in his life.

After the game, when T.J. went to the locker room to get changed, he looked at his middle finger. The black string was still there but it looked thinner…weaker. One tiny snap and it would break completely. He hoped it would. He didn't like the sight of that black string anymore.

"I could forgive you," Buffy stated as the three of them made their way out of the school. "But I don't know if we could ever be friends."

"What if he apologized?" Cyrus suggested.

"That better be the best apology ever."

Cyrus looked at T.J., with belief and faith reflected in his soft brown eyes. "You could give it a shot."

And give it a shot, T.J. did. The words were already written down, somewhere in his one of his notebooks. Maybe with a few edits to accommodate the knowledge that Buffy was going to start her own basketball team.

But, he hoped it was enough. He prayed it was enough. He was never good at apologies.

"…if you wanna change the world, then you gotta change the game."

With that last rhyme, T.J. felt it. His middle finger felt lighter. And he knew that it was gone. The black string had disappeared.

Buffy had forgiven him and stopped seeing him as an enemy.

Beside her, Cyrus was staring at him, mouth open in proud disbelief. "Was that the best apology ever?" he stated.

"I think… maybe it was," Buffy agreed.

"So, we're good?" T.J. asked, apprehensive.

She smiled. "Yeah. I think we are."

"Cool. I'll see you around, then."

He flashed Cyrus a brief look, thanking him for the help, before turning on his heels and walking away.

It was like a weight off his shoulder, a thorn removed from his chest. For the first time in so long, he felt… happy.

And the reason for that was… Cyrus.

He felt the string around his pinky pulling, like something was holding it back…or someone.

Slowly, T.J. briefly stopped in his tracks and turned around.

His almost-red string was longer than ever and it was floating in suspension between him and…Cyrus.

Their eyes met.

And, right then, T.J. knew.

That string belonged to Cyrus. It had always been Cyrus.

It had appeared the moment he met the boy. It gradually got longer the more time they spent together. And, now, his string was trying to pull him back…to bring him back to Cyrus… because Cyrus was his soulmate.

Flashing the boy one last smile, T.J. turned back around and forced his feet to walk away.

Their strings weren't connected.

Not yet.

But, part of T.J. knew that it would only be a matter of time. If he continued making his way to the other boy's heart, if he continued doing the right thing and become the person worthy of Cyrus, their red string would appear, too.

Of that, he was sure.

* * *

Chapter 4 - Connected String

T.J. messed up.

No. Reed messed up. But, T.J. still felt like it was his fault for trusting his so-called friend. It wasn't like they had a blue string or anything. He just thought, for once, Reed would actually be a good friend.

He told Reed how important Cyrus was to him. He warned him not to pull any funny business. He practically begged him not to mess this up for him.

Now, Cyrus hated him. T.J. was sure of it.

He could only see red and black as he marched over to Reed and Lester.

"Hey, man, where's-."

T.J.'s hands shot up and shoved against Reed's chest so hard that the other boy stumbled backwards right into Lester.

"What the hell-." He made to hit back but Lester held him back, shaking his head.

"I told you!" T.J. bellowed. "I told you not to mess this up for me! I told you to leave your shitty games for another day! Just one day, Reed!"

Reed sneered. "Dude, it's just a gun! Chill!"

"Just a gun?!" T.J. was shaking in fury. "It's not _just_ a gun! Cyrus could get hurt! Any of us can get hurt!"

"It's not like I'm pointing it at you!"

"I don't fucking care, Reed! If I had known you were doing this, I wouldn't have come today! And definitely wouldn't have brought Cyrus!"

And just like that, Reed laughed. Not a humored laugh or even a playful one. Just downright mean and insulting.

"T.J., dude, man up!" he shot. "You're acting like such a dork like your little friend!"

That settled it. T.J. wanted to fight. If he was his old self, Reed would be on the ground nursing a broken jaw and a black eye. But, he wasn't that guy anymore. He no longer allowed his anger to take over his actions.

So, T.J. did what he should have done five minutes ago when Cyrus walked away.

Turning around, he walked back to his bike and got on.

"Where the hell are you going?!"

T.J. flashed the other blonde a cold stare. "Manning up," he stated before putting on his helmet, kicking his bike into gear, and drove off.

He texted Cyrus all weekend, begging him for a talk but none of them were answered.

That very Monday, T.J. came to school very early with his mother in tow. With her support, he managed to tell Dr. Metcalf what Reed had done over the weekend. When asked if anyone else was there, he had hesitated but honestly told him that Cyrus was there, too, but emphasized that he had done the right thing and walked away.

His mother was proud of him for doing the right thing. But, T.J. couldn't feel proud of himself.

He had ruined it with Cyrus, the only good thing in his life at that very moment.

None of his texts were answered. All of his calls went to voicemail.

And what was worst? Not even tugging on Cyrus' blue string did anything.

* * *

The next few days after that were a blur to T.J. He went to his classes like a robot. He found himself scanning the hallways for Cyrus, hoping to catch him alone. He even went to see Buffy's team practice but the other girl had glared at him so coldly that he left without saying a word, tail between his legs.

At the cafeteria, he sat alone.

Reed was suspended and in an act of solidarity, Lester refused to sit with him. Not like T.J. would want to, anyway. Lester condoned Reed's actions. He even brought those stupid watermelons himself. Seeing as those two had been friends since the first grade, they had a blue string.

T.J. poked at the strange sandwich from the cafeteria menu for that day. They thought sticking a French flag on top of it made it fancy, but he was fairly sure it was still the low-quality meat they served them every day.

He felt a tug on his pointer finger, making him pause. His chest filling with hope, he looked up.

Cyrus was standing by the door of the cafeteria, watching him. Beside him, Andi and Buffy were both talking excitedly about something.

Their eyes met and T.J. hoped that they could finally talk so he could apologize and patch things up. Cyrus made to walk over to him, almost making T.J. smile.

But, just as quickly, the boy's bodyguards surrounded him, grabbing each of his arms and steering him the opposite direction.

T.J.'s heart fell to his stomach as he followed them with his eyes.

Cyrus didn't even try to fight the two girls. He could do it if he wanted to. But, he let them take him away.

His appetite completely gone, T.J. dropped his fork on the tray, got up, and threw away his uneaten food in the nearest trash can before leaving the cafeteria.

He could feel both his blue and red strings trying to pull him back but he ignored them.

* * *

Every night, that entire week, T.J. would spend some time staring at Cyrus' blue string.

He was afraid that it would disappear. He was afraid that when he woke up the next morning, his pointer finger would be empty. But, the fact that it was still there gave him hope that Cyrus would forgive him.

Cyrus still saw him as a friend.

But, for how much longer?

* * *

He thought about skipping the playground that Friday. He waited for Cyrus every day after school but the other boy never showed up. Not even once.

But his string was pulling him towards the playground. There must be a reason why.

From far away, he could already see him. A lone figure sitting on the swings, barely swinging.

Cyrus had finally come to their place.

"Is that swing taken?" he asked, softly.

Cyrus looked up, looking surprised to see him. "How'd you know I'd be here?" he asked, with a hint of a smile.

That made the hope blossom in T.J.'s chest even more.

"I've been stopping by," he admitted. "Seeing if I can catch you without your bodyguards."

Cyrus avoided his eyes. "I'm not supposed to hang out with you."

T.J.'s heart sank as the other boy made a move to stand up.

"I should go-."

"No, stay." T.J. stopped him with a hand. This was Cyrus' special place. He was just an invader. "I'll go. Can I at least say 'I'm sorry' first?"

Cyrus shrugged and T.J. proceeded to explain that he didn't know about Reed bringing a gun.

_Believe me,_ he wanted to beg. _Please believe me._

As he finished explaining, Cyrus continued to stay quiet, watching him with an unreadable expression.

"Now you hate me." T.J. held back tears that threatened to fall as his chest ached. "Classic T.J. Anything good, I gotta ruin it."

Deciding that it was better to leave now before he truly started crying, he began to walk away.

"T.J."

Like his wish was his command, T.J. spun around.

"You said you were gonna apologize."

T.J. furrowed his brows. "I just did."

"Actually, you didn't," Cyrus said, sassily.

"Yes, I did," T.J. insisted. "I said I…"

He was right. T.J. didn't. He was such a fool. Why was he so terrible at apologies?!

"Sorry for not saying sorry."

He made a move to leave again.

"So…."

It was like Cyrus was refusing to let him leave as T.J. felt himself instantly turn around again.

"You apologized for not apologizing. But you still haven't apologized."

"You can be a little annoying, you know that," was out of T.J. mouth before he could stop himself as he felt his string pull him closer to the boy.

He thought he was done for but to his surprise, Cyrus pushed back.

"Well, you can be oblivious," he shot back, leaving his swing and walking towards T.J.

"Well, you can be very judge-y."

"You can be intimidating."

"You know what else you are?"

"What?"

Wonderful.

Amazing.

The best thing that had ever happened to him.

Frustratingly cute.

"You're the only person I can talk to like this," was what he ended up with.

At that, Cyrus did a shy little smile that made T.J.'s heart race.

He could practically feel him tugging at their blue string and he knew that the other boy had forgiven him.

"Okay if I stay?" T.J. asked, hopefully.

Cyrus shrugged, cutely.

Almost in sync, the two boys stepped back from each other and sat on their respective swings.

They sat there for a moment, swinging lightly in silence. Their blue string hung between them, swaying along with their movements.

"I really am sorry," T.J. softly stated. "I should have left with you the second you said you wanted to leave."

Beside him, Cyrus answered, "I know. Thank you. And… I'm sorry, too. For not answering your calls. And your texts. And for blocking you."

T.J.'s chest ached and he felt himself pout. "You blocked me?"

"The girls made me," Cyrus replied, looking guilty. "They were worried and… I know I should have stood up to them but…" He sighed, looking down at his feet. "I can't say 'no' to them. I love them too much."

"I know."

T.J. was well-aware that Andi and Buffy would always come first in Cyrus' life. They had the blue strings to prove it. And he had to admit, he was kind of jealous about that. He wanted to be important to Cyrus, too. But, that was selfish. He was being selfish again.

"But, don't worry, I'll talk to them and explain everything," Cyrus continued, unaware of T.J.'s inner turmoil. "I won't let them continue being mad at you when you didn't mean to put me in that situation. And, I'll unblock you right now!"

To make his point, Cyrus took out his phone. A few taps and T.J. was officially unblocked. Cyrus even showed him the screen to prove it.

"So, you have me under 'Not-so-scary-basketball-guy'?" T.J. teased and somewhat amused at the contact name.

Cyrus blushed. "I just never got around to changing it!" he defended.

"Don't change it." T.J. took out his own phone and scrolled through his contacts. Finding Cyrus, he showed him his phone. "I have this as yours."

Cyrus squinted. "Chocolate-chocolate chip muffin? Really?"

Smirking and shrugging in response, T.J. put his phone away and began to swing.

It felt good to finally talk to Cyrus and hang out with him like this. T.J. knew he missed him but he didn't know exactly how much. It was only a week of no talking but it felt like months. He couldn't help but wonder if Cyrus felt the same way.

They swung on the swings for a while longer, talking about anything that came to mind and filling each other in on things that happened during the week.

At some point, a few kids showed up and asked for a turn on the swings, so they grabbed their things and moved to another part of the playground.

Cyrus was leading the way, chattering as he walked and T.J. silently stayed by his side, just following. The other boy led him to one of the man-made ponds and settled down on the stone edge. T.J. plopped down beside him, a little space between them.

For a few silent moments, they sat there, watching the ducks and fish swim around.

Then, Cyrus asked about Reed so T.J. told him about the other boy's community service hours and his dad being investigated. He knew because Reed had sent him a very angry text full of cursing, threats, and insults to his mother. (He even half-expected a black string to show up but surprisingly, there wasn't one.)

T.J. had to block him after that, but he chose not to tell Cyrus these things. He would only worry.

"I just want you to know that it wasn't me who told the police about the gun," Cyrus explained, as if T.J. was going to be mad at him for reporting.

T.J. would never get mad at him for doing the right thing, just because he was a coward for a good five minutes.

"I would have, but they already knew."

"Yeah. I told them."

Cyrus' eyes widened.

"Surprise!" T.J. grinned. "I did the right thing."

He could finally feel proud of himself because looking at Cyrus, right there and then, he knew that his friend was proud of him, too. It was all T.J. needed.

Smiling to himself, he looked back out to the pond, the heavy weight he had been carrying on his back completely disappearing.

A tug on his pinky made him look down at his hand, looking at his red string, curiously. It was probably really happy to be near Cyrus again. The longer the string grew and the brighter it shone, the stronger his feelings became.

Subtly, he followed its path, wondering how long it had become now.

It seemed endless.

As he reached the end, T.J tried to hold back a gasp.

"What's wrong?"

T.J. couldn't answer, his gaze frozen on the sight of the end of his string.

"T.J.?"

That voice… that angelic voice…

He lifted his head to meet Cyrus' concerned eyes.

Warmth and joy exploded in his chest, spreading to the rest of his body. He could swear, for a moment, that he felt his string pulse with power. And it was trying to pull him closer to the boy sitting next to him.

"I'm fine," he replied, unable to keep his smile from widening. "I'm just… happy… that we're talking again."

At that, Cyrus grinned, shyly. He looked so cute. "Me too."

When the other boy turned his gaze towards the pond, T.J.'s eyes fell to the end of his string.

The happiness he felt at seeing the other end tied around Cyrus' pinky was indescribable.

* * *

Weeks passed.

Life went on.

Many things happened that tested their friendship.

But, T.J. and Cyrus only continued to get closer.

It would be so easy to confess his feelings to the other boy. He already knew that Cyrus felt the same way. Their connected red string was proof of that.

But, why couldn't he say a word?

Maybe a part of him was still insecure. That unconfident part doubted the string's power. Why would Cyrus like him? The boy was sweet, kind, and all kinds of wonderful and T.J. was just… T.J. A dyscalculic former bully who had some kind of supernatural ability that no one else knew about. What was to like about that?

Maybe he was just making excuses because he liked what he had with Cyrus right now. They were comfortable and at ease with each other. They were best friends. If things went wrong and they broke up and their strings disappeared, what then? He couldn't bear to lose him. He just wanted to stay by Cyrus' side.

But, he should have known better than to doubt the power of the red string.

Unintentionally, his subtle flirting became full-blown flirting. He stared at Cyrus more. Did things for him without being asked. Remembered every single tiny detail that might not seem important to others but he took very seriously.

By that point, he was pretty sure all of Jefferson Middle School was perfectly aware that T.J. Kippen, basketball team captain, had a giant and irrevocable crush on Cyrus Goodman, Good Hair Crew founder… except for Cyrus Goodman, himself.

Every day, their red string grew stronger and shone brighter.

With a simple tug, T.J. was at Cyrus' side and vice versa… and the boy didn't even know he was doing it!

When he was sad, T.J. knew while Cyrus could always tell when something was bothering him. When he was happy, T.J. felt happy too and they both basked in the things that made them happy together. When one was angry – whether it was at the other or someone else – they would do everything they could to try and appease the other. And when they did fight – as rare as those were – they always made up soon (T.J. hated fighting with Cyrus and tried to avoid it as much as he could). They were both so in tune that it seemed like they could read other like an open book.

So, this was how it felt like to have a connected red string.

* * *

It was on the swing set where T.J. became fully aware of the power of the red string.

He supposed that it made sense. Cyrus' blue string appeared there, where they had their first real conversation.

They were on the swings again, after Cyrus had a bad day and decided that swinging and ranting to T.J. at the same time made him feel better.

T.J. could practically feel his frustration emanating from their connection and he hoped that his calm vibes helped at the very least. He wished he could hold Cyrus right there and then… or even just his hand. He really wanted to hold his hand.

When Cyrus was done ranting, he took a deep breath before turning to T.J. with a sheepish smile.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm always ranting to you."

Chuckling, T.J. shrugged. "It's what I'm here for."

"You know that I always appreciate you being around when I need you." Cyrus beamed, toothily. "You're my best friend. Don't tell Buffy and Andi I said that, though."

He laughed a tinkling laugh.

T.J.'s chest warmed up, as it always did when Cyrus said something sweet.

He didn't mind just being Cyrus' best friend, even though he wanted to be more. So much more.

Between them, their red string hung – bright under the sunlit sky. Sparkling, almost.

T.J. could feel it pulling him in closer. He could blame it on the strings, then. This sudden impulse inside him.

"Hey, Cyrus," he called out, softly.

"Yeah?"

Taking a deep, calming breath, T.J. stood up from his swing and walked closer to Cyrus. The other boy looked up at him, questioningly.

"Do you remember… the Strings of Fate?"

Cyrus scrunched his brows for a bit before his eyes lit up in recognition. "The one you were writing about last year? I remember! We never did get around to working on that mini-movie."

"Yeah…"

"What about it?"

"Do you remember the red string?"

Cyrus blushed. The act piqued T.J.'s curiosity.

"Yeah. It's for love, right? If two people are meant to be together, they're connected by a red string."

T.J.'s pinky twitched.

He held out a hand to the other boy, the hand with all his strings.

Looking confused, Cyrus took it with the hand that held his own strings.

T.J. pulled him up and stepped closer.

"T-Teej? What is this about?" Cyrus sounded nervous but he didn't step away.

T.J. didn't release his hand and, in fact, took the other one in his too.

"When I was little," he began. "I always wondered who my red string would be. As I got older, I…kind of lost hope of ever getting one. It just felt like no one could accept me… all of me. Faults and all. Because that's what the red string is about, I think. Loving and accepting the other person, no matter who they are. And maybe that's why some people have broken strings… because the other person didn't love and accept them."

He wasn't sure if he was making any sense or if Cyrus could even understand what he was trying to say.

"For the longest time, I had a broken string and I didn't care about it because it meant the other person didn't care about me. But, the longer I had it, the more I wanted it to… not be broken."

"T.J., I'm sorry but I don't understand."

Cyrus hadn't stopped looked away from him, trying to read his face.

T.J. figured he probably sounded crazy at that point. Maybe he was because he was talking about the red string as if Cyrus knew that he could see them. But, he didn't know. So, he was making zero sense.

But, he had already started. He couldn't just stop.

"What I'm trying to say is…" He took a deep breath. "Cyrus… you're my red string."

He never thought he would say those words out loud. Not to Cyrus. It sounded so cheesy, now that he thought about it.

But, a simple 'I like you' didn't seem right for a confession. Because Cyrus was deeper than that. He was his red string. His soulmate. He was someone that the Strings of Fate tied T.J. to because he loved and accepted T.J. for everything he was.

And T.J. strove to be worthy of his red string and, in the end, he got it. It would be an insult to the strings to just let Cyrus go… to let their string break and fade away like so many others… he didn't want that.

At his confession, Cyrus let out a soft gasp, his mouth open in shock.

"I-I… um…"

T.J. knew he returned his feelings. The red string was proof of that. But, he needed to hear Cyrus say it. He needed his reassurance. Because, damnit, he was still insecure.

When Cyrus continued to stare at him in silence, red-faced and all, T.J. realized that he may have been too impulsive in his confession. Fear gripped his heart. Now, Cyrus may never want to talk to him ever again.

"You don't have to answer me," he said, quickly releasing Cyrus' hands. "I'm sorry, I… um… I should go."

He made a move to turn around and run all the way home.

"T.J., wait!"

He stopped, cursing the strength of his string.

"I… I have an answer for you."

T.J. turned on his heels.

Cyrus stood so far away from him, more than an arm's length. But between them, their red string floated along, trying to pull them back together.

Maybe that was what made Cyrus step closer.

"I don't know much about red strings," he stated. "And I know I said I would do some research, but I forgot, so I'm sorry."

He took another step closer to T.J.

"And, since you took initiative, it would be wrong of me not to give you an answer."

T.J. swallowed the lump in his throat but he didn't move from his spot as Cyrus moved even closer.

"But, ever since we talked here the first time, I've always felt this weird… pull. I guess, I always ignored it because you and Buffy didn't get along, but I wanted to be your friend."

"Just a friend?" T.J. said, allowing himself a small teasing smirk.

Cyrus laughed. He was in front of T.J. now, half a head shorter, and looking up at him with twinkling brown eyes.

"Well, back then, yes... But, now... I guess… things change… and so do feelings."

T.J.'s heart was pounding hard and fast against his chest. His pinky twitched as the string's pull became stronger.

Cyrus softly smiled at him. "I think… you're my red string too."

He didn't know if he could blame his next action on the strings but T.J. no longer cared. He moved forward, closing the gap between them, as he pulled Cyrus into his arms, holding him… finally!

He felt Cyrus' own arms wrap around his middle, head tucking itself on his shoulder.

T.J. had never felt such happiness and contentment before. He was going to savor the feeling for as long as he could. As long as Cyrus was by his side.

When they finally broke apart, their hands made their way to each other, linking.

T.J. felt like crying.

"If you'll let me, I'll take really good care of our string," he said to Cyrus, tightening his hold on the other boy's hand. "I'll never let it get tattered or break or disappear. I'll make sure it's always strong and bright."

At that, Cyrus blushed, smiling radiantly up at him. "And I'll do the same. I promise."

They stood there, smiling at each other for a moment.

Then, the reality of what just happened fully dawned on T.J.

"That was… cheesy… right?" he asked, sheepishly.

Cyrus laughed. "Yeah, a little. But, I liked it. And… I like you."

T.J.'s heart fluttered. "Yeah? Well, I like you too." He squeezed the other boy's hand. "So… you wanna go out on a date sometime?"

Cyrus pursed his lips. "I'd like that."

He wanted to kiss him, so badly. But, one step at a time. He would be patient. There would be a right time for that. For now, he was content with just this.

It was getting late and T.J. knew they had to start heading home soon.

As they made their way out of the playground, their entwined hands swung back and forth between them. T.J. couldn't help but take a glimpse at them.

Amongst all their blue, their single red string stood out bright.


	21. (G) STEREK - They Call Me Stuart (That's

They Call Me Stuart (That's Not My Name)  
orphan_account

Summary:  
"I'll have a, uh, medium mocha," Stiles finally says, squinting up at the drink menu on the back wall.

"Name?" Douche-y blond guy asks, picking up a disposable paper cup.

"Stiles," Stiles replies, grimacing as he watches the guy scribble down 'Stuart' on the side of the cup. Whatever. It's not worth the trouble of trying to get him to change it.

* * *

Stiles is practically dead on his feet by the time he manages to stagger through the coffee shop door and to the front counter. Really, he should be used to getting up at six am, but apparently summer has completely undone all of the hard work he's put into his college sleep schedule. Well, at least he's feeling better than he did freshman year, when he was under the impression that he could stay up until three am partying and still be functional for his eight am organic chemistry lecture. (Hint: He couldn't.)

"You're not on something, are you?" he hears someone grumble, reminding him that he's spent the last few moments zoning out instead of placing his order.

Stiles shoots the blond, douche-y looking guy a glare. He's just tired, not _high_.

"I'll have a, uh, medium mocha," Stiles finally says, squinting up at the drink menu on the back wall.

"Name?" Douche-y blond guy asks, picking up a disposable paper cup.

"Stiles," Stiles replies, grimacing as he watches the guy scribble down 'Stuart' on the side of the cup. Whatever. It's not worth the trouble of trying to get him to change it.

He pays and tries not to get too annoyed when the guy puts his change down on the counter instead of directly into his hand, but it's fairly difficult. He supposes there's a reason why this guy got stuck with the very early morning shift. Stiles sighs and makes his way down to the drink pick-up area, leaning up against the counter and pulling his phone out of his pocket.

He blinks blearily down at the screen before letting out a little groan and shoving it back into his pocket. He's too tired to focus on much of anything right now. Instead, he finds himself glancing over the counter at where the barista is making his drink – and _hello_ gorgeous.

Stiles decides that it's _way_ too early in the morning to deal with a shoulder to waist ratio that perfect. Or eyes that multi-colored. Or, you know, all of this guy.

"Mocha for Stuart?" the barista says, glancing over at Stiles, and it's all he can do not to start drooling.

The barista frowns and squints down at the name scribbled on the side of the cup before looking around at the pretty much empty coffee shop again. Jesus, Stiles is pretty sure it he's going to completely to mush once he hears the guy call out his name to –

Oh. Wait.

"Shit, um, that's me!" Stiles blurts out, his cheeks heating. "I'm kind of useless without caffeine, so. Yeah. Sorry."

"Right," Hot Barista – Derek, according to his nametag – says, eyeing him skeptically. He hands over the coffee, though.

"Thanks, man," Stiles replies, smiling weakly. Cleary Derek already thinks he's a weirdo.

"Have a nice day," Derek answers, his voice gruff, but it seems at least a little bit sincere. A _little_ bit.

"You too," Stiles says before hightailing it out of there. He's pretty sure every minute he spends in the guy's presence is equal to another embarrassing thing that comes out of his mouth. He's practically a volcano of awkwardness. It's a problem.

"Well, there's another coffee shop I'm never going to again," Stiles mutters to himself once he's safely out of the building.

Really, he's a hopeless case.

He goes back the next morning. Lydia's right – he's horrible at knowing when to give up and cut his losses. Maybe he has some sort of humiliation kink, which, yeah, he probably shouldn't be examining too closely when hot-as-fuck barista Derek is standing less than ten feet away.

"Name?" Douche-y guy – who's apparently 'Jackson' – asks, his tone less than friendly.

"Stiles," Stiles replies, letting out a little sigh and resisting the urge to roll his eyes as he watches Jackson write 'Stuart' again. Maybe he should just go with it, star calling himself 'Stuart' or whatever. It would certainly cut down on the awkward explanations he has to give to people on how, yes, his name actually _is_ Stiles, and, no, it's not his given name, thank you very much.

Nah, he likes it too much to give it up now.

Stiles meanders on down to the drink pick up area again, his hands shoved into his pockets as he does his best to subtly admire Derek the Barista. He's not being _that_ creepy, is he? And a tough looking guy like Derek would tell him off if he was, right? Then again, maybe he's so used to people checking him out that he doesn't notice anymore.

Damn, those biceps, though.

"Here," Derek says suddenly, thrusting his mocha at him with a scowl and breaking Stiles out of his increasingly vivid daydream.

"Oh, uh, thanks," Stiles replies, fumbling with the coffee cup and nearly dropping it, Derek eyeing him like he's a disaster just waiting to happen. Which, admittedly, he is, about seventy five percent of the time.

Stiles' brain screeches to a halt, though, as he realizes that Derek hadn't called out his name (or, well, 'Stuart'), but had instead just handed him his mocha. Derek had _remembered_ him.

Of course, now Derek's giving him an odd look, which probably means he's grinning like a loon.

"You should get a travel mug," Derek says suddenly, bringing Stiles back down to earth.

"What?" Stiles replies, not entirely sure what Derek's trying to tell him.

"You should get a travel mug," Derek repeats, staring at the paper cup in Stiles' hand pointedly. "You get ten cents off your drink. It also saves on paper waste."

"So you like the environment," Stiles says, berating himself as soon as the words leave his mouth. He sounds so awkward. Then again, he supposes he can't really be blamed for not being able to function in the face of such hotness.

"It's my major," Derek replies, shrugging.

"The environment is your major?" Stiles asks, confused.

"Environmental studies," Derek clarifies.

Oh lord, please let the earth swallow him up now in order to save him from further humiliation.

"That's cool," Stiles replies, now guiltily fiddling with the paper cup in his hands.

Derek nods.

"Right," Stiles continues when Derek makes no move to say anything else. "I should probably get going now."

Awkward.

He goes back anyway. _Of course_ he goes back. He blearily makes his way towards the counter and really, it's hard not to just make grabby hands when he gets there, still too out of it to form coherent words.

"Medium mocha," he manages, but just barely, yawning and rubbing his eyes. "For – "

"Stuart, right?" the person at the counter says, making Stiles freeze. He carefully opens his eyes to get a good look at the person addressing him, only to realize that it is not, in fact, Jackson. Instead it's Derek staring at him with an expression he can't quite decipher.

"Where's Jackson?" Stiles blurts out – not that he actually wants to see Jackson again, mind you.

"He quit yesterday," Derek replies.

"That's nice," Stiles says absently, freezing and looking over at Derek with wide eyes once he realizes what he'd just said. "Er, I mean, that's not – "

"He was horrible at dealing with customers and even worse at making drinks," Derek interrupts, and Stiles is relieved to find that his tone is amused. It even looks like he's trying to suppress a smile.

"So are you single, then?" Stiles asks.

Derek stares at him, clearly taken aback. Stiles frowns in confusion, pausing for a moment to sleepily go through what he just said again, wondering why –

"Shit! I mean, like, is there anyone else working with you during this shift," Stiles clarifies, and he's quite certain that his face is now bright, bright red. "Because Jackson's gone."

"Are you looking for a job?" Derek asks, raising one eyebrow at him, although Stiles thinks he might see a tiny bit of pink dusting his cheeks. Then again, that's probably just wishful thinking.

"Hm? Oh, no, I already have a paid internship with the police department," Stiles answers, waving off his question. "I was just wondering who else I'm going to be embarrassing myself in front of before I've had my morning hit of caffeine."

"Well, someone else should be joining me soon, but I don't know if they'll be a new hire or someone who already works here and is willing to change shifts," Derek replies. "There'll be someone eventually, though."

"Oh," Stiles replies, trying not to sound too disappointed about not having Derek all to himself.

Not that Derek is his in any way, shape, or form. They've barely talked three times.

"You have a travel mug today," Derek says, changing the subject as the silence between them starts to get awkward.

"Yep. Go environment. Whooo," Stiles replies weakly, realizing how pathetically obvious his little crush-thing must be.

"Most people don't bother when I tell them about it," Derek admits, and oh my god, he almost sounds _shy_. Stiles majorly wants to cuddle him, but that's probably not appropriate for a guy who's a virtual stranger.

"Yeah, well, I only have to buy, like, one hundred mochas to make the purchase financially worth it, right?" Stiles says, smiling wryly.

Not that he was _that_ broken up about spending ten bucks on the cheapest travel mug he could find at target. Truth be told, he'd probably continue buying all of those mochas, with or without a travel mug, just to see Derek's face (and other assets) in the morning.

Derek opens his mouth, about to say something, but then Stiles hears someone behind him pointedly clearing their throat. He blushes as he turns around to realize that there's a woman standing there patiently, probably waiting to order. Well, at least it looks like Derek hadn't noticed her either, if he chagrinned look on his face is any indication.

"I'll have you mocha ready in a few minutes," Derek says to Stiles before turning back to the other customer and giving her his most charming smile. Derek's lucky he's pretty, because otherwise she looks like the sort of person who'd give him a strongly worded complaint. As it is, she leaves her change in the tip jar. Lucky bastard. What must it be like to get paid for being hot?

Stiles settles himself near the drink pick up area, bracing his forearms on the countertop and leaning on it, idly watching Derek work. Thankfully, Derek's too occupied to notice Stiles' wandering eyes, because otherwise this would probably get awkward pretty quickly. Stiles briefly toys with the idea of arching his back a little more so that when Derek looks up to give him his drink, his ass will be nicely on display, but he discards the idea. He'll probably just look ridiculous at best.

"Sorry about that," Derek murmurs as he hands Stiles his drink, glancing over at the other customer, who's still watching the two of them closely.

"I should be the one who's apologizing," Stiles replies, his heart stuttering slightly when their fingers brush as he accepts the coffee mug. "I shouldn't have distracted you from your work."

"It's no problem," Derek says, shrugging. "It's normally pretty quiet this early in the morning. People don't really start coming in until eight."

"Okay," Stiles answers, unable to keep a small smile off his face. "I suppose I'll, uh, see you later, then."

"Bye," Derek replies, before going back to make the other customer's drink.

Stiles goes through the rest of his day with a huge grin on his face.

"So what's your major?" Derek asks, glancing over at Stiles, who's swung himself up onto the counter and is sitting there, kicking his legs back and forth. It's probably some sort of employee or health code violation or something, but Derek hasn't asked him to move yet. He did roll his eyes, though.

"Criminal justice," Stiles answers, pausing to take another sip of his mocha. "I swear, my dad nearly laughed his head off when I told him. Said something about how he was glad I was finally learning about the law instead of breaking it."

"Breaking it?" Derek parrots, sounding like he's regretting letting Stiles sit on his countertop. Which, you know, he probably should be.

"You know, trespassing, vandalism, grand theft auto, kidnapping," Stiles says, forcing himself not to grin. "The usu'."

"_Kidnapping?_" Derek asks, looking seriously concerned right now.

Stiles bursts out laughing.

"Oh my god, man, _your face_," Stiles says once he manages to catch his breath again.

"You were joking," Derek replies flatly, but he still sounds mildly skeptical.

"Um, okay, so no actually," Stiles answers, smiling a little sheepishly. "But hey, I solved a murder, and I was, like, sixteen so they didn't charge me."

"I'm not enabling your mocha habit tomorrow if you don't start explaining," Derek says, leaning up against the counter next to Stiles and abandoning his attempts at sweeping the floor.

"Okay, so there was, like, this creepy hermit guy who lived right up next to the woods on the edge of town, and my dad's the sheriff, so I heard they'd found half a body kind of nearby," Stiles admits, already launching himself into story mode. "So I was like, 'Hey, Scott, wanna find the other half?' – Scott's my best friend, by the way – and that's where the trespassing part came in. Because, you know, we were technically snooping around this guy's property."

"I guess that's not too bad – a couple of teenagers messing around in the woods," Derek says, shrugging.

"Hey, quiet! I haven't even gotten to the good part yet!" Stiles chastises, and although Derek gives him an annoyed look, he falls silent again. "Anyway, Scott has asthma, and he somehow managed to drop his inhaler, so we were trying to find it in the dark when we _literally_ tripped over the other half of the body."

"No shit," Derek says, looking mildly impressed.

"Yeah, we were both pretty freaked out," Stiles replies, nodding. "And then we heard someone coming our way, so we freaked and hightailed it out of there. Problem was, Scott still didn't have his inhaler, so we had to go back the next morning to look for it… only the body was also gone. Like, moved gone. And _then_ the guy who owned the property saw us and shooed us away, which was, you know, suspicious."

"Let me guess, you and Scott decided to trespass again," Derek snorts, but he sounds kind of amused, so Stiles takes it as encouragement.

"Hell yes we did," Stiles says, grinning. "We actually went 'round the house and noticed that there was a spot where the ground looked disturbed – "

"So you dug it up," Derek guesses, his eyes going a little wide. "Is that what you meant by vandalism? Please tell me you didn't actually find a body."

"Oh, we found a body alright," Stiles answers. "We called the police, got the guy arrested, but he pleaded not guilty, and, honestly, Scott and I weren't quite sure if he'd actually done it. See, there was this other guy, Matt, who we thought might have been stalking the dead lady, but he was only a year older than us, so the police weren't really taking it seriously."

"Why do I have the feeling that this is where the grand theft auto and kidnapping come in?" Derek asks, narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

"Because you're an amazingly smart person?" Stiles says with a grin. "Anyway, we were pretty sure Matt had photos to prove the stalking thing, so we stole a prisoner transport vehicle and I held him in it while Scott dug up the photos. Thankfully they were pretty incriminating, which is probably the only reason I never went to juvie."

"I'm not so sure my boss would be too happy about me letting criminals loiter around his shop," Derek snorts, but his tone is playful.

"I'm a paying customer, thank you very much," Stiles huffs in mock offense.

"You're much more talkative when you're caffeinated," Derek says, his comment a little out of the blue.

"Maybe you're just easy to talk to," Stiles replies, attempting to be casually flirtatious.

"I'm pretty sure it's just you," Derek snorts, although Stiles thinks he might just see Derek's ears turn a little pink.

"You already know me far too well," Stiles says, grinning. "I'm pretty sure my dad entertained the thought of buying me a muzzle when I was a kid."

"Why didn't he?" Derek asks, making Stiles let out an indignant squawk.

"I'm pretty sure that's child abuse," Stiles grumbles, taking another sip of his mocha.

"You're the one who's assaulting people with your voice," Derek shoots back.

"Please, you love my voice," Stiles says, winking at Derek.

In fact, it almost, for a moment, looks like Derek's blushing. Derek opens his mouth to make an undoubtedly snappy comeback, but he cuts himself off as another customer enters the coffee shop and makes a beeline for the counter.

"Sorry, I have to – " Derek starts, but Stiles cuts him off, shaking his head.

"I should probably be going anyway," Stiles says, hopping down off the counter. "I'll see you tomorrow, though, right?"

"Right," Derek replies gruffly, the barest hint of a smile ghosting over his lips.

Stiles spends the rest of the day humming the most chipper tunes he can think of.

Stiles stumbles into the coffee shop, practically dead on his feet. He's running on fumes at the moment, having only managed to catch a handful of hours of sleep, because he'd had to stay up late finishing a paper.

Which is why he's currently staring blankly at the person manning the cash register with only enough brain capacity to think, "Not Derek."

"Good morning, sir," Not Derek says, her voice far too upbeat for this hour of the morning. "What can I get for – "

"Medium sized mocha for Stuart, and don't forget to give him the reusable mug discount," Derek interrupts, appearing behind Not Derek out of nowhere.

"Got it," Not Derek replies, punching buttons on the cash register before looking back over at Stiles. "So you're a regular?"

Stiles makes some sort of noncommittal noise while holding out his travel mug, nearly dropping it in the process.

"Don't bother trying to engage him before giving him coffee," Derek tells Not Derek, clapping her on the shoulder before accepting Stiles' mug and moving over towards all of the fancy coffee-making machinery that Stiles' overtired brain can't even begin to understand, much less identify.

"That'll be two dollars and fifty-two cents, please," Not Derek says, and Stiles spends a few moments fumbling with his wallet before producing three bills. "I'm Kira, by the way."

"Morning," Stiles finally replies, managing a sleepy smile.

He's pretty sure he hears Derek let out a snort of laughter in the background. Asshole.

Kira's pretty awesome once Stiles is awake enough to properly appreciate her. Unlike Derek, she doesn't complain when he sits on the counters. In fact, she even joins him when things get really slow. Derek rolls his eyes, but doesn't say anything on the subject.

"So are you and Derek…?" Kira asks when Derek disappears into the back of the coffee shop in order to restock.

"What?" Stiles replies, confused. He's already drunk half his mocha, so he should be reasonably awake, but he's not exactly catching onto what she's implying.

"Are you his boyfriend?" Kira clarifies, making Stiles' eyes widen.

"I _wish_," Stiles sighs, laughing slightly. "But, I mean, that would be like a rock getting together with Mount Everest, you know?"

"Kind of?" Kira says, her nose scrunched up as she puzzles through his analogy. "I dunno, though, you're pretty cute."

"Uh huh," Stiles snorts. "Sure I'm kind of cute if you're into pale and scrawny, but Derek's practically a Greek god."

"Well I'm pretty sure he likes you," Kira counters, shooting Stiles a smile.

"Right," Stiles says, giving her a skeptical look in return.

"He has your order memorized, at least," Kira points out, shrugging.

"That's only because I come in here practically every day," Stiles grumbles, pausing to take another sip of his mocha. "And anyway, it's only your first day. I'm pretty sure you're not allowed to psychoanalyze coworkers without knowing them for at least five days."

"I'm pretty sure I'll be saying the same thing in five days," Kira replies, and Stiles opens his mouth to protest, but then Derek walks back out from the back room and he has to cut himself. He really doesn't need Derek to hear all about his awkward crush.

It's really hard not to stick his tongue out, though, when Kira sends him a knowing smile when Stiles nearly falls backwards off the counter and Derek catches him.

Stiles has fallen into a very comfortable rhythm over the past few months, in his coffee shop routine at least.

Then, of course, he sleeps through his alarm. It's nearly eleven by the time he stumbles into the coffee shop, and Derek's shift has probably long since ended.

"I'll have a, uh, medium mocha – " Stiles starts, only to startle as the blonde woman at the register lets out a triumphant noise and levels him with a look that immediately sets Stiles on edge.

"For Stuart, right?" she says, barreling on before he can correct her. "I'm pretty sure Derek nearly sent out a search party when you didn't show up this morning, you know."

"What?" Stiles replies, because, really? A _search party?_ She's got to be exaggerating. Derek's a master of minimalist speaking and stoicism – there's no way he'd overreact in even the slightest way to Stiles missing his coffee once.

"You _are_ Derek's Stuart, aren't you?" she asks, although she doesn't seem like she needs that much confirmation.

"Uh," Stiles says awkwardly. "I guess."

Fuck, he feels so sleazy right now. What's he supposed to say to her, though? That, yeah, he's the guy she's referring to, but he's been lying to Derek about his name for the past few months? That'll go over well.

"You should call him to let him know that you're alive," she continues, making Stiles stare at her, under-caffeinated and confused. "Give me your phone and I'll program in his number."

"Uh," Stiles says again, feeling a little steamrolled. "Are you sure he'd be okay with you giving out his number to random strangers?"

"_Please_, I've been trying to get him to finally ask you out for at least a month now," she snorts, making Stiles boggle. "I'm done with him pining."

"Pining?" Stiles repeats weakly, watching as the woman snatches away his phone, he fingers flying over the screen deftly.

"Oh yes," she replies, sounding simultaneously amused and exasperated. "Tell him to thank Erica, too."

"Okay," Stiles answers, feeling a little dazed once he finally is shooed away from the register, staring blankly at his phone screen, where Derek's number is now entered.

He's pretty sure he spends a solid hour staring at it when he gets home.

Not that he actually calls Derek or anything.

"So I kind of have a huge problem," Stiles says without preamble as he slumps down onto the living room couch next to Scott.

"Yeah?" Scott asks, looking away from where _Iron Man_ is playing on the TV screen.

"Okay, so you know how I've been going to the coffee shop sometimes?" Stiles starts, chewing on his lower lip.

"You mean every day, because you want to ogle the hot barista dude?" Scott teases, giving Stiles a knowing grin.

"Shut up," Stiles retorts, blushing a little. "Anyway, so one of his friends told me that he might be attracted to me."

"Then go for it, dude," Scott says, shrugging. "Why not?"

"He thinks my name's Stuart," Stiles grumbles, attempting to glare holes into the carpet.

"Why?" Scott asks, frowning.

"There was this douche who worked there the first few times I came in, and he kept writing my name wrong on my coffee cup, but I let it go because I thought it wasn't that big of a deal, you know?" Stiles sighs, sinking further into the couch cushions. "But the Derek thought it was my actual name and started telling other people that it was my actual name, and I wasn't sure how to correct him without making things awkward."

"So now everyone thinks your name is Stuart?" Scott clarifies. "Dude, that sucks."

"I can't just tell him now," Stiles groans, leaning over against Scott's shoulder. "I've been lying to him about my name for _months_."

"Hey, well it started off as an honest mistake, right?" Scott says, patting Stiles on the shoulder. "Just explain it to him."

"And lose him _and_ my daily dose of caffeine in the divorce? I don't think so," Stiles snorts, shaking his head.

"Okay, how about this?" Scott starts, wrapping a comforting arm around Stiles. "I'll go with you to the coffee shop tomorrow and I'll tell you whether or not I think he's likely to get really pissed at you. If I think he's nice, then you should go for it. If not, you can just not say anything."

"You do realize that you'll have to get up at, like, six for this, right, Scottie?" Stiles says, looking at Scott skeptically.

"The things I do for you," Scott sighs, overdramatic.

"Aw, you _wuv_ me," Stiles says, grinning and snuggling closer to Scott. "You better know that I'm not going to wake you up, though, so if you snooze, you lose."

Scott rolls his eyes, but he's smiling slightly.

The next morning is nothing short of a disaster.

"_That's_ him?" Scott hisses, gesturing over at Derek. "Seriously, Stiles?"

"I _know_," Stiles sighs, downtrodden. "I don't have even the slightest chance, do I?"

"Dude, he looks like a fucking _serial killer_," Scott says, making Stiles give him an affronted look – on Derek's behalf of course. Not that Derek doesn't look at least a tiny bit serial killer-ish, Stiles must admit. "He's gonna _murder_ you if you ask!"

"I thought you were here to be supportive!" Stiles whines, frowning at Scott.

"That was before I knew he could probably crush my face in with one hand!" Scott protests, flailing a little.

"Dude, seriously, he's not that bad," Stiles says, placing a hand on Scott's lower back in order to steer him towards the register. "He has, like, this marshmallow center, okay? He has this whole campaign about saving the wolves and shit."

"Yeah, because he probably _is one_," Scott hisses, glancing over at Derek nervously. Stiles rolls his eyes and practically shoves him towards the counter. At least Kira's working the register today, with her bright sunshine-y smile. Hopefully that'll calm Scott down a little bit.

"Hey, Stuart," she says, already reaching out to accept his travel mug. "The usual, I'm guessing?"

"And a medium caramel latte," Stiles adds, because Scott had insisted on Stiles paying for his drink if he was going to get up at six am to help him solve his Derek issue. "This is Scott, by the way."

"Oh," Kira says, her smile suddenly looking strangely forced. "Nice to meet you, Scott."

"You too," Scott replies, giving her his most charming puppy dog smile. Stiles narrows his eyes and elbows Scott lightly in the side, because he's supposed to be helping figure out the Derek situation, not flirting with Kira. Even though they'd make a _disgustingly_ cute couple.

Stiles pays for their drinks and does his best not to roll his eyes.

"Hey, Scottie, I need to introduce you to Derek, too," Stiles says, linking their arms together and dragging Scott over to the drink pick up area.

"_Stiles_, I don't – " Scott starts, but Stiles cuts him off with a loud, chipper, "Hey, Derek! How's it going?"

Unfortunately, Derek just grunts noncommittally, not even bothering to look over at Stiles from where he's making the drinks.

"This is Scott," Stiles continues when Derek makes no further move to contribute to the conversation.

Derek growls something which might be 'hello,' but Stiles can't really tell. Things don't really go much better from there. For some reason, Derek will hardly say more than one syllable, and he purposefully avoids Stiles' eyes when he hands over the drinks. Stiles is pretty sure he's never felt more cold-shouldered in his _life_.

"Let's get out of here," Scott mutters, leaning in and pitching his voice low, probably so that Derek won't hear him.

Stiles nods dejectedly, only sparing one glance backwards as he follows Scott towards the door. Derek's already disappearing into the back room.

"Hey, Derek," Stiles says, forcing an upbeat attitude, as he walks into the coffee shop the next morning. "How's it going?"

"I would have backed off if you told me I was making you uncomfortable," Derek says, completely out of the blue.

"What?" Stiles asks, confused.

"The flirting," Derek clarifies – not that he's really clarifying much, because _what?_ When exactly was Derek flirting with him? "I'm not going to murder you if you reject me."

"Dude, what are you talking about?" Stiles says, frowning and moving closer to lean across the counter, Derek carefully avoiding his eyes all the while.

"Look, I know you made up a fake name, okay?" Derek sighs, running a hand through his hair. Stiles is suddenly struck by how tired he looks, prominent shadows under his eyes. "You could have just told me that you weren't interested or that you had a boyfriend and I would have backed off."

"Wait, you're not talking about Scott, are you?" Stiles asks, his eyes widening. "Dude, no, he's like my brother."

"You're not – ?" Derek says, looking up quickly and finally making eye contact with Stiles.

"Fuck no," Stiles answers, folding his arms over his chest a little self-consciously. "And, uh, for the record, you're wrong about the flirting, too. So. You know. Flirt away."

"Look, I already told you that I'm not going to do anything to you if you ask me to stop," Derek replies, his tone harsher. "I'm not going to hurt you, contrary to what your friend thinks."

Stiles stares at him, unsure what to say for a few moments.

"Dude, no, I didn't – it was an accident, okay?" Stiles sighs, running a hand through his already messy hair. "I wasn't trying to lie to you."

"Which is why you kept telling me that your name was Stuart," Derek replies, deadpan.

"Okay, first of all, I never actually told you that that was my name," Stiles protests, jabbing a finger at Derek. "And for the record, this only happened because that douche who used to work the register kept getting my name wrong and I didn't want to make a big deal of it, but then you started using it and telling everyone else that it was my name!"

"Well then why didn't you tell me sooner?" Derek snaps, although he sounds more hurt than angry.

"I don't know! By the time we got to know each other it was at the point where it would be awkward for me to try and correct you," Stiles replies, scuffing the toe of his shoe across the wood floor.

"Oh," Derek says awkwardly.

"So, you know, it wasn't because of the flirting," Stiles continues tentatively, a little nervous. "Go ahead and continue flirting if you want."

A complicated, unreadable look passes over Derek's face.

"Or we could just go out to dinner sometime," Stiles says quickly, his face flushing. "So I can, like, apologize for lying to you and stuff."

Derek still looks mildly dissatisfied.

"Or it can be a date!" Stiles finally adds, flailing a little bit.

"A date sounds good," Derek says after a beat of silence, and it takes all of the self-restraint Stiles has to not leap for joy.

"I'm Stiles, by the way," Stiles says, smiling slightly.

"Nice to meet you, Stiles," Derek replies, smiling back.


	22. (G) PRINXIETY - Not A Moment by coconutc

Not a Moment  
coconutcluster

Summary:  
When Virgil's aunt sends out wedding invitations, Virgil finds a rather distressing component: "+1".

Which would be fine - perfectly fine! - except that his only two viable options for a 'date' are going to Vermont over spring break, like the stupidly domestic couple goals they are, and leaving Virgil to mope about being friendless ~and~ dateless.

Until he gets a new option - that is, a new option in the form of his chemistry lab partner volunteers himself.

* * *

Chapter 1 - Magnum Opus

It all starts at the family reunion (doesn't it always?).

Halfway through the quote-unquote "game time" (the adults played charades while Virgil and his cousins, Remy and Percy, sit and scroll on their phones), one of his aunt's boyfriend proposes.

Which is fine. It's sweet, cute, even, but this particular aunt isn't really big into parties or big events - hence the small gathering - and she decides, a week later, that the wedding will just be family and family friends in a nearby park over Virgil's spring break.

Which is also fine! Virgil loves small gatherings because small = less people!

The only not-fine thing, however, is the invitation his aunt gives him.

Specifically the bolded "+1"

When he asks his mom about it, she tells him that he needs to bring a date - which is stupid, mind you, why should he have to bring someone? - but he shrugs it off and decides to bring his best friend and just chill during the ceremony. That's fine. It's all fine.

Until he calls up Patton and finds out he's going up north with Logan over break.

So Virgil says, "Oh, cool, okay- uh, nevermind, then. Talk to you later, Pat."

And promptly panics.

NOT ONLY is Patton going up north with his boyfriend and'll be unavailable, but Virgil's only other viable option is also going up north with his boyfriend, like a stupid adorable married _couple_\- Virgil can only stuff his face in his pillow and groan.

Cut to school the next day - a.k.a. one week before the scheduled Doomsday, a.k.a. the supposed best day of his aunt's life - and Virgil is kind of a mess.

His hair is even messier than usual, not to mention the fact that the purple dye is fading and he's left with his natural black, but he can feel the bags under his eyes from a night full of panicking and zero sleep. He forgets concealer and doesn't even realize until he catches his reflection in a window and sees his freckles bright and clear. Great.

He trudges through the halls all day, utterly exhausted and drained by the time he gets to his last-period chemistry class,,,

(the only issue there is his lab partner, always bursting with energy and chatter and crooked smiles and sparkly eyes- anD ANNOYING COMMENTS)

((….virgil has just a lil bit of a crush on him.))

(((just a little bit.)))

((((…a lotta bit.))))

He walks in and, sure enough, Roman Kingsley is chatting loudly with a few other theater kids who are all clustered around his and Virgil's desk like Roman is a lighthouse for geeky kids who somehow use musicals and Shakespeare to be popular.

Virgil takes a deep breath, shuffles his way over, and shoulders quietly past the kids and takes his seat.

He has his earbuds in, but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Roman wave at the kids as if he's shooing them away before sitting down, and a second later, he feels a hand tap his shoulder.

He takes one earbud out and raises an eyebrow at a smiling Roman, ignoring the heat rushing to his face.

"What's up with you today, Stormcloud?" Roman says, leaning his chin on the palm of his hand.

Virgil squints. "What do you mean?"

"You seem down-"

"I'm always down."

Roman actually snickers at that, and Virgil feels a tiny smile twitch at his mouth before he smothers it. "I guess so. Nothing's wrong, though?"

And Virgil swears he means to say something about Roman minding his own business, or 'why do you care,' or- something edgy or reclusive, dang it-

But what actually slips out of his mouth is "Just stressed out about my aunt's wedding."

Immediately, alarms blare in his head - TMI ABORT ABORT ABORT YOU FU-

Roman's perfect eyebrows draw together. "Are you… planning it? Or something?"

What a fantastic idiot. "No," Virgil says quietly, shifting the sleeves of his hoodie over his hands as he shrinks into his seat, "I just- I have to bring a date to my aunt's wedding, and my best friend Patton is being a domestic geek with his boyfriend over break, so I can't bring either of them, and I don't talk to that many people, surprisingly enough-"

He's cut off by Roman's laugh, bright and rich and a lil bit dorky when his nose scrunches up, and Virgil's eyes go wide.

"I'm sorry," Roman breathes between laughs, "that's bad, I'm sorry, I'm not laughing at it- you're just really funny, I'm-" His laughter dies out when Virgil blinks at him, though V kinda misses the sound as Roman clears his throat. "…sorry."

"It's fine. I don't know what I'm gonna do, yknow?" They both go quiet for a moment - Virgil slowly turns back to his spot of the desk and mentally facepalms. Of course he doesn't know, he's frickin Roman Kingsley, you moron, but sure, go ahead and make every interaction with him as awkward as possible. Just stick to talking about ions next time.

"What day is it?"

He looks up, surprised, at Roman, who's watching his expectantly. "Uh- next week. Next Friday."

Roman perks up. "I'm free then! If you don't have anyone else to take, I mean."

"Oh."

Oh.

Oh, sh!t- Roman- the wedding- and he- anyone else?! As if Virgil could find anyone else better than flippin-

"Virgil?" Roman's posture shrinks, just a little bit, and Virgil realizes he hasn't responded any more. "You don't have to say yes, I just thought-"

"No!" Roman jerks back at his outburst, eyebrows raised- frickfrickfrick- "I mean, yes! Yea, you can come, that'd be cool!" He clears his throat, calms down. "Fine, I mean. That'd be fine. Yes."

The smile that lights up Roman's face makes Virgil's heart race - he's disappointed that the Chem teacher chooses right then to start class, but he heads home with a little more hope for this wedding.

Until he goes and messes it up.

His mom is in the kitchen baking when he gets home, hair in a messy ponytail and face bright with a smile when she sees her son walk in. "How was school?" she asks as Virge sits at the island.

"It was okay," he says, grabbing a cookie as soon as she puts them on the counter. "I got a plus one for Aunt Patty's wedding."

His mom beams. "Is it Patton? I haven't seen him in a while - you should invite him over!"

Virgil pauses chewing, setting the cookie down, still a little bit bitter despite himself. "No, Pat's going to Vermont with Logan over the break."

"Oh." His mom slows as she starts washing dishes, gives him a sly look from the corner of her eye. "Who, then?"

"Roman Kingsley." His mom raises an eyebrow. "From my chemistry class."

"Ah…" She tilts her head at the tray she's scrubbing and says, almost too quickly for Virgil to really process, "So, this is your… boyfriend, then?"

Emphasis on the too fast for him to process part.

Emphasis on the he's an idiot subtext.

"Yeah?"

Emphasis on he's a complete and bumbling moron.

His mom perks up, her smile brightening by actual megawatts as her hands still over the sink. "Really? Aw, I can't wait to meet him, honey!"

wAIT NONONONONONO-

"Yeah," he repeats lamely.

(nailed it.)

He's very aware of his other option here. "No, he's just nice and invited himself because I'm a loser whose only friends are already dating and leaving me to attend a wedding alone and be, once more for emphasis, a loser."

Also known as telling the truth.

Except that his mom looks so happy.

…that's kind of his only motivator in this situation.

She'd be so disappointed if he corrected her; he knows, from the worried glances and hushed conversations with his dad, that she worries about him and his struggling - i.e. nonexistent - social life. He really doesn't want to see the light in her eyes dissipate because of him.

So he sticks with option one: he doesn't correct her.

Also known as lying.

Also known as the magnum opus of his Stupidity.

Also known as having a lot to explain to Roman tomorrow.

* * *

Chapter 2 - Okie Dokes

Virgil heads up to his room that night - he doesn't miss his mom's excited whispering to his dad as soon as he gets home from work, so now that's two people he can't disappoint - and collapses face first onto the bed.

He messed up. Big time.

How in the world is he going to approach Roman frickin Kingsley about this? Just walk up to him and say "Hey! I told my mom you're my boyfriend and, since I'm such a disappointment in general, I didn't want to make her even more upset so now you have to go along with my complete f*ck-up, despite the fact that you're already doing this out of pity, sorry about that."

(…actually, that's not bad.)

But Virgil is lost and anxious and already guilty, face down in his sheets in his dark room, so he does what he knows best.

He calls Patton.

Patton picks up after the first ring - Virgil doesn't deserve him, really; but it's also kind of Patton's fault that this happened, right? No. Not right. But…whatever - and Virgil tries to sound calm, but he knows Patton can decipher the waver in his voice better than anyone else, so he doesn't actually try that hard. Or… at all. He's not good at acting, anyway.

"Virge?" comes his best friend's groggy voice over the line - it's only ten o'clock, but Patton always has been an old man at heart. "Whas' wrong?"

"I messed up, Pat. Really, really bad, and I don't know what I'm gonna do- I'm an idiot and I'm really freaking out-"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down, kiddo." Virgil's mouth snaps shut. "You're not an idiot- what happened? Take your time."

Virgil takes a deep breath and shoves his face back into his comforter. "So you know how you or Logan can't come to the wedding with me?" He pauses for Patton's reply, but the silence that follows gives him the notion that Patton is nodding, so he continues. "Well, at school earlier, I was in chemistry and- yknow Roman?"

"Kingsley? From drama?" A beat, and then, "The one you have a crush on?"

"Yeah! Wait-" Virgil groans into his pillow. "Yeah, yes, that Roman - he's my lab partner so we sit at the same table, and this afternoon, he just asked what was wrong and I ended up telling him everything about the wedding and then he volunteered to be my plus one, and when I got home, my mom called him my boyfriend and I accidentally agreed and I don't know what to do, Pat!"

"…tell your mom that he's not your boyfriend?"

"I thought about it, but I don't want to upset her," he admits hesitantly - it sounds childish when he says it out loud, but he doesn't want to lie to anyone else today.

Patton goes quiet again. "What exactly did you tell Roman?"

Virgil squeezes his eyes shut and tries to remember class, going over his and Roman's conversation in his head. "That I had to bring a date to my aunt's wedding, and I didn't have anyone because you and Logan are being domestic geeks?"

"Well," Patton says, after a small laugh at Virgil's wording, "did you ever think maybe Roman has a crush on you, too?"

"…what? Of course not!"

"Kiddo, you called it a date. And then Roman invited himself."

Oh.

Oh…

"Yeah, but…"

"Just tell Roman the truth, Virge. Something tells me he won't have a problem with it." They both go quiet; Virgil can tell Patton is close to falling asleep right then and there, until his voice sounds over the line again. "And Virge?"

"Yeah?" Virgil says quietly, sobered up from his panicking, if just a little bit. Patton has a way of calming him down.

(Virgil really doesn't deserve him.)

"Don't worry too hard, okay? Get some sleep tonight."

Virgil gives a dry chuckle. "You got it. Love ya, Pat."

"Love you, kiddo."

The next day at school, Virgil would give anything to spontaneously combust.

He got eight hours of sleep! He showered this morning! He styled his hair how he likes - even though the dye is still fading, he really needs to buy more - and wore his favorite hoodie! He feels fine in all the ways that usually exhaust him!

But there's still a pit in his stomach whenever he thinks about seventh period.

He goes through the day as functionally as he can, but time seems to pass by twice as quickly as usual; it's like the clocks want to personally judo chop him in the throat and find this Hell as their only alternative.

Chemistry comes before he can blink, and he's left trudging to his seat like a funeral dirge should be playing behind him (he wouldn't object, actually. it might comfort him a little).

Roman's pretty brown eyes squint as Virgil drops his backpack beside his seat with a heavy thunk - stupid US history textbook - and practically collapses into his chair. "What's up?"

"I'm an idiot."

Roman raises his eyebrows. "…you talk badly about yourself a lot."

"I deserve it a lot."

"I doubt that." Before Virgil can even react to that, Roman twists in his chair to face him and says, "What happened? Maybe I can help?"

"…about that." Roman frowns. "I kind of… listen, I really messed up and I'm really, really sorry, and you can totally get mad at me or back out or whatever and I'd understand because it's my fault but-"

"Whoa, hey- back out of the wedding?" Roman says slowly, a hand shooting out to Virgil's shoulder, as if to ground him. "Why would I do that?"

Virgil meets his eyes - how in the name of anything fair does someone get such pretty eyes? they're dark and brown with specks of gold and green and it's not fair, that's how, it's black magic or something - and immediately drops his head into the crook of his elbow with a groan so he doesn't have to see Roman's face when he says, "Mymomthnksyrmbfrnd."

"…was that- can you say that again? In English?"

If it was socially acceptable, now would be about the time Virgil screams into the void. "My mom," he mumbles into his elbow, "kinda thinks you're my boyfriend."

And the pit in his stomach turns into a whirlpool, the Charybdis of guilt and embarrassment, all localized within your neighborhood Idiot, also known as the tragic Virgil Sanders. He knows he's ruined any chance he had at being friends with Roman, and this is just his last seconds before the guillotine strikes him.

(He's very fond of macabre metaphors in times of distress.)

But then… that dorky laugh reaches his ears again.

He looks up with a jolt of surprise to see Roman with a hand to his mouth, barely covering the little laughs escaping, and sure enough, his nose is scrunched up like a fantastic lovely dork - the pit in Virgil's stomach lets up, just a little.

"Why is that?" Roman wheezes, but somehow, Virgil knows he's not making fun of him. He feels a smile quirk at his mouth.

"She- uh, I mentioned the wedding, and she kinda… jumped to conclusions. And then I was dumb and went along with it because I'm afraid of making my mom cry."

Roman grins, a stupid perfect crooked smile that gives him one dimple and crinkles his eyes at the edges and make Virgil's face go pink. "I don't blame you on that. So, what would you like me to do, then?"

Virgil blinks at him. "To do?"

"At the wedding?" Roman gives him a playful nudge with his elbow, that smile still on his face. "As your apparent boyfriend, and all."

Heat rushes to Virgil's face as he clears his throat. "Oh. Right. Uh… you're an actor, right?"

"Of course!"

"Okay, could you… do you think you can just pretend for the ceremony? That we're dating? It'll only be a few hours, if you're okay with it." Something flickers in Roman's eyes - it looks a little like disappointment, but that's almost definitely Virgil projecting. "You don't have to come- I'm really sorry I got you into this mess-"

"Don't apologize," Roman says quickly, "I offered to come! Truly, it's no problem." His smile falters for a split second, before it's bright and perfect again. "Acting is my specialty. I'll be there."

Virgil breathes a sigh of relief, dropping his head back into his elbow - he guesses he has to thank Patton - and thanking every star in the sky that it would work out.

Roman Kingsley is an actual angel.

The rest of the week goes by relatively smoothly, to Virgil's relief, and spring break comes like a savior - Virgil is totally prepared to stay in bed for the full two weeks and forget about the rest of the world, but that Saturday, two days before the wedding, he gets a text from an unknown number.

**Hey! It's Roman!**

Virgil stares at the text for a good minute and a half. Somehow, Roman Kingsley got his number and is now texting him, which is surreal enough on its own, but he also manages to use exclamation points as much as Patton.

He starts to wonder if every friend he makes is an absolute dork.

**_Hey_**, he texts back after another minute of squinting suspiciously at his phone screen. _Think of something clever, somethin' cool- musical reference? He likes musicals… I don't know anything but Hamilton. _Frickfrickfrick- **_what's up?_**

(Nailed it.)

**R: Nm! I was just wondering what I should wear to the wedding! You said it was at a park, right?**

**V: yea, a button up and tie would be fine tbh**

He stares at his screen, chewing absentmindedly on his lip, and before he can second guess himself, he sends, **_how did you get my number?_**

**R: Logan Berry gave it to me - he has Tech when I have Theater, and I've seen you guys hang out at lunch so I gave it a shot :9**

**R: (He told me they'd find my body in a river if I said anything mean to you)**

**R: ((I don't know who 'they' is but I didn't really want to ask))**

Fantastic. He'd have to talk to Logan later.

**V: yeah sorry about that, lo is a character. he's actually really nice, just protective?**

**V: you coulda just asked me for my number yknow**

Roman types for a full two minutes, those three bouncing dots appearing and reappearing the whole time, and Virgil starts to think he messed up somehow-

**R: i was nervous**

**R: Oh shoot, my mom's calling me for dinner, I gotta go :p**

**R: But I'll talk to you later! 3**

Virgil stares at his phone, eyebrows scrunched together - Roman was nervous? About talking to him?

And then his eyes land on the little heart at the end of Roman's text message. His face goes pink, and he types out a quick **_okie dokes!_** and throws his phone to the end of his bed because he's an idiot in every sense of the word.

("okie dokes"? really?)

(…maybe Patton's been rubbing off on him more than he thought.)

Virgil goes over the conversation in his head, staring wide-eyed at his ceiling, and realizes two things.

One: he has an outfit to plan.

Two: he has a nerd to interrogate.

* * *

Chapter 3 - Bubbline and Bowties

The setting: Sunday night, one day before the Wedding (which has earned its capitlization as a monumental occasion, a.k.a. "Virgil Has Friends?" as his cousin Remy so amicably named it).

The scene: Virgil the Tragic and Tragically Gay - also a name of Remy's creation - destroying his room with heaps of clothing thrown at bullet-speed.

(He'll be lucky if he doesn't break his window with a stray sneaker.)

The motive: Virgil is not only an idiot, but an idiot with no sense of style or time management.

"Logan, I have _nothing what do I wear- _"

"I've already told you," Logan drones from Virgil's laptop, the boredom clear in his eyes even with the grainy visuals of Virgil's webcam and the glare of his glasses, "I'm the last person you should be asking about this. Weren't you talking to Remy right before this? Why couldn't you have just asked him?"

Virgil pops his head out of his closet, a stray t-shirt draped over his face and blocking half his vision as he glares at the computer on his bed. "Rem would just make fun of me and leave after two minutes," he goes back to digging through his hurricane of a closet with a huff. "You, on the other hand, are legally obligated to stay here with me."

"I am under no legal-"

"YOU GAVE ROMAN KINGSLEY MY NUMBER WITHOUT ASKING ME, YOU'RE STAYING RIGHT THERE."

Virgil's face is stuffed into a pile of old band tees and too-distressed jeans from the dark days of sixth grade, but the lack of reply from the laptop tells him that Logan is probably pinching the bridge of his nose or praying to some god that he doesn't crawl through a computer screen and murder one of his best friends right then and there. (Good. Let him get charged with murder. He deserves it.)

"Are you not… _infatuated _with Roman? Did I mistake your crush for the wrong person?" comes his deadpan voice a moment later - Virgil knows he knows he got it right, stupid smart jerk. "He asked for your number and I made an educated guess, then acted upon it for the advancement of your relationship with him, platonic or otherwise; besides, you seemed rather happy when you called me in the first place."

"It doesn't matter how happy I am or was or ever have been," Virgil says, crawling from the closet like some slithery nightmare creature - _aesthetic _\- and glaring at Logan through his messy bangs. "You went behind my back-"

"Roman went behind your back," Logan corrects.

"Whatever! The point is, you owe me, and your debt is being paid through helping me look nice at my aunt's wedding."

"I doubt I'll be able to do much for you, Virgil. It's in your best interest to hang up right now and allow me to return to my-"

"To your what? Your nerd books? Your phone? You gonna go call Patton to fawn over him for the twelfth time tonight?" Logan's face goes bright red, and Virgil gives him a victorious smirk. "That's what I thought, you domestic freaking nerd. Now help me choose a shirt."

"I know where you live, Virgil," Logan grumbles, though he doesn't hang up, just leans closer to his webcam to squint at the options Virgil smugly presents to him. He frowns at white button-up that's littered with wrinkles - to be fair, Virgil hasn't worn it since his eight grade band concert. "Why can't you wear your hoodie to the wedding? It's your aunt; won't she understand your usual attire?"

Virgil recognizes the softness in his friend's voice - Logan knows how much his hoodie means to him, the weighted comfort it gives him when he's overwhelmed and frustrated and exhausted from the too-quick happenings of everything around him - and is almost embarrassed to meet his eyes over the screen, sheepishly admitting, "I don't wanna look bad in front of Roman."

"…ah." Logan squeezes his eyes shut and sighs. "I say the black button down. Do you have any ties?"

"I think I have a purple bow tie here somewhere-"

"That should suffice." He goes quiet for a beat, a single eyebrow raised as he thinks; Virgil can practically see the gears turning in his little genius head. "Please call me if Roman says anything to upset you."

Virgil snickers. "What, so you can put his body in a river?"

"…he told you about that." Logan squints at nothing in particular, chewing on the inside of his cheek. "I didn't say I'd put it there, mind you; I just said that's where they'd find it."

"Right." Virgil smooths out the shirt Logan chose for him, relieved to have another hurdle completed in the anxiety of the last two and a half weeks, until Logan's voice breaks him from his thoughts.

"Virgil?" He looks over, wide-eyed, at the gentle tone. "You really are free to call me tomorrow. If you need to."

In the rare, rare times Virgil doubts it, Logan never fails to prove how perfect he and Patton are together - despite the biting wit and cynical commentary, he's remarkable at understanding people, and his blunt way of comforting is a oddly fitting counter to Patton's warm smiles.

Maybe it's just how much time they spend around each other nowadays, but Virgil is sure he sees Patton's trademark sparkle in Logan's eyes.

Virgil gives him a small, genuine smile. "You got it."

"Virgil! Honey, you have someone at the door!"

_Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu- _"Coming!"

Despite his many failed attempts at tying his bow tie before success, and nearly breaking his neck on the dozens of clothes still scattered across his floor, Virgil has actually managed to make himself presentable. His hair is, admittedly, completely back to his natural color, and his mom convinced him to go concealer-less, but the shirt Logan picked makes his purple tie pop, and he has to admit that he likes the look.

(He does miss his hoodie, though.)

He races down the stairs and to the front entrance - the small, giddy smile on his mom's face should have been telling enough, but he's swinging the door open before he considers who's actually behind it and has he mentioned he's an idiot?

Roman is standing on the front porch, stark against the muted tones of Virgil's neighborhoods in a white button-down and cleanly pressed black slacks, a dark red blazer draped over his arm and a red bowtie snug at his collar. His hair already in waves from the damp pre-rain air outside; he gives a beaming smile when he sees Virgil in the doorway.

_F*ck._

Virgil blinks open-mouthed at him for a good ten seconds before he remembers English, which is totally casual and smooth and a fantastic way to greet someone.

"Hey," he says.

The epitome of suave.

"Hey!" Roman says cheerily - his gaze flickers over Virgil's outfit, and Virgil prays to God that his mom isn't watching from over his shoulder, even though he can feel her shining gaze on his back as his face heats up. "Sorry I'm here a little early, I didn't want to make a bad impression." Roman winks at a spot behind Virgil - theory confirmed.

Virgil glances over his shoulder to see his mom waving excitedly at them, a smile lighting up her face like the sun, and he forces his mouth into a small smile despite the unending screaming in his head.

(His brain is on fire. Spongebob has never been more relatable.)

"You must be Roman," his mom gushes, suddenly at his shoulder - dONT SCREAM DON'T SCREAM - to beam at Roman through the doorway. "I'm so excited to finally meet you!"

Roman raises his eyebrows, clearly shocked, and Virgil is about to apologize when the red-clad boy brightens up.

"Hello!" Roman smiles - those little dimples whittle themselves into his cheeks and his eyes crinkle up at the edges, the freaking posterboy of _stupid fantastic adorableness- _"You must be Virgil's mom! It's lovely to finally meet you, too - Virgil speaks very highly of you."

His mom lets out a little gasp and squeezes Virgil's shoulder before shuffling past him to usher Roman into the house, already babbling to him about how "sharp you look, oh my gosh, you and Virge have the little bowties- I love it!"

(If given the option, Virgil would kiss Roman right then and there for making his mom so happy.)

((Not that he thinks about kissing Roman.))

(((…well, now he's thinking about it…)))

(((( _frick whatever _))))

"Virgil, honey! I'm grabbing my jacket and then we're headed out! Can you show Roman to the car?" his mom calls from down the hall, a giggle obvious in her voice. (Virgil knows he doesn't have a ton of friends, but this is just getting sad.)

Roman sidles back up to him, his mouth curled into an amused smile as he glances back toward where Virgil's mom disappeared, and Virgil has to be imagining the smattering of pink across his cheeks. "I can see why you wouldn't want to make her cry," he whispers, leaning in to consult Virgil like it's supposed to stay between them.

Which is fine, that's fine, Virgil's fine. Just casually cursing literally every living thing on planet Earth that he didn't wear any foundation or concealer to cover the bright red blush he knows is crossing his face right then. But its fine.

S'cool.

He's going to die by the end of today.

The car ride is quiet, calm, and although Roman volunteering to sit in the back with Virgil so they can sit together almost makes him go into cardiac arrest, they get to the wedding venue - a cute, open meadow, complete with a few picnic tables and a wedding arch covered in violet flowers - in one piece.

The sky is a cool grey: not exactly the sunny spring afternoon his family probably wanted, but Virgil isn't complaining (though he wonders if he should have brought his hoodie after all, in case it rains). He gets out of the car with a small smile on his face, the anxiety in his stomach lessening as Roman gives him a wink and they go to one of the nearby tables.

"Virge!"

They both glance back at the boistrous voice to find Remy, sunglasses on (despite his classic tuxedo) as he claims a seat at their table, followed by a boy with pink-dyed hair and a matching tie, eyes bright behind tortoise-shell glasses. Virgil raises an eyebrow.

"Glad to see you actually navigated your closet, hun - I _swear _I saw your room on the news for a category 4 hurricane," Remy smirks, lowering his glasses to look over Virgil's outfit despite his cousin's scowl. His gaze flickers to Roman. "Ooooh, so you're the cutie Virgil keeps-"

"Who's your friend, Rem?" Virgil cuts him off, giving a swift kick to his cousin's shin under the table before turning his attention to the tie-clad boy in the next seat, who waves belatedly.

"Emile," he introduces himself with an enthusiastic handshake to both Virgil and Roman - he already reminds Virgil of Patton, and that alone endears the bouncing boy to him - as Remy hisses through his teeth. "Emile Picani. You all must be Virgil and Roman!"

Virgil can't help but give a smile at Emile's bubbly nature, even if it's a bit much to take in at once. "That we are." He exchanges a quick glance with Roman, whose mouth is pulled into a barely-contained smile as he watches the pair across the table, clearly curious. "Are you and Remy-?"

"Back off my boyfriend, bitch," Remy mutters, still holding a hand to his assaulted shin. Emile scrunches his nose up with a smile.

"You two are adorable," the pink-haired boy continues like a breeze, turning back to the pair across the table, and Virgil's face heats up again. "Oh! And you guys- you know who you seem like?" Emile gasps, round green eyes going rounder as he looks between Roman and Virgil, as if he's had some great eureka moment. "The colors and faces and- you're Bubbline, oh my gosh!"

Virgil blinks at him. "Bubbline?"

"Well, I'd say that goes to you guys!" Roman smiles and laces his and Virgil's fingers together - did everyone want him to catch on fire? "You even have the pink hair! And Remy does seem a bit more Marceline than Virgil does; no offense, love."

(Definitely going to catch on fire.)

Virgil is still clueless and bright red in the face, but Emile lights up like a Christmas tree.

"That is the nicest thing anyone's ever said to me," he breathes - Remy finally looks up, clearly offended, but when Emile turns to him a second later to smile about their newfound title, his expression softens, and Virgil can see the heart eyes behind those aviator sunglasses. Virgil starts to think this wedding might be more fun than he anticipated. "Rem- Rem, you're Marceline- we're Bubbline!"

"I love it, babe," Remy says quietly, grabbing one of Emile's hands and brushing his thumb across it lightly.

Virgil looks over at the sound of a soft sigh - Roman is watching the pair with wistful eyes and a small smile, raising his eyebrows when Virgil elbows him lightly in a silent question.

"What?" he whispers dramatically, as if Remy and Emile _couldn't _hear him if they just bothered to break their adoring gaze with each other. "I can't help it, I'm a hopeless romantic."

And something in Virgil's stomach flips at that.

_We could do that _, he almost says, before swallowing the words at the last minute; no, they could not do that, because Remy and Emile aren't keeping up a ruse for one day. If Roman wants to gaze into someone's eyes, Virgil will let him wait for someone and something real - he knows it's not fair to force him into anything more than he's already done.

(That's when the reality of the situation really strikes him: this is all fake. The winks, the hand-holding, the shmoozing his mom - Roman is a fantastic actor, and he's just helping out the pathetic friendless boy from his chem class.)

((And suddenly the wedding doesn't seem so fun.))

"Virgil?"

He breaks out of his spiral to meet Roman's eyes, which are filled with concern - Virgil can't help but feel that's fake, too, even if it hurts him - as he watches the brooding boy at his side, and Virgil feels their fingers lace tighter. "Are you okay?"

The pit in his stomach is back full force - he wants end the day here, let the happiness of the ruse be fresh in his memory before it crumbles this evening. But he knows it's not fair to make Roman do all the work. He got them into this mess, so he'd do his best to play his part.

"Yeah," he smiles and squeezes Roman's hand back. "Let's get through this wedding."

* * *

Chapter 4 - Sunshine

Virgil, with all his forced family interactions throughout his life, is surprisingly good at faking a smile.

Not that it's not a challenge - every time Roman looks over at him with sparkly eyes or bright grin, his stomach suddenly decides to pursue a career in acrobatics and misery, and it's just a smidgen harder to maintain his simple smile (if, by chance, you understand that a 'smidgen' is equal to or greater than the magnitude of a semi truck or perhaps a small sun) - and it's barely an hour after their arrival that he's utterly exhausted from all the effort to hide his distress.

It doesn't help that Remy keeps lowering his glasses to slide his gaze between Virgil and Roman with raised eyebrows.

"Hey, are you doing okay?"

Virgil snaps out of the glare he has set directly on his winking cousin - if Remy weren't such a smooth motherf*cker, it'd look like he was spasming in the face - and focuses on Roman, whose eyebrows are furrowed together. "What?"

"You're really quiet now," Roman says lowly, turning so only Virgil can hear him. "I know you're always quiet, but- you just seem upset. Is everything alright?"

Roman's eyes are dark with concern, his crooked grin smoothed out into a minuscule frown as he waits for Virgil's answer, which is _fine _except that Roman's eyes are a really rich shade of brown with gold and green speckled in and are somehow still shining under the cloudy sky and it's _not fine because Virgil can't freaking talk with those eyes focused on him _-

"Yeah," he chokes out finally. Roman looks unconvinced. "I'm fine, just…"

"Are the people too much?" Virgil blinks at him - there's only about twenty people milling about the park, though they're mostly migrating to the seats before the wedding arch as two o'clock draws nearer - and Roman clears his throat. "I just thought- I know anxiety sometimes gets bad in crowds. We can hang in the car for a few minutes, if you need it."

Virgil feels his face go red. _I know anxiety gets bad- _He crosses his arms over his stomach as a measly shield against the thoughts rushing through his head.

"How'd you know I have anxiety?" he mumbles- is it that obvious?

"My sister has it," Roman says easily. "She even has the same fidget cube as you, with the rainbow buttons and stuff?" Before Virgil can ask when Roman saw his fidget cube - which he always keeps hidden under the table when he pulls it out in class - Roman's mouth quirks back into a smile as he watches Virgil, a fond glint in his eyes. "You actually remind me of her a lot."

Virgil's frantic thoughts screech to a halt. "I remind you of your _sister _?"

"Yeah! You're both quiet, and smart, and fantastic at art." He reaches over and tilts Virgil's chin up, either ignoring or completely missing the bright red blush across Virgil's face as he smiles, "You even have freckles like her. I like yours more, though- don't tell her I said that." His gaze flickers down, across the bridge of Virgil's nose, where the main cluster of his freckles sit before spanning across his cheekbones, and Roman's face brightens with yet another beam.

Virgil doesn't quite understand how one person can smile this much - even Patton has his moments of quiet stoicism, for Pete's sake.

(But he's suddenly and unmistakably glad he didn't put on concealer this morning.)

And then Roman leans in - Virgil realizes there's still a hand under his chin, guiding its position, as his cheeks go pink - and presses a tiny kiss to the tip of Virgil's nose.

Virgil freezes.

He knows he's prone to panicking. He's very good at it, too, which is what practice will get you, you know? So he's not exactly inexperienced at tuning into the alarm ringing in his head at that very minute, as his eyes go wide - it's a very specific alarm blaring in his head, one that sounds just a little bit like- oh, how to describe it… ah yes.

**_AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH_**

Virgil's brain is absolutely on fire as Roman leans back to smile at him, a crooked little thing that scrunches his nose up, and say, "I've never seen freckles as stars," in a voice low and soft, like it's a secret between them. "You know they're called 'summer sprouts' in German? Like flowers. I think that's perfect - you have a garden on your face, and the stars can stay in your eyes."

And Virgil is very, very glad that that's the kind of thing you're supposed to inhale, soak in, contemplate and store forever in your memory to look back on when you need to- because he's not sure he'll be able to speak for the next twelve and half years.

Maybe thirteen.

"Roman…" he manages, albeit shakily, because holy sh!t-

And then he sees a flash go off.

Both their gazes snap to where his mom is huddled with Remy's, fawning over the phone held between them, clearly harboring the picture they'd snuck so furtively. His mom glances up, waves sheepishly. Virgil's brow knits as he pulls it together, stomach heavy once more - they have an audience.

And Roman, ever the actor, performed.

Virgil's heart starts beating in his chest like a caged animal as he reminds himself of the circumstances - or rather, as the circumstances knock him over like a tidal wave. He's let himself get caught back up in the maelstrom of a delusion, an act, a favor he's put too much stock into; none of this is real, none of it, not the smiles, or the scrunched noses, or tiny kisses or poetic compliments or _anything. _It's his own circle of hell, this cycle of lost-in-the-moment to reality-strikes and back again, and he needs out. He needs to breathe. He can't _breathe _-

"Virgil?" Roman's watching him with those glimmering eyes again, and it pushes him right off the edge.

"I have to go," he chokes, standing up so quickly his flimsy folding chair topples backward. Roman reaches a hand out, but he staggers back, trying to swallow the jumble of thoughts clawing their way up his throat; the world is spinning now, a carousel of suits and flowers and muffled chatter and the blood rushing through his ears. "Just- I'll be right back. Just a minute."

And then he's stumbling back through the pine trees that frame the dirt path to the park, steps clumsy and destination unknown as his palms scrape against the trees' bristles in passing. He can't think straight, can't walk straight-

The sudden feeling of raindrops on his arms is the only thing that drags him back to full-frontal reality, chilling and gentle against his skin. His head clears for just a moment; he feels the heaving of his chest and forces a breath into his lungs, filled with the comfort of rain and pine. He spots his mom's car just a few meters away and forces himself to cross them.

A far-off crack of thunder seems to signify his arrival as he slides down the side of the passenger seat door, lowering himself to the ground with his eyes squeezed shut and face tilted up toward the gray sky. His heart still hammers in his chest, but it's more like an importunate child now, pounding against the floor in a tantrum. It's concerning, annoying, but it's manageable.

He's so _stupid _.

He'd expected so much, gotten his hopes up the minute Roman volunteered to come to the wedding- he'd built himself up, used Patton's encouragements and Logan's brash acceptance to construct a breath of hope for today's outcome, and it's his fault it all crashed down. He just couldn't accept that pity's the only reason Roman is here, and now he's gone and screwed up their little charade, leaving Roman, who's done so much already, to pick up the slack all over again.

The rain falls harder - he thinks back to this morning, how his hand hovered over his hoodie before he raced down the stairs. How he wishes he had the comfort of its patched sleeves on his arms now.

"Virgil!"

His head snaps up from where it's rested on his arms, crossed over his knees, to see Roman tripping through the treeline, a stray pine needle stuck in his tousled chestnut waves. He's slightly out of breath.

"Virge- Virgil, god, I'm sorry," he pants as he rushes to Virgil's side, blazer draped haphazardly across his forearm. "I'm really, really sorry- I didn't even think before I said that whole thing, and you were already upset, and I just leaned in and- are you okay?"

Virgil stares up at him, watching as he shakily takes a seat next to him, sure to keep a small distance between them. It's a small gesture, but the sheer fact that Roman considered it makes tears prick at the edges of Virgil's eyes, and he stuffs his face back into his arms before they can spill over his cheeks. "Yeah. Sorry I ran out like that."

"Don't apologize." Roman glances up at the sky and back to Virgil. "Oh, you're gonna be soaked- hold on." He pulls his blazer off his arm, then drapes it over Virgil's shoulders. It's soft on the inside, warm, and it smells like vanilla and some cologne, like Roman.

It's too much all over again.

"Stop," Virgil whispers - Roman's hands pull back in a flash, eyes wide. "Just- stop being so nice and thoughtful and genuine and- and- you can't- I can't _do this _, Roman."

"Can't do what?" Roman's voice is almost lost to the rain hitting the ground around them.

"I can't just act like all of this is _nothing _to me!" Roman's brows furrow together, but Virgil is off before he can say anything, "Because I want it to be something so bad, and I'm sorry I dragged you into this when that's how I feel- it's unfair, and selfish, I know, but I couldn't bring myself to stop it, and now we're here, and you're _still _being sweet when I don't deserve it- I don't know what to do about it anymore-"

"Virgil."

" _What _?"

Roman's easy smile is morphed into a frown, eyes glinting with disbelief and something Virgil can only name exasperation. "You think I think this is all nothing?" A beat of silence, and he lets out a single, almost manic laugh. "Virgil, I've been a mess for the last three weeks trying to wrap my head around how to not screw this whole thing up with you!"

Virgil's face, pinched with frustration, goes slack. "What?"

"I've wanted to be your friend since _freshman year _," Roman breathes, "and when I saw you last year in art with paint on your hands and a spot of yellow on your cheek, smiling like a ray of freaking sunshine, I couldn't even _move _because everything about you is so spectacular that I can't understand it all at once! And then you came into Chemistry and vented about the wedding and I talked without thinking, and you said _yes _, and I flipped out; I begged Logan Berry for your number- I literally got on my knees in front of the entire drama class to get your number! It took me _two weeks to pick this bowtie _! Every single second I'm around you is fantastic and I just want to bottle it all up- for your laugh, and freckles, and the way your smile is always quirked to the side, and how you look at people through your eyelashes before anything else, and _everything _-" He takes a shaky breath, hands dropping from their emphatic arcs through the air as he meets Virgil's eyes, painted clearly with a flurry of desperation and fondness. "This has never been _nothing _for me, Virgil. Not a single second of it."

They fall quiet as Virgil stares at him, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. His heart hammers in his chest again, but it's no longer a tantrum-throwing toddler - it's the beat of rain and thunder in his chest as lightning flashes overhead, coursing through his veins like electricity.

And then he shoots forward.

Their lips connect with a crash of thunder in the sky above - the rain falls harder as Roman's arm wraps around his waist, secure and strong, and fire erupts in his chest, sending branches of warmth to the tips of his fingers, which are curled into Roman's messy waves with reckless abandon.

It's a quick kiss. Virgil feels incomplete when he pulls away, but after the rollercoaster of emotion in the last ten minutes, he's afraid to delve deeper - Roman doesn't complain, despite the unbridled joy in his eyes, just keeps an arm around Virgil's waist as he smiles.

"We should probably get back to that wedding," he murmurs, a song against the constant rhythm of the rain.

Virgil breathes a laugh. "Yeah, I guess."

But they stay sitting for a few moments, eyes closed and foreheads leaned together as the sky rumbles above them, and Virgil can't help but play Roman's words on repeat in his head:

_This has never been nothing. Not a single second._


	23. (T) TYRUS - Horror Movies and Unrequited

Horror movies and unrequited crushes (that aren't so unrequited)  
shipsandglitter

Summary:  
"He couldn't help it - his heart would race when TJ gave him one of his private smiles, he'd blush madly whenever TJ placed a friendly hand on his shoulder or casually wrapped an arm around him. It sucked."

Or the one where Cyrus is completely oblivious to TJ's feelings for him and his friends are 100% done. Drama ensues.

* * *

"Fuck!"

Buffy turned to him, her eyes widened in alarm. Marty also turned around, but he seemed to be amused more than anything.

"Cyrus...did you just swear...and hit that locker?" Buffy asked, taking a hesitant step towards him.

He immediately grimaced and backed away.

"Sorry locker. You didn't deserve that."

Marty snorted, which earnt him a glare from Buffy.

"Okay. What's going on, Cyrus? I've never seen you that frustrated."

"Absolutely nothing!"

She raised an eyebrow at him. "I guess it's fine if you can't tell me now. Do you wanna talk later?"

"Oh, that's really not necessary, I'm just... testing out swearing y'know?"

Marty scoffed and stepped forward to stand next to Buffy.

"No offence dude, but I know that wasn't normal for you and I barely know you."

In response to Cyrus's offended look, he added "Not that well, anyway! I mean, we're cool obviously-"

"Okay, thanks Marty. Cyrus - I can't hang out after school but I'll message you, okay? Try not to swear and hit another locker."

"Who's swearing and hitting lockers?"

Oh great.

Cyrus turned around to find TJ standing there, a warm smile on his lips. Oh god - who gave him the right to have such a cute smile? He couldn't be around TJ right now or he'd do something completely stupid.

"Oh! Uh - hey TJ."

He was trying for nonchalance, but his voice sounded strained even to him. TJ picked it up instantly.

"...Is something wrong?"

"No, not at all! I just really need to talk to my english teacher so he can give my essay back to me, like now."

Marty was snickering at the bewildered look on Buffy's face.

"Essay? what essa-" Cyrus shot her a pointed look. "Ohh, that one! Right."

TJ turned his gaze from Cyrus to Buffy, his eyebrows furrowed. "Am I missing something?"

"No!" Cyrus insisted, cursing himself internally for being so obvious. He was already feeling bad enough about himself, and now he was obviously hurting TJ's feelings in a selfish attempt to try and avoid him. Dammit.

"Okay...I could walk you to your teacher's office if you want?"

"No! Uh - I mean, it's okay. I'm sure you're busy and-"

He regretted the words instantly when he noticed TJ's face fall. The boy could admittedly be slightly intimidating sometimes, but he looked like a sad puppy right now and Cyrus practically wanted to scream. Dammit - why was he acting like such a douche right now? This wasn't him.

TJ bit his lip and nodded. "Right. You don't want me to."

A confused expression had replaced Marty's amused one. Buffy watched with slight exasperation as her bestfriend dug himself deeper into a hole. Quickly, she wracked her brain to think of a solution.

"Um, TJ, what Cyrus was going to say is that I wanted to go through some ideas with you about how to...improve my team's performance now, which is why...you can't walk him there."

Buffy normally prided herself on her quick-thinking, but even she knew that excuse was kind of pathetic. She grimaced as soon as the words had left her mouth.

"Ah, okay - so I am missing something. And I'm guessing it has to do with Cyrus not wanting to be around me. Cool."

TJ turned around and began to walk away. Cyrus felt tears pricking at his eyes as he tried to reach for his arm, but he quickly stopped himself with a deflated sigh and watched as the other boy left, looking dejectedly down at the ground.

"Shit," he whispered, even more furious at himself than he had been before. He could feel tears threatening to spill over, so he blindly shoved his books into his locker and ran in the opposite direction, leaving a worried Buffy and a bewildered Marty standing there.

"...What just happened?"

"I have no idea."

Cyrus had struggled his way through last period without letting any tears fall, although there were a few close calls. Relief flooded his system when the bell rang, and he all but sprinted out of there to get to his usual 'I-feel-awful-about-myself-spot.'

He dropped his bag without a second thought and sat down on the swing, sighing heavily.

He always managed to ruin everything, without fail. Just once, he'd really like to not screw everything up.

He knew he was in deep - he knew he liked TJ a whole lot more than you should like a friend. He also knew that his frustrated outburst had been the result of thinking about how his crush had so quickly moved from Jonah to TJ - another straight athelete who would never feel the same way about him.

He had never been outright rude to TJ before, he couldn't find it within himself even if he wanted to, but somehow today had been different.

Recently, he had been letting his own stupid feelings get in the way of his friendship with TJ. He knew they'd come back to make his life hell but he didn't realise just how hard it would be to act friendly with the other boy when he was practically aching for more. He had never felt something to this extent with Jonah, and the thought scared him.

He couldn't help it - his heart would race when TJ gave him one of those private smiles, he'd blush madly whenever TJ placed a friendly hand on his shoulder or casually wrapped an arm around him. It sucked.

"Fancy seeing you here."

Cyrus looked up in alarm to find TJ standing infront him, bashfully looking at the ground. He immediately gasped and got up from the swing, an apology on his lips.

"It's fine, Cyrus. I get it."

The other boy gave him a blank look.

"You...uh...you do?"

"Yeah. I'm not much fun to be around, and honestly, I'd stop hanging out with me if I were you too."

Cyrus' mouth dropped open. "What! No, that's not true at all! I love hanging out with you, Teej."

The other boy gave him a sceptical look, but his face softened slightly.

"Honestly, I do. About before - I had a lot of stuff on my mind and I just...wanted to get away for a little bit and - god I'm so sorry for making you think that. I really don't. You're amazing."

TJ's cheeks were tinged red as he slowly nodded and sat down on the free swing. Cyrus let out a small sigh of relief.

"What did you have on your mind?" he asked.

"I'm not sure if you would wanna know."

"Try me."

TJ raised an eyebrow at him as he pushed off the ground slightly. Feeling panic beginning to claw at his insides, Cyrus let out a nervous laugh.

"I really don't think you'd wanna know."

"Well, I won't pressure you Underdog, but I'm here if you wanna talk."

Cyrus smiled nervously and bit his lip. After a few moments, the silence was already making him feel uncomfortable.

"I'm gay," he blurted.

He squeezed his eyes shut when he fully realised what he had said, sighing heavily when he heard the creaking of the swing next to him abruptly stop. He heard footsteps approaching him.

"Underdog...were you scared that I would react badly to that?"

He opened his eyes to find TJ kneeling infront of him, a soft smile on his lips. He placed his hands on Cyrus's knees.

"Um...I'm not sure," he admitted quietly.

"Well, I would be an awful person if I did. There's nothing wrong with that whatsoever- and...if it helps, I'm gay too."

"Wait - what?"

TJ's smile widened slightly. "I'm gay too."

"Whoa. So my ears weren't deceiving me."

Cyrus knew he shouldn't get his hopes up in the slightest, but damn - he was finding that a bit hard at the moment. TJ was gay. Like actually gay. He liked boys.

"Do I not seem the type?" He asked teasingly.

"Well...no. Not with whole tough basketball player thing you got going on."

"Wow, okay. Stereotypes!"

Cyrus couldn't help but laugh. "I know! I'm sorry!"

TJ's eyes were sparkling as he stood up and held out a hand for Cyrus to take.

"Let's go get ice-cream. I'll pay."

"I knew there was a reason we're friends."

TJ gasped. "I knew it all along. You're using me!"

Cyrus giggled at that. "What else do you think I stay for?"

"Gee, I don't know. My charming good looks?"

"Maybe that too."

Oh god - he sounded flirty. But so did TJ. What on earth was going on?

TJ laughed and quickly averted his gaze, a light blush colouring his cheeks. Cyrus bit his lip to fight back a wide grin.

The next day, Marty watched in amusement as TJ sat down next to Cyrus and wrapped an arm around him, beaming.

"Well that was fast," He remarked.

Buffy snorted and rolled her eyes. "It always is. I can't believe I doubted the power of their huge, obvious crushes on eachother."

"I'll say - I'm getting real 'get away from my boyfriend' vibes from TJ right now."

"And I'm getting real 'Please never let go of me' vibes from Cyrus right now."

Marty laughed at that.

"My god. It's so obvious. There's no way that Cyrus thinks TJ doesn't like him!"

Buffy lightly smacked his arm. "Be quiet - they might hear you. Anyway, let's go over there and interrupt the love-fest."

"Wow. You really wanna interrupt Cyrus' time with his boyfriend?"

"You really wanna stop me from spending time with my bestfriend? They're not even dating!"

Marty grinned. "Yet."

"Oh, whatever. Let's go."

They walked across the cafeteria and stopped at their usual table, trying hard to conceal their knowing smirks. Marty sat down casually and smiled at the pair.

"Hey guys. Whatcha talking 'bout?"

Buffy rolled her eyes and sat down next to him. A flush appeared on TJ's face as he tried to subtly remove his arm from Cyrus' shoulders. The other boy pouted slightly at the loss before turning to Marty.

"Oh, um, you know. The weather, current events-"

TJ snorted. "We were talking about horror movies."

"And how I'm not terrified of them," Cyrus quickly added.

Marty raised an eyebrow at them, watching as TJ looked over at the other boy with a soft, fond smile. His feelings towards Cyrus were so completely obvious that Marty couldn't help but scoff. Buffy rolled her eyes and elbowed him in the ribs.

"Ow! Uncalled for!"

She just shot him a smirk and turned to Cyrus.

"I think we all know that you're very much terrified of horror movies."

TJ chuckled slightly. "Which is why I'm trying to convince him to watch one with me! So he can conquer his fear."

"I'm not terrified of horror movies!" Cyrus protested.

TJ looked at him with a smirk. "Then surely you wouldn't mind watching one with me?"

Cyrus blushed and averted his gaze.

"Okay, I'll watch one with you. But don't say I didn't warn you if I start clinging onto you for dear life...not because I'm scared or horror movies of course."

Buffy exchanged a knowing look with Marty. TJ just chuckled again.

"Right - not because you're scared of horror movies. Don't worry underdog, I'll protect you from the TV."

"My hero." Cyrus sighed dramatically.

Marty snorted at that.

Soon, Andi and Jonah were joining them at the table. The tension between them was obvious, and Cyrus briefly found himself wondering what on earth had happened this time. Andi sat next to Buffy, while Jonah sat next to Cyrus.

"Hey Cy-guy."

"Hey! What's up?"

"Not much." Jonah sighed, glancing over at Andi. Cyrus smiled sympathetically.

"Well...just so you know, I'll definitely be at your ultimate game this afternoon. I'll bring snacks and sunscreen and everything you guys could possibly need."

"Cyrus Goodman, you're a lifesaver. The whole team has been psyched out since our last game and you're exactly the sort of support we need right now."

Cyrus beamed at him. "Hey, I'll always be the space otters' number one fan."

Jonah laughed at that. "And we'll always be yours. You're the best, Cy-guy!"

TJ's sour glances towards Jonah went unnoticed by everyone except Marty, who wasn't entirely paying attention to Buffy's conversation with Andi. He raised an eyebrow at the boy, who had jealousy clearly written all over his face. TJ just huffed and shook his head. It was far too tempting for Marty to just drag him away and get some sense into him - if he genuinely saw Jonah as a threat, then he had to be blind.

When Jonah began (somewhat awkwardly) talking to Andi and Buffy, Cyrus immediately returned to his conversation with TJ, having not noticed his friend's silent hissy fit in the slightest.

"Okay. What about this shirt?"

Buffy groaned, while Marty just shook his head.

"Too formal. Why are you so worried anyway, Cyrus? This isn't a date, you guys are just watching a movie."

"But TJ obviously likes him," Buffy argued.

"Well yeah, but that doesn't make it a date."

The three of them were at Cyrus' house after he had sent Buffy a frantic text to come and help him. Andi wasn't available, so she dragged Marty along with her instead.

Cyrus shook his head.

"I still have to look good though! And TJ doesn't like me, I don't know what you guys are talking about."

This time, it was Marty's turn to groan.

"He didn't invite any of us to watch a horror movie, did he?"

"Because he doesn't know you guys as well!"

"Fine, but why do you think he chose a horror movie? He totally wants to play protective boyfriend."

Cyrus just scoffed, blushing slightly as he continued to rummage through his drawers. Buffy stepped forward and grimaced at the jumbled mess of shirts.

"Why don't you just text him and ask what to wear? Maybe he'll be wearing pyjamas when you show up."

Marty raised an eyebrow. "Wait. Is this a sleepover? Everyone knows it's socially acceptable to wear pyjamas to a sleepover."

"Yeah, but TJ might not know that! He could be wearing a suit for all I know," Cyrus said.

"You think he's gonna sleep in a suit?"

"Well, he'd probably have to change."

Buffy exchanged an exasperated look with Marty before taking Cyrus' phone from his bed.

"I'm messaging him."

"What," Cyrus spluttered. "But he'll know it's you!

A smirk began to tug at Marty's lips. "Yeah Buffy, let me do it."

Cyrus shook his head. "Absolutely not! I don't trust either of you to sound like me."

"Hey! I know how to sound like you," Marty insisted. Buffy rolled her eyes.

"I'm the bestfriend here, if anyone can sound like Cyrus it's me."

"Exactly, you know him too well! I have the advantage of an outside perspective."

"Alright fine. Go ahead and try then, Marty."

Cyrus groaned and continued rummaging.

"I'm trusting you guys," he warned.

"I won't let you down, Cyrus."

Buffy flopped down on the bed, while Marty began typing.

"Wait. you have cute nicknames for eachother? And you use about a million heart emojis in each text?"

Cyrus's face turned a light shade of red.

"Er...Maybe? But it's completely friendly."

Marty rolled his eyes and hit send. "Okay. So I said 'Hey, Teej. Just wondering what I should wear tonight- are pyjamas cool?'"

Buffy burst into laughter, while Cyrus just groaned again.

"Teej?" she asked.

"Hey! Cyrus called him that in another text."

"You asked him if pyjamas were cool?"

"Hey, there's nothing more romantic than wearing pyjamas! It means you're comfortable with one another," he argued.

Buffy opened her mouth to speak again, but quickly closed it when Cyrus' phone buzzed. She stood up and looked over Marty's shoulder.

"Okay. He said 'Hey underdog! Pyjamas are totally fine. I'll see ya tonight.' Then, he added a smiley face emoji and heart emoji."

Marty smirked at the other two.

"Did you hear that? Pyjamas are 'totally' fine, which is basically code for 'Yes! Pyjamas are great! Wear pyjamas!'"

Buffy laughed at that, while Cyrus sighed in defeat.

"Okay, I guess I could wear pyjamas. But which ones? I have these ones, which-"

Marty and Buffy both groaned.

As Cyrus walked out of the door, Buffy turned to Marty with a smirk.

"TJ is gonna die on the spot when he sees him. Cyrus in pyjamas is like cuteness overload."

"I think TJ dies on the spot everytime he sees Cyrus, but you're right. This time he'll have a heart attack or something."

The two looked at eachother for a moment.

"Soo...wanna come over and watch a horror movie?" Marty asked.

Buffy raised an eyebrow at him, so he added: "First person to get scared by a jumpscare loses?"

"Oh, you're on."

Marty smiled and opened the door.

"After you then."

Cyrus was quickly beginning to realise that walking to TJ's place in his pyjamas had been a downright awful idea. He had ended up choosing his light-blue pyjamas, which were covered in clouds and unbelievably soft. Despite the long-sleeves though, the biting cold wind was cutting right through him and making him shiver a ridiculous amount.

He rolled his eyes when he realised he had forgot to bring a jumper to wear the next day; nothing in his bag could even save him.

Finally, he reached TJ's front door and knocked (he couldn't even feel the door because his hands were so numb.) It swung open moments later and TJ stood there with fluffy gel-free hair, looking ridiculously cute in sweatpants, a plain white shirt and and a blue jacket.

His wide smile immediately faltered when noticed Cyrus' shivering state, and he quickly ushered him inside.

"Did you walk to my place wearing that? Oh my god, you're crazy. Wait here."

All Cyrus could manage was an embarrassed smile as TJ rushed down the hallway and out of sight. Not even a minute later, he was rushing back with a jumper in his arms. Despite feeling frozen, Cyrus still felt himself blushing as TJ carefully took his bag and set it aside, turning to him with a fond smile.

"This is the warmest jumper I have, and I'll turn up the heating."

He carefully slipped the black jumper over Cyrus' head and gave him a few moments to get his arms through. The jumper was at least a few sizes too big, and the sleeves were longer than his arms, but it was warm and soft and oh god- it smelt like a strangely wonderful combination of fabric softener and TJ's cologne.

For a moment, TJ just looked at him, that same warm smile on his lips.

"Well, it's a bit oversized on you, but you look cute."

Wait - cute? Did TJ just call him cute?

"Thanks. You do too. I mean - uh, your jacket also looks cute. I like the blue."

TJ laughed then, and dammit that sound was far too amazing.

"Thanks, underdog. I'll take you to my room so you can drop off your stuff."

With a slightly mortified smile, Cyrus followed him.

After dropping Cyrus' things off, they headed to the living room.

"Whoa."

"Yeah, I kind of took all the pillows and blankets from the rest of the house. At least you won't be cold, right?"

"It's amazing, I've never seen something so comfy looking in my life! Your couch is huge."

TJ smiled slightly and looked down the ground for a moment, running a nervous hand through his hair.

"I'll go make popcorn. Wait- you like popcorn right? It's kind of the only thing I bought and I didn't ask you and-"

"Popcorn's the best!"

TJ let out a sigh of relief. "Okay, good. I'll be right back."

Cyrus took the opportunity to collapse down on the couch and frantically message his friends to update them.

**Cyrus:** GUYS

**Cyrus:** GUYSS

**Andi:** WHAT

**Cyrus:** Wait did Buffy tell you I'm watching a movie with TJ tonight?

**Andi:** What? No! Did you finally ask him out?

**Cyrus:** No! We're just at his house

**Cyrus**: It's a friendly thing

**Cyrus: **Bc he doesn't like me

**Andi:** Okay ;-), how's it goin?

**Cyrus:** HE CALLED ME CUTE AND GAVE ME HIS JUMPER

**Buffy:** EXCUSE ME

**Andi**: OH MY GOD! What were you saying about him not liking you again?

**Buffy:** CYRUS THIS IS MARTY PLEASE PUT ME OUT OF MY MISERY AND ASK TJ OUT

**Andi:** Wait, are you with Buffy right now?

**Buffy:** Yeah I am, but that's beside the point. Listen - he called you CUTE Cyrus, do I ever call you cute?

**Cyrus:** Well, you did once

**Buffy:** Okay but that was a friendly thing

**Buffy:** TJ OBVIOUSLY means it in a 'You're the cutest human alive please date me' way.

**Andi:** Plus - he gave you his jumper!

**Buffy: **Exactly!

**Cyrus**: Oh, would you look at that! TJ's back. I gtg guys, bye!

**Andi**: Have fun ;-) message with more updates!

**Buffy:** CYRUS ASK HIM OUT

Cyrus shook his head and turned his phone off with a laugh. TJ walked back into the living room, carrying a big bowl of popcorn and two steaming mugs.

"Oh! Do you need help?"

"Nah, I'm good, I'll just-"

He carefully set the two mugs down on the coffee table and collapsed down next to Cyrus, the bowl of popcorn on his lap.

"Wait - did you make hot chocolate?"

"Uh, yeah...do you not like it?"

"No, I love it! Oh my god, you're the best."

A relieved grin tugged at TJ's lips. "Okay, good."

Cyrus quickly turned his phone to silent and pocketed it. TJ placed the bowl of popcorn on the coffee table.

"Soo, are you ready?"

"Ready as I'll ever be."

TJ laughed and grabbed the remote. "Don't worry, this one's not too bad."

"What's it called?"

"Hush."

"Did you just tell me to - oh wait, that's what it's called, isn't it?"

TJ laughed again and nodded. Cyrus desperately hoped that the low lighting would hide the blush on his face.

"That title sounds very ominous."

"I think that's probably the point."

TJ shot him a smile as he scrolled through the netflix menu, eventually stopping at the movie and clicking it. He reached over and turned off the lamp beside the couch before shifting slightly and grabbing a few blankets. Cyrus smiled and snuggled back into the pillows as he threw the blankets over them.

"Aaand...play."

TJ hit a button on the remote and the movie began playing. The other boy inhaled sharply.

"We don't have to if you really don't want to, by the way. I have other movies," TJ said.

Cyrus briefly thought about all the cuddling he could get away with and shook his head.

"Nah, I want to," he assured.

The other boy nodded and shifted closer to him as the opening scene played.

Yup. He wasn't going to survive this.

The first real jumpscare was about 10 minutes in, and it had Cyrus jolting violently and almost spilling his hot chocolate everywhere. TJ carefully took the mug from his hands and set it down on the table.

"It's just her friend," he soothed, wrapping an arm around the other boy.

Now, Cyrus' heart was going fast for an entirely different reason.

"Please don't tell me something happens to her friend."

The guilty look on TJ's face was telling enough.

"Why!" Cyrus groaned.

"Because it's a horror movie!"

When Cyrus groaned again, TJ just laughed and shifted closer.

Throughout the movie, they gradually became closer until their shoulders were practically pressed together. Cyrus was having a hard time fully concentrating on the movie when TJ was so close that he could smell his cologne. Or- maybe that was from his jumper. That he gave to Cyrus. Because he had been cold. He could feel himself getting giddy at the thought.

During a particularly tense scene where the main character was hiding from the killer, Cyrus turned to TJ and buried his face in his chest, mumbling to tell him when it was over.

He could feel butterflies fluttering around in his stomach when TJ chuckled and wrapped an arm around him, pulling him close. Then, he gently rested his chin on Cyrus' head and - yup, he was officially dead.

He was practically cuddling with TJ Kippen.

A minute or so later, TJ leant down to whisper that the main character was safe inside again, and Cyrus let out a small sigh of relief before (reluctantly) lifting his head. He glanced up at the other boy, who's face looked surprisingly red in the harsh light from the TV. Was he...no way. He's just seeing things.

TJ still had an arm wrapped around him, so Cyrus stayed at the same proximity and rested his head on the other boy's shoulder instead. He heard a sharp intake of breath, so he hesitantly lifted his head again.

"It's okay, you can lean on me," TJ said, his voice cracking slightly. Cyrus smiled and lowered his head again.

Although the movie was kind of terrifying, being this close to TJ definitely made it worth it somehow. If he could spend the next week wrapped up like this, he would.

The sound of police sirens came from the TV as the final scene ended. TJ looked down at Cyrus with a smile.

"That wasn't so bad, was it?"

"I guess not. I'm just glad the cat survived."

TJ laughed. "I'd never show you a movie where the cat dies. That's just traumatic."

Cyrus' traitorous heart fluttered at that.

"And that's why we're friends! For the record, I'd never show you a movie where the cat dies either...unless I didn't know of course."

He looked up, only to find the other boy looking at him intently. His heart began to race when he noticed just how ridiculously close they were at that moment. All he would have to do is lean forward slightly and- no. There's no way.

The only sounds he could hear were their slightly ragged breathing and the soft music coming from the TV as the ending credits played. In a slight daze, he continued to look up at TJ, waiting for him to move away or do something.

His eyes were the most unfairly pretty combination of green and blue. Were those yellow flecks too? Surely someone's eyes couldn't be that perfect - wait - how long had he been staring again? Probably too long. Why wasn't TJ saying anything?

Then, TJ's eyes were sliding down to Cyrus' lips and he was leaning in slightly and oh - that's why. Cyrus' eyes were just beginning to flutter shut when panic appeared on the other boy's face.

He watched in confusion as TJ shifted away and cleared his throat.

"I'll uh...I'll get the mattress ready."

With that, he got to his feet and rushed out of the living room. Cyrus was frozen for a moments, but he quickly came to his senses and pulled out his phone.

**Cyrus**: Guys...

**Andi**: What's up?

**Cyrus**: I think TJ and I almost kissed...but he pulled back last second and ran away

**Cyrus**: He looked kinda...panicked?

**Buffy**: (this is actually me now) WHAT! Istg, do I have to talk some sense into him? At least you know he wants to kiss you though

**Cyrus**: Hmm I don't think that's necessary

**Cyrus**: Why did he pull away then?

**Andi**: I bet he was just nervous, he'll probably come back and kiss you for real

**Buffy**: Yeah, just give him a moment or two. I don't think he's good with the whole 'emotions' thing

**Cyrus**: Kissing is an emotion now?

**Buffy**: Ugh, you know what I mean

**Andi**: Update us if he comes back!

Despite what Andi and Buffy had said, the rest of the night went by as if the nearly-kiss hadn't happened. TJ taught him how to play a few video games using a controller, and they stayed up joking around and laughing. Like friends, painfully enough.

Cyrus slept on TJ's bed after a lot of insistence from the other boy ("You're the guest! You're entitled to the comfier option") while TJ slept on an air mattress.

In the morning, he just decided it was best not to mention it to TJ at all.

On Monday, Cyrus filled his friends in on exactly what had happened (Buffy made sure he didn't leave out a single detail.)

Marty rolled his eyes several times during Cyrus' recount.

"Wow. TJ's an idiot."

"Hey! No he's not."

Buffy sighed. "He is a little bit. I have no idea what he was thinking - was he scared you wouldn't kiss back?"

"Maybe he was scared of ruining your friendship?" Andi offered.

"Yeah. Maybe."

"Are you still going to TJ's game today?"

"Of course I am! We're still friends."

Andi placed a hand on his knee and gave him a sympathetic smile. "I'll come too."

"Yeah, same with us. We'll be your moral support." Marty said.

Cyrus couldn't help but laugh.

"I don't need moral support to cheer my friend on."

"Maybe not. But you might need moral support to be around the friend you almost kissed two nights ago."

"Touché." he sighed.

Despite barely being able to think about anything but their almost-kiss, Cyrus struggled through his classes, got the notes he needed and found time to make a sign for the game.

He walked through the doors around 10 minutes before it was supposed to begin. TJ and his teammates seemed to be warming up, but the moment he walked in they abruptly stopped moving. He watched, eyebrows furrowed, as one of the teammates elbowed TJ and pushed him in Cyrus' direction. That earnt him an icy glare, but TJ reluctantly began to walk towards the other boy anyway.

Cyrus couldn't seem to move even if he wanted to; he just watched, almost completely frozen, as TJ approached.

"Hey."

"Hey. What's up?" Cyrus asked, his voice cracking slightly.

"I just wanted to, um, apologise for what happened I guess?"

Cyrus looked down at the ground. When he responded, his voice was much higher than he would've liked.

"Oh no, it's fine. We can pretend nothing happened, I don't really know what I was thinking I kinda just - um, yeah. We're still cool right though? We can be friends?"

TJ sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "That's...that's the thing though. I don't wanna pretend it didn't happen."

"...Oh? Uh - why?"

"Because I don't wanna be just friends with you, Cyrus."

"So...we're not cool? I'm really sorry if I made you uncomfortable-"

"No! That's not what I...I like you, okay?! Like - more than a friend. Like in a, I wanna be be your boyfriend kind of way."

Cyrus stood there, gobsmacked for a few moments. TJ was looking nervously down at the ground, his cheeks burning.

"TJ, I-"

"Kippen! Over here now!" the coach barked.

"I'm sorry, Cyrus."

As TJ turned around to walk back to his team, Cyrus couldn't help but think that having to go wasn't the only thing TJ was sorry for. The thought made his heart ache.

He could hear people announcing the beginning of the game, but all he could think about was TJ. Completely frazzled and bewildered, he weaved through the crowds and found a spot on the stands next to Marty. Buffy was sitting next to him, and they were both looking at him expectantly.

"Well?"

"Uh - where's Andi?"

Buffy sighed and gestured towards the corner of the auditorium. Sure enough, Andi was there, talking to an upset-looking Jonah. Marty raised an eyebrow at him.

"So. What did TJ say to you?"

"He, uh...He kind of... toldmethathelikesmeasmorethanjustafriend."

"WHAT!" Buffy yelled.

This garnered a few startled looks from the people around her and momentarily caused a few of the players to look up from the game. Marty folded his arms in a smug fashion.

"Why am I always right?"

Buffy rolled her eyes. "So what did you say to him?"

"Um, I didn't say anything."

"Excuse me?"

"The coach yelled for him before I could say anything."

Marty buried his head in his hands with an exasperated groan.

"It's always dramatic with you two, isn't it?"

"Wait. So he's playing right now, not knowing if you like him back?" Buffy asked. When Cyrus grimaced, she sighed heavily.

"Why? What's wrong?"

"Cyrus - you're the only one that can distract TJ from basketball. Whenever he thinks you're mad at him during practise, he can barely concentrate."

As if to prove her point, TJ went for a goal and narrowly missed, causing a collective groan amongst the Jefferson High students.

Oh dammit - TJ never misses.

Cyrus desperately tried to catch his eye. He succeeded after a few minutes, and tried to give him the warmest, most reassuring smile he possibly could. He also flashed a thumbs-up for good measure. This seemed to put TJ at ease somewhat, because for the first time since the game had started, he smiled. Marty clapped a hand on Cyrus' back.

"Well, Cyrus may be the only who can distract him, but he's also the only one that can get him going again."

Sure enough, when TJ went for another goal, the ball went in. Buffy was beaming at him.

"And thank god for that that."

Throughout the game, Cyrus gave TJ reassuring smiles when he could and tried his best to ignore the knowing looks both Buffy and Marty were throwing him. Andi rejoined them about half-way through and sat next to Cyrus, wrapping an arm around him. He smiled sympathetically and leaned into her.

"Jonah drama?"

"You know it." she sighed. "Boys are the worst."

Cyrus laughed at that. "They really are."

"Well - except you."

"Why thank you! Do you wanna talk at the spoon later?"

"Please," she groaned. "This whole thing has been a nightmare."

He nodded and reached for her hand, squeezing it supportively.

TJ's team ended up winning the game by two goals.

Cyrus rushed down as soon as he could, trying his best to (politely) push past the swarms of people and get onto the court. His teammates were jumping around excitedly and hugging him, while TJ was grinning and wiping his face with a towel. Just like before, they stopped as soon as they saw Cyrus.

TJ's smile faltered slightly when he saw him. He separated himself from his teammates and took a hesitant step forward, which Cyrus mirrored. Soon enough, the younger boy was running up to him and throwing his arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. The other boy immediately dropped his towel.

"I like you too."

The words were quiet, but TJ seemed to hear them if the grin on his face was anything to go by. He hesitantly placed his hands on Cyrus' waist.

"Can I kiss you for real?" he breathed.

"Yeah."

Then, TJ was leaning in and Cyrus could feel the other boy's warm breath ghosting over his lips. There was a collective gasp from all of the teammates when their lips finally met. Cyrus was almost certain he could hear both Andi and Buffy screaming while Marty laughed.

TJ's lips were warm and slightly chapped, and he tasted like mint and strawberries and wow yeah- Cyrus was so gone. The kiss was chaste, but it still had him feeling slightly light-headed as he pulled away.

"Did you eat strawberries before this?" he blurted.

TJ laughed and pulling the other boy closer to him.

"You're cute. Yeah - I did."

An embarrassed flush appeared on Cyrus' face as he nodded, but he still couldn't help a wide smile. TJ's teammates began crowding him and clapping him on the back. The shorter boy couldn't hear much over the crowd, but he could hear faint 'Nice one's and 'Finally's.

Even the coach was shaking his head, a slight smile tugging at his lips.

"Thank god!"

They both turned around to see Andi, Buffy and Marty standing infront of them. Marty was grinning.

"I would've died of frustration if you guys kept going on like that without getting together."

"Seconded. Although, we still have to interrogate you," Andi warned.

Buffy gave TJ a stern look. "If you ever hurt him, you're dead Kippen."

He raised his arms in surrender and nodded.

"Okay, Driscoll."

She immediately smiled at that.

"I'm not sure if Jonah is going to believe this actually happened. As far as he's concerned, you two are just casual friends."

Marty smirked and pulled his phone from his pocket.

"Well, lucky for you guys, I caught it all on camera. I don't think you'll ever be hearing the end of this."

Cyrus and TJ both groaned.


	24. (M) DRARRY - Storm in a Teacup by Faith

Storm in a Teacup  
Faith Wood (faithwood)

Summary:  
For reasons he'd rather not think about, Draco is obsessed with Potter's hair. This cannot end well.

* * *

It all happened because Potter was apparently unable to get a haircut. His hair had always been a wild mess, but these days the jet-black strands were _everywhere_. They curled around his ears, brushed against his cheeks, and would surely try to poke Potter's eyes out if Potter's glasses didn't protect them.

Draco suffered a severe case of second-hand itchiness whenever the damned things attacked Potter's face.

Potter, on the other hand, was apparently unconcerned by the ridiculous state of his hair, and he seldom reached up to brush away a strand or two, not even attempting to repeat the motion when the insolent strands neatly returned to their attacking ways.

A particularly stubborn lock was always intent on tickling Potter's right cheek. It stuck out, longer than the rest, and was one of precious few that had the ability to attract Potter's ire. Not that the impatient tug of Potter's fingers ever successfully tamed it.

One day, Draco was sure, he would lose his patience and curse the shocking black chaos off Potter's head.

To be perfectly honest, it wasn't just the hair. The adoring masses with yet unheard of ability to swoon and simper were equally at fault.

Draco couldn't help drawing a parallel: the Hogwarts student body was a lot like Potter's hair. A wild mess of black, intent on claiming at least a tiny part of the great Harry Potter.

It wasn't like they chased him around, exactly, but that was only because Potter had learned the hard way not to run and give them ideas. But someone always had something to say to Potter, something to show him, something to give him. They stopped him in the corridors to shake his hand and give him chocolate, to ask him something about defensive spells, to talk to him about the weather and the likelihood of rain next weekend, which, coincidentally, was a Hogsmeade weekend, and oh-are-you-going-with-someone-Harry-or-will-you-go-with-me?

Potter would smile and shake his head, then walk away to disappear as mysteriously as a ghost, undoubtedly with the aid of his Invisibility Cloak.

Where Potter disappeared to, no one knew. Except maybe Granger and Weasley, but they weren't telling.

The most popular theory was that Potter ran off to shag some oh-so-fortunate girl. If he were truly shagging someone for hours every day, it _would_ at least explain the state of his hair.

No one could blame Draco for being curious. Everyone was curious. But not everyone knew Hogwarts hidden passageways as well as the person who had spent a year trying to find a way to let Death Eaters into the castle.

Though not proud of the reason he'd obtained that knowledge, Draco was grateful for it when he finally discovered Potter's hideout.

It wasn't an earth-shattering discovery. He found Potter in a narrow corridor on the fourth floor, sitting on the floor of a small alcove, brightly lit thanks to a high window overlooking the lake. He was alone and appeared to be studying. Definitely not shagging anyone.

He looked up when Draco stepped forward, and then blinked twice. A strand of black hair was dutifully tickling his right cheek.

"Sorry," Draco hurried to say before Potter drew a conclusion of his own. "I didn't know this place was occupied."

"I..." Ink dripped from Potter's quill down to the yellow parchment. As far as Draco could see, other than a few black blotches, the parchment was empty. "I didn't know people knew about it. Is this—" A tentative smile stretched Potter's lips. "Is this your spot or something?"

Draco had only been here once before, nearly two years ago. He shrugged. "Sometimes." He returned Potter's smile. "It doesn't matter, though. I'll find another spot." He turned a little as though to leave.

Potter scrambled to his feet. "No! I didn't know! I never saw anyone here, so I assumed..." He stuffed the parchment into his bag and bent to pick up his books. "I'll leave."

And that perfectly summarised every interaction Draco had with Potter ever since they had returned to Hogwarts to finish their schooling. As though through some unspoken agreement, they always ended up trying to out-nice each other.

Draco wasn't about to lose now. "Really, Potter, there's no need. You're studying. I only came here to stare at the empty walls and brood."

Potter laughed. He had packed his bag already. "Did it truly look like I was studying? That's _brilliant_. Because I was only pretending, just in case Hermione showed up."

"I see. So you were actually wanking?"

Potter coughed a little; he must not have expected Draco's conclusion. "Er, no. That would be embarrassing, in case—"

"Hermione showed up," Draco finished with a snort, then replayed his words in his mind and hurriedly corrected himself. "Granger, I mean." It just really sucked when one blindly repeated another's words; he didn't go around calling Granger _Hermione_, like they were or wanted to be friends.

Potter looked like he was trying hard not to laugh too much. His cheeks were flushed. Now he'd probably go around telling everyone he knew that Draco privately thought of Granger as Hermione and was perhaps secretly in love with her.

Potter's hair was vibrant, clearly in hyper-attack mode; one strand even sneaked in beneath Potter's glasses to tease Potter's eyelashes into excessive blinking.

Draco had to leave now or risk doing something stupid. Like hexing Potter bald, or worse, walking over to free Potter's face by capturing the mad hair with his hands.

"I'm not emotionally attached to this place, Potter," he said. "It can be your spot." He turned and hurried to leave before Potter could argue back.

It occurred to Draco later that the narrow corridor and the small bright alcove were perfect for studying in peace. Potter was unlikely to return now that his place of solitude had been desecrated by Draco's presence, so it could very well be Draco's study spot from now on.

Draco went back the next day, armed with books, parchments and quills. He sat cross-legged on the floor and Conjured a hovering wooden board to serve as a desk. It was a bit wobbly and it liked to bounce if Draco thought about what to write for too long, but he made some significant progress on his Transfiguration essay before Potter showed up. Or rather burst through the tapestry that marked the entrance. He was flushed and panting, and partly invisible. Head, chest and one hand was all Draco could see of him.

"Why is it," Draco said when Potter spotted him, "that you can stand your ground when facing a Dark Lord, but run like the wind when a little girl wants to give you chocolate?"

Potter was apparently agitated enough to try to brush hair away from his face. It made Draco feel special.

"I thought you come here rarely."

Draco nodded. "Today happens to be rarely."

Potter clearly didn't feel like being nice this time. "Fine, then." He struggled with the Invisibility Cloak, trying to pull it back over his shoulders.

"You're being ridiculous, Potter. There's plenty of room here, and I'm writing an essay in absolute silence. If you didn't actually come here to wank, just sit down and study. I promise not to give you any chocolate. Or talk to you. Or acknowledge you in any way."

Potter yanked off the cloak, then paused, staring at Draco. "I did come here to wank," he said at last, but walked over rather than left.

Draco eyed Potter warily as he slid to the floor at the opposite side of the alcove. "If you whip it out now, Potter, I will hex you."

"I'll try to contain myself." Potter stuffed the shimmering cloak into his backpack. Then he took out his Transfiguration homework. "I don't suppose you'll let me copy your Transfiguration essay?"

"Sure I will," Draco said, liking the way Potter's eyebrows rose in surprise. "I want a Galleon per sentence."

Potter was startled into a laugh. It brightened his whole face, teeth flashing white, eyes green, cheeks pink. The familiar strand of black hair touched his right cheek. Draco glared at it.

Potter took out a quill, shaking his head. "Will you at least make me that hover desk thing you have there?"

Draco tried to think of a reason not to do it, but his treacherous hand had already picked up his wand. "If it shuts you up," he said and Conjured a board for Potter.

Potter did, in fact, shut up and Draco returned to his essay. He tried very hard to ignore Potter's presence and not look up again.

"Is it always rarely?" Potter asked the next day when he found Draco in the alcove.

"I changed my mind," Draco said. "This is my spot and I'd like to keep it."

Potter sighed and turned away.

"You can stay," Draco hurried to add. "Just be quiet and stop bemoaning my presence." _And cut your hair_, Draco wanted to add.

Potter studied him for a moment. "Don't you come here to be alone?"

"I come here so I wouldn't feel like someone's constantly staring at me. I trust you not to do that." The last bit sounded bitter to Draco's ears; he hoped Potter didn't catch it.

Potter nodded and looked away as though to prove he was indeed not interested in staring at Draco. He moved to his spot in the alcove and Draco Conjured another hovering desk for him without a word.

Potter was a surprisingly pleasant study partner. He was very quiet, didn't make odd sounds with his mouth like Goyle, or sniff and sigh a lot like Pansy, nor did he have a twitchy leg and restless fingers like Blaise.

Potter had a tendency to drift off somewhere far away, staring at his parchment completely frozen, eyes wide and lips pursed. Sometimes he looked disturbingly vulnerable in those moments, other times he looked angry, as furious and intense as he looked that day he brought down Voldemort with Draco's wand.

Draco didn't even want to imagine what went through Potter's mind in those moments. Although he was sort of dying to ask and find out. He tried to do it, too, several times, at least once every time they ended up studying together.

But his intended question, "What are you thinking?" transformed into most mundane things by the time it reached his lips.

"Do you have a spare quill?" he asked once and Potter's gaze snapped up to burn through Draco before clearing.

"Sure," Potter said and then pulled a quill from his bag. Their knuckles knocked together when Potter handed him the quill. It was a wretched quill, it turned out. It made all of Draco's letters look mismatched and quivery.

"Our new Transfiguration teacher is a troll for making us write this," Draco declared another time.

Potter blinked, then shook his head. "Don't insult trolls. They're so much cooler. They have big, thick clubs. I bet Professor Tam's club is really small."

"Like them big and thick, then, do you?" Draco had to ask.

"Doesn't everyone?" Potter grinned and returned to his studies.

Draco thought about big, thick clubs for the rest of the day.

"I'll write your Potions essay if you write my Defence essay," Draco suggested one day.

Potter looked delighted. He even brushed away the stupid strand of hair clinging to his cheek as though he guessed it annoyed Draco something dreadful.

A week after they both got high marks for their respective essays, Potter arrived at the alcove, looking oddly flushed and restless. He fidgeted and tapped his parchment with his quill so much Draco lost his patience.

"What is it, Potter?"

Potter looked up and stared at him for so long Draco had time to think of fifteen different ways to describe the brightness of Potter's green eyes.

And then Potter said, "I'm gay."

And Draco said nothing at all, because he was busy contemplating whether or not to cast a Purging Spell on his ears. Or an Anti-Random-Babbling Charm on Potter.

"I like blokes," Potter said, because Draco's silence must have given him an urge to clarify. "I want to shag blokes," he added. "Well, not all of them. Just a few. Well, I wouldn't mind shagging a few girls either. Especially the athletic ones. And funny, loud ones. But mostly blokes. I think about it a lot. Too much, in fact."

Draco found his voice; he had apparently lost it somewhere in the depths of his stomach and it came out in a strained whisper. "Why are you telling me this?"

Potter was still staring, wide-eyed. "Because I need to tell someone. It's driving me mad. And well, you... you can't exactly tell anyone, can you?"

Draco never liked it when people told him what he could and could not do. "I can," he assured.

"Well, yes, I suppose. But no one will believe you're telling the truth. They'll just think you're making stuff up to be mean."

That hurt. It was true, sure, but it still hurt.

Potter must have realised it. "I'm sorry. That was rude. Sometimes I'm not sure how not to be rude to you."

"I get it," Draco said. "Perfectly normal attitude for a complete ponce."

Potter's sudden smile looked uncertain. "You're teasing, aren't you? I can never tell."

"I'm always perfectly serious and I hardly ever tease," Draco said. "Now please fantasise about shagging blokes quietly. I have an essay to write."

Potter laughed, a breathless, quiet sound, and Draco shut him up by Conjuring a hovering wooden board, which flew at Potter and smacked him firmly in the chest.

Silence reigned, but Draco had trouble with his essay. The air in the alcove was sparse and his vision was curiously blurry.

He was trying hard not to imagine what Potter was thinking about.

Four days later, Potter stared at his Charms homework with an accusing sort of scrutiny, as though he'd ordered it to write itself but it stubbornly refused. A narrow beam of fading sunlight illuminated his face; the warmth of it pinked his cheeks and dried his lips. He kept pulling his bottom lip between his teeth only to release it seconds later. Each time it looked fuller and redder. One black strand of hair was sneaking toward the bridge of his nose.

"Have you told your friends?" Draco asked.

Potter looked up with a twitch of his head that sent the daring lock of hair to the side where it had to satisfy itself by tickling Potter's eyebrow. "Told them I hadn't written my fabulous Potions essay, you mean? Of course not. Hermione is so jealous. She accused me of cheating again, but she has no proof."

"About wanting to shag blokes, you idiot." A smile tugged at his lips. "It was rather fabulous, wasn't it?" He blinked. "Wait. What do you mean she accused you of cheating _again?_ Cheating at Potions? You've done it before? Oh. _Oh!_ In our sixth year! I _knew_ it."

Potter's hovering desk bounced. A quick tap of his quill against the parchment made it stop. "No, I didn't."

"Didn't what? Cheat? Tell them you're gay?"

"Both."

"Why not?"

Potter shook his head sadly. "Because cheating is wrong."

"Potter."

"Besides, I was just following a different set of instructions. It's not technically cheating."

"Potter, I'm referring to your newfound desire to shag blokes." He frowned. "Whose instructions _were_ you following, then?"

"It's not newfound, exactly. I had fantasies about blokes before." Potter seemed to drift off for a moment — probably having a shockingly inappropriate fantasy right then and there — and then he blinked and added, "They were Snape's instructions."

"Snape instructed you to fantasise about blokes?"

Potter's scowl dislodged the strand clinging to his eyebrow, and it slid lower, nearly poking his eye out. It served him right for scowling. He rescued his eye with a shake of his head. "I had an old Potions book filled with Snape's instructions and I followed them, and that's why I was better at Potions in our sixth year."

"Snape wasn't our Potions teacher in our sixth year," Draco pointed out, distracted; there were more important things to think about. He assumed an air of nonchalance and asked, "So who were you fantasising about back then?"

"Ginny Weasley." Potter was looking at him through his eyelashes, smiling. "And no, he wasn't. That's the whole point. I ignored Slughorn, used Snape's old book and followed the instructions written in the margins."

"Ginny Weasley is not a bloke. And you do realise, Potter, you had Snape's instructions at your disposal for five years. Why haven't they helped you before?"

"I didn't know the book was his. Maybe that helped. I never liked listening to what he had to say. And you asked me who I was fantasising about back then. Well, it was Ginny. That was two years ago, though. Other fantasies happened in the meantime."

"So who is it? A student? A professor? A Quidditch star?" It was probably Viktor Krum. Everyone fantasised about Viktor Krum."

"All of the above."

"You have a very slutty mind."

"Doesn't everyone?"

"Mine's very monogamous, actually."

"Oh? Who's your special fantasy person?"

Draco had to consider it. "A blurry, sort of undefined thing," he decided. "It gives good head."

Potter laughed. It _was_ pretty funny. And sadly true. Draco feared he lacked imagination, visual aspects of it at least. He really liked his blurry, undefined person, though. Giving it a face would make it real. And real tended to lead to spectacular disappointments.

"You should tell them," Draco said.

"About your blurry thing that gives good head?"

"Honestly. What exactly are you afraid of? Weren't Granger and Weasley ready to die for you? You keep saying that in all your interviews."

Oh,_ fuck._

"You read my interviews?"

Of course. _Of course_ Potter would focus on that. "Often. Loudly and in public, using my most dramatic voice and all of my limbs for stronger emphasis. It's the highlight of every Saturday evening in the Slytherin common room."

Potter's laughter wasn't loud, but his shoulders shook from the force of it.

Something warm squeezed Draco's chest. Potter thought him funny.

"I know," Potter said after he calmed down. "And I know exactly how they'll react. Hermione will be very supportive and tell me it's all right, possibly insist she knew it all along even if she didn't. And Ron will thump my back and be very, very awkward. And then he'll try to set me up with Charlie. He keeps saying Charlie's gay. Everyone does, really."

Charlie was probably one of Weasley brothers. There were so many. "Is Charlie the one with a scarred face? Or the one without an ear? Or the one with the glasses?"

"Um, no. He's the muscular one, with the dragons."

"Oh." The muscular one. With the dragons. "Best say nothing at all, then. You don't want to get mixed up with dragons. They're not very friendly."

"I'll tell them, eventually," Potter said, because of course he wasn't afraid of dragons. "I just... these days, we sit in the common room, and Ron and Hermione discuss what they'll do after school and where they'll live; the most normal conversation you can think of. They're planning their lives, and for the first time in years they don't have to worry about me. I just don't think it's the right time to bring it up."

"I see. You feel guilty because you and your problems were the main topic of conversation all these years, and you've decided not to bother your friends with them again, but at the same time you really miss it, so you thought you'd whine at me instead."

Potter's foot twitched, as though he wanted to kick Draco, but thought better of it. "You're a complete prick, you know that?"

Draco had to laugh. "Luckily for me, you like pricks."

Potter glared for a second, but then snorted. "You started this conversation. I was minding my own business, not bothering you at all."

That wasn't true. Potter _was_ bothering him. With his hair and his lips and his bright face. "It was an innocent question," Draco said. "Not an open invitation for you to share all your feelings. I just wanted to know if I could start selling my 'I support Poncy Potty' badges or not. They're ready for mass production."

Potter looked like he didn't know whether to laugh or hex him. "You _are_ joking. Right?"

"Absolutely not. They're the same old badges. Except they no longer flash 'Potter stinks' when pressed. Due to obvious reasons, I changed them to say, 'Potter sucks.'"

The indignant protest Draco expected failed to happen. Potter's lips parted and then, amazingly, he blushed. He looked down at his homework, shaking his head. "You're joking," he said and didn't look up again. His face was completely red, though, for at least another half an hour.

Draco found it hard to concentrate on his essay. His wooden board wouldn't stop bouncing. Potter was just sitting there, his mind most likely full of thoughts of... Well. It was very distracting.

That night, Draco thought about their conversation a lot. He decided it had been inane and ridiculous, and his replies lacked bite and weren't amusing enough, but he couldn't help replaying parts of it in his mind with a vague sense of satisfaction.

Saturday morning found Draco in a good mood. He had risen earlier than normal and walked down to the pitch, hoping to catch Potter during his morning flight. His fingers were toying with a badge in his pocket. He had Charmed it yesterday and planned to offer it to Potter as proof he hadn't been lying. Either Potter would be horrified or he'd laugh himself silly. Both possibilities promised to be endlessly amusing.

Sure enough, Potter was already there, flying around the pitch on his Firebolt. He wasn't alone, though. The weather was warm and the sky clear, and quite a few other students were in the air, playing impromptu Quidditch matches. Others cheered them on from the stands.

Draco nearly turned away and left, but Potter spotted him, spun on his broom and flew straight at him. He reached Draco in seconds and hovered a few feet away, grinning as though drunk.

"I hope that's a Snitch in your hand, Malfoy," he said by way of greeting. His face was flushed and sweaty. He must have spent an hour or so doing insane flips and figures just to show off. "Release it if you dare and we'll see which one of us can catch it first."

Draco's fingers wrapped tighter around the badge; he wished it were a Snitch. He hadn't expected Potter's invitation; they didn't really spend any time together outside their alcove.

"It's not, sorry."

Potter looked up at the sky. "Maybe we can steal someone else's."

"I didn't even bring a broom, Potter."

"Which is odd, I must say." Potter hopped down from his broom and walked closer. Warm air seemed to surround him, reaching out to wrap around Draco's body.

"I just wanted—"

"To have a quick one-on-one with me?" Potter's grin turned lopsided. He leaned in, voice lowering. "Admit it." His warm breath tickled Draco's cheek.

Draco's chest hurt. His heart lost its steady beat and throbbed in an erratic, slow rhythm.

"Harry!" someone yelled; it sounded like Weasley. "We're getting some breakfast! Coming?"

Potter looked away and squinted in Weasley's direction; Draco drew a quick breath.

"Sure, all right. In a minute!" Potter called, then turned back to Draco and cocked his head. "Unless you've changed your mind." Potter was so close, so warm. His eyes seem to reflect the sun.

But something was terribly wrong. Wrong with the moment, with the world around them, with Potter. The way he was looking at Draco, his smile, his flushed face. His _hair_. His ridiculous, wild hair, windswept and clinging to every part of Potter's face it could reach. Potter was in too sharp focus, too bright in a dull world.

Draco shook his head to clear it.

"All right, then." Potter's sigh sounded exaggerated. "Your loss." He turned.

"Wait!" Draco called, not sure why. Something important had happened and Draco couldn't figure out what. Potter had broken the moment too soon; he couldn't just _leave_.

"What?" Potter tried to brush a few strands away from his face. It did no good. That long one, the most annoying one, was clinging to his cheek. Draco couldn't stand it anymore. He just couldn't _stand_ it.

He took out his wand.

Potter blinked at it. "Er, are you planning to hex me?" He sounded bemused, but he was still smiling.

"No," Draco said. "This is important. Trust me. Stay still."

Potter obeyed.

One small Vanishing Charm and that strand would be gone forever. He could trim a few others, too. Potter ought to be grateful. Draco focused on Potter's cheek. The skin beneath was pink; Potter's blush spread downward, all the way to his collar, stretching somewhere beneath his shirt, who knew how far. "_Evanesco_," Draco whispered.

The spell flashed bright, but the strand was still there; Draco could hardly believe it.

Potter's hair was untouched; his clothes, though, were gone.

Someone screamed in the distance. The air filled with gasps and shrieks, laughter and whistles. Potter's eyes were so very wide. He stood naked in the middle of the Quidditch field, with Draco's wand pointing straight at him.

The commotion grew louder, people were running towards them, and Potter just stood there, naked, _staring_. He looked so, so shocked.

Draco opened his mouth. "I didn't—" What could he possibly say? He had no explanation, no excuse. He didn't even know what had possessed him to lift his wand to Vanish Potter's hair. Why do it now? Why had he done it _now_? Where was a Time-Turner when you needed it?

Draco took a step back and did the only sensible thing he could think of: he spun around and bolted.

Moments later, in the safety of the castle, he realised he had dropped and lost the badge.

The world didn't end, Draco kept reminding himself the following week. Besides, the consequences weren't as bad as they could have been.

Potter's friends were very, very cross and had exhausted their facial muscles by glaring and scowling at Draco excessively. Draco was used to worse; they didn't even try to hex him. McGonagall deducted one hundred points from Slytherin and gave Draco detention, cleverly choosing to assign him to Hagrid for maximum punishment. But that was nothing Draco hadn't experienced in the past.

He was a secret hero to many. That was new. Someone had managed to snap a few pictures of Potter's nakedness, and many Hogwarts students spent hours fondly staring at the numerous copies. They tended to give Draco thumbs up when they saw him.

It would all be quite amusing, actually, if not for the knife embedded in Draco's chest, which loved to twist and poke more deeply whenever Potter looked at him, whenever Potter didn't look at him, whenever he caught someone drooling all over Potter's pictures, whenever Potter was forced to leave the Great Hall with pink cheeks, whenever Draco sat down to study and it wasn't the alcove. He didn't dare to go back, even though he knew he'd never find Potter there again.

The knife hadn't appeared right away. It had taken two days after the event for it to sink in. It happened in the middle of the night, a particularly hot one, filled with bad dreams and damp sheets, when Draco woke up with a sudden realisation: Potter was his friend. After all these years. _Potter was his friend.  
_  
And now he wasn't.

The pain in his chest began in that moment and it would not stop.

He thought about trying to explain himself to Potter. He thought about it a lot. He'd tell Potter he didn't want to humiliate him in public; he just wanted to fix his hair.

But Potter wouldn't believe him, of course. And it wasn't really true, anyway. It was never about the hair. Draco realised that, too. It had shoved the knife even deeper.

On the bright side, since he walked around feeling like someone was constantly stabbing him and like he was half-dead already, it apparently made him courageous. And Draco needed courage when Hagrid sent him alone into the Forbidden Forest to collect all the knotgrass he could find. The special sort, with extra flavour and nasty temper, which was perfect if one was brewing knotgrass mead. Once, Draco would have filed an official complaint for being forced to aid Hagrid in such inappropriate endeavours, but now he just couldn't be bothered.

The forest was dark and brooding, and smelled of danger and rot, and it suited Draco's mood perfectly. He found a rich green patch with ease; he didn't even have to walk far into the forest. He set aside the leather drawstring bag Hagrid had given him, and knelt, careful not to touch the grass with his knees. It liked to sneak towards its victim, wrap around it and tie it in firm, unbreakable knots. The trick was to snatch one blade of grass at the time and hastily Petrify it. The patch looked unruly and wild, and deceptively still. It reminded Draco of Potter. He picked the strands and Petrified them with glee.

He barely flinched when something rattled in the bushes; he merely glanced up when a Thestral swooped down to snatch some poor squirrel from a tree branch. He wasn't even tempted to scream when air shifted to his right and shimmered away to reveal Potter.

He didn't scream, but the knife in his chest twisted. For a moment, he amused himself by thinking that perhaps this had been Hagrid and Potter's plan all along. They meant to lure Draco into the forest and exact revenge. Perhaps Vanish his clothing and leave him for the werewolves to find.

It would have been preferable to what Potter was obviously here to do. Potter leaned against a tree trunk, hands in his pockets, and stared at Draco. He wanted to _talk_; it was written all over him.

"I'm busy," Draco said, not looking up from the grass in his hand. It tried to wrap around his finger and Draco shot a spell at it. He set it into the bag, careful not to break it.

"Just thought I'd return this."

Something whooshed through the air and smacked Draco's shoulder. Draco glanced at it out of the corner of his eye. It was the 'I support Poncy Potty,' badge. It landed neatly into the knotgrass patch. The grass wrapped around it with delight and swallowed it.

"Thanks a lot, Potter. I don't have a spare, you know."

Draco Charmed three more blades of knotgrass before Potter spoke again.

"You won't even tell me why you did it?"

The knife twisted again; Potter sounded _so_ hurt. "I like making badges. You know that." Draco could almost _feel_ Potter getting angrier. He was silent and still, as though ready to explode any second now. Maybe that was a good thing. Maybe he would hex Draco and _leave_.

"I just want to know _why_, Malfoy. Did I do something to annoy you or was this your plan all along? What, were you biding your time? Waiting for me to get so stupid as to let you point your wand at me and hex me? Were you looking for ways to publicly humiliate me the moment I told you I was gay?"

Draco didn't know what to say to that, except the truth. "Actually I just wanted to fix your stupid hair, but I missed." Of course, the truth was a joke.

"Malfoy." Potter sighed. It sounded shivery, somehow. Like Potter was about to cry. Draco looked up in fright. Potter didn't seem weepy, though; he just looked disappointed, _betrayed_. "Why do you hate me so much? Even after I... Why?"

"Even after you what?"

Potter kicked the ground with his foot. "You know what."

Draco knew what. "Were you expecting gratitude?"

"Actually, no. Not from you. I was expecting lack of hatred. I thought we'd moved past that. I thought—"

Draco Petrified the blade of grass in his hand so forcefully it turned into green ice. It sparkled up at him like a gemstone and Draco crushed it in his hand.

Potter wasn't finished. "Were you sitting in the alcove every day, _hating_ me?"

Draco had a crazy urge to laugh. He didn't laugh, though. He said, "I was aiming for your hair."

"For fuck's sake, Malfoy, can't you just — Just say it. Just tell me how much you hate me. You clearly do, so why won't you say it?"

Draco drew a calming breath. "I was aiming for your hair."

"Malfoy—"

Draco shot up. "I was aiming for your stupid hair, Potter!" Sparks flew out of his wand; his throat hurt.

Potter was armed in a second, poised to strike. "Right. All right. I hear you. You wanted to Vanish my hair, not my clothes. Is that some sort of excuse? How is that any better, exactly?" Potter's eyes were searching Draco's face. "Or are you actually insane?"

Draco _was_ insane; he turned mad in exactly that moment. He felt it happen. A switch flipping in his head. He charged at Potter, not even caring that Potter had his wand pointed at him. Draco's wand had fallen to the forest floor. He didn't care. He crushed Potter against the tree with his body. Potter's wand was trapped between them, but neither Draco nor Potter paid any heed to it. Potter was staring at him, eyes as wide as they had been when Draco had spelled his clothes away at the pitch.

"This strand, right here..." Draco reached up and trapped it between his fingertips; it was the long one, his most hated one that liked Potter's cheek. Potter glanced at it sideways, then looked back at Draco. "I dream about it," Draco said. He dreamt about it a lot. Nearly every night. "It was the first thing I saw, you know."

"Malfoy," Potter whispered. He said it in a way a person would speak to a madman.

Draco tugged at the strands in his grip. "You were all sweaty, your face was dirty. We were all sweaty and dirty, weren't we? Fire does that, turns everything into heat and dirt. I looked up and there you were, that stupid strand of hair stuck to your cheek. It was so bright I could barely see. I only recognised you because of your stupid, _stupid_ hair. Stupid Potter with his stupid hair come to save me."

Potter's eyes were greener than the knotgrass.

"You think I hate you. Oh, _Potter_. The truth is _so_ much worse. I'm one of them now. I'm one of those you hate the most. One of your adoring fans you're running from. I don't hate you. I want to give you all the fucking chocolate you want. I want to take you to Hogsmeade and buy you a carriage full of treacle tarts. See, I even know they're your favourites. That alcove? That's not my spot. I was looking for you. I was looking for your hideout for weeks. And I found you and then I went back just to see you again. And, you know, I'd write any essay you want. No charge. I'm pretty sure I'd even strip on a crowded Quidditch pitch if I knew it would make you laugh."

Potter shook his head, very slowly. "You wouldn't."

"I would. Well, I would _now_, because I'm so sorry I..." The knife twisted again; Draco couldn't speak.

"You wouldn't," Potter repeated. "Malfoy, you're... babbling nonsense. If I asked you to write my essays for me, you'd tell me to fuck off."

"No, Potter, you don't understand. I'd write all of them for you. I _would_. I'm like the little girl with the chocolates, following you around, hoping for a chance to do something to make you smile at me."

Potter smiled, as though to grant Draco's wish. "Those chocolates are usually filled with Love Potions, you know."

"It doesn't matter. It's the same thing, Potter. You're not listening." Which was terribly annoying, because they were so close; their foreheads were pressed together, they breathed each other's air, and Potter must have heard Draco's every word, but he just wasn't paying attention. "I'm one of _them_ now. One of your mindless fans. I was just really good at hiding it."

Potter was whispering now. "Do you want my autograph, then?"

_Merlin_. "I don't want your autograph, Potter."

"What _do_ you want?"

Potter's eyes were so close, and so green. "I want... I want to stop being your mindless fan. I want to stop feeling like this. It's _torture_."

Potter leaned his head sideways. "It is, isn't it?" His lips brushed against Draco's. By accident, Draco thought, but then they did it again, warm, soft pressure reaching down all the way to Draco's chest, melting the knife there away.

"Are you..." Draco spoke against Potter's lips, which made it difficult to breathe. He pulled away, just a little. "Are you being kind?"

Warm breath tickled Draco's face as Potter laughed. "You really do have a very high opinion of me all of a sudden. I'm not being _kind_." Potter's hand sneaked down to the small of Draco's back. "It wasn't my hideout, you know. I found the place the same day you found me. I only went back hoping to see you." Potter's lips twitched; his hand pressed more firmly against Draco's back. "Does that make me your fan? I didn't think of it that way, but if that's what we're calling it..."

Draco had little time to absorb this information because Potter was kissing him again. Kissing him because he wanted to; that part Draco absorbed with his whole being.

Potter's tongue slipped past Draco's lips and Draco felt himself fall forward, even though there was nowhere to fall, but that was how it felt, like he was slipping into something he'd never break free of.

That should have been terrifying, but instead it made Draco happy. So happy he had to break their kiss to laugh.

"You're Potter," he said, laughing against Potter's cheek. He kissed Potter's cheekbone, moved lower to graze his teeth against Potter's jaw, then to the side to trap Potter's earlobe between his lips so he could nibble on it, and then below to suck on the tender skin there. "Stupid, ridiculous Potter," he murmured, mouth full of Potter's taste.

Potter's hair was tickling his nose. Draco buried his face in the unruly, black mess and breathed in a lungful of apple-scented air.

It occurred to Draco, through a kind of haze, that the scent of Potter's hair, no matter how wonderful, probably couldn't have been responsible for his near-orgasmic state.

Potter's hands were firm on Draco's hips, their bodies pressed tightly together, rocking, shuddering, maybe even hovering above the ground. Potter's breath was hot on Draco's neck, his teeth and lips sending small shocks of pleasure through Draco's body.

It was over shockingly fast; one moment the pleasure was overwhelming; in the next, it was ebbing away, no matter how hard Draco tried to recapture it

But when he finally opened his eyes and found the strength to lift his head, he realised that in those few moments the world had shifted and changed. He had woken up in the world he glimpsed back at the Quidditch pitch, the dull one, where Potter — Potter, whose head had fallen back against the tree, his eyes half-closed and his hair a mess — shone brighter than anything else. But this time it didn't feel wrong; it felt like the most perfect world to live in.

Well. Draco shifted. Sticky pants aside and all.

Potter was smiling. "Will you really buy me a carriage full of treacle tarts?"

"I will," Draco vowed. "Eventually. One at the time. If I buy you so many at once, you'll eat them all and get sick."

"Right. And will you really write all of my essays?"

"Absolutely! If it makes you happy, the moment you write an essay, I'll happily copy it." Potter frowned at that and Draco shrugged. "The English language is tricky. It's too easy to twist meanings. It's not my fault."

Potter cocked his head. "Will you at least take off your clothes on a crowded Quidditch pitch?"

Draco felt a stab of guilt. That would be fair, he supposed. "All right. I'll do it."

Potter laughed. "You must have something impressive to show. It _felt_ impressive earlier." He leered at little, but the effect was ruined with a slight blush.

Draco beamed.

"I think I'd prefer a private show," Potter decided.

"It can be arranged. I know just the place." Draco grinned, but then some of his lost reason returned to his mind and he glanced back at the patch of knotgrass. His bag was gone; the grass looked inconspicuous and unmoving. "Well, I'll do it if you help me serve my detention. It _is_ technically your fault that the stupid grass ate half of my efforts."

Potter mock-sighed. "For a person who claims he'll do everything for me, you're kind of high priced."

Potter's bottom lip quivered as he tried to contain his laughter. Draco bent forward and kissed him senseless. "My everything, Potter, is worth _a lot_," he said, even though he never really thought so before. He thought so now though, especially with Potter looking at him like he agreed, like he was even willing to pay the price.

"I'd better go rescue your bag, then," Potter said, and then went and did just that. He was good at that sort of thing. It made Draco want to kiss him all the time. It was really quite pathetic.

But then Potter was nearly eaten by the grass, and Draco had to rescue him, which was kind of pathetic of Potter too, so Draco thought this thing between them might just work out in the end.

They spent the evening in their alcove. Draco Conjured a makeshift bed and Potter Conjured blankets. The blankets soon disappeared and the bed was very bouncy, but it served its purpose.

Potter was lying down on his side, propped up on his elbow, fingers toying with Draco's hair. "You know," he said, with a soppy sort of smile, the kind that only happened after a couple of orgasms, "I really like your hair, too."

Draco snorted, smug. He was in an exceptionally good mood. Earlier, Potter's hand had travelled downwards, and his fingers had slipped between Draco's buttocks, and then pushed inside, painfully gentle and shockingly skilful. It was a strange feeling, exposing, too intimate, burning in a way that made Draco ache for more. Traces of Potter's touch lingered even now. It made Draco squirm constantly; he was suddenly too aware of that part of his body.

"That's only natural, Potter," he said. "Everyone likes my hair. The Malfoys' hair has been admired through centuries. People wrote songs about it. This, on the other hand..." Draco reached up to grab a fistful of Potter's hair. "It looks like something my house-elves use for dusting. Liking that is a sign of definite madness."

"Maybe I should cut it. That never really worked well in the past, but who knows?"

Draco's grip on Potter's hair tightened. "Don't you _dare_. Not _ever_, Potter."

Potter placed a palm on Draco's naked chest. "I won't," he said. "_Breathe_."

"It wouldn't suit you, anyway." Draco eased his grip.

The bed bounced.

"_Merlin_," Potter sighed, "why is everything you Conjure so demanding?"

"Spoken like a lazy person."

Potter's hand travelled down Draco's body to wrap around his prick. It was soft, but it wouldn't stay soft for long, not with Potter touching it.

"If I'm so lazy, then why am I doing all the work here?" Even as he grumbled, Potter edged downwards until he was settled on his belly between Draco's legs. His face was alarmingly close to Draco's crotch, his hand squeezing and stroking constantly.

Draco eyed Potter's caressing fingers. "If you manage to get it up again, I might be persuaded to fuck you," he said. Potter stared at him, unblinking. Draco's skin heated all the way to the middle of his chest. He looked away. "If you'd like..." he added.

Potter gripped him tighter and breathed hotly against the tip of Draco's prick. Draco shuddered.

"Am I competing against your blurry thing?" Potter's voice was so low, so rough, Draco almost jumped out of his skin. His prick twitched.

"Of course," Draco breathed. "And countless other people who gave me blowjobs in the past."

"Countless?" Potter's tongue peeked out to give Draco a teasing lick.

Draco tried not to squirm too much. A moan escaped him. It was too hard to lie at this point. "It's hard to count zeroes."

Potter's lips closed around the tip and he sucked a little before pulling away. "But the blurry thing... It's probably spectacular. How could I ever compare?"

"You can defeat anyone," Draco said mindlessly.

Potter laughed, then sucked Draco's prick into his mouth and proved Draco right. Draco got harder faster than he thought possible.

Afterward, Potter lay down on his stomach and let Draco do as he promised. Once again, Draco came with his nose buried in Potter's hair.

Sticky and sated, deep inside Potter, he decided he could do this forever.

He would have to, he supposed, or he would end up regretting, and possibly sniffing black feather dusters for the rest of his life. He was stuck with Potter now.

"Have you told them?" Draco asked. He was whispering because they were in the library. Sometimes they'd study there because they'd stopped studying in the alcove and used it for other purposes.

"Um," Potter said.

Draco glanced at Granger and Weasley. They were studying, too, two seats away. Well, mostly they were studying, but sometimes they were just sitting there whispering and giving Draco odd looks. Potter had told them that Draco was now his study partner because he felt horrible about that accident at the Quidditch pitch and wanted to redeem himself by helping Potter with Potions.

Potter's friends were still struggling to swallow that story; Draco heard they suspected that nefarious ploys were afoot.

"I still don't think it's the right time," Potter said, keeping his voice low. "I just don't want to spent hours discussing this with them. And that's exactly what will happen."

Draco shook his head. It was time to put his foot down. "Granger!" he called, ignoring Potter's twitchy head shakes. Someone said, "Shhhhh!" as Granger and Weasley looked at Draco. "I just thought I'd tell you," Draco began, "that Potter here and I are in love, and are actually planning to live together when we finish school. And we're gay, if the implication of my previous statement wasn't clear."

Weasley blinked and Granger said, "Er, right." Then they returned to their studies.

"See? It took two seconds." Draco grinned at Potter, who stared at him in shock. Draco couldn't blame him. They had never really discussed love or living together.

Draco looked down at his book, his face hot.

A minute later, Weasley whispered, "Harry? He _is_ joking, right?"

Potter laughed. "I can never tell," he said, but seemed quite happy about it. Happy enough to grab Draco's chin and give him a sound kiss.

If anyone gasped in shock, Draco didn't hear them.


	25. (T) KLANCE - Sweet Quiznak by CheckeredC

Sweet Quiznak  
CheckeredCloth

Summary:  
"You're really into him," Hunk mutters, and wow, Lance's face is on fire. Hunk is killing him.

"Look, read into how you like, Freud, just make sure that if I die Keith knows I totally would've mowed his ass like grass. That way, I can laugh hysterically at his emotionally-constipated expression from the afterlife."

Or: Lance is badly injured and has a few skeletons in his closet. Or maybe just the one.

* * *

Chapter 1

For all the shit Lance receives on a day-to-day basis from Keith and the other guys (but mostly Keith), Hunk definitely takes the crown for worst shuttle-craft pilot. And if Lance actually manages to get out of this, he'll never let his big, soft-hearted friend forget it.

"Jesus, hunk!" He curses, white-knuckled grip on the arm-rests of his seat. For the past twenty minutes they've been bobbing and weaving through uncharted, debris-ridden space, his normally-reserved friend making slap-dash flying decisions worthy of the Red Lion (though without nearly the same level of skill). "Slow down! I think you nearly side-swiped that whole freaking planet!"

"No talking," Hunk says, jaw set in a determined expression that he's had since they left planet-side. "Save your strength."

Lance pouts, but complies, hissing a bit as he takes his wadded-up jacket and presses it more firmly to his own abdomen. He can't help but notice in the periphery of his blurry vision that Hunk winces at the sound, but the larger paladin keeps his eyes trained on the view-screen in front of him.

Despite his more pressing physical issues, Lance feels a little guilty: he knows he would have a hell of a time trying to pilot a clunky ship through unfamiliar space while a friend bleeds out all over the nice, clean cockpit floors. Talk about a bummer.

Not that Lance thinks any of this is HIS fault; it was supposed to be a peaceful mission, dammit! When Coran and Allura stumbled upon a small (albeit way, way under-developed) society of pacifists that had yet to fall under the crushing force of Zarkon's thumb, it seemed an ideal situation for diplomacy.

Sending two paladins alone in a single shuttle to play diplomats was Coran's screwball idea:

_"They all need to learn, and the D'al are the perfect opportunity!" he exclaimed. "All life is supposedly sacred in their culture, even the tiniest D'alan mud-flea. The potential for even Lance to incite a frenzy is optimistically minimal."_

_"Hey!"_

_"No," Allura said, hands on her hips. "Splitting up the paladins puts us at a severe strategic disadvantage."_

_"Never meeting the people we're trying to save does, too," Shiro pointed out, reasonably. "They won't believe in us if they don't know us. Besides, you said there was a small Galran installation in this galaxy that already has its eyes on the D'al. We have enough bodies to make two teams."_

_"Two teams, two missions." Pidge said with a shrug. "We can cover more ground and increase our odds of winning the war in the long run."_

_Allura sighed. "I don't like it... But I can't deny the logic." She smiled grimly. "And the paladins have clearly gotten very good at out-voting me."_

_"Never should've started that team bonding, food-fight-exercise-thing-y, baby," Lance said, shooting her the finger-guns._

_"So who goes to the tea-party, and who gets to kick Galra ass?" Keith asked, arms crossed and making it very clear which task he'd prefer._

_Shiro smiled. "How does anyone decide anything of importance? We'll draw straws..."_

Lance is not surprised that he drew the short straw. He just didn't know it at the time.

And everything was going great at first: the D'al are green, hairless humanoids, and every bit as peaceful (and boring) as Coran implied, engaging in diplomatic relations with a grace and dignity far beyond their mud dwellings and humble (nearly non-existent) attire.

It's their pre-reformist enemies, the Xi'hal, that royally _suck._

The D'al's leader was apparently anticipating an assassination attempt (hello, Lance would've appreciated _that_ memo) but had no method of countering it: it is not the D'alan way to hide nor to retaliate. But what the leader didn't anticipate was that the attack would be on his young son. When the Xi'hal assassin -disguised as a priest- pulled the strange, hooked knife, Lance didn't even think, just acted...

And the next thing he knew, he was crouched painfully in the dirt in front of the kid, his guts slashed and a horrified look on all the faces around him, Hunk's included.

But hey, Lance is pretty sure the D'al_ like_ Team Voltron now, and, pacifists or no, they didn't seem too upset when Hunk shot the assassin with his bayard.

But all this reminiscing is wearing Lance out, and he's getting bored again. Hey, bothering Hunk is fun...

"Hey Hunk?" he asks, and wow, his voice is raspy. "You remember that old cleaning lady at our dorm, who was always losing her cat?" Hunk nods, still not looking Lance. "I teased you for it, but I actually thought it was pretty cool of you to go looking for it, even if it did run away, like, ninety times."

And Lance grins, because he can't help but remember every one of those times: that cat was a fucking nuisance, climbing latrines and ravines (and one time, hilariously, the officers' lounge; Lance has pictures), only to get stuck until someone brought the yowling beast down again. Hunk never failed to be the one to do so, even though he's grossly allergic to cats and terrified of heights.

"And that one time..." Lance coughs wetly and closes his eyes, still grinning. "When that little squirrel got its ass kicked by that ass-hole fat squirrel who took all his nuts, and you shared your lunch with it? Yeah, I teased you for that... But I thought that was pretty cool, too."

"Stop it!"

Lance opens his eyes, blinking at his friend in surprise. Hunk is not generally prone to emotional outbursts. "Stop what?"

"Stop talking to me like you're going to going to die!"

Lance looks down at his red, sodden jacket that he's pretty sure even Nunvill can't clean. "Well, it's not looking too peachy from where I'm sitting, buddy."

"You're going to be fine," Hunk seems to be trying to convince himself as much as Lance. "We're going to get you to a healing pod, and everything's going to be fine."

And Lance decides to let that be that, because Hunk is making that face he makes when he's nearly in tears, and the last thing Lance wants to see is something as heart-breaking as a crying Hunk.

Especially since it might _actually_ be the last thing he sees.

Hunk curses (a rare sound indeed), and tries the shuttle's emergency broadcast system again. "Hello? Hello? Where the hell are you guys?" He slaps his hand back down on the inter-space communicator, air huffing out of his large cheeks in frustration.

"No dice?"

"No dice," Hunk mutters. "Something in the metallic rocks of this asteroid belt is mucking up communications. All of our signals are bouncing back at us; even if I converted the shuttle's artificial gravity inducers into grounders for the sub-space transmission circuit-"

"English."

"-Even if I beefed up our communication systems, our transmissions still wouldn't go anywhere. Or, at least, not where they're supposed to."

"Ah. Why didn't we just go around the stupid asteroid belt?"

Hunk's fingers clench around the pilot's controls. "We have to get to the ship, quickly. We don't have that kind of time."

And Lance's mind is getting a little fuzzy, but he doesn't miss the unspoken words: _You don't have that kind of time..._

"Hey, you know," Lance says, unable to ignore the elephant in the room, even when it's threatening to stomp on his head, "Even if we somehow manage to get within transmission range, the others are probably busy kicking Galra ass right now. It's not like they can drop what they're doing and come get us."

"Then I'll think of something else."

Lance swallows, his throat painfully dry for some reason. And he thinks: how fucking unfair would it be for _Hunk_ if Lance bled out and he was left -poor, loyal, determined Hunk- all alone in this stupid shuttle in this stupid asteroid belt with a _corpse_, after trying so hard to save Lance's life? Lance presses his hoodie tighter against his stomach, even if it makes his vision go a little wonky for a beat, and takes a couple deep breaths. Because there is no way he's gonna let that happen. Not now that he's properly motivated.

But just in case...

"Hey Hunk?"

"Yeah?"

"I know you're trying to navigate through, like, four thousand space rocks right now, but if I die as a result of your terrible driving then I want the air to be clear-"

"Lance, I find it hard to believe that you would leave anything unsaid. I don't think there are enough words in the galaxy."

"Hey! I have secrets. Like wanting to jump Keith's bones."

They knock solidly into the side of an asteroid.

"What?!" Hunk exclaims, turning to gape at Lance. Lance grunts at the painful jarring of his wound. "Since when? H-how-?"

"Since pretty much the first time I saw that stupid mullet," Lance says through clenched teeth. "Could you please watch where you're going?"

Hunk ignores him. "But you never said... and it's not like you would-"

"Would hide that kind of thing? Would leave any attraction to anyone even remotely unsaid, for a second?" Lance can feel his face heating up, which sucks because he can't spare the blood. "Well, I guess something about him just makes me want to pull his pig-tails, or mullet-tail, or whatever."

They pause for a moment while Hunk mulls thoughtfully over the revelation. "You're really into him," Hunk mutters, and wow, Lance's face is on fire. Hunk is killing him.

"Look, read into how you like, Freud, just make sure that if I die Keith knows I totally would've mowed his ass like grass. That way, I can laugh hysterically at his emotionally-constipated expression from the afterlife."

Hunk grunts, like Lance is a four year-old blowing smoke.

"Also," Lance continues, weakly gripping his friend's shoulder and hoping that Hunk doesn't notice how red and dark the fingers are, "I know you did everything you could, Hunk. I'm glad you're here with me."

Hunk sniffles, and Lance wants to say something else, anything, to lighten the mood, but another asteroid pelts their hull from seemingly out of nowhere, and the jarring motion is apparently too much for Lance's wound; he finds himself sailing unwillingly, painfully, into a white powder-y void where thinking and being are impossible. Hunk's shouts reverberate distantly in his ears...

His last thought is that he hopes the guys will be able to find someone else to pilot the blue lion.

* * *

Chapter 2

Lance is floating perfectly contented in the white nothingness, minding his own business, when suddenly, BAM! Someone flips a switch in his spine:

He's unceremoniously thrown back into his body, veins pounding as his nervous system is overloaded with what feels like a power-surge; his lungs are heaving, body arching up off the ground as the rush passes unrelentingly through his senses. His eyes fly open and land on the two paladins crouched over his body. Hunk is peering at his face in concern.

"Do you think it worked?" he asks Keith, who is sweaty and still in paladin armor.

"Fuck!" Lance chokes out. "What the flipping hell?"

"I think it worked," Keith says, rolling his eyes.

"What the hell was that?" Lance asks again, finally taking in his surroundings: they appear to be in the cockpit of Keith's lion mid-flight, though Lance has no memory whatsoever of changing space-craft, or lying down, or... who the hell is flying this thing, anyway?

"I shot you full of adrenaline," Keith says, and Lance notices what appears to be a small gun attached to a vial in his right hand. "At least, I think." He squints dubiously at the Altean labels on the vial.

"You can't just shoot people full of unknown alien substances without their permission!"

"You weren't breathing, dumbass! And I wouldn't have to if you actually took care of yourself, for once!"

"Hey! This isn't my fault!"

"Really? Because I'm starting to think everything's your fault, Lance!"

"Guys!" Hunk interjects, digging through what Lance guesses is an Altean First-Aid kit. "This isn't really the time, you know?" He produces a fat, gauzy piece of material, and Lance doesn't even feel it when it's pressed to his wound. Thank you, Altean wonder drugs. "How long until we reach the castle?"

"Two minutes."

"How did you know to come find us?" Lance asks, rolling his head to inspect the cockpit. He's never been inside Big Red before. "And who's flying the lion?"

"Autopilot." The lions have autopilot? "And... I just had a feeling, I guess?"

Lance rolls his eyes at the typically vague, Keith-ish response. "Of course you did." Feelings, energies, sure, whatever. "Wake me in two." He lays his head back down on the deck and tries to steady his erratic breathing. Two minute ETA to magic healing pod? He can totally live that long. Go team. His eyelids fall, and he actually feels somewhat relaxed again when there's a small slap to the side of his face.

"Gah! Bastard!" Lance reaches up to snatch Keith's wrist where it's poised threateningly above his face. "What was that for?"

"Stay awake," Keith commands, not moving to break Lance's grasp.

"I'll have you know that I was focusing on _surviving."_

"Yeah, because your recent escapades completely support that statement. Why do we let you out of the castle, again?"

"Because we need all five lions to form Voltron," Hunks pipes up helpfully, somewhere in the vicinity of Lance's feet.

"Wow, thanks Hunk," Lance says, not breaking his glare-off with the dark-haired paladin leaning over him. Keith's wrist feels comfortably warm and heavy in his hand, the other paladin's round blue eyes intent and yet, somehow, a little distant. No matter how mad he might seem, Keith's always a little distant: it's like there's a manufactured, artificially-flavored coating protecting his insides that Lance just can't not bite into even in the worst situations.

Keith drives him crazy in a thousand different, weird little ways he can't explain.

"Why can't you and I," Lance mutters, voice pitched for Keith's ears alone, "pretend to not hate each other for five minutes?"

Keith's fingers clench, tendons rotating against Lance's palm. "I've never hated you." His heavy eyebrows scrunch in confusion. "I don't know why you can't accept that. I've been saying it since the beginning."

And his painfully earnest expression is one Lance is getting to know well; it's achingly familiar at this point, like the scar of an old wound you got on what you thought was a good day.

_"Best. Day. Ever."_

_Lance turned from the list of class rankings to grin at the attractive cadet also reading the list. "Impressed?" he asked, leaning against the large screen._

_"You're blocking my name," she said, playfully shoving his shoulder. "I'm guessing that's you up top?"_

_"The one and only."_

_"Well, don't get too used to it," she said, tucking a strand of dark hair behind her ear with a smile. "It's only the first term, and these things change pretty fast. Also, we got a late-arrival today: he's supposedly a real wild-card."_

_Lance made a show of inspecting his fingernails. "Well, he'll learn his place in the ranks pretty soon."_

_She raised an eyebrow and pointed to the opposite end of the cadet lounge. "Why don't you go give him a heads-up, then?" She wandered away to a large group of girls by the food processors, but not before Lance's gaze followed her finger's trajectory to an unfamiliar dark mullet. Who rocked a mullet anymore?_

_Apparently, this guy did, and it actually kind of suited him, in a bad-boy kind of way. Lance sidled up to where the kid stood in front of the lounge news-feed, watching the latest report on that Kerberos disaster. He was intending a little gentle hazing, 'cause, you know, new kid; but the guy's face was a bit twisted at what he was watching on the screen, like he was in physical pain, and that idea went as quickly as it came._

_"Hey," he said. There was no reaction, as if the kid hadn't even heard him. Lance cleared his throat, and that did the trick: the new cadet turned to him, eyes looking like they were a million miles away. "I'm Lance," Lance said, holding out his hand._

_The kid stared at the hand in front of him for a beat. "So?" he said, as if he was genuinely confused by Lance's invasion of his personal bubble. Lance gaped as Mullet-boy strode away, that strange, twisted look back on the other teen's face._

_Lance stood there for a minute and couldn't help wondering what he'd missed..._

Lance opens his mouth, not sure how to respond, when all ability to respond abandons him in a sudden spasm of discomfort.

He gasps, head thrown back and body bucking against his will, ears ringing in a chorus of wrongness that makes his limbs twitch. Lance's mother taught him at a young age that ingesting weird substances was a big No-No; he's not surprised that Keith -socially-inept lone wolf- somehow missed that domestic memo.

Two hands suddenly push at his shoulders, flattening him to the floor, but he can't identify the owner because his vision is dotted with little orange explosions. All he knows is that Hunk is shouting at Keith, Keith is shouting at _him,_ and he. can't. breathe.

Unconsciousness is a relief.

Lance can hear voices speaking softly...

_..."Alright, so in hindsight sending them to the planet may have been a mistake. But as they say on Earth: hindsight is 70/50."_

_"It's 20/20, actually."_

_"What? Earthling vision must be horrendous. No wonder you poor things need so many inane colloquialisms to get through the day!"_

_"What Coran means to say is that Lance may have a propensity to attract trouble, even in a seemingly benign setting. We'll adjust accordingly."_

_"Agreed. We'll keep him in combat situations only, from now on. It'll probably be safer for him."_

_"His brain activity is spiking; I believe the healing cycle is nearly finished."_

_"Let him out..."_

Lance's world explodes in a cloud of white light and steam, and he staggers into a familiar body standing just outside the healing pod.

"Ding, turkey's done," he mutters into Shiro's warm, sturdy chest. Shiro takes his arm in a steadying grip.

"Hey buddy. How do you feel?" Lance doesn't get a chance to reply.

"LANCE!" He finds his vision eclipsed by two very large, very Hunk-ish arms. He braces himself -Hunk-hugs are the bane of perfectly healthy rib-cages everywhere- but Shiro says "Easy, easy!" and Lance finds himself only _mildly_ crushed. "I thought for sure that you were toast!"

Lance frowns, the side of his face squashed somewhere in the vicinity of Shiro's armpit. "You kept saying everything was going to be fine!"

"I was putting on a brave face for you!" Little tears of relief are seeping out of the corner of Hunk's eyes, and Lance can't help but turn and hug his big friend properly (if anyone makes fun of him for the sentiment later, he'll blame it on all the weird Altean medicine messing with his head). Lance peers over Hunk's shoulder and sees that yes, he's in the Infirmary, and the whole Voltron team is present with one obvious exception.

"I'd join the paladin group hug," Pidge points out with a small smile, arms crossed. "But after watching you sleep for three days, I think I feel close enough to you already."

"Three _days?"_

"We took turns keeping watch," Allura cuts in, warmly. She looks as fresh and perfect as Lance is gross and groggy. "You were never once alone. Though... some of us were more dedicated than others." She curls her long fingers over her chin, like she often does when she's trying to avoid pointing out something embarrassing.

"What Allura means," Pidge explains patiently, already typing away at some new computerized upgrade (are Lance's near-death experiences becoming that unimpressive?), "is that Keith had a three-day, epic angst session in front of your pod, and Shiro finally had to send him away because he was so pathetic and smelly that we thought his presence might actually be detrimental to your recovery."

"Really?" Lance asks Shiro, who shrugs.

"You were in bad shape, Lance."

The way Shiro tells it (and Lance considers Shiro to be the only truly reputable source on the ship) Keith left the battle before it was even fully over, the Galra installation reduced to a few dented stragglers who bolted for the nearest neighboring galaxy when the metaphorical smoke cleared.

And it was hella lucky for Lance and Hunk that he did: Keith's "bad feeling" put him within transmission range of their shuttle just as Hunk was forced to divert all remaining power to life-support; apparently they only had minutes left of pressurized air.

Also, Lance's seizing apparently had nothing to do with the shot of adrenaline Keith gave him:

Coran pops over to one of the infirmary's view-screens, pulling up a chart and tapping a pointer against it with a loud thwack. "As you can see, vital organs were perforated here, here, aaaand here. Human physiology is actually quite disgusting," he concludes, cheerfully.

"Where is Keith now?" Lance asks, trying to ignore the scans of his supposedly re-functioning organs.

"Probably in his room." That's Pidge again, a little too-helpfully and too-innocently. Little punk. "Want me to go get him so that you both can resume filling the room with unresolved sexual tension?"

Lance blinks as that little comment, a small potential-revelation itching at the corner of his brain. "You TOLD everyone?!" He realizes finally, pointing one enraged finger in Hunk's direction.

"Are you really surprised?" Pidge juts a thumb casually at a guiltily-grinning Hunk, in between strings of code. "He read my diary during an intergalactic crisis. This man has no respect for privacy."

Hunk avoids Lance's murderous glare. "I was trying to process the trauma of the experience!" He says, tapping his fingers together anxiously. "Besides: we needed stuff to talk about during the time that we were waiting for you to heal."

"Does _Keith_ know?"

"Uh, well," Hunk fudges, eyes anywhere in the room but Lance. "You see, I didn't technically tell him. But the thing about living in a ship with only seven people on it is word kind of... gets around?"

"You were supposed to tell him when I was _dead!"_

Shiro clears his throat pointedly. "Which thankfully you're not," he says, clapping a hand on Lance's shoulder. "Dinner's not for another few hours. Why don't you get some rest until then?"

Rest? Like Lance can rest...

He needs to find Keith. Though what he'll say when he finds him, he has no clue.

* * *

Chapter 3

When Lance stands outside Keith's door a few thousand ticks later, freshly-showered and clad in tee shirt, jeans, and robe (because Holy Balmera, the castle-ship gets cold, and his ruined jacket is officially MIA) he still has _no fucking clue what to say._

He stands there for an embarrassingly long time, fist raised above the door in a pre-knocking motion. Only when his stupid arm begins to go numb does he finally bring it down, nearly rapping his knuckles on Keith's forehead when the door suddenly whooshes open. Keith neatly steps out of the way of his fist without so much as a twitch, because it's Keith.

"You're awake," Keith says, almost robotically. And wow, he looks like hell.

To be fair, Lance knows he doesn't look much better, like he lost a few pounds he definitely couldn't afford to drop. But Keith looks like he hasn't slept in days (which according to Pidge, he hasn't really), his normally owlish eyes a little sunken in and red-rimmed. He's just showered though, like Lance, and his dripping dark hair is pulled back into a knot that shouldn't look cool and masculine but does anyway.

"Well, yeah," Lance says with a shrug, putting thoughts of Keith's irritating attractiveness on the back-burner. "Takes more than a primitive assassin with a bone-knife to get rid of me. It would take, like, at least two."

"Let's not test that theory."

"Okey dokey, Smokey."

They stand awkwardly in the doorway for a moment, Keith still technically inside his room and Lance still technically in the hall. Lance shifts to the side. "Going somewhere?"

"What?" Keith asks, scrunching his eyebrows. "Oh. Not anymore." He shrugs a little too casually, and Lance can't help but wonder if Keith was going to the Infirmary to check on him. "Come in," he says, stepping back into the darkened interior of his room, and Lance does. And for a moment his awkwardness at being in Keith's room for the first time is over-ridden by curiosity, because he's pretty sure Keith lets no one in his room. Like ever.

The room, for the most part, is just like Lance's, but there are a few obvious touches of personality: it's neat, but a bit cluttered, like the organized chaos of Keith's mind; he has drawings of the places they've been tacked up onto the wall, accurately if not stylistically-rendered; his paladin armor is in a pile in the corner, dark stains of what is probably Lance's blood still marring the surface; and on the desk in the center of the room is an open book, an old-fashioned ballpoint still resting along the interior spine.

Lance pinches one leathery corner of the book, wanting to look further, but Keith reaches over and slaps it shut. "What did you come here to tell me, Lance?" Keith asks, flat of his palm still resting protectively on the closed journal. Because Lance is almost positive that's what it is.

Lance crosses his arms defensively. "I figured you'd want to chat. Clear the air."

"Chatting isn't really my preferred method of dealing with things."

"Well, I figured this was kind of a special circumstance."

"Why?" There's a strange flicker of emotion in his eyes that Lance can't interpret. "Because you almost died? _Again?"_ Keith picks up the book and tosses it onto his made bed with a scowl.

_No,_ Lance wants to say. _Because now you know that I want to jump your bones._

But he doesn't say it, because there's a whole new undercurrent to their interaction now, like Lance has stepped over a line he didn't know was there and the tension has been amp-ed up as a result.

Fuck, he knew this would be awkward, but he didn't expect Keith to be _mad_ about it.

"Are you pissed at me?"

"No! No, I'm not pissed at you. It's just..." Keith runs his fingers agitatedly through his own hair. "Why is it that every time we're apart something terrible happens to you?" he burst out. And huh, Lance is suddenly not sure they're still talking about the same shit. "I don't want to worry about you, okay? I don't want that in my life any more!"

"Hey! I didn't ask-"

"I know!" Keith says and plops down on his bunk. "I know." A tense silence follows.

And hey, Lance thinks he gets it, albeit in a weird, inverted kind of way: Keith has lived alone since he dropped out of flight school, probably longer if his weird, hermit-ized brand of socialization is anything to go by; Lance, conversely, has never lived alone, has always had four older siblings and the claustrophobia-inducing values of old-fashioned culture at his back.

But being surrounded by people doesn't mean anyone's looking at you.

So Lance understands, theoretically, how introducing people into the equation can make things messy or uncomfortable, if you're not used to it. And he actually does feel kind of bad for adding another cat to the bag of felines that is Keith's brain.

"Hey," Lance says, and Keith's eyes flick in the direction of Lance's right knee. "I didn't come to here to pick a fight or 'clear the air.' I actually came to say I'm sorry."

That makes the Keith sit up and take notice. "What? Why?"

"Because of what Hunk said. Look, I get if it makes you uncomfortable, and if it makes you feel any better it doesn't really have anything to do with you, exactly, but I..." Lance trails off at the increasingly blank look on the other paladin's face. "Wait," he says, squinting in suspicion. "Tell me what you know."

"Know about what?" Keith asks, rising to stand in front of him. "What did Hunk say?"

Lance groans and covers his face with both hands. Leave it to Keith to miss out on a juicy rumor in a room of only six people. "Nothing. Forget about it."

"No really," Keith insists, moving close enough to grab Lance's left wrist and pull it away from Lance's face, their bodies a partial reflection of a few days ago. "Tell me."

"Why? What's the point?" Lance scowls, giving a kind-of ninja chop to where Keith's hand has a hold of his wrist. Keith lets go with a wince. "'Cause I get it, okay? You don't hate me, but nothing I do really matters to you, either."

"Of course it does. You're a part of this team."

"I'm a butt in a cockpit-seat, whoop-de-doo." Lance turns to leave, this instance of somehow evading Keith's radar again stinging just a little too much for his comfort, even if it means avoiding an extremely embarrassing confrontation. "If you need Voltron, let me know. Otherwise, I'll be in my room napping."

"Lance," Keith says, grabbing both of Lance's shoulders and spinning him around until they're face-to-face. The motion is a little dizzying and brings them so close that their chests are nearly touching. Lance can see the bags under Keith's eyes and smell the antiseptic of the infirmary on his clothing.

"Keith," he counters, flatly.

There's that constipated look. "Look, you and I keep miscommunicating, somehow." He huffs out a breath that tickles Lance's nose. "I just don't get what it is that you want from me."

And they stand there for a beat, breathing one another's carbon dioxide, while Keith -intelligent, capable, top-of-the class-without-breaking-a-sweat _Keith_\- looks to Lance to explain why they're not getting along. Like Lance is some kind of camp counselor mitigating arguments down at the pool (which he technically did for four years back in Varadero, but those skills aren't any real use to him now).

And, really, all Lance can think is: What the hell? It's not like he has anything to lose.

In a moment of insanity, he presses his mouth to the slightly parted lips in front of him.

And it's not Lance's first kiss, by any stretch (what happens at beach camp stays at beach camp), but it's certainly notable: one, because it doesn't taste like suntan lotion and lip balm; Keith's lips are chapped but soft, and they don't really taste like _anything,_ which Lance actually kind of appreciates...

Two, because Keith isn't moving. At all.

Lance rears back as if slapped, and he's awarded the sight of a fellow paladin in a cryogenically frozen state: Keith's eyes are impossibly round, lips still slightly parted, fingers twitching almost imperceptibly where they still grip Lance's shoulders. Shiro is going to be pissed when he finds out that Lance broke Keith's brain.

All Lance's brain can focus on is retreat. "Look, I-" he says, stepping carefully out of Keith's grasp. Keith's hands remain suspended in the air. "I'm just going to go. Things to do, people to see, pods to scrub for Coran, you know how it is." His face is on fire as he backs up hastily to make his exit.

The sound of the automatic door release snaps Keith back into animation. "Wha-? But I didn't- and you? You didn't even let me..." He makes a kind of strangled roar of frustration, tangling his hands in his own hair. _"Don't you walk away from me, bastard, we're bonding!"_

But Lance is already out the door and bolting down the hall.

* * *

Chapter 4

When Lance was eleven, he learned how to perfectly execute a flip-turn.

In competitive swimming, it is one of the most essential and yet over-looked maneuvers: tucking your head, rolling your body with its pre-existing momentum so that you can use that force to push back at the wall, back at the water that's trying to buffer your speed. To the untrained eye, it's a blip in the program, something to gloss over in the heat of the relay. But a well-executed flip-turn will set up any decent swimmer for a good finish, will point them in the right direction. Even if that direction is technically the way they came.

Lance (who's gangly on land, but was _made_ for the water) decided at an early age that any momentous event in his life was actually a flip-turn, an instance of kicking off in a new direction. And while there are many childhood instances that he once considered huge and soul-altering, adult-ish Lance currently only has three marked instances of a flip-turn:

One, when his best friend Martin died in that car accident, and Lance dropped all his training, all his coaches, and all his swim scholarships to learn to become a pilot, half-way across the world.

Two, when he climbed down from that roof to rescue a former-idol with a former-rival.

And three, kissing Keith.

And okay, Lance doesn't need to be told how pathetic it is that all of his flip-turns have somehow left him pointing at Keith, like he's a fucking recurring side-character in the epic story of Keith's life. Lance is his own person, thank you, and every decision he's made has been his own.

But still, he can't deny that sometimes a part of you is actually a part of someone else, too. And vice-versa.

"One of these days, kid," his mother said to him, once, "You're going to push someone too far. And either something terrible or wonderful is going to happen."

And Lance knows that she's right. He just doesn't know which it is, yet.

"Well, isn't this fun," Pidge deadpans over the mic from the green lion's cockpit.

The training session has been going as well as can be expected when two of Voltron's paladins aren't speaking to one another. Lance still hasn't talked to Keith about their big Bonding Moment three days ago (mainly because Lance has avoided Keith like the Andebulan Measels, which Coran says are both horrifying and highly contagious). And it's not because he doesn't want to hear what Keith has to say, it's... nope, that's it: Lance _definitely_ does not want to hear what Keith has to say. With Lance's luck, it will most likely be accompanied by a glare or a fist. Or death by Red Lion heat-ray.

But Lance digresses; with two members of the team in such a state, forming Voltron hasn't just been difficult: it's been fucking_ impossible._

"Okay, that's it," Shiro says over the mic, in a tone that implies their Fate-appointed babysitter has had enough of their bullshit. "Pidge, Hunk: go back to the ship. Keith and Lance? You're with me." Alfor's beard.

Pidge and hunk chime in their affirmations, doing as instructed. Lance doesn't say anything as he pilots his lion after Shiro to the surface of the uninhabited planet they've claimed for the week, and neither does Keith; they both know what's coming.

Once all three of have landed and are standing outside on the planet's dusty, hot surface, Shiro pulls his helmet from his head and rests it on one hip. "What the hell is wrong with you two?" he asks, and his glare tells Lance that it isn't a rhetorical question. "Well?"

"It's his fault!" Keith blurts out, crossing his arms petulantly. The squealer.

"It is not!" Lance says, mimicking the posture. "Okay, so maybe it technically is! But I still don't deserve to be in trouble!"

"I don't care!" Shiro retorts. "I've given you both three days to sort this, and whatever it is, you're going to sort it. _Now."_

They both uncross their arms, because they know better than to provoke Shiro when he's using his Dad Voice.

"Two hours," Shiro continues, holding up two metal fingers. "That's when I'll come back to this spot. You both better have learned to like one another, by then."

And then they're alone, stuck together on a barren landscape (and Lance could technically escape in his lion, but Shiro would definitely put him in Time Out, and Lance is afraid to know how many laps and push-ups that would entail). He kicks grumpily at a huge, triangular rock that might have actually been a structure once, when alien peoples lived here.

"Would you at least look at me?" Keith says.

Lance peeks briefly back over his shoulder. "Oh, hello. I'm sorry, are you talking to me?" He crosses his arms again and leans back against Blue's flank. "Name's Lance. You may have forgotten, but we went to school together."

"Don't be an ass, it doesn't suit you."

"It suits you," Lance mutters, unsure if they're complimenting or insulting one another.

Keith walks up closer to him, kicking up clouds of dust and pulling off his helmet. He then reaches to tug off Lance's, and Lance lets him because it _is_ pretty fucking hot out. Also, the close proximity to someone he kissed only three days ago has left him somewhat paralyzed.

"Okay, so I'm going to say something," Keith says, and his expression is open, intent on Lance in a way it never has been before, "And you're going to fucking listen, alright?"

Lance mimes pulling a zipper closed over his own lips before re-crossing his arms. Keith rolls his eyes but continues.

"When we were rescuing Shiro from those scientists? I know now that I hurt you, by not remembering who you were."

Lance's eyes flick to somewhere over Keith's left shoulder. "What was your first clue?"

"Well, Shiro helped enlighten me, a little."

Lance blinks. "Wait, what? Do you tell him _everything_ that goes on between us?"

Keith's cheeks flush in a rare display of embarrassment. "Just shut-up for a minute, okay? This kind of stuff isn't exactly easy for me." He takes a deep breath. "So, I hurt you, and I know it's not the only time that I did it and it probably won't be the last. But you've let me down too."

"What?" Lance straightens up. "How?"

"By not letting me explain myself after you dropped that fucking bomb on me the other day!" Keith's face is starting to duke it out against his armor for vibrancy. Lance wonders if it can be seen from space. "You can't just kiss someone and then bail!"

There are suddenly several tiny, static-y exclamations of surprise from the helmets still held in Keith's grasp, and he tosses them away as if burned (though, as they sail several yards away, Lance can still hear a victorious "I knew it! I win the bet!" from Pidge). Eavesdropping traitors.

"I didn't want to hear what you had to say," Lance says, pulling Keith's attention away from glaring at their helmets. "That's why I ran."

"Maybe you would've liked what I had to say."

"I doubt it."

"You're such an idiot."

"See! This is me! Not liking what you have to say-!" But Lance doesn't get to say anything more, because suddenly Keith's mouth is on his, and his brain is forced to reject its previous understanding of reality in favor of a new one.

Because Keith kisses like he does everything else: carelessly, wildly, dangerously; he pushes Lance up against the metal of Blue's hull with a dull thunk, one hand going to Lance's hip and the other to his bicep. Lance lets him, lets Keith make him forget that he's supposed to be defensive and embarrassed in favor of tangling his gloved fingers in dark hair, of pushing his tongue past Keith's teeth and into that hot mouth he's thought about more times than he'll admit. When Lance takes Keith's lower lip between his teeth and bites down, the other paladin moans in such a way that makes Lance think he needs to get Keith to open up more often.

When they finally break away from one another, all panting breaths and outrageously sweaty helmet-hair, Keith adopts a slightly smug look.

"See? Told you you'd like it," he says.

And Lance means to say something snappy, but all that comes out is, _"Woah."_

Keith's answering grin is something Lance wouldn't be able to look away from if he was bleeding, starving, and Shiro was performing sensual salsa dances for Galra soldiers to the left of them. It's so bright that he might need sunglasses, for later instances.

He's really looking forward to later.

"You better fucking remember this bonding moment, asshole," Keith warns, body still pressed up against Lance's.

"Who are you, again? OUCH! That is not okay, Keith!"

_Everything is okay._


	26. (O) TREEBROS - Support by lightsandspark

Support  
lightsandsparks

Summary:  
Evan and Connor are forced into a support group for teenagers who've attempted suicide. They ditch together.

* * *

Chapter 1

The support group had been his therapist's idea.

In all honesty, Evan can't think of a worse solution to his issues. He deals with a crippling amount of social anxiety and the thought of telling a bunch of strangers about his deepest darkest secrets is enough to make him start hyperventilating in the car.

"Evan?" his mom asks, glancing over at him in the passenger seat. "What's going on? Do I need to pull over?"

God, he's a mess. He doesn't want anyone else to see him like this, cracked open with all of his ickiest parts exposed. Especially not a group of his peers. Besides, they'll want him to talk, right? All eyes on him, listening to every stutter and stumble as he tries to find the right words or correct answer to a question. It's public speaking in its scariest form, and Evan knows it's not going to help.

If anything, it's going to make things worse.

"No, no, I'm. I'm fine," Evan insists between gasps. Heidi pulls over anyway.

"Deep breaths, Evan."

"I don't want to go," he eventually manages.

"Sweetie," Heidi says in that sickly sweet voice she uses when he's having another one of his meltdowns. He hates it. It makes him feel like a child, like he's something fragile. "I think you should go just this once, at least. Dr. Sherman agrees it's a good idea and plus, trying new things is how you grow, right?"

Evan rolls his eyes. He hates that phrase. "Therapy works just fine."

"Evan, I did a little research on support groups and they seem like very useful tools. Sometimes the best people to help you heal are the ones that experienced the same things you did. You went through something pretty traumatic, afterall. Why not just give it one shot? If you don't like it, I promise I won't make you go again."

It's a waste of time; Evan knows he isn't going to like it, but there's no talking to his mother when she gets like this. She's been so worried since the… incident. Constantly checking in with him, constantly searching for new methods to help him to deal with the aftermath.

If he can do just one more thing to get her off his back, it may very well be worth it. "Okay."

"That's the spirit! Come on, we're almost there. I'll walk you in."

Evan is shaking with nerves as he sits in the tiny waiting room. He still has ten minutes before the support group is set to start, but he's out of his element.

The meeting is being held in the same building he has his appointments with Dr. Sherman in, but he has no idea what to do. Is he just supposed to walk back to the room when it's time? Will someone come get him? He could ask the receptionist, but… well. That's a lot more interaction than Evan thinks he can handle right now.

Luckily, a girl around his age asks someone else in the waiting room if they're there for the support group meeting at six, and they respond that they are. Evan figures he can just follow them wherever they go.

Not long after, a boy walks in and sits next to him in the last available waiting chair. Curiously, Evan glances up and realizes he recognizes him - Connor Murphy. They go to school together, and truth be told, this isn't exactly the last place he would expect to see him.

Except this specific support group meeting is for suicide survivors and although Evan still isn't shocked, he does feel a little sad.

A few minutes after six, a friendly young woman who looks to be in her early thirties comes and gathers the group, instructing them to follow her into a room.

Evan takes a seat and tries to breathe. His heart is hammering and he's practically drowning in his own sweat.

Looking up, Evan sees that Connor Murphy has taken a seat across from him. He plops down on the chair, crossing his arms. He looks apathetic and a little irritated, but definitely not nervous.

Nothing ever seems to make Connor Murphy nervous. Evan wishes he could say the same.

"Hi everyone," the person running the group pipes up once everyone has settled. My name's Jeff and I've been a licensed therapist here for five years…" Jeff continues to introduce himself and Evan spaces out a bit, until he hears the word "introductions." His stomach drops to his feet.

They're told to go around the room and introduce themselves, give a short explanation of what they hope to get out of the session, and name one thing they love. Evan wants to throw up.

Luckily, the circle begins clockwise, which gives Evan enough time to rehearse what he wants to say in his head. His thoughts are scattered; he jitters his leg while he waits and tries to focus on listening to everyone else's answers.

When it's Connor Murphy's turn, he sighs and rolls his eyes. "My name's Connor, I don't care what I get out of this because I'm being forced to come here in the first place, and man do I love weed."

Evan can't help it, he snorts out a laugh, giggling along with some other members of the group. His amusement fades when he glances over to Jeff however, expecting him to be mad or to reprimand Connor in some way. Evan is surprised to find he's smiling as well, though.

"That's one I haven't heard in a while. Would you say that weed is a coping mechanism for you. Connor?"

Connor shrugs. "Nah. I just like smoking weed."

Jeff nods, though he doesn't look totally convinced. "Got it."

The circle continues before he knows it, it's Evan's turn. "Uh, hi. My, my name's Evan. I'm hoping, that maybe I. Um." _Spit it out, Evan. _"Hopefully I can find someone whose story I relate to? Uh. And I love. Writing?" Well, it was either that or trees, and writing is just a tad less dorky.

"That's great, Evan," Jeff encourages, thankfully not acknowledging how awkward his reply was.

They do an icebreaker exercise where they go around the room and answer a question about themselves, then ask the person next to them a different question. Evan gets asked where his favorite place to vacation is. It would be a surprisingly easy question to answer if he hadn't grown up poor, so he lies and says Disneyworld. He asks the person next to him what their favorite food is.

When it's Connor's turn, he crosses his arms tighter and mumbles "pass." Jeff doesn't let that go though, and he's forced to answer what his favorite subject in school is. He answers that it's English, and asks the person next to him what their favorite book is.

After the icebreaker, they go around and are given the option to share their stories if they want. Evan has absolutely no intention of sharing his, but he's content to listen to everyone else's although they're extremely depressing and make him tear up more than once. He does feel a little less alone afterwards, though.

Luckily, the session soon after that and Evan has never been more thankful to scurry out of a room. He texts his mom that he' ready to get picked up while he waits for the elevator.

"That was dumbest, least helpful thing I've ever at through in my life."

Evan almost jumps. He thought he was alone in the hallway, but Connor Murphy is standing behind him with his hands in his pockets, staring straight ahead.

"Yeah, I. Yeah, tell me about it," he responds, still a little shaken from being spoken to by Connor Murphy of all people. They've gone to school together for almost twelve years and this is the first interaction they've ever had.

"My mom's not going to let me stop going, though. Maybe I'll just cut next time."

Evan can't think of anything to say, so he just nods.

"Hey. If you hated it as much as I did," Connor says as they get on the elevator. "You should totally cut with me."

Evan can't even believe this is his real life. First, he happens to be in the same suicide support group as Connor Murphy, and now he's basically being asked to hang out with him? It's nothing short of a miracle, especially since the only person that ever asks him to hang out is Jared, and he only does that for his car insurance.

The part of Evan's brain that's desperate to please everyone he meets answers for him. "Yeah maybe, yeah. That'd be good."

Connor nods and gets off the elevator, long strides leading him out of the building much faster than Evan could keep up with. Evan has a feeling he's not meant to keep up, anyway.

His phone buzzes with a text.

_So sorry, honey. Got called into work. Think you can take the bus home?_

* * *

Chapter 2

Evan spends the entire week leading up to the next meeting filled with dread.

The support group only meets every other week, but even that still feels like too much for Evan. He knows he's going to be forced to talk at some point, and it's the very last thing he wants to do. Public speaking is bad enough, but publicly speaking about how screwed up he is? About what he tried to do? It's a nightmare scenario.

Connor's offer sits in the back of his mind. It's starting to sound pretty appealing, especially since Evan pretty much agreed to it, anyway.

It would be a win/win situation, too. Evan could skip the group while simultaneously keeping his mom pleased with the knowledge he's getting more help, especially from his peers. She looked so happy when he told her that he enjoyed the first meeting.

Maybe he could even further the lie and tell her he was making friends.

That's how Evan ends up getting dropped off outside of the tiny office building by his mom, feeling slightly better and less anxious than he had last time.

He gulps and tries to control his heart rate as he gets in the elevator. A million different scenarios are playing out in his head. What if Connor didn't show up this week? What if he never showed up again? Then Evan would have nobody to skip with and god knows he wouldn't skip by himself. He'd have no choice but to go in there and stutter through an explanation of how and why he tried to kill himself.

What if Connor _does_ show up and they skip and get caught? What kind of consequences would that bring? Would they kick him out of his therapy and psychiatry program as well? He would definitely wind up dead without the benefit of medication and therapy, not that those two are doing much to help him in the first place.

Evan is knocked from his thoughts by the sight of Connor in the waiting room, arms crossed and leg jittering in a display of what looks like might be anxiety.

He's blessedly alone. That was another situation Evan thought could occur; what if Connor's mom or someone was sitting with him and sat there until he went in? Connor is sort of notorious for skipping class at school, so it shouldn't be all that much of a surprise that he wants to skip therapy, too.

"You made it," Connor says as soon as he looks up and lays eyes on Evan. "Let's get the fuck out of here." And with that, Connor is passing Evan and heading out the door.

Everything feels like it's happening too fast for Evan, just like it always seems to. He doesn't even have time to second-guess himself before he's following Connor into the elevator.

Not that he had any plans of going to that meeting today, anyway.

"Where are we going?" Evan asks as the elevator ticks down, counting the floors until they reach the first.

"I don't know." Connor shrugs. He doesn't say anything after that which Evan finds a little odd, but he knows better than to point it out.

Evan can't pretend he isn't on edge. Connor Murphy has always had a reputation at their school, and a pretty poor one at that. He's known for being angry and volatile. For doing drugs and throwing printers at teachers. Evan had always been afraid of him and the thought of being alone with him for the next hour or so is nerve wracking.

What would they even talk about?

When they reach the first floor, Evan follows Connor through the double doors of the main entrance and around the side of the building. They pause when they reach the dumpsters, which are partially hidden by a fence.

"This is good," Connor announces as he plops down behind the fence, right next to a dumpster that reeks.

"Uh," Evan says eloquently. He sits down beside Connor because he doesn't know what else to do. "Don't you think that maybe, maybe we could find somewhere that doesn't stink?"

Evan braces himself to be yelled at, but Connor just stares at him. There's something about his gaze that Evan can't put his finger on. He feels exposed, like Connor knows all of his secrets just by looking at him.

"It's hidden," Connor reasons. "Nobody can see us back here."

"That's a good point," Evan says automatically. He doesn't want to seem difficult because then Connor might get annoyed with him and leave, and then Evan will either have to continue sitting out here by himself or go back inside. Both options are terrifying.

"So how'd you try to do it? Kill yourself, I mean."

The question causes Evan to stop breathing. He can't believe Connor just asked such an invasive, jarring question. Especially when they barely know each other. He gulps for a breath of air and it feels like his throat has closed. He knows he's on the verge of a panic attack. No, no, not here, not in front of Connor, not-

"Jesus Christ," Connor sounds angry, and Evan hates himself. Why can't he just be normal for five minutes? "Forget I asked. I took a bottle of prescription pain pills in the park and someone found me after I passed out. I guess they saved my life, but I didn't really want it saved."

The conversation is already far too overwhelming for Evan, but he grapples for something to say. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"Yeah, me too. My parents won't put me in real therapy. The only reason I'm here is because they think it'll be good for me since I don't have any real friends."

Well, that's at least one thing they have in common. "Me either. I go to therapy here, though. It's not all it's cracked up… it's not that helpful. I think, probably the reason my mom wanted me to come to support group in the first place was for the same reason. I don't have any real friends either."

"I can see that."

Evan has no idea what Connor's talking about until he looks up and follows his gaze. Connor is staring at his embarrassingly blank cast. "Oh, yeah."

"I'll sign it."

"What?" Evan is taken aback. Connor Murphy is nothing if not full of surprises.

"Got a sharpie?"

Evan rummages in his pocket for the sharpie marker his mother made him leave the house with. She does that on the rare occasion that she sees him before he leaves for school, and now she's apparently taken to doing it before support group. Evan has almost considered writing fake names on it, if it meant he could avoid seeing her disappointed face whenever she glanced at his blank cast.

Apparently, that's going to end today.

Evan hands Connor the sharpie and before he knows it, his broken arm is being yanked closer to Connor. Evan yelps in pain which garners a quick apology from Connor before he's writing his name in huge, block letters that take up almost the entirety of Evan's cast.

"Oh, uh. Thanks."

Connor hands the sharpie back to Evan. It's silent after that.

Evan tries desperately the come up with conversation topics, but his mind is blank. He cracks his knuckles and tries to tamp down on his rising anxiety, but fails. God, he's such a boring person. It always seems like he either doesn't have anything to say, or too much to say all at once. Never anything in between.

For his part, Connor doesn't seem to mind. He's staring blankly ahead, sitting perfectly still, and looking lost in thought. A few moments later, he takes out a cigarette and lights it.

Evan weighs his options. The last time he was around cigarettes he had a bad asthma attack, but he isn't sure that he should tell Connor that. He agonizes over it for the next few minutes until a puff of smoke gets in his lungs and he chokes on it.

"Shit, sorry," Connor says suddenly, much to Evan's surprise. He moves so that the cloud isn't blowing towards Evan anymore.

"Actually, " Evan murmurs after catching his breath, "I have pretty bad asthma and the last time I was around cigarettes I had an attack." As soon as the words leave his mouth he regrets them, but at least he'd managed to speak up for once in his life.

Connor looks over at him, shrugs, then puts the cigarette out just like that. "My bad. You good?"

Evan nods. His throat hurts but he doesn't think the smoke triggered his asthma at all. He's surprised Connor just wasted a perfectly good cigarette on him, though.

Maybe he isn't as bad as everyone makes him out to be.

The silence that stretches after that is actually… comfortable. Well, at least Evan thinks so. He wonders if Connor feels the same way. Maybe it's all in his head, and Connor is hating himself for choosing to waste his time with Evan, who can't think of anything interesting to say.

Either way, he thinks that both of them would rather be sitting out here than the alternative.

"My mom's gonna be coming to pick me up soon. She'll freak if I'm not in the lobby waiting for her," Connor says eventually.

"Me too."

"Guess we oughta get going."

"Guess so."

Connor stands up, impossibly long legs raising him high. Evan is about to get up too, when suddenly there's a hand in front of his face. Connor is… offering to help him up?

Evan takes Connor's hand and ignores the way his stomach flips when he does. They head back to the front of the building and sit next to each other in the lobby.

"Good session today, huh?" Connor jokes. "I think we really made a fucking breakthrough."

Evan feels a smirk inch its way onto his face. "Yeah. We totally did."

* * *

Chapter 3

For Evan, the worst part about skipping group therapy is having to lie to his mom about it.

At least he doesn't have to lie about Connor.

"Have you made any new friends?" she asks him on the way to a session one week.

"Yeah," Evan says, although he does have to think for a moment if that's a lie, too. Is Connor his friend? Today will mark the fifth session they've skipped together and surprisingly, Evan and Connor have found that they have a lot in common. Evan even manages to hold full conversations with Connor, which is rare when it comes to talking to his peers. Evan is comfortable with Connor. Does that really make them friends?

"His name is Connor, he's pretty cool," Evan tells his mom anyway.

"That's so great, sweetie! I'm happy to hear that." She really does sound genuinely happy; not in that fake way that she sometimes has when talking to him, like he's a kindergartener in need of placating. "Does he go to your school?"

"Yeah." At least that's not a lie. "We've been in school together since we were kids but just never talked before now, I guess."

"Well, it's good to have things in common. Sometimes that's all it takes." The statement makes Evan want to throw up. He hates it when his mom brings up his attempt. He wants to pretend like it didn't happen, although that wouldn't make much sense considering where he's about to get dropped off. But still. It's so much easier for Evan to act like he never tried to... do that.

"Yeah," is all Evan can think to say to his mom. "That's all it takes."

Evan eyes Connor curiously as he fiddles with a baggie he's just pulled out of his pocket. "What's that?" he asks.

"Weed," Connor says simply. "I would have had it a lot sooner but I haven't been allowed to drive. I'm still not, but I snuck out last night and restocked."

Evan can't deny that being around drugs is making him nervous. What Connor's about to do is highly illegal, and if they get caught, that means double the trouble for both of them. "Do you think we can move? It's just, well it's just that it's too easy to get caught over here and someone might smell it and we should probably move," Evan says all in one breath.

"That's a good idea, actually," Connor agrees, much to Evan's relief. "There's a strip of woods over there, let's go."

Evan wordlessly follows Connor into the woods. He sits down by an Elm tree and goes back to fiddling with the bag, pulling out a pipe and a lighter.

Evan simply sits down by Connor and watches curiously.

Once Connor has everything set, he takes a hit and breathes in deeply. Evan watches the smoke as it exits between Connor's lips, and Evan wonders if he'll get a contact high just from sitting next to him.

"Wanna try?"

"Uh, I have asthma, remember?"

"Oh, yeah." Connor takes another hit, and then his lips quirk up into a smirk. "You should try pot brownies. I have some at home that I can bring next time. Maybe those will chill you out a bit."

Evan's first instinct is to tell Connor no, that he doesn't do drugs, but, well. The idea of chilling out is tempting. Evan never considered smoking pot because of his asthma, but he'd forgotten about edibles. Jared never had those on the few occasions he's seen him smoke pot, and Evan can't pretend he isn't curious.

"Okay, we can try that." He can't believe he's just agreed to do drugs, but somehow he doesn't regret it.

"I wonder what you would be like when you're high. It's probably pretty hilarious. Edibles are strong though, so I'm only gonna let you have like one bite."

"Cool, that. That sounds good."

A week later, Evan has had a chance to do his research on edibles and their effects on anxiety and people with mental disorders. His results are mixed - apparently, every person reacts differently to pot, and there hasn't been many studies done on how it affects people with various mental illnesses. Most websites say to start small; pot can actually be really good for anxiety and depression, but it's possible that it can interact with certain medications.

It's not enough to scare Evan into not giving it a try, though. One bite of a brownie won't kill him, and even if it did, that would be a way less painful way to go than jumping out of a tree.

"Okay, here," Connor says as he hands Evan a small piece of a brownie. It looks perfectly normal and Evan wonders how many people have mistaken edibles for regular food.

They're in the woods again, but there really isn't much of a reason for that this time other than the fact that it doesn't stink and is a much better hiding place. You can't really smell someone eating a pot brownie, after all.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Eat it."

Evan looks down at the piece of pot brownie and gives himself one last chance to back out. Trying desperately to block out the voice in the back of his mind that's shouting about this being a bad idea, Evan pops the brownie into his mouth and starts chewing.

It doesn't taste different than a regular brownie at first, but the more he chews, the stronger he can taste a strange flavor that shouldn't be there. It's slightly foul and tastes the way pot smells. At least that proves Connor isn't just messing with him.

"Good job," Connor tells him, seeming slightly amused. "Now, you have a while to wait. You gotta digest it and that usually takes about an hour."

Evan's stomach drops down to his toes. "What?! I thought it would at least be like drinking where it happens sorta fast. We don't even have a full hour!"

Connor shrugs, something Evan is beginning to learn is one of his signature moves. He pops a piece of brownie into his own mouth and says, "I can come over your house so you don't freak out, if you want."

That statement stops Evan in his tracks. He hasn't had a friend over in… years, literal years. That is, if he isn't counting Jared of course. But Jared has made it clear that their relationship doesn't count as friendship, so... years. His mom will be thrilled.

"Okay, that sounds good," Evan agrees.

That's when the nerves hit him. What the hell is going to do with Connor when they get to his house? He supposes they could play video games. That might be a fun thing to do when they're both high, right? But what if Connor thinks all his games are boring? What if Connor sees his room and thinks it's lame? What if his mom does something weird and embarrasses him? What if he embarrasses himself? God, he's an idiot. Why did he agree to this?!

"You okay in there?" Connor asks, popping another piece of brownie into his mouth. "You're staring into space. Don't tell me that brownie hit you already. That's not even really possible, dude. It's placebo."

Evan takes a deep breath and considers the merits of making up some excuse for why Connor can't come over. That's when he thinks of yet another issue: he's going to be high around his mom. With the way she likes to grill him on the way home from his therapy sessions, she's most definitely going to know something is up. If Connor is in the car, maybe she'll redirect all her questions at him. It'll at least take some attention off of himself, anyway.

"Yeah, I'm good. And definitely not high, so there's that. I was just… thinking."

"God. I can already tell you're going to be one of those kids that has an existential crisis when he's high. You already do enough thinking for the two of us."

Evan actually laughs at that. "Probably. I already feel like I have an existential crisis like, every day anyway."

"This is gonna be hilarious, oh my god."

Evan and Connor sit and talk for about thirty or so minutes when Evan starts to feel funny. He's noticing that his limbs are tingling, but not in an unpleasant way. His vision is going topsy turvy and his thoughts seem to slow. It feels good.

"Connor, I think I'm… high. Am I high?"

"If you have to ask, the answer is yes."

"I don't hate it."

"That's good."

"Are you high too?"

"A little bit. Getting there."

Evan checks his phone. "We should get back to the lobby."

"Yep."

Neither of them move. In fact, Evan lays down instead. He stares up at the leaves on the trees above them and watches as they sway in the wind. Or maybe they're moving on their own. He can't tell.

"I know I said I have an existential crisis every day," Evan muses. "But that's only because I'm constantly wondering if I exist. Like, I feel like no one can really see me. Or at least, they don't notice that I'm there. So if nobody notices me, or sees that I'm there, do I really exist?"

Evan expects Connor to laugh, make fun of him, or at least comment on how high he sounds right now. Surprisingly, he doesn't do any of those things. "Sure you exist. Nobody can see air but it's still there. I can see you right now. That doesn't even make any sense, Evan."

"It really doesn't."

"You're just trying to have an existential crisis at this point, aren't you?"

Evan considers for a moment before bursting out into laughter. "Pretty much."

"Come on. Let's go."

Connor helps Evan up off the ground and they head back towards the parking lot in search of their respective mothers. Evan locates his mom's car pretty quickly. He tries to pull himself together as much as possible, praying his eyes aren't bloodshot and that he won't slur his speech any more than usual when he talks to her.

He opens the car door and instead of getting in, he leans down and steels himself. Taking a deep breath, he says "Mom, I have a friend. Can they come over?" _Wow. Very articulate, idiot._

Heidi laughs at him and Evan starts to shake with nerves, despite the fact that he's definitely really high. "Of course. Is this the Connor boy you told me about?"

"Yeah. I'll be right back."

Evan slams the car door shut a bit harder than strictly necessary and heads in the direction he saw Connor go. The world is… different. Everything is wavy and he feels warm and happier than usual. Colors seem brighter. Sounds are louder. It's strange and a little unnerving, but it's nice.

He sees Connor heading toward him and he feels himself smile. Connor smiles back. "She said yes," Connor tells him. "Let's bounce before she gets a chance to change her mind."

Evan nods, and Connor follows him back to Evan's moms car.

Once they get in, it's a plethora of conversation and words and talking that Evan can't keep up with. Granted, most of the conversation is coming from his mom in the form of questions directed at Connor. For his part, Connor is polite and almost a little charming, something Evan feels guilty to admit that he's surprised by. Maybe it's because he's mellowed out by the pot, but this is definitely not the Connor Murphy he knows from school.

They're about halfway to Evan's house when Evan realizes how hungry he is. In fact, he hasn't really ever felt hunger like this before. It might have to do with the fact that he hasn't eaten yet today, but that's nothing abnormal. The insatiable, gnawing hunger he's feeling right now is. Very abnormal.

"Mom, " he says suddenly. "Let's stop at McDonald's."

Heidi looks at him strangely through the rearview mirror. She looks like she wants to protest for a moment and give the stereotypical "We have food at home" speech, but then her gaze softens and her eyes crinkle up into what Evan can only assume to be a smile. "Sure, sweetie."

Beside him, Connor chuckles quietly.

Evan winds up ordering way more than just the usual six-piece chicken nuggets, and Connor pleads with Heidi to let him pay for himself. She doesn't, even after Connor sets a ten dollar bill on her shoulder playfully. She sends it flying into the backseat and all three of them laugh while Evan steals fries from the bag he's holding.

It's nice.

They get to Evan's house and eat burgers crowded around the living room table and watching the fourth season of Dexter. Heidi and Evan had been making their way through the series, but lately their progress has slowed due to Heidi's hectic schedule. Connor is a little lost, but he seems engrossed and says he enjoys the thread of the story either way.

After about four episodes, Heidi stretches, hands Evan the remote and tells them she's going to get to bed. She kisses Evan on the forehead, tells Connor it was nice to meet him, and makes sure he has a ride home before climbing the steps. Evan lets out a puff of air, like a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"Still high?" Connor whispers.

Evan just nods. "So. High."

Connor bursts out laughing. "I could tell. You destroyed those nuggets like a starving man. Welcome to the munchies, dude."

"The what?"

"It's what happen when you're high. Pot speeds up your metabolism so you get really hungry. You didn't know that?"

Evan shrugs. "Not exactly a topic they cover in health class."

"Well they should. They talk about what it's like to be drunk enough. Hey. Have you been drunk before, or is that something else I'm going to have to corrupt you with?"

Evan nods. "Jared and I sometimes break into his parent's liquor cabinet when they go away for the weekend."

Connor's nose crinkles. "Kleinman. Yuck. Why do you still hang around that guy?"

"Honestly? I don't know," Evan admits. "I mean, I've known him my entire life. He was the closest thing I've had to a friend for a really long time."

"He treats you like shit."

"I know," Evan says. "But he's not all bad. He can be okay."

"Well, you don't need him anymore. I mean, far be it from me to tell you who to hang out with, but you've got me now."

Evan almost chokes on air. His eyes burn and his stomach clenches. Did Connor really just imply what he thinks he implied?

"Sorry," Connor says after a moment. "That was weird. We don't have to talk at school if you don't want to."

"No!" Evan scrambles to backtrack. "Of course I would- of course I want to talk at school. I was just surprised. Most people don't want to- usually they don't really want to be seen with me."

Connor shrugs and leans back on the couch. "Yeah, I get that. People don't really jump to hang around me either. I'm surprised you didn't turn around and run when I talked to you that day in group."

Evan smiles. "You're cool," Evan tells him. It comes out sounding flat and stupid but Evan means it and in that moment he just _doesn't care_.

"So are you, Hansen."

"Wanna play video games?"

"Sure."

* * *

Chapter 4

Evan and Connor wind up playing video games until well past midnight. They have some pretty deep conversations, covering topics like aliens and the afterlife - things that Evan is pretty sure he's never talked about with anyone else before. Connor only leaves when he gets a phone call from his mother, berating him for staying out so late on a school night. Luckily, she offers to come pick him up so Connor doesn't have to walk home.

Connor swears it's because she doesn't trust that he's actually just hanging out at Evan's house, but Evan isn't so sure. From what Evan could hear of the conversation, Connor's mom mostly just sounded worried rather than suspicious.

Evan goes to bed that night feeling warm and fuzzy, and he's not so sure it's just because he's still a little bit high.

The next day at school, Evan is tired but excited. He's finally going to have someone to talk to and sit with at lunch that isn't Jared. Someone that doesn't mock him and make him feel even more self-conscious than he already is. Someone that just… gets him.

"Hey, dick!" Jared comes up from behind Evan, shoulder bumping him and causing Evan to jump about ten feet into the air. Jared knows by now that Evan is jumpy, especially at school, but that's never seemed to faze him.

"You're coming over my house after school. My moms have been bugging me because they haven't seen you in a while, plus I think this new game I ordered came in the mail today."

Evan rolls his eyes. He hates it when Jared phrases things as statements that should be posed as questions. "I can't, I have plans," he blurts automatically, not even having the time to mask the annoyance in his voice.

"Yeah, okay. Good joke," Jared says. Evan can tell he's trying to sound smug, but Jared is transparent. He's thrown off. "See you after school. I'll give you a ride."

Anger boils in Evan's gut. "I'm serious. I can't come- I have plans, so I can't come over. I know that's super hard for you to believe, that I would have something to do that has nothing to do with you, but it's true." He stamps down the automatic 'sorry' that claws at his throat and walks off, feeling proud of himself.

Evan makes his way to Connor's locker, pleased to see that he's standing there and staring at his phone. "Hey," Evan says quietly.

"Oh hey," Connor greets, looking up. "I was just texting you. Let's ditch today."

Nerves shoot through Evan's stomach like a lightning strike. He's never skipped class before, much less the entire day. First the weed, now Connor wants him to skip school. Does that make Connor a bad influence?

Maybe. But he' also getting Evan to live his life a little. He stood up to Jared, which he's never done before. Plus, if he's being honest, the last thing he feels like doing is trudging through an entire school day by himself, especially if Connor decides to skip without him.

It's their senior year. It's time for some rebellion.

"Let's do it."

Evan follows Connor out to what he can only assume is Connor's car. "You're allowed to drive again?"

"Temporarily. It's why I haven't been cutting school much but Cynthia convinced Larry to let me drive this week since Zoe has been going in early."

Evan briefly considers asking Connor if he should really risk betraying their trust like this, but thinks better of it and keeps his mouth shut.

Connor starts driving and it occurs to Evan that he has no idea where they're going or what they're doing. His anxiety won't let him keep quiet about that, though. "Hey, Connor?"

"What?"

"Where are we going?"

"Good question. I'm sort of just driving."

"Oh." Evan's mind buzzes with possibilities, but he trusts Connor. He notices the route they're taking is familiar though, and before long they end up at the building where their support group is held.

Evan feels his lips quirk up into a smirk. "We're a little early, and it's not even Wednesday."

"I figured we can hang out in that spot we always go to. It's the only place I could think of."

They get out of the car. "Where do you usually go when you skip?"

"Either home, or I sit in my car and smoke."

Evan doesn't know why he's surprised. They sit down and Evan lays in the grass, staring up at the leaves again. "Hey, Connor?"

"Yeah?"

"Remember when you asked me how I ended up in the support group and I couldn't answer?"

A long pause. "Yeah."

"Well. I'm ready to- I want to tell you now, if you don't mind."

"Oh. Okay. I don't mind."

Evan takes a deep breath. He hasn't spoken to anyone about this in detail. Sure, he admitted it to the doctors at the hospital. His mom. His therapist. But nobody knows the gross, gory details that he's about to relay to Connor.

"I jumped out of a tree. I had the perfect one picked out for weeks and I thought it would be high enough to kill me, but I guess I didn't do enough research. I pushed myself off a branch and- and I fell like 30 feet, but all that happened to me was a broken arm. I called my mom but she never answered the phone so I had to get my boss to take me to the hospital. I was at work, I forgot to mention that part. Anyways, I told the doctors at the hospital what I tried to do and they put me on suicide watch for three days." Fuck, now Evan's crying and he really didn't want to do that. He takes a breath.

The next thing he knows, Connor's hand is in his. They're holding hands. He would be freaking out about that right now if he had the energy, but he needs to get the rest of this out. It's like he started and now he just can't stop.

"I think the whole thing really messed me up. I can't look at trees the same way anymore, and I used to love them. Like, that's why I was working at the state park in the first place, to learn more about trees and hopefully get some experience on my resume. I want to major in environmental science in college, but I'm pretty sure my mom isn't even going to be able to afford college this point. Everything just felt so pointless and I was so, so alone. I _am_ so alone."

Connor squeezes Evan' hand and lets him sniffle for a little while. It's silent, and Evan worries he's said too much. He starts to panic and goes to pull his hand away from Connor's, but Connor grabs it before he gets the chance.

"You're not alone," he says simply. "You have me." And that causes Evan to burst out into a fresh round of tears.

Once Evan is finally able to calm himself, he notices Connor's been quiet for a long time. Feeling ashamed and embarrassed, he sits up, wipes his nose and tries to backtrack."I'm sorry. You probably didn't need to hear all of that. I know you're dealing with your own stuff, too."

"That's the thing though. I'm dealing with the same stuff. I know exactly how you felt. How you feel."

Something dawns on Evan in that moment. "Maybe that support group thing wasn't such a bad idea after all."

Connor laughs. "Nah, I think it was still a pretty shitty idea. But I guess it wasn't all bad. We never would have started talking at school if we hadn't met there."

It's Evan's turn to shrug. "I guess that's what I meant? It's nice to talk to someone who understands what you went through and how you're feeling. I just didn't wanna do that with a bunch of strangers."

"Yeah, me neither."

They're still holding hands.

Evan's phone pings with a text and he almost jumps, so unused to the sound of his phone getting a notification of any kind. He checks it and it's from his mom. _Honey. I just got a call from the school saying you never showed up to your classes. Is everything okay?_

"Shit," Evan mumbles. "It's my mom. The school called her and told her I never showed up to class. What should I do?"

"Text her back. I can take you back to school if you need me to."

"No, that's even more suspicious. I'll tell her I just needed a mental health day. I do that sometimes, I just usually have her call me out first. I should go home in case she gets off early just in case, though."

"Alright. I'll drive you there."

In a moment of bravery, Evan squeezes Connor's hand and pointedly doesn't let go of it, despite the fact that he can feel how sweaty it's gotten. "You should come over."

Connor stands, taking Evan's hand with him. He smiles, and Evan's heart leaps. "Okay."

The rest of the day is uneventful. They sit at Evan's house and watch TV. Connor makes them grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch and they take a nap on the couch. Evan finds himself wanting to cuddle up to Connor and be held by him (shit, shit, shit), but he pointedly stays on his own end of the couch.

Connor leaves around the time that school usually lets out and tells Evan he might get grounded for skipping so he shouldn't expect to see him until group therapy next week. Evan finds himself achingly disappointed.

He also finds himself with an undeniable crush on Connor Murphy.

There's no use in denying it anymore. It's pretty obvious that's what's happening at this point. The fluttery butterflies and stomach flips when Connor smiles are exactly what was happening to him when he had a crush on Connor's sister Zoe during his Sophomore and Junior year. Luckily, that faded with time. Apparently Evan has a Murphy kink, or at least he knows that's what Jared would say.

Jared. It would be nice to go to him for advice right now, but he'd never let him live this down. Besides, he's pretty sure Jared is pissed at him right now. He'll have to try to make up with him later.

Evan lays in bed until his mom gets home. He's nervous to talk to her. She never responded to his text when he told her he took a mental health day, which makes him think he's not completely off the hook yet.

He's right. As soon as his mom walks into his room that night Evan can tell she's angry with him. She practically stomps over to his bed and folds her arms across her chest, staring down at him and clearly waiting for him to say something. He grips his bed sheet for comfort and waits silently.

"You have a lot of explaining to do, Evan. I don't even know where to start."

Evan gulps. "What do you mean?"

"Well, let's see. First, you skip school without telling me. Then, I call Dr. Sherman to make you an extra appointment when you said you needed a mental health day, and he tells me you haven't been to the support group since the first day I dropped you off. So I guess what I'm wondering is where have you been going instead, and why have you been lying to me about it?"

Shit, his mom is really angry. She's furious, something that rarely happens. Tears jump to Evan's eyes and the words get caught in his throat. "I'm sorry," he chokes out.

"I don't want to hear that, Evan. What I want is an explanation."

"I just-" Well, there's nowhere he can go with this now except the truth. "I just really didn't like it the first time I went, so. So I've been skipping it with Connor and I think I might like him as more than a friend and I didn't want to keep lying to you about everything but I just. I don't know what to do and I'm sorry!"

Well, he hadn't meant to say all of that, that's for sure. His explanation had come out as a tumbled, teary mess, but at least it was the truth. The whole truth.

Not only that, but he'd just managed to come out to his mom on top of everything else.

"Okay, okay," Heidi says soothingly, sitting down on the edge of the bed and putting her arm around Evan. "We'll go back to the other stuff in a minute. Did you just say what I think you just said?"

Evan nods. "Yeah- yes. I'm. Well, I'm not gay. I'm bi, but I'm not straight and I like Connor and I don't know what to do about it."

His mother smiles. "I knew I sensed something going on between the two of you. Well, whatever happens, just know that I love you no matter what, okay sweetie?"

Evan nods and leans into her when she hugs him tightly. "Thanks," he says quietly.

"As for the support group, why didn't you just tell me you didn't want to go anymore? I wouldn't have made you if you didn't think it was helping."

"I just… you looked so happy and I didn't want to disappoint you. Plus, then Connor and I started skipping together. We didn't go anywhere, just out back where the dumpsters are and then we eventually moved to that little wooded area off to the side by the parking lot. I think I just wanted an excuse to keep hanging out with him."

Evan sees his mom nod out of the corner of his eye. "That makes sense. But Evan, this can't happen again. You need to be honest with me about things like that. I'm happy you and Connor are getting along so well, though."

Evan feels himself smile. "Yeah. I guess we sort of formed our own little support group after all. We talked about… stuff, and it helped."

Heidi hugs him tighter before letting go. "I'm glad sweetie." They're quiet for a moment. "So, you hung out by the dumpsters? That's _super_ romantic."

Evan rolls his eyes and shoulder bumps his mom. "Very funny."

"Are you gonna tell him how you feel?!" she asks, sounding like a teenage girl gossiping with her best friend.

"Mom!"

"Okay, okay, I'll leave you alone." She gets up, planting a kiss on his forehead before starting to walk out of the room. She pauses at his doorway. "Oh! By the way, you're grounded for a week. Love you!"

Welp. Not ideal, but that definitely could have gone a lot worse.

* * *

Chapter 5

Evan is admittedly relieved to find that Connor showed up to school the next day.

For some reason, he hadn't expected to see him. Evan doesn't really put it past Connor to push his luck and ditch school despite being grounded for getting caught doing it yesterday. Low and behold however, he's at his locker rummaging through his bag when Evan walks in that morning.

His automatic response is to walk right up to Connor first, but then he sees Jared standing at his locker and, well. Now Evan is at a crossroads.

He should really go talk to Jared. He hasn't interacted with him at all in days. They used to talk every single day, at least during the school year. Hopefully, Jared isn't still holding a grudge over what happened the last time they spoke.

"Hey," Evan greets Jared from behind, cursing the fact that his voice had come out small and shaky.

Jared turns around, a hard glare painting his face. "What the hell do you want?"

Oh. Well. "I- I just. I wanted to talk to you about what happened the other day and, and apologize?"

Jared rolls his eyes and crosses his arms - the picture of anger and annoyance. "What do you have to apologize for? It's pretty clear you're done hanging out around the likes of me. By the way, are you fucking Murphy now or something?"

Evan whips his head around, terrified at the prospect of someone hearing what Jared just said. There are a few people standing around, but the hallway is loud enough that it seems like nobody is paying attention to them, thankfully. He turns back to Jared. "No, not even close. We're friends."

"Yeah, whatever. Did you guys have a blast cutting school yesterday? Since when do you cut? He's a shitty influence on you. You'll realize that eventually, but don't come crawling back to me when you do."

"You don't know what you're talking about, Jared."

"I know exactly what I'm talking about! I can't believe you fell for another Murphy. Do you have some kind of weird Murphy kink or something? He's never going to like you back, you know. You're pathetic, dude."

Ouch, that had cut Evan deep. Jared knows him too well - knows just what to say to get under Evan's skin.

And apparently, Evan knows Jared pretty well, too.

Evan is not backing down without a fight, though. Not this time. "I'm pathetic? Look at you! You don't know what to do with yourself now that I have someone else to hang out with. That's the reason- that's why you're mad at me, isn't it? Because you don't have any other friends!"

Jared practically growls, his face turning bright red. "Fuck you, Evan. Stay the hell away from me."

"No problem," Evan hears himself retort before stomping away.

It's only once he's started down the hall that he realizes he's about to have a breakdown.

Evan runs into the nearest janitor's closet - a habit he picked up in his sophomore year when he realized the bathrooms were way too busy to have panic attacks in. His sits down on an overturned bucket and starts sobbing, trying and failing to count his breaths as they come out ragged and hitched.

Before long, he hears a knock at the door and he practically falls over. Part of him hopes it's Jared, the other part of him is terrified it's another student, or even a teacher coming to yell at him for not being in class. He did hear the bell ring a few seconds ago, after all.

But then he hears a familiar voice.

"Ev? It's me, Connor. Open up."

Relief floods his body and he scrambles to open up the door.

Connor steps in, looking furious. "I saw the whole thing. Do you want me to kick his ass for you? Because I totally will. Dude has it coming."

Evan sits back on his bucket and Connor sits down on the floor in front of him. Evan shakes his head. "No, it's okay. He's not wrong. I am pathetic."

When he looks up at Connor, he's staring down at his lap and playing with one of the rings he always wears. Evan never noticed before, but it's some type of spinner ring, probably made for people who are fidgety. It's surprising to him that Connor wears one.

"You're not pathetic," Connor says, not looking up. "But I heard everything he said. I was standing right there."

Evan almost throws up. Apparently, he hadn't noticed Connor in his search for people potentially listening in on their fight. How many other people were listening? "I don't like you! I mean, I don't like you like _that_. I don't know why he said that but he was probably just jealous because he's not my only friend anymore. I don't like you like that, I swear." _God, very convincing, Evan._

Connor still isn't looking at Evan. He plays with his ring a little more furiously and says, "Good to know. But what did he mean when he said you have a Murphy kink?"

Evan grips his shirt and closes his eyes. Shit, he's about to lose his only two friends in the whole world, all in one morning. He really is pathetic.

He considers lying, but he can't come up with something fast enough. He has to bite the bullet and tell the truth. "I used to like your sister."

"You what?!"

Connor is mad, Evan can hear it. He shrinks back and closes his eyes tighter. "Used to! I swear I don't like her anymore. I had a crush on her last year and the year before and Jared knew about it, but I'm over it now."

Before Evan knows it, Connor is standing up. No, no, please no. "I fucking knew it. There was no way someone like you would be hanging out with me just for the sake of it. You wanted to get to my sister."

"Connor, no, I swear-"

"Shut up, Evan." God, Connor is furious and suddenly his voice is raised, loud and booming. "For the record, Zoe has a girlfriend, so you're shit out luck. There you go, you don't need me anymore, so you can stop fucking around with me now."

And with that, Connor gets up and leaves the closet, slamming the door.

If Evan thought he was having a breakdown before, he was wrong. He has a full blown panic attack and spends the next hour trying to calm himself down before leaving the closet and going to the nurse.

Today might be the worst day of his life.

Maybe even worse than the day he jumped out of that tree.

* * *

Chapter 6

The following week, Evan actually asks his mom to take him to the support group.

She luckily doesn't question him, just nods and kisses the top of his head in that affectionate way she always does.

It makes Evan's stomach twist with guilt when he realizes just how badly he's about to hurt her.

When they arrive, Heidi luckily doesn't ask to walk him in. He counts to thirty when the car drives away and makes a beeline for the woods on the side of the building, stamping down the buzzing voice in the back of his head telling him to turn around.

He just can't do this anymore. There isn't a point. He has to end it. It's not like anyone except his mom would care, and even she would get over it eventually. Her life will be a lot easier in the long-run, and he thinks they both know that deep down.

When he gets to the spot that he and Connor used to sit at, he gives himself a moment to mourn. He'll never see Connor again. Never sit and talk with him, or joke around about dumb, meaningless things. He'll never tell Connor how he feels, or get to know what it's like to kiss him.

Well, Connor would never want that even if he stayed alive anyway.

He picks a tree and starts climbing.

He goes as high as he possibly can. If there's one thing Evan always knew he was good at, it's climbing trees. Luckily, heights never bothered him, and he has enough upper body strength that he's able to scale the tree pretty quickly. He picks a branch and settles himself on it.

Evan sits on the branch for a long time. He hasn't checked his phone, so he has no idea how long. He's not having second thoughts, no. This situation is not going to end with him coming out alive. He's just… hesitating. And he doesn't know why.

Maybe this isn't the best time to do it. Maybe he should wait until nighttime or find somewhere where the trees are higher so he doesn't botch this attempt like last time. He should get down. He needs to get down.

Evan can't move.

He starts shaking and that's when the tears hit. Fuck, he cries way too much and now is really not the time.

"Hansen?"

Evan looks down, and is surprised, though not entirely shocked considering the circumstances, to see Connor Murphy standing at the base of the tree and looking up at him.

He doesn't answer. He doesn't make a sound. He isn't sure he could even if he wanted to.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing up there?!" Connor is yelling loudly. He's angry. Again.

Evan doesn't answer.

"Evan, I swear to god if you're up there because- I'll come up there, don't think I won't." Connor is screaming now, but he no longer sounds angry. He sounds more… scared, than anything? Concerned? Or maybe Evan is just hearing what he wants to hear.

"Get down from there right now, Evan!"

So Evan does. He's not really sure what makes him do it. Maybe it's the prospect of Connor actually climbing the tree and putting himself in danger, or maybe it's because he's realizing he never really wanted to be up there in the first place. Either way, slowly but surely, Evan is able to make his shaking limbs work enough to start lowering himself down, branch by branch.

When his feet finally hit the ground, Evan is startled by two arms wrapping tightly around his middle.

"What the fuck, Evan. What the fuck were you thinking, oh my god." The arms are pulling him backwards, away from the trunk of the tree and Evan is crying. Again.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he can't stop saying, although he's not really sure what he's apologizing for. As usual.

"You were gonna jump, weren't you? Just like last time. Jesus Christ, Evan."

"You don't have to- you can go. I know you still hate me."

"I don't hate you. Just.. fuck. Okay, just sit down."

Evan flops to the ground, a sobbing, heaving mess. He can't even open his eyes to look at Connor.

"I'm sorry about the other day. I overreacted, just like I always do. I believe that you don't like Zoe anymore but like, Jesus. Don't fucking kill yourself over it!"

"Jared's mad at me. You're mad at me. I have nobody. I was so alone. I told you, I told you I was alone. I always end up alone no matter what I do."

Connor sits down in front of him, reaches out, and takes one of Evan's hands. "How many times do I have to tell you that you're not alone until you fucking believe it?"

Evan sputters, "But, but you were so mad-"

"That happens, Ev. I get mad. It's going to happen. I blow up out of nowhere and I always wind up hurting people I care about. I'm working on it, but I don't know how to change it. Just… I'm sorry, okay? We can just pretend like none of that ever happened."

"You weren't talking to me. You didn't text me for five whole days."

"Well, the thought of you liking Zoe definitely pissed me off pretty bad. It kind of makes me sick, to be honest. But if you say you don't like her anymore, I believe you. I just… didn't know how to tell you that, I guess."

"Oh. Okay."

Connor sighs and runs his fingers through his hair. "I think I should take you to your therapist, probably."

"Probably."

"Okay, come on. Let's go."

Connor still hasn't let go of his hand. He leads them to the building and follows Evan's directions to the office. He sits in the waiting room while Evan has an emergency appointment with Dr. Sherman and is there when he comes back out, much to Evan's surprise.

"My mom's on her way," he tells Connor as he sits down next to him. "They're not going to admit me to the hospital since I didn't actually try anything. I told Dr. Sherman I regretted it as soon as I got up there, anyway. It wasn't like last time."

"And that's true?"

Evan nods. "Yeah, it is. I don't know what I was thinking. Sorry to make such a big deal. I shouldn't have wasted your time."

"Oh my god Hansen, will you shut up with that?" Connor practically shouts, getting the attention of more than a few people in the waiting room.

He lowers his voice when he notices people staring, though. "You didn't waste my time. Obviously something is going on with you or you wouldn't have been up there in the first place. If you feel like you need to be in the hospital, you should go."

"It's not that. I don't feel like I want to die and I know I wouldn't have jumped again today. I'm just… I'm tired. I'm sick of feeling this way and sometimes dying feels like the only way out, you know?"

"Yeah, I do."

They sit in silence until Heidi comes bursting through the door, eyes teary and chest heaving, looking like she ran up the steps rather than taking the time to wait for the elevator. "Oh, sweetie," she says before sitting beside Evan and wrapping her arms around him.

The embrace is comforting, and Evan feels himself melt into it almost instinctively.

After a few moments, Heidi pulls away and looks over Evan's shoulder at Connor. "Thank you so much for helping him Connor. Do you need a ride home?"

"No, I'm actually supposed to be in the support group right now, so. I think that's where I'm gonna go."

"Right," Heidi says, sounding a bit suspicious. Evan knows she thinks he's just going to skip it again. It's pretty obvious that that's how he found Evan in the first place, but luckily she doesn't say anything. "Thanks again, Connor. You're a great friend."

Connor hesitates to get up, but eventually stands. "Thanks Ms. Hansen. See ya later, Evan."

"Bye Connor."

"Come on, bud," his mom says. "Let's get you home."

Evan and his mom have a long talk on the couch when they get home.

He tells the truth; the whole truth, about how he's been feeling and about how he doesn't think his medication is working. He tells her he doesn't want to die, and that's the truth, too. His mom promises she's going to do everything in her power to help him, and reminds him how important and precious he is to her. How he's her whole world, and if anything ever happened to him, it would destroy her.

Evan believes her.

While he's getting ready for bed that night, his phone pings with a text.

It's Connor.

**Connor:**_ hey. just wanted to see how ur doing. also, if u ever try some shit like that again i'll kill u before you even get a chance to do it yourself. i know this is really weird, and what i'm about to say is probably gonna freak you out, but i'd never have the balls to say it in person so here it goes. i like you. and not just as a friend. i like you like you. i wasn't ever gonna say anything, but since you clearly have no idea how important u are, just remember that u made someone with literally no emotions feel things. and that's pretty amazing. anyway, don't feel pressured to respond to this. i know it's weird and i'm gonna hate myself as soon as i send it, but i had to say something. btw, i actually did go to that support group meeting today. it wasn't as bad as we thought. u should go sometime. anyway. see u when i see u, Ev._

Evan swears he stops breathing. He has to read the text over and over again, and even then he still doesn't quite believe it. Connor likes _him_? Connor likes him _back_? It's practically a dream come true.

He scrambles to reply. He has no idea what he's going to say, but he knows he has to say something, and quick.

**Evan:**_ I like you too :)_

Well, it's not as wordy and as heartfelt as Connor's message had been, but it's something.

He watches the three dots pop up that indicate Connor is writing back, and watches them disappear. It happens three more times before Evan finally decides to add something else.

**Evan:**_ And you're really important to me too. If you ever need to talk about stuff, anything at all, I'm here. You're not alone either, Connor._

It's another five painstaking minutes before Connor finally replies.

**Connor: **_thanks. i just might take you up on that. so wait, you really do like me back? you're not just fucking with me?_

**Evan:**_ No, not at all. I wasn't going to say anything either because I didn't think you felt the same way._

**Connor:** _wow._

**Evan:**_ Yeah, wow._

**Connor:** _u wanna go for a drive?_

**Evan:**_ I can't sneak out right now, Connor. Besides, it's a school night._

**Connor: **_right. see u at school tomorrow then.  
_**Connor:**_ i'll pick u up in the morning?_

**Evan:**_ I meant for you. I'm staying home tomorrow._

**Connor:**_ then i'll come over tomorrow_

**Evan:**_ After school, right?_

**Connor:**_ ugh fine, yeah. after school._

**Evan:**_ Sounds good! See you then. :) Night, Connor._

**Connor: **_night, Evan. :)_

* * *

Chapter 7

The next day goes by slowly. Evan stays in his pjs, eating dry cereal and watching reruns of The Office. He changes clothes when it gets close to the time Connor should be coming over, though.

Evan is nervous. Even more nervous than he is on a normal basis, which is really saying something.

When Connor gets here, should they talk about what happened last night? About what they both said? He assumes that's why Connor wanted to come over in the first place, but what if Connor regrets saying all that stuff? What if he didn't really mean it?

Evan shakes his head. He knows he's just being paranoid at this point. Connor _likes_ him, and he likes Connor back. It shouldn't be this complicated.

But it is.

Evan almost throws up when he finally hears the doorbell ring. He fusses with his hair and smooths out his shirt before rushing over to the front door and opening it to reveal Connor, looking just as indifferent and unbothered as ever. "Hey," Connor says.

"Hi, come- you can come in," Evan sputters.

Connor steps in and turns around to face Evan almost immediately. "This is weird."

Evan allows himself to laugh a little at that. "It is."

"Do you wanna go for that drive now?"

Well. Anything is better than awkwardly sitting next to each other on his couch. "Sure."

They get in Connor's car and Connor turns his music up as soon as he starts driving. Evan gets the impression he did this to avoid talking, which… is understandable.

It only takes about ten minutes for Evan to realize where they're going.

"I know this is stupid," Connor tells him when they pull into the parking lot. "But I like coming here. It's quiet and private and nobody ever bothers us. It's a good place to… talk."

"Yeah," Evan responds, knowing his voice is doing nothing to mask his nerves.

They walk over to their spot under the trees near the parking lot of that god forsaken support group building. The place where it had all started.

In spite of everything, Evan can't help but be thankful for it.

Connor stops abruptly before sitting down. "Shit."

"What's wrong?" Evan asks from the ground, nerves firing rapidly as his mind races with possibilities.

"I forgot you… we don't have to sit here if, you know. If it holds bad memories for you, or whatever."

"Oh." Evan thinks about it. Is he uncomfortable here? Not really. The spot holds more good memories than bad ones. "No, it's fine."

"Alright then. That's good," Connor says as he sits down next to Evan.

"So…" Evan says, gripping his pant leg and trying to breathe through his nose.

"So. About what I said last night. I just want you to know I meant every word of it. But you didn't have to say that stuff if you didn't mean it. I won't be mad at you if you don't like me back."

Evan shakes his head rapidly. "No! I do like you back. I've liked you for a while now, I was just too scared to tell you that because… well, because I'm me."

"So what do we do now?"

"Uh…" Evan considers for a moment. "I guess? We date?"

Connor laughs. "Yeah, that's usually how these things go, huh."

"Yeah."

They sit in silence for another few moments. "This is awkward," Connor says with a laugh in his voice.

Evan laughs too and he can feel himself start to blush. "It is. Sorry."

Connor looks over at him. "Why are you sorry?"

Evan looks back. "Uh. I don't know?"

They hold each other's gaze and oh, shit. Connor is looking at his lips. They can kiss now, right? That's a thing that would be okay? Evan really wants to kiss Connor. Should he lean in first, or should he wait?

Screw it. Evan's done going through life cautiously. Ever since he met Connor, he's branched out and started doing things he's never done before. He's started living, and he doesn't want to stop.

Evan leans in and kisses Connor.

It's quick and sloppy and their teeth clink together before Evan pulls away to see a red-faced Connor Murphy looking at him like he's something interesting - fascinating, even. That's when Connor leans back in and kisses him harder. This one is better, and their lips slide together in a way that feels just right.

When they pull apart, Evan feels lightheaded and he almost falls over, but Connor puts a hand on his shoulder, holding him up and just looking at him.

Where normally Evan would flinch away at the scrutiny, he embraces it.

For the first time in what might be his entire life, Evan feels seen.

He leans back in and kisses Connor again.

This is one is better. It's slow and not-so-careful and something warm tugs in Evan's stomach making him lean in closer. They actually start to make out a little, Connor wrapping an arm around Evan's waist and pulling him in. Giddy butterflies burst into Evan's stomach and he almost wants to lay down until he remembers where they are.

He pulls away. "We should probably get out of here now."

"Yeah," Connor agrees.

"Good talk."

Connor bursts out laughing at that, his lips red and glossy and his eyes shining. He's never looked so beautiful to Evan before. "Good talk," he agrees.

They make out in Connor's car for almost fifteen more minutes before coming to their senses and finally leaving.

* * *

Chapter 8

The next day starts out just as boring and mundane as any other, until Evan realizes that one thing has changed: he's dating Connor Murphy.

The realization makes him giddy and excited to go to school that day. Connor promised he would pick him up. Evan spends an extra amount of time getting ready that morning, checking himself in the mirror and changing outfits several times before deeming himself presentable.

He has to remind himself though that by some miracle, Connor liked him before today. He doesn't need to do anything special, doesn't need to hide or change himself. Connor likes him for who he is. It's shocking and almost unbelievable, but it's apparently true.

Connor picks him up early and they stop for breakfast sandwiches on the way to school. They eat in the parking lot and Connor sips black coffee while Evan makes fun of him for not putting anything in it. Connor tells him he likes his coffee like he likes his soul and they both crack up.

It's a good way to start the day before they have to enter the hellfire that is their high school.

Especially when they run into Jared Kleinman.

One of the many weird things about Jared is that he can go from angry to acting like your best friend in a matter of hours. It's almost like he's a toddler that needs to throw a tantrum, sit in the corner, and then come back after he's calmed down. So it's not entirely surprising to Evan when Jared bounds up to Evan in the hallway, grinning like they never had a fight in the first place.

Instinctively, Evan reaches for Connor's hand.

Jared's eyes fall downwards, and Evan immediately lets go. Shit.

"What was that?" Jared asks indignantly, loud and obnoxious with a crinkled nose, like he's smelled something bad.

"We're together," Evan blurts. He has no intentions of hiding it from anyone, especially not Jared.

Connor, for his part, remains blessedly silent.

"I knew it! Why didn't you tell me? Were you guys in some weird secret relationship or something?"

Evan bristles. "No, we just got together the other day. Why are you so obsessed with us, anyway?"

Jared's eyes narrow. "I'm just looking out for you, Evan. I meant what I said the other day. You're not acting like yourself."

"Then you clearly don't know the real Evan," Connor finally interjects, sounding furious.

"Can it, Murphy. I've known him way longer than you."

"Well, that was the old Evan," Evan practically yells at Jared. "The Evan that was afraid of everything. The Evan that didn't want to leave the house or just let himself have some fun once in awhile. Is that how you want me to be? Besides, you cut class all the time, Jared. Don't act like you're above it."

Jared sneers, but for once in his life, he doesn't seem to have anything to say.

That's when Evan grabs Connor's hand and stomps away.

He wants to feel good about that interaction. Proud that he stood up for himself. Really, he does. But all that Evan is left with is a sense of guilt and regret.

Evan pulls Connor into the nearest bathroom and bursts into tears.

"Okay, okay," Connor says, sounding sort of awkward as he stands there while Evan cries. He steps forward and wraps his arms around Evan tentatively, squeezing tightly when Evan doesn't pull back or tense up.

"I don't know why he's acting like this," Evan whimpers. "Why can't he just be happy for me?"

"He's a dick, that's why. Like you said, he's probably just jealous that you have someone else in your life besides him. He'll come around eventually."

"I don't know."

"He will." Connor sounds certain. "I'll make sure of it."

Evan is still upset during lunch. He and Connor sit in the library watching youtube videos and sharing each other's food, sitting as close as possible without actually touching. About halfway through the period, Connor locks his phone and starts packing up their trash.

"Come on," he says. "We have an appointment."

"A what?"

"You'll see. Follow me."

Connor leads them to the parking lot where a disgruntled looking Jared Kleinman is standing by Connor's car.

"I texted him to meet us here but I'm not gonna lie, I didn't think he'd actually show up," Connor whispers to Evan, sounding a little bit amused.

"What's this about, Murphy?" Jared demands as soon as they walk up. "I have better things to do with my time than come out here and watch you two make out."

"Alright Kleinman, I'm just gonna say it. Do you have some kind of weird crush on Evan or something? Is that why you're so jealous of me?"

"Step back. I think I'm gonna vomit."

"Was that a vine reference?"

Jared freezes. "Hm. Didn't expect you to pick up on that so fast."

Jared and Connor then engage in a full on staring contest, the two of them eyeing each other suspiciously. Neither of them speak for an uncomfortable amount of time.

Finally, Evan can't take it anymore. "Look, Jared. I want to be done with this. I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings before, but either you accept Connor and I as a couple or you don't."

Jared rolls his eyes, crossing his arms and giving himself away for the sudden bout of self-consciousness. "You didn't hurt my feelings."

"Jared!"

"Fine. Look, clearly Murphy isn't going anywhere. So I guess I'm cool with that, as long as you don't start acting crazy again."

It isn't actually an apology, but it's Jared. That's as close as they're ever going to get.

"I won't."

"Can I go now?" Jared whines.

"Yeah. Bye, Jared."

Jared stalks off, heading back towards the school. Evan leans up against the car and sighs.

"That went a lot better than I expected," Connor comments.

"Yeah. I guess."

"Are you okay?"

"I just wish… I don't know. Jared is so… _Jared_. But he's never going to change so I might as well just start to accept that now."

Right on cue, Evan's phone pings with a text.

**Jared:** I'm sorry, okay? I'm glad you're happy. Come over my house after school for video games and I'll forgive you officially.

Evan beams. That's much better, and honestly a little surprising.

It's progress.

* * *

Chapter 9

Connor and Evan are hanging out in Connor's room when Evan makes a decision.

"I want to come to the next support group meeting."

This seems to throw Connor off. "Are you sure? I only went to the last one because I kind of didn't have a choice."

"You said you got something out of it though, didn't you?"

Connor hesitates, but nods after a moment. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did."

"Well, I want to try. I think it might help?"

"That's cool. Are you nervous?"

"A little. But you'll be there. At least I hope you'll be? Don't decide to ditch without me or something."

"I promise I won't, Ev. I'll be there."

"Good."

Evan gets flashbacks to the first time he was ever dropped off at the support group while he sits in his mom's car. He's nervous and shaking, but at least he isn't hyperventilating this time.

"Are you okay, sweetie? Remember what I said. You don't have to do this if you don't want to. That was the deal all along," Heidi reassures him.

"I know. But I want to. This time I do, anyway."

"Okay. Well, Connor is taking you home afterwards, right?"

"Yep."

"Alright, hun. I love you. Call me if you need anything."

"I will. Love you too." With that, Evan gets out of the car and immediately texts Connor, beginning the frantic search for his boyfriend before he even really gets the chance to text him back.

Luckily, he doesn't have to search very far. He finds Connor in the lobby, sitting in a chair. He stands as soon as he sees Evan and his smile nearly knocks Evan out.

"Hey you," he says.

"Hey," Evan replies, going in for a hug. What he really wants is a kiss, but. They're in public and Evan doesn't think either of them are quite ready for that.

"You ready for this?" Connor asks when they pull away.

"No. But let's do it anyway."

"Alright. Come on."

Connor leads the way to the elevator and then into the waiting room. They have a few minutes until the meeting officially starts, so they sit next to each other and scroll through their respective phones. Connor gets bored with his easily and opts instead to simply stare off into space.

Evan has to wonder what he's thinking about.

It isn't long before it's six o'clock on the dot, and a door is opening to reveal that same kind-faced therapist that Evan remembers from all those weeks ago; Jeff, he's pretty sure name is. Connor gets up, and Evan follows him tentatively into the room.

The meeting starts off just the way the last one did. There's a few new people, so they go around the room and introduce themselves again. They're also told to name one thing they love, and something they want to get out of the session, just like last time. Evan finds he's not as nervous to answer, but that's mostly because he plans on recycling his responses from last time.

Evan gets a surprise however, when it's Connor's turn to answer. He doesn't make the same joke about weed (which, Evan has come to find out, was never really a joke). Instead, his answer is a bit more serious.

"My name's Connor, I guess I like reading? And I don't need to get anything out of this session because I already got the best thing possible sitting right next to me. I just hope he gets what he's looking for, too."

Suddenly, all eyes are on Evan and he feels his face heat up at the attention. He looks over at Connor and finds he's smiling warmly, in that secret way he seems to save only for Evan.

Evan doesn't need to think twice on it to decide he's proud of his boyfriend.

"That's great, Connor," Jeff says. "You two are friends?"

"Yep."

"And you met in this group?"

"Yep."

When Connor doesn't offer more, Evan speaks up. He just hopes he's making the right decision. "He's my boyfriend."

"That's awesome," someone else in the group who had introduced themselves as Justin immediately comments. "I'm gay. It's good to know there's other people in this group that are part of the community."

Evan and Connor both nod. Evan offers a small smile, and Justin smiles back.

Evan feels a bit more comfortable after that interaction.

They continue with introductions, and soon they get to the part Evan had been dreading. Jeff asks if anyone wants to share their story.

And Evan does. He wants to share, he's just nervous about the public speaking part. But he can push through it. If Connor had done it, so can Evan.

He raises his hand.

"Uh, a few months back," Evan starts. "I was just. I was feeling so alone? And so I climbed a tree at the state park I was working at and basically I, well I pretty much jumped out of it. The fall wasn't enough to kill me. All I got was this broken arm. The cast is coming off soon, though."

Evan isn't sure why he added that last part about his cast coming off, but he tries not to berate himself too much over it. "I regret it all the time," he continues. "But. The one good thing that came out of it was coming here and meeting Connor. We go to the same school but we might never have spoken at all if it weren't for this group, so." Shit, he's rambling. "So I'm really happy about that."

"Thanks for sharing that with us, Evan. It sounds like you were really suffering, but I can tell you this: I'm so glad you're still here with us. I bet Connor agrees with me, too."

"I do," Connor responds immediately, looking over at Evan.

Evan looks down and mumbles a small "Thanks." His eyes are burning and he's trying really hard not to cry.

He's failed, he realizes as a tear rolls down his cheek.

It's the good kind of crying though. His affection for Connor is bubbling over, and on top of that he's proud of himself. He never thought he'd have the courage to speak up in a room full of people and admit something like that, but he did it. He did it and nothing horrible happened. He didn't humiliate himself. He didn't have a panic attack. He barely even stuttered, which is a huge feat.

Sure, he's crying in front of eight other people and it's apparently obvious because Jeff is handing him a tissue, but Connor has his hand on Evan's knee and is looking at him like _that _and for the first time in a long while, Evan thinks everything is going to be okay.

And just like that, someone else is sharing their story. The attention is off of Evan, and he feels like some kind of weight has been lifted off of his shoulders. It feels good. Really, really good.

The rest of the session goes smoothly. Once the last person who wanted to share their story has finished speaking, they do an exercise. There's a white board on one side of the room, and Jeff writes down suggestions from the group on things they can do when they're having suicidal thoughts. Evan even makes a suggestion. Connor stays silent, but somehow, Evan knows he's in a good mood.

Finally, the session ends, and despite it having gone surprisingly well, Evan is relieved. He grabs Connor's hand and they walk to the elevator like that together.

They don't speak again until they're alone in Connor's car. And even then, they don't speak right away, because before Evan can even get his seatbelt on Connor is leaning over and kissing him.

"I'm so proud of you," Connor tells him when they pull away. "That took guts. I knew you could do it."

"Thanks," Evan says, feeling himself blush at the praise. "I don't think I would have been able to do it if you weren't in there with me, though."

Connor huffs. "Nope. Not gonna let you give me any credit. That was all you."

"Maybe."

"Definitely. You deserve a reward. McDonald's, for old time's sake?"

Evan bursts out laughing. "Thanks, but I already ate. How about ice cream?"

"McDonald's has ice cream."

"Yeah, but the machine is always broken and besides, I'm not in the mood for soft ice cream."

"So you want it hard, then?"

Evan rolls his eyes, catching the joke right away. "Maybe later."

"Good answer."

_Yeah._ Evan thinks as Connor takes his hand and starts driving. _Everything is definitely going to be okay._


	27. (G) TYRUS - Secrets and Confrontation by

Secrets and Confrontation  
Squilkey

Summary:  
Buffy notices TJ is acting odd around Cyrus, and she's not going to let that slide. But how is Buffy going to interpret what she finds out?

* * *

Chapter 1: Locker Stares

Chapter Text

Buffy was balancing three textbooks on her hip as she attempted the combination on her locker. She had been having trouble with it all day and had settled with carrying everything, but it had gotten ridiculous. She slammed her hand against it on the third try: absolutely no use. She scanned the hallway for her friends, someone could surely hold a few books for her. Cyrus and Andi were nowhere around, they had class on the other side of the school next period. She was about to give up when a familiar face caught her eye: TJ Kippen. True, they weren't the closest two classmates could be, but their bad blood had been settled the week before (thanks to Cyrus), this was just another thing he could do to make it up to her.

"TJ," she said, leaning against the locker next to his. She expected a snarky hello, a passive acknowledgement, anything really, but TJ was caught in a daze. She followed his line of sight, but he seemed to be staring at empty space. "Hello? Earth to TJ," she waved her free hand across his face. He squinted and then turned to look at her.

"What?" He was annoyed, not the best sign.

"I need to leave some of my books in your locker," she stated, pushing two textbooks into his open locker.

"No," he said, attempting to close the locker door. Her books jammed the way and she forced them forward. TJ put his hand down on the top textbook and glared. "Seriously?"

"Look, TJ. I can't get my locker open and I'm going to be late so if you could just," she stopped mid sentence and pushed with more force, but TJ's hand was firm.

He cocked an eyebrow, "How would you ask nicely?" Buffy just rolled her eyes.

"I'm going to be late," she insisted. "You will be too, so just let me. You owe me."

"What do I owe you? I settled all my debts last week, Cyrus said."

"Well you can be friends with Cyrus," Buffy responded, "But just because we're okay, doesn't mean we're good. If you do me favours, we can get closer to good."

TJ lifted his hand off the pile and held it up in surrender. "Fine, but get them out next period."

"Whatever." She shoved the books next to TJ's own and turned without another word, setting off to History just as the tardy bell rung.

She left class as soon as she could, not wanting to deal with a 'late fee' from TJ, because that was definitely something he would do. She had texted Cyrus during class and he 'would gladly accept' the extra books.

When she rounded the corner, TJ was already at his locker; leaning against it as if he hadn't even gone to class. He was staring off into space again. The closer she got, the more she realised it wasn't just space, it was the exact same space as before. She slowed down and tried to follow his eyes, they were dead set on something in the distance. There were kids walking all throughout the hall now, some stopping to chat or open their lockers, but his gaze didn't change. Her phone buzzed with a text from Cyrus: 30 seconds.

"Books," she stated, slamming her hand next to the locker to pull TJ from his gaze. His eyes stayed rooted for a few more seconds before he turned around to face Buffy. He spun his combination around and pulled the books from inside, piling them on top of Buffy's History book she had held on to. "See ya."

Cyrus' locker was at a direct diagonal from TJ's and she made it there just barely before he did.

"Have you been carrying those all morning? You should have asked me earlier!" Cyrus grabbed a book off the stack as he turned to work his combination.

"I bargained a spot in TJ's locker last period, actually," Buffy said.

"Oh really? So you guys are getting along now?" Cyrus' voice was incredibly hopeful. He took the rest of the books from Buffy's hands and shoved them in.

"I guess. He was acting really weird today though," she commented. "And not in the normal snarky-TJ way."

"What do you mean?" Cyrus was digging in his locker for something now, Buffy talked to his back.

"I don't really know. I can't explain it he just," she turned around to look back at TJ and stopped mid-sentence. TJ was looking straight at them, the way he was looking at the empty space before. Exactly the same way.

"He just what? Buffy?"

"He just uh, seemed distracted, I don't know. It's nothing." Cyrus pulled out a loose piece of paper from the back of his locker.

"But you guys are getting along?" He looked up at her, his eyes big.

"Yeah," It was just a small lie, just to keep Cyrus happy. The warning bell rang.

"Cool! I'll see you at lunch." Cyrus took off in the other direction and Buffy turned her gaze back to TJ. He hadn't moved at all, but his eyes were now tracking down the hallway, right behind Cyrus. She moved toward him. Was she really going to be late to fourth period as well?

"What are you doing?" TJ flinched. It was her third time hitting a locker today.

"What are you doing?" He retorted, gaze fully diverted now.

"You're staring at Cyrus, what do you want?" There's no beating around the bush with TJ.

"What?" His voice cracked slightly, as if caught doing something he shouldn't have been. Buffy frowned. "I, uh, was just seeing what you were doing with the books." Nope, not in the slightest.

"You weren't. You were staring at his locker earlier and right before I went over there. You didn't know I was going over there. You were staring at him when he walked off, not me."

"Go away, Buffy. I don't have time for this." He was avoiding the situation.

"What do you have against him? He thinks you're friends." TJ has started walking away, Buffy followed, right on his heels. He turned to look at her.

"Nothing! We are. Leave me alone," TJ snapped. The late bell rang, yet she persisted.

"So why are you staring at him? You looked completely dazed earlier and I'm worried you're going to hurt him. He cares about you and I'm not going to let you hurt him."

"I'm not trying to hurt him. I've got shit I'm trying to figure out, alright? Cyrus is making me think. A lot. About things." He shook his head, "Just leave me alone." He was walking again, but Buffy still followed. This time, she was just trying to work things out for herself.

"Think about what? Do you have a crush on him or something?" TJ stopped dead in his tracks. It was meant to be a joke, something to get him talking again. Yet he was silent, his face was hard. "TJ, do you—" He cut her off before she could finish her sentence.

"Buffy, don't." TJ jerked open the door to the mens' bathroom and let it slam behind him.

* * *

Chapter 2: Locker Confrontation

Buffy was only three minutes late to class, but she might as well skipped all together. She couldn't focus on anything. Her whole world had just been rocked, almost everything she had thought she had known about TJ…It made sense looking back, but she wasn't sure if she wanted it to. Was she just a pawn in his attempt to get to Cyrus? Was he just a game to TJ? Something he could experiment with? She didn't trust him before, and she definitely didn't trust him now that Cyrus was in danger of getting hurt. She was overthinking every event that had happened this semester. She needed to talk to him.

She, Andi, and Cyrus met up for lunch at their usual spot, walking outside to meet Jonah at their table. She was distracted, but no one seemed to notice. Cyrus was in the middle of giving Jonah a run-down on his 'disastrous day in PE' when Buffy interrupted them.

"Cyrus?" She asked.

"Yeah?" He swung his leg around the bench to face her, abandoning his conversation.

"Do you know where TJ goes during lunch?"

Cyrus frowned slightly at the question. "Are you okay? Did he do something? I can talk to him, Buffy," he was already pleading. She brushed him off.

"I just have a question, that's it." Cyrus looked confused. "It's to help him. With math," a small white lie. It was to help Cyrus, really.

"Oh, okay!" He was smiling again. "But I don't actually know. Maybe inside with the team? I've never actually seen him at lunch." She nodded and stood up from the table.

"I'll be right back."

The cafeteria wasn't very big, and a quick scan told her that he wasn't among the group of kids on the team that sat together. She asked around but they didn't seem to know either. She checked the gym after that, one of the only other places she knew he hung out, but it was closed during lunch.

She found him on the way back to the outside deck, sitting on the ground with his head against his locker. The hallway was completely empty. She made her way over and silently sat down next to him. He opened an eye and glanced at her with little interest.

"You want something?"

"Explain. What you didn't explain earlier," Buffy requested.

He let out a shaky breath and knocked his head back against the lockers . "You made me get him that muffin. He was nice, it wasn't anything." She was surprised that the answer came so fast. "I don't know what you want me to say, Buffy. This wasn't supposed to happen. I saw him at the park that day, you remember," he looked at her and waited until she nodded. "He was singing this weird song while he was swinging, I'm assuming he made it up." Buffy couldn't help but laugh, she definitely knew the song. "He was nice to me, genuinely. He knew who I was and he didn't care, he didn't hold anything against me." God knows why, Buffy thought. "It's not what you think it is, I did want to be friends with him. It just, changed. Fast."

TJ stopped talking and Buffy took that as her chance to interject. "So what is he? Some kind of experiment to you?" She stared at him and he stared back, confused.

"Experiment? I like him, Buffy. This isn't a game to me. I know I can't do anything. I promise I'm not going to do anything." Now it was Buffy's turn to be confused. He wasn't trying to do anything?

"I know he wants to be friends," TJ continued. "I'm trying, Buffy. It's hard, he makes me overthink everything. I feel like the more time I spend with him the more likely I'm going to break and do something stupid and scare him off. I'm not trying to do anything. It's the opposite, really."

Scare him off? What was he talking about?

TJ slammed his head back into the lockers and closed his eyes. "I just can't get him out of my head."

All of a sudden, something clicked in Buffy's brain. TJ didn't know Cyrus was gay.

Why the thought had only just occurred to her, she had no idea. Every judgement Buffy had been making was based on her knowledge of Cyrus, not TJ's. He wasn't using Cyrus for anything. He had no idea. This wasn't some game to him; he was truly upset. Buffy immediately regretted what she was doing. She was making things worse, she was making TJ feel bad for something he couldn't help. Something he definitely shouldn't feel bad about. This conversation just turned on its head completely. She needed to let her guard down.

"I was wrong," Buffy stated. TJ looked at her in shock. "I shouldn't have assumed what I did. I shouldn't have forced you to, well, come out." TJ gave her a weak smile. "And then make you feel bad about it, on top of that." She added

"Don't worry, I don't accept judgement from you," he smirked. "And besides, I'm not keeping anything a secret, it's just not something that's come up, really." He rose his eyebrows, "Not that anyone needs to know." Buffy nodded. "It's just Cyrus. We're friends, he's great, amazing, really. I just don't want to scare him off and it's getting worse." Buffy gave him a questioning look and he explained. "Like after our one-on-one when Cyrus went sprinting toward you. It made me mad like I was expecting him to come to me, but of course he wasn't." Buffy sighed. She was in the worst possible position, she couldn't say anything: not to TJ, not to Cyrus.

"I promise your secret is safe with me, TJ. But I really don't think this isn't as bad as it seems. I'm not saying you should tell Cyrus, but I really don't think it would go as poorly as you think it will." TJ looked sideways at her, unsure of what she was saying. Okay, she's said too much. Time to go. Buffy pushed herself up from the floor, gave TJ a small smile, and turned to go.

"Hey," TJ called after her. "What were you assuming?"

"What I'm always assuming," She stated simply. "That you're trying to hurt Cyrus." That was as close to the truth as she could get. If she wasn't going to out Cyrus, how else would she explain why she thought TJ was trying to use him?

"And now?" TJ asked.

"The opposite."

* * *

Chapter 3: Secrets and Baby Taters

Cyrus was sitting on a park bench, cross-legged and notebook in his lap. He was switching between memorising his pre-algebra formulas and watching Buffy do trick-shots on the public court. It was early enough on a Saturday that the park was basically empty. Cyrus enjoyed these mornings, where Buffy was content to have the company, but didn't really mind he wasn't completely there in spirit; It was hard being everyone's cheerleader. Besides, he had a math test on Monday and fitting study time in his schedule was becoming increasingly harder with their ever-growing friend group. Not only was he almost always busy in the morning and during lunch now, he always had at least one friend that was available for an after-school hang out, and how could he turn that down? He glanced up as Buffy hit the air in celebration of her three-pointer. He gave her a thumbs up and looked down at his worksheet, pen in his mouth.

Half an hour later and the familiar bounce of a basketball was gone. "Hey! I think I'm done for the morning," Cyrus heard Buffy call from the hoop. He placed his pen down on his notebook and closed it, marking his spot. "Baby taters?" He asked excitedly.

"Baby taters," Buffy agreed. The best thing about these morning practises were their trips to The Spoon. Luckily baby taters were an anytime-of-the-day kind of meal.

The walk there was only five minutes and with the weather getting warmer as it got later in the morning, it was surprisingly pleasant. Buffy knocked Cyrus off the sidewalk for making fun of her game-face when she was trying to make a tricky shot. He retaliated by sticking out his tongue, a signature move.

The diner was next-to-empty this early and they grabbed their favourite booth by the window immediately upon arrival. They both picked up their menus, however unnecessary. Cyrus knew he was only ordering baby taters (his mom had made him eat before he left the house only an hour and a half ago) but Buffy normally ordered something more substantial.

Amber wasn't working this early and Cyrus didn't recognise their waiter so they tried to keep their volume down as best they could as they waited for their food. They talked about school and Jonah drama and the new girls' basketball team, but something was in the back of Cyrus' mind. He was still bothered by the way Buffy had acted last week with TJ. It wasn't as if he should have been suspicious, but all the questioning seemed off-especially since TJ had written her that beautiful apology rap only a week ago.

They received their food and Cyrus picked at his, thinking about how he would bring the topic up to his best friend. He didn't want to sound accusatory, but there didn't seem to be another way around it, and he definitely wasn't dropping the issue.

"No tater theatre?" Buffy asked, prodding his hand with her fork. Cyrus just shrugged in response. "You alright, Cyrus?"

"Yeah! I just—You and TJ are friends, right?" Buffy visibly rolled her eyes at the question and laughed, almost as if she had been expecting it. "What!" Cyrus exclaimed.

"You're always so worried about my relationship with TJ! Why can't we just be 'okay'?" Cyrus took a slow bite of the baby tater he was picking at. There was no easing back into the topic, he had to attack at full force.

"Because I thought you were friends and then you had that weird thing at school and then I wasn't so sure and then you mysteriously spoke with him at lunch and I know you said it was about math but I really don't think it was because TJ told me you weren't helping him anymore! And I don't mean that in a bad way I know he didn't ask for your help… I just mean it seems like a lie." Cyrus was out of breath when he finished speaking, worried about Buffy's reaction to it all. But Buffy was smiling at him. "What? What did I say? Shouldn't you be…Well, mad? Annoyed?" Full force Cyrus was definitely a little overbearing, he thought.

"You really like to overthink when it comes to TJ, don't you?" She replied. Cyrus frowned slightly.

"What do you mean? Is that your response to my questions? This is what makes me overthink!"

"It's nothing you need to know, Cyrus," She responded simply.

"Seriously, Buffy? Nothing I need to know makes me want to know even more! You're going to cause me to ramble again. Save yourself and tell me while you still can."

"Okay," She gave in. "I'll admit that we weren't talking about math." Cyrus debated going with 'Aha!' but he just ended up frowning. He was right, something was wrong. "Before you start getting all questiony again, it's something I can't talk to you about."

"There's no way! If you know something about TJ, I probably already know it. TJ telling you a not to tell anyone doesn't include me! I'm not technically a person," Cyrus declared.

Buffy rose her eyebrow at him in amusement. "You're not technically...a person?"

"You know what I mean! Tell me!" He whined.

"It's something I promised not to talk to you about. Not a person, you specifically."

"Why would TJ tell you something and not tell me?" His eyebrows were creased together as he inspected another baby tater. "Why would he tell you something to specifically not tell me?" He pouted. "We're closer than you are to him. Did I do something?" He looked at Buffy in fear.

"No!" Buffy said. "It's not something you did it's just because it's you who—" She shut her mouth abruptly and stuck her straw in her mouth.

"I who what! I who what!" He was leaning forward on the table now. "Is it bad? Is it something about basketball? About your textbooks? No that doesn't really involve me...About my locker? Is that why he was looking over at us?"

"Cyrus! Stop guessing things!"

"Just tell me, is it bad?" He pleaded, almost all the way across the table now.

"Well he thinks-I mean it's-No. It's not bad," she settled.

"That's not really reassuring, you know. He thinks, you mean, it is. What's real!" He recoiled back into the booth and slumped down. Buffy took another bite of her sandwich, almost as if she was unbothered. "Buffy!" He whined. She glanced at him, halfway under the table, in amusement. "Does he think it's good? Would I think it's good?" He was basically talking to the ceiling at this point. Buffy ate in silence. He bounced back up, straight in the booth.

"Yes?" Buffy asked at the sudden change in posture.

"If I found out-not from you-would that be okay?" He asked.

Buffy considered this for a moment. "I guess so. But I'm the only one who knows."

"I know that," Cyrus replied simply, taking another baby tater.

"So?" Buffy clarified.

"I'll just ask TJ." Buffy looked as if she was going to say something, but she just shrugged and took a bite of her sandwich.

* * *

Chapter 4: Confrontation (the good kind)

With the stress of his math test and an upcoming English report, Cyrus hadn't really given his upcoming conversation with TJ much attention. But now that the conversation was only a few hours away, he couldn't keep it out of his mind. The fact that Buffy hadn't resisted to the idea of Cyrus just asking TJ himself seemed to be a good sign. Whatever it was, it wasn't bad enough that Cyrus couldn't find out himself, right? Besides, Buffy had said it was good, hadn't she? Or was it good for TJ but bad for him? The other way around? Dwelling on these thoughts, he realised that he didn't even know what he was supposed to ask TJ. 'You told Buffy a secret, tell me too?' That sounded invasive (and a little creepy). Cyrus purged the thoughts from his mind as he entered his math classroom. Nothing could affect this: he knew all these formulas back-to-front. And how ironic would it be if Buffy and TJ had caused him to fail a math test?

They were given the last forty-five minutes of class for the test but Cyrus finished it in thirty, giving him time alone with his thoughts for fifteen minutes. He would catch TJ at his locker after the last bell and see what happened from there. He reckoned the easiest way to get him to talk was to act casual about the whole situation: it was NBD.

Cyrus got through drama and history and then, almost, ran to his locker. It was more like a fast speed walk. Somehow the older boy was always already there; No matter how close Cyrus' previous class was, no matter how fast he left the room, TJ was always there. Cyrus put his textbook away and turned around to look at the locker across the hall. Surprisingly, TJ was already looking at him. They made eye contact and he grinned. Cyrus returned the gesture with a smile and started walking in that direction.

"Underdog! What's up? How'd the math test go?" The thought that TJ had remembered he had a test only made him smile more.

"It was amazing! I finished early and I'm pretty sure I got every answer right." TJ was staring down at him, never breaking eye contact.

"That's great!" He leaned against his locker and pulled his backpack up over his shoulder. He looked behind his shoulder at all the kids flooding out of the school. "Taking the bus?" He asked.

Cyrus shrugged. "It's nice enough out that I'll walk. Gives me time to stress about my next test."

TJ pouted at him. "Poor baby," he mocked.

"I'm doing it to myself! I expect no sympathy!" TJ laughed at this. There was a moment of silence before Cyrus decided to approach the topic. "I surprisingly didn't just come over to gloat about math," he admitted. "I actually wanted to ask you something."

"Yeah?" TJ responded. He motioned toward the door with his arm. "Wanna walk?" Cyrus nodded and pulled at the straps of his backpack, falling in line with TJ as they made their way out of the school. "What's on your mind, Underdog?" He asked as they entered the fresh air. It was a calming change of scenery, which surprisingly gave Cyrus a little more confidence. He wasn't doing anything wrong. He wasn't really prying.

"Your conversation with Buffy last week," Cyrus admitted. TJ stopped in his tracks and Cyrus almost ran into him. His face was solid, the grin he had been sporting for the past five minutes, abandoned.

"She told you?" He deadpanned.

"No!" Cyrus yelped, slightly drawing attention to themselves. "No, she wouldn't tell me anything. I'm, well, worried? I guess?"

TJ frowned. "Worried about what?"

"I know you weren't talking about math," Cyrus admitted. "Or basketball—I think."

TJ started walking again. "Okay?"

"And you guys aren't really close," he continued. "So I was thinking, maybe, you guys were talking about me?" TJ was silent as they crossed the road. "If you don't want to be my friend, it's fine. I'd be disappointed—devastated, actually, but it's okay. I'm used to rejection." TJ stopped again and grabbed Cyrus' shoulder.

"Hey! No." He was looking so deep into Cyrus' eyes, he thought he might get lost. Cyrus felt compelled to nod.

"So I'm just overreacting?" Cyrus clarified. The silence lasted almost too long and TJ seemed to hesitate, but he eventually spoke.

"Not exactly," he started.

"So you don't want to be friends?"

"No!" Thankfully this burst of noise had fewer onlookers. "Not that, I mean. We were talking about you."

"Okay," he was trying to remain neutral to the situation. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

TJ swallowed. "Uh." He was fidgeting with his fingers and, for the first time since Cyrus had known him, staring at his feet. Cyrus wanted to fill the silence, but he fought the urge. "It's just—um." His foot started to bounce against the ground. Cyrus scanned their surroundings, most people had disappeared by now. "It could be good or it could be bad, I dunno." Cyrus frowned, he was being just as confusing as Buffy had been. "I know we're friends and, uh, that's great. Really, it is. I just, uh." He screwed his eyes shut as if it physically pained him to get words out of his mouth. "I just don't wanna scare you or, uh, lose you as a friend, but I don't really see how this conversation can be avoided much longer." He paused and looked up for a brief second, catching Cyrus' eyes. He looked worried like he had never been before.

"If it's a serious conversation we can take it to the swings?" Cyrus offered. They were only a two minute walk from the park. TJ nodded and they walked in silence the whole way there. Cyrus had so many thoughts whirling around in his head he didn't know what to focus on, but that was probably for the best. They arrived at the swing set but neither of them sat down. TJ planted himself next to the pole, leaning against it. Cyrus stood slightly back, facing him.

TJ rested his head back on the incline, looking up at the sky. "Buffy found out something about me. That's why she knows and you don't. I didn't want to tell her. She insisted that we talk about it and, uh, she said some things that made me think maybe this wouldn't be that bad. She was wrong, of course. This is bad. I mean not bad, just hard. But it could be bad, I guess. I'm not making a lot of sense. Fuck, I've never been this bad at talking before." Cyrus would agree to that, TJ was starting to sound like him. Maybe he was the bad influence. TJ exhaled loudly and finally looked back down at Cyrus.

"I have certain feelings toward people—shit, not people, uh. Feelings towards guys and, more specifically, you." Cyrus looked at him in shock. Never in a million years would he have guessed that was going to come out of TJ's mouth. He was moving, he was dying, all plausible. That he was gay and had a crush on Cyrus? Insane. TJ looked away from Cyrus and pushed himself off the pole. "I'm gonna go." He turned to leave but Cyrus caught his wrist on the turn, snapping out of his daze. TJ instinctively turned back around.

"I have certain feelings towards guys too," Cyrus admitted. TJ's mouth opened slightly. "I just never thought, in a million years, my crush would too."

TJ cocked his head to the side and gave a weak smile, unbelieving. "Your crush?"

Cyrus' hand was still wrapped around TJ's wrist. He slipped it down into the taller boy's hand and wove their fingers together. "My crush," he repeated.


	28. (T) BOYF - Whipped Into Shape! by sincer

whipped into shape!  
sinceraly

Summary:  
Michael reveals he's been Rich's workout buddy for a few months and has gained quite a bit of muscle. The sudden physical difference causes feelings Jeremy's been pushing down to come into the limelight.

Basically Jeremy realizes he's gay for Michael.

* * *

A very unlikely friendship formed after the so-called Squipcident, but Jeremy had a hunch that maybe it wasn't as unlikely as it seems. Rich and Michael had become close, obviously not to the level of Michael and Jeremy, or Rich and Jake, but close nonetheless. Of the others in the Squip Squad, Michael connected better to Rich, their former bully, than to anyone else. Confusedly, Jeremy pushed down any negativity whenever he saw the two of them together and supported Michael breaking out of his shell completely.

Still, Michael's new friendship was a bit weird, but considering the good it's done since it's formed, Jeremy didn't complain. Slowly but surely, Michael became more and more confident - he began to speak his mind more, talk to more people, and even if at a slower pace than with Rich, he became closer friends with everyone in the Squip Squad.

A change nobody saw coming, however, was Michael leaving behind his puffy red hoodie for a day. He walked into the cafeteria in a plain black shirt that normally didn't cause any extra attention, but the shirt showed off something that even Jeremy had no idea had developed.

_Since when the fuck has Michael has muscles?_

For once, the lunch group is silent, unashamedly staring at Michael, who is quickly turning red through his tan. Rich breaks the silence with a quick bark of laughter.

"You finally did it! I knew you could do it, you fine piece of ass!"

Michael blushes further, about to turn on his heel and walk out, but the group finally decides to speak.

"Oh my god, Michael, you look hot!" Chloe.

"Can I feel your muscles?" Brooke.

"How much are you lifting?" Jake.

"Michael, I hope you've been remembering to stretch!" Christine.

"Can we take a pic?" Jenna.

Meanwhile, Jeremy is still silent, looking at Michael in wonder. How did he not notice?

"Guys!" Michael squeaks, hiding his face in his hands, "please! Give me a second!"

The group allows him a second to collect himself, while eyeing his now lean arms. He sits down next to Jeremy, who quickly averts his eyes, grabs the apple off of Jeremy's tray, and takes a bite. Finally, he coughs and speaks.

"So, Rich and I have been gym buddies for the past five months. I go every Tuesday, Friday, and Saturday, for three hours. I lift 145 at the moment, Jake, I stretch before and after, with a ten minute session for smaller exercises, and. Yeah.

Rich puffs up his chest, looking incredibly smug, "you guys would not believe how hard it was to train him at first, but he's getting there!"

Michael blushes again, rubbing the back of his neck. Jeremy thinks it's incredibly endearing.

Wait. No.

Jeremy does not think it's incredibly endearing. What the hell.

"What made you decide to start working out, Michael?" Christine asks, genuinely curious. Michael shoots her a smile.

"Well? When everything, uh, _went down, _I wanted to find a way to let out my issues? And, well, Rich found out that my habits to do so weren't very healthy and-" he stops, chuckling uncomfortably, "-so he offered to help me start working out. Plus, heart issues run in my family so I thought it wouldn't hurt?"

"Wait, but how did you hide it this whole time?" Questions Chloe. Jeremy finds himself asking the same, silently.

"Well, it's been cold out until now, so I wore the hoodie anyways.

"Not to mention," Rich butts in, grin still there on his face, "that he leeches off of my guest spot of my gym membership."

"Yeah," Michael adds, taking another bite of the apple, "that too."

The topic of Michael gaining muscles fades off after a bit, being replaced by talks of video games and albums and whatnot. However, Jeremy notices Michael shooting him looks filled with various questions, and when he leaves the cafeteria, he doesn't miss the hurt look on Michael's face when he doesn't say bye.

Fifth period starts and passes with Jeremy thinking of nothing but Michael. His personality, his smile, his laugh, his eyes–

Jeremy, _what the fuck._

His head nearly slams into his desk as he holds back a groan. The thoughts he's been having about Michael have been increasing since the Squipcident, but they've very rarely been like _this. _To the point where he blushes so hard he looks like he's on fire, where Michael makes his heart race. Usually, they're just about his humor, his traits, his quirks, his personality, his smile, his laugh, his eyes…

_Jeremy, this is no better._

Sixth period ends up much the same, and when the final bell rings and Jeremy meets Michael at his PT Cruiser he tries his hardest to keep from flushing. For whatever reason. Who knows.

"Sah bruh!" Michael greets, giving him a highfive, which Jeremy then responds to with a fistbump, which then just overcomplicates itself into their special handshake… thing. Jeremy can't stop the grin from taking over his face, and Michael does the same in return. By the time they open the car doors they're laughing together, snapping the seat belts on and pulling out of the parking lot. When they quiet down, Jeremy clears his throat.

"Uh, so, when did you start going to the gym again?" He asks, purposely avoiding looking at Michael, instead looking straight ahead at the road.

"Oh! Five months ago," Michael answers, "I don't plan on getting built or becoming a meathead, don't worry. I just wanted to shape up somewhat, I guess." He turns on his right turn signal and merges into the turning lane, "plus, with everything going on it was a good way to let out some steam. I have to thank Rich for pushing me to try it."

Jeremy feels off hearing Michael mention Rich, again, but he pushes it from his thoughts.

Michael turns on his Spotify playlist and they fall into a comfortable silence as he drives Jeremy to his place.

As soon as Michael waves him off from inside the car and drives off, leaving Jeremy standing on his front porch, Jeremy runs inside the house and jumps into his bed, trying to erase the image of Michael from his head. He doesn't want to forget him, no, but the… _weird feeling _he got whenever he is around Michael needs to go.

It doesn't seem to want to leave, however. The longer he thinks about Michael, the more his heart speeds up. Jeremy chalks it up to his brain getting used to Michael's new physical appearance and leaves it at that.

_Pika!_

Jeremy dives for his phone, almost knocking over two weeks worth of empty water bottles he keeps forgetting to through away to answer the text. It's from the group chat without Michael, which was made when they decided to try and give him a surprise birthday party.

From: _Qween Chloe_

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, player 1_

**Ok I think were all home by now**

From: _Qween Chloe_

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, player 1_

**first of all ms spencers hw is bullshit but second of all michael broke the group today and we all have rich to thank for it**

From: _Qween Chloe_

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, player 1_

**So thanks Rich**

From: _Rich :3c_

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1_

**[Bows] ur welcome**

From: _Rich :3c_

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1_

**he did most of it tho i didnt really have to try hard to convince him. i think he was looking for a way to release aggression maybr?**

Jeremy sighs when reading the message, mostly because he knows the built up aggression Michael had was related to him in some way or another.

From: _player 1_

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe_

**cmon guys michael is my best friend lets not talk about him like he's a piece of meat**

From: _Brookie Cookie 3_

To: _Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1_

**were not! were just appreciating that he worked so hard and it paid off! what do u think about his muscles hmm?**

Jeremy immediately thinks about them. He then hides his face in his pillow as though anyone else would be able to see his bright red flush. He's about to type in his response of **"they're cool I guess**" when his screen changes to an incoming call screen. Even though it's been months since the Squipcident, it's still weird to Jeremy that his father is taking an active role in his life, but it's not an unappreciated change. Sliding the call feature to the right, he lifts the phone to his ear.

"Hey Dad, what's up?"

"_Nothing much, Jer," _his father answers. He's handling a case in New York, so Jeremy can hear the rush of traffic in the background, the shuffling of his father's suit as he, most likely, walks to lunch. " _Just wanted to check in. School okay? _"

"Yeah! It went pretty chi-cool. School was cool," he says, biting back a wince at his slip up. Chill was no longer a word he used often, with the way his back tingled from his scars after he said it. He also thinks about mentioning the bomb Michael and Rich dropped today, but thinks against it.

"Michael dropped me off home, so I didn't have to deal with stupid freshman on the bus."

He can hear his father chuckle on the on the other end. "_ Don't forget you were once 'freshmeat' too, Jeremy. _"

Jeremy almost says, "_ yeah, and I hated myself too back then," _but no matter how true it was, there was a fine line with self-deprecating humor, and he knew it would worry his father if he did say it. So he doesn't. Instead, he goes with, "yeah, I guess, but social hierarchy, y'know how it is." He fiddles around with a corner of his pillowcase as his father mumbles something to a person on the other end, and once he's done, his father responds.

"_ I know, I know, you don't have to explain to your old geezer of a dad. I gotta get going so I can eat and rush back to the office, but you know the deal. Money in the flower pot on the counter, don't spend it on drugs, do your homework, and if you have any issues call me and/or 911."_

Jeremy laughs, waving away the tips even though he knows his father won't see it, "I got it dad, it's all good."

"_ Okay, son. I'll talk to you later tonight. Behave."_

"Talk to you later, dad."

A click tells Jeremy that his father has hung up and he tosses his phone lightly onto the bed. His phone immediately blows up with notifications, and Jeremy groans, slinging his arm across his forehead in exasperation. He doesn't have the patience to deal with his (amazing, lovable, but fucking exhausting) hounds for friends.

He's sprawled on his bed, long legs half off, but sleep claims him within ten minutes and he dozes into unconsciousness.

* * *

The next day at lunch consists of Jeremy hastily copying Michael's chemistry homework, because of course he forgot to do it. He tries to ignore how Michael was wearing an old Pacman shirt that happens to fit a bit more snug than his usual shirts, how Michael's smiles stop Jeremy's heart, and all the pointed looks he gets from is fellow lunch mates, who all look at their phones as if expecting Jeremy to do the same.

As he walks to the parking lot to meet up with Michael, he gets ambushed by Chloe, who covers his squeal of panic with her freshly manicured hand. She drags him to the theatre, where Christine, Rich, Jake, Brooke, and Jenna are also waiting. He's half expecting Michael to show up, but one look at Jenna and he knows she already handled it.

"So," Chloe says, "you managed to avoid us yesterday and at lunch, but you still haven't said anything. So spill!"

Jenna leans forward, eager to hear what Jeremy has to say, and Rich tries to do the same, but he ends up falling off of the chairs he was lying down on. Jake laughs at him but helps him up.

"What about Michael? He's my ride home?" Jeremy says, grasping at straws in any way he can to avoid this awkward conversation. Honestly, Jeremy's internal conflict is about this situation - why is Michael having muscles such a big change to him? _(It's not.) _Why does it make him feel weird? _(It's not the muscles, oh my god.) _Why would anything regarding Michael feel weird? _(I dunno, maybe because you're ga-)_

Not going there.

Christine holds up her phone, the little strawberry pom pom decoration Jeremy gave her for her birthday swinging with it, "I told him we had a thing to discuss the next play we're doing in school."

Jenna nods, and holds up her phone, "and I gave him a coupon for a free Slushy at 7/11."

Brooke pipes up, "I'll drive you home, Jeremy! It's no biggie."

Jeremy mumbles a "thank you," but as soon as he's done Chloe is back on her bullshit.

"Okay now that that's taken care of, stop avoiding the question. What do you think of Michael?"

Jeremy takes a step back from where Chloe poked his chest, face immediately flushing. "I mean, his muscles a-are cool, guys. I-I'm proud of him."

Chloe raises an eyebrow, looking distinctly unamused, "that was a boring answer, but I'm asking about _Michael. _As a whole. How do you feel about him?"

Jeremy swallows so hard he can physically feel his Adam's Apple bobbing. He doesn't know what to say to get them off his case. Christine, his savior, comes to his rescue.

"Chloe, no need to be so harsh about it," Chloe looks at her, betrayed, while Jeremy shoots her a grateful look. It doesn't last long, though, because she follows that up with, "still Jeremy, we're all friends here! You can tell us, your secret will be safe."

Now, more than embarrassed or anything, Jeremy is just confused. What does he think about Michael? Well, he's his best friend, his Player Two, his favorite person. They know this, and so does Michael, so why would it be a secret.

"You guys _know _how I feel about Michael!" He says, trying and failing to ignore how his voice cracks. Rich snickers but Jake smacks him lightly on the shoulder.

"Oh, we do, do we?" Says Jenna, looking malicious as she leans back in her chair. Jeremy recognizes this as her _gaining information _look and wonders vaguely why she was going to major in history when she could be a killer detective.

"Yes!" Jeremy answers, looking more frustrated as the minutes pass on. Brooke gets up from her chair and pats him on the shoulder, offering him little comfort.

"It's okay, Jer," Brooke says, before stepping away to cuddle up to Chloe's side, "we're trying to help, we promise."

"Yeah!" Shouts Rich, "we're trying to get you to notice that you're gay as fu-!" Jake nearly topples him over in his seat to shut him up, and Jeremy, knowing how that sentence was gonna end, hums loudly in embarrassment.

"L-listen, guys, I know what you're trying to do. But I'm not g-gay, and Michael is just my best friend, okay?"

Chloe, Rich, and Jenna all shoot each other looks, looking vaguely like they want to push Jeremy harder, but Brooke and Christine save the day, once again.

"It's okay, Jeremy, that's enough for today. Christine, wanna hit up Pinkberry before I drop you off?" Asks Brooke, walking back to her seat and grabbing her very pink bag. Jeremy almost forgot that Brooke was Christine's ride home.

Christine nods her yes, and with a quick kiss to Chloe's check, Brooke is leading them out of the theatre and into the parking lot.

Christine beats Jeremy to the shotgun seat, so he dumps his backpack on the back seat before sitting down. Checking his phone, he's got three new messages from Michael.

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**hey my dude what is up**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**sorry for ditching u btw Christine said smth about drama and im not risking her trying to recruit me into the play**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**plus Jenna gave me a Thing for free slush so. anyways txt me later bye**

"I'm calling Michael real quick," Jeremy says, breaking up the conversation between Brooke and Christine.

"Put it on speaker!" Brooke near-shouts. Her excitability is adorable so Jeremy follows through. The phone rings for a few seconds before Michael picks up with a content "yo!"

"Hey Michael!"

"Hi Mikey!"

"'Sup, Michael!"

"Woah!" Michael responds. "I see we got a full house. Christine and Brooke, that you?"

The girls respond with a happy hum and Michael laughs on the other end, Jeremy ignores how a smile immediately forms on his cheeks and how his heart speeds up from the sound. He also ignores the knowing look Christine shoots him.

"Where are you?" Jeremy asks Michael.

"At home," Michael responds, "I'm getting ready to marathon some Kingdom Hearts."

"First, second, or?"

"2.8. I'll be watching more than I'll be playing so, snacks are a must. I'm popping popcorn right now. What about you guys?"

"We're headed for Pinkberry!" Christine answers, "should we buy some for you?"

"Don't worry about it," Michael's microwave beeps from the other end, "I'm out of y'all's way. Jeremy can just be a good best friend and buy some for me next time we swing by." Jeremy lets out a playful groan.

Brooke giggles. "We missed you, today, by the way! At the theatre thing." Christine nods her head affirmatively, and even though Jeremy knows Michael didn't feel left out, and that he missed somewhat because he wanted to, and that he couldn't have been there anyways, he knows Michael well enough to imagine the light, happy smile on his face, the light blush matching with it. Jeremy also knows he wants to see that look directed at him.

He also, ignores that, funnily enough.

Michael laughs a bit, and Jeremy can hear him opening the microwave and then shutting it closed, before he actually responds.

"Thanks, guys. It's okay though, I'm not meant for the theatre kid lifestyle."

"Well," Christine says, a rare mischievous look flashing across her face, "what if you became a theatre tech kid instead?"

"I'm goo-"

"NO HEAR ME OUT, all you do is you change lighting and stuff! Please think about it!"

Oooh, Christine is playing dirty. She knows as well as anyone in the Squip Squad that no one can say no to her pleading voice, but she doesn't usually take advantage of it. Jeremy grins as a really loud, tired sigh comes from the phone.

"Fine, Chrissy, I'll think about it."

"Yay!" Christine says, clapping her hands together.

Something like "what did I get myself into," is heard before Michael is back to his normal volume. "Anyways, Brooke, remember that we got tutoring after school tomorrow."

"I know!" Brooke says, keeping her eyes on the road. Through her bubblegum blonde demeanor, Brooke is actually at an Elle Woods level of smart. It took the group a while to get her to apply herself, but she's rocking straight A's and helps tutor in her best subject, english. After the Squipcident, Michael shaped his game up too and joins her in tutoring, but for science.

"Okay! Well, I'm gonna go get started on my marathon so I can actually sleep tonight. I'll text you guys later!"

"Bye Michael!"

"Bye bye!"

"See ya, dude!"

The line goes dead and Jeremy shoves his phone into his backpack. They're turning onto the block before Pinkberry, so the rest of the car ride is pretty quiet, but as soon as they step into the froyo store, Brooke is within her element and doesn't stop chattering. A few kids from school are chilling at the booths and Brooke makes sure to greet all of them as they make their way to the counter.

The girl at the cash register looks comically bored in her bright pink and white striped hat and collared shirt. She shoots Jeremy a look that could only be described as faked interest and turns her attention to Brooke, who's bouncing on her toes in excitement. The girl at the register - Allison, her name tag reads - moves from arm from where it was, her chin resting on it.

"Let me guess, small cup with unlimited toppings?"

"You got it, Allie!" Brooke giggles, already reaching for the cup Allison is taking from it's stack. As soon as the cup is in her hand, Brooke hops away to the frozen yogurt machines, mixing vanilla with strawberry in a perfect swirl with practiced ease.

Christine orders next, her's the same as Brooke's, but medium, and then it's Jeremy's turn.

"Well?" Allison says, raising a perfectly filled eyebrow. Her sharp eyeliner kinda intimidates Jeremy, like she could kill a man with it. Her also sharp gaze really does nothing to help what Jeremy assumes is just a case of Extreme Resting Bitch Face, but it does make him more nervous about ordering.

"I - uh - Can I have an, um, mediumcupwithlimitedtoppings?" He blurts, attempting in vain to stop the flush from completely taking over his face. Allison looks at him, unamused.

"Yeah, so I'm gonna need you to repeat that."

"A - uh. A m-medium cup. With. With limited toppings?"

"You got it my dude." Allison passes him the cup, and he grips five dollars with his shaking hands and drops it into her hands. He also drops three bucks into the tip jar because people suck and he knows she probably hated that interaction as much as he did.

But, Jesus did Jeremy need to work on social interaction. He knew no one in his friend group was perfect, but he was, most definitely, the worst when it came to it. Michael had issues with sensory overload, and he was introverted, sure, but he could at least order some fuckin' food.

Jeremy spends so long dwelling on his failed social life that his cup is full with peanut butter flavored frozen yogurt and sprinkles before he knows it. He spots Brooke and Christine in their corner booth and walks over, catching them in a debate about some musical.

"I'm just saying, Oak will be an amazing Pierre!" says Christine, pulling her spoon out of her mouth, "he was so great as Hercules and Madison!"

"I'm not saying he won't be, I love Oak, he's a great actor!" Brooke agrees, "I'm just saying that Josh Groban was amazing as Pierre and I don't know if I could see anyone else as him! It's like anyone other than Laura Bell Bundy being Elle Woods!"

"Okay," Jeremy starts, slipping into the booth besides Christine, who scoots to accommodate him, "can we just agree that Josh Groban is always amazing and leave it at that?"

Christine nods in firm approval and Brooke giggles, "it's fitting that the walking talking human personification of a Menorah is your gay awakening, Jeremy," both of them laugh as Jeremy splutters past his spoon of frozen yogurt.

"I'm not gay! And just because I'm Jewish doesn't mean I'm attracted to him because he's Jewish too!"

Jeremy's face is bright red and his eyes are wide, and the girls laugh a bit harder at his flustered expression, but they lay off a bit, Christine patting Jeremy lightly on the hand.

"It's okay, Jer. We're not gonna give you a hard time. I think Rich, Chloe, and Jenna already did enough."

He relaxes, only slightly, and takes another bite of his yogurt, trying hard to calm down his flush. The conversation fades to regular talk about new viral memes and how much homework sucks, so Jeremy takes a minute to check his phone, opening it to many messages from Michael.

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**hey so i know im gay but i would marry aqua in a heartbeat**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**O SHIT ITS TERRA**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**VEN IS HERE MY S O N**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**terra and aqua are the only hets i trust**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**actually i take that back zelink owns my ass let them live**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**Wow so? fuck xehanort he can vore kingdom hearts nd die**

From: _player 1_

To: _player 2_

**Im kinkshaming**

From: _player 2_

To:_ player 1_

**ofc thats the message u respond to  
kinkshame xehasnore not me**

Jeremy cracks a grin at Michael's response, perfectly imagining the cute snort Michael does when he thinks something is funny. When he looks back up at the girls, Brooke and Christine are silent, sharing a look with each other and then looking back at him. He blushes again, shoving his phone into his back pocket and taking his last scoop of froyo.

"Sorry, I was texting Michael. He's a mess."

He pointedly ignores the "so are you," that Christine mutters and grabs the girls' empty cups, shuffling out of the booth to throw them away. He meets them outside of the store, climbing into the passenger seat of Brooke's car so he doesn't have to move later.

The ride to Christine's house is filled with show tunes and drag queen discussions, and once she walks inside her house, Brooke pulls out from her driveway and goes on her way to take Jeremy home. The ride is smooth and Brooke takes her time, letting them just enjoy it. They get into a debate on whether the Chainsmokers should actually be called musicians, ("listen, I respect EDM, but what they make is an insult to the genre and to humanity as a whole," "Jeremy, are you sure Christine is the Drama Queen, not you?"), on whether it's socially acceptable to wear pajamas to Wal-Mart, ("everyone does it, Brooke!" "Just because you and Michael do it when you're stoned off your asses doesn't make it okay, Jer-Bear,"), and on whether or not eating Pop-Rocks and drinking coke could actually kill you, ("your best friend is the one who's great at science, Jer, you should ask him!" "You know as well as I do that Michael will take it as a challenge and actually do it as an 'experiment,'"), before they arrived at Jeremy's house. When they do, Jeremy grabs his backpack from the backseat of the car and says his goodbye to Brooke, who drives away with a wave and a happy smile.

He grabs his lanyard from his front pocket and opens the front door of his house, kicking his backpack into the living room and his shoes into the closet in the entrance, immediately walking into the kitchen and checking the house phone for any messages. It's lit up like there is, so he presses the play button, and as the phone plays the message, he opens the refrigerator and shuffles tupperware around till he finds something to eat.

**"One new message. Message received at: 2:35PM, May fifteenth. Playback beginning:**

_Jeremy, hey, it's dad." _Jeremy perks his head up, hitting it on the ceiling of the fridge and groaning in pain, rubbing the area where he was hurt, _"I'm assuming you're out with Michael, so I just decided to call the house. I wanted to be back home today but something happened with the case, so I'm gonna have to stay in New York for tonight." _Jeremy frowns, disappointed. Although he appreciates how his father has really been trying to provide, he misses him. He ignores what he's thinking and focuses back on the message, reaching into the back of the refrigerator for some pasta.

_"But, tomorrow, I'll be back at five, so I'm thinking maybe we can have a movie night?Y'know, the classics! Indiana Jones, maybe a Star Wars, maybe The Matrix?"_

Jeremy winces, already thinking about having to suffer watching Keanu Reeves, the man his Squip was modeled after, for so long. He's gonna have to veto that choice.

_"Anyways, I just wanted to let you know what was going on. Get your homework done and don't forget to call me back later. Love you, son."_

**"Message ended."**

Jeremy plops the tupperware of pasta upside down onto a plate and hits it a few times to get the pasta to unstick itself from the container. Once it lands on the plate, he shoves it into the microwave and sets it for two minutes, grabbing his phone and leaning against the counter.

From: _player 1_

To: _player 2_

**You busy?**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**im crying about aqua but no im not the rest of the marathon can wait**

From: _player 1_

To: _player 2_

**Can I come over?**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**let me ask the moms hold on**

He waits for Michael to respond, and Jeremy already knows that the interaction composed of him yelling the question at the top of his lungs to his mom, who responded back the same way. It's scary how much Jeremy knows Michael's house like the back of his hand.

The microwave beeps, and while Jeremy reaches over to open the door his phone vibrates.

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**my mom said yea but looked insulted that u even asked**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**im pretty sure both of my moms like u better than me**

From: _player 1_

To: _player 2_

**What can I say I'm a catch**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**i Know**

Jeremy's face blushes a deep scarlet and almost drops the plate of pasta, before catching it hurriedly. He doesn't know exactly what to type back but is saved when Michael texts him again.

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**no homo tho**

Jeremy feels both relief and disappointment as soon as he reads the reply and mentally kicks himself for being weird. Michael is his best friend, why in the world is he making him feel so…. Off?

He feels like the answer is on the top of his tongue. He ignores it and texts back.

From: _player 1_

To: _player 2_

**Of course my robrotron 3000**

From: _player 2_

To: _player 1_

**ur in 2017 while im in 3000**

Jeremy laughs and rolls his eyes, grabbing a fork and finally sitting down to eat his pasta. He spends some time on Tumblr before switching to Twitter, and immediately sees a group chain.

**former queen bitch chlovalentine: **how do u tell one of your friends that theyre a dense motherfucker wo being rude

**irl robberazzi jen_rol: **Big Ass Mood

**one song glory3 christinecandoit: **You guys know he follows us right?

**former queen bitch chlovalentine: **fuck it. ill subtweet anyone. ill subtweet myself

**balls is life richgoranski23: **y stop subtweeting hey jeremy ure dense as fuck

Jeremy gives a loud sigh, deciding not to get into it again and doesn't respond. He shoves the remaining pasta in his mouth and goes back to the entrance closet, putting his shoes on more gently than he kicked them off. He exits the house and locks the door behind him, stepping down from his front porch and beginning the ten minute walk to Michael's house, happy he left his cardigan behind due to the heat. On his way, he calls his dad and let's him know where he's going in a voicemail.

He finally arrives at Michael's door, face red from the summer heat. He doesn't even need to knock before one of Michael's moms opens the door for him, a broomstick in her hand. He gives her a hug in a greeting and she waves him off downstairs to the basement. Jeremy, in his excitement to get to Michael, doesn't notice Michael's mom watching him, shaking her head with a knowing smile on her face.

Jeremy finds Michael in the basement on his beanbag, cuddling a pillow to his chest as he watches Chopped on the TV.

"I thought you were gonna play Kingdom Hearts," Jeremy says, plopping himself down on the beanbag chair next to Michael's. Michael reaches over and fistbumps him, and they both focus back in on the TV.

"I was, but I was emotionally compromised and decided to watch Food Network."

"Ah yes, how could I forget, it's your feel good channel."

"Yeah, usually, except this arrogant bastard," Michael throws his hand out towards the screen, his face showing utter annoyance at the plump man on screen, who's trash talking one of his female opponents. "Is being an asshole to the Puerto Rican chef. Their main ingredient is beef skirt steak! All she has to do is make some churrasco alá every Puerto Rican restaurant ever, and he's fuckin' dead, man."

Jeremy laughs and glances over to Michael, who's shifted his vision from the TV to Jeremy, and is looking at him with warm brown eyes filled with…

…

He desperately tries to calm his blush and feel normal again. In an attempt to distract Michael's attention from his once again reddening face, he grabs his phone and scrolls down his photo gallery, showing him a meme from Twitter. Michael laughs at it and does the same for Jeremy, until eventually they're just laughing at stupid people online. Michael doesn't use Twitter often since he's more of a Reddit guy, but he stays up to date.

After laughing at memes for around thirty minutes and through the end of the Chopped episode, they decide to play some video games. More specifically, Mario Kart 8.

Michael beats Jeremy at every round, no surprise there, so when Jeremy sinks into his beanbag with a groan, Michael takes the time to gloat.

"Hah! I told you I was the King of Mario Kart! I can't believe you thought your Yoshi ass would beat my Bowser."

"Ah, yes, sire," Jeremy says in a low, tired tone that doesn't match the grin stretching across his face, "how could I ever doubt the merciful justice of His Majesty's power."

"Damn straight!" Replies Michael. His grin is even bigger than Jeremy's, and it's electrifying. Jeremy wonders if it could power a lamp.

"So, unlike you, then, huh?" Jeremy shoots back, half aware of the irony, half aware of himself, and fully aware of the part of himself that wants to kiss Michael.

He stops his thinking track, instead deciding to focus on it later when he's alone and no one can judge him for being bright red (or his methods of solving his… issues.) Michael shoots him a pseudo glare and shoves Jeremy, but forgets that with his added strength he has to be more gentle.

Jeremy falls off the beanbag.

"Shit man, sorry!"

"It's okay dude, there are like two centimeters between the beanbag and the floor, I'm good."

Michael gets up and offers him a hand up. "I'm hungry. Want some snacks? I got a new case of Crystal Pepsi the other day so shit is _lit. _"

Jeremy grabs his hand and forces himself up with Michael's help, and they make their way to the kitchen. Michael's mom isn't there, so Michael just reaches into the pantry and pulls out some barbecue potato chips. He then grabs two bottles of Crystal Pepsi.

"Dude, you want some help holding it?" Jeremy asks.

"I'm good," Michael responds, grin still intact, "I can handle some snacks."

Jeremy ends up opening the door to the basement for Michael after watching him attempt to with full arms for a minute. He ignores the extra _ba-dum _of his heart as Michael smiles at him, grateful. Following him back down to the basement, they both sit themselves down on the beanbags and Michael passes him a bottle.

Jeremy twists the cap and takes a long swig.

"Damn, man, you should have just told me if you were thirsty," Michael comments, taking a swig himself. Jeremy avoids looking at him, instead switching the output of Michael's TV back to cable where a dumb HGTV show is playing.

"Yeah, well, I just really started feeling it, I guess."

The two pass the bag of chips around for a bit and make fun of the stereotypical white couple in the show.

"This reminds me of the one John Mulaney skit - the one where he's like," Jeremy puts on his best HGTV broadcaster voice, "Craig and Stacia want to buy a home that's close to Craig's job in the city but also satisfies her need to be close to the beach that isn't anywhere _near _the city! Let's see what Lorie Joe can do on today's episode of 'You Don't Deserve a Beach House.'"

Michael snorts loudly and looks at Jeremy, who's chuckling. He sits up straight and puts on a fake falsetto, batting his long eyelashes.

Why does Jeremy find it so hard to breathe, suddenly.

"Craig and I have been married for 3 years and dated for two weeks beforehand. I run an organic homemade soap company and we decided that the best way to raise our three kids, Carter, Bailey, and Skylar," Jeremy starts laughing at the name choices and Michael breaks his composure for a second, a huge grin on his face, "was to move into a tiny ass beach house. Who knows, maybe we can break a world record for the most awful and spoiled kids stuffed into a room together?"

They start laughing together and continue to fuck around with stupid voices, just making fun of HGTV and the stupid people who are somehow millionaires. About ten minutes after the episode ends, (they went for House A, a one story three bedroom that had, honestly, only a nice kitchen what _the fuck _they should have picked House B), an infomercial airs for a nonsensical home gym invention that probably ups people's chances of injury rather than muscle mass.

_"I gained 40 pounds of muscle mass in 2 weeks because of this invention!"_

Michael scoffs and Jeremy focuses his attention on the disbelieving look on his face. Michael lowers his voice octave and looks Jeremy straight in the eyes.

"I was a wimp before I Anchor Arms, now I'm a jerk and everyone loves me!"

Jeremy starts laughing, catching the classic SpongeBob reference, before Michael flexes playfully.

_He flexes._

Jeremy needs a moment.

He forces himself to keep laughing until he feels like he's not gonna seem weird to Michael and tries to momentarily stop his train of thoughts about _how his muscles rippled and oh my god? I'm so gay I'm so gay I'm so gay for Michael fucking Mell._

He stands abruptly. Michael shoots him a concerned look.

"You okay?"

"I'll be back man, I gotta piss."

"Alright, you know where the bathroom is."

He does. So he almost runs to the bathroom and shuts himself in. A quick glance to the mirror shows his wide eyes and flushed face, but he can feel his heartbeat going a mile a minute. He slides down to the floor and pulls his phone out of his back pocket, just sitting for a second to compose himself. He feels his body relax slightly, feels his face become cooler, but he can't ignore how fast his heartbeat becomes when he thinks about Michael, as a whole. A swole whole.

God he's so fucked.

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe_

From: _player 1_

**Guys**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe_

From: _player 1_

**I'm so fucked**

* * *

Sometimes Jeremy wonders what he's done in a past life to deserve his torture. Before it was when he was bullied, walking the hallways with the threat of a swirly constantly on his shoulders.

Now it's the fact that he's crushing _hard _on his best friend of twelve years. And that he was stupid enough to tell literally every other friend he has about it.

It's lunch and Jeremy is sitting with his head down in his arms, using his pounding headache as an excuse to get Michael from making him call his dad. Michael sits at his right, jamming to RENT with Christine, who's hitting out a simple drum beat with her pencil and tin water bottle.

"This is weird," she sings out.

"It's weird," Michael sings back.

"Very weird."

"Fuckin' weird."

"Michael, honey, don't talk about yourself like that," Jenna says as she sits next to Christine, shrugging her backpack off of her shoulder on to the floor. Rich and Jake, behind her, both shout out loud "_ oooooh!" _s as Michael fake-winces at the blow, placing a hand over his heart. Jeremy has to block out the sound of obnoxious airhorns coming from Rich's phone, but he's happy he has someway to distract himself from Michael and his lovely voice. God damn it.

He shoves his head further into his arms and hopes the Earth will swallow him whole right at this moment.

Jake sits on Jeremy's left and pokes his arm. Jeremy lifts his head the slightest amount and is met with a bottle of Advil, which he snatches and opens immediately. Shaking three pills out of the bottle, he downs them with some water from Michael's bottle.

Or at least, he almost does until he remembers that he basically just indirectly kissed Michael. He's shared drinks with him for so long but this _fucking crush ruins everything _.

The thought causes him so much shock that the water goes down the wrong pipe and he ends up coughing hard into the sleeve of his cardigan. Jake hits his back gently, but Rich decides to go the asshole route and instead slaps him hard.

Jeremy shoots Rich a glare as Rich retreats to Jake's right with a grin on his face. He passes the Advil bottle back to Jake and gives him a grateful smile, coughing softer.

"Dude, are you sure you don't want me to take you home today? You look like ass. No offense," Michael says, a hand on Jeremy's shoulder. Jeremy stiffens and shakes his head quickly.

"You have tutoring today."

"It's not a big deal, I can get Ned to cover for me until I come back."

"I got him, Mikey," Jenna says, stopping her conversation about some musical with Christine, "I can drop him off, it's no big deal."

"But he's out of your wa-"

"Michael, it's okay." Jeremy tries to give Michael the biggest smile he can muster with exhaustion and nerves, but he's sure it doesn't help with how Michael's eyebrows furrow more and he looks more concerned than ever. "I'll be fine, it's only a headache. I've definitely had worse."

Michael looks like he's going to argue more, but a pleading look from Jeremy shuts him up.

"Alright. But listen, you need anything and you call me. You're my Player One, remember?"

The casual way he says that sends Jeremy's heart racing, and when Michael leaves the table for a second to buy a stale cookie from the cafeteria, he lets out a low whine.

Rich whistles.

"You have it _bad, _don't you?"

"Aw, Jeremy!" Christine squeals, squeezing his hand, "I personally think it's very cute. You need to tell him, friend!"

Jeremy squeaks, ignoring how Jake chuckles out loud, "are you crazy, Chris?"

Jenna takes a swig of her diet Coke before putting it back down on her styrofoam tray. "She's not, actually. Michael has been crushing on you for ages, he just still thinks you're straight."

Jeremy groans and mumbles, "well I did too until yesterday," under his breath.

"Where are Chloe and Brooke?" He asks.

"Probably making out or something, I dunno," Rich answers. "Don't change the subject. You and Michael are constantly making goo-goo eyes at each other and it's only cute when me and Jake do it-"

"Jake and _I, _" Christine corrects.

"And no it's not," Jenna interrupts. "Jeremy, we can help you get together with Michael, if you'd like."

"Yeah!" Jake says, nudging Jeremy a little harder than he intended, "you'll be making out with him in a closet soon if you let us help!"

Jeremy swallows forcibly.

"I'm good. T-thanks. I'll suffer slowly by myself, it's okay."

"Why would you be suffering?" Michael asks, shocking Jeremy into an upright position. His voice is muffled by the cookie held between his teeth. He sits back down next to Jeremy and tosses his arm around Jeremy's shoulders. Jeremy almost shivers from the contact.

"I-uh-well-"

"He doesn't want to admit he has a celebrity crush on Josh Groban," Christine supplies. Michael laughs, a huge grin spreading on his face. He looks at Jeremy, who's got a blush showing up to the tips of his ears.

"It's 'cause he's Jewish, isn't it?"

"N-no! Christine, why?!" Jeremy whines.

"Accept it, Jeremy!"

"This is bullying!"

The others at the table all laugh at Jeremy's expense as he buries his head in his arms again. He hates his friends.

He feels Michael's arm leave his shoulders and looks up to see him taking off his red hoodie. He ties it around his waist, and Jeremy is met with the sight of Michael wearing a v-neck tank.

Holy _shit._

"You're breaking dress code, y'know," Jenna says, looking like she doesn't care much to begin with. "You're gonna distract some poor sap from their education."

"It's hot as hell today, even in here, I don't care about dress code as much as I do not getting heat stroke," he says, completely oblivious to Jeremy's blatant staring, "I wonder if it's gonna be a hot summer this year."

Jeremy swallows. Hard.

"I dunno, Mike," Rich says, a mischievous grin spread across his face. He's looking directly at Jeremy, who looks back with panicked eyes, "I can already see a poor sap affected by your new muscles."

Michael and Jeremy blush in unison, for two completely different reasons. Michael rubs the back of his neck with his hand bashfully.

"You think so?"

"Yeah!" Rich responds, "I'm sure you'll get someone's digits in no time!" Jake, having caught on, nods knowingly from Rich's side, arms crossed. Michael blushes further. Jeremy wants to kiss him senseless anyways, but the look Michael shoots him, shy smile on his face, eyes glittering in the terrible fluorescent lighting of the cafeteria, sends Jeremy's heart into a 5K marathon.

"Nobody will ever be more important than my Player One, though."

Having a crush on Michael is going to kill Jeremy, slowly and painfully, but when Michael sends him looks like that… He can't really say he hates it.

* * *

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, player 1, player 2_

From: _Qween Chloe_

**So im throwing a pool party and i want you nerds to all be there**

To: _Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Brookie Cookie 3_

**U already know my answer sweetheart 33333 what day?**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, player 1, player 2_

From: _Qween Chloe_

**Ily brookie 3 probably next sat i already told kropp and jenna to spread the news so a ton of people will be there**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Rich :3c_

**im down its been a while since ive gone to a banger**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Jake_

**If rich is in then i'm in too**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Chrissy!_

**I'd love to go! Should I bring anything?**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, player 1, player 2_

From: _Qween Chloe_

**I mean,,,,, im not gonna argue w u if u want to bring ur amazing cupcakes. for strictly us, ofc.**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Jen_

**I'm down Christine I'll help you make the cupcakes if you need some help**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Chrissy!_

**That's super sweet of you Jenna! Of course I'd love your help!**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Chrissy!_

**Got it! Jer & Mikey, you guys in?**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 2_

From: _player 1_

**Im in! Ill bring a shitty dolphin floaty**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Jake_

**Jere buddy you dont help your case with the furry jokes**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 2_

From: _player 1_

**STOP BULLYING ME OK DOLPHINS ARE MY FAVE ANIMAL**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: Rich :3c

**usually id be the first to call heere out for being a fucknig furry but mike still hasnt responded**

To: _Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Brookie Cookie 3_

**Ur right! Michael, are u coming? It wont be the same wo u!**

**…**

**…**

**…**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1_

From: _player 2_

**Its ok guys ill sit this one out! parties arent rlly my Thing so !**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Jen_

**I mean, understandable, but we really want you to come my guy youre awesome**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, player 1, player 2_

From: _Qween Chloe_

**yea nd if u want u can be dj u have some sick spotify mixes**

To: _Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Brookie Cookie 3_

**cmon mikey pls? /3**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Rich :3c_

**if u dont come how r me and jake supposed to kick u and jeremys ass chicken fight**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Jake_

**took the words right out of my mouth babe. come on Mike! Lets do it!**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1, player 2_

From: _Chrissy!_

**If you don't wanna come Michael, we completely understand, but we'd love it if you did! I'll even make cookies & creme cupcakes, just for you c:**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 2_

From: _player 1_

**Come on player 2, we can do this together**

**…**

**…**

To: _Brookie Cookie 3, Jen, Chrissy!, Rich :3c, Jake, Qween Chloe, player 1_

From: _player 2_

**… okay.**

**ill go**

**chlo I hope you have good speakers**

* * *

The week approaching the party was uninteresting and boring, filled with pre-tests and exam studyguide packets. It hadn't yet sunk in that the Squip Squad were approaching senior year, but the workload had certainly exceeded to make up for that. Jeremy still hung out with Michael, still suffered through his touches and lingering glances, still blushed at every tease and knowing look.

He hates his friends.

When the day of the party finally arrives, he gets picked up by an anxious-looking Michael in his startling gold PT Cruiser. Michael opens the passenger side door from the inside the car and Jeremy swings in, a bag filled with two towels (one for Michael, so he'd have a towel if he forgot his), a spare change of clothes for himself (plus clothes for Michael that he had left at Jeremy's house, just in case), and 75 SPF sunblock because he burns like a bitch. Michael offers him a shaky grin, before Jeremy nods in reassurance. Or at least what he hopes is reassurance. How can you measure a nod and it's measure of reassurance? Does the dip of your chin matter?

Wait. It doesn't matter.

The fifteen minute car ride to Chloe's doesn't take long, and it's spent in a mostly comfortable silence. Michael is listening to a combination of Shawn Wasabi, Porter Robinson, and like sixty other EDM type songs that Jeremy doesn't recognize. He'll take his indie pop any day, but he at least tries to recognize what Michael likes, because Michael has done the same for Jeremy and Jeremy wants him to know that he cares, too. A _lot _more than Michael thinks he does. Like. Holy shit, a lot more.

Michael drumbeats on his steering wheel to a remix of Lonely Rolling Star from Katamari Damacy, which Jeremy can only name because of how it's shown on Michael's open Spotify playlist, as they pull into Chloe's rather large house. Her parents aren't as loaded as Jake's, but they're definitely upper middle class and it's a very big difference from Jeremy's cozy one story. Chloe was allowed to throw the party under certain conditions: absolutely no alcohol, no drugs, and no burning the house down.

(It was said in a joking manner, but everyone still looked at Rich in concern. Rich didn't seem to care though, instead grinning. His philosophy was that there was nothing he could do about his past except, quote, "try my best to be the coolest fucking bisexual shorty I can be because otherwise I'll never get better."

Rich is weird but also inspirational.)

So instead of alcohol, they decided to make a soda bar of sorts, and Chloe's parents had even allowed her to hire a balloon artist, which Brooke and Christine both seemed _extremely _excited about. Jeremy would be lying if he said he wouldn't ask the guy to make him a balloon dolphin.

As soon as Michael pulls into Chloe's driveway, they get bombarded with the majority of the Squip Squad. Rich, already shirtless, throws himself onto the front window of Michael's car, only to yelp when Michael puts on the windshield wipers and catches his nipple in retaliation. Jake laughs at him from where he's standing by Jeremy's window, his head thrown back in hearty chuckles.

Christine and Jenna run over to Michael's side and pull open the door.

"Alright! Alright! I'm coming, I'm coming!" Michael says, smiling happily. Jeremy admires this for a bit before he's caught by Jake, who wiggles his eyebrows suggestively.

Jeremy promptly ignores both Jake and his blush.

He opens the car door (if he "accidentally" hits Jake, well, who's fault, really?) and steps out, grabbing the bag from where he dropped it on the floor. Michael is already deep in conversation with Christine and Jenna, but when Jeremy slams the door shut, he grabs his phone and locks the car so they can all enter the house.

"Christine, can we have some cupcakes now?" Jake asks with pleading eyes. He looks at Jeremy and Michael, who, at the idea of Christine's cupcakes, look close to salivating too, "she made us wait till you guys got here so we could have some as a group."

Christine laughs while Jenna looks smug.

"No, she made _you guys _wait, I got to eat some last night while I helped her bake them." Rich squawks in anger and looks at Christine with betrayal written all over his face, a hand over his heart.

"Christine! How could you!? Total and complete favoritism, shown by the Mom Friend!"

She laughs again, and Jenna answers for her, "baker's helper perks."

Rich sticks his tongue out at her and she flicks him off.

The kitchen is in the back of Chloe's rather large two story house, and to get to it you need to pass the alcove, living room, and dining room. When they pass into the kitchen, Brooke and Chloe greet them with hellos and hugs. They're wearing cute cover dresses to hide their bikinis, and Brooke twirls in it in her excitement.

Jeremy and Michael both look at each other, and without a word, they communicate their feelings of how _adorable _she is to each other.

"CUPCAKES!" Rich shouts as Chloe pulls a plastic cupcake tray from above the fridge where it was hidden from the menaces that were Rich and Jake, and as soon as it hits the counter everyone grabs a singular cupcake. Minus Jake, who's trying to double fist them into his mouth, being egged on by Rich, who's got a mouth filled with cupcake. True to her word, Christine made Michael's favorite - cookies and creme cupcakes topped with chopped up Oreo. He groans in pleasure when he takes a bite, and Jeremy accidentally eats way more than he meant to in response, turning bright red and coughing immediately after swallowing.

Michael pats Jeremy on the back lightly, fixing him with a concerned gaze and a, "you okay dude?"

"Yeah -" Jeremy coughs again, and when Chloe offers him so water, he thanks her and gulps some down, "yeah, I'll be fine."

"Yeah, Michael," she snarks, sending Jeremy a smug look, "a bit of water is all he needs. He's a bit _thirsty. _"

Jeremy laughs nervously, shooting Michael a glance. Michael, obviously, catches the double entronda and Jeremy swears he can see a disappointed and hurt look on his best friend's face before he slaps his grin back on and takes another bite of his cupcake.

"Thirsty, huh? Who's the lucky girl?"

_If only you knew, _Jeremy thinks, looking at him (if Rich later says he looked like a girl from a stupid young adult book-to-movie adaption gazing at their love interest, who can blame Jeremy for flipping him off) before realizing that Michael is expecting an answer. Fuck.

"A-ah! No one, dude. N-no one."

Michael turns fully to Jeremy, one eyebrow cocked. Jeremy sweats.

"You're an awful liar. But I'm not gonna press you right now, tell me when you're ready."

He shifts back to face the rest of the gang, where Jake is choking and Christine is trying to coach Rich through a fucked version of the Heimlich Maneuver. Chloe looks at Jeremy with a pointed look and tilts her head towards the staircase, before announcing, "Jeremy's gonna help me grab some floaties, we'll be back later!"

She grabs Jeremy by the arm and drags him out of the kitchen and up the stairs, stopping when they reach the ladder to the attic. He follows her up and as soon as he shuts the door, Chloe rounds on him.

"When are you going to tell him, Heere?"

"I can't, Chloe, you know this."

She presses her hands to her hips and places her weight onto her left leg, "and why not?"

"Because it'd ruin our friendship!"

Chloe sighs loudly, walking closer to Jeremy. He flinches and takes a step back, and she stops abruptly.

"Did you… Did you think I was going to hurt you?"

"Yes - well, no, but," he stutters, stopping when she holds a hand up and breathes out slowly.

"It's fine, we'll have to address that, because I fucked up and we still haven't properly discussed it, but right now let's focus on you and Michael. It won't ruin your friendship, dummy. Michael loves - yes, loves - you too much for that."

Jeremy feels his cheeks warm at the word 'loves' and averts his eyes down to the old wood floor, rubbing his right arm anxiously.

"Michael doesn't feel for me like that - and, what's to say it wouldn't? What if I confess and he decides he wants nothing to do with me? I can't - I can't lose Michael again. Not like that."

Chloe sends him a sympathetic look, one that's rarely granted to anyone in the group, excluding Brooke.

"Listen, I'm not gonna pretend to know the extent of the damage done on you guys' friendship because of the Squip, but I've been there. I did a lot of _fucked up _things to Brooke, and I wasn't even under the control of the damn thing." Chloe stops, eyebrows furrowed as she pinches the bridge of her nose regretfully. "But, if there's something this _bullshit_," she glares over Jeremy's shoulder at nothing at all, "taught me is that I needed to appreciate her more, and I do. I don't exactly know where I'm going with this, but," Chloe gestures vaguely past Jeremy, sighing again.

"She's out there, she's dating me, and I guess what I'm trying to say is, Michael wouldn't throw away your friendship for anything, even if you don't think you deserve his loyalty. So, confess. It won't hurt."

Jeremy looks at Chloe, eyebrows furrowed and worry etched into his face, "but what if it does? What if it becomes all terrible and awkward? There's no way Michael would love me after what I've done to him."

"Listen, even if Michael doesn't love you romantically, which, he totally does, he's a stubborn motherfucker when it comes to you. No one can stop Michael from being friends with you except you. Not even Michael."

"That doesn't make sense."

"Your face doesn't make sense. Sorry, that was rude."

"Nah, it's cool. Anyways, I'm not -" Jeremy blushes again, his mouth pulling into a straight line, "confessing. Yeah. Not gonna happen."

Chloe smacks her hand loudly to her forehead, before turning around and walking over to a box, muttering something that sounds suspiciously like, _"this is Brooke's job, not mine," _and gesturing Jeremy over.

"Let's hope I have some damn floaties in here, otherwise we're gonna look like fuckin' idiots."

* * *

Chloe and Jeremy, do, in fact, find floaties in her attic, and within an hour, the pool party is in full swing. Jeremy stands with a red solo cup filled with Mountain Dew Red (his comfort drink) as he watches the chaos around him. Chloe and Brooke make their way around the party, socializing with everyone and being great hosts, Jenna is recording Rich and Jake, who are wrestling, while she sits on the edge of the pool. There is a crowd of others around them, howling and wolf whistling like morons. Christine is chatting with some of her drama clique, happily gesturing about the newest musical trend. Jeremy glances over to the makeshift DJ booth that Michael is in, playing around with various cranks and buttons to add spice to his music. A heavy mix of modern pop and 90's hip-hop blasts from the stereo, and assuming from the people lingering near the booth, it's not unpopular. Michael catches Jeremy's eye and waves him over to the booth, a wide grin on his lips. He looks at home with his music, and Jeremy longingly wishes that Michael felt the same way about Jeremy

Jeremy makes his way over to the booth, shouting "excuse me," and "coming through" at people to try and avoid spilling his soda over the tightly packed crowd of teens. After a bit of struggling, he breaks through to the booth and takes his space by Michael.

"Kinda wish I had brought my Midifighter!" Michael yells at him over the speakers, "I would've played an original and promoted my mixtape!"

"Michael," Jeremy laughs, "you have a literal mixtape. As in on a single cassette, what would you do? Have them share it?"

"Sharing is caring, Jere-Bear! What kind of otherworldly, benevolent human being would I be if I were to deny the masses of my mixes?"

Jeremy rolls his eyes and crosses his arms, but the grin on his face betrays his amusement, "oh kind and loving Mell, what did we do to deserve you?"

"Invent Crystal Pepsi!" Michael yells, and Jeremy doesn't know if the lingering crowd of high schoolers heard him properly over the speakers because they shout back completely different things, like DJ Mell had just told them to put their hands in the air and wave them like they just don't care.

The two friends share a look before bursting into laughter. Jeremy watches Michael intently as he plays around with the sound systems, and when Michael catches his gaze, Jeremy quickly averts his gaze, not noticing Michael doing the same, a pleased blush coating his skin.

"Jeremy! Michael!" Jenna shouts, making her way up to the soundbooth and saving Jeremy from the awkward moment. Michael waves her up, and she climbs the short steps up to the stage. Her one piece is black with purple texting emoticons. It fits her.

"Hey Jenna!"

"Sah dude!"

"I'm pretty sure Rich just faked drowning so that Jake could give him 'CPR,'" she finger quotes 'CPR,' and Jeremy and Michael snicker, "Chloe and Brooke are talking at the soda bar, Christine and her drama nerds are recreating scenes from Heathers, and I'm about to take over as DJ."

"Wait, what?" Michael asks, he shuffles closer to his phone, as if he's protecting his Spotify, "no, my playlist is my _child. _"

Jenna rolls her eyes. "Don't worry, Hoodie, I'll just keep an eye on your phone and skip songs no one wants to listen too. You and Jeremy go do something, have fun, and you can come back in like, thirty minutes if you want to." She pauses and looks towards where Christine's group is standing. "Actually, yeah, come back, so I can make sure Christine doesn't actually method act as J.D. or whoever she's playing."

Jeremy looks at Michael, who looks incredibly torn at leaving his DJ booth behind, and Jeremy can understand why. While Jeremy has never really felt comfortable anywhere except his room and Michael's basement, Michael doesn't feel comfortable _anywhere _if he doesn't have his music or video games with him. And he doesn't here, because it was a risk to bring them with a bunch of stupid teens and a pool around.

Jenna looks like she's ready to take back her offer in the minute it takes Michael to respond, and as soon as she opens her mouth, Michael opens his.

"Okay, you can DJ."

He quickly teaches her the basics, how to up the volume on the stereos and what not, and then he and Jeremy step down from the soundstage and make their way to the soda bar.

The soda bar isn't so much of a bar as much as it is a huge table filled with boxes upon boxes of different types of soda. It seems like everyone kept themselves from spiking public drinks, but it could also be because Chloe threatened bodily harm on anyone who didn't, and it's awfully hard to tell when she's joking and when she isn't.

There is a section for Mountain Dew Red, and Jeremy happily pours some more into his cup while Michael picks up some Big Blue soda.

"That soda fundamentally bothers me," Jeremy says, glaring at it past his cup of Dew.

Michael chuckles and it causes Jeremy to smile, his heart beating a small amount faster. "Why does it bother you, dude? Did the soda personally cause you harm? Do I have to kick it's ass?"

Jeremy shoves Michael, who responds with laughter. "No, fuck you! I hate the fact that it's named Big Blue!"

"And that offends you, why?"

"I don't - I don't know?!" Jeremy answers. Michael snorts.

"What, is that your stripper name? Did they trademark it before you got to?"

"Listen, I will have you know that stripping is an incredibly respectable and hard field to get into -"

"How do you know, Jeremy?! Do you have some business you need to keep down low?!"

"No! I'm not-!" Michael throws his head back in laughter as Jeremy goes bright red. Even though he's super flustered, he realizes he'll do anything to see Michael this… joyful.

He zones out a bit, stairing with what _has _to be a completely lovesick grin on his face. Michael's face is alight with sunlight and his grin stretches across his face, his eyes shut in glee. God, he's so gorgeous.

He's too good for Jeremy.

Michael realizes that Jeremy has stopped laughing, so he stops too, but the smile stays on his face, which Jeremy is grateful for. They stand in a comfortable silence, sneaking glances of each other, and just enjoying the time, when they hear their names being called.

"Mike! Jere!"

Rich and Jake are waving at them from the pool, Rich on top of Jake's shoulders. Michael and Jeremy head in their directions, and Jeremy is acutely aware of the small space he has between him and Michael. If he just stretched over, he could pull Michael into a kis-

_NOPE. NOT GOING THERE._

"Yo!" Rich shouts when they get to the edge of the pool nearest to Rich and Jake. "Get in, bitches! It's chicken fight time!"

"You down to kick these guys' asses?" Michael snarks, looking at Jeremy, who smiles, but internally screams because how is he supposed to fight Rich who's got more muscle weight than Jeremy has in his whole body.

Michael looks like he's about to jump straight into the pool in his shirt, but Rich stops him beforehand.

"Dude! Mike, take off your shirt, it's annoying to play chicken in a wet shirt."

Michael seems hesitant to do it, but both Jake and Jeremy send him reassuring grins. He plays around with the hem of his shirt before pulling it up over his shirt and throwing it on the concrete they're standing on. He jumps into the pool before Jeremy can really see anything (he's not disappointed, shut the fuck up mental dialogue that sounds a lot like Rich), but he takes off his tank top and throws it on top of Michael's shirt, deciding that he could do it if Michael could.

Michael shifts himself in a way that allows Jeremy to climb onto his shoulders, and then Michael stands. Jeremy was light to begin with, and with Michael's added muscle mass, it feels like he weighs nothing at all. Jake grins as they walk over, and Jeremy relishes in the fact that he's being carried by _fucking Michael Mell. _Rich snorts at his face.

"Do I need to go over the rules of chicken?" Jake asks. The look on his face makes it apparent that he doesn't actually expect to have to explain.

"Do we look stupid, Jake Dillinger?" Michael responds.

"Don't answer that," Jeremy follows with. The four of them chuckle a bit, before they all get intense looks on their faces.

It's time.

* * *

After Jeremy gets dumped into the water seven times, they decide to call it quits and make their way out of the pool. Jeremy gets out first, tipping his head from side to side to get the water out of his ears and pushing his hair out of his irritated eyes.

Michael stays on the steps of the pool, laughing his ass off. Jeremy, despite the small headache forming from the amount of chlorine water introduced to his nasal passage, has a smile on his face and considers himself pretty happy.

"Dude, we got our ass beat!" Michael says, "but that was fun as shit, so I'm okay with it."

Jeremy nods, not really having the energy to respond just yet. Michael notices this.

"Hey, I'm gonna get us some more soda! You okay with more Red?"

"Yeah, thanks buddy," Jeremy says, shooting him a grateful smile. Michael averts his eyes and rubs the back of his neck with his wrist, and Jeremy _swears _he can see red on his cheeks.

"Michael, did you get sunburned?" He asks, immediately trying to get closer and check. Michael scoots backwards a bit, almost falling into the shallow end of the pool.

"N-Nah, I'm good, Jere! It's all good," Michael chuckles nervously. He steps out of the pool and turns back to face Jeremy.

_Oh my god, he's soaking wet and his muscles and since when has his body been that toned? Oh my god, my best friend is hot as hell and I'm gay as hell and is he still waiting for an answer?_

Jeremy forces his eyes off of Michael's abdomen, and is he seeing stuff or does Michael look... Pleased?

"U-uh, y-yeah, go ahead, I'll be right here. Y-y'know. By the p-pool."

Michael turns around and walks off towards the soda bar. Jeremy continues to sit and look at his hands, trying to calm his racing heart. Jesus _fucking Christ._

* * *

_Where is Michael, _Jeremy thinks after being alone in the pool for nearly fifteen minutes. He decides to look for him, getting off and immediately having to pull his swim trunks up on his hips. Curse his bony ass body and too-big swim trunks and water weight and gravity.

He first stops by the soundstage, where Christine has joined Jenna. He assumes it's mostly out of fear that Christine would get _too _in character (it's happened before, when the local theatre troupe let her participate their production of Wedding Singer - it was all 80's references and clothes for that entire week leading up to the open). She happily tells him that Michael had stopped by ten minutes earlier and should have been back to Jeremy already.

He makes his way up to the soda bar, where Chloe and Brooke are cuddled up on a single bar chair, both drinking sparkling water.

They say they just saw Michael with two cups of soda, and that he said he was gonna walk around the house to grab their towels. Jeremy decides to pick up the pace.

When he gets to the inside of the house from the back, he finds Michael, two towels on his arm, sipping from a cup of soda in his left hand, and another in his right. He's talking to this one guy that Jeremy can place as Aiden Smith, a smooth and well-liked senior at the school. They are close together.

Like, really close.

As in flirting close.

Jeremy doesn't know what comes over him.

He walks up to Michael and grabs his cup of Red. Michael looks at him in mild surprise - usually Jeremy doesn't snatch things.

"Oh, hey," Aiden says, smiling in a friendly fashion. If things were different, (Jeremy not being gay for Michael, Michael not being intensely amazing and having a wonderful personality, Michael not being shirtless and fucking _hot, _and Aiden not being incredibly open about his sexuality), Jeremy would have conversed, would have introduced himself and supported Michael's dating ventures.

But things are not different.

"Hi. Aiden, right?"

"Yeah! You're… Jerry, right?"

Jeremy forces a smile.

"Jeremy. His name is Jeremy," Michael answers for him. Jeremy feels his chest puff up at the matter-of-fact tone Michael takes on, even at Aiden. "He's my best friend."

Jeremy takes a swig of his Red, and Michael takes a sip of his Big Blue.

"Ah, so not your boyfriend?"

Michael, just having swallowed his soda, coughs. Jeremy lightly pats his back, as Michael chokes out the answer.

"N-no. He's uh, he's not. My boyfriend, I mean." Michael's eyes flicker to Jeremy, almost expectantly, before he averts them.

"So that means that my offer stands?"

Jeremy feels uneasy. "What offer?" He asks, trying and failing to get the venom out of his voice.

"I want to take him on a date."

Suddenly, Jeremy is falling. He's falling and falling, because he's imagining a world where Michael leaves him, where Michael gets together with Aiden and falls in love and marries him, and everytime he talks to Jeremy it's about how beautiful and amazing Aiden is, meanwhile Jeremy is suffering, knowing that if anything, he was a coward that couldn't even take a chance. Knowing that even though he knows Michael is too good for him, he didn't even have the guts and the audacity to ask him to settle.

"Michael," Jeremy says, staring at him straight in the eyes.

"Jeremy?" Michael asks as an almost reverent whisper, eyes wide.

"I need to talk to you."

"O-okay." He says.

Jeremy tugs him out of the room, up the stairs, and to the attic. He climbs the ladder and gulps down his cup of soda before dropping the cup on the wooden floor. Michael is watching him with those same furrowed brows and wide eyes.

"What's wrong, buddy?"

"I-I just. I -"

"Jere, whatever you need to say, say it, you know I won't judge -"

Suddenly, Jeremy is across the room, hands thrown around Michael's waist, lips pressed to Michael's cold ones.

It's a kiss that's innocent, just a closed mouth kiss, but it reveals so much, what Jeremy knows he's been feeling since two weeks previous, what he's been feeling for months after the Squip, after Christine, but was too dumb and scared to admit. He realizes Michael isn't responding and pulls away, looking down on the floor, grasping his hands.

"I-I'm s-sorry. I-I s-should, have a-asked," Jeremy stutters, heart pounding, pounding, pounding so hard he feels like it's gonna rip itself in half. Michael is standing still, eyes narrowed in emotions Jeremy can't decipher.

"I - fuck! I-I'm s-s-sorry, M-Micah, I j-just. I saw you with A-Aiden, and I-I realized t-that I d-don't want y-you to be w-with a-anyone b-because I want you to be with m-me, and it's s-selfish," Jeremy's eyes water, and he can feel a tear falling down his cheek and his speech quicken, "b-but I'm n-not known f-for being the m-most selfless p-person out there a-am I?" A fake laugh.

Silence.

Jeremy runs out of the room. As soon as he jumps down the attic ladders, it seems to trigger a reaction in Michael.

"J-Jeremy!" He yells. Jeremy ignores him, already halfway down the stairs. "Jeremiah, wait!"

Jeremy runs out of the house, tripping on his own feet and sight blurry because of his tears. He makes it halfway down Chloe's picket fence lining the front of her house, before Michael catches up with him. Fuck his added endurance.

"Jeremy."

Michael clutches at Jeremy's hand like a lifeline. Jeremy turns around to face him, and he's sure he looks like shit, but Michael doesn't let go. He doesn't drop his hand like it repulses him to see Jeremy's face. He doesn't give him pity.

He's just… looking at him. Like he always has. With trust, with fondness, but with something more that Jeremy can't recognize, something that seems to have grown exponentially.

He doesn't let himself get his hopes up.

"M-Michael, i-if you're going to," he sniffs, "r-reject me, t-that's f-fine. I u-understand. J-just… give m-me this weekend, o-okay? I-I'll be fine on M-Monday. P-please don't s-stop being f-friends w-with -"

Michael cuts him off by pulling him by the neck into a searing kiss. At first, Jeremy is shocked and doesn't respond. But after a second, he melts into it.

It's not perfect. It's sloppy and inexperienced, but it's the best thing he's ever done, kissing Michael. Jeremy's nails run up in down Michael's bare lower spine, loving the way he arches his back in response to the slight tickles. Michael's fingers play with Jeremy's damp hair, and when Michael tugs at a curl it makes Jeremy gasp into his mouth. Michael seems to like it, because he keeps doing it, the bastard.

Michael tastes like blue raspberry soda with dumb names and chlorine, but Jeremy doesn't mind. He doesn't mind at all.

When they pull away for air, they rest their foreheads on each other's, breathing deeply but looking incredibly content.

"Wow," whispers Michael, looking at Jeremy with half-lidded eyes that make him crazy for more. He holds himself back, if only because they just made out in front of Chloe's house.

"Mood," Jeremy whispers back with a breathy giggle, eyes still red, cheeks still pink, and heart still pounding, but this close, he can feel Michael's doing the same and knows it isn't one-sided. It feels nice. It feels more than nice, but Jeremy's thoughts are whirring too much and too fast for him to think about it too much. He more concerned with memorizing the placement of every line on Michael's face, every eyelash and every light freckle.

"You dork," Michael responds, but the smile on his face means nothing but love.

They stay like that a while, and Jeremy distantly hears the song change. It starts off with simple chords of a synth and what sounds like bells, and Michael huffs a laugh as he hears it too.

"Fitting," Michael says.

"Why?"

"It's Snail's House," Michael explains, cheeks turning red, "the song i-is 'First Love.'"

Jeremy's heart soars and he brings his lips on Michael's again, savoring that it takes nothing for Michael to respond this time. God, he loves him. He loves him so much.

* * *

Jeremy Heere loves his friends.

There's Jake, Rich's boyfriend, who even though he wasn't ever necessarily mean to him, takes it upon himself to repent for not stopping him getting bullied by being a great friend. He teaches him about a nature trail by his house that was usually quiet for a thinking place, about the beauty of Sbarro's, and about how to do sick flips in a wheelchair.

There's Jenna, Christine's datefriend, who gets Jeremy into all of her so-bad-it's-good shows, who tells him the drama when he's feeling left out, and who posts photos of him on her instagram, where they rack up likes. That helps a lot when he's sad about his appearance.

There's Rich, who through their similar experiences, he ends up being close to. He's there when the Squip's voice gets too loud, when Jeremy feels like he's going to fall asleep and never wake up himself again, and who beats the shit out of the guy who decides to be the new school bully after him.

There's Brooke, whose heart he broke, but who looks past it anyways, who helps him, a whole five years later, plan his wedding to Michael, who helps him get dressed for their first date, and who teaches him how makeup can help emphasize the beauty that's already there.

There's Chloe, who's a bitch in the best of ways. She's the one who pulls Jeremy out of his self-contained hells he puts himself in when he doubts Michael's love for him but won't ask Michael himself, the one who bluntly states that he's an idiot moron, but he's _their _idiot moron, and constantly makes up for that one night for calling him out on his bullshit.

There's Christine, who he inadvertently almost ruined civilization for, only to break up with her a measly month later. She teaches him how to cope, how to learn to breathe, how to say everything like it came from a script and not from his damaged, over-active head. When she becomes a Broadway star, she mentions him during her speech at the Tony's along with the rest of the gang. She's the godmother of his and Michael's adopted daughter, and she sings like an angel at their wedding.

And then, there's Michael. Sweet, funny, sensitive, loving Michael who doesn't know how to direct any of that love to himself. Jeremy's best friend for more than 12 years, and Jeremy's husband from the age 23 to the age of 90. Jeremy wakes up every morning knowing that Michael's waiting for him, and vice versa, and sometimes that's all you need to get through the day. Jeremy loves Michael more than Michael will and can ever know, and he gets the feeling it's the same for Michael, but everytime they try to outdo each other's extravagant expressions of love, they just fall in love all over again. They never stop falling in love with each other. When Jeremy is sick and crying and mentally broken, Michael is there to help, keeping him locked close, keeping him safe from his own demons, whispering quietly in his ear, but to Jeremy, it's loud enough to block everything else out. Because, at the end of the day, Michael is everything to Jeremy, and nothing can ever change it. Michael is everything to Jeremy on good days, on bad days, during everything in between. Because Michael is Michael, and nothing could ever change that perfection in Jeremy's eyes.

(Except for when he found out that Jeremy was weak to his muscles and made it a personal goal to wear as many muscle tees and tank tops he could find around him. Jeremy stole Michael away into a storage closet in their high school for a make out session at one point, and as soon as Michael made a twink joke, Jeremy opened the door and walked out, leaving Michael disappointed and with impossible to fix ruffled hair.)

At the end of it all, Jeremy loves his friends. He love Jake, he loves Jenna, he loves Rich, and Brooke, and Chloe, and Christine. But he loves, loves, _loves _Michael, and like the stubborn motherfucker that Jeremy Heere was regarding Michael Mell, nobody could ever stop him from loving Michael, not even Michael himself.

_-fin-_


	29. (T) STEREK - Diamonds Are Forever (but f

Diamonds Are Forever (but flowers are cheaper)  
Rawren (Deshonanana)

Summary:  
His name was Stiles Stilinski. He was older than 21, but younger than 25. His dad was the sheriff and he was a student at Beacon Hills Community College. He came into the shop every couple days; always after three, but never past five. He always said hello to Laura, always bought one bouquet, and always spent five minutes trying to make Derek smile with as many puns as he could come up with by the time Derek handed him his receipt.

Derek may or may not be in love with him.

* * *

His name was Stiles Stilinski. He was older than 21, but younger than 25. His dad was the sheriff and he was a student at Beacon Hills Community College. He came into the shop every couple days; always after three, but never past five. He always said hello to Laura, always bought one bouquet, and always spent five minutes trying to make Derek smile with as many puns as he could come up with by the time Derek handed him his receipt.

Derek may or may not be in love with him.

Most of the time.

"Why so down, sourpuss?" Stiles grinned, taking the receipt from Derek and shoving it into his pocket while Derek angrily wrapped up the bouquet, snapped the rubber band at the base, and handed it over. "You look like someone ate your bunny."

Derek made a face, one that had a myriad of intense, emotionally driven expressions on it that Stiles couldn't possibly decipher, and slammed the drawer shut on the register. Stiles' eyes went wide, a long, loud noise of understanding escaping him.

"Laura put you on watering duty again, didn't she?"

"Get out of my store," Derek snapped, feeling his ears burn. It wasn't that he hated watering duty-it was just that the hose they had for the plants was old and rusted on the end so that when Derek turned it on, he always got a mouthful of stale water. Stiles snorted, digging around in his pocket and waving a $5.

"Well here. _Thistle_ make you feel better," he said with a smirk, shoving the bill into Derek's pathetically empty tip jar. He was already halfway out the door (with his godforsaken bowlegged stride) before Derek mustered up any sort of response.

"Your puns are terrible!"

The door shut, cutting off the warming sound of Stiles' laughter.

"Wow, Derek," Laura called from the other end of the store, popping her head out from behind a carnation display. "I don't think I've seen you this pathetic since that time you tried to get mom to buy you a puppy when you were five."

Considering Derek was 28 and Laura was 30, he hadn't the slightest clue how she could recall such a memory. She was probably making it up. Derek was never pathetic. Ever.

He came out from behind the register, pulling the top half of his apron back over his head and viciously grabbing at the nozzle for the hose. "Too bad you look pathetic all the time," he grumbled under his breath, knowing his sister could hear him loud and clear. She scoffed and then tutted in that pitying way that meant that Derek's comeback was so miserably below par that she didn't feel it dignified a response.

He headed into the back room, hooking up the nozzle to the hose and going through the process of getting completely soaked before he could actually water any of the flowers in the greenhouse. Derek didn't even know why they owned a flower shop. Apparently Laura thought the best therapy for dealing with your entire family burning to death because of faulty stove wiring was to take their insurance earnings and buy a ramshackle building that was halfway to condemned and then open up a flower shop.

The worst part was that Derek didn't actually mind tending to the flowers. He liked flowers. They didn't judge him, or ignore him, and they would wilt and die without his care. They were a constant in his life-especially after 10 years of working with them-and he would never admit to Laura that he fully intended to take over the shop if she ever married her bum of a boyfriend and decided to settle down.

Besides…who else would Stiles buy flowers from, if not Derek?

Though, if he did take over the shop, the first thing he would do would be to change the name. To this day, Derek swore up and down that Laura had roofied him before getting him to sign the damn paper that officially labeled their shop as 'Plant Parenthood'.

It would also help the poor, misguided teenage girls who came in, often seeking advice on what to do after their boyfriend forgot a condom and leaving with directions to the actual Planned Parenthood and a free bouquet of lime blossoms and rue. The free bouquets were mostly because Derek couldn't resist abusing his knowledge of flower meanings, even if the girls didn't know they were holding a handful of fornication and regret.

Despite Laura's claims of his repressed sexual frustrations being the reason why he passive aggressively dealt with customers through flower meanings, Derek was positive it was because he was destined to die a crabby old man. He had no problem dying a crabby old man; it meant that there was no one around to judge him for peeing on the toilet seat in the early morning, or farting too loudly if he was feeling particularly gassy. There were a few things he missed, sure. He missed the feel of a warm body pressed in close to his, of kisses and someone to hold in his arms…

But all the affection in the world wasn't worth the pain that came from a relationship. Derek had learned that the hard way.

That didn't seem to stop his heart from fluttering a little every afternoon when Stiles sauntered in through the door- sometimes wiggling it right under the stupid bell that Laura had bought during their second year in business to make sure they heard him come in.

Derek sprayed irritably at the azaleas, one hand on the hose to move it around so that it didn't fold or get caught on some of the potted trees they had. There were two parts to the greenhouse. The first was the potted area, with the smaller plants that needed constant care and attention to make sure they kept healthy and flowered right on time. Then there was Derek's favorite section-the section that he'd come up with himself. It was an indoor garden that spanned over half of the back room. He'd spent countless hours building his own attachment to the store, putting up new walls, adding in windows on the roof that he could open with the flick of a switch.

It had taken Derek five years to build it, but it was his own sanctuary. Laura rarely came back into the garden section-not unless she needed some of the plants there for special order bouquets. He'd poured through a few catalogues before settling on sapphire st. augustine grass for the most part, with a few patches of zoysia planted here and there that mingled in with the St. Augustine. It made for a perfect napping ground on days that Derek didn't feel like dealing with the general public. His favorite thing to do was to sit and watch butterflies flit from plant to plant, pollinating as they went. He had special-ordered each of the species, choosing a variety from monarch and swallowtail, to painted ladies and red admirals.

He sometimes wondered why he cared so much about the butterflies, considering they had a depressingly short life span, but then he remembered how uncomplicated they were.

The best part about his garden was the weeping willow. Derek had spent days digging up the ground and getting it planted. He'd spent almost an entire year's savings just to get the half-grown tree imported. In the end, it was worth the hours and hours digging and installing and and underground pipeline just for the tree to get the water it needed. The low hanging branches kept him shaded, swaying in the wind that came through the glass doors that he often kept open to keep the air moving in and constantly circulating through the windows.

Sometime the year prior, a cluster of dragonflies had found their way in through the open doors, and now Derek housed a family of the buzzing insects. He'd felt bad enough about the lack of water that he was in the process of constructing a natural pond in the corner. The pond had an added bonus of being another water supply for the tree that would cut back on the cost of running water through the underground pipe.

It wasn't like he had anything better to do.

"Derek! We've got an L.O.L coming in!" Laura called from the shop, because her least favorite thing to do was deal with little old ladies who were extremely particular about their flower choices. It seemed they looked down their noses at Laura because she was a young woman who couldn't possibly know as much about flower care as they did.

Laura was more than happy to send them Derek's way. Apparently Derek's muscles (half of them toned from hours of planting and rustling around on his knees in search of weeds that might have snuck into his garden) were a worthy adversary against the scrutiny of an elderly woman.

Derek sighed, flicking off the nozzle and hooking it over one of the fern bushes that was hanging up near the west side of the greenhouse. He shut the water off on his way into the store, pulling the top half of his apron off and folding it down so that they would see a plain, clean black tee instead of a dirt and grass stained apron. Catching Laura's stink-eye, Derek forced himself to grin as he approached the older woman who was talking quietly with a young redheaded girl.

"Hi there," Derek dusted his hands off on his pants, knocking away bits of dirt that had stuck to the pads of his fingers during his watering. The girl turned, frown quickly transforming as her eyes dragged up and down Derek's body. A grin spread across her face and she flicked her hair over her shoulder, nudging the older woman.

"Hi," she chirped, grin going sly, "You know… I should shop for flowers more often. You guys seem to have a great _selection…_" her voice dropped into a purr and the elderly woman huffed and squeezed the girl's arm.

"Lydia, that's no way to talk to an employee," she chastised, turning to give Derek a very calculating stare. "We're looking for something to bring my daughter. She's having surgery tomorrow. Would you be able to help us?"

Ah, a 'get well' arrangement. Those were Derek's favorite. Mostly because they got enough people coming in for them that there was always a fair supply of the necessary flowers. He nodded, gesturing to another section of the store. "Yeah, right this way," he turned, heading towards the section

"Oh yeah, totally worth the ten minute drive out of town," the redheaded girl breathed. Derek could hear Laura snort from somewhere behind a display of gladiolus and he suddenly missed Stiles-even though he'd seen the guy not an hour prior. Stiles may have been a dweeb in every aspect of the word, but at least he could care less about Derek's build.

Sometimes, though, Derek wondered what it would feel like if Stiles noticed Derek as someone other than the flower shop guy who never smiled. Then again, he also sometimes wondered what it would feel like to show Stiles his garden, teach him about all of the plant life, and then shove Stiles up against the willow and kiss him breathless.

In his defense, Derek had a lot of free time to think.

"There's a few here. Most of them have some meaning of good will, if you're big on flower meanings. Then there's a few that are just meant to look pretty and smell good. If you want the lower price range, I'd go with this one," Derek snagged a poppy and sweet briar bouquet, brandishing it almost like a sword. The elderly woman reached out to take it, but the redhead named Lydia crinkled her nose and pushed it away.

"Euch, no. Sorry, grams. I think I had five of those stuck in my room when I sprained my ankle last year."

Lydia's grandmother frowned. "You mean the ones that boy gave you?"

Derek set the display back, and tried not to think about how Stiles had been adamant in buying the same arrangement of flowers with his normal purchase for an entire week straight.

"Yeah. I mean, seriously? He's kind of cute, but he was _annoying_ about it." Lydia gestured to a pricier arrangement filled with honeysuckle, plum blossoms, and protea. "We'll take that one."

Derek pulled the arrangement down, trying not to crush the stems in his grasp when Lydia turned to her grandmother and said, "besides, who names their kid Stiles and expects him not to be a total weirdo?"

He could feel a twitch growing in his eye as she started to bicker with her grandmother about the situation, ringing up the bouquet and wrapping it in paper. They chose a small glass vase to go with the display, and Derek may have shoved the flowers into it a little too roughly and broken a couple stems. If he purposefully forgot to staple the complimentary 'flower food' packet to the receipt, nobody needed to know.

Derek couldn't get them out of the store fast enough. It took all of his self control not to inform them very firmly that kids named Stiles were usually ten times more entertaining than pretentious redheads who wore too much lip gloss.

He had a sinking feeling this was the same exact redhead that Stiles once sang praises about for months before he came in one day looking like his entire world had been shattered, only to spend hours shadowing Derek around the shop. Finally, after the fifth time he had bumped into Derek's back, Stiles quietly bought three red tulips and proceeded to rip them up just outside of the store before climbing into his jeep and driving off.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that Stiles had done it with the knowledge that red tulips often symbolized undying love.

As soon as Derek was sure they were gone, he tore off his apron, crumpling it up and tossing it onto the counter. "I'm running out to the store!" he called out to Laura, completely ignoring her protests and heading for the break room to grab his jacket and wallet. Maybe while he was out, he'd swing by the local plant nursery and see what sort of palms they had in stock. He wouldn't mind adding a bit of tropical flare to his garden-even if it meant a higher level of maintenance.

The last person Derek expected to see at the hardware store was Stiles. He'd only run in to look at pumps for the pond in his garden, and had maybe ended up following the sound of a familiar laugh until he found himself hovering by the kitchenware section. Stiles was chatting with a gorgeous young woman with dark, wavy hair and a grin on her face as Stiles gestured wildly. Derek's heart gave an aching thud when Stiles tripped over his own feet in a mad dash to show the woman one of the display stoves.

"Gotta go with a gas stove, Allison. I mean, come on. How am I supposed to make that stir fry you love if I have to rely on inadequate cooking supplies?" he asked, patting the stovetop and tapping his nose like he was sharing a secret with the woman named Allison. Derek clutched to his basket handle as Allison shrugged and tilted her head with a smirk. It was no surprise that Stiles had managed to land such a bombshell-especially one who seemed to enjoy his energy.

"Who says I'll let you do any cooking?" she asked, laughing when Stiles gaped and pressed a hand over his chest with a dramatic hurt noise. Derek dragged in a low breath, trying not to hiss it out and realizing he was just torturing himself by watching Stiles and his girlfriend.

Turning on his heel, Derek took exactly two steps before he froze when he heard Stiles shouting his name, "Hey, Derek!"

Derek hunched his shoulders and tried to keep walking, but he recognized the squeak of sneakers jogging in his direction. "I didn't know you ever even left your store!" Stiles exclaimed, circling around Derek and walking backwards as Derek continued to attempt to escape. He stepped to the left, only for Stiles to block him, and then again with a shift to the right. "How much did Laura bribe you?"

Frowning, Derek finally stood still, resting his basket on his hip and giving Stiles the most irritated glare he could muster. "Laura didn't bribe me with anything," he said, feeling particularly irritated that Stiles would even walk away from his girlfriend to talk to Derek, of all people. Things like that could get a person's hope up. "Contrary to popular belief, I actually have hobbies."

Stiles seemed shocked for just a second, watching Derek with his mouth flapping for just a second, and then he jumped on the chance for a conversation. "Really now? Besides scaring children and hiding behind rose bushes?"

"I don't hide behind rose bushes," Derek snapped, "they have thorns. That's a terrible idea."

He might have gotten a little defensive, but with the way Stiles was still grinning at him, he probably sounded like an idiot. Suddenly, Derek felt unbearably flustered. Stiles had this annoying habit of turning Derek's head around until he was saying things without thinking. It drove Derek out of his mind.

"So then…what do you hide behind?" Stiles ventured, shoving his hands into his pockets and looking genuinely interested, albeit amused. Derek lifted his basket, shoving it at Stiles to show him the pond filter, new gardening gloves, a spade, a cheap hummingbird feeder with some powdered mix to go with it. "My job."

Peering into the basket, Stiles plucked out a small wooden wind chime that Derek had snatched up on a whim. He poked at the butterfly weight, flicking it and making the wood clack gently together. Derek snatched it out of his hand without thinking, stuffing it back into the basket as Stiles blinked owlishly.

"Are you adding wind chimes to the shop?" he asked, sounding more excited than Derek would expect. His girlfriend came up, pushing a cart filled with stuff that one would buy when getting ready to move into an apartment. It didn't take a genius to figure out she must be the one Stiles was always buying flowers for-she was pretty enough to deserve constant affection from a goof like Stiles. The fact that they were taking the next step in their relationship made something bitter rise up in Derek's throat.

"No," he bit out, shoving past Stiles and heading for the registers. He could get everything else at the nursery on his way back to the shop. Stiles called out after him twice before he finally gave up, letting Derek make his escape.

He ended up not getting a palm like he'd hoped, in the end. The nursery's selection hadn't been what Derek was searching for, and so he'd merely loaded some discount ferns into the back of the truck before heading back to the store. Once he got the pond up and running, he'd probably look into some fish to add into it. He did have a habit of getting ahead of himself. He hadn't even finished setting up the waterfall and filter system, let alone actually getting it filled with water and all of the rocks situated the way he wanted.

Laura didn't spare him a second glance when he came into the shop with his arms full of things that weren't even for the store itself. She sighed, flicked a page in her magazine, and tutted at him like she pitied his existence. Derek had a hunch that she thought he was going through some quarter-life crisis and was afraid of pushing him lest he fall into a psychotic break or a deep depression. The look on her face when Derek had mentioned his distaste for alcohol had been rather priceless, though.

He was covered in dirt and sweat by the time night started to settle. The circumference of the pond was finally starting to look presentable, with the freshly planted ferns doing their job of hiding the pump from view. All he had left to do was to buy a few more rocks for the waterfall and he could start filling it with water. For now, though, Derek was content enough with it that he was happy to flop onto his back with a sigh, staring up through the open roof at the half-moon shining down at him.

When he opened his eyes again, his back was killing him and there was a layer of early morning dew sticking to his shirt and hair. Groaning softly, Derek rolled onto his side and then pushed himself up into a stand. He stretched, back and shoulders popping loudly before he shook his body out and ran his hand through his hair. Laura had probably taken the camaro back to her apartment under the assumption that Derek would have woken up sometime in the middle of the night and gone home. It was too late to head back to his own apartment, not when their shop was so far outside of the city that it would take him over an hour just to grab a shower and some breakfast.

Luckily, they had a small showering station installed in the back of the greenhouse. It was really meant for rinsing dirt off their hands and feet, but there was a hook for the hose to be set above eye-level. It wasn't the first time Derek had fallen asleep and forgotten to go home.

Laura hadn't come in yet, which meant it wasn't quite time to open. Derek snagged a stale snack bar out of the break room and then stared forlornly at the only spare shirt they had available, sitting by itself in the small dresser they propped the TV on. He really hated the fact that Laura had decided their logo needed to go with the store's name, because it was incredibly awkward to have a giant picture of a stick figure cradling a plant inside of a baby blanket.

Really, if Stiles were gay and at all interested in the idea of dating Derek, he and Laura would get along horrifically-more than they did already.

He showered quickly, spending more time picking dirt out from under his nails than anything else, wrapping one of the towels around his hips and tying it off. Technically, he was supposed to open the store every morning, even if Laura was usually there for it. Since it was already eight and she'd yet to come by, Derek figured it wouldn't hurt to open a few minutes late if it meant he had time to scour the store in search of his spare pants, hoping desperately that they'd just been misplaced and that he hadn't forgotten to bring them in after laundry day.

He was rummaging around under the register, one hand clutching his towel to his hips, when he heard frantic tapping on the door. He popped his head up, just enough to see who was there, and almost dropped his towel when he realized that Stiles had his face smashed against the glass and as rapping his knuckles frantically. Why the hell anyone would be trying to get inside a flower shop at the crack of dawn, Derek had no idea. He sighed, brushing his hair back and shaking off the water that clung to his fingers, and stood up.

Instantly, Stiles froze. His eyes widened, the size of saucers as Derek padded his way to the door, unlocking it and poking his head out, dripping water all over the welcome mat.

"Do you need something?" he grunted, frowning more when Stiles did nothing but continue to stare. Knowing him, he probably assumed Derek had only robot parts underneath of his clothes or something. He quirked his eyebrows, lips thinning when Stiles didn't answer right away. It seemed to be enough to turn Stiles' brain back online because he was talking a mile a minute.

"We have an emergency," he cried, arms flailing wildly, "a wedding emergency!"

Derek's heart skipped a beat when Stiles reached out to grab his shoulders tightly, but then his words registered. "What?" Was Allison his fiancee, not his girlfriend? Derek didn't recall seeing a ring on Stiles' finger, but maybe he was someone who didn't wear jewelry because he had a tendency to lose things.

Stiles forcefully turned Derek around, palms shoving against his back to push him into the store. "No time for talking! We've got a bridesmaid with a chrysanthemum allergy and I need to get eight replacement bouquets and nine boutonnieres before Allison has a coronary and runs away to Vegas!"

Derek let Stiles push him all the way back to the small cooler that held a display that Derek and Laura had been putting together in anticipation for the upcoming high school prom. "We don't have that many-" Derek tried to protest, but Stiles was already scrambling around him and stacking the variety of boutonnieres into his arms. Derek could feel his towel slipping, the knot coming loose as Stiles dashed for the pre-arranged bouquets nearby.

"They don't even have to match! As long as we have flowers!" Stiles cried, whirling around with a handful of snapdragon and rose arrangements when Derek felt his towel flutter to the ground. Less than a second later, the bouquets shared the same fate as Stiles threw his hands up to cover his eyes.

"Why aren't you wearing pants!?" he cried, his neck and face flushing right before Derek's eyes. Derek couldn't help but feel a little disappointed that Stiles hadn't even tried to get a free show, setting down the boutonnieres and picking his towel up to re-tie it.

"I just got out of the shower," Derek said slowly, walking towards Stiles and bending down to pick up the fallen bouquets. Just the idea of Stiles at the altar, dressed to the nines in a suit and his face bright and teary-eyed as he watched the love of his life walk down the aisle…

Derek swallowed against the bitterness rising up inside of him. The least he could do was ensure Stiles' happiness, if nothing else. "What time is the wedding?"

Cracking two fingers open, Stiles dropped his hands with a shaky exhale when he realized Derek was no longer standing in his birthday suit. "It's at eleven," he said, hand coming up to stare at his watch. "I have like, three hours to make sure this isn't a complete disaster."

Derek took a second to mentally assess how many flowers they had in the shop, and then he nodded stiffly. "We'd better get to work, then."

"Huh?"

Derek turned, gesturing for Stiles to follow him back to the greenhouse. "I'm not letting you ruin your big day just because you panicked about a bunch of flowers. We've got plenty in the back to make a whole set."

"My big day?" Stiles echoed, trailing off with a yelp when Derek dropped his towel again. This time, it was to shuffle back into his pants from the day prior, foregoing boxers entirely. "Dude, do you understand the concept of modesty?"

He contemplated Stiles' question for half a second before shrugging. "No one to be modest for," he said dismissively, turning and snagging two aprons from the hook next to the hose. He tossed one to Stiles, throwing the other over his head and cinching it at his waist. Hopefully no one would try to come in the store before Laura got in.

"I find that hard to believe," Stiles said dryly, tying off his own apron and following Derek like a puppy as they wove in and out of the aisles until Derek stopped in front of where they kept most of the plants that produced little to no pollen.

Once he gave Stiles a quick, basic explanation of how to prep fresh flowers for a bouquet, it was easy going. Stiles took to it like a plant to water, clipping each flower with great care and dropping them into the bucket that Derek set up that was filled with a type of solution made to help keep the flowers alive longer. With Stiles' approval, Derek picked out arrangements comprised mostly of hibiscus, lilies, irises and tulips.

The longer they worked together, the more Derek couldn't help but want to sabotage the wedding in some way. He could put something in the flowers that could make everyone break out in hives, could charge Stiles so much there was no way he could afford it all, could…could..

There really wasn't anything Derek could do without drowning in his own guilt about having taken away Stiles' chance at happiness.

"Scott owes me for life," Stiles muttered under his breath after they'd tied off the last bouquet and started in on the boutonnieres. "He owes me for afterlife, too…and his first born," he snatched an iris out of Derek's hands, viciously twisting a wire around it to attach it to the fern stems Derek had previously set aside for him.

"Who?" Derek couldn't help but ask, mostly because there was a tiny glimmer of hope coiling in his gut that maybe this wedding wasn't for Stiles, but this Scott person.

Stiles glanced up, frowning more and then holding the boutonniere up to squint at it. "The groom? My best friend? The douche bag who woke me up at the crack of dawn crying about flowers?"

Derek wanted to cry. He wanted to fall to his knees and throw his hands up in the air in a dramatic Kirk-esque fashion while letting the heavens rain glory down upon him.

Instead, he cleared his throat, tugging another iris out of the bucket and shaking it gently. "So, it's not your wedding?"

Stiles barked out a laugh, looking at Derek like he'd just sprouted a pair of cat ears or something. "What? Did you think I was getting married to Allison?" He asked, chuckling to himself like the mere idea was completely impossible to fathom.

"You were stove shopping!" Derek protested, shoving the flower at Stiles a little more roughly than necessary. Stiles took it, pinching the stem gingerly between his fingers and then giving Derek an odd look.

"Well, yeah. Scott doesn't even know how to cook, so it'd be dumb to bring him along."

Suddenly feeling incredibly stupid, Derek threw himself into finishing the last of the boutonnieres, the tips of his ears burning. Stiles frowned, taking the next flower with a bit of reluctance. "You okay?"

Derek didn't even get a chance to tell Stiles that no, he was not okay. He was having an internal battle between relief that Stiles wasn't getting married, and mortification for being a total drama queen over the idea that he _might_ be getting married. Even before a proper response could come to mind, the door was jingling with the sound of someone walking into the store, followed by Laura's voice calling out.

"Derek? Did you sleep here the whole night again?"

Stiles turned, giving Derek an amused look, mouthing, 'again?', and then laughing when Derek shoved the next lily into his mouth and made him sputter and choke on the petals. He brushed by Stiles, heading out into the main room and signaling his sister down.

"Derek, put a shirt on!" Laura hissed, scowling and stomping over to give him an annoyed poke right in the sternum. Derek jerked, swatting her hand away and gesturing to the store.

"I'm busy. Can you watch the floor?"

"Busy? What the hell are you-oh," Laura peered over Derek's shoulder, and Derek looked behind himself to see Stiles standing there with a tulip in hand and a tilt to his head. Laura's fingers gripped to his wrist, wiggling his arm as she leaned in to hiss, "good going, baby bro. I knew you'd man up eventually."

Derek jerked his hand out of her hold, frantically glancing back to make sure Stiles hadn't heard her and then pushing her towards the register. "It's not like that. His friend's wedding is today and they had a problem with the flower arrangements. I'm helping him out."

The sly look on Laura's face fell into an annoyed frown, hand coming up to flick Derek on the forehead so fast he could only blink stupidly while Stiles snorted behind him. "You're a dumbass, and I refuse to be related to you," she hissed, turning on her heel and stomping towards the register to set it up for the day.

Derek stood there for a second and then turned back to help Stiles finish up the flower arrangements. At least one person in the store wasn't going to judge him-even if it was because Stiles was relying on him and wasn't allowed to judge lest he lose the only chance he had at saving his best friend's wedding.

"Your sister is intense," Stiles said quietly, attaching a safety pin to the back of the boutonniere in his hand. Derek rolled his eyes, snorting under his breath.

"You mean she's hellspawn," he grumbled, scooping up all of the bouquets and carrying them for the plastic vases he'd put out earlier.

Stiles shrugged, setting down the finished boutonnieres on the tray next to the vases. "I'm an only child, so I can't sympathize."

"Lucky," Derek went to snag some extra wire at the same time Stiles did, their fingers tangling before Derek jerked away as if burned, his skin electric hot as Stiles laughed sheepishly, grabbed the wire, and tossed it onto the tray.

Turning and leaning against the counter, Stiles peered at Derek with narrowed eyes and a thoughtful expression. "Not always…it can get lonely."

Well now Derek just felt bad. It must have read on his face, because Stiles rocked forward and mock-punched him in the shoulder. "You look like I killed your puppy. It's no big deal. That's what having friends are for, right?"

"Yeah," Derek nodded, chest still tight, and moved to start transferring everything onto the rolling cart they usually used to tote large displays. "Why don't you pull your car around back?"

Stiles nodded, reaching up to clap Derek on the arm. "Dude, you really are the best. I'll make sure they give you a huge tip when you send us the bill, you hear me?"

As much as Derek wanted to claim that it was 'on the house', there was no way to give away almost half the greenhouse without suffering some serious verbal lashing from Laura-and probably castration. It would also be entirely too obvious of his big fat crush on Stiles if he didn't charge at least the bare minimum.

So Derek just smiled thinly, nodding at Stiles to hurry up and bring the car around. "Considering you only have an hour to get the flowers there and change into your suit, I wouldn't thank me just yet."

"Shit," Stiles cursed, flailing and tripping over himself as he scrambled out the back door-knocking over a stack of empty plastic pots on his way out.

They got the jeep loaded with time to spare, leaving Stiles clambering into the driver's seat and fumbling with his phone as he tried to dial Scott and let him know the wedding had been saved. Derek hung back, stepping towards the door when Stiles brought a hand up and gestured him over. Given how unpredictable Stiles could be, Derek had absolutely no idea what he could need now that the flowers were loaded and ready to go.

The second Derek was in arms reach, Stiles-chattering on the phone with one hand-reached out and shoved something into the front pocket of Derek's apron before waving and mouthing 'thank you' as he shifted the jeep into gear and pulled out of the loading bay. Derek watched him go, mind reeling for a second, and then reached into the apron to see a business card for 'S&S Games' and a crumpled $20 had been stuffed in there.

Well, now he knew who to send the bill to.

Slipping back into the shop, Derek ignored Laura's suggestive eyebrow wiggling and went about cleaning up the total disaster he and Stiles had made of the greenhouse. The business card burned a hole in his pocket, leaving Derek's mind buzzing. He couldn't help wondering if it was Stiles' personal business card, or if it belonged to his friend, or if he could possibly use the number to get in contact with Stiles if, say, Derek were to have some trouble with charging their accounts and Stiles needed to come in personally to get it all straightened out.

As much as he thought about it, Derek ended up doing nothing with the business card. When he told Laura about the wedding, she practically wrenched it out of his hand and went off to get everything done herself, muttering under her breath the whole way.

Things went back to their usual routine quickly enough, except that Derek had taken to slipping out into his garden for an afternoon nap around the same time Stiles was always expected to come in. Sure, he only showed up every two or three days, but it was always at the same time. It wasn't that Derek was avoiding Stiles, per say… it was more like he was taking a precautionary measure as to avoid the temptation to do something stupid like give him free flowers or ask if he was available for coffee and possibly the rest of eternity.

That was probably why Derek was currently hunkered down at the base of his willow as the afternoon sun peeked in from the roof. He was covered in sweat, shirt rolled up as a pillow and dirt lining his arms. He'd finally finished up his pond just a few hours prior, and took great pleasure in listening to the new waterfall trickling just a few feet away. His nose crinkled when a dragonfly flew too close to his face, and he threw an arm up over his head to try and block out some of the sun.

Today was a nice day to relax.

"Holy God," a familiar voice breathed, causing Derek to jerk his head up. Stiles was standing near the door leading into the shop, mouth open and his hands slowly dropping to his sides like he'd been jogging only moments prior. He pushed himself up onto his elbows, dragging one knee up and then letting it fall to the side when he realized how utterly exhausted he was.

"Can I help you?"

Stiles blinked dumbly, a sound escaping him that was half squeak, half sputter, and then he snapped his head over to the pond. "Did you make that?"

Derek stood, brushing his pants off and then grabbing his shirt to shake it out and start wiping sweat from his chest and stomach. "Yeah. I made all of this."

"You look really hot," Stiles blurted.

Derek jerked, almost dropping his tee and snapping his head up to stare at Stiles as his stomach fluttered and his heart skipped a beat. "Come again?"

Stiles' eyes went wide, brain seeming to catch up with his mouth. He threw his hands up, waving them at Derek and then stumbling over sounds that could have been words. "I mean, hot. No. I mean you look sweaty. Lots of sweat. All…over your body," Stiles trailed off with a wince, biting the corner of his mouth and peering up at Derek like he was waiting to get his teeth knocked in. It made Derek wonder how many times Stiles said things to people that were misinterpreted as come-ons, and how many times he'd gotten beat up for his lack of verbal filter.

Derek, however, was starting to understand the way Stiles talked. He snorted, shaking his head and swinging his shirt onto a shoulder. "That's what happens when you're in a garden for three hours," he said, biting back the urge to grin fondly.

For a second, Stiles looked sad, and then he ducked his head. "I used to help my mom with her garden, before she died," he said quietly, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "That was a long time ago, though."

Derek understood exactly what Stiles was feeling-and he also knew that sometimes it was nice to live in nostalgia. The words were out of his mouth before he could think about it. "Are you busy today?"

Head snapping up, Stiles gaped at Derek, mouth breaking into a grin as he shook his head. "Not really, no. Why? Are you?"

With a glance around the garden, Derek's focused zeroed in on the packets of sunflower seeds that he hadn't gotten around to planting, as well as the weeds that had started to sprout up in various spots of the garden. "Do you mind getting dirty?"

"Whuh?"

Derek gestured at his surroundings. "I could use some help?" If Laura could see him now, she'd be screaming her praises for all the world to hear, telling anyone and everyone of the day that Derek finally 'grew a pair.' Luckily, she was still in the shop, unable to witness the myriad of expressions flickering over Stiles' face before he shrugged and grinned.

"Sure, why not? I've always been a fan of getting hot and sweaty."

If Derek didn't know better, he'd have thought Stiles was giving him bedroom eyes as he spoke. He was well aware, however, that his imagination liked to take the simplest thing and run with it until he was constructing mental shrines to the way Stiles' forehead wiggled when annoyed, or his lips would purse in a pouty frown.

The first thing Derek did was get Stiles a pair of gloves from the greenhouse. Stiles was already in a set of cargo shorts, which hugged his ass nicely-not that Derek was going to tell him that- and would keep him cool. Derek showed him the difference between weeds to pull and weeds to keep (he was fond of the dandelions. Derek blamed Alice in Wonderland for that) and how to pull them out so they were less likely to grow back.

Stiles, surprisingly, wasn't talkative when he was focused on a task. Derek had noticed it during the wedding fiasco the week prior. He would concentrate wholly on what he was doing, only to snap out of his thoughts every now and then to ask Derek a question or blurt out a random thought. It was nice. Too nice. It made Derek remember why he'd been trying to avoid Stiles in the first place. Every time he managed a dry remark that had a laugh or snicker coming out of Stiles, Derek could feel his heart ache just a little bit more.

He hadn't thought it possible to fall any harder than he already had, not until Stiles sat back from weeding around the pond, huffed, and wrenched his shirt off with a shout of, "sweet freedom!" as he tossed it behind his head. He watched it flutter to the grass before he gave Derek a bright, but hesitant grin.

"I'm not picking that up later," Derek pointed out, almost dropping his spade when Stiles reached a hand into the pond and flicked water at Derek's face.

"Don't be such a sourpuss. I thought gardening was supposed to bring inner peace, not grouchiness." Stiles teased, yelping when Derek grabbed his wrist and then pushed at his chest. He almost went toppling into the pond, but Derek remembered at the last second that he had _just_ put fish into it, and there was no way he was going to risk their lives just to amuse himself at Stiles' expense.

Tugging on Stiles' arm, Derek almost had a heart attack when he was suddenly knocked to the ground the second that Stiles landed on top of him. All of the air in his chest rushed out with a grunt, his entire body coming to life when he registered the feeling of Stiles' hot, sticky skin pressing against his own. Stiles groaned, leaning back and rubbing at his chest with a wheeze. "You're like a brick wall, man," he said, completely red in the face from exertion. Derek shrugged, focusing more on keeping his dick under control than actually trying to get Stiles off of him. Now was not the time for a spontaneous erection.

Stiles leaned back, sitting on Derek's stomach and staring down in a way that made Derek wish they were in this same exact position, only in the bedroom and without their pants on. He brought a hand up, instinctively settling it on Stiles' hip just as Stiles cursed under his breath and scrambled to his feet.

"As soothing as this was, I just realized I'm supposed to make my dad dinner," he rushed over to grab his shirt, tugging it on with his back to Derek.

Panic rose up in Derek's throat like a bile, bitter and acidic. Maybe he had gone too far? What if Stiles had noticed something? What if Derek was too obvious and Stiles was getting freaked out by him?

"It's not even four yet," Derek said quietly, floundering for an attempt to think of some reason why Stiles' sudden desire to leave was obviously a lie. Stiles turned around, rubbing at his neck and shrugging.

"I still have to go grocery shopping, and if I'm not there when he gets home, he tries to sneak fast food into the house."

Derek vaguely recalled Stiles mentioning his father's heart condition, and deflated just the tiniest bit. "Oh, okay," he said, reaching out to shake Stiles' hand. "Thanks for your help."

Stiles hesitated, but took Derek's hand and gave it a strong, firm shake. "Anytime, buddy."

He was gone before Derek could think about asking him to stay.

Despite Laura's claims that Derek moped for the rest of the day, he totally didn't. He spent the afternoon finishing up the weeding, feeding his new fish, and staring in awe as a few finches flittered in from outside and started to nest in the branches of the willow. What he didn't do was stare forlornly at the unplanted sunflower seeds, or lie on the grass for an hour and wonder where his life had gone horribly wrong.

"Your angst is making all of the flowers wilt," Laura snapped at him an hour before closing. Derek looked up from where he'd been sweeping some dirt out from under a display of gardenias, only to be hit in the face with his own jacket. "Go home and cry into a bottle of beer or something."

"But-"

"_Go._"

Derek didn't bother arguing. He put the broom up, packed his things, and headed home to heed Laura's advice. His first bottle was nursed with a rerun of Friends, but that left his stomach clenching unhappily to watch people having lives more productive and fulfilling than his own.

He spent his second beer puttering around his living room, tidying things up until he realized he was a 28 year old bachelor and that his apartment had no reason to look nice.

That brought him to his third, fourth, and fifth beer; all of which kept him company when he found a Lifetime movie about a person with a life more depressing than his own. He fell asleep somewhere between one sip and the next, only to wake up at the crack of dawn with a mild headache and a pang in his chest at a fleeting thought of how much he missed his parents.

He texted Laura, letting her know that he was giving himself a day off, and then went back to sleep.

The second time Derek woke up, the sun was high in the sky and his headache was mostly gone. He sat up, shuffling his way to the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth before making something to eat. The calendar on his fridge (courtesy of Laura) told him that it was a full moon last night-which would have explained his unusually high level of depression. His mother used to always say that full moons were full of energy, and that many people didn't understand how to channel it; creating chaos and violence in some, while building love and courage in others.

His mom had always been a bit of an odd one…but Derek missed her more than anything.

Thinking about her reminded Derek that it had been a while since he'd visited his parent's graves. He had nothing better to do than shuffle aimlessly around his apartment, he might as well bring them a few flowers and make sure their headstones were well kept.

After he'd finished eating and had tossed his plate in the dishwasher, Derek rummaged around his closet for come clothes and tossed on the first clean shirt and pants he could find. He swung by the shop on his way to the cemetery, ignoring Laura's offhanded comment that Stiles had come looking for him, and grabbed a bouquet of forget-me-nots. He gave Laura a peck on the cheek for her troubles, and was out the door the second that he'd dropped some change in the tip jar.

The cemetery was rarely occupied during the afternoon. Most families came by in the morning or evening when it worked around their daily schedules. It made things easier for Derek to weave his way past grave after grave until he found the bench with his family's name etched into it. Sitting down, Derek stared at the two granite markers just a few feet away. The bench had been put there back when his grandparents had died; his mother wanting a place for the whole family to sit and talk to them.

Now, Derek was the only one who sat there, hands loose around the bouquet as he tried to think about what he could even say.

He opened his mouth, and then hesitated when he heard the faint sound of someone talking. It was a voice Derek knew quiet well, and he had to resist the urge to track the voice down and ask Stiles if he was in the habit of stalking boutique owners.

Derek bent down, setting the flowers between his mother and father's grave and patting each of their names affectionately before he stood. He was a man on a mission-a mission to track down the location of Stiles' voice. Derek was sure his parents wouldn't mind. If they were watching over him, it was likely they already knew about Stiles anyway.

The louder Stiles' voice got, the slower Derek walked until he stopped short behind a statue of an angel. He glanced around one stone wing, surprised to see Stiles curled up in front of a modest gravestone, chattering amiably to it.

"-sorry they're not as nice as last time. He wasn't in today and I felt bad telling his sister she doesn't make them as nice, you know?" a laugh, and then a sigh, "I thought we were doing okay, you know? I totally screwed up yesterday."

Stiles reached out setting down a bundle of flowers that Derek recognized as one of Laura's own arrangements, and he felt his heart skip a beat. Stiles continued on obliviously. "I'm probably trying to hard. You always did tell me I'd grow up to be a hopeless romantic." Stiles sniffed, dragging a hand up and rubbing at his face. He cleared his throat, exhaling loudly.

"I miss you, mom. I bet if you were here…you could tell me how to talk to him. I think-I think I'm starting to get on his nerves."

It hit Derek like a strike of lightning. Stiles didn't come by the stupid shop to buy flowers (well he did, but that was likely an excuse; flowers could be bought anywhere). He came by to see Derek.

Stiles fiddled with some of the petals on the bouquet and Derek struggled to breathe, or to at least not freak out entirely.

"Maybe I should just ask him out. Wouldn't hurt, right?"

"Probably not," Derek blurted before he could stop himself.

If there had been a time that Stiles moved faster than he did in that moment, Derek had never witnessed it. He yelped, scrambling to his feet and then tripping backwards over the headstone, staring at Derek with a look of growing horror. Derek stepped out from behind the statue, digging his hands into his pockets and watching a bright red flush creep up Stiles' neck and burn at his nose and ears.

"I thought they were for your girlfriend," Derek said quietly, reaching out to help Stiles back to his feet. Stiles gaped, and Derek rolled his eyes, bending down to snag his wrist and drag him upright.

"Wha?" Stiles breathed, still in that shocked, deer-in-the-headlights state of mind. Derek shrugged, and gestured to the half-crushed bouquet at their feet.

"The flowers."

"You thought the-oh!" Stiles gaped, eyes wide as saucers before he broke out into an ear-splitting grin. "Really? Did you really?" Stiles laughed, and Derek's heart gave another painful thud, this one far different from all the others. He reached out, hand curving around Stiles' jaw. That single touch was enough to cause Stiles to quiet, his breath coming in rapid, excited chuckles.

"In my defense…you're just as oblivious as I am," Derek pointed out smugly. Stiles rolled his eyes, hands coming up to fist into Derek's shirt as he took a step into Derek's space.

Stiles licked his lips, eyes searching Derek's for a moment before he quietly said, "I didn't want to get my hopes up."

"You should have," Derek murmured, stroking his thumb down Stiles' cheek, memorizing the feel of it and trying to tell himself this was really happening.

Smiling, Stiles nosed his head forward, mouth brushing Derek's. "Okay," he breathed, and sealed their lips together in an achingly gentle kiss that left Derek feeling lightheaded. He dragged Stiles in close, returning the kiss and trying not to act too desperate, too needy, when all he wanted was to take Stiles apart and put him back together; to kiss every inch of his body and hold him and never let go.

Stiles dragged his arms up, fingers burying themselves into Derek's hair while his other hand curled over Derek's shoulder. Each kiss was followed up by another and another, until Derek wasn't sure where he ended and Stiles began. It was everything he could have wanted and more. Where he thought Stiles might be shy, he was firm. Where he thought Stiles would give, he pushed. Derek forgot to breathe entirely until Stiles dragged his mouth away and sucked in a gasping whimper.

"Jesus," Stiles breathed, dragging his hand up and holding Derek's face. "I've wanted to do that for _years._"

Derek frowned, thumb brushing under the red swell of Stiles' bottom lip. "What about Lydia? The tulips? That was just last year."

Stiles nipped at Derek's thumb, and then frowned as he registered what he was being asked. "Huh? The-oh. Wow." Stiles rolled his eyes, lurching in and dragging Derek close for another, more frantic kiss. When they drew back for air, he smiled.

"My mom always used to make wishes by ripping up flowers. I might have been wishing for you to notice me after realizing that, well, Lydia hadn't shown up in my fantasies in a long time."

Derek stared, swallowing and rasping out, "why red tulips?"

Stiles shook his head, leaning in until their noses brushed. "Didn't you know? As far as kisses go…tu-lips are better than one." Derek shoved at Stiles' face with a groan, biting down on the urge to laugh when he was rewarded with a whine and a puckered mouth.

"Oh, come on. That was funny and you know it."

"No it wasn't. I'm going home." Derek groused, making it exactly two steps before Stiles barreled into his back, grabbing him around the waist and spinning him. He was still trying to register what had happened when he was being kissed breathless all over again.

Not that he minded...

In fact, if this was what he got for putting up with Stiles' terrible puns, Derek didn't really mind at all.


	30. (E) HANNIGRAM - 1-800-HOTLINE by zachary

1-800-HOTLINE  
zacharybosch

Summary:  
A one-thousand-five-hundred token tip, and now he was being taken private. The guy was obviously thirsty for him. He could probably spin the private show out for another hour at least. Will could hardly believe his luck.

"Are- are you sure? Not that I'm complaining, but you already tipped me so much…"

HNB: I'm taking you private. Expect my request imminently.

Will is a camguy. Hannibal is a customer. Things Happen.

* * *

Chapter 1

Will had never set out with the intention of making his living by getting naked on the internet. A long-distance relationship during his last year of college had introduced him to the idea of having his cock out on camera, and when the relationship ended he found that he missed the exhibitionism of being on screen more than the person he'd been doing it for. It only took a few more deeply unpleasant shifts on the checkouts at Wal-Mart for him to quit and seek alternative means of earning money.

The website he favoured, Hotline, had started many years ago as a phone service. They weren't the most popular then, and they weren't the most popular now as a streaming service, but it was his comfortable corner of the internet and he did well enough.

It was a simple operation. Will had a public chatroom where his webcam stream was available for all to see. Customers could just watch and listen to whatever Will felt like doing, but they could also purchase tokens and give them to Will as tips. One token cost ten cents, and was worth seven cents to Will when he cashed out. He generally aimed for a minimum of one thousand tokens per hour of streaming, which would net him a tidy seventy dollars. It wasn't such a bad wage.

Of course, there were also private shows. Customers could request a private stream, just them and Will, and it earned him thirty tokens per minute. When a customer had Will all to themselves, it was a simple matter to turn on the charm, convince them he was having the best time of his life, and urge them to stay longer, spend more.

Freeloaders were unfortunately all too common, and most customers wouldn't pay for a private show. They'd hang out in the public chat for hours, hoping for a free glimpse of something.

Tip goals were a good way to build up an audience. He'd advertise a goal and tell customers that once he hit it, he'd do something in public chat that he normally reserved for private shows only. Mostly, this involved a few fingers in his ass and the cumshot everyone had been waiting all evening for. People were more willing to chip in twenty or thirty tokens if they thought everyone else would too, and then they'd all get to watch a public show at the end of it.

It was essentially just another customer service job, but the money was astronomically better, he could pick an awful punny name for himself (_Buster_Knutt_, and how proud he was for thinking up that), and if a customer was rude he could straight up tell them to fuck off. And then block them for good measure.

He could pay his bills on time, he had good stores of medications for his senior dogs, and his savings account was looking quite healthy. What more could he ask for than that?

It was a slow night. Mid-week was never the most lucrative time, but Will could reliably make about a hundred and fifty dollars in a couple of hours. He'd been online for three hours already and had barely made half that. He was advertising his tip goals as normal, was offering all the right incentives to get the tokens flowing, but few people were taking the bait, and those who did were tipping amounts well below average.

Another five-token tip came in, _shove ur fist up ur ass bb_, and Will considered calling it a night. He could barely be bothered to keep himself hard anyway.

"I think I might log off soon everyone, it's pretty slow tonight."

_TFWnogf: aw no, your so cute, pls stay!_  
_BigDick6969: but i luv ur Ass bb so sweet_  
_fuckbuttons: give us a look at that hole before u go ;)_

"If you wanted to see that shit, you guys should've tipped me."

_xxdragonboyxx: im broke lol_  
_fuckbuttons: gimme a break i been comin here to see u since u started! dont i get a freebie?_  
_hentaiPony: do u hav a hairdryer can i see it i rly like hairdryers_  
_TFWnogf: ugly ass tight ass bitch_

"You got plenty for free already and you all know it. I'm going now, I'll be back on tomorrow night."

**_HNB tipped you 1500 tokens!_**

Will blinked at the screen, cursor poised and ready to click on the logout button. That was over a hundred dollars for him right there. It would've cost the tipper even more than that in token purchases. He didn't recognise the username. Who dropped that kind of money on someone they'd never watched before, let alone on an absolutely dead night like this?

He should probably say something.

"Shit, ah, HNB, thank-you. You just made my night worth it. I… thank-you. Shit." Will sat back against the cushions of his bed and laughed for the first time all evening. "What do you want? Once I reached my goal, I was just going to ride my fingers while I jerked off, but since you were so generous, do you…. Do you have a request? Something else you'd like to see?"

_HNB: I'm taking you private._

A one-thousand-five-hundred token tip, and now he was being taken private. The guy was obviously thirsty for him. He could probably spin the private show out for another hour at least. Will could hardly believe his luck.

"Are- are you sure? Not that I'm complaining, but you already tipped me so much…"

_HNB: I'm taking you private. Expect my request imminently._

The other remaining customers in the chatroom were in uproar. They'd been hanging about all evening just waiting for someone else to pay the money so they'd all get a free show, and now their misplaced sense of entitlement was sending them absolutely frothy with rage.

They'd be back tomorrow, though. They always were.

**_HNB is requesting a private session. Accept?_**

HNB continued to visit Will's chatroom for the next few weeks. His mode of operation was always the same: he would log in, sit in Will's room saying nothing at all, and then just before Will reached his token goal for a public show, HNB would tip some ludicrous amount of money to push him well past that goal. And then he'd take him private.

Will was a little concerned at first that his other customers would be driven away, that HNB's constant sniping would make them turn to other people behind other webcams. Instead, it had the opposite effect: word had spread of the model who was so hot that the same customer spent hundreds of dollars on him every week, and people flocked to his chatroom to see what all the fuss was about. They tried to meet Will's token goals as quickly as they could before HNB logged on, desperate to get their public show. Sometimes they even managed it. Mostly they didn't.

While HNB often had specific sexual requests for their private sessions, he also seemed to get a kick out of watching Will just… be. On several occasions he had instructed Will to lay back against his cushions and take a half-hour nap. Other times he asked Will to read him a chapter of whatever book he was currently working his way through.

Tying his fishing flies; brushing the long coat of a new addition to the canine family; giving a basic tutorial on how to take apart a boat motor, with the intention of getting as oily as possible; HNB's requests for what he wanted to see were varied and sometimes a little peculiar, and Will found them almost impossibly endearing.

He figured HNB was a wealthy, lonely old man, probably widowed, missing the boring intimacies of married life. Will could understand that. He didn't feel the ache of loneliness very often, but occasionally it struck him that it might be nice to have someone to complain about the fishing twine he left strewn on the dining table.

It was pretty easy to tell when a customer was angling for Will to fill this role of online spouse, and he tried to avoid it wherever possible. It was never easy when someone became fixated on him and he had to explain that, no, he doesn't have reciprocal feelings, this is literally just a job. He should do the same with HNB, of course, nip it in the bud before it got out of hand.

The money was useful, though. He'd already got his busted old water heater replaced, and besides, HNB seemed perfectly in control of himself. Will decided to ignore his various self-imposed limits as he cheerfully passed them by.

Will was now making more money off HNB alone than he was from all his other customers combined. There was barely any reason for him to keep on using the Hotline site.

"We could just do this over Skype, you know. Then you wouldn't be wasting thirty percent of everything you spend." Will considered for a moment, then carried on. "But it's not enough just to have me, is it? You want to be taking me away from others. You want them to see it. Have me in reach and then you swoop in and snatch me away."

_HNB: Lovely boy, you see right through me.  
HNB: But perhaps you could let me have your Skype details anyway, just as a back-up._

"Sure, I'll just send-"

_HNB: I will pay for the privilege, of course. What's the going rate these days? 500 tokens?_

"Ha! You'd be so lucky. I know some guys charge five hundred per month for the pleasure of receiving shitty filter pics on goddamn _Snapchat_. Skype's a lot more personal than that." Will thought for a minute, trying to decide just how much he could get away with charging. Whatever he said, HNB would probably just find it charming and pay without a second thought. "But if you insist on paying… Two thousand tokens. For now. There might be a… hmmm, a renewal fee after an unspecified length of time."

**_HNB tipped you 2000 tokens!_**

Will smiled to himself.

"I'm sending my Skype details over now. And… is there something I can call you, besides HNB? It doesn't really sound… It's not a name."

Customers gave Will pet names fairly regularly, but he never returned the favour and never brought up the idea himself. Too personal. There was something about HNB, however, that pulled at the back of his brain, made him want to reach out and connect. He wanted to know him, and it was an exceptional rarity.

_HNB: I am content with HNB. But you could call me Doctor, if it feels better for you._

"Are you a doctor?"

_HNB: Yes._

"Wow. Okay. _Doctor_." The word felt lush in his mouth. "I like that."

_HNB: It sounds filthy when you say it._

"It feels filthy."

_HNB: And is there something that I can call you? Buster Knutt is, of course, a very clever pun, but it's a little crude._

Will was stumped. His pseudonym was ridiculous, there was no denying that, and it had always felt a little wrong, knowing that HNB had to think of him under that name.

_HNB: I would never ask for your real name, of course. I understand privacy is important in this line of work.  
HNB: Perhaps we can think of a nickname for you, together?_

"No, just… Call me Will. That's my name."

_HNB: Will._

A shaky breath, and an uncharacteristically shy smile. "Yeah."

Some customers didn't want to spend tokens, but they did want to send Will gifts. He maintained extensive wishlists on several websites, and set up a PO box in town that he visited once every couple of weeks. HNB, of course, was quick on the uptake and soon exhausted Will's lists of everything even remotely good.

_HNB: Will, I find it difficult to believe that butt plugs and lube are the only things you want. Everything on your lists is either a sex toy or something to help insert a sex toy._

"Well… yeah. Think about it. If I want people to buy me anything at all I have to be realistic. What I'd _really_ like is some new dinner plates. Mine are all scuffed and mismatched and they were second-hand when I got 'em. But no-one's gonna buy me that kind of stuff. It's not sexy. They want to see me use the things they gift me, and sitting on cam eating dinner off nice new plates is not most customers' idea of a good time…"

_HNB: Is there a brand of crockery you particularly like?_

Will fell back against his bed and laughed. "I'm going to be real with you, Doctor. I can't even _name_ a crockery brand, let alone pick a favourite."

A week later, Will received a sixteen-piece Le Creuset dinnerware set that retailed for over three hundred dollars.

HNB had been coming to Will's chatroom for over two months now. By this point, most other regulars had paid for the luxury of having Will watch their cam as well. Not that Will ever paid a huge amount of attention, as one guy furiously jerking off with a very severe look on his face looked much like another, but he kept the little window open while he let his eyes go out of focus. No-one ever really noticed.

HNB had never asked him, though. Not even hinted at it. Will was on the verge of taking it as a personal affront.

"You've really never wanted me to watch you back? A lot of guys get a kick out of me seeing them too."

_HNB: I have a respected business and a large circle of influential, gossip-prone peers. If my involvement in this kind of thing were to be revealed, the scandal would be far-reaching and insufferably tedious._  
_HNB: I don't mean to imply that I find this shameful. Far from it. I never feel guilty about indulging in a pleasure._  
_HNB: Nor do I mean to imply that you're untrustworthy and might consider blackmailing me. I think I have a fair measure of you and you don't strike me as the kind of man who would do that._  
_HNB: I simply value my privacy a great deal, and it's a risk I'm not willing to take._

"Fair enough. That doesn't actually answer my question though, Doctor. Do you _want_ me to see you?"

It was a solid minute before HNB replied.

_HNB: I have desired it._  
_HNB: Often._  
_HNB: Lovely Will, please don't ask me to show myself to you, because I'll want to say yes._

"Shit. Sorry."

_HNB: Think nothing of it._  
**_HNB tipped you 500 tokens!_**  
_HNB: Put on the robe I sent you, the cream silk._

It took another month for HNB to finally crack, but he'd been so adamant in his desire to remain utterly anonymous that it still came as somewhat of a shock to Will when he finally admitted it.

_HNB: I thought I could be content with our arrangement as it currently stands, but seeing you is no longer enough.  
HNB: I feel overcome with a desire to also be seen by you._

"You told me that was completely off the table," Will said, wondering how much he should pry. Surely if HNB didn't want him asking, he wouldn't have brought it up in the first place? "What changed?"

_HNB: I don't know._  
_HNB: Maybe nothing changed and I'm merely thinking of it differently._  
_HNB: What I do know is that when I think of showing myself to you, it feels as though I'm falling from a great height, at once both terrified and exhilarated._

Will was no stranger to customers spouting overwrought nonsense at him, but HNB shook him deeply. He had known on a practical level that HNB was enormously invested in him to a point that went far beyond the professional performer-customer relationship, and Will had done nothing to dissuade him in that. Against his better judgement, he'd encouraged him, and now Will was back at a point he'd been at before, with a customer all but professing their love and Will having to be the stone-cold bitch shooting down their hopes and dreams. Good business dictated it.

Except he didn't want to shoot HNB down. Not in the slightest. The thought of seeing HNB's face knocked the wind out of him and set heat curling in his fingertips.

"You got it bad, huh?"

_HNB: I do._

"Me too," said Will, feeling just the slightest bit shaky. "Let me see you."

**_HNB wants to share their webcam. Accept?_**

Will couldn't see much at first, just the suggestion of an arm, a pair of shoulders.

"Turn the light on, will you? It's so dark, I can barely see a thing."

"My apologies. One moment."

Will clapped a hand over his mouth to smother a gasp. For some stupid reason, he'd assumed that HNB wouldn't speak and would just continue typing instead. But he'd spoken, four tiny words that Will would gladly listen to over and over again until he went deaf. Low, a little husky, but carried on a smooth and sure undertone that lilted with an accent from somewhere Will couldn't place.

And then HNB clicked on a lamp on a nearby end table and Will gasped all over again. He'd formed a vague picture in his mind of what HNB could look like, but it was so far from the reality presented before him that he felt a little stupid for getting it so unutterably _wrong_.

He looked alien, almost, a kind of fierce and challenging beauty that hurt to look at and hurt to look away from. Cut-glass cheekbones, velvet-plush lips, amber-rich eyes… And the most ridiculous suit and tie combination Will had ever seen.

"Is… is that orange plaid? With a blue tie? A blue _paisley_ tie? Oh my god."

"If you're going to sit there and mock my choice in clothes-" HNB said, positively frosty.

"No, no, I'm sorry. I'm just- nervous, I guess. It actually looks good. It shouldn't, but it really does. It looks great. _You_ look great."

"Do I?" Warmer, and a little smug. God, Will could get drunk on his voice.

"Yeah. And you sound great. Rumbly. I bet you feel good too."

That got him. HNB closed his eyes and took a deep, steadying breath.

"Perhaps this was a bad idea," HNB said with a faint smile. "Now you'll see what a weak man I am, so easily wrecked by you."

"Laying it on a little thick, aren't you, Doctor?"

"But it's true. And, please… call me Hannibal."

"Another nickname?"

"No, just my given name. Say it for me."

Will wrapped his lips around the name, drew out the first syllable far longer than necessary. "Hannibal."

"Will…"

"I have a request, Will, if you'll hear it."

Will was in the bathtub, laptop perched on a chair firmly out of splashing distance. It was one of Hannibal's favourite activities, Will wet and flushed in the bath, and Hannibal dry and reclining on his couch, enjoying the spectacle. "Sure, what's up?"

"It's, ah, a little more involved than usual. You may not like it. I respect completely your right to deny me, but please hear me out before you make a decision."

That jangled Will's nerves. "Don't scare me, Hannibal."

"I'll try my best not to." He paused, to gather his thoughts or work up the courage or change his plans entirely. "I have a house, a vacation home that I don't use as often as I would like, out on some cliffs in Chesapeake Bay. The view over the water is quite striking, even during the winter."

Will felt a sick lurch in his stomach. Hannibal was going to ask to meet him, and against all his common sense, Will was desperate to say yes.

Hannibal continued hurriedly, evidently concerned by the look on Will's face. "I'm not asking you to meet with me in such an isolated location. I know safety is your primary concern, and despite our time together it would be ill-advised to meet anyone alone like that. What I am asking is that you take a trip to the house, without me. Stay for as little or as long as you like. I would make it ready for you, air out the rooms-"

"Hannibal, I can't just up and leave."

"I would pay for your dogs' care while you're gone. Whatever you need."

"I…" Will tried to think of more excuses as to why he couldn't accept, shifting restlessly in the bathtub. Why did Hannibal have to ask him now, of all times?. "How do I know you won't just be lying in wait for me there? You could be anyone. I'm not- I don't want you to think that I don't trust you. I _shouldn't_ trust you, but I do and it makes me a fool. I have to look out for myself."

"I would expect nothing less from you, Will. You know my face already, and I will have you know now that my full name is Hannibal Lecter. I have a psychiatry practice in Baltimore. I was born and raised in Lithuania, but am now a naturalized citizen of the United States. I live at-"

"Stop. You don't want to tell me all this stuff."

"I do. Look me up, Will. Read reviews from my patients. Put your mind at ease. Even if you don't wish to go to the house, it would… please me for you to know more about me."

Will sighed and folded his arms over the side of the bath to cushion his chin. He looked directly into the webcam and asked, "What have I done to you, Hannibal? How did I break your walls down so easy? I wasn't even trying."

Hannibal was wistful in his response. "Lovely Will, I wish I knew."

* * *

Chapter 2

Will was three hours into the four-hour drive to Hannibal's clifftop house. Still a little cautious, he was allowing himself to stay there for only two nights, though he'd wanted to stay for a week. It was a bright, chilly day, and he was looking forward to the underfloor heating and fresh-baked bread that Hannibal had sent him a photo of that morning.

"I want you to know that I'm bringing my gun with me." It was a challenge to keep the smile out of his voice. Will wasn't quite so worried anymore that this was all some elaborate, long-winded trap, but he enjoyed playing it up. He thought Hannibal liked it too.

"As you should. Your safety is paramount." Hannibal's voice sounded tinny on Will's crappy speakerphone. It would be better when he was at the house and they could speak through webcam like normal.

"And you haven't put secret spy cameras anywhere?"

"Will, please, I would never do something so graceless. Besides, if I want to see you, I need only ask. You always oblige me."

Will huffed a laugh and changed the subject. "What are you up to today, anyway?"

"Not a lot, I suspect. I slept little last night, and woke very early this morning so I could return to Baltimore before you began your journey. I imagine I'll spend most of the day at least semi-horizontal."

"I suppose rubbing yourself over every item of furniture in the house does take it out of you a bit…"

"I did no such thing."

"Mm-hm. I'll let you know later what I think of your scent."

"I look forward to it."

"I bet. I'm not too far away now, so I'll let you go take a nap or whatever and I'll Skype you when I'm all settled in and done snooping. Sound good?"

"Perfect. Enjoy your snooping, my love." Hannibal disconnected the call before Will could respond. _My love_. He drove the rest of the way to the house in a mild stupor.

Will had seen snippets of Hannibal's Baltimore house, mostly his living room and bedroom in the background of his webcam, but he'd got the impression that it was quite… grandiose and intimidating. The clifftop house was a far cry from that, floor-to-ceiling windows flooding light over mid-century furniture, clean lines and simple blocks of colour. Hannibal being Hannibal, there were several ornamental animal skulls on various shelves and sideboards, but overall it was a free-flowing and uncluttered space.

There were gifts, of course. The dining table overflowed with them.

High-quality toiletries; a thick goose down coat for the bracing cliff-top winds; a heavy cast-iron casserole dish, complete with handwritten recipe cards inside; packs of expensive coffee beans and a bottle of even more expensive whiskey. Practical things.

Another silk robe, this one a deep grey-blue with a subtle geometric pattern interwoven in the fabric; a pretty fan of giftcards for various luxury stores where Will never shopped; a slim silver bracelet that hugged his wrist closely when he slipped it on. Impractical things.

Instead of snooping or unpacking, Will left his bag down by the door and went over to the huge windows to look out over the water. Hannibal's last words to him were churning around in his mind, heavy with terror and excitement.

The idea that Hannibal could love him was absurd. They'd never even met face-to-face, and there were parts of Will's life that he knew nothing about, just as Will was sure that there were many things he didn't know about Hannibal. If Hannibal loved him, it was only a part of him, an idea of Will that he loved. And wasn't that safer? Let Hannibal carry on his fantasy at arm's length.

But perhaps Hannibal had meant it as nothing more than a simple endearment, no different from when he called him _lovely Will_. People threw around words like that all the time, not meaning anything serious by them.

The thought that Hannibal _didn't_ love him left Will perplexingly bereft. He stayed, staring at the water but not really seeing it, for hours.

The sun was skimming the horizon by the time Will set up his laptop and sent Hannibal a Skype request, oranges and pinks burning down to inky blues across the water. The lights in the house were warm and low, a speck of gold on the dark clifftop.

Hannibal answered the Skype call on the third ring. He was in the living room, shadows swimming on the wall behind him. To Will's utter disbelief, Hannibal was wearing a t-shirt. An expensive-looking t-shirt that was probably made of silk, but a t-shirt nonetheless. Will felt foolishly shy, all of a sudden.

"Lovely Will. I've been waiting for you. How do you like the house?"

"It's beautiful." Nerves were getting the better of him, and Will self-consciously ran a hand through his hair. Light gleamed off the silver bracelet, and he saw Hannibal's eyes sharpen. "Listen… When we spoke earlier, on the drive over, you… said something. To me. About me."

For a second Hannibal looked entirely nonplussed, but understanding dawned quickly, and Will could see the barely-there fall in Hannibal's face as he quickly adjusted his expectations.

"Forgive me. I wasn't thinking. I won't speak of it again. Do you like the bracelet? I had to guess the size, but it seems as though it fits quite well. The robe looks very becoming."

"Hannibal."

He closed his eyes briefly before answering, as if to gather the tatters of his dignity. "Yes, Will?"

"Come to the house."

For once, Hannibal was at a loss for words. Will pressed on. "You called me 'love'. You never say anything carelessly, and I think you meant it. I hope you meant it. You've courted me enough. Come here."

Hannibal groped for something to say. It was true that he'd hoped Will would eventually ask to meet, but he'd not expected it nearly so soon or with such promise behind the words, and he was quite unprepared for the reality of it. He wasn't even dressed appropriately.

As if reading his mind, Will said, "Don't bother putting a suit on, the t-shirt is fine. More than fine, actually. Casual looks good on you. Just, get here. Please."

It ended up taking Hannibal a little over two hours to reach the clifftop house. While he waited, Will used the time to prepare some food. He was under no illusion that Hannibal would want to sit down at the table and have a civilised meal, but he assumed that they'd want something easy to take out of the fridge, afterwards.

The moon hung huge and beautiful in the sky, and Will was gazing at it through the window when he heard the crunch of tyres on gravel. His heart thudded in his chest and he gathered the deep blue robe a little closer around himself, trepidation and excitement making waves in his chest.

Hannibal came up to the glass door and knocked gently. He had keys of his own, but was being careful to give Will every chance to change his mind. Will came to stand on the other side of the door, looking up into his dark and questioning eyes. He'd kept the t-shirt on, with a woolen sweater over the top as a concession to the frosty weather. Will put one hand against the glass, and Hannibal mirrored him helplessly. The moment seemed to stretch out endlessly, each of them breathing heavily either side of the glass, staring through the final frontier.

Then everything was happening at once. Will was flinging the door open, Hannibal's name leaving his lips in a rush, and Hannibal was surging forward to catch Will up in his arms, and they were kissing, they were kissing so desperately and Hannibal tasted so good and Will was so soft… The sea could rise up to swallow them whole and they wouldn't even notice.

Somehow, they made it to the couch. Will's robe fell open to reveal his nakedness as he lay back, but Hannibal was on him before he could get it all the way off. It was too much to be apart for even the brief seconds it would take Hannibal to disrobe, so he opted instead to just shove his trousers down around his thighs. It would be inelegant and messy, but there was time for elegance later.

Will arched up into the warm press of Hannibal's bare skin, digging his fingers into the firm meat of his hips. Hannibal was leaking already, dripping warm and sticky over Will's flushed cock as they rubbed together. Will reached down to take them both in his hand, and Hannibal moaned into his mouth at the pleasure of it. It was enough, absurdly, to drive him to the brink already, and he fought hard against the oncoming tidal wave.

"Will… if you want me to last…"

Will eased up the pace of his strokes and lifted his head to suck a wet mark on to Hannibal's neck. He could taste the tang of anticipation on his skin, the adrenaline that had propelled Hannibal along the dark roads from Baltimore to the clifftop house, the sweat-soaked desire that ran hot through his veins.

Above him, Hannibal was a wreck. His eyelids fluttered and his lips were red-bitten, slack with pleasure and a seemingly never-ending stream of moans. Will had never expected Hannibal to lose his composure so easily. He loved it.

Hannibal could feel the heat coiling in his stomach and the edge of his pleasure rapidly approaching again, even with Will's slow ministrations. He wanted to stretch his enjoyment long into the night, to appreciate every inch of Will twice over at least, so with monumental effort he pulled away and sat back on his knees.

"If you keep up with your wicked hands, this will be over far too soon. Let me take care of you."

Will reached towards him, dragging his fingers over Hannibal's chest. "But I want to feel you…"

"You will." Hannibal kissed him deeply, luxuriously, and gently manoeuvred his hands away. "Keep your hands above your head."

Hannibal watched as Will settled his hands against the armrest, wrists crossed and silver bracelet glinting in the low light. He trailed kisses down Will's chest, lingering over one hard, dusky nipple, until he came to the soft swell of stomach. He paused to look up at Will, and was rewarded with the gratifying sight of deeply flushed cheeks and parted, panting lips. He continued onward, to his hips and the join of his thigh and everywhere _except_ the place Will wanted him most.

Will wasn't one to beg, but he was seriously considering it by the time Hannibal finally, exquisitely applied his clever tongue to the base of his cock, swirling around and then dragging over his balls and up in one long, hot stripe to the head. He wasted no more time after that, swallowing Will down with practised skill and creating the kind of suction that had Will half out of his mind, writhing where he lay and grasping helplessly at the air.

"You can hold onto my hair, if it's easier."

Will looked down at Hannibal, eyes bright and mouth slick with saliva and pre-come. He huffed out something halfway between a wanton moan and a delighted laugh, curled his fingers tight into Hannibal's hair, and pulled.

The house was filled with the wet, filthy sounds of Hannibal's mouth, punctuated by Will's low, sweet moans. The air was heavy with the scent of sex. Will's skin felt hot all over, every touch sparking off him. He felt the familiar liquid heat building within him, fire-hot and overwhelming, and his thighs started to shake around Hannibal's shoulders.

"Hann… I'm gonna-"

Hannibal pulled off immediately and moved up to kiss Will's taste into his mouth. "Not quite yet, lovely Will."

"Fucking… no. I want to come now." Will shot his hand down and gripped Hannibal's cock tightly, eliciting a sharp hiss of pleasure. "I think you want to as well. So fuck me already. We can do it all over again later."

There was no alternate universe where Hannibal would ever, could ever say no to that. He reached into the back pocket of his trousers and pulled out a condom and a small tube of some fancy-looking lubricant. While he tore the packet and tried to roll the condom onto his cock with less-than-steady hands, Will sat up and pressed two of his fingers into Hannibal's mouth.

"Get them nice and wet for me."

Hannibal had no hope in hell of concentrating after that. He just knelt on the sofa, utterly powerless, as Will slipped his fingers between Hannibal's lips again and again. It might've lasted for ten seconds or ten minutes, but eventually Will drew his fingers away and lay back down, trailing his hands along the insides of his thighs and then smearing Hannibal's saliva liberally over his hole.

Eventually, Hannibal managed to regain enough presence of mind to finish rolling the condom onto his cock. Will took the lube from him and squeezed out a generous amount, spreading it thoroughly all over his cock and making Hannibal start to unconsciously rock up into his hand.

The rest of the lube went onto Hannibal's twitching fingers, which Will guided down between his cheeks. Breathing was hard. Looking down at the place where his fingers disappeared inside of Will was harder. He was so hot inside, so slick and pliant, opening for Hannibal beautifully and just begging for more to be put in there.

Hannibal withdrew his fingers and lined himself up at Will's entrance.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

"Yes, Hannibal. _Yes_."

The words barely left Will's lips before Hannibal was pushing in, tight heat clenching around his cock as Will took him, inch by inch. He gripped Will tightly to him and didn't loosen up until he was completely seated inside him. He thrust shallowly at first, testing the angle and trying hard not to completely lose himself to the sensation of being surrounded by Will. He was so tight.

Will canted his hips and wrapped his legs around Hannibal's waist, urging him to move. And move, he did.

Hannibal gathered momentum quickly, holding Will's hip with one strong, hot hand, as he thrust into him relentlessly. Between them, Will's cock was heavy and leaking against his stomach. Will took it in his hand, blindly seeking his own pleasure as Hannibal drove ever onwards towards his.

They kissed messily, bumping noses and chins and gasping on each other's lips when they couldn't kiss any more. Hannibal's rhythm began to falter, his muscles clenching, breathing even more laboured, and Will pushed him off.

"Take it off. Come on me."

Hannibal didn't need telling twice. He pulled the condom off and threw it aside, uncaring where it landed. "Where?" he asked, breathless.

Will was still jerking himself, struggling to hold off. "My cock. Quickly…"

Hannibal collapsed back over Will and stroked himself roughly, Will's tongue sweet in his mouth when he finally spilled himself where he was bid.

The hot, slick fluid coating his cock and running down over his balls sent Will over the edge and he came hard, toe-curlingly, back-archingly, breath-takingly hard.

Neither could speak for a long minute.

"Would you want me to quit? Hotline, I mean."

When they'd recovered and found the strength to get up, Hannibal had finally taken the rest of his clothes off and they'd spent a while washing each other in the huge walk-in shower. Then bed, though sleep was far from their thoughts.

"If you enjoy it, there's no reason why you shouldn't continue." Hannibal took a slightly hesitant pause before he continued. "However, if another customer were to want a more intimate relationship-"

"I can tell you for a fact that is never gonna happen. I have some friends on Hotline who like to let the customers think it's a possibility, you know, to get more money out of a guy. But I don't even do that. Too risky to let them think it could happen."

"You let me think it could happen."

"You were different."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just…" Will struggled to find the right words. "Got a feeling, I guess," he finished lamely.

The conversation lulled comfortably. Hannibal thought of the breakfast he would bring to Will in bed tomorrow morning, the scrambled eggs and sourdough toast that would go cold while he took him in his mouth and coaxed him to hardness.

Will thought of what life would be like without Hannibal's constant presence in his chatroom. No reason for him to stay now that he had the real thing. He would miss the extra money, but he managed before and he would manage now.

"It'll be weird not having you around, snatching me away from other customers."

"Why wouldn't I be around? Stealing beauty from the ravening horde is a favoured hobby of mine."

"Well… you got me. You don't need to keep on paying to see me. It seems pointless."

"Why can't I have it both ways?" Hannibal gripped Will at the waist and flipped them both over, settling his weight against Will's hips and nuzzling into his neck. "I like to pay."

Fire bloomed in Will's chest.

"And you like to get paid, don't you?"

"I do."


	31. (T) BOYF - Seeing You by reptilianraven

seeing you  
reptilianraven

Summary:  
"Jeremy?" Michael leans forward, narrowing his eyes further.

"I am Jeremy," he nods, less as a clarification and more because his brain is having trouble making words right now that aren't Dude, where are your glasses? "Dude, where are your glasses?" Jeremy says.

5 times Jeremy has no idea what the hell to do when Michael isn't wearing his glasses + 1 time he does.

* * *

i.

The first time Jeremy sees Michael with his glasses off, he bashes Michael's face with a pillow and for a few seconds Jeremy is afraid he's killed his best friend.

And things were going _so well_. It was a good day. A really good one. It was the first time his parents allowed him to sleepover at Michael's house. The first time he'd be there for a whole _night_. Jeremy's been friends with Michael for a few months now and so this was Big. It was Important. Maybe Jeremy was nervous about the whole thing, but he forgets all about it when Michael greets him at the door with a smile, immediately taking his hand and dragging inside, babbling the entire time.

They end up in the living room and they watch like, three movies in a row, which is the most movies Jeremy's ever watched in a row. They're mostly quiet through it all, but it's a nice quiet. It's comfortable and warm just like the blanket they've huddled into. In the corner of his eye, Jeremy can see Michael watch, focused, leg shaking the entire time, and Jeremy thinks he could get used to this, to hanging out with Michael forever with snacks and movies. It's a nice thought that has him smiling out of nowhere, but nothing on screen warrants a smile, so he pulls the blanket up to his face and hopes Michael doesn't notice.

"Do you wanna play Talecraft?" Michael asks after the third movie when Jeremy is rubbing at his eyes. He's not sleepy, his eyes just ache after staring at a TV for that long.

"What's Talecraft?" he asks, and Michael gasps.

Michael takes Jeremy's hands—which he does a lot, Jeremy likes it— and says "Get ready to have your mind _blown_."

Talecraft turns out to be a card game where they make stories and stuff depending on the card. Michael walks him through all the different kinds of cards and he takes his turn first, making the weirdest story about a magic red lion and a magic blue salamander and there are drums somewhere too but Michael's mom calls them down for dinner before Michael can find a way to end it.

It's a really good day. Michael's mom's food is the best thing in the world and it's fun eating while she keeps trying to embarrass Michael the entire time. The moment Jeremy finishes, Michael is practically pushing Jeremy back upstairs to his room while Michael's mom calls out, reminding them not to stay up too late.

They manage to get through three more rounds of Talecraft, Michael starting to take scribbly notes on a sheet of paper when they thought of something really good, when Jeremy is betrayed by a yawn. And then another. He's tired, but the thought of the day ending makes his stomach go cold. Michael just smiles, tells them they can always play some more next time, and they start to get ready for bed. It's not so cold now that Jeremy has the words _next time_ in his head. It's a good day, and there's gonna be more of them.

Which is when things go south.

Michael goes to brush his teeth while Jeremy arranges pillows on Michael's bed with what he hopes is skill. Thought. Mastery. The best bedding arrangement the world has ever seen. He's got one pillow clutched in his hands and he's thinking contemplatively about balance, or something right as Michael walks out and his glasses are _gone_.

Jeremy yells and catapults the pillow straight into Michael's face.

The pillow flops to the floor and Michael blinks, stunned. In the ensuing silence Jeremy thinks he sees the six years he's lived flash before his eyes. He isn't impressed.

"What," Michael says.

"_Where are your glasses?_" Jeremy blurts before the life flashing before his eyes catches up to the past few seconds. "Sorry!"

Thankfully, Michael doesn't end their friendship right there if his smile is anything to go by. He sits next to Jeremy on the bed. Another good sign. "I took 'em off, duh. I don't sleep in them."

"Oh," he says. The only time Jeremy's ever worn goggles was that one time his family went to the beach, and he figures it'd be pretty weird to sleep with something like that on. "That makes sense I guess."

"Yeah, it does," Michael tosses the pillow back at Jeremy, startling a laugh out of him. Okay, friendship not over. Crisis averted. "Why'd you hit me with a pillow?"

Jeremy doesn't really have an answer. There's a part of his head that irrationally thought Michael would get in trouble or something if he took his glasses off. "I panicked?"

"Why? Do I look weird?" Michael hands come up to his face, slightly distressed.

"No!" Jeremy makes a move to grab Michael's hands, but stops. Michael just blinks and gives Jeremy his hands anyway. "I just figured it was one of those things you couldn't take off, y'know? Like Cyclops?"

"I'm not Cyclops," Michael sighs mournfully.

"It's fine. You're cooler." He really can't stand seeing Michael be any kind of upset. "You don't look weird. Just, uh. Different. S'first time I've seen you without them on. It's different," he says because it _is_. Not too drastic that Jeremy can't recognize him, but seeing him without the lenses over his eyes is like learning something new like Talecraft or whatever new animal fact Michael can tell him.

Michael's eyes are a really nice shade of brown, Jeremy realizes. He's always known, but now it's clearer.

"You're sure I don't look weird? You're staring," Michael tells him.

"Oh," Jeremy looks at his hands patting at the pillow Michael threw back at him, worried that he's done something wrong for some reason. "Sorry. I'll get used to it, I guess."

"You don't have to get used to it, dummy," Michael laughs. Sometimes, Jeremy thinks he gets whiplash from how fast he can go to worried to okay just by hearing that laugh. "I don't take them off too much. Just when I sleep or shower and stuff. It's fine."

"Okay," Jeremy says because it's just that easy with Michael. "Cool."

"_Cool_," Michael repeats, copying Jeremy's voice. He ducks when Jeremy moves to shove him, laughing as he falls back into Jeremy's skillfully arranged pillows. It's that easy.

They talk for a little longer about the movies or about the stories they made, but then Michael's mom comes in and tells them to go to sleep. She switches off the lights and they both drift off.

And Jeremy dreams of a magic red lion with clear, bright, brown eyes.

ii.

Between the two of them, Jeremy is usually the clumsy one. It's almost as if his own definition of grace happens to be awkward limbs and a skewed sense of gravity that has him careening into chairs or walls or Michael himself. "It's like you're always walking on jello, but it isn't jello for literally everybody else in the world," is Michael's take on the matter. When Jeremy moves, he's constantly walking the edge of a tiny disaster. When Michael moves, it just makes _sense_.

Jeremy doesn't think he's ever seen Michael still. Sitting, Michael jiggles his leg up and down or taps his foot or drums his fingers on the nearest surface. Standing, he rocks back and forth on his heels or does this in place shuffling thing with his feet ("It's my idle animation, dude.") Even sleeping, Michael tosses and turns and maybe kicks Jeremy in the gut in the middle of the night. Michael moves like it's a fundamental characteristic of the universe, and he never gets into accidents.

So one of the more jarring moments in Jeremy's life is when they're both twelve years old on a normal Friday that goes pretty smoothly. Jeremy's been trying to plan out a cool secret handshake. Michael keeps humming the tune of a song he got stuck in his head. Jeremy fondly watches Michael slide to the beat of the song, shuffling through the halls without a care in the world.

It's smooth until class ends and Michael dances his way down the steps of the school's entrance, trips on his shoelaces, falls, and breaks his arm.

Jeremy can't remember too much of the details. He remembers seeing the flash of _oh fuck_ on Michael's face. He remembers the sound of Michael hitting the ground wrong from four steps up. He remembers scrambling for help, but past that, nothing.

What Jeremy remembers more is the next day where he goes over to Michael's house. Jeremy's never broken a bone (and he's starting to wonder if he's either invincible or if he just doesn't have bones, maybe), but he knows it's gotta suck and that Michael is probably not having a great time. Jeremy buys some snacks and brings his DS and smiles when Mrs. Mell answers the door in the morning, telling Jeremy that Michael's in the kitchen.

Michael sits at the dinner table, head ducked down as he stabs at a bowl of cereal Jeremy knows he's eating dry because he doesn't like it when cereal gets soggy. He catches a glimpse of a clunky looking cast on Michael's left arm as he pulls a chair out for himself, settling in. The sound has Michael whipping his head up and—

"Hey, so how're you—whoa," Jeremy says, words forgotten completely because Michael is looking, well, squinting at him intensely.

Michael who is not wearing his glasses.

The last time Jeremy saw his face naked like this was when they were tiny and Jeremy reacted to surprises through projectile attack. Now he's a lot less inclined to throw anything because it's not a surprise so much as...odd. Michael is holding a spoon, Michael has ruffled morning hair, Michael has a face that looks a little off because it's missing his _glasses_.

"Jeremy?" Michael leans forward, narrowing his eyes further.

"I am Jeremy," he nods, less as a clarification and more because his brain is having trouble making words right now that aren't _Dude, where are your glasses?_ "Dude, where are your glasses?" Jeremy says.

"They broke when I fell," Michael squints, though Jeremy is pretty sure it's got nothing to do with his eyesight anymore. "Like my arm."

"Oh damn, yeah," _Great going_. He shakes his thoughts away from how clear Michael's eyes look, how the shape of face looks different without his glasses framing it, how— "How are you doing?"

"Sucky," Michael stabs at his cereal with a pout, leaving the spoon in the dry hill of breakfast fiber. "The cast is crap. It feels weird. I can't move in my sleep," he counts off on his fingers, pauses, looks at the three fingers he's got up. "I'm pretty sure there's like a hundred more reasons but that's all I can remember right now."

"It'll get better. I researched about broken arms last night and the first few days are the worst. After that you just get used to it."

"Aww," Michael grins. "You researched about broken arms for me?"

"Yeah, I did, dork," Jeremy rolls his eyes, ignoring the small wave of warmth in his chest. "Almost like I care about you, or something."

"My best friend in the whole world—"

"Your _only_ friend in the whole world—"

"Shhh, I'm basking in the love," Michael snickers, moving his hand to clutch at his chest dramatically, but he knocks over the spoon sticking out of his cereal and catapults it off the table, clattering to the floor.

Michael blinks, raises four fingers. "I can't see shit," he says.

"I've got it," Jeremy snickers, hopping down to fetch the spoon. "When are your glasses gonna be fixed? Or are you just going to be blind and squinting forever?"

"Shut up," Jeremy turns to see Michael stick out his tongue in the general direction Jeremy is in. "I'm getting totally new ones since I kinda mushed it."

"Why don't you wear your contacts?" Jeremy gives the spoon back to Michael and settles back onto the table, letting himself stare at Michael's face since. Well. It's not like there's anything better to do. Michael's expressions are a little different. Not bad, but still not the usual Michael he's used to. The expanse of Michael's face is free from two pieces of glass and some plastic, and it shouldn't make a difference, but Jeremy can't help but feel like he's seeing something new.

"The day I put something directly on my eyeball is the day I die," Michael shudders. "And I'll take everybody down with me."

"Drama queen," Jeremy smiles, fond. And for all that Jeremy might just look like a Jeremy shaped blur for Michael, Michael smiles back, the corners of his eyes crinkling. It's a smile Jeremy's seen countless time but it's _different_. It's making that warmth come back for some reason.

"So I know you came here to hang out," Michael says in between crunching cereal. "But I don't think I'll be much fun right now because of this thing," he waves his cast up.

"We can play video games," Jeremy tells him. He's never really cared if Michael was fun or not. He always just likes spending time with him. "I can play with one arm too so we're even. And I can draw something cool on your cast. And we can finally figure out the handshake."

"Aw hell, dude." Michael raises his cast again. "No cool handshake."

"We can just do one hand?"

"Lame."

"You're lame." Jeremy kicks him under the table. Then he pauses. "We could add a leg thing?"

"Jeremy." Michael drives his spoon into his bowl. A piece of cereal ricochets out. It hits Jeremy on the cheek. "You're a genius."

"And you're a safety hazard," Jeremy tosses the cereal back at Michael's head, laughing at the resulting squawk.

"Attacking an injured person! Evil!" Michael extends his hand presumably to point at Jeremy for being a criminal, but he knocks the spoon over again. The clatter that rings out is drowned out mostly by Jeremy laughing his ass off.

Michael tries to keep his dignity, tries to keep a frown on his face, but he's laughing too, dorky and unbidden.

The warmth is back. It crawls up his arms like goosebumps before settling in his chest. Instead of a blanket, this felt instead like somebody struck a match, lit a candle. Jeremy goes to fetch the spoon, clutches it in his hands and wonders _why, why, why?_

Whether or not it's the glasses or something else entirely is a question that's starting to form in Jeremy's mind, but he doesn't have the time for it right now. He swats it away to join the candle in his chest. He can deal with that later. Or never.

Now, he tosses the spoon at Michael just to see him screech in indignation. Looks like Jeremy hasn't grown out of the projectile thing just yet after all.

iii.

A few important facts:

1) Michael probably came out of the womb with an already completely developed affinity for lions. The evidence to support this can be summed up by just vaguely gesturing at him. Tabula rasa can suck it, Michael was born like this. It might actually be a superpower. One time, Jeremy was watching a video about lionesses hunting, idly thought that lions were lazy slacking freeloaders, and then immediately his phone buzzed with an incoming call from Michael. Michael had told him that he had a gut feeling something fishy was going on. It was probably a coincidence, but Jeremy tries his best never to think ill of them ever again.

2) Michael is currently high. The evidence to support this is solid. His eyes are a little red. He's talking slower. He's maybe around seventy percent touchier and sixty percent more prone to laughing at anything. He's flopped over a beanbag, staring at the ceiling like it's the Sistine chapel and not just a completely normal, bumpy ceiling while Jeremy surfs through Netflix. Also, Jeremy just watched him smoke a bowl like a few minutes ago. He's high.

3) Jeremy is _not_ currently high. The evidence to support this is as easy as him being sure he has enough mental capacity to tell whether or not he's stoned, plus the fact that Jeremy is really, really bad at smoking weed. Where Michael breathes in with ease, Jeremy feels the smoke scratch against his throat and coughs most of it out before it can be useful. Maybe practice makes perfect, but here he is at sixteen, still not having mastered the art. He figured once that maybe he could get high via osmosis by just hanging around Michael when he was, but it didn't work like that. Jeremy is surfing Netflix sober, looking for this afternoon's entertainment.

4) Jeremy has feelings for Michael. The evidence to support this has been locked away in a box in Jeremy's head, never to see the light of day, but the fact still stands. When it started or how it started doesn't matter as much as how Jeremy deals with it: by saying nothing and going on with his days. Michael is his best friend and if it just so happens that sometimes Jeremy feels himself go red when Michael does something dumb or something perfect, well, he'll enjoy the butterflies as they come. Just business as usual.

But the fact still stands.

All these facts come together when Jeremy finally lands on something that catches his eye. It's a documentary called The Lion In Your Living Room, and the moment Michael sees it, he grabs ahold of Jeremy's shoulder, squeezing with urgency, and says "Jeremy, we need to watch that right now."

Jeremy skims over the description. "It's not actually about—"

"Jeremy," Michael leans over to where Jeremy's seated in his own beanbag. "We need to watch it this instant, it's important."

"Dude, it's not abo—"

"_Jeremy._" Michael takes his face in his hands and Jeremy's breath catches in his throat. "This documentary. We have to watch it."

"Okay," Jeremy says because he's absolutely weak, heart pounding when Michael grins in reply. "Okay, yeah."

Jeremy's gotten a lot of practice at acting totally fine in the face of Michael, everything he is, and the feelings Jeremy's been slowly growing for him in his chest, so while he feels like something is going to burn him from the inside out, he doesn't show it. Instead, he shuffles the beanbag closer to Michael, props his laptop up so they can both see, and presses play.

Literally one minute into the documentary, Michael pokes Jeremy in the cheek.

"Jeremy."

"Mmm?"

"_Jeremy_."

"Yeah?"

"Jeremiah Heere."

"Michael Mell."

"Where," he says. "Are the lions?"

"I was trying to tell you," Jeremy shoves at Michael, huffing a laugh. "That this documentary was about cats."

"This is the worst thing that's ever happened to me in my life," Michael groans, leaning into Jeremy. His head falls on Jeremy's shoulder.

"Cats are cool, don't diss them," and Jeremy let's himself have good things sometimes. He leans his head against Michael's, feels Michael's soft hair against his cheek, feels Michael's glasses poke into his shoulder. On screen, a cat squeezes itself through a handrail while a cat expert explains the beauty of it all. "Did you hear that? Cats have compressible ribcages."

"Psshhh, anybody can do that. I can do that."

"You can...compress your ribcage."

"Yeah."

"Michael, you can't even order a pizza in the state you're in."

"The state I'm in, that state you're in, good ol' NJ," he laughs. Jeremy can't believe he has feelings for this dork. "Heh."

"Heh," he echoes. Michael is smiling, nuzzling into Jeremy's shoulder, and all he can think about is how his chest feels fluttery and warm and tight all at the same time. He kind of wishes he had a compressible ribcage so that at least he could handle the feeling better. So that he could be built for the heart stutters.

"Yo, you okay dude?" Michael pulls away to look at Jeremy. "I'm sorry I dissed the cats. They're cool, I guess."

"I'm fine," Jeremy laughs. Cats are so, so lucky. "Just. Kinda wish I were high, or something."

"The world cursed you with shit smoke tolerance," Michael pats Jeremy's cheek, honestly looking like he's about to cry because Jeremy can't get high. Then he stills, thumb left brushing idly over Jeremy's skin. "Oh, shit."

"Huh?" Jeremy blinks. He's missing something here because Michael pulls away, grinning as he pats around the floor.

"I'm an idiot I can't believe this."

"What?" When he returns to Jeremy's side, he's got the pipe back in his hand and a lighter in the other.

"I can't believe we never tried shotgunning," Michael says while Jeremy tries not to choke on air because wait _what_. "Makes things easier, sometimes, especially for when you have a tough time smoking. Helps you get used to it. But like, the magic goes down by seventy percent, so you probably won't get high but hey, it's still something."

Jeremy's got a surface value knowledge of what shotgunning is and his mind catches on the breathing into another person's mouth deal, which is kind of what the whole thing is _about_ but he never thought that one of the mouths involved will be his own. With the other mouth being—Michael.

Michael who he's totally zoned out on.

"Hey," Michael looks at Jeremy like how he looks at Jeremy whenever he needed a backup story to tell his dad or an extra pen because he lost his own; earnest. Ready to help. Nervous, yes, but on board as long as Jeremy gives the go signal. "We don't have to."

"No!" Jeremy winces. Softer and hopefully less panicked, he says, "Yes! I mean. I'm—game. Super game."

"Nice," Michael says. "I'm pretty sure you know how this works so I guess I'll just—y'know. Yeah." There's a part of Jeremy that's put a little bit at ease at the fact that maybe, Michael is a little bit nervous about this too. His leg is bouncing up and down and he's fidgeting with the lighter. Michael meets his eyes once, and Jeremy doesn't know what he sees, but it makes him turn away sharply, getting to work.

Jeremy sets his laptop aside while Michael lights up and inhales. He sets the pipe down somewhere and scoots closer, placing a hand on Jeremy's face.

"Don't move," he tells Jeremy, leans in—close, so close, just a bit further and Michael's lips would brush against his—and he breathes out.

Jeremy maybe only gets to inhale a fraction of what Michael gives him and it's not even his fault because Michael starts _laughing_ halfway through.

"What just happened," Jeremy blinks. He can't help but smile at Michael lose his shit next to him.

"Sorry, sorry, holy fuck, I'm so sorry it's just—" and he takes his glasses off to rub at his eyes. "You had this face."

"I had this _what_?" he felt a flush creep onto his skin. It's half insecurity and half holy shit, Michael's glasses are off.

Jeremy figures it's kind of like how he can see the stars every night and mostly think nothing of it. But then some nights, just because one thing is different for some reason, he'll look out his window and remember why he stuck shitty glow in the dark stars in random corners of his room. It's kind of like that with Michael. Jeremy sees Michael everyday and he knows, but it's at times like this, with just one thing different, that he remembers.

Michael's glasses are off and he keeps on laughing and he's probably the most gorgeous thing Jeremy's seen in his life.

"It wasn't a bad face, oh god, don't kill me," Michael snickers. There's a stinging in his gut, Jeremy thinks, but it's too far away to really get caught up on. What's closer is Michael, still making fun of him. "You were just super serious and concentrated."

"Fuck you, dude," Jeremy huffs, flipping Michael off.

"Noooooo, no, no, no," Michael takes Jeremy's hand, He doesn't even do anything with it, he just holds it. "It was cute."

"Shut up, _you're_ cute." Jeremy says. It takes a second for him to realize the burning need to throw himself out the window.

"You're—" Michael's voice sounds a little choked. "You're cuter."

Jeremy hopes the heat he feels in his face isn't too visible. "Whatever, shotgunning officially failed."

"We can try again?" Michael goes back to leaning on Jeremy's shoulder.

"Nah, it's fine," Jeremy sets his laptop back onto his lap. "We aren't done with the lions in our living room anyway."

"The _fake_ lions."

"Cats, Michael. They're called cats."

Michael laughs again, but doesn't offer up any argument. He just hums when Jeremy leans against him too, and they watch the cats on screen defy the laws of physics.

In his non-compressible chest, his heart pounds away, a mess of tingles, like pop rocks in his soul and—and something else. Something that feels heavy, but he can ignore it. Jeremy's been at this for a while. Business as usual.

Between them, Michael hasn't let go of Jeremy's hand. To the sound of cat experts explaining the impossibilities of felines, Michael's thumb traces along Jeremy's knuckles, and Jeremy wonders if this is one of those impossible things too.

iv.

Mid junior year, Michael's car gives up. It doesn't straight up _die_, much to everybody's eternal frustration, but it's enough to have the thing out of commission for a few days while it gets fixed up. This basically just means Jeremy's usual ride to school is gone for a bit.

Which is a little bit of a bummer. Ever since Michael got his license, the morning drive has always just been their thing. Days weren't as daunting when Jeremy started it laughing in the passenger seat of Michael's shitty car. Even when things at school started to lighten up after the both of them actually managed to make more friends, nothing felt more at home than watching Michael's head bop to the radio, Michael's fingers drum against the steering wheel, Michael singing a warbled lyric here and there, flipping Jeremy off when he starts to heckle him.

Jeremy can handle walking. He just didn't like handling the concept of days without that drive.

Thankfully, he's saved from walking since Jake offers him a ride which is always fun. Jake plays Carly Rae's latest incredible release and they commiserate over how the world is inherently flawed since nobody's been talking about it. By the time they get to school and part ways for classes, Jeremy's in a pretty content mood, bummer aside.

Classes drone by in the way they do. Jenna is caught texting in the one class Jeremy shares with her but still manages gives a flawlessly correct answer to their teacher's question. In chemistry, Jeremy sees Christine dramatically thunk her head onto the table the moment their teacher pulls up a third video to show the class and Jeremy tries very hard to stifle a laugh. Jeremy thinks his soul ascends to another dimension in trig as a pure self defense mechanism, but there's nothing out of the ordinary there.

Despite the different start, everything is still normal. It's this false sense of security he's been lulled into which probably contributes to him tripping over nothing and walking straight into the table where the gang is already at when he sees Michael later at lunch.

"Man down!" Rich hollers from where he's seated while Jeremy scrambles to right himself. "Another tragic casualty to Michael 'Hot Stuff' Mell."

"Yo, you okay, dude?" Michael 'Hot Stu—goddamn it Rich—reaches out to steady Jeremy but Jeremy waves him off. His shin stings from where it made contact with the table but that isn't really something Jeremy can pay attention to.

Not when Michael in all his glassesless glory looks at him, eyebrows scrunched in concern.

"I'm fine," Jeremy says, blinking at Michael's face. A few seconds pass of Jeremy just _looking_ and it dawns on him that maybe he's not fine. "I'm totally fine."

"Don't worry, I stared too." Chloe tells him, idly twirling her pen. "Michael, I'd tell you to stick with the contacts, because honestly, you're gorgeous, but you also might be a danger to the public if Jeremy and the other four students I've seen trip over themselves looking at you are anything to go by."

"Guys, come on," Michael groans. "The joke got old like after the first hundred times."

"Uh," Jeremy turns to the rest of the table. "What joke?"

"It's not a joke," Jake says very, very solemnly. It's almost like he's about to tell everybody a dog just died. "Michael, you're a beautiful man."

Michael slumps over the table face first like a sad slug.

"I can't believe we didn't notice," says Brooke.

"I can't believe _you_ guys didn't notice," says Christine. "Michael's always had a nice face."

Michael raises his hand to pull his hood over his head.

"Well, everybody else is noticing," says Jenna, scrolling through her phone. "Congratulations, Michael. Majority of the student body thinks you're a snack."

Michael makes a garbled noise into the table.

"Are—" Jeremy lays a hand on Michael's back. "Are you okay?"

"Only maybe not totally," Michael turns to look at Jeremy. Jeremy would think that maybe, he'd get used to seeing Michael without his glasses, but each time it happens just seems to be a good, mocking example of otherwise. "They won't ease up on this weird joke and people keep staring at me. I don't know what everybody's deal is."

Jeremy pats Michael on the back and it occurs to him that Michael is blind on so many levels. It also occurs to him that thought of other people staring at Michael is something that makes his head feel a little sour.

"It's not a joke," Jeremy says. And because he's an idiot, he follows it up with, "You're hot."

"What?" Michael blinks at Jeremy.

"I mean—" Jeremy chokes out, trying very hard to resist the urge to slam his face into the table. "I mean everybody thinks you're hot. Because you are. You're hot without your glasses. But you're still hot with them on too—Which—" Talking right now feels a lot like somebody just handed Jeremy a live fish and now it's thrashing in his grasp while he screams. "—is just a fact, you being hot, but the whole glasses thing makes it, uh, noticeable. Or something. Or, uh—"

"Uh," Michael says.

The rest of the conversation at the table actually hushed throughout Jeremy's bumbling soliloquy of despair, and he refuses to look at any of them. He just makes the arguably worst decision of keeping his eyes on Michael who doesn't have his glasses on and is looking at Jeremy like he grew a second head.

"Never mind." Jeremy's dignity past saving. He can only move on. Deep breath. The art of letting go. "Where are your glasses anyway? Did they break again?"

"No," Michael says, and his brows scrunch up. His eyes narrow. Not in the way that he's straining to see what's in front of him, but still enough to make Jeremy's breath catch. "They're at home. But I went for a checkup last weekend and doc told me to try contacts out _just once_ which meant Nanay hounded me to try it _just for one day_."

Jeremy remembers that Michael once said he'd take everybody down with him should he have to wear contacts. Of all the prophecies that could've been fulfilled, it really had to be that one, huh.

"That sucks," he says, trying hard to maintain eye contact while Michael burns a hole into Jeremy's brain with his gaze. "Quick question, why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like—" Jeremy scrambles for a word that isn't the word _intense_. "Like you're _smoldering_."

"Oh, wow," he thinks he hears Chloe say. He can't be too sure. Jeremy's too concentrated on the table and how his forehead is magnetized by it. His _soul_ wants desperately for the two to collide.

"My eyes feel weird," Michael explains, blissfully unaware. "There's a thing literally on my eyeball, Jeremy. This is the _worst_."

Jeremy can't exactly lift the supposed curse of Michael's hotness, so he just runs his hand up and down Michael's back in an attempt to soothe him.

The rest of the day goes by with Jeremy mostly on edge, wondering about how Michael's dealing with the stares and the attention. When he's walking with Michael through the halls after class, he finds himself glaring at anybody who looked at Michael for more than a few seconds, which basically meant glaring at everybody who passed by.

They hitch a ride with Brooke to Michael's place, planning on staying a few hours before walking back home. The moment they get there, Michael bounds for his room and Jeremy has the pleasure of making fake gagging noises as Michael takes his contacts out and threatens to kick Jeremy out of his house. In his blind, squinting glory, he gropes around his desk until his fingers find his glasses, and Michael sighs in relief.

"Oh god," Michael slips his glasses back on. "Much better."

"There he is," Jeremy says from where he's been sitting on the edge of Michael's bed.

"Never going to school without these things again," Michael flops backwards onto his bed, bouncing Jeremy a little bit. "One day of everybody staring at me was one day too many."

Count on Jeremy to have his insecurity crawl up on him out of nowhere. "Sorry," he says. "I kinda stared a bit earlier too."

"Nah, don't apologize man. I—" Michael pauses. "I never mind when it's you."

"Wanna watch a movie or something?" Jeremy says instead of letting himself get washed away by the thing in his chest that longs for words like that to mean something more.

"Yeah, that'd be cool," Michael sits up. He looks away for a moment, but by the time he turns to face Jeremy, he's looks fine.

And so it's just the two of them, Michael's laptop, and a movie. Everybody can stare as much as they want, but Jeremy finds deep satisfaction in knowing that only he can get this.

It's his fault really, for wanting more.

v.

For a long time, Jeremy didn't really get all the hype about prom. Back when he was a sophomore, he was vaguely aware of upperclassmen fussing about it, just like how he's vaguely aware of frogs that croak in the night. He figured it was just one night where everybody dressed up and shuffled awkwardly to music while silently hoping somebody spikes the punch. Nothing special, really.

But in the past few weeks, Jeremy starts to see the point. Rich asks him for help with a ridiculously convoluted promposal plan for Jake, one that involves various post its, rose petals, and a sign that ends with Jeremy having glitter still inexplicably on his hands after days. Jenna drags him out to the mall where she basically holds him at verbal gunpoint to give opinions on shoes she tries out and if it would look good with her dress. He'd complain, but he's watched enough America's Next Top Model to actually have some solid input. Plus, she helps him get a tie. Brooke keeps sending him selfies where she's trying out different hairdos and he heart reacts on every single one of them.

On the day itself, Michael picks him up because he doesn't have a date either and they're not each _other's_ date or anything. It's just solidarity. Friendly solidarity.

Jeremy repeats this to himself in his head the moment he sees Michael because, for a few seconds, he's breathless. Michael stands in his living room, gesturing awkwardly to Jeremy's dad talking about god knows what. Jeremy doesn't know, he doesn't have the capability to even _try_ to know when Michael is standing there in a black tux with his hair slicked back shooting a nervous smile to him over his dad's shoulder.

Turns out his dad wants pictures before they leave, and Jeremy wants to grab the camera and throw it out the window because Michael isn't his _date_ but turns out, Michael doesn't mind.

"Why not?" Michael says, his hand going for his hair before he remembers that it'd probably be waste to mess it up before he even arrived. He gestures to Jeremy instead, a broad wave to just, all of him. "I mean, you look awesome so. Y'know."

"You look great too."

"Hell fuckin' yeah I do."

"Whoops, nevermind, you look like a dork."

"No take backsies," Michael smiles slyly, weakly punching Jeremy n the shoulder. "Now let your dad take some goddamn pictures."

The pictures are ridiculous. Michael dabs in the first one and the following pictures are blurs of Jeremy trying to stop another one from happening. Dad manages to wrangle them still for one kind of decent one where they're standing and still but Michael has a peace sign up. It's still a really good picture, but looking at it makes Jeremy's heart ache.

More pictures happen the moment they meet the others at the foyer of the venue, and the night kicks off. Jeremy spends a lot of it just at the sidelines, but he's happy. Seeing Brooke and Jenna dance, seeing Christine and Rich talk about how shiny the floors are, seeing his friends have fun. He gets it now. It's the people that makes prom fun, and Jeremy's lucky to have some really great friends to make the night something to remember.

A song plays, all electric energy and flashing lights thrumming through the room. Jeremy lets Jake take him by the shoulders and push him to the dancefloor, near everybody else. Dancing never came easy to Jeremy. He's all odd angles and awkward flailing, but looking around at his friends not giving a damn, gets him moving.

It's Michael who slides up next to him, bumping his hip into Jeremy's side. He doesn't have any time to bump back in retaliation because Michael takes his hands, pulling him along. The beat thrums through Jeremy's bones right along with his heart, stuttering whenever he can hear Michael's laughs past the music or see his eyes filled with mirth looking right at him.

Then the song changes.

"Shucks," Michael says. The upbeat tunes have tapered off, something softer taking its place. "Fun time is over."

Jeremy can see a little bit of the crowd dispersing or pairing off to start swaying to the beats of the music. The mood in the air changes from electric energy to syrup-slow and heavy. From the corner of his eye, he sees Brooke loop her arms around Chloe's neck. He sees Rich and Jake at the side, taking a break from dancing, sharing smiles and words Jeremy can't hear.

"Time for the love birds to get their moment," Michael snorts, glancing at those around them. He quirks his head to the side, off the dancefloor. "Let's go? Unless you wanna slow dance, that is."

And Jeremy knows it's a joke—Michael has a grin on his face and his words are light and a little too fast—but the warmth in Jeremy's chest wants to come pouring out.

The only thing that does come out is the waver of his voice saying one word: "Sure."

"What." The smile slips off of Michael's face, but his expression isn't unkind or upset. It's just blank, on the edge of becoming something else.

"D-Dance, I mean. To this. With you." Jeremy says because honestly, what the hell. Why not?

The worst the could happen is that Michael says no. He'd laugh, maybe shove Jeremy lightly. They'd joke about it for the days to follow while Jeremy's heart twinges in his chest, something he's already used to anyway. It'd be normal, and he'd be fine. They'd all be fine. The best thing that could happen is that Michael shrugs and says yes. He'd probably babble the entire time, making light of the situation, and Jeremy would get a blissful few minutes where he could pretend. Just a few minutes where he could give himself something that wasn't real, but real enough to maybe quell the ache he feels when he sees Michael smile.

So he holds his hand out to Michael. "Only if you want to," Jeremy tacks on, just in case. "I wouldn't mind."

Then Michael's expression falters. From blank, it goes to something that Jeremy can only describe as _crushed_. His mouth is open, as if he wants to say something, but decides against it. His eyes are distraught. Betrayed.

And Jeremy has no idea what's going on.

"I have to go," Michael says, walking past Jeremy without a second glance.

The warmth in Jeremy's chest goes cold.

For a moment, all Jeremy can do is stand there, at the edge of the dance floor, to wonder just where he went wrong. Nothing adds up. Michael is his best friend, he wouldn't be upset over something like this. Unless somehow, maybe he knew what it meant. Maybe Michael figured it out, that Jeremy is lovestruck and grasping at all he can. But he wouldn't be angry, would he? The insecurity in Jeremy's mind can yell all it wants, but Jeremy knows Michael, he knows he wouldn't react like this unless Jeremy is missing something and he _is_ but he doesn't know what and—

"You know," says Chloe, now suddenly next to him, sipping at a glass of punch. Jeremy belatedly realizes that the slow song is over, a thumping beat trickling back in. "Michael's the one who needs glasses, but you're pretty blind too."

"What?" Jeremy blinks back to the present, pulling himself from his thoughts. "What does that mean?"

Chloe takes another sip and raises an eyebrow, "You have a brain, Jeremy."

"I—yes. I do have that," he says slowly. Sometimes he isn't sure about that, but that's besides the point. "I don't understand what you're saying, though."

She downs the rest of her punch like it's a shot. "I'm only doing this because I don't want this night to turn bad for anybody and at the rate it's going, it looks like you two look like you need a little push," Chloe hands Jeremy the glass, looking him square in the eye. "I want you to think really, really hard about Michael and how he acts around you."

"Wh—"

"Really hard," she says. "How he looks at you, how he talks to you, how he reacts to shit you do."

"I don't—" he says mostly on instinct, but he shuts himself up. He tries to think instead of shying away from the thoughts he locks away because it hurts a little to think to think about what he can't have. "I—" Jeremy thinks of Michael, of how he smiles but also how that smile wavers sometimes. He thinks of Michael's eyes but also how he turns away, looks elsewhere, anywhere that isn't Jeremy. He thinks of what just happened, Michael's expression shutting off, almost betrayed. He thinks of what this could all mean—and Jeremy's chest is bursting with hope, bright and tingling with possibilities—but then he thinks of what he _said_, and the chill comes back. And the pieces slot into place.

"I'm an idiot," Jeremy says.

"No you aren't," Chloe pats him on the shoulder. "But you will be if you don't find Michael right now and set everything straight."

"Thank you, Chloe, I—I've gotta go."

"That you do," she pats him on the shoulder. "Last I saw, he was headed for the bathroom. Good luck."

Jeremy practically skids out of the event hall, narrowly avoiding collision with several people on the way, detouring for just a few seconds to leave Chloe's glass in the nearest ornamental plant. He makes his way to the hallway, walking until he finds the nearest bathroom, and there, hunched over one of the fancy looking sinks, head down, is Michael.

"Michael," he says, but Michael doesn't move.

"Hey, Jer," Michael's voice is strained. Jeremy sees Michael's hand go up to rub at his face. "I'm okay. I'll be back out in a bit, I just need a few minutes."

"You're not okay. I said something wrong—"

"Don't," Michael lifts his head up. He doesn't turn to Jeremy, instead making eye contact through the mirror. There's a smile on his face, but gaze is the same one that looked at Jeremy earlier, the same one that looked like his world crumbled a bit. "It's whatever."

"Michael, just listen, I—

"No, Jeremy, it's. If you're going to apologize, I don't want to hear it. If anything, it should be me. I'm sorry I made you feel like you had to give me a pity dance. I—I'm sorry you found out, I don't know how, but I'm sorry. I—"

"_Michael,_" Jeremy strides forward, tired of hearing this.

"Jeremy," and Michael whirls around to face him. "I have feelings for you and I've had them for a long time now. That's what this is, not anything else, and I know you don't and that's fine, that's okay, but I never wanted—" He barks out a laugh that sounds like it's being pulled from his throat. "—never wanted to make you feel like you had to give me anything. I just—"

As if running out of steam, Michael's words just stop. He takes a breath, reaches up to take his glasses off and rub at his eyes. When he looks at Jeremy, bright eyes sad but understanding still, Jeremy's heart breaks.

But it doesn't have to.

Jeremy had planned a few words in his hurried escape to look for Michael, but he feels those words dry up. He doesn't know what to say, what to do, but he finds himself stepping forward anyway.

"I think I started falling for you when we were twelve," Michael looks at him, eyes wide. The sadness is draining out, replaced by shock and something that might be light. "I started then I never stopped. I just kept going. You make it really easy, y'know. With your smiles and your words and—" Jeremy brings his hand up to Michael's face, but he stops. He had no idea he was holding his breath until Michael's hand closes around his wrist, urging Jeremy to make it the rest of the way, placing his palm on Michael's cheek.

"It wasn't a pity dance I was offering. I really wanted to dance. I wanted to have something, even if it wasn't actually real." Jeremy feels lightheaded because Michael's smiling now. Every single thing that's built up after years is here, but for once, it doesn't press against his ribs. It's spilling out of him, word after word. "But it turns out I haven't been seeing some things. It turns out maybe, uh, if you want, it can be real."

"So, uh," Jeremy says, breath hitching when he feels Michael's other hand go for his waist, moving to the small of his back. "What do you say?"

Michael doesn't say a thing. He just pulls Jeremy in close. When their lips meet, Jeremy swears the world melts away around them, leaving only the two of them behind with the warmth that's been brimming for years, an answer, loud and clear.

\+ vi.

Something fishy is happening. Jeremy is usually pretty bad at picking up on subtle hints, something Michael endlessly teases him for, but Jeremy still has eyes and a couple of brain cells and he _knows._

He knows Michael is up to something.

Monday, Michael took his glasses off and placed them on his head. There it stayed for the entire lunch period as he talked and ate as usual. Tuesday, Jeremy notices that Michael's slips his glasses off a lot more often to wipe the lenses clean even though Jeremy can see they don't really need cleaning at all. Wednesday and Michael's taken to taking off his glasses while talking, gesturing with it in his hands and not on his face where it belongs. Thursday, and his glasses were seen dangling from the collar of his hoodie throughout the day.

Why Michael is doing this doesn't click for Jeremy until Friday. It's not like Michael's wearing his contacts again and whenever he takes off his glasses, he gets into a few mishaps thanks to his eyesight, so he's not benefiting from this at all. The only ones benefiting from Michael's sudden constant need to take his glasses off is everybody else with functioning eyes, but ever since Jeremy and Michael started dating, people at least have the decency not to ogle Michael while Jeremy's around. So the only one _really_ benefitting from this is Jeremy.

Jeremy thinks his boyfriend is gorgeous, sue him. This is true all the time, but a Michael without his glasses is a Michael that's just that little bit more distracting than usual. Halfway through the week, Jeremy's hands itched to put Michael's glasses back _on_ just so Jeremy could actually concentrate on being a functional human being instead of a brain dead swooning husk of who he once was.

Michael isn't insane enough to drive without his glasses, so Jeremy catches a break after school on the drive back to his place. The moment he puts the car into park though, his glasses are off again as he continues talking, completely oblivious to the fact that he's beautiful and frustrating and Jeremy honestly can't take it anymore.

In the seconds they take to get out of Michael's car and walk to Jeremy's front door, Jeremy thinks, _fuck it_.

Maybe it's the slight, smug look on Michael's face. Maybe it's the fact that sometimes, Jeremy forgets that he's this lucky, that he's actually dating Michael, that going for what he wants is an option and not just a sad thought to be locked away. Maybe it's the glasses, or maybe that's an excuse. Whatever the reason, it's got Jeremy's mind clear in what he has to do.

Jeremy practically drags Michael the rest of the way into the house, slams the door shut, pushes him against it.

"Wh—" Michael starts, and Jeremy doesn't let him finish. He's grabs Michael by the front of his hoodie and presses his lips against his.

Jeremy sees Michael's eyes flutter shut, feels Michael's hands go for his shoulders. Still riding on his burst of confidence, Jeremy licks at Michael's lips, goes in deeper when Michael's mouth parts with a gasp. The soft moan Michael makes, muffled by the kiss, by Jeremy sliding his tongue against his, is music to Jeremy's ears.

Jeremy pulls back and relishes in the sight in front of him; Michael with his face flushed, eyes half-lidded and dazed, blinking open to look at Jeremy.

"Jer—"

"Not yet done," Jeremy says, pulling Michael to the couch. He pushes him down, and before Jeremy can chicken out, straddles Michael and settles into his lap.

"Holy shit," Michael says. And that's all he gets to say because Jeremy takes Michael's stupid terrible beautiful face into his hands and starts kissing him again.

Kissing Michael is one of Jeremy's new favorite things to do. It's definitely up there along with crawling into bed after a long day and milkshakes. Kissing Michael feels like that; a relief and a treat at the same time. Every quick peck and lingering press left Jeremy wanting more, but he always reeled himself back.

At least until now.

One of Michael's hands finds its way into Jeremy's hair while the other snakes around his waist, pulling Jeremy close. Michael's body a warm, solid weight against him feels incredible. It's so much and absolutely perfect at the same time and it's all Michael. Michael's mouth yielding to his own, the little strangled noise Michael makes when Jeremy sucks on his tongue, Michael's fingers threading through his hair, Michael, Michael, _Michael_.

"So, uh," Michael says, voice awed, when Jeremy pulls away again. He leans his head against Michael's shoulder to catch his breath. "That was—wow."

"Thanks," Jeremy smiles. He leans up to press a kiss to Michael's neck, humming when the grip on his waist twitches.

"I should be thanking you, you just kissed my brains out." Michael's hand moves from his waist, slowly dragging up and down his side, turning Jeremy's brain into warm, content mush. Then it stills. "_And_ you proved this theory I've had for a bit."

"What?" The change in Michael's tone went from thoroughly kissed out to teasing. Jeremy lifts his head and sees Michael grinning at him like he's just been told something beautiful like "hey, Michael, do you want to eat the rest of my—" or "Let's go to the zoo."

"You have a thing," Michael says, gleefully. "You have a thing for when I'm not wearing my glasses."

"I—" Jeremy feels his face go hot as the entire week plays through his head. Michael taking his glasses off and immediately glancing at Jeremy, Michael taking his glasses off only when Jeremy was around, Michael _taking his glasses off and_— "It's—It's not a _thing_. I do not have a thing!"

"I'm sorry, it's too late, you've already proved it," Michael bites his lip, probably trying to stop himself from laughing. "You dug your own grave—"

"It's _not_—"

"Wait, wait, wait, I just gotta—" Michael's fishes glasses out of his hoodie pocket and slips them onto his face. Maintaining eye contact the entire time, Michael takes them off with a flourish, looking at Jeremy through his lashes. "Hey, _Jeremy_," he says, voice a low purr as he waggles an eyebrow. "I can't see shit."

"I'm breaking up with you," Jeremy groans. He puts his face into his hands and moves off of Michael's lap settling next to him instead as Michael can't keep his laughter in anymore. "I don't have a thing, you're just—"

"I'm just what?" Michael's snickering tapers off, his smug smile remaining.

"Nope, not saying it. As if you don't already know." He says petulantly. The heat in Jeremy's face starts to dissipate. It calms down and settles back into his chest, the constant warmth of home he feels when he's with Michael.

"Hey, I'm just teasing," Michael takes Jeremy's wrist, pulls it down gently so he can look at Jeremy. Jeremy wishes he could hold off for longer, but Michael's eyes are warm and fond. Glasses or not, Jeremy's always been weak for them. "I think it's cute."

"You think horseshoe crabs are cute."

"They're helmets with too many legs, of course they're cute," he says, brushing his thumb against Jeremy's pulse point. "I mean, I also think the glasses thing is pretty weird, like, I can't be that different without them on but, hey, if you're into it, I still have my contacts."

"You hate those things," Jeremy tells him. He figures that he can just tell Michael the truth anyway, since nothing can be more embarrassing than what's already happened. "And it's not the glasses, doofus. It's you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means I love you, jerk," Jeremy huffs, turning to Michael. Michael who's looking at him, still, eyes a little wide and.

Oh.

That's the first time he's said that. It's not that he's been holding off, but now that he's said it, Jeremy just wants to say it again and again. Honesty thrums in his veins and he needs Michael to know.

"I—" Jeremy reaches his hand up, taking Michael's loose grip around his wrist with him, to cup Michael's face. "I love you," he says. Jeremy uses his other hand to lift Michael's glasses up to the top of his head. "I still love you." Then he brings the glasses back down, slightly askew on Michael's expression, looking at Jeremy in a way that makes him feel like the warmth in his chest will come bleeding out like morning light. "Still love you," he says.

"You are the worst," Michael says, voice sounding a little choked. "I was supposed to make fun of your anti-glasses kink and you make me have emotions."

Jeremy snorts, but starts to pull his hand away. Something buzzes softly under his skin and he wonders if he said too much too soon.

But then Michael's grip on his wrist tightens.

"I love you too," Michael's says, turning to press a kiss to Jeremy's knuckles, another one to the back of his hand. Another one to silence the doubt. Years ago, a little flame was lit in his chest. Now, he feels like he's drowning light.

"Michael—"

"I love you even with your weird glasses thing."

Jeremy smacks Michael in the face. "Moment ruined."

"Yeah, okay, I deserved that," he laughs softly, leaning in. "But you love me."

"I _guess_."

"You dooooo," Michael leans in. His eyes are bright and his smile is soft and Jeremy can't believe he gets to have this.

"I do," he says. "Now are going to kiss me or what?"

"Bossy," Michael says, but he bridges the rest of the distance anyway. Jeremy lets his eyes shut, lets Michael kiss him, soft and sweet.

After years of friendship, it's easy to get used to some things, but Jeremy doesn't think he'll ever get used to this. He doesn't think he ever wants to. This is one surprise he'll gladly take every time it comes around.


	32. (G) STEREK - Stiles Stilinski, Boyfriend

Stiles Stilinski, Boyfriend Extraordinaire  
MereLoup

Summary:  
"Beacon County Sheriff's Department, this is deputy Mahealani speaking."

"Oh thank god!"

"Stiles?"

"I, uh, I need some advice."

"Advice?"

"Yeah. So, hypothetically, say you met your boyfriend's mother and sister for the first time ever. Completely by accident. In the grocery store. And they convinced you to help them make a dinner to surprise aforementioned boyfriend when he got home after work. What would you do?"

Danny paused, and then, "Stiles, you don't have a boyfriend."

"That's not the point! And I said hypothetically."

"Stiles...what are you doing right now?"

Stiles never imagined he'd be in Derek's kitchen cooking a surprise dinner with Derek's family while they waited for Derek to get home from work.

Partly because their visit was a complete surprise.

But mostly because Stiles didn't have a boyfriend.

Or even know who Derek was.

But he'd already come this far and Papa didn't raise no quitter!

* * *

Chapter 1

It was just after 4 in the afternoon and Stiles had _finally_ left work for the day.

Tomorrow was his first day off in almost a week and a half due to covering shifts for a flu ridden Greenberg. Stiles had been looking forward to spending the next two days lying on the couch and finally catching up on the shows on his DVR and squeezing in several much needed naps.

He had big plans.

On his way, home he had stopped by the grocery store to stock up for Greatest Day Off In The History of Days Off, and was pulled out of his deliberation between Cheetos or Doritos, when he thought he heard someone shout his name from across the store.

He looked up casually and glanced around, but didn't see anybody he recognized.

_Oooookay_. He had just turned back to the shelf when he heard it again, but closer this time.

"STILES!"

His head snapped up again and he turned around again scanning the aisle more intently. He still didn't see anyone he recognized. However, he did see a woman approaching him purposefully with a giant smile and a determined, mischievous glint in her eyes.

She locked eyes and waved at him, and he had a split second to think _Who the hell is that?_ before the woman pulled him into a firm embrace, hugging him fiercely.

"It _is_ you! I didn't think it was for sure, you had your glasses on this time, but I still couldn't believe it!" She rambled excitedly, hugging him firmer. She pulled back and looked at him, emphatic grin on her face.

Um.

"We had a connecting flight at SFO, but then it ended up getting canceled because of mechanical problems, so we thought we'd swing by and surprise you guys!"

Okay….what? _Did I miss something here?_

"Uh," Stiles chuckled nervously. "Well…consider me surprised." His voice sounded strange, even to his own ears. He didn't think he'd met her before, but she sure as hell seemed to know _him_.

Before he had time to ask where exactly it was that he knew her from, another woman rounded the corner of the aisle. When her eyes landed onto the first woman, who was still touching Stiles, she was momentarily confused. But then when her eyes landed on Stiles, Stiles could see the recognition settle onto her face and her face broke out into a smile as well.

"Oh my- Laura, you can't just pounce on him." She laughed, approaching the two. "He's going to think we're insane!"

Well, she's not wrong.

She had long, dark hair which was elegantly swept back. She walked up to Stiles and extended her hand with a warm, friendly smile.

"You must be Stiles." She had a strong resemblance to the first woman, but looked older. _Mother and daughter, maybe? _Stiles shuffled his shopping basket into his left hand and he took her extended hand, shaking it firmly.

"The one and only." he chuckled awkwardly.

Since working for the Beacon County Sheriff's Department, Stiles was used to getting waved at by people he didn't recognize, especially while in uniform. His dad had been the sheriff in Beacon Hills for nearly 30 years and a well-known face in the community. Stiles had made his own mark on the community earlier in the year when he made his debut in the local paper for his involvement in closing a huge case.

He got his face in the paper and everything.

It's not like Stiles was a local celebrity or anything, but. Yeah. He tended to get noticed from time to time. But not anything like _this_.

"I'm Talia Hale. Derek's mother." She grinned happily.

That didn't help.

"Oh?" He nodded in what he hoped was an earnest and pleasant and not at all confused manner.

Talia Hale. Derek. Derek Hale? Not ringing a bell.

She stood back and wound her arm around the other girl. "This is Laura." Laura smiled proudly while Stiles just waved limply.

It was obvious that these people knew who he was, but it wasn't until a few seconds of awkward silence had settled over the group that Stiles noticed their expectant smiles that he realized that _he _was supposed to know who they were as well.

"Of course!" _Oh my god oh my god oh my god._ "It's great to see you guys!" He smiled largely, hoping it was convincing enough.

"Talia and Laura." He repeated, shaking his head as if the realization had finally dawned on him. "Laura and Talia." His hand flailed awkwardly. "The Hales!"

He could feel the pinpricks of sweat developing on the back of his neck.

He wracked his brain, trying to scan through all the faces of people that he knew from growing up or interacted with though work, hoping that he'd remember who the hell these people were before things got even more weird.

Beacon Hills High School had a lot of substitute teachers all the time; _did she ever teach one of my classes?_

"So your flight got cancelled, huh? Man, what a bummer." He cringed internally at how lame that sounded.

"Yeah" Laura chimed in, rolling her eyes. "Our plane was having a lot of technical issues and got grounded indefinitely. They weren't able to get anything out to New York until early tomorrow morning. So," She spread her arms dramatically, "Here we are!"

"Indeed you are. Here." Stiles chuckled weakly, "You two. Laura and Talia." _Stop. Talking. Stiles!_ "This is just so…I can hardly believe it. What a surprise!" Stiles offered weakly.

_A neighbor maybe? No, someone who worked in town? Family of an old lacrosse teammate? Shit, shit,** shit!**_

Oblivious to Stiles' inner turmoil, Talia stood there with a pleasant smile on her face watching Laura and Stiles chat. Laura didn't seem to mind that Stiles was a little lacking— okay, a lot lacking— on the conversational end, and she continued right on through.

"Sorry that we're so intense right now" She laughed. "It's just that, like, Derek is _so_ private all the time we never thought we'd get to meet you!" She grinned, biting her lip excitedly. "He's _never_ introduced us to one of his boyfriends before!"

And…okay. Wait.

_Boyfriend?_

At that, Stiles' brain came to a grinding halt.

"What?" He swallowed hard.

It seemed hot all of the sudden. Was it hot in here? It was definitely hot in here.

Laura rolled her eyes and smirked deviously. "Yeah, he says that he doesn't want us to scare them off." Laura furrowed her brows, made her face look grumpier and crossed her arms over her chest, in an assumingly 'Derek-like' fashion.

"Well…" Stiles chuckled uneasily. "You know Derek!" he said a little too loudly. He swallowed again and pulled at his collar. "Always so secretive."

Stiles would definitely have remembered if he had picked up a boyfriend recently. He hadn't been in a relationship in _years_.

Hell, he hadn't even gotten any action in months. Except for this one time that he and Danny went to The Jungle and Stiles hooked up with a random guy. But making out with someone in a back alley at 3 a.m. after too many Sea Breezes next to a dumpster and a cooling puddle of someone else's vomit, before going home to jerk off is not exactly how romantic entanglements begin.

Not usually.

But that was beside the point.

Stiles knew for _sure_ that he was boyfriendless at the moment.

Talia, who had been weirdly silent since she first introduced herself, seemed to be studying Stiles. Her eyes scanned his face, looking for something and suddenly Stiles felt very self-conscious. Stiles wasn't sure if this was an 'I'm making sure this guy is good enough for my son' look, or an 'I _know_ this guy is not good enough to date my son'.

_I knew I should have changed before I left work._

Talia tilted her head to the side and smiled. _Oh god, what if she doesn't approve of me? What if she thinks I'm not good enough for Derek? _Whoever the hell he is.

Finally she spoke.

"Laura, don't overload the man," Her voice was playful and she winked at Stiles.

Laura sighed and looked back at her mother, "I'm not overloading!" She looked back over at Stiles, her expression sheepish and a faint blush on her cheeks, "Am I?"

"No! You're not!" he rushed to say. He put on his most assuring smile. "You're not overloading at all. It's great to finally meet you guys." He said in played-up excitement, looking at the two of them. "If I knew you were coming I would have planned something."

_Understatement of the year._

"Well..." Laura's eyes twinkled mischievously. "We were going to make dinner at Derek's to surprise him." She looked back at her mom and grinned before looking back at Stiles. "You can help!"

Stiles felt the heat creep up to his face and he felt like he was going to drop his basket in the middle of the aisle.

"Oh no—" He sputtered helplessly. "I don't-"

"C'mon! It'll be fun!" Laura insisted, grinning and not giving Stiles a chance to wiggle his way out of it.

Behind her, Talia laughed at the interaction between the two of them. "He'll never see it coming," she grinned.

"No, he wouldn't see it coming at all." Stiles could feel his heart beating faster and his breath picking up. _Please don't have a panic attack right now!_ "Sure that sounds great!" He conceded finally.

This was getting out of hand. Stiles needed to have a serious conversation with his brain to mouth filter.

"Let me grab something I know he'd like to eat, and I'll, uh, I'll meet you at the front?"

"Sounds good, Stiles!" Talia said gathering Laura. "We'll see you in a bit."

Stiles smiled and waited to watch them walk down the aisle and around the corner.

When they were finally out of sight, he spun around dramatically, nearly taking out a row of shelved quinoa with the corner of his shopping basket.

"Oh my god!" he whisper-shouted, running a flustered hand through his already messy hair.  
"What the hell!"

He didn't know what to do.

He could either go back and tell Laura and Talia that he wasn't who they thought he was. But that would look really weird, seeing as how he made so much of an effort to recognize them.

And there's no way they had recognized the wrong person, they knew his name and everything. Who else looks like this _and_ goes by Stiles? They obviously didn't mistake Stiles for someone else. No, they were convinced he was a friend of Derek's.

A boyfriend of Derek's.

Derek's Boyfriend.

If he told them that he wasn't Derek's Boyfriend, he doesn't know what kind of damage that would do to Derek?

Why would someone he doesn't know even pretend that he was his boyfriend? How did Derek know Stiles was gay? How did Derek even know who Stiles was?

_And who the hell is Derek anyway?!_

Maybe Derek had never dated anyone before and his family was worried that he wouldn't find anyone, so he made up an imaginary boyfriend to ease his suffering, and now by it being revealed to his family he would have to live with the embarrassment of his family knowing how pathetic he was that he'd fake a relationship and have to suffer relentless teasing, or worse, pity, and have to abandon his family forever leaving him to wander the country in shame and ridicule.

Or. Maybe Derek was a secret agent who worked with some shadowy government-esque organization, like SHIELD and this whole thing was a part of a sting operation and Stiles was being followed. Maybe Laura and Talia were sent to bring Stiles into the home office and brief him because they needed his law enforcement prowess and his top of his class at the academy evasive driving skills to solve a crime of international mystery and intrigue.

Or. Maybe they were agents, but they were actually Hydra. And the thing they were surveilling was Stiles. What if he was some sort of target and they had just marked him to be taken out by snipers!

"Oh my god." He whisper-shouted out loud. "I'm being followed by Hydra."

Stiles looked over his shoulders checking to make sure he didn't see any suspicious patrons who could double as assassins.

_Jesus Christ, Stiles, **seriously?** Get ahold of yourself. _Stiles took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"You're not being followed by Hydra," he told himself. "You're hungry, tired and reacting badly to a _very_ strange situation. Get it together."

He was in desperate need of that day off tomorrow. Surely he could pull it together for a few more hours until this all blows over. Besides, what's the worst that could happen? If this all fell apart over dinner, he could just kindly excuse himself and leave Derek to handle the fallout.

"Okay," he said aloud to the boxed organic grains that sat on the shelves. "I can handle this. I am deputy with the Beacon County Sheriff's Department. I can handle high pressure situations and I'm good at thinking on my feet. I can do this!"

The grains didn't look convinced.

Stiles turned and scurried to the end of the aisle. Ducking down behind the endcap of canned asparagus spears, he peered around to make sure the Hales were far enough away that they were out of earshot.

Laura was standing at the magazine rack, aimlessly flipping through a magazine and Talia was sitting on a bench, her brows furrowed, reading something on her phone. They were distracted enough for Stiles to put together some sort of plan.

Stiles pulled back around the aisle and reached his hand into his uniform pocket, digging around for his phone. He pulled it out and frantically dialed the station.

His foot tapped a fast-paced rhythm while he waited for someone to pick up. "C'mon, c'mon…" he muttered.

Finally, someone picked up on the other end.

"Beacon County Sheriff's Department, this is Deputy Mahealani speaking."

Stiles voice came out with a whoosh of air. "Oh thank god!"

"Stiles?"

"I need your help!" he squawked.

"Are you alright?" Danny's voice was simultaneously amused and not amused. He was really  
good at that. Like, scary good.

Stiles peered around the aisle again, to make sure Laura and Talia were sufficiently distracted. "I'm in trouble." He moved back into the aisle.

"Do you need backup?" All warmth immediately slipped out of his tone, and he was suddenly stern and all business. "Where are you?"

"No!" He said urgently.

The last thing he needed was a fleet of BCSD cars rushing up to the grocery store, sirens blazing, and calling further attention to the fact that Stiles has a tendency to get himself into wildly ridiculous situations.

He ran a hand through his hair again,"I mean... Kind of? I, uh, I need some advice."

"Advice?" And now Danny's voice was back to just _Not Amused_.

"Yeah." Stiles took a deep breath. "So,_ hypothetically_, say you met your boyfriend's mother and sister for the first time ever. Completely by accident. In the grocery store. And they convinced you to help them make a dinner to surprise aforementioned boyfriend when he got home after work. What would you do?" Stiles thought if he spoke fast enough, Danny wouldn't notice the weirdness of the question.

Danny was silent for a moment and then replied, "Okay, well, if _I_ just met my boyfriend's family for the first time and they wanted me to help them with a surprise dinner, then I would say yes. It would probably be a good opportunity to get to know them and let them know what a great boyfriend you are."

Stiles nodded.

"But, Stiles," Danny paused, and then, "You don't _have_ a boyfriend."

"That's not the_ point_." He said flustered. "And I said 'hypothetically.'"

He could practically hear Danny rolling his eyes. "Stiles, what are you _doing_?"

Okay, so Stiles was going to go through with this.

This was not how he planned on spending his evening. But he couldn't let Derek down, because of reasons.

If Derek needed him, he was there.

_(Whoever the hell Derek Hale even is.)_

"Alright. Thanks man." He said into the phone.

"Sure… uh, anything else I can help you with?" This is why Danny was Stiles' favorite.

"Yeah, actually. Can you, uh, can you not bring this call up to my dad?"

Instead of answering, Danny just started laughing. (Stiles would have taken offence to that, however this was far from the first time he'd gotten himself tangled up in some sort of strange situation and asked someone to keep it away from the sheriff.)

He didn't know what kind of situation this Derek was in, but his family seemed like perfectly lovely people and Stiles did not want to let them down.

He wanted to be the best damn boyfriend he could be and _show_ them that Derek was in good hands.

Derek deserved it.

Maybe.

_Oh hell._

* * *

Chapter 2

**First order of business: Dinner.**

Stiles wasn't much of a cook, but he did have a few recipes up his sleeve for when he needed to impress someone.

Most of his culinary expertise fell under one of two categories: Healthy Shit Dad Should Be Eating and Food That Is So Delicious It Results In Guaranteed Bedroom Activity.

And for this occasion, Stiles needed to bring out the big guns, so #FTISDIRIGBA it was!

Stiles left the aisle and set his shipping basket in one of the nearby holders, grabbing a nearby empty shopping cart instead. As he scrolled through his mental rolodex for delicious dinners, he roamed the aisles plucking things off here and there.

He wasn't sure exactly what to make, but he knew if he had a few core ingredients he could make something impressive enough to serve once Derek got home from work.

_Shit, I don't even know how long I have before Derek gets home!_

Okay, so something doesn't take too long to make, but is still equally delicious and impressive.

According to Stiles' watch, it was just after 4:17. Assuming Derek worked a 9-5 job, that gave him about an hour or so before dinner needed to be finished. Plus, he's sure it wouldn't be too big of a deal to have dinner still in the finishing stages when Derek arrived. It would give him a change to catch up with Laura and Talia, since they hadn't gotten a chance to see one another in a long time.

Oh my god.

He was _too _invested in this.

Stiles decided on skillet chicken with a creamy cilantro lime sauce. He'd made it before and had earned lots of positive feedback from his date. He could make pasta and a small side salad as well. That was simple enough to be made quickly, but also beautiful enough to garner applause.

Stiles was an awesome boyfriend.

He zipped around the aisles grabbing the herbs, broths, veggies, pasta and the chicken. For half a second he wondered if he should run home to grab a pot to cook everything in.

Surely Derek had cookware.

_Right? Probably. I mean….?_

He'd take his chances.

Stiles grabbed a bottle of wine and a few candles and made his way through the checkout.

He spotted Laura and Talia and waved at them while he stood in line. He pointed down to his cart and mouthed, "Almost ready!" grinning excitedly.

Laura looked at the items in the cart and gave an enthusiastic thumbs up while she mouthed, "Looks good!"

Stiles' gave a pleased grin and winked at them, while simultaneously finger gunning. (_ Seriously, dude? You fingergunned at your potential future in-laws?_)

He paid for the items and made his way to the front of the store. Talia put her phone back in her purse and got to her feet.

"Well, I've got everything I need here." He fished his keys out of his uniform pocket. "Did you guys take a cab here or did you rent a car?" He looked out of the giant window, but didn't see a cab idling.

"We rented a car." Talia said, pulling out the rental keys from her pocket and holding them up. The three of them exited the store and headed into the parking lot.

"It's a good thing we ran in to you, actually," Talia laughed. "We'll have to follow you to Derek's house since we don't know how to get there."

Stiles felt his stomach drop into his toes.

_Fuck._

"Oh!" _Shit._ "No problem!" _Huge problem_. "Let me load this in the car and I'll pull around to where you're parked." He forced a smile, praying to all magical things that he was believable.

Talia and Laura made their way to their own car, which happened to be on the other side of the lot from where Stiles was parked. He ducked down and began running, his shopping cart clattering loudly as he made his way to his cruiser.

Shit. Shit. **Shit!** _Okay, get it together Stilinski._

He made quick work of loading the groceries into the back before ditching the cart and jumping back inside behind the driver's seat of the car.

Stiles pulled out his phone and hit redial. He put the keys in the ignition, but didn't turn on the ignition.

"Beacon County Sheriff's Department, Deputy Mahealani speaking."

"It's me. Again. I need you. Again." Stiles buckled himself into the car a little too forcefully, pinching his hip in the buckle. "I need you to look up some information for me."

Danny sighed. "Alright, give me a second." Stiles heard the sounds of the keys clicking as Danny logged into his computer.

"Okay, what information?"

Stiles set his phone on speaker and set it in the cradle mounted onto the dashboard. Safety first!

"It's a name. Hale, Derek. Male. Lives somewhere in Beacon Hills."

He turned on the ignition and backed out of his parking space. He drove to the other side of the lot, cruising the aisle slowly.

Danny was silent for a few seconds while he typed. "I think I've got him," Stiles could hear an intake of breath. "_Woah._"

"Have you got the file pulled up?"

He spotted Talia and Laura's car and pulled up behind it waving to them, and Talia waved back from the driver's seat. He pulled the cruiser forward a bit so they could back out and begin to follow him.

"Yeah." Danny said. Stiles could hear what sounded like astonishment in his voice.

"Oh god. He's a murderer, isn't he?" He knew it! This was going to end badly. He was going to find a body at this guy's house, wasn't he.

"Yes, Stiles." Danny snarked. "He's a convicted murderer. But due to prison overcrowding, your Dad and the district attorney just agreed to slap a tracking bracelet on him and check in from time to time."

Scratch that. Danny was no longer his favorite.

"Well you don't have to be an asshole about it!" Stiles snipped.

He exited the parking lot and turned onto the main street, glancing in the rearview mirror from time to time to make sure the rental car was still behind him.

"What information did you want?" Danny was back to sounding just bored.

"First, address. I need to know where the hell I'm going." He muttered.

"Huh?"

"Nevermind, just-" Stiles was trying his best to not let the tension get the best of him. "What's Derek Hale's address?"

"4813 Meadowlark. Need the zip?"

Thank God!

"No I'm good"

Derek's house was close by. Stiles knew where that was. Generally speaking.

Last spring he had chased down a suspect who had taken to the streets after abandoning his vehicle mid-high speed chase. Stiles chased the man on foot through the backyards of the quiet neighborhood, jumped over nearly eight fences, ran through two sandboxes and one kid's wading pool, and ended up tackling the assailant in a someone's backyard.

He was the talk of the station for a few days – until something else around town happened to de-throne him. But, for a few days, he was practically John McClane. It was a small moment of glory, but _that suspect_ had been the last pieced needed for Stiles to close the case that got him in the paper.

"What else did you need?"

Right.

Danny.

Seeing as how he was having dinner with the family of a man he didn't know, it would be a good idea to get more information on him so that he could better bullshit his way through a conversation. Right?

"Age, occupation, any information you think is vital."

Danny didn't answer immediately. Stiles could feel the judgement from the other side of the phone.

"And you're _sure_ you don't need backup? Remember what your dad said about you charging in without thinking plans through."

"Danny!" Stiles didn't have the time for this right now.

"Alright! Just making sure." Danny was silent while he presumably read over his screen. "Okay, I don't see anything criminal on his adult record. He was picked up once when he was a minor for vandalism, but that's it for his official record."

Well that wouldn't help Stiles out very much.

"And on the unofficial record?" He hedged.

Stiles glanced up in the rearview mirror again. Laura and Talia were singing along to something in their own car.

Danny sighed heavily. "Stiles..."

"Please! Danny, please. I'll make it up to you I swear. I'll buy you coffee every morning for two weeks. The good stuff. From that place across town you like!" This was a serious situation. This was Defcon 5 and Stiles was _not _above begging.

He was getting closer to Derek's house, and turned off of the main road onto the smaller residential streets.

He didn't hear any movement on Danny's end.

"Fine!" Stiles said, flustered. "_Three _weeks. Just, can you—" he flailed vaguely.

Danny sighed— and Stiles didn't appreciate the _tone_ of his sigh— and then Stiles heard the furiously quick-tapping of keys and Danny grumbling under his breath.

Danny spoke quietly, trying to not draw attention to himself and his less-than-legal activities.

"Derek Alexander Hale. Current age 34, born August 8th. He attended Beacon Hills High School, did his undergrad at NYU, bachelors in History. Moved back to Cali. Masters and doctorate at Berkeley… currently teaches at Cal State Beacon Hills."

Stiles snorted. "Ambitious."

Derek Hale had a doctorate. Stiles was dating a doctor.

_Babcia will be so proud!_

"Appears he was a volunteer firefighter up until last May," Danny continued on. "He got injured trying to save someone during a fire at an orphanage."

"Seriously?!"

"The floor collapsed while he was inside."

Wow.

Spending too much time around Derek Hale could make a lesser man feel bad about himself. Good thing Stiles didn't consider himself a lesser man.

But seriously.

_Who even is Derek Hale!?_

"…Participated in charity marathons, volunteers at the Good Samaritan homeless shelter every Thanksgiving and Christmas."

As Danny rattled on and on he sounded more and more like he was swooning. Which, _not _cool. Derek was spoken for. Kind of.

"And during summers, he volunteers at the Beacon Valley animal shelter."

Oh my god. _My boyfriend is a literal saint. How did I _ever_ get so lucky to land a guy like this?_

"What?" Danny asked suddenly.

Stiles realized that he had said that last part out loud.

"Nothing," He said quickly.

He turned the car onto Derek's street and checked his rear view mirror. As expected, the Hales were right behind him.

"Hey Danny, I've got to go. Thanks for everything."

"Stiles…" Danny paused, "I don't know what you're doing, but…be careful?"

He doubted that if anything happened it would be because Derek did anything to him. The guy sounded more likely to be the one to save the day if shit went down.

"Will do. Oh and, Danny?"

Danny let out a put upon sigh. "Don't tell your father, I know."

"You're the best." Stiles grinned.

"Three weeks, Stiles. Starting_ tomorrow_!" Danny hung up and Stiles pulled up to the house, parking in the driveway.

Derek Hale lived in a moderately sized craftsman home in a quiet, picaresque neighborhood.

His yard was well-kept, trimmed to perfection, and he had beautiful flowerbeds near the front of the house. The house was friendly and inviting, and pretty much everything that Stiles would have expected after hearing what Danny had told him.

He even had an actual white picket fence.

Stiles opened the door to the cruiser and stepped out of the car.

"And the evening begins." He said, pumping himself up.

Operation: Stiles Stilinski, Boyfriend Extraordinaire was officially in full effect.

In order to let Laura and Talia inside, Stiles needed to find a way into the house. And since Stiles didn't have a key, that really only left one option: breaking and entering.

"Okay, Stilinski. Phase One: Break in to Derek Hale's house."

Which he could hardly do if Talia and Laura were standing there watching.

_Back door, maybe?_

He scanned the perimeter, making sure there weren't any neighbors about that could provide a statement saying the saw a police deputy hopping the fence into their neighbor's yard. The street was completely empty. The coast was clear.

Talia and Laura stepped out of their car and made their way up the flower lined pathway to Derek's porch. Stiles made a vague gesture over his shoulder toward the gate which led to the backyard.

"I'm just gonna pop in around back, and I'll come through the house to let you in." Stiles said.

Laura looked at Stiles, and then the house and then back at Stiles. "Why the back?"

"I, uh- I just got off from work, so I only have my work keys on me. Derek's keys are back at my place."

She nodded, accepting this answer.

"Okay, well, I'll just be right back!" he said awkwardly.

He turned away before they could say anything else and sped walked down the driveway until he reached the fence. Looking back to make sure the two women were out of sight, he hopped the fence into the back yard. His foot got caught as he was turning around, and he sort of tumbled down the other side of fence onto the grass of Derek's backyard.

"Please don't have a dog." he muttered under his breath.

From his crouched position he made a few kissy noises trying to attract the attention of any canine that might be in the backyard.

There was no snarling from an animal, so he assumed at least the coast was clear. He looked around at his surroundings, and that is when he got a much better look at the yard.

If Stiles thought Derek's front yard looked nice, the back yard looked _even more_ beautiful. It was like something out of House & Garden magazine!

There was lush greenery everywhere giving off a serene atmosphere.

Delicate flowers in lavenders, pinks, and blues, were in beds and planters all around the yard and there was an archway wrapped in ivy that sectioned off a small fenced off vegetable garden.

A brick pathway led throughout the garden and up to a pergola covered porch that had wooden deck chairs (that Stiles was pretty sure were handmade, and probably by Derek. ) and he even had a birdbath.

A birdbath!

_Who even is Derek Hale?!_

He crept along the elegant brick pathway that wound through Derek's yard and up toward the wooden deck.

The back door looked nice enough and not too difficult to get into. Using the lock picking kit that he kept in his work utility belt, he slid the metal sticks into the lock and jiggled them around. It had only been a minute or so of fumbling (and swearing under his breath) before he was able to get the door open.

**Phase Two: Enter Derek's house and pretend like you've been there before.**

"No big deal, just breaking into a stranger's home." Stiles muttered to himself, twisting the knob. He pushed the door open and slipped inside, shutting the door quietly behind him.

The backyard opened up into what looked like a family room. There was a television mounted on the wall and a large L shaped couch that looked comfy enough to get lost in, and along the wall there were tons of framed photos, artfully hung.

Stiles scanned them quickly, picking out Laura and Talia from what must have been a family reunion.

The pictures on the wall that weren't of family were all beautiful landscape shots from spots Stiles recognized around town.

There were shots from lush green hiking trails, dusty desert scenery at sunset, sunrises over the Pacific Ocean and dense fog rolling in over a mountainous landscape. They didn't look like professional photographs, but they looked damn close.

_Great so my boyfriend is apparently a talented nature photographer as well. This resume just keeps making me look like more and more of an uncultured ass._

Before he left the wall, another photo caught Stiles' attention. It wasn't the beautiful wilds of California. It was of two hairy arms— Stiles assumed they belonged to Derek— that held the cutest, furriest little kittens that Stiles had ever seen. The shirt that Arms was wearing read 'Beacon Valley Animal Shelter' and the two kittens were each wearing a bow around their neck that said "Just Adopted!"

They were rescue kittens.

Because of course they were.

He turned away from the Wall Of Make Stiles Feel Like A Failure, and power walked through the rest of the house, getting a feel for the layout.

He found the master bedroom – taking time to note how comfortable and luxurious the bed looked—a simple guest bedroom, an office, and the bathrooms. The last thing he wanted to do was come all this way only to be thwarted by accidentally sending Laura into a linen closet if she asked where the bathroom was.

It had only been about two minutes since he'd been inside, but he thought if he kept them waiting it would look suspicious.

He hurried back to the front of the house, but nearly tripped over a cat that had walked out from Derek's room. Stiles recognized it as one of the cats from the photo in Derek's family room.

Instead of moving out of the way, the cat looked up at Stiles as if he were the one in the way, and then it sat down gingerly, its tail curling around itself. It looked up at Stiles, evaluating him intently, and then meowed loudly.

"Hey, man. How's it going?" He greeted. Stiles bent over and held his fingers out for the cat to sniff. When he had passed smell inspection, he reached his hand down to look at the tag hanging down from the collar. _Erica._

"Hey, Erica. My name is Stiles. I'm your Daddy's boyfriend."

Erica meowed at him, unimpressed.

"Food. Maybe? Is that what you want?" Stiles asked scratching the fur behind her ears. "I'm sorry, I'm new to this. I'm more of a dog person."

Erica meowed again.

"It's not that I _don't_ like cats. I just have a better track record with dogs." Erica meowed again, looking bored. Can cats look bored?

"I'm not, like, prejudiced toward cats though. I'm sure if we got to hang out more I'd grow on you." He rambled.

Stiles reached down to pick her up, but Erica hissed at him. She swiped at his hand (without claws, thankfully) and Stiles put his hands up in surrender.

"Alright, so you aren't a Stilinski fan. No worries."

Stiles stepped backward, moving backward slowly so as not to appear threatening, and accidentally bumped into the bookshelf against the wall. He felt something run through his hair, and he whipped around, looking upward. Sitting up on the top of the bookshelf was a sandy, blond-ish cat a little bell on it's collar and _Isaac_ engraved on the tag, with his paw dangling down, toes flexing like he was itching to take another shot at Stiles' hair.

_Sheesh. Tough crowd._

Stiles moved away from the shelf and went into the kitchen in search of cat food. He found it in the fourth cupboard he opened, and he scooped some out into a ceramic bowl that had little fish bones painted on the inside.

"I'm assuming this is yours?" He held the bowl out toward her.

He hadn't even set it on the ground yet before Erica was meowing and winding between his feet trying to get to the bowl. Stiles managed to step away without tripping and injuring himself -or stepping on Erica- and he jogged to the front door to let Talia and Laura inside.

He rushed back to the front door, only slightly out of breath, and opened it up. Laura and Talia were talking to one another in the porch. They broke into grins when they saw Stiles at the door.

"Hey! I bet you thought I forgot about you, huh?" he chuckled awkwardly.

"Not at all." Laura laughed.

Stiles moved to the side of the door to let the two women inside of the house. He hoped they didn't notice how out of breath he was from scurrying around.

"I didn't mean to take so long, I had to feed Erica."

"That's alright." Talia shrugged out of her jacket. "We were just admiring the flower beds out front of the house!"

"Yeah," Stiles chucked, taking her coat to hang up…somewhere. He'd find a coat closet later.

"That's Derek for you. Man with the green thumb. If you think those are nice, you should see what he's done with the back yard."

Stiles lay Talia's coat over the back a chair that was situated near the door, and moved into the entry hallway to lead them further into the house.

"Well let me show you ladies around really quick, give you a quick tour of the house."

Stiles led them through the house, offering them a brief, and probably insufficiently detailed tour of the house that he had only just become comfortable with moments before. He ended the tour in front of the small guest room off of the main hallway.

"And here's your room." He opened the door, smiling nervously.

It was getting pretty close to five and he needed to get dinner started before Derek got home. And, you know, still figure out how he was going to fake a relationship this entire evening.

Talia's tilted her head in confusion and looked at Stiles. "Oh. We were going to get a hotel room for the night."

"What? No way!" Stiles balked, throwing up his hands. "You guys are never in town, Derek will be thrilled to have you guys stay with him!"

Laura and Talia looked at one another in disbelief, skepticism creasing their brows. After a moment, Laura smirked and shrugged as she looked back at Stiles.

"If you're sure…" Talia trailed off uneasily, but her eyes looked delighted at the idea. "We wouldn't want to intrude."

"If I know Derek at all, then I know he'd love you two to stay with him." Stiles said emphatically.

_Oh god._

_What if he isn't on good terms with his family?_

Of course he is! He's the kind of guy that sacrifices his well-being to save orphans from a blazing building and nurses wounded animals back to health at the shelter. Of course he loves his family and wants them to stay with him!

Talia smiled again. "Alright. I guess we should get our things out of the rental car then."

Stiles ran his hands though his hair again. "Great, and uh, I'll get the groceries from my car and start working on dinner."

While Laura and Talia gathered their bags from the trunk and headed back into the house, Stiles slumped against the side of the cruiser and reflected on all of the stupid decisions he had made in the last hour.

"Dude, what the _fuck_ are you doing?" He hissed at himself, running his hands down his face, knocking his glasses to the side. Stiles took them off, and cleaned them with the edge of his shirt.

He put his glasses back on his face and pushed off of the car to open the trunk. He collected the bags and closed the trunk only to look up at see that Derek's neighbor had just pulled into his own driveway and was looking at Stiles curiously.

The guy's eyes squinted in confusion as he looked back towards Derek's house and back at Stiles.

"Uh….hi!" Stiles smiled. "I'm Derek's boyfriend!" He offered. The guy just stared back at him, not answering.

"Family's in town. You know how it is." Stiles chuckled uneasily.

The man furrowed his brow, throwing Stiles a suspicious look, but then continued on into his house.

Stiles turned around and made his way back into the house. "Geez, what crawled up his ass."

He plopped the bags on the counter of Derek's kitchen and took a deep breath, letting it out harshly.

**Phase Three: Woo the Hypothetical-Potential-Future-In-Laws with exquisite culinary prowess and magical conversation skills.**

"You made it this far, Stilinski. Now it's time to get your head in the game and bring it home."

* * *

Chapter 3

Stiles dashed around the kitchen, frantically looking in each of the cupboards for all the appliances and dishes he'd need. In a drawer he found a folded apron that had the cartoonish body of a woman in a bikini and put it on.

While rooting around in the fridge, Stiles found a pitcher of homemade lemonade—because of course—and poured some for Laura and Talia.

He showed them outside to the beautiful back deck and told them he was going to get started on dinner. He fiddled around with Derek's sound system in the living room, turning on some relaxing music to play throughout the house, and left them to relax while he made dinner.

With them outside it would give him a little more space to freak out in peace.

Although Laura and Talia couldn't see into the kitchen through the back windows, Stiles was paranoid about looking like he wasn't familiar with Derek's kitchen.

They would think something was off if he was less than comfortable in Derek's kitchen.

….right?

Surely he and Derek were at the We're Always At Each Other's Houses level. Of course they were! That's the quickest way to make it to I Have My Own Key status.

Wait! How long have he and Derek been together?

_Oh god! _Backstory!

They needed a backstory.

Stiles thought about possible scenarios while he prepared the chicken.

"Let's see, former student who seduced his teacher?"

He couldn't do the student thing, he was too old to be a student at CSBH. Besides, Derek wouldn't break the rules like that.

_Pulled him over for speeding? _Derek wouldn't speed.

_Volunteering? _That could work, but Stiles hasn't volunteered since 8th grade, so he wouldn't be able to bullshit about any experiences.

Derek doesn't deserve a boyfriend who doesn't volunteer.

"Oh my god, he's going to leave me." he muttered frantically.

Stiles needed to up his game.

Stiles slid the pan of asparagus into the oven and checked on the pasta before he slid his phone out of his pocket and ducked behind the island in the kitchen, squatting down to hide himself in case Laura or Talia came back inside.

He hit redial once again.

"Deputy Mahealani."

"What time does Derek Hale's last class end?" he asked all in one breath.

"Stiles! Are you trying to get me fired?" He whisper-shouted. Danny had never whisper-shouted at Stiles before.

"I'm on a stakeout?" He tried pathetically.

"I thought you said you weren't working." Danny wasn't having it.

"I _never_ said I wasn't working"

"You left work." He grumbled, clearly annoyed.

"Stake outs don't happen inside of the station, Danny. Even the rookies know that."

"Then what was all that talk about cooking dinner?" There was a note of smugness in his voice. "With your boyfriend's family. Huh?"

"That was _hypothetical_." Stiles grumbled.

Danny sighed heavily and Stiles could hear the disappointment. After a few seconds, he heard Danny's furiously fast typing.

"Last class ends at 5:20" He deadpanned.

"Office hours?" Stiles squinted as he asked.

"Not today."

"Meetings?"

"None on the agenda."

"Thanks. Oh, and Danny, if you could, don't tell my-" Danny hung up before Stiles could finish.

"Well someone's getting their bribery coffee downgraded to only two weeks." He sassed.

Stiles peered up over the counter to glance out at the two Hale women on the back porch.

Talia and Laura were outside enjoying their lemonade, admiring Derek's beautiful garden, and having a conversation while cooing over Erica who was curled up on Laura's lap. _Traitor_.

He hunched back down behind the counter and dialed another number as quickly as he could.

"This is Parrish."

"Hey Jordan! I need a quick favor." All this favor asking was going to get Stiles a reputation at the station. Well, _another_ one.

"What's up, man?" Parrish asked. Stiles could hear the sounds of the patrol car cruising around.

"Are you anywhere near Cal State Beacon Hills?"

"Not at the moment. Do you need me to be?"

God bless Parrish.

"Well, yes and no. If you happen to find yourself in that area around 5:30-5:45 and see a black Camaro leaving the faculty lot, will you give me a call?"

"Yeah, sure! Plate number?" Stiles recited the license plate number Danny had given him earlier. "You got it!"

Okay. With Parrish giving Stiles a heads up when Derek was leaving, that gave him a feeling of a little more control over this situation.

Stiles stood up from behind the island, only to find Talia standing in the doorway watching him. Stiles startled, nearly dropping his phone on the tile floor.

She was standing there with her empty glass looking at Stiles curiously. "Everything alright?"

"Yeah, I was just calling a coworker of Derek's to have him text me when Derek's on his way home." Later, Stiles would have to have a talk with himself about why it was so easy for him to lie all the time. This was getting a bit concerning. "That way we have a heads up. You know, for the surprise."

"Oh, good idea!" She smiled. She looked back down at the island. "Why were you on the floor?"

"Oh! I was…." Stiles ducked back down to the island and opened the cupboards pulling out the first thing he saw. He popped back up holding the item up. "Just looking for this" he said, out of breath.

"An electric juicer?" Talia seemed confused.

Stiles looked at his hand. It was indeed the juicer.

_That explains Derek's lemonade._

Stiles just shrugged. "You never know."

She smiled, confused. "Oh, okay. Well anyway, it's a good idea to have your friend help us out."

Stiles set the juicer on the counter and went to the refrigerator. "Can I get you more lemonade?"

"Thank you." He filled her glass. "You're very considerate."

"Well I've got to make a good impression, haven't I?" He grinned winningly, winking at her.

She chuckled, batting his shoulder with her few hand. "You're sweet."

Talia moved further into the kitchen and glanced that the giant bowl of salad that Stiles was preparing. Stiles opened the fridge door to set the pitcher of lemonade back inside, so his back was to her when she asked, "Aren't you familiar with his schedule by now?"

Stiles froze, his eyes widening comically.

_She's onto me._

She seemed too curious. Granted, she was appropriately curious. But curious was not what Stiles needed right now.

"Well, you know how Der is. Always going the extra mile." He shrugged. Turning back around to smile at her.

_Der? _Was Derek a 'Der'?

Or did he have some other nickname like _Patron Saint Of Good Deeds _or _I Save Children And Animals From Perilous Situations When I'm Not Molding The Minds Of The Nation's Youth_. Or maybe Rick.

"You never know if he's going to stay late to accommodate a student who couldn't make office hours. Or something."

Talia nodded and Stiles took a sigh of relief. On the inside.

"So what's on the menu tonight?" She set her glass down and looked at the chicken in the skillet. "Do you need help with anything? We'd be glad to help out somehow."

"I've got skillet chicken with a creamy cilantro lime sauce, zucchini pasta with avocado pesto, and Mandarin orange spinach salad with teriyaki dressing." He rattled off all the dishes, aiming for casual, but secretly hoping he was blowing her away. "And right now," he said nodding toward the oven, "I've got some prosciutto wrapped asparagus cooking for an appetizer."

"Wow, Stiles! That sounds delicious! I'm impressed."

Mission accomplished.

"Oh, you know…it's nothing." Stiles blushed.

"Derek never told us what a good cook you were." She was smiling warmly and lovingly the way that only a mother can, and for a split second Stiles felt a twinge in his gut and he missed his own mother so fiercely he thought he might be sick.

"Well, to be fair, I don't whip out the big guns too often. But for an occasion like this you've got to go all out!" He swallowed thickly.

Talia laughed, "I like you."

Stiles wilted on the inside.

_I'm starting to like you too_.

He needed a change of subject.

"So tell me about Derek," he said turning back to the stove to stir the chicken. "When he was younger, I mean. No one spills the beans on all the embarrassing stories from the olden days quite like family."

"No I suppose they don't." Talia chuckled. She picked up her glass of lemonade, and moved around the other side of the counter to sit on one of the bar stools.

While the food cooked, Talia told Stiles about who Derek was when he was younger.

"Derek was always my sensitive child." She had a soft smile on her face as she talked about her son. "Very empathetic and cared so much about the people around him."

"He was always on the quieter side and a little shy, but he was a good boy and did very well at school."

Stiles hummed under his breath.

Talia's brow furrowed for a moment, "In high school he had a bit of trouble. I guess he was having a bit of a hard time socially, and he fell into a tough crowd." She fidged a bit and looked back up at Stiles "- well, I'm sure he told you about Jennifer."

Stiles nodded.

_Note to self: Jennifer Story. Find details later_.

"Well, after the fire, we moved away New York for a bit of a fresh start. No one blamed Derek, of course, but he took it so personal, and he punished himself for several years."

For some reason, it was the word 'fire' that triggered something and Stiles' mind flashed back to vandalism that Danny had mentioned earlier.

Derek **Hale**.

_The fire at the Beacon Valley Wolf Sanctuary._

Beacon Hills was a pretty low key town. They didn't have anywhere near the amount of crime that larger cities had, so when something big happened, everyone in the town knew about it.

When Stiles was younger, after his mom had passed, he didn't like being at the house alone. So, after school, he would hang out at the station while he was working.

One night when he was in 7th grade, he was doing working on his math homework at his dad's desk while he was out on patrol when he heard the dispatcher on the scanner send him to a possible B&E at the edge of town.

Hours had passed and Stiles' dad hadn't come back yet, so Mrs. McCall eventually picked him up from the station and he spent the night at Scott's. The next day when his dad was taking him to school, he told Stiles what had happened the night before.

Outside of Beacon Hills was the Beacon Valley Wolf Sanctuary, which was run by a researcher and animal rights activist Peter Hale. Wolves were rather rare in Beacon Hills and had been so for decades, but the general population in that region of northern California was suffering due to poachers and off season hunting.

Several wolves that had been saved by activist groups had been brought to Beacon Valley Wolf Sanctuary to be taken care of. The sanctuary covered the entirety of the preserve, nearly 450 acres, and had received a lot of statewide recognition for the good work it was doing to help preserve the population.

One night, a group of high school kids snuck into the sanctuary. Several of them had been smoking and drinking, and just generally making a mess out in the woods near the main road. One of the cigarette butts that hadn't been put out properly caught fire on some brush, and the flames began to spread the outer edge of the property.

Noticing the fire, the teens left the scene, jumping into their vehicles and speeding away.

All except for one.

Derek Hale.

It was he who had called 911 and told them what was happening.

Derek had managed to corral the wolves into the safety of the brick research facility on the property to keep them safe until the Fire Department showed up, and thankfully there were no casualties. When first responders arrived, they found a teary-eyed, visibly shaken Derek Hale using one of the garden hoses trying to put out as much of the fire as he could, to no avail.

While everyone made it out alive, wolves included, there was severe damage to a huge portion of the property.

Peter had arrived at the scene, wild eyed and furious with Derek. Screaming that he could have lost everything he had spent his life working for, and demanded that he be arrested.

Stiles' dad was the one who brought Derek to the station, and he waited with him until his parents had arrived.

When questioned by officers, Derek had admitted that he hadn't really wanted to go to the sanctuary that night, but his girlfriend had talked him into it. She was a part of a group of other kids from school that called themselves The Alphas, who included Ennis, Kali, Duke, and Ethan.

Because the sanctuary was run by someone in the family, Peter didn't press arson charges against Derek, but the city couldn't ignore the larger potential damage that could have been caused to the surrounding area.

Forest fires were not uncommon in that part of northern California, and if the fire had spread to Cielo National Park, whose border began at the very edge of the Beacon Valley Wolf Sanctuary, the case would have been out of the county's hands and would have been a federal matter.

Since Derek had stayed behind to accept responsibility and had actively worked to make sure all the wolves were safe and did his best to try to prevent the spreading of the fire, the city only charged with him vandalism. He received a small fine and had to complete some community service hours, but for the most part, he wasn't blamed for the events of that night.

The other students, who had abandoned the scene and already had a rather extensive record with the BHPD, several of whom had been arrested and previously charged with rather violent offenses, were sentenced more harshly and were sent to juvie.

Several weeks after the incident the town had largely moved on, and nobody really brought up Derek Hale again.

"Anyway, he had always been so closed off since the fire. He was much more reserved after that." Talia looked up at Stiles and her tone changed to something much more positive.

"Then about four months ago, just after his accident with the fire department, we noticed that he seemed happier." She smiled in confusion, thinking of the memory. "Which was strange, given the situation, but about him was more and more positive, but we didn't know why."

She looked at Stiles and grinned happily, "Then about two months ago, he spilled the beans." Talia held his gaze, grinning knowingly.

Stiles' brow furrowed in confusion before—

Oh.

_Oh!_

Stiles was The Beans.

Okay, so Derek and I met possibly around four months ago. Timeline established!

The back door opened and Laura stepped into the family room. "Hello?"

"In the kitchen!" Talia called out, leaning over in her seat to look at her daughter.

Stiles turned back around to the stove and finished up with the cooking, thinking about the conversation he had just had with Talia.

Was it weird that he was kind of starting to fall for this guy even though he didn't even know him?

Laura joined Talia at the counter, and the three of them chatted happily while Stiles darted around the kitchen preparing dinner.

Eventually, Stiles' phone started buzzing in his pocket and he quickly wiped his hands on a towel before reaching in to grab it.

It was a text message from Parrish.

**Blk Cam just left CSBH. Follow?**

Stiles typed out a quick reply: _No, you don't need to follow him. Thanks, man._

**Anytime!**

"Was that Derek's colleague?" Talia asked.

Stiles set him phone back on the counter. "Yes! He just left. So it should be about ten or fifteen minutes before Derek is here."

The two women stood up from the counter.

"We'll finish getting the table set!" Laura headed over to the dining table.

Knowing there was a timeline kicked all of them into gear and placed a certain urgency over the house. But while Talia and Laura were excited to see Derek, Stiles found that he was getting increasingly and increasingly more nervous.

Stiles rushed to the oven to take out the asparagus, burning his hand on the edge of one of the pans, and started to plate all of the food that he had made, making sure it looked as beautiful as it could. Laura and Talia set the linens and flatware and lit the candles that Stiles' had bought.

"Wine!" He said loudly looking over his shoulder, his hands busy drizzling teriyaki sauce. Laura was standing nearest him. "There's some wine on the counter, you could open that!"

Laura rushed over to the counter to get the bottle and hurried into the dining room, handing it to her mother. Talia opened the bottle and set it on the table to breathe.

Stiles could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his blood rushing through his veins. He willed his hands to stay still.

Talia appeared at his side and started carrying dishes over to the table, leaving Laura to arrange them artfully on the surface.

"This looks amazing, Stiles," Talia beamed at him. "He's going to love this."

_I am killing this surprise dinner thing!_

"We'll go wait in the living room!" she said, heading out of the kitchen.

Stiles placed the last dish on the dining room table, and headed back into the kitchen so he could calm himself down before the _real _awkward part of the evening began.

He counted to himself, trying to get his heart beat to slow, and working through breathing exercises to stave of a panic attack as the reality of all of his strange decisions began to catch up to him.

This wasn't just pretending to be someone's date while they were dancing at a club so that they could make an ex jealous. Stiles had broken into a stranger's home and asked a fellow officer to do an illegal background search so that he could lie to his family about how well he knew him.

_What the hell have I gotten myself in to?_

Erica made her way into the kitchen and looked up at Stiles and meowed.

"Thanks." He said, choosing to take her meow as encouragement. "Okay, I just have to make it through dinner, and then Derek will be home free."

Erica rubbed up against his ankle and sauntered off.

Stiles got back into action, tidying up the kitchen as quickly as he could and focusing his mind. Once everything was tidy, he joined Laura and Talia in the living room and turned the lights off to keep up the impression that no one was home. After all of this, it would suck if Derek's surprise was ruined before he even got in the damn house. Laura crouched down behind the couch, pulling at Stiles' uniform pants until he ducked down as well, Talia following suit.

It was only awkward for a little while, because minutes later they heard the deep rumble of an engine and a black Camaro pulled up to the house front of the house.

_Here we go._

His car stalled awkwardly mid turn as it reached the driveway, unable to pull in because of Stiles' car. The car backed up, and parked in front of the house, behind Talia's rental car.

"Oh my gosh, this is so exciting!" Laura squealed.

"That's one way to put it," Stiles muttered under his breath.

They heard Derek shut his car door, and they counted the seconds of silence until they heard his keys jingling on the porch. They heard the sound of the key sliding into the lock, and the turning of the latch, and then the door knob began to turn.

Derek opened the door slowly, peering his head in to scan the room while his hand fumbled for the light switch.

Finally finding it, he switched it on, and Laura and Talia popped up from their hiding places behind the couch.

"Surprise!" Talia and Laura yelled, moving forward towards him in a fit of delighted laughter.

Derek started, looking at his mother and sister for a second. "Laura? Mom?"

He hugged them back, surprised, and a smile curled onto his face…

… until his eyes landed on,

"Stiles?!" he looked straight up confused. A flush appeared high on his cheeks and his jaw dropped open in shock.

"Surprise?" Stiles offered weakly, waving a little at him.

Derek closed his mouth, swallowing thickly, and his messenger bag slid off of his shoulder and dropped to the floor.

"Oh my god," He said, eyes wide.

* * *

Chapter 4

As strange as it sounds, Stiles hadn't really given much thought to what Derek Hale looked like.

He had heard 'boyfriend' and began his rapid, chaotic descent into freaking out about how to impress the Hales, and it never even crossed what this boyfriend would even look like.

But even if he did try to imagine him, there's no way that Stiles would have even come _close _to the slice of physical perfection that walked through that front door.

'Gorgeous' was not descriptive enough to describe Derek Hale.

Derek was the **epitome **of tall, dark, and handsome. He had sculpted cheekbones which led to a chiseled jawline and a well taken care of beard that just begged you to sit on his face. Behind his thick-framed black glasses, Derek had piercing green eyes and the most luscious pair of eyebrows Stiles had ever seen.

He didn't even know eyebrows could be luscious!

Derek was only a few inches taller than Stiles and he walked with a cane, favoring his left leg a little as he moved. He wore gray slacks, and a white button down shirt beneath a burgundy cardigan that complimented his skin tone _perfectly_ His first few shirt buttons were undone, and Stiles could see the faint curls of chest hair peeking out from under his shirt.

_Who even is Derek Hale?!_

Derek Hale was like a real life version of every single cover of every single smutty romance novel come to life. Or some kind of Porno Disney Prince sent to make everyone's erotic fantasies become a reality.

Stiles hadn't needed to put this much effort into not popping a random boner since high school.

It wasn't until Stiles had taken in all the physical perfection that was Derek Hale, that he realized he was still wearing the cartoon-bikini apron that he had put on earlier. He ripped the apron off of his body ungracefully and tossed it onto the couch behind him.

Laura and Talia untangled themselves from Derek and stood back to let him properly step inside of the house. Derek moved into the room and shut the door behind him, eyes never leaving Stiles'. He picked up his bag from the floor and carried it into the room and set it on a chair.

"What are you guys doing here?" He asked finally dragging his eyes away from Stiles to look at his mother and sister.

Laura was the first one to start talking. "Our flight got rescheduled to tomorrow, so we thought we'd surprise you." She looked back to Stiles, "We ran into Stiles in the grocery store and convinced him to help us surprise you!"

She was so wrapped up in her excited retelling of the day's events that she didn't notice that all of the color had drained from Derek's face.

He looked like he wanted to scream.

Or cry.

Or throw up.

Or some combination of the three.

"Oh my god." Derek repeated. His panic filled gaze landed on Stiles a second time. Stiles gave a nervous wave.

"Welcome home….dear." he offered weakly.

Talia laughed and looked back at Stiles "Derek, you never told us your boyfriend was such a cutie!"

"Oh my god!" Derek was raising his voice, his voice taking on a frantic edge.

"Uh, I'm going to go check on the dessert. Excuse me." Stiles grabbed the apron from the couch and backed out of the living room, hurriedly making his way to the kitchen.

Behind him he heard the voices of Talia and Laura as they recapped their day more thoroughly from start to finish.

Stiles went back to his deep breathing exercises while folding up the apron and tucking it back inside the drawer.

_My boyfriend is a Greek statue who came to life and then got lost in a GQ photoshoot on his way home._

Stiles ran his hand through his hair nervously. He bent to peek at his reflection in the microwave door, trying to tame it from all the abuse it has suffered in the last few hours.

He didn't think he looked too bad. Although standing next to Porno Disney Prince, by comparison he couldn't possibly look that great either. But, you know, he looked pretty alright.

_Pretty alright?_

This evening was going to hell in a handbasket.

After a few moments, he heard Derek excuse himself from his mother and his sister and make his way into the kitchen. Stiles could hear his footsteps and the tap of his cane on the wooden floor as he came closer to the kitchen.

"Let me just say hello to Stiles really quick and I'll be there in a minute! You guys go ahead and sit down." he shouted over his shoulder.

Stiles looked up from where he was standing, wringing his hands nervously, and was met with a very mortified Derek Hale standing there biting his lip.

Derek opened his mouth before closing it again and shaking his head, exhaling in defeat.

"I'm so _embarrassed_." He said exasperatedly, furrowing his eyebrows. He looked up at Stiles. "I am _so_ sorry."

That was not exactly what Stiles had expected. For Mr. Hottest Mother Fucker In America And Possibly The Western Hemisphere to apologize to _him_. The guy who had just broken into his house. Derek was worried about Stiles' feelings?

No. Just, no. How was this even fair?

"Really, you don't have to apologize." Stiles said waving his hand to cut Derek off. He actually managed to sound much more laid back than he actually felt inside.

"I don't even know where to _begin _to explain." Derek shook his head and cringed. "You must think-"

"Hey," Stiles interrupted, moving forward to place his hand gently on Derek's arm. "Look, we've got guests to entertain tonight, huh? We can talk about it later. So for now, let's pull ourselves together and go out there and fake the best damn relationship that anyone has ever seen, huh?"

Stiles smiled what he hoped was his most winning smile, and Derek immediately relaxed returning a smile of his own.

Derek nodded to himself, and took a breath to center himself. "You're right."

Stiles turned around and grabbed the large serving spoon that was on the counter.

"Here, carry this," Stiles handed the spoon and grabbed a four wine glasses from the cupboard. "Our dinner is getting cold."

They walked into the dining room, where Laura and Talia smiled at the two of them. Derek and Stiles looked at each other one more time, before heading to the table.

"Phase Three: Wow the fuck out of Derek's Family" He said under his breath. Then, turning on a winning smile, he began serving food while Derek poured them each a glass of wine.

Dinner went fantastically.

Stiles was funny. Like, funnier than usual.

He told anecdotes from work and recounted adolescent shenanigans that he and Scott got tangled up in during high school. Laura and Talia laughed along and offered up more stories about Derek in his youth, much to Derek's displeasure, and overall everyone seemed to enjoy the light-hearted cheerful atmosphere.

The weirdness of this entire situation magically seemed to dissolve immediately, and Stiles went from being paranoid about being convincing, to actually managing to have a great time.

Stiles knew there wasn't an award ceremony for this kind of thing. But if there was, he'd definitely go home with the _Most Convincing Fake Boyfriend of the Year_ award.

Stiles kept his arm loosely draped around the back of Derek's chair while they ate, reaching his hand up every now and then to play with the hair at the base of his neck. He made up romantic little anecdotes about the beginning stages of their relationship and waxed poetic about how special Derek was, earning blushes from Derek, and "aww!'s and "so cute!"s from Laura and Talia.

He used enough pet names to be endearing, but no too many to be nauseating. He touched Derek just enough to insinuate he couldn't get enough, but no so much that it looked vulgar.

Stiles was rocking this boyfriend thing.

He'd never really done undercover work as a deputy, but he thought this might be the experience that has him taking up any offers that might come his way. Not that they really got many that required him to be a boyfriend.

But, you know. If they did. Stiles would rock that shit.

They finished eating dinner and Talia and Laura offered to do dishes since Stiles made all the food and Derek was probably tired from work.

Talia pulled Laura into the kitchen with a wink in Stiles' direction, and it was then that he realized that she was trying to give them some alone time.

_Alone Time._

Derek, who hadn't missed the wink, stood up smiled awkwardly at Talia.

"Mom, if you'll excuse us, I just want to talk to Stiles really fast in my room?"

"Sure honey," She smiled mischievously while Laura pulled a horrified face.

Stiles set his napkin on the table and stood up from his seat. Derek tilted his head in the direction of his room, and Stiles followed Derek out of the room.

They walked down the hallway into his bedroom –_ Dear God he hoped this would not be the last time he took this trip_—and Derek shut the door behind him. The tenseness from Derek's shoulders returned, and he looked nervous.

"I think I owe you an explanation."

Stiles sat down on the edge of the bed—which of course was fluffy and comfortable and perfect- and waited for Derek to speak.

Derek reached up to scratch the back of his neck while the hand on his cane clinched and unclenched in obvious nervousness. Stiles could practically _see_ Derek's thoughts racing and he wanted to take some of the pressure off the situation.

"Look dude, no matter what it is you have to say, just keep in mind that _I'm_ the one who broke into _your_ house and made your sister and mom dinner. So no matter how awkward you feel, just imagine how _I_ feel right now."

Derek chuckled, his eyes crinkling as he smiled.

After a few more seconds, Stiles decided to help him out a little.

"So, uh, not that this evening hasn't been wonderful so far, but… why does your family think we're dating?"

Derek let out resigned—and thoroughly embarrassed—breath, and moved toward the bed to sit next to Stiles. (Stiles almost started crying at how _glorious_ his cologne smelled.) Derek rested his cane against the side of the bed, and massaged his knee a bit.

"Well, it all started earlier this year." He finally began, folding his hands and resting them on his lap. "I'm a professor at Cal State, and after last fall semester, I went on sabbatical so that I could finish a book I'm writing. Since I had more free time, I picked up a few more shifts volunteering with the fire department."

Stiles nodded to show that he was listening.

"There was a call to the kids home, and it was pretty bad." He let out a breath. "Most of the kids had made it out safely, but there was a little boy on one of the floors that no one could find. He's hearing impaired, and even though we were calling his name as loudly as we could, he wasn't able to hear us."

Derek paused his hands wringing his lap. Stiles reached down and softly put his hand over Derek's, cupping them supportively. Derek looked up at Stiles briefly and gave him a shy, thankful smile.

"My commander told us that the floors were no longer secure, and we were ordered to stay out, but I just couldn't let—" he paused, shaking his head and looking down. "I went back in. Against orders. And by sheer chance, I came across the little guy on the third floor, and had just enough time to grab him and turn back and make my way out. The second floor collapsed as I was on the stairs, and I got trapped beneath a beam."

He cleared his throat for a moment.

"Others could see us from in front of the house, and they came in to grab the boy and help free me. I was taken to the hospital in pretty bad condition. _Alive_, but in pretty rough shape."

Derek slid his hand down to his left knee.

"I was in the hospital for weeks. Between the knee, which needed several surgeries, and severe smoke inhalation, I was in kind of a dark place."

Stiles heart ached for Derek, who had suffered through not just one, but _two_ traumatic fire-related incidents in his life.

"Because I disobeyed direct orders by my superior, I was let go from the volunteer fire group." He shrugged softly. "I absolutely understand the reason. I could have been killed, and they can't have people disobeying orders in times of crisis like that. I don't have any hard feelings toward them, and the guys and I still talk. But, y'know."

"It still stings." Stiles said softly.

Derek nodded. "Yeah."

Derek looked up at Stiles again. The room was dim, the last rays of the descending sun spilling through the blinds, and the soft quiet of a summer afternoon drenched the room in a silent intimacy.

In the distance, Stiles could hear Talia and Laura in the kitchen, and the sounds of a jingly collar and the pitter-patter of little cat feet playing around with something in the hallway, but Stiles felt as though he and Derek were the only one in the entire house.

It was nice, and it felt magical in a way that Stiles hadn't experienced before with someone else.

Derek blushed and bit his lip, continuing with his explanation.

"Anyway, I spent a lot of time in the hospital feeling sorry for myself. My family lives mostly on the east coast and I didn't get many visitors. But every day without fail, I did get _one _visitor." He looked up at Stiles again. "Sheriff Stilinski."

"My dad?" he asked incredulously.

Derek nodded, smiling to himself.

"I couldn't really talk the first week that I was there because of the sore throat from the smoke inhalation, but your dad came just to keep me company. He would sit by my bed and talk and talk and talk, for hours. Making sure I wasn't alone, making sure that I knew that someone was there for me."

Stiles thought back, and he could remember his dad mentioning he had somewhere to be after his shifts, but Stiles always assumed it was to spend time with Melissa.

"He said he heard the story of what I'd done from one of the EMTs, and that he was very proud of the bravery I'd shown." Derek shook his head and looked back at Stiles. " I don't know if you remember, but several years ago there was at the wolf sanctuary?"

Stiles nodded. "I remember."

"Your dad drove me to the station and waited with me until my parents got there." Derek shook his head, recalling the obviously upsetting memory. "My uncle was livid with me, understandably. The people who I thought were my friends had all abandoned me the second that things got really scary, and…" He trailed off.

"I know that the fire was practically my fault anyway since I'm the one who told them how to get into the sanctuary in the first place, but I was just _so _scared and sick with all of the 'what-ifs' and your dad stayed with me the whole time and made sure I didn't have to be alone."

That's one of the reasons Stiles loved his father so much. There is just something about the man that oozes understanding and support and You're Not Alone. In that moment, Stiles was so proud of his father for being who he was and for being with Derek for two horrible moments in his life.

"It meant a lot that he sat with me in the hospital too, and here he was telling me how proud of me he was. And it just-" Derek shrugged and smiled a small, shy smile. "It just felt good to hear it from him."

Stiles hummed in confirmation.

"Anyway, after a day or so, he ran out of things to say," Derek smiled. Stiles laughed, because, yeah, that sounded _exactly _like his dad too.

Stiles' dad was a man of few interests, and a running joke in the Stilinski-McCall household was that Stiles did _not_ inherit his loquaciousness from his dad's side of the family.

"I guess he doesn't really have that much time to gather stories to tell bedridden ex-volunteer fire fighters, so he told me about you."

"Oh god." Stiles cringed. Derek chuckled.

"He talked about you growing up, about some of the weird trouble you got into in high school, all the situations that nearly got _him_ in trouble. He told me about some of the weird papers you'd write for a class."

Stiles wanted to die. He half wondered if he could sneak out of the window while Derek was talking and drive off into the night, never to be seen again.

"But mostly he just told me about how proud he was of you for the man you'd become, and how brave you were, and how much he loved you."

"Dad!" Stiles whined, burying his face in his hands.

"You sounded really interesting!" Derek laughed, bumping his shoulder against Stiles,' "And I always thought it'd be nice to meet you. And your dad mentioned that you were gay,"

"This is it," Stiles said from in between his palms. "This is how I die. I can feel it."

Derek tilted his head back and laughed loudly.

"For a while my family had been pestering me about my dating life, and I mentioned that I was seeing someone just to get them out of my hair. One night, while I was on the phone with mom, I was looking through the paper and I saw your picture for that guy you caught." Derek blushed again and brought a hand up to adjust his glasses. "I mentioned that I _was_ dating someone, thank you very much, and I had to go because we were going out to dinner to celebrate your closing a huge case and making it on the front page of The Beacon."

"I take it they looked me up?" Stiles sat back up and glanced at Derek, raising an eyebrow.

Derek smiled embarrassedly, his eyebrows rising in defense, "I didn't think she'd actually look you up!"

"Your boyfriend is a hero of the community; of course she looked me up!" He blurted dramatically. "I'm fascinating!"

Derek laughed again, and Stiles was beginning to think that that sound was the thing that hopes and dreams were made of.

"Thank you for what you did out there." Derek said, tilting his head in the direction of the kitchen.

Stiles winked at him, enjoying the way the tips of Derek's ears reddened bashfully.

"Of course, man. I wouldn't leave you hanging."

This whole evening was a complete fluke, a complete statistical improbability, and such a _giant fucking coincidence_ and Stiles wasn't really the type to believe in destiny or the universe intervening, but….c'mon!

There was no way he could leave here tonight and _not_ see where this thing went. There were some serious vibes going on between them. Plus, Derek's family loved him too!

Eventually they made their way out of the bedroom and joined Derek's mom and sister.

They all sat on the back porch chatting, and Derek served them homemade ice cream (_who the hell even makes homemade ice cream? Seriously, Derek, you're putting the rest of us to shame!_) and before Stiles knew it, it was almost 9:30.

"I should probably head out," he said rising from the deck chair, holding his empty ice cream bowl in his hands.

Talia looked down at her watch. Derek looked briefly at Stiles and Stiles could have sworn that he looked disappointed.

"Sorry we interrupted your evening," Laura said, eyeing the two apologetically.

"No, it's no problem!" Stiles smiled, "It was really great to meet you two."

With one last bit of courage left over from an afternoon of bad decisions, Stiles used his last bit of bravery to look at Derek and ask: "Besides, if you're not doing anything Saturday night, _darling_, maybe you'd like to get dinner. You know, for date night."

Derek blushed so prettily and bit his lip. "Yeah." He swallowed thickly. "Dinner would be great."

"Awesome." Stiles smiled so wide he thought he was going to strain a muscle. "It's a date." He winked.

"It was wonderful meeting you, Stiles sweetheart." Talia rose from her chair and wrapped Stiles in a warm hug.

"Yeah!" Laura said, leaning around her mom to smile at Stiles. "Welcome to the family."

"Take care of our Derek." Talia said, leaning in to place a kiss on Stiles' forehead.

"Mom!" Derek let out a pained groan of embarrassment.

"I expect to see you at Christmas this year!" Laura said to Stiles, but she gave Derek a pointed look afterward.

Stiles laughed. "We'll see." He untangled himself from Talia. "You know how things at the station are. There's no guarantee I'll be able to get the time off."

Stiles was finally able to make his exit, and head toward the front door.

Derek excused himself from his mom and sister, and walked Stiles out front to his car.

Stiles unlocked the cruiser, but just juggled his keys in his hand before he turned back to face Derek.

Derek smiled at him, his eyes darting down to Stiles' lips momentarily. "Stiles, thank you again for all that you did earlier." In the stillness of the night, Derek's voice felt much more private and sensual, and it was giving Stiles some seriously dirty thoughts.

"Derek, I meant it when I said it was no big deal." Stiles reached out and took Derek's free hand in his. "I also meant it when I asked you out. Just to be clear."

Derek chuckled softly, a blush rising to his cheeks. "And I was serious when I said yes. Just to be clear."

"And, hey, bonus; we won't have the whole meeting the parent's thing hanging over our heads!" Stiles shook his fists in a fake cheer, "Yipee!"

Derek's eyes lit up as he laughed. "I guess we won't."

Stiles shoved his keys in his pocket and stepped forward so that he could take Derek's face in his hands. Derek stilled, and his eyes darted down to Stiles' lips again. He leaned in toward Stiles, closing a little more of the gap between them.

"Can I kiss you?" Stiles' voice was barely above a whisper, but in the stillness of the night, Derek was able to hear him perfectly.

"Yes." Derek breathed in a whisper of his own. He licked his bottom lip and gently leaned in the rest of the way toward Stiles.

And. This. _This_ was Stiles' favorite part about the whole day.

Hell, it was his favorite part about his entire year.

They continued kissing for a few minutes before behind them they heard,

"Oh shit, mom, they're going at it in the front yard!"

followed by,

"Laura! Give them some privacy!"

Derek and Stiles broke apart, Stiles laughing, Derek sighing in exasperation and flipping the bird to the general direction of the house.

They moved away from each other and Stiles pulled his keys back out of his pocket.

"See you this weekend Derek." Stiles smiled, getting in the cruiser. "Pick you up at seven?"

Derek nodded, smiling brightly. "Seven is perfect."

Stiles started the cruiser and backed out of Derek Hales driveway, and off into the night.

And yeah, it was official.

Stiles Stilinski was **the **boyfriend extraordinaire.

-fin-


	33. (T) KLANCE - You Never Stood a Chance by

you never stood a chance  
kagshina

Summary:  
lance to hunk

i'm gonna fukin die hunk oh mygod i sent

keith a work out selfie that i wan supposed to fcukin send to you and you know what it said

"BET YOU WANNA LICK THESE NIPS"

HUNK I WILL NEVE BE ABLE TO FCE HIM AGAIN I WANT TO DI E

(Or, Keith is beautiful, Lance has a crush, and there's lots of shirtless selfies)

* * *

Lance stares down at the snapchat, panicking. _Oh god, shit, holy mother fucking crow_. He'd just sent a shirtless gym selfie to Keith, someone he barely knew, with the caption 'bet you wanna lick these nips.'

That was supposed to go to Hunk! Hunk would have laughed and wrote back something like 'sure buddy,' used to Lance's slightly inappropriate snapchats by now. Lance likes to think he has a nice body, it's definitely gotten nicer in the six months he's been going to the gym. He likes taking pictures, why wouldn't he? And he likes sending them to his best friend, who gives him the praise he's looking for. (Bless Hunk and his never ending compliments.)

What he doesn't like is accidentally sending suggestive snapchats to Keith fucking Kogane, who he's had a grand total of four conversations with, one of those conversations happening last night over snapchat, Keith having asked Lance what the reading assignment was for their Writing 121 class.

That's how this happened! It was all Keith's fault. If Keith wouldn't have snapchatted him last night, then his name wouldn't have been in the "friends" section and seriously, why did snapchat think they were friends after sending a grand total of five snapchats to each other? _Come on Snapchat!_ So this was Keith's fault and it was Snapchat's fault. Lance couldn't be blamed.

Lance swipes Hunk's snapchat name to the right, frantically typing out a message to inform Hunk of his impending doom.

**lance** _to hunk _  
i'm gonna fukin die hunk oh mygod i sent  
keith a work out selfie that i wan supposed to fcukin send to you and you know what it said  
"BET YOU WANNA LICK THESE NIPS"  
HUNK I WILL NEVE BE ABLE TO FCE HIM AGAIN I WANT TO DI E

_hunk __ is typing__…_

**hunk **  
did you tell him you sent it on accident?

**lance** _to hunk _  
FUCK NO I DIDNT IH NY GOD

Lance leaves his conversation with Hunk in a rush, ready to send an apology snapchat to Keith reading something like 'hey haha funny story i didn't mean to send you a shirtless pic! and i don't actually think u wanna lick these nips! that was for hunk please pretend it never happened!' but then he sees that the snapchat was already opened, and _oh dear god_.

_snapchat from keith_kogane_

Well, Lance thinks he's lived a good life. He didn't expect to die at the young age of nineteen, but alas, here he is, dying shirtless in the middle of a fucking gym because snapchat had decided to put Keith's name under the goddamn best friend section. He sucks in a breath, accepts that this is the end, and opens the snapchat.

**keith_kogane**  
_(Keith with his lips pressed together and pulled up in a small smile, forehead crinkled and eyebrows raised with his hair up)_  
lol

Lance stares at the snapchat for the full ten seconds it's there, and then it disappears and he blinks, trying to understand what the hell just happened. He's still alive, still breathing.

_Lol_. What does that even mean?! And okay, what the hell is with that hair? And _fuck_, the selfie in general? Keith never striked Lance as a selfie person, not that Lance had really thought about it much, but damn, even Lance couldn't deny that the guy could take a good selfie! He looked… fuck, he looked _good_.

Lance groans, causing a few people in the gym to look his way. Right, shit, he isn't alone. He ignores their glances and types out a message to Keith.

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
so i'm sorry about that last snap! that was supposed to go to a friend and i clicked your name instead  
if we could just pretend it never happened that would be pretty neat

_keith_kogane is typing_...

Come on, fucking Keith Kogane, type faster! Lance is in the middle of a _crisis_.

**keith_kogane**  
don't worry about it

_Oh thank god_. Lance lets out a breath, thankful that the world has decided not to end him on this fateful day. Lance's legacy continues!

_keith_kogane is typing_...

_What?_ Oh come on! Lance resists the urge to groan again, not wanting the extra attention right now. They don't need to witness his misery.

**keith_kogane**  
is that the gym on 5th street?

Wow, okay, that's definitely not what Lance had been expecting, but that's a good thing… he thinks.

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
yeah

**keith_kogane**  
oh cool i usually go there in the mornings

Lance stares at the words, no idea how he's supposed to respond to that. Keith goes to the gym! Cool! No surprise there! He probably bench presses way more than Lance. Shit, maybe he should start going to the gym everyday instead of a few times a week.

Lance types out a few thumbs up emojis and sends them to Keith, putting an end to this embarrassing experience.

Lance drops his head onto the counter, regretting staying up until three in the morning last night when he knew he had an 8 hour shift starting at seven in the goddamn morning. He wants to sleep, to curl up under his warm, warm blankets and spend his Sunday dreaming until two in the afternoon. What he doesn't want is to be working, especially this early, but Lance can't afford to be picky when it comes to jobs. He needs the money.

He has to make it through five whole hours before Hunk will come in, like he does every Sunday at noon, to buy coffee and save him from relentless boredom. And _okay_, it's not like his job is bad, it's actually pretty nice when he's not exhausted, but today isn't one of those days.

He hears the bell of the coffee shop door and forces himself up, smiling at the customer like he isn't currently dead inside. He's perfected the Lance McClain charm even in this state of exhaustion. It's one of his many talents.

People flow in and out in a busy stream, and Lance finds himself thankful because at least now he's not at such a high risk of falling asleep on the job. Allura would kill him if he ever did that (again). It's not until nine that he finally gets a moment to stand and do nothing, and he uses that time to check his phone, not really expecting anything, but his eyes widen the second he sees his lockscreen.

_snapchat from keith_kogane_

Why is Keith snapchatting him?! Maybe he has another question about their class? Lance opens the snap with a sort of urgency, and then he wishes he hadn't because holy fucking shit it's a picture of Keith at the gym, the same gym Lance had been at just a couple days ago, and he's not wearing a shirt and holy moly hell he looks _good_.

Lance nearly screenshots the snap before realizing that _no_, that is a very bad idea, that it is not acceptable to screenshot your classmate's shirtless selfie when you've barely interacted with them!

Lance glances around the shop, hoping that someone walks up to him in that moment so he'll have an excuse not to send a snap back, but nope, of course everyone is fine on their own when he needs them most. He lets out a small, distressed sigh before taking a picture to send back.

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
_(Lance making a tired face next to the coffee machine)_  
save me from this misery

**keith_kogane**  
_(Keith standing in front of a mirror with a black t-shirt and wet hair, his face expressionless and half covered by his phone)_  
work?

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
_(Lance with his elbow on the counter, cheek resting in his hand, side eyeing)_  
i prefer to call it hell

**keith_kogane**  
_(Keith smiling with a sympathetic expression)_  
that bad?

Lance shakes his head when the snap disappears. _Dear lord this boy is pretty_. The urge to screenshot his selfies remains strong, but Lance resists.

He's holding his phone out in front of him, about to take a picture when he hears someone clear their throat. He looks up to see a middle aged woman standing at the counter, looking incredibly impatient. He hurries to shove his phone away, offering her an apologetic smile as he takes her order.

Lance is staring up at his ceiling, or more like glaring, and he thinks if he has to do a second more of homework tonight, he'll fling himself into some black hole that'll take him far, far away from the stress that is college.

He rolls over on his side, shoving the books and papers away from him. He doesn't want to look at them, doesn't want to think about them. His brain is fried, he's tired, and his head hurts. Lance makes a pathetic whimpering sound, turning over so he can ignore the work he still has to do. It can wait until tomorrow.

Lance grabs his phone, scrolls through social media, opens snapchat, and decides that life is fucking short so he might as well snapchat Keith, who'd looked annoyingly cute in their Writing 121 class this morning. Stupid Keith and his selfies. Lance had never gotten distracted looking at Keith before, but now he doesn't want to tear his eyes away! What an unfortunate situation.

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
_(Lance with his head on his pillow, a hand thrown over his forehead, looking exhausted)_  
dropping out of college rip lance mcclain

**keith_kogane**  
_(Keith wears a stern expression, his hair a mess)_  
go to sleep

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
_(Lance sticks his tongue out)_  
_u can't tell me what to do_

**keith_kogane**  
_(Keith's face is barely visible, mostly everything is black)_  
oh well i just did

_keith_kogane is typing_

**keith_kogane**  
i'm going to sleep  
you should too

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
WELL i guess since u asked so nicely  
night

**keith_kogane**  
goodnight

Lance lets out a sigh, leaning over his bed to pick up his charger from the ground. He plugs his phone in and decides to listen to Keith, dumb Keith and his cute dumb face.

Lances wakes up the next morning to the sound of his ten o'clock alarm going off, and when he grabs his phone to turn it off, he sees that Keith sent him a snapchat. _At seven in the morning_.

**keith_kogane**  
_(Keith wears a black tank top with grey joggers, standing in front of the gym mirror)_

Lance falls to his back on his bed, arms spread out. It's too early to deal with Keith and his gym selfies, _not that he wants them to stop_. Oh, he definitely wants them to continue, even if they make Lance feel a little pathetic compared to Keith. The dude is working out at seven in the fucking morning every day and Lance can't even drag his ass out of bed until ten, and that in itself is quite the task.

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
_(Lance with his face shoved into his pillow, eyes closed)_  
why the fuck were u awake at 7am do u hate urself

**keith_kogane**  
_(Keith's lips pulled up in an amused smile)_  
it's the best time to work out

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
_(Lance with his head still shoved in his pillow)_  
ur crazy

Lance forces his body out of bed, making his way to the shower. The water runs hot down his body, slowly pulling the sleep from him. Ten minutes later he's standing in front of the half fogged up mirror, looking at his chest and the abs that he barely has. It's quite the improvement from high school and he's proud of himself! Yeah, his body might not look as great as Keith's but Lance still thinks he has a nice body.

He grins at himself in the mirror, holding up his phone. Shirtless selfies seem to be an acceptable thing between Keith and him.

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
_(Lance shirtless in front of the mirror, the tip of his boxers barely visible, his hair wet)_  
i can look good without going to the gym everyday

**keith_kogane**  
_(A cup of coffee)_  
you look good

**keith_kogane**  
_(Keith's shoulders lifted in a small shrug, smiling innocently)_  
but you could look better

Lance huffs loudly, eyes widening at the snaps. Keith said he looked good! But Keith also said he could look better. It isn't exactly an insult, but it feels like a challenge, and Lance never turns down a challenge. _He'll show Keith just how good he can look_.

"Hey Hunk, get in this picture with me," Lance requests, the two of them sprawled out all over their living room floor, papers everywhere.

"You're supposed to be studying, Lance, not taking selfies," Hunk says, but he scooches towards Lance anyway, smiling at the camera.

Lance taps on the screen, making the filters appear at the bottom. He scrolls through them to the flower crown filter, and Hunk spares him an amused but also fond look before turning his attention back to the camera.

"We're so cute," Lance says with a grin as Hunk moves back to his homework.

"Who are you sending that to?" Hunk asks while Lance writes a caption.

"Keith," Lance replies without thinking, and then he pauses, meeting Hunk's gaze.

Hunk raises an eyebrow, "The Keith that you… accidentally sent that one snapchat to?"

Lance nods, keeping his expression nonchalant. "Yeah, we snapchat now," he shrugs, ignoring Hunk's questioning looks.

Lance knows that if he starts talking about the whole "casual snapchatting with the cute guy he barely knows" situation, he'll let the small fact slip that he's kind of, maybe, just a little, developing a crush on the guy. It's not Lance's fault! Keith is _pretty_, and he has nice eyes, and he's not entirely bad to talk to.

Hunk doesn't press the matter, turning his attention back to his homework, and Lance sends the snap.

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
_(Lance and Hunk smiling with flower crowns)_  
we're dying bc homework

**keith_kogane**  
_(Keith with his hair up, the light making his eyes shine)_  
cute

Okay, _okay_, holy mother of flip. In a moment of weakness, Lance screenshots the picture, and as much as he wants to regret it he can't because Keith is so goddamn pretty and oh! Then there's the fact that he just called Lance cute. And Hunk, too, of course.

Lance resists the urge to snapchat back and grabs his computer from next to him. He has an essay to write, pretty boy will have to wait until later.

Lance rubs at his tired eyes, and then he stares at the paper he's just spent the last three hours working on. He feels himself smiling, re reading the essay one last time before he decides it's good enough for a grade. It's the first time in a while he feels genuinely happy with his writing.

He grabs his phone, which he's neglected since he started working on the essay, and finds that he has three snapchats and two texts. _Well, looks who's popular now_. He looks at the snapchats first, one from Allura and the other two from Keith.

**Princess Allura**  
_(Allura with a full face of makeup, including blue glitter and blue lipstick)_

Lance screenshots the snap, as he does whenever Allura sends him a selfie. He remembers when he first started his job at the coffee shop, and he'd spent a week trying to hit on her, only for her boyfriend to come in one day and watch Lance make a fool of himself.

He sighs at the distant memory, glad that Shiro had found amusement in the situation rather than wanting to hit him for hitting on his girlfriend. Lance has since come to like Shiro, making easy conversation with the man whenever he stopped by the shop to see Allura.

He's even friends with Allura now, and part of that friendship includes receiving her beautiful selfies. He responds the same way every time, with a pick up line.

**lance** _to Princess Allura_  
do you have a map? because i keep getting lost in your eyes

Lance grins at his own cleverness (or rather, his excellent ability to memorize pick up lines), and opens his snapchats from Keith.

**keith_kogane**  
_(A blender with the lid to the side, it's contents all over the place)_  
i was making a smoothie but didn't put the lid on all the way

**keith_kogane**  
_(Keith with small dots of smoothie on his cheek and forehead)_  
it got on my face

Lance finds himself laughing out loud, screenshotting the last picture. Keith looks slightly distressed, and it's _adorable_.

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
thank u for making my night with those snaps

He's grinning when he goes to open his messages, the two texts from Pidge.

**Pidgeon**  
Do you and Hunk want to get lunch tomorrow?  
I get the day off from school

**Lance**  
sure pidgeon!  
u wanna come to campus or want us to meet u somewhere?

**Pidgeon**  
I'll meet you guys by the food trucks  
Does 12 work?

**Lance**  
works w me!  
i'll ask hunk in the morning i'm p sure he's asleep rn

**Pidgeon**  
You live with him how hard is it to just check

**Lance**  
leave me alone pidge i'm tired!  
i'll see u tomorrow

The moment Lance spots Pidge he starts running towards her, leaving an amused Hunk to watch Lance throw his arms around Pidge, picking her up off the ground and spinning her in a circle.

"Lance, _put me down_," Pidge demands, and Lance follows her order, his expression both apologetic and excited.

"I haven't seen you in _four months_, Pidge. I missed you," Lance says as Hunk comes up to his side, opening his arms for Pidge to walk into. Pidge does.

Lance gasps, taking mock offense. "So you want to hug him but not me?! I see how it is," Lance huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

Pidge rolls her eyes, pulling away from the hug. "First of all, _Hunk didn't pick me up and spin me around_. Second of all… he gives better hugs."

Lance wants to deny it, but he knows Hunk's hugs, he _lives _for Hunk's hugs. No one gives better hugs than Hunk, _no one_.

"Okay, come here you two," Lance stars, gesturing for them to come closer, "Time for a selfie to celebrate our reunion with our special Pidgeon."

Pidge groans, but she follows Hunk to Lance's side anyway, scrunching her face at Lance while the picture is being taken.

"Are you done yet?" Pidge asks.

"We have to take one on snapchat!" Pidge groans again and Hunk just laughs, used to his friend constantly taking pictures.

Lance opens snapchat and holds the camera out, taking the picture. "Okay, _there_, now I'm done."

**lance** _to his story and keith_kogane_  
_(Lance smiling with his arm around Hunk, Hunk smiling with his arm around Pidge, Pidge looks like she's suffering)_  
reunited with our cute lil pidgeon

Lance puts his phone in his pocket and turns his attention back to his friends. "Okay!" he shouts excitedly, "Who's ready for food?"

Hunk nods his head eagerly and the three of them wander around the food trucks. Once they're finally sitting down, Lance and Hunk ask Pidge how her senior year is going.

The three of them had become friends in sophomore year, when Pidge was a freshman. She was only twelve at the time, having skipped two grades.

She'd been put in an upper level math class, which was how she met Hunk, and they became friends, and naturally, she soon became friends with Lance too, because no one could be friends with Hunk without also being friends with Lance. They were a package deal!

She talks about a robotics competition she's in, and how she's totally going to kick ass. Lance nods in agreement, and Hunk says they'll make sure to come to the competition to support her.

"The school's finally making a rule that will let trans students use the right restroom," Pidge informs proudly.

"That's really great," Hunk says. He and Lance had both been apart of the school's GSA club in high school, and they'd spent a lot of time talking to the school administration about protecting the safety of their trans students.

Hunk and Lance catch Pidge up on what they've been doing, which consists mostly of homework and classes.

"College has made us boring," Lance sighs dramatically, dropping his head in his hands. "I was supposed to do things! Party it up! Instead I'm always in my room or at the library or at _work_. It's killing my game. How am I supposed to spread the Lance McClain charm if I'm always doing _homework?_

"It hasn't ruined all your game," Hunk says casually, and Lance shoots him daggers, knowing exactly what he's talking about. Of course Hunk has to bring that up _now_.

Pidge raises an eyebrow, "Lance, you never had game in the first place."

Lance scowls. "I'm loved by all!"

Pidge rolls her eyes, but she doesn't disagree with him. Lance grins.

They talk for a while longer until Hunk and Lance have to go, and unlike earlier, Lance asks this time, "Pidge, am I allowed to give you a goodbye hug?"

"Since you asked, why not."

Lance throws his arms around her happily, squeezing her tight.

"Lance, I can't _breath_."

Lance only loosens his hold a little. "You better text us, Pidgeon. We miss you. It's not the same without you." He finally lets go of her, and she's biting back a smile.

"I'll be here next year," she says.

"That's not soon enough," Lance argues.

"You'll just have to deal with it," Pidge shrugs, and then she turns to Hunk, letting him wrap her in his arms.

Lance spends the rest of the day smiling and full of energy.

"Hey Allura!" Lance greets when he walks into work, all smiles.

"You're late," Allura tells him, staring at him blankly.

"By _two minutes_," Lance says, "And besides, how could you stay mad at me when I'm your favorite employee?"

Allura snorts. "Favorite? Really?"

Lance nods, "I keep things interesting. You'd get bored without me here."

Allura stares at him for a moment, expression unmoving, and then she nods in agreement. "You're right, it would get boring if I didn't get a chance to watch your sad attempts at flirting with the customers." She makes a small, _obviously fake _laugh and smiles widely before turning around and leaving Lance to squeak in protest about how his flirting is the _best_, and how dare she imply anything but!

He shakes his head with a loud huff, but he forgets all about Allura's implications when someone walks inside the shop and up to the counter. He takes her order, chatting while he makes her drink. Lance is good at making conversation, and even Allura can't deny he's good at pulling in regulars.

Six hours later his shift ends and he's sitting on the bus, heading back to his apartment. He puts his music on and gets a snapchat from Keith only a few seconds after. It brings a smile to his face.

**keith_kogane**  
_(Keith's hand is on his cheek, pulling downward, he looks exhausted)_  
i've been doing math for four hours

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
dude u look like shit  
i mean don't get me wrong u still look good  
but yea u look like shit

_keith_kogane is typing…_

**keith_kogane**  
thanks for pointing out the obvious  
i'm not even finished but it doesn't make any sense

Lance sends his response before he really has a chance to consider what he's offering.

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
do u want help?

And then it hits him that, shit, he was inadvertently asking Keith to hang out. The only time they ever see each other outside of snapchat is in the one class they share, and even there it isn't like they actually interact! Lance starts worrying, afraid that he's crossed a boundary, afraid that—

_keith_kogane is typing…_

Lance expects Keith to turn him down, probably with a polite 'thanks for the offer but i'll figure it out myself." He gets the exact opposite.

**keith_kogane**  
wait really?  
that would be great if you had the time

Lance stares at the words for longer than necessary, checking to make sure they say what he thinks they say.

He feels a sense of excitement as he types out a reply. Lance had gotten used to sending Keith random snapchats throughout the day, and Keith sending them back. The idea of actually spending time with him in person is… a little nerve wracking, but in a good way.

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
i can make the time for u ;-)  
what math are you taking?

**keith_kogane**  
111

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
ok cool i can definitely help u  
wanna meet up tomorrow?

**keith_kogane**  
yeah  
does 1 work for you?

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
yeah but i'll only have an hour

**keith_kogane**  
that's fine

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
better not slack off cuz i won't go easy on u ;;-)

**keith_kogane**  
wouldn't expect anything less

Lance could just end the conversation there, but he kind of _enjoys _talking to Keith and he still has almost ten minutes left on the bus, _so _…

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
what's ur major btw?

**keith_kogane**  
double majoring in dance and studio art

Lance is pretty sure his entire heart stops, thinking about Keith fucking _dancing_. How did he not know this before?!

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
you dANCE?

**keith_kogane**  
ever since i was a little kid yeah

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
holy shit  
that's awesome

**keith_kogane**  
we have a dance concert at the end of the term if you wanna come  
what's your major?

Lance knows one thing for sure: there's no way in hell he's missing that dance concert.

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
astronomy!

**keith_kogane**  
that's really cool

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
hell yea it is

**keith_kogane**  
i'm gonna get ready for bed now but i'll see you tomorrow  
thanks for offering to help

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
ITS ONLY 10PM  
...oh ya u wake up at fucking 7 in the morning to work out

**keith_kogane**  
i actually wake up at 6

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
that's horrifying

**keith_kogane**  
goodnight lance

**lance **_to keith_kogane_  
goodnight weirdo

"Ready to get mathy?" Lance asks, wiggling his eyebrows.

The corner of Keith's lip perks up in a barely noticeable smile, and he takes the seat next to Lance, who tries not to stare. Lance is fine, he's totally, one hundred percent fine, and definitely not dying over the fact that a beautiful boy is sitting next to him.

"Yeah," Keith says, pulling his books from his backpack and setting them on the table.

"So, uh, what's confusing you?" Lance questions, and then they dive straight into the math. Lance promised not to go easy, after all, and he's a man of his word.

The hour flies by, and Lance has a surprisingly good time considering all they're doing is math. Lance only gets caught staring once, and when Keith asks what he's looking at, Lance's smart response is to say 'Just wondering how someone who woke up at six in the morning doesn't have bags under their eyes." Keith rolls his eyes and says it's because _he _actually knows what a decent bedtime is.

They start packing up at 2:01, and Lance grins as he stands up, placing his hands on his hips. "So, am I the best tutor ever or what?"

Keith looks at him, shrugs, and says, "You weren't bad."

"Wow, I rock your math world and that's all I get?" Lance lets out a distressed sigh, putting a hand over his heart and looking into the distance. "I feel so under appreciated."

Keith chuckles, and _what the fuck_, he needs to do that again right now because that was probably one of the cutest sounds Lance has heard in his entire life. "I appreciate you enough to ask if you wouldn't mind doing this again."

Lance perks up, and then he remembers that he's got to keep his cool, pretend that he's totally not psyched about getting to hang out with Keith again. Ha, Keith who? He couldn't care less about that guy.

Lance puts a hand on the table next to him, leaning his weight to one side. "My services are ten dollars an hour."

Keith's face drops, and Lance has to be making up the disappointment in his expression. Is he disappointed? Wait, could he be disappointed about not getting to hang out with Lance? No, that's stupid. He's probably just disappointed because he wanted a free tutor. Mixed with the disappointment is confusion.

"Wha—" Keith starts to say, but gets cut off by Lance's laughter.

"Dude, I'm fucking with you. I'm totally all for helping you out again." Lakes shakes his head, letting out one last laugh. He doesn't miss the way Keith's expression relaxes, and he wears what could _almost _be a smile. "But uh, I like, gotta go right now otherwise I'll be late to class so I'll snapchat you later and we can work out a time."

Keith nods, says a quick goodbye, and then Lance is off, feeling ready to defeat the rest of his day.

They slip into a routine after the first day in the library. At first it's just Lance helping Keith out with math, but after a week of meeting up they start working on their own things, Lance blabbing away about his classes while Keith half listens and half works. It's nice, it's easy, it's convenient, and Lance really doesn't want it to stop.

They still snapchat, they're currently at a 37 day snap streak, only now their relationship doesn't just extend to being "best friends" on snapchat. They're actually friends! In real life! The only problem: being friends with Keith in real life and getting to know him is turning this _little _crush of his into a _big _crush. It was easier when Keith was just a pretty face he snapchatted, but now Keith is a pretty face who he not only snapchats, but also hangs out with on a regular basis!

Lance also has Keith's schedule practically memorized, almost more so than Hunk's and he _lives _with Hunk! But Keith is a busy person, and since Lance now monopolizes most of his free time, or at least his study time, since Keith never really had much _free time _to begin with, he has to know when Keith is available. Surprisingly, their schedules work nicely around each other.

"Dude," Lance breaths out a sigh, "I'm exhausted. I need a break." He leans down onto the table, arms spread out and his head in between them. It's a Saturday and they've been working for the past five hours, and Lance is pretty sure death is coming for him.

"Want to get something to eat?" Keith asks, and Lance's head shoots right the fuck up.

They've never done anything outside of school work and snapchatting. Getting food together would be adding a whole new aspect to their friendship, and Lance is all about anything that means spending more time with Keith.

He nods slowly, like he didn't just have to stop himself from shouting out an immediate yes. Lance has got to be chill about this, act like getting something to eat with the guy he's crushing on isn't a big fucking deal. "Sure, sounds good," he says, and then mentally congratulates himself on a job well done. _Totally chill_.

"Where do you want to go?" Keith asks, picking his things up from the table and stuffing it in his bag. Lance follows suit.

"Uh, food trucks?" Lance suggests. That's usually his go to option.

"Sure," Keith agrees, zipping up his bag and tossing it onto his shoulders. They walk out of the library in silence, and Lance suddenly feels nervous. This is new territory for them. It's easier in the library, where they have their work to fall back onto, but now Lance doesn't have that crutch.

Lance is used to charming people, he's used to flirting, but that's with people who he has nothing to lose. If a stranger rejects him, Lance can just hop into Hunk's bed and complain, and Hunk will run a hand through Lance's hair and console him, and _boom_, stranger forgotten.

Keith isn't a stranger. Keith is his friend, a friend who he happens to really like, and he doesn't want to mess it up. He doesn't want to lose the gym selfies Keith sends every morning, or the daily study sessions, or Keith letting him ramble about his family when his mind shuts off and he can no longer work. He's gotten used to all those things, and he doesn't want to get used to not having them.

"So how's practice for the dance concert going?" Lance asks as they walk, swallowing down his nerves. Lance is good at making conversation! He can do this! "You have to go tonight, right?"

"Yeah, practice every night except Sundays," Keith tells him. "It's going well. We have all our dances set for the concert so now we just have to practice them," he pauses, looking somewhat hesitant, before adding, "I actually, uh, helped choreograph one of the dances."

Lance's eyes widen. "Really?" he asks, not hiding the awe from his voice. Keith nods. "Dude, that's so cool. There's no way I'm missing your concert. I really want to see you dance."

Keith keeps his eyes in front of him, not looking at Lance, but he can still see the smile he's wearing. Lance wishes he would smile more because _goddamn _is it pretty, especially when his smile reaches his eyes. That's enough to make Lance's heart skip a pathetic beat.

"I'm glad you're gonna be there," Keith says, and then their conversation is stopped by their arrival at the food trucks.

The rest of the afternoon goes by smoothly, and Lance finds himself forgetting that he was ever nervous in the first place. They talk about school, mostly, why they chose their majors, how their classes are going, which professors they love and which they hate.

It's fun, it's natural, and Lance wants to do it again.

"_Huuuuunk_, this is a _crisis_," Lance whines, leaning over the counter so he can take Hunk's hands in his own.

"What's a crisis?" Shiro asks, coming out of the backroom with Allura. Shiro doesn't even _work _here and yet he's allowed to go anywhere. Perks of dating the boss.

"Oh god, don't get him started again," Hunk pleads, but it's too late, because Lance is already talking.

"_Okay_," Lance starts, taking a breath. "So I started snapchatting this guy, like, over a month ago, and it was fun, he sent me hot shirtless gym selfies. Who doesn't want to get those, right? But now we're _friends _and we hang out almost every day, and ugh, he's so cute," Lance turns to Hunk, "Right Hunk?"

"He's attractive," Hunk agrees with a shrug, and Lance goes right back to his story, Shiro and Allura sharing an amused glance. It's a good thing Sunday afternoons are slow.

"At first it was just like 'oh yeah, this guy is really pretty, I totally wouldn't mind making out with him' but now I want to do more than just make out with him!" Shiro and Allura both give him a look, and Lance huffs, shaking his head, "Not like _that_. I mean I wanna, like, take him out. _On a date_." Shiro's face softens, and Allura just looks amused.

"So why is this a crisis?" Allura asks.

"_Because he doesn't like me. _I know, shocking, what's not to like? I'm attractive, smart, and I'll totally treat you right."

"It's true, Lance would make a great boyfriend," Hunk pipes up, and Lance looks lovingly into his best friend's eyes.

"_Awwww_, Hunk. I love you. Why can't I just like you instead? We would make the best couple."

Hunk laughs, and he's wearing the cutest blush that Lance just _adores_. "We would make a pretty good couple."

Lance sighs, loud and dramatic, staring off into the distance.

Shiro clears his throat. "How do you know he doesn't like you?"

"_I don't know_," Lance says truthfully, "I just get that _feeling_. And I don't even know if he likes guys!" Relationships and sexuality weren't something Keith and Lance had ever talked about.

"You could always just… ask?" Shiro suggests, and Lance shakes his head, sighing.

"_Or_," Lance begins, "I can just ignore the problem until it eventually goes away."

His friends all give him _the look _that means they think that's a bad idea, but none of them try to argue. It's not like Lance would listen to them, anyway.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Keith tells him before walking off, and Lance watches until he disappears from view, and maybe his gaze rests on Keith's ass for a few seconds longer than necessary but there's no proof of that.

He's about to dive into his physics homework when he notices Keith's red zip up hoodie still sitting around, and he grins, moving to pick it up and put it on. His physics homework can wait.

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
_(Lance wearing Keith's red sweater, flashing a peace sign)_  
look what you forgot

_keith_kogane is typing…_

Lance waits for the inevitable "can you bring that to me tomorrow" reply but instead he gets—

**keith_kogane**  
that looks good on you

Lance makes a quiet whimpering noise because it's not _fair _that Keith can just go around saying stuff like that, making Lance's insides feel like putty!

**lance** _to keith_kogane_  
i'll bring it back to you tomorrow

**keith_kogane**  
it's fine if you don't i have others  
you can give it back whenever

Lance's physics homework is completely forgotten, the only thing occupying Lance's mind being the fact that Keith is letting him keep his sweatshirt. Not permanently, but _still!_

And oh god, it _smells _like Keith and this is not doing anything to help the whole crush situation. He's supposed to be ignoring it but that's kind of difficult when he's wearing the guy's jacket for christ sake! Sure, he could just return it tomorrow, but Keith had said he didn't mind him borrowing it and Lance is _weak_.

Lance doesn't reply to the snap, but what he does do is click on Keith's username, giving him the option to change Keith's snapchat name.

_Edit name for keith_kogane_  
_New Name _  
**Pretty Boy**

He clicks save and then remembers that he has actual shit to get done.

Lance shifts, annoyed about the fact that this is the first time in a while he's managed to get to bed at a reasonable time but it's not going to make any different because _he can't fucking sleep_.

He's been trying for an hour now, and honestly it feels like a waste of time. If he's not going to sleep he might as well _do _something. He grabs his phone, scrolls through his apps until he finds himself opening snapchat.

It's a little past twelve in the morning, he doubts Keith will be awake right now, but he sends a snap anyway. Worth a shot.

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
are u awake?

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
_(Lance with his arm over his face, flash on)_  
i can't sleep

Lance closes the app and and checks his other social media, and he's watching a puppy video on facebook when he gets the notification.

_Pretty Boy is typing..._

It sends a nervous excitement through him, but he ignores that in favor of grinning over Keith's new name.

**Pretty Boy**  
i just finished up some homework  
want me to stay up with you?

_No, no, no_. Keith isn't supposed to he nice! _Keith isn't supposed to offer to stay up with him!_ That makes Lance like him even more and he's supposed to be _moving on_.

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
it's fine you have to wake up early tomorrow

**Pretty Boy**  
i don't mind

That makes Lance's heart flutter in a not completely unpleasant way, and Lance decides that he can't make Keith's decisions for him, so if the guy wants to stay up with him, who is he to try and persuade him otherwise?

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
attractive and nice?  
wow, ur the whole package

And yeah, _okay_, maybe those aren't the types of things he should be sending his crush who he's trying to _get over_, but Lance likes to flirt, and he especially like to flirt with Keith, and like he's said before: he's _weak_.

**Pretty Boy**  
guess that applies to you too then

_Oh my god_, this was a horrible idea. Lance's stomach is fluttering with those stupid butterfly things and he feels a heat rise in his cheeks. Keith is making him blush! _Ugh!_

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
obviously i'm the whole package  
i mean, come on, who wouldn't want to date me?

Maybe that's bordering on dangerous territory, because Lance knows the answer to that is Keith, but it's not like Keith knows Lance likes him. _Right _? Oh shit, what if he's been obvious without realizing it? Lance is about to think about all of his past interactions with Keith when he gets a snapchat.

**Pretty Boy**  
it's a mystery

Oh god, nope, Lance's heart is not cut out for this. So much for ignoring the problem until it goes away. The problem is getting bigger! The problem is Keith flirts _back!_ Lance isn't dumb, he knows it's just Keith playing along with him, but _man _it still makes Lance melt.

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
do u like space

**Pretty Boy**  
yeah

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
what do u like about it

**Pretty Boy**  
i guess...the vastness of it?  
i like that it's so big and we don't know all that's out there  
like the aliens

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
oh my god  
OF COURSE YOU WOULD BELIEVE IN ALIENS

**Pretty Boy**  
you don't?

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
not really

**Pretty Boy**  
how can you not believe when we know so little about what's out there?

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
dude  
i think that's the deepest thing u've ever said to me

**Pretty Boy**  
there's a documentary about it you should watch  
you'd like it

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
...a documentary  
...about aliens  
oh my god  
oh my god keith do u watch conspiracy theories

**Pretty Boy**  
why would you assume i watch conspiracy theories just because i've seen a documentary about aliens  
it's a really cool documentary

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
u haven't denied it

**Pretty Boy**  
well…

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
oH MY GOD  
KEITH

**Pretty Boy**  
shut up they're interesting

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
i can't believe u  
i'll watch the alien documentary tho  
but only if you watch it with me

**Pretty Boy**  
i have time on sunday

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
i work until 5  
but i'm free anytime after that  
u can come over?

**Pretty Boy**  
okay

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
yeah  
god i can't believe i'm gonna watch a documentary about aliens  
the things i do for pretty boys

**Pretty Boy**  
pretty?

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
don't try to deny ur good looks keith  
it won't work  
i have eyes

**Pretty Boy**  
whatever you say then

They talk until three in the morning, about space, their favorite movies, what they want to do after college. It's the most they've ever talked and Lance wants more. He wants to talk to Keith about more than just their school work. Hell, he wants to hear all about those ridiculous conspiracy theory documentaries he watches if that's what Keith wants to talk about.

Lance sighs as he rolls over in bed, sleep finding him easily. The last thought on his mind before he crashes is that this crush of his isn't something he can ignore.

Lance is leaning against the counter at work, his head resting in his hand. It's only thirty minutes into his shift and he's already bored. He hears the jingle of the opening doors and thinks, thank god, at least now he has something to do.

He lifts his head, eyes widening at what he sees, because standing a few feet away from the counter is _Keith_, who's looking at him with an expression mirroring Lance's. What the hell is Keith doing here?!

"Um," Lance tries, clearing his throat. "Hey. I didn't expect to see you here."

"Hey," Keith says back, resuming his short walk to the counter. There's an awkwardness in the air that Lance would kill to get rid of. "So… you work here."

"Yep," Lance nods, and he tries to say something else, he really does, but nothing comes. They stand there for a moment in an uncomfortable silence, and then Keith _smiles._

"I go here every morning after the gym," Keith tells him, and just like that the awkward air between them disappears, and Lance wants to sing out in gratitude.

Instead, he asks, "So why are you here now? _Not that I don't want you here_. I was actually bored off my ass until you walked in."

Keith's eyes shift to the counter and then back up. "I, uh, slept in. So I didn't work out today."

"_You slept in_?" Lance asks, as if this is the craziest thing he's heard all week.

"Yes… oh my god, stop looking at me like that. Aren't you supposed to be taking my order?"

Lance grins, resting a hand on the counter and using it to perk himself up. "What would you like?" He asks, voice smooth, maybe a little flirtatious.

"Black coffee."

"Seriously?"

"...Yes?"

"That's gross."

"You're gross."

Lance does a playful wiggle with his upper body and says, "One black coffee coming right up."

"Thanks."

"Anything for my favorite customer."

Lance notices Keith roll his eyes and bite back a smile before he turns around to make the drink, his boredom long gone now. He writes Keith's name on the cup, and then he pauses in consideration.

Before he can chicken out, Lance scribbles his phone number under Keith's name, along with the words, "Text me ;)". Despite how often they hang out and snapchat, they've still never exchanged numbers.

He spins back to the counter, holding the cup out to Keith, who takes it, and then-

"Keith?"

Lance whirls around, seeing Allura and Shiro, and now Shiro's walking over to Keith like he knows him. How does he know him?!

"Oh, hey Shiro," Keith says with familiarity, making Lance even more eager to understand what the hell is going on right now.

"I'm surprised to see you here at this time," Shiro says, like he knows when Keith usually comes in. _Why would he know that? Are they friends?_

"I didn't get a chance to come in this morning so I'm just dropping by before class," Keith informs. "I should actually get going." He turns to Lance then, who has to pretend he wasn't just staring at them with wide, confused eyes. _Act normal Lance_. "I'll see you later, Lance," Keith says with a little wave before turning back to Shiro to say goodbye to him as well.

Lance notices Shiro's slightly confused expression as well, and then his eyes widen at something and Lance is trying to figure out what, and he follows Shiro's gaze and _oh god._ Shiro is looking at the cup. The cup where Lance wrote his _number._

Shiro turns to Lance when Keith leaves, eyes narrowed. "Did you write your number on Keith's cup?"

Lance swallows, feeling extremely nervous under Shiro's gaze. "Maybe?" He says, shoulders slouching in, making him smaller. "How do you know him, anyway?" Lance asks, his curiosity getting the best of him.

"He's my brother," Shiro informs, and Lance's world stops. "How do you know him?"

"Oh my god."

"Lance?"

"Oh my god, he's your _brother."_

Shiro's expression changes to worry, and he takes a step closer to Lance. "Yeah, uh, Lance? Are you okay?"

"_I have a crush on your brother, _" Lance says, and then he realizes what he's just said. Out loud. In front of Shiro. Keith's brother. "Shit, _oh my god_, you are not allowed to tell him that. Shiro, please don't tell him that."

Shiro's eyes widen, and then his face begins to relax into understanding. "The guy you were talking about last time? You were talking about Keith?"

Lance nods, because that's all he's capable of right now.

"Lance, it's okay. You don't have to look so terrified. I'm not going to tell him."

Lance lets out a loud breath of relief, dropping a hand on the counter for support. "Oh thank god," Lance breaths, but then Shiro has to go and ruin it.

"But I think you should tell him."

"What?! Now way! That's a horrible idea," A pause, "Wait. Does that mean he likes guys?"

"I'm surprised you haven't already figured that out on your own."

"What's that supposed to mean?!" Lance demands, but Shiro just shrugs, says he has to go, leans in to give Allura a kiss and then leaves Lance with a million questions. Lance turns to Allura, desperate, "Allura," he starts.

"_Nope_," Allura interjects, "I have to work. _And so do you_." Allura nods her head in the direction of the customer waiting for him.

Well, this is just great.

Lance is finishing up his shift when he gets a text.

**Unknown Number**  
I can't believe you wrote your number on my cup

Lance grins, typing back a fast reply.

**Lance**  
well ur texting me so it obviously worked

**Keith**  
Does it usually work?

**Lance**  
ur actually the first person i've done it for

**Keith**  
Really?

**Lance**  
i was gonna do it once when i first started work but allura threatened to fire me  
i dont think she was serious but she is SCARY  
dont worry, u were worth the risk ❤

**Keith**  
How sweet

**Lance**  
SOOO….shiro's ur brother

**Keith**  
Yeah

**Lance**  
i flirted with allura in front of him  
before i knew he was her boyfriend  
i thought he was gonna kill me but he just laughed

**Keith**  
That sounds like Shiro  
And that also sounds like you  
I actually have to go I just wanted to text you so you'd have my number

**Lance**  
AW YOU WANTED ME TO HAVE UR NUMBER ,';^)  
NIGHT NIGHT KEITHY KEITH

Lance is in class, waiting for the professor to show up. He decides to pass the time by taking selfies, after all, he's looking particularly good today.

He takes a few photos on his camera app before opening snapchat. It would be rude to deprive Keith of his beauty.

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
_(Lance with the dog filter, smiling with his hand resting on his chin)_

Lance's professor walks in then, and Lance puts his phone away. He can't afford to be distracted in this class.

His mind feels exhausted by the end of the lecture, and he pulls his phone out as he gets up, eyes bulging when he sees the notification waiting for him on his lockscreen.

_Pretty Boy screenshotted your photo _

_Holy shit_. Lance has screenshotted a few of Keith's photos now, but this is the first time Keith has screenshotted one of _his_ photos. That's not even all though, because he still has an unopened snapchat from Keith.

**Pretty Boy**  
cute

Lance's heart floats from his chest, and he gets a giddy excited feeling.

"What's your favorite style of dance?" Lance asks after they've spent two hours working on their essays for Writing 121 and are in desperate need of a break.

"Contemporary," Keith replies without hesitation, and Lance leans forward, elbows on the table, head in his hands.

"What do you like about it?"

Keith's expression turns thoughtful, and he takes a moment before answering. "Everything else goes away… when I'm dancing, I have more confidence. It helps me express things that I can't with words."

"That's really cool," Lance says, smiling softly.

"Do you want," Keith hesitates, "Do you want to see?"

"You dance?"

"Yeah.."

Lance nods as quick as he can, because holy shit does he want to see. "Yes, oh my god, dude, yes."

"I have videos on my computer," Keith turns to the laptop sitting on the table in front of him, and then he leans down in his bag, grabbing earphones. He plugs them into the computer and then gives one headphone to Lance, who takes it eagerly and watches Keith open his videos.

Keith clicks on a video, and Lance has to do a double take because _holy crow_ _Allura is on the screen with Keith_.

"Is that Allura?!" Lance asks in shock before Keith can start the video.

"Oh, yeah. She used to be a dancer. She's still really good… she runs a dance camp for kids during the summer."

Lance shakes his head in disbelief. "That's super fucking cool."

Keith's lip perks up. "She taught me a lot when I was younger."

"_How long have you known her_?"

"Since middle school. She was in high school with Shiro and they started dating."

"That's insane," Lance says, and makes a mental note to ask Allura about her dancing at work tomorrow.

"I'm gonna start the video now," Keith tells him, and Lance locks his eyes on the computer, the song "Give Me Love" by Ed Sheeran beginning to play. Keith is wearing a grey shirt that leaves some of his chest exposed, and _shorts_. _He's wearing shorts_. Lance has only ever seen Keith in jeans or joggers, but _holy moly my _the shorts are a good look.

Lance feels his chest bubble with some emotion he can't place, but it feels really good, watching Keith dance. He smiles without realizing it, eyes not wandering from the screen until the video stops.

"Dude," Lance breaths, "That's so cool. You're really good."

"I'm a dance major, so I have to be," Keith says with a shrug, but Lance notices the ghost of a smile on his face.

"Is there more?"

"You want to watch more?"

"Uh, _duh_."

Keith gives him a look that Lance thinks means Keith didn't expect him to want to see more, which is crazy, because Lance could watch these videos all day.

"Okay, sure," Keith agrees, and Lance inwardly celebrates.

The next thirty minutes is spent watching videos of Keith dance, and the few times Lance takes his eyes off the screen to glance at Keith, he finds that Keith's eyes are already on him. That does silly things to his heart.

"So," Lance starts after Keith tells him they've watched all the videos Keith has on his laptop. "You must be really flexible."

Between the awe and admiration he'd felt while watching those videos was something else, something more along the lines of imagining Keith's body up against his own.

"I'm—um—yeah," Keith says, and Lance keeps himself from sighing out loud at the thought of Keith's flexibility.

"Can I see your art?" Lance asks suddenly, because it's a question he's been wanting to ask for a while now but has never had the nerves. Now seems like the perfect opportunity, until he notices the way Keith's face drops.

"I don't usually share my art with people," Keith says.

"Oh, that's fine," Lance reassures, not wanting to make Keith feel bad. As much as he wants to see it, he understands it's personal.

Lance guides the conversation elsewhere for the next twenty minutes, talking about high school, his friends, and maybe he includes a few embarrassing stories at his expense for the sole purpose of making Keith laugh. And then Keith has to leave for work and Lance is left smiling dumbly at the library table.

Lance is on his bed suffering through endless physics homework when his phone lights up with a text, and he considers ignoring it for a second and actually being a good student but then he sees it's from Keith and also… it's a picture message. That catches Lance's interest.

He picks up his phone, slides the text open, and then forgets to breath because there's a picture of him, surrounded by space. And holy shit. Holy fuck. _Holy mother of crow._ He's wearing Keith's red jacket that he hasn't given back yet. Lance is pretty sure his heart stops, or maybe it beats faster, all he knows is that he's feeling a lot of things all at once.

With the picture is a text, that Lance hadn't noticed until now because he'd been too busy _dying _of pure happiness and shock and awe.

**Keith**  
I didn't plan on showing you this when I drew it but you said you wanted to see my art so yeah

**Lance**  
this is the best day of my entire life  
i have literally never been happier  
I DONT EVEN HAVE WORDS KEITH  
YOU HAVE MADE ME SPEECHLESS

**Keith**  
What an accomplishment  
So you like it?

**Lance**  
KEITH  
KEITH BUDDY  
MY MAN  
MY DUDE  
I AM IN /LOVE/ WITH IT

**Keith**  
Well I'm gonna go to bed now  
I'm meeting you after work tomorrow right?

**Lance**  
YEAH  
and then we'll ride the bus to my apartment  
and watch ur lame alien documentary  
hunk might be there? he'll be in his room if he is  
GOODNIGHT KEITH

**Keith**  
Goodnight Lance  
I'll see you tomorrow  
You're gonna like the documentary

"Oh my god," Lance exhales, because he's completely and utterly screwed.

Things that don't make a crush go away: _your crush sending you a picture they drew of you._ Things that make a crush stronger: _your crush sending you a picture they drew of you_.

Lance's shift ends in ten minutes, and during those ten minutes he needs to figure out a way to chill his goddamn heart, which won't stop speeding up at the thought of Keith, the thought of his dancing, of his smile, of the way his eyes crinkle when he laughs, _of the drawing_. Lance can't stop thinking about the drawing.

Lance knows he's attractive. Sure, he doesn't think he's half as attractive as he leads people to believe, with the endless compliments he gives himself, but he knows he's good looking to some degree. But the way Keith drew him, smiling in the middle of space, that makes Lance feel beautiful. _Is that how Keith sees him?_

He doesn't entertain the thought of Keith liking him _like that_. Lance used to get his hopes up all the time, but no one was ever serious about him. They'd flirt back because he was entertaining, because he kept them amused, but no one had any interest beyond that. Lance was used to rejection, but he really, really doesn't want to be rejected by Keith.

He decides his only solution is to shove his feelings deep down, but that plan goes out the fucking window the moment Keith walks through the coffee shop doors. It feels exactly like a scene from some cheesy romcom. _Queue: pretty person walking through door, hair blowing to the side. Queue: hopeless romantic pining from afar._

"Hey," Keith greets, and Lance never stood a chance.

"Hey," Lance says back, and fuck, he's staring. He forces his eyes away from Keith, away from that unfairly beautiful face. "I'm almost done here. Just give me a second to get my stuff."

"Okay," Keith nods, leaning against the counter, and Lance rushes off to the back, ignoring his heart that keeps saying in beats: Ask! Keith! Out! His heart can shove it.

"You heading out?" Allura asks as Lance is taking off his work apron.

"Yep, shifts over. Gonna go watch an _alien documentary _with Keith." What he doesn't tell her is that he might not make it to work on Monday because he's not sure his heart can handle sitting through an entire documentary with Keith without completely bursting out of his chest.

"You seem nervous," Allura observes.

Lance laughs, but there's no humor to it. "Me? Nervous? Ha, no way."

"You should take Shiro's advice," Allura suggests, and before he can tell her what a bad idea that is she's walking away. Lance sighs.

Alright, time to face Keith. He can do this. Nothing to worry about. _Everything is good_, except everything is not good because apparently all it takes for his stomach to get all fluttery is Keith just standing there, with his back to Lance.

Lance swallows down the urge to bolt and slides up next to Keith, offering a grin. "Ready to have an exce_lance _time?"

Keith actually smiles at that, and then it turns playful. "Oh, I'm ready for a marve_lance _time."

And that right there is the exact moment Lance falls in love with Keith.

Okay, not really, Lance isn't even sure if he's known Keith long enough to fall in love, but it feels pretty damn close there for a second because not only did Keith not make fun of Lance for his lame ass joke, _but he made one back._

So, Lance has to admit it's an interesting documentary.

"I guess you were right," Lance says casually, "I actually really liked it." He still doesn't believe in aliens, but hey, Keith is more than welcome to show him more documentaries in order to sway him.

He glances at Keith, who's beaming, and now he can't turn away. Why does he have to be so pretty? _Why does his smile have to make Lance's insides turn all mushy?_

"I knew you would," Keith says, to which Lance nudges Keith's thigh with his foot. He's sitting at the opposite side of the couch, back against the side, legs spread out over the cushions. During the documentary, he'd had his legs over Keith's lap, which had proved to be somewhat of a minor distraction, especially when Keith put his arms on them.

Keith nudges his feet with his elbow, and Lance nudges back, and then Keith is swinging his feet onto the couch and they're caught in the middle of some ridiculous nudging war, which comes to an immediate halt the second Lance's hand lands on Keith's thigh.

Keith has his back pressed up against the side of the couch, and Lance's is hovering over him, the hand that's currently on Keith's thigh supporting his weight. Neither of them move. Lance's heart is freaking banging against his chest, and he tries to control his breathing.

_Come on Lance! Just move! Move and then laugh this off! _But he can't move because Keith is looking at him with an expression he can't read and his eyes are so beautiful and Lance finds himself glancing at his lips before he can stop himself and then—

_Holy fucking mother of fuck_, and then Keith is diving forward, grabbing Lance's face and pushing their lips together. Their lips! Which means they're kissing! _He's kissing Keith_. Or more like, Keith is kissing him because Lance is too stunned to react, and then he realizes, for a second time, that holy shit Keith is kissing him and he needs to kiss back _right now!_

He thrusts forward, not prepared for the friction that'll cause, letting out a small moan, which only seems to motivate Keith further, who now has his hands in Lance's hair, pulling him closer, as if they weren't already close enough (They weren't.)

Lance runs his hand up Keith's shirt without thinking, and Keith bucks his hips up which causes them both to moan and oh my god, Lance could come just listening to that sound. Alright, he's being a little dramatic but Lance wants to hear that again! He wants to keep hearing it! He wants to be the reason Keith makes that sound!

Lance somehow manages, with great strength on his part, to get his lips away from Keith's, moving them to Keith's neck instead so he can suck at the skin, leave a mark as a reminder that this actually fucking happened. Keith makes that little noise again, and Lance's hips go down the same time Keith's comes up, looking for that friction, and_ boy do they get it._

Lance lets out a whimper against Keith's neck, and then he's kissing Keith again, and everything feels hot and good, really good, but then Lance blinks and it's gone, Keith's hand on Lance's chest, pushing him softly away.

Lance swallows, catching his breath, nerves floating around uncomfortably in his stomach. This is bad. This is very very very very bad. Not the kissing part, that was great, but the Keith pushing him away part.

"Um," Lance starts, but that's all he manages to get out, staring at Keith, searching for anything that will tell him how bad he's screwed up.

"I should probably go," Keith says, like it's a question, and Lance wants to say please don't go but instead he says—

"Right. Yeah. It's getting late."

"Yeah."

"Yeah."

Lance leans back, away from Keith, giving him room to get up and leave. Lance doesn't want him to leave! Lance wants to go back to doing what they were doing only, like, a minute ago!

He tries to tell Keith he doesn't have to go but all that comes out is, "We're still meeting up tomorrow, right?"

"Um, yeah," Keith says, standing up. "Yeah. Tomorrow. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"I'll walk you to the door."

"Okay."

The walk to the door is short, but Lance is pretty sure it's the longest walk he's ever been on. This is his chance to tell Keith, they just made out on a goddamn couch for christ sake, but Lance's gut wrenches and he can't do it.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Lance says.

"See you tomorrow," Keith says back, and then he's gone, leaving Lance's heart in his stomach. He misses the warmth, misses Keith's skin against his, misses the tiny noises Keith made.

He just spent five minutes dry humping Keith on his couch and he might never get to do it again. He might never get to kiss him again. _He might've just ruined their friendship._

He hears the door knob turn, and his heart stops, expecting it to be Keith, but instead Hunk walks inside. He can't hide the disappointment from his face.

"Hey man, did something happen with Keith? I saw him when I was walking up the stairs and he looked really sa—dude, are you okay? What happened?"

"I might've ruined everything," Lance says, voice weak.

"Hey, I'm sure that's not true," Hunk reassures, placing a hand on Lance's shoulder. "What happened?"

"Keith kissed me, and it was amazing. Hunk, _it was amazing_. And then we were making out and everything is going great and then he pushes me away and says he should go and he kind of looked like he didn't want to go but I'm pretty sure I was just imagining that and I really don't want to lose him, Hunk," Lance rambles, anxious.

"You said he kissed you?" Lance nods. "Then he must like you."

"But what if he doesn't?"

"You won't know unless you talk to him."

"But—"

"Talk to him, Lance."

Lance lets out a breath. "Okay…"

"In the meantime, do you want to eat ice cream and watch Star Trek?"

Lance smiles. It's small and barely there, but it's still a smile. "Only if we can cuddle."

Hunk grins. "Of course, man. Always."

Lance can feel the unspoken words between them like a lump in his throat. Neither of them has said a thing for the thirty minutes they've been here, their greeting consisting of unsure waves. To make matters worse, Keith hadn't sent Lance his usual morning gym selfie. It shouldn't be a big deal, it shouldn't make Lance's heart drop like it does, but Keith sends one every morning and if he's stopping now, what else will stop because of the kiss?

They need to talk about it. Lance knows they need to talk about it, but every time he tries to start a sentence the words get caught in his throat like something's blocking them. His fear, his worry, his insecurity. They shove the words down, make the silence between them thicker.

They only have an hour together on mondays, and the minutes keep ticking by, the silence dragging on, the words remaining unsaid. Lance needs to say something, but what is he supposed to say? He doesn't want to ruin what they have, the routines they fell into, they way they easily fit into one another's lives. But if he doesn't say anything, it might just ruin itself.

The words are on the tip of his tongue, so close to coming out, worry swirling in his stomach, heart pounding. _Take a risk, Lance. _

"I like you," Lance blurts, and he kind of feels like he's going to throw up, but now the words are out there, now they don't have to sit in the thickness of their silence.

"You—what?"

Lance is staring at the table, so he can't see Keith's expression, but he thinks he hears unsureness in Keith's words, like he didn't quite hear Lance right.

"I like you," Lance says again, and this time he looks at Keith, who's looking back at him, eyes conflicted and searching. "I think I've liked you ever since your only response to my embarrassing gym selfie was 'lol'. And then we became friends, and I didn't want to like you, because I didn't what to ruin what we had, because I really like being your friend, so I tried to ignore my feelings but I couldn't. I couldn't make them go away and then you kissed me, and I thought, I thought for a second—but then you pushed me away."

Lance stops to take a breath, and Keith is looking at him so intently that Lance can't decide if it makes him want to shrink away or pull him closer. He opens his mouth to keep talking, to tell Keith that he wants them to still be friends, that he'll get over his feelings, but he doesn't get anything out because Keith gets there first, with words that send Lance's heart to the moon.

"I like you, too," Keith says like his life depends on it.

"Then why—" Lance starts to ask, but Keith knows where he's going.

"Because—because I thought you didn't like me. I thought you knew that I liked you and you weren't saying anything because you didn't feel the same and you didn't want to hurt me."

Lance's mouth falls open in disbelief. Keith likes him. "You like me," he says, trying to process this new information, a warm giddy feeling rising in his chest as he does. "You like me," he repeats, a smile taking over his face. "_You like me_."

Keith is staring at him, his smile uncertain. "Yeah."

"Since when?"

"Since before you sent me the gym picture."

"What?!" He splutters.

Keith's smile grows, and Lance's heart comes back from the moon for the solid purpose of beating excessively in his chest.

"_You fucking like me, _" Lance says yet again.

"We've established th—"

"Holy shit, I'm gonna take you out. I mean, _can I take you out_?" Lance looks at Keith, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. "Keith, buddy, pal, do you wanna go on a date with me?"

Keith laughs, and it's happy and beautiful and Lance has to resist the urge to pull him in and kiss him right then and there.

"Yes," Keith says, nodding, smiling. "Yes, I'll go on a date with you."

"I left my jacket on purpose," Keith gets out between kisses.

"What?" Lance breaths, Keith's hands in his hair, Keith's lips moving down to his neck.

"In the library," Keith clarifies, breath hot against Lance's neck. He leaves a hickey. "I left it on purpose. I wanted you to wear it." He leaves another hickey.

With Keith's lips sucking at the skin on his neck, it takes a moment for Lance to process what he's said, but then it registers and he's smiling like an idiot.

"Oh my god," he exhales, finding Keith's lips again, smiling against them. "You should take mine. When you leave."

Keith pulls away for a moment, forehead dropping against Lance's. "Yeah?" He asks, expression soft.

"Yeah," Lance says, expression just as soft, and then they're kissing again, Lance's heart floating happily away.

This was never a crush he was meant to get over.

"Um," Shiro starts the next day while Lance is at work. "Your neck."

Lance furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "Huh?"

Shiro looks slightly uncomfortable, but then he kind of just _shrugs _and says, "You have hickeys on your neck."

Lance clasps a hand over his neck, heat rising in his cheeks.

"I'm gonna, um," Lance swallows, nervous laughing. "I'm going to go cover these up. I'll be right back," he squeaks, practically running from Shiro.

He doesn't actually have anything to cover them up with, but he needed to get out of there.

Despite his current situation, Lance finds himself smiling when he looks at his neck in the mirror. _Keith did that_.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and opens snapchat.

**lance** _to Pretty Boy_  
_(Lance stands in front of mirror, holding up head so neck is exposed, a drawn on red circle around his hickeys)_  
thanks 4 these ur brother saw them

**Pretty Boy**  
(Keith with his lips pressed together, the corners of his lips just barely pulled up in a smile)  
lol


	34. (T) TREEBROS - Blind by Piper Emerald

Blind  
Piper_Emerald

Summary:  
Evan didn't care about seeing color. All he wanted was for someone to look him in the eye and say that they wanted to be with him. He longed for the moment where his eyes would meet that perfect person and they'd both realized they were meant for each other.

So what is he supposed to do when his soulmate can't see it?

* * *

Evan had been imagining what it would be like when he met his soulmate since he was a kid. He couldn't help it. Ever since he was old enough to understand why he couldn't see colors and most adults could, he'd conjured fantasy after fantasy.

Everyone did.

Him and everyone he knew had been told so many different stories of what it felt like, what colors most people saw first. As a kid, the thought of seeing color fascinated him. He remembered spending hours trying to imagine what they could possibly look like. For a long time, that was his and Jared's favorite topic of conversation.

By his senior year of high school, Evan didn't care about experiencing blue or red. All he wanted was for someone to look him in the eye and say that they wanted to be with him. He longed to hold someone's hand, to have someone who promised that they would try to understand him if he'd only do the same for them. He wished for the moment where his eyes would meet that perfect person and they'd both realized they were meant for each other.

Like most things in Evan's life, this moment didn't happen the way Evan imagined it would.

He was at Zoe Murphy's house. She was a year younger than him, but they were in the same environmental science class, and been forced to complete a group project outside of class. Alana Beck was there too. She wasn't a part of their group, but Zoe had mentioned to her that neither of them understood the assignment and she was determined to help in some way.

They finished most of the work pretty quickly, and Zoe declared that they should take a break and go get ice cream. Evan didn't really follow her logic, but he wasn't about to complain. He was honestly just surprised that either of them wanted to spend any more time with him than they had to.

"I don't have any money," Alana informed Zoe.

"That's fine, I can pay for it," Zoe brushed off. "You can buy me dinner later or something."

Alana laughed when Zoe winked ridiculously at her. Evan couldn't tell if they were flirting or just joking around. He was never good at that sort of thing.

"Oh, is it okay if I bring my brother?" Zoe glanced at the both of them.

"Sure," Alana said brightly.

"I didn't know you had a brother," Evan stated, because he was an idiot and didn't know how to talk to people.

"Yeah, he's about a year older than me," Zoe told him before shouting: "Hey, asshole, we're getting ice cream!" in the direction of the hallway.

"I don't want any," a voice shouted back.

"Too bad, mom says you need to get out of the house!" Zoe yelled.

"Fuck you!" the voice replied

"You can't just go talk to him?" Alana asked.

"Screaming is our family's hugging," Zoe told her matter-of-factly, before turning to the hallway again. "Connor, come on, we're leaving!"

A few moments later a tall boy walked into the room. The first thing Evan noticed was the sunglasses and the very unamused expression his actually very handsome face was twisted into. The next was the dark brown hair that gently curled around his head and met his shoulders.

It took a second for Evan to realize what this meant. Then he was falling. He was literally tripping on nothing, and face-planting into Zoe's floor.

"Holy shit, are you okay?" Zoe kneeled next to him.

"I'm sorry," he stammered, trying to pull himself up.

"What happened?" Evan's soulmate asked.

"Evan, this is Connor," Zoe gestured to her brother. "Connor, Evan."

"Hi," Evan blurted.

"You remember Alana, right?" Zoe asked.

"Yeah," Connor nodded. "Hey."

"Hi," Alana chirped.

Evan just stood there. Everything was so clear. Zoe's flannel was dark pink, and her room's wallpaper was a creamy shade of yellow. Evan could see the bright purple frame of Alana's glasses, the soft blue of the flowers sitting on Zoe's desk. Everything was beautiful, everything was breath taking, and—

"Evan?" Zoe and Alana were looking at him. "You ready to go?"

And Connor couldn't see it.

"Yeah," he stammered, following them out of the room.

He needed to tell Connor. He needed to shout it. He needed to say something.

"Are you okay?" Connor questioned, when they made it to Zoe's car. Connor and Evan had been ushered to the backseats, while Zoe and Alana bickered over what music they were going to play for the drive.

"Oh, um, yeah," Evan stuttered. "I'm fine."

"If you say so," Connor leaned back in his seat.

He was beautiful. Everything from the brown hair, to the soft skin, to the not as soft jawline. He looked like a model. He looked like every storybook prince Evan had ever imagined. Evan wanted to blurt all of this, but his voice wouldn't work. How do you tell someone you're their soulmate? Well, most people didn't have to. Most people both knew at the same time.

What if Connor didn't believe him? What if he thought Evan was playing some sort of sick joke on him? What if he got mad? Then Zoe would kick him out, and then he'd never see Connor again. He couldn't handle that. He couldn't live the rest of his life in color but not with the person who'd given it to him. That might actually kill him.

"Seriously, I can hear you hyperventilating from here," Connor's voice cut through his thoughts.

"I'm sorry," Evan flinched.

"Don't be," Connor said slowly.

He was weirded out. Evan was weirding his soulmate out. God, he was such a pathetic loser.

"Zoe, can you please slow down," Connor said loudly. It was like he was trying to talk over Evan's breathing. Neither of the girls had noticed their conversation. They hadn't noticed that Evan was trying very hard not to start shaking.

"We're almost here," Zoe told him.

"Alana, is she lying?" Connor demanded.

"No, we're a block away," Alana replied.

"I'm offended you don't trust me," Zoe teased.

"That was my intent," Connor told her dryly.

He was smirking. Evan was staring. Then again, it didn't really matter if he stared, Connor couldn't tell, and Zoe and Alana weren't paying any attention to him.

"I'm waiting in the car," Connor declared when Zoe pulled into a parking stall.

"Seriously?" Zoe groaned. "I'm not eating ice-cream while driving, I'm gonna spill it."

"And I care because?" Connor's smirk widened.

"Fine, stay in the car by yourself," Zoe sighed. "We can buy yours while we're leaving. Come on, guys."

"I can wait here too," Evan piped up.

Zoe gave him a surprised look.

"You sure?" she asked.

Evan nodded.

"I'm gonna lock it," she warned.

"That's fine," Evan said.

"Okay," Zoe shrugged.

Evan watched her and Alana leave. He felt a mix of relief and fear. Honestly, he hadn't been very excited at the idea of having to order ice-cream for himself in the first place. He hated trying to quickly figure out what he wanted and explain it to the person behind the counter. He almost always stammered over his words, and ended up wanting the floor to just swallow him.

Part of him was overjoyed to be in a car alone with his soulmate. The part of him that actually had a brain was scared to death.

"Can I ask what's wrong?" Connor started.

"Nothing really," Evan knew this was the perfect time to tell him the truth.

They were alone, so if he thought the wrong thing and mad, then at least they wouldn't have an audience. But Evan didn't know Connor. He didn't know if he was a guarded person. He didn't know how likely it was that Connor would just believe him. Now that he thought about it, how did anyone know how to talk to their soulmate when they first found them?

"You're a really bad liar," Connor informed him.

"Oh," Evan didn't know what to say to that. "How come I don't know you? I mean, I haven't seen you in school before."

"That's probably because I don't go to your school," Connor stated dryly.

"Right," Evan laughed nervously.

"I'm homeschooled," Connor told him. "Public schools don't really get how to deal with me."

"Yeah, that makes sense," Evan mumbled.

"You know Zoe from school?" Connor asked him.

"Yeah," Evan nodded then realized how pointless doing that was. "We, um, have a group project."

"Right," Connor said. "You're not hyperventilating anymore."

"I'm not," Evan could feel his lips curve into a smile.

"She said your name was Evan?" Connor asked.

"Yeah," Evan said quickly. "Evan Hansen."

"Nice to meet you Evan Hansen," Connor was smirking again. "I'm Connor."

"Hi, Connor," Evan laughed again.

"You know, Zoe's friends don't usually talk to me," Connor sighed. "Not that I want most of them to, don't get me wrong, but they usually think that just because I can't see them—"

"You're not listening," Evan finished.

"Yeah," a thoughtful look crossed over Connor's face.

"I know it's not the same," Evan started. "It's no where near the same, but I'm kinda an outcast at school. People don't talk to me, I'm usually just there in the background. I guess I make it kinda hard to, since I don't really know how to talk without saying to much, or not enough—"

"Talking is hard," Connor silenced the babble.

"Yeah," Evan rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. He hadn't meant to start rambling. That was probably the most embarrassing thing he could do right now.

"And people suck," Connor declared.

Evan laughed.

"They're gonna take a long time," Connor told him. "They usually lose track of time when they're flirting."

"So they're not joking?" Evan asked.

"Why would soulmates joke about like each other?" Connor asked back.

Evan didn't know how to respond.

"Shit," Connor said under his breath. "Don't tell her I said that. Fuck. I thought she was just not telling our parents. I'm an idiot."

"It's okay," Evan said quickly. "I won't tell her."

"Thanks," Connor sighed.

"Why, um," Evan stammered, then stopped himself. This really wasn't any of his business, he should just shut up. Connor didn't mean to tell him anyway, so why on earth would he want to explain anything remotely personal to someone he'd just met a few minutes ago. "Never mind."

"My parents aren't super accepting," Connor stated.

"You don't have to tell me," Evan murmured.

"Yeah, but I dropped half of it, so I'd be an ass if I didn't," Connor told him matter-of-factly.

"Oh," Evan said.

"Well, it's not that they're not accepting," Connor corrected. "It's complicated."

"Right," Evan was pretty sure he understood.

"I think she should just tell them," Connor admitted. "I mean, it's not like she can choose who her soulmate is, right?"

"Yeah," Evan agreed.

"And my dad's not that much of an ass to have a problem with it," Connor added. "Don't tell her I said that either."

"My lips are sealed," Evan wondered if Connor could hear his grin.

He liked this. Talking to Connor wasn't like talking to other people. He was starting to lose the fear that Connor was judging him based on what he was saying, and he wasn't worried that his ticks were annoying him. Connor couldn't see Evan fidgeting, and maybe if he could he wouldn't care.

"She'll get over it eventually," Connor kept going. "Or she'll think she can actually wait for me to find my soulmate."

"What?" Evan was barely able to get out.

"I'm gay," Connor stated.

"Okay," Evan wasn't sure how to respond.

"She thinks eventually I'll find that random person that I'm supposed to be with, and we can both come out together," Connor explained.

"Oh," Evan could feel his heartbeat speeding up.

"It's stupid," Connor stated.

Something in Evan's stomach dropped.

"Why?" he uttered.

"Um, incase you haven't noticed, I'm blind," Connor said blandly.

"But," Evan tried to make his voice steady. "That doesn't mean you don't have a soulmate."

"You sound like Zoe," Connor snorted. "I'm never gonna see colors."

"But whoever your soulmate is will," Evan argued.

"And they'll take one look at the freak I am and be glad I can't see that I'm their's," Connor said darkly. Evan felt his throat go dry. The anger on Connor's face melted slightly. "Sorry, I didn't mean to explode at you."

"No," Evan sputtered. "It's fine."

"If you haven't noticed, I'm kinda a pessimist," Connor added.

"I, um," Evan forced the words to come out. "I don't think you're right."

"About being a pessimist?" Connor snorted. "Oh, trust me, never once have I thought the glass was half full."

"No, I believe that," Evan told him. "I mean, about your soulmate."

"Right," Connor's tone was still dry.

"You don't know them," Evan argued. "How do you know they don't want to be with you? They might you love the second they see you and just not know how to say it."

"Dude, calm down," Connor's voice was softer now.

Evan felt his blood run cold. He hadn't meant to say that. Did he even mean that? Sure, he wanted to be with Connor. He'd wanted to be with his soulmate since he was a kid. He wanted to tell him that he didn't think he was a freak, and that he liked talking to him. He didn't love Connor the second he saw him, but he wanted to love him. He wanted the chance to.

"I'm sorry," Evan sputtered. "I shouldn't have—"

"You're really nice," Connor murmured. "I bet your soulmate feels really lucky."

"I wouldn't know," Evan mumbled.

"Oh, sorry," Connor said quickly. "It just seemed like you were talking from experience."

"No," Evan stammered. "I'm very much single."

He felt his face go red. Why had he said it like that? Connor chuckled under his breath. Evan looked away from him, letting his eyes travel out the window. The ice-cream shop sign was neon green. Evan was fairly certain it had been painted by someone who hadn't found their soulmate yet.

"Zoe and Alana are coming back," Evan noticed.

"About time," Connor replied.

Evan swallowed. Of course he was glad they were done getting the ice cream. Why would he want to be stuck in a car with Evan? Maybe it was a good thing Connor didn't know they were soulmates.

"You should hang out with Zoe more often," Connor told him.

"Why?" Evan didn't understand.

"So I can talk to you," Connor grinned.

Evan felt like he was flying.

"You know," he stammered. "I could just visit you. Might make things a little easier."

"Okay," Connor looked surprised. "Yeah, I'd like that."

"Great," Evan smiled at him. He hoped that maybe Connor could feel it.

The next day he left school with Zoe and Alana. Zoe had been surprised, but exceedingly excited, that Evan wanted to hang out with her brother. That reaction made him a little sad. Evan realized that Connor probably didn't have anyone to talk to aside from Zoe and his parents. By Evan's third visit the family's dynamic still confused him. He had only met Zoe and Connor's mother, who kept trying to insist Evan stay for dinner. Evan never minded the request, but Connor always brushed her off.

"It would be weird," Connor tried to explain when Evan asked about it.

"How?" Evan wondered.

"They're just weird, okay?" Connor looked agitated.

"Right," Evan didn't believe that, but he wasn't going to push.

"You can if you want to," Connor's voice didn't hide his reluctance.

"You don't want me to," Evan understood. "So I won't."

"It's just," Connor started, then winced. "This is gonna sound bad."

"Say it," Evan told him. "I don't judge, you know that."

Connor sighed.

"I kinda like having something that's just mine," he blurted.

Evan could feel himself blushing, he could feel his heartbeat speed up. His mind replayed Connor calling Evan his over and over.

"I'm sorry," Connor read Evan's silence wrong. "Did I ruin it?"

"I am," Evan let the words fall from his lips. "Yours, I mean."

Connor smiled. Evan wanted to tell him how gorgeous he looked when he smiled like that, but he didn't. He didn't say anything.

At this point, Evan didn't know what he was hiding from. Every time Connor looked at him, his heart hurt a little bit. He knew that Connor liked his company, more importantly than that Connor trusted him. He could tell him anytime he wanted. But he missed every chance he got, until he had to face the problem he'd created.

What if he couldn't explain to Connor why he hadn't just said something in the first place? What if Connor hated him for it? Or worse yet, Connor might think that Evan didn't want him.

He was awake in bed one night, his mind repeating the same worries over and over in his mind, when he received an out of the blue call from Zoe.

"Thank God you're awake," Zoe sounded like she'd been crying.

Evan launched into a panic. Something was wrong, something bad had happened. Connor told him about his depression, and he hadn't had to tell Evan about the self hatred. But he'd also said that things were getting better. He'd said that he didn't want to die like he once had. Just that day he'd hugged Evan, he'd said he was happy.

"I need your help," Zoe was saying.

"What's going on?" Evan couldn't hide the fear from his voice. "Is it Connor? Is he alright?"

"Yeah," Zoe said quickly. "Well, no, he's not alright, but he's not hurt if that what you're—"

Her voice cut off.

"Zoe?" Evan could feel himself still shaking.

"He wants to talk to you," she stated. Evan could hear her handing the phone over.

"Hey," Connor was forcing a light tone.

"Are you okay?" Evan all but demanded.

"Dude, calm down," Connor laughed. It sounded like he was trying very hard not to cry. "I kinda need a favor."

"Yeah?" Evan wanted to tell Connor he'd do anything for him.

"I might have gotten kicked out of my house," Connor stated.

"What?" Evan gaped at the phone. He could hear Zoe saying something in the background but couldn't make out the words.

"Okay, fine. I didn't get kicked out, I just got in a fight with my dad again," Connor sighed.

"Right," Evan mumbled. He knew Connor and his father didn't always get along.

"And then he stormed out of the house," Zoe shouted.

"Yeah," Connor laughed again. "My mom started freaking out, so Zoe ran after me."

"Are you going back?" Evan asked.

"Fuck no," Connor scoffed. "Maybe tomorrow, but not right now. I can't."

"Okay," Evan breathed. "Do you want to stay at my place? That's why you called, right?"

"Yeah," Connor admitted. "Thanks, you're a life saver."

"I know," Evan smiled. "I'll text Zoe the address."

Zoe only stayed long enough to make sure Connor made it through the door. She whispered something to Evan about needing to sneak back into her house. He just nodded. She didn't want Connor to think he was burdening her. Evan's mother had a late shift, but he'd texted her explain most of the situation. She knew about Connor, or, at least, she knew he had a friend who didn't go to their school because he was blind. She didn't know that Connor was his soulmate. Evan hadn't even been able to tell Jared that, and he automatically told Jared everything.

"I can get a sleeping bag," Evan told Connor when they reached his room. "Or I could sleep on my couch, if you want to be alone."

"You don't have to," Connor said softly. "I'll go on the ground. Seriously, I don't want to inconvenience you."

"You're not," Evan squeezed his hand. "I'm glad you felt you could come here. Whenever you need someone, I'm here for you."

"Evan, there are so many things wrong with me," Connor whispered.

Evan sat him down on his bed. He let Connor crumple into him. He ignored that he felt like he'd been waiting so long to hold him like this. This wasn't about Evan's feelings, it was about Connor.

"You're sick," Evan whispered. "There's nothing wrong with that. A lot of people are._ I_ am."

"Do you know how much money my parents have to spend to accommodate for me?" Connor hissed. "They can't deal with blind and sick."

"They're your parents," Evan murmured.

"And then I have to scream that I'm gay and make everything worse," Connor groaned.

"You what?" Evan nearly gasped.

"I got mad at something my dad said," Connor sighed. "He's not homophobic. His parents were, so sometimes he says stuff that I guess wouldn't be offensive if I wasn't a fucking fag."

"Do not call yourself that," Evan said sternly.

"He's gonna hate me now," Connor's voice broke.

Evan had never seen Connor cry before. For a moment his brain was panicking. He didn't know what to do. But before he could fully freak out, his body was moving on it's own. He was wrapping his arms around Connor and rubbing his fingers in small circles along his arms.

"You should take the glasses off," Evan told him softly. All they were doing was collecting tears.

"You don't want to see my eyes," Connor said in a dark voice.

"Yes I do," Evan gently pulled the sunglasses off Connor's face and placed then on his nightstand.

He tried not to stare. Even if Connor couldn't see him, he knew it was rude considering how self conscious Connor felt about his eyes. Still, Evan couldn't help it. He'd never seen a blue more piercing and so soft at the same time. Connor's eyes were a contradiction. They were everything they couldn't be bottled together. Evan wondered if Connor knew about the tiny conner of brown in the corner of his right eye.

"Stop looking," Connor covered his face.

"You're beautiful," Evan said before he could stop himself.

"Stop it," Connor stayed shielded.

"I'm not saying it to make you feel better," Evan told him. Slowly, he pulled Connor's hands away from his face. "I'm saying it because it's true. You're the most beautiful person I've ever seen."

Connor kissed him first. It wasn't smooth and it wasn't deep, but it made Evan's heart feel like he was about to burst. Connor pulled away too fast. Evan could see doubt on his face. He didn't want to ever see that.

When Evan kissed Connor it didn't feel unsure, it felt like everything he'd been longing to say was blending into action. They fell back onto the bed, Evan on top of Connor. Everything was blurred into a bliss Evan didn't think was possible. He could feel Connor's hands on him. Connor was everywhere, he was breathing him in.

Evan wasn't entirely sure when his shirt was pulled off, or when he'd reached for the buckle of Connor's pants. All he knew was that he didn't want to stop. He didn't want any of this to stop.

"I can't do this." Connor voice pushed Evan backwards.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. "I shouldn't have—Oh God, I can't believe I—that's not why I let you stay over, I promise! Connor, I'm so sorry—"

"Don't be," Connor's hands found his. "It's not that I want to stop. Actually, I think I might be in love with you, Hansen."

"I don't understand," Evan murmured.

"You have someone out there for you," Connor told him. There were tears in his eyes again. "You're not gonna find them with me dragging you down."

"No," Evan uttered.

"Thanks for everything," Connor stood up. "But I should go home. I need to talk to my parents."

"Connor," Evan grabbed him. "I'm your soulmate."

He watched his words pass through Connor. He saw shock, then a flicker of hope that was quickly diminished by doubt.

"It's okay," Connor told him. "That's nice of you to lie, but—"

"I'm not lying," Evan heard his voice break with a sob but he didn't care. "I love you."

"Evan, please," Connor pushed him off of him. "Let me do the right thing for once in my life."

"The first color I saw was your hair," Evan rambled. "It's brown. That's why I tripped when I saw you."

"I need to go," Connor was pulling his phone out of his pocket. He was going to call Zoe and run away. Evan was going to lose him.

"Connor, I know you felt that too just now," Evan knew he was shouting. "When I kissed you it felt like nothing was ever going to hurt again. You think that's normal? It's not. It's what it feels like when you're with the one person who's supposed to always be with you."

"Stop it," Connor's voice wasn't loud. That might have been why it shook Evan so much. It was too low, too controlled.

"Please," Evan whispered.

"I need to go home," Connor told him. "I'm going to wait in your living room. Please stay here."

"Your eyes are blue," Evan said hoarsely. "But your right eye has this flicker of brown."

"Goodbye, Evan."

Evan didn't follow Connor into the other room. Instead he collapsed onto his floor. He tried to force himself to breath, but he felt like everything was caving down on him. He couldn't take it. It was going to crush it and a part of him wanted it to. He had fucked up the only thing right he was ever going to get. The world could burry him now.

Evan couldn't find Zoe the next day at school. Alana told him not to try to talk to either sibling. She explained that she couldn't say much, but the family was going through a rough patch and needed some space from everything. Evan knew that by family she meant Connor and by everything she meant him.

He waited a week in a slowly stinging agony before he couldn't take it anymore and showed up on the Murphy's doorstep. Connor's mother didn't look very surprised to see him. She let him in, but said that he couldn't go to Connor's room right now.

"Is he okay?" Evan blurted, automatically assuming the worse.

"He's fine, honey," her eyes were sympathetic. "I just need to talk to you before you see him, if that's alright."

Evan nodded. He didn't know what Connor had told his mother about him. He followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table. She didn't look angry. He'd take that as a good sign.

"A few nights ago," she started. "Connor stormed out. He said Zoe took him to your house."

"Yeah," Evan confirmed.

"He also said that you told him you were his soulmate," she was watching his expression carefully.

"I am," Evan's voice was smaller than he meant it to be. "He doesn't believe me, but I wouldn't lie to him."

"I know you're not lying," she said softly. "I never told him about the brown spot in his eye, but he said that you rambled about it."

"I just wanted him to believe me," Evan whispered.

"Why didn't you tell him to begin with?" she questioned. She looked confused, but not accusing.

"I didn't know how," Evan stammered. "I was scared he'd think I was messing with him."

She nodded thoughtfully.

"You know," a sad look passed over her face. "We pulled him out of school in second grade because one of his classmates had teased him about being blind."

"He never told me," Evan mumbled.

"I'm pretty sure he got teased a great deal, but never let me find our about it," she sighed. "But this one drove him to his breaking point."

"What did they say?" Evan asked.

"That he'd never find his soulmate," her voice wavered. "His teacher wasn't very compassionate. She told them both to be quiet and get back in line. He snapped. That was the first time he ever snapped. He tried to throw a printer at her."

"Oh," Evan's eyes widened.

"He only managed to knock it onto her foot," she said as if this lessened the offense. "After that his father and I thought it would be better to pull him out of school."

"Yeah," Evan nodded.

"Maybe we sheltered him too much," she said.

"He's a good person," Evan told her.

"I know," she smiled sadly. "He's in his room. Go talk to him."

"Thank you," Evan smiled at her.

He knocked once on the door.

"Fuck off, Zoe," he heard Connor yell from the other side.

"It's not Zoe," Evan stated.

There wasn't a response. Slowly, Evan opened the door. Connor was sitting at his desk. There was a book in front of him. Evan never knew what book Connor was reading, only that he had a new one every few days. Connor got bored a lot, and he liked to read when he needed a distraction.

"I'm guessing asking you to leave won't do any good," he muttered.

"It won't," Evan closed the door behind him. "What can I say to make you believe me?"

"I don't know," Connor whispered. "It's not that I don't want to."

"Then what is it?" Evan leaned against the desk.

"You could do so much better," Connor uttered.

"Better than my soulmate?" Evan questioned.

"What if it's wrong?" Connor pushed.

"It's not," Evan said firmly. "I love you."

"My mom told me the thing about my eye," Connor murmured.

"Yeah?" Evan let hope creep into him.

"You know what a mess I am," Connor said.

"You're not a mess," Evan meant this. "And I'd want you even if you were. I'd want you no matter what."

"Why didn't you just say something when we met?" Connor asked. Evan knew the doubts in his mind.

"Would you have honestly believed me?" Evan asked him. "I couldn't risk you thinking I was some jerk trying to make fun of you."

"You could have convinced me," Connor said softly.

"I didn't know you," Evan reminded him. "I didn't know how."

"You were scared," Connor stated.

"I was scared you were gonna walk away from me," Evan choked on the words. "But now I know that I don't have to let that happen. Connor, I don't care if you don't believe me right now. I'll convince you some how. I'm not going away. If you kick me out I will wait outside your door as long as it takes."

"I," Connor took a breath. "I felt something weird when we first met."

"Really?" Evan's heartbeat quickened.

"It was when I heard your voice," Connor admitted. "And when I could tell that you were freaking out. I didn't know why, but I knew I wanted to help you. I never think that about anyone."

"You did help," Evan whispered.

"That's why I pretended I wanted to wait in the car for Zoe and Alana," Connor said. "I figured you'd decide to stay behind to."

"You," Evan stammered. "You did that because you wanted to talk to me?"

"Yeah," Connor laughed slightly. "Stupid, right?"

"No," Evan told him. "Not stupid. Very smooth, actually."

"You promise this is real?" Connor's voice was softer now.

"Yes," Evan took his hands.

"Even knowing everything that's wrong with me?" Connor added.

"Nothing is wrong with you," Evan said as gently as he could. "You need help, and we'll get it, okay?"

"I don't deserve you," Connor whispered.

"You do," Evan stated.

"Can I kiss you?" Connor asked, his voice hesitant.

"Yes," Evan got out before his lips collided with Connor's.

In that moment, he knew that Connor believed him. There was no way he'd ever doubt that this feeling wasn't real. Connor may not have been what Evan imagined as a kid when he pictured his soulmate, but that didn't matter. Connor was a thousand times better, and Evan would do everything he could to keep holding his hand and telling him that he wanted to be with him.


	35. (M) MERTHUR - Post-it Note Romance by fu

Post-it Note Romance  
fuzzytomato

Summary:  
Merlin has never had a secret admirer before so he's fairly certain this one has the wrong guy.

_**NOTE: Hey, so here's the deal, this pic has pictures of the notes and fanfiction dot net doesn't have that fancy shit yet. So, if u want the full experience, go to Ao3 and search this story, it's worth the read!**_

* * *

"I think you're gorgeous."

Merlin looked down at the plain yellow post-it note stuck in the physics book. He rolled his eyes, pulled it off the paper, balled it up and threw it in the trash. It wasn't the first note he'd found in a book and it certainly wouldn't be the last and as far as notes went, it was fairly uninventive.

He picked up the heavy archaic textbook, scanned it into the system and frowned when it came up that it was already checked in. Great. Someone pulled an old book off the shelf and tossed it in the return pile.

Merlin wouldn't put it past someone to do it just to add to his workload.

Teenage pricks.

The physics book was old and dusty and Merlin had to stifle a sneeze when he snapped it shut. It took some effort, but he tossed it on the trolley he would push around the school library to shelve all the books returned that morning.

It was an easy job, quiet, and it filled the hours at the end of the school day that he otherwise would've just been studying anyway. He wasn't the only scholarship student that had been given the opportunity to procure a menial job with the school. He was glad he had ended up in the library. It was better than chasing balls in the gym with Gilli or stuffing envelopes with the headmaster's secretary with Freya. And Mrs. Geoffries, the librarian, was content with leaving Merlin alone as he performed his tasks. He received a little coin for it too which was nice.

Merlin attended Camelot Academy, a prestigious school in the heart of Albion. He still lived in his home village of Ealdor with his mother so it took quite a bit of effort in the morning for him to get there, but with help from his friend Gwen, the travel time wasn't too horrible. It was worth it though. Camelot was challenging, different, a blending of disciplines and Merlin loved it, except drama class. That he would have preferred living without.

Bored, Merlin blew out a breath and looked around. He found only a few students at the round tables near the circulation desk, all of them studying and no one he was really friends with. One of them was Arthur Pendragon and he was frowning down at his own homework like it was either particularly difficult or it was trying to eat him.

Merlin had quickly learned that Arthur had two settings; intensely arrogant and intensely boorish. Well, that wasn't really fair but Merlin had been on the receiving end of Arthur's sharp conceited tongue since he had first walked into the school on the first day of term and he didn't _feel_ like being fair. Of course, Merlin also didn't really know when to shut his own mouth. Merlin had ended up in a headlock and they had both ended up in the headmaster's office.

Since then they both had decided on ignoring each other in hopes the other would go away.

Well, that wasn't really true either.

Arthur Pendragon was hard to ignore.

Merlin spied on Arthur through his lashes, watching as he glowered down at his maths book.

Arthur was… Arthur was gorgeous. He had beautiful blue eyes and blond hair and was _fit_. Merlin had seen him enough times without his shirt on to know the outline of his muscles and though he would never admit it to _anyone_, not even to Freya, he often thought about him at night when he wanked. Even when Arthur was scowling, which he was currently, Merlin couldn't deny that if given a chance he'd jump Arthur in a heartbeat, personality be damned.

Merlin blamed his hormones.

He let out a wistful sigh that had Arthur snapping his head up, his eyes narrowed, glaring in Merlin's direction. Merlin jumped, realized he was staring, and scrambled for his trolley, ducking into the stacks to hide his blush.

After a few moments of pretending to shelve, Merlin peeked around the corner and found that Arthur had left.

It was probably a good thing. Merlin didn't fancy being teased because he had been caught staring but he couldn't help but feel bereft. He quite enjoyed looking at Arthur, especially when he wasn't talking.

Merlin checked the time and hurried through the rest of his duties before the bell rang. He didn't want to miss his ride with Gwen and be forced to take the bus home, or even worse, have to walk.

He gave the physics book one last suspicious glance before leaving the library.

Merlin firmly believed the cafeteria was a special kind of hell.

It was loud and crowded and more often than not, Merlin found himself bumping into someone or sprawled out on the floor. He wasn't the most graceful, even at his best, but it also didn't help when people would kick their bags in his way purposefully. He always tried to give Valiant's table a wide berth because it happened around him more often than not but it wasn't always possible.

That day, however, Merlin made it to his table with Gilli and Freya, food and footing intact.

"Merlin," Freya said, when he dropped his tray down, "what did you get for number twenty-one?"

They had a quiz in history earlier and Freya was always that girl that had to review every question and answer afterward to calculate her grade.

Merlin cocked his head to the side. "1836," he answered.

Freya sputtered. "But… but… that question didn't even call for a year."

Merlin grinned.

"He's teasing you, Freya," Gilli said, biting into his sandwich.

"Oh," she said, color rising in her cheeks. "I hate when you do that, Merlin."

Gwen plopped her tray down, joining them and settled in between Merlin and Freya. She looked a little harried but Gwen was one of those people who always smiled, even if everything was falling apart around her. Sometimes she sat with them and other times she sat with Lancelot at Arthur's table. Today though, Lancelot looked to be out.

"Hey, Gwen," Merlin greeted. "Where's Lance?"

Gwen smiled and pushed a wayward strand of hair from her face. "Studying in the library. Merlin, we really need to talk about our drama project."

Merlin winced. "I know."

"We need to practice."

"I know, I just… Gwen, I'm going to do horribly if we practice or not."

Gwen frowned. "Oh, Merlin. We'll do the best we can."

"Gwen," Merlin groaned. "I am awkward at the best of times and you… well, you ramble when you're nervous."

Gwen blushed. "I know but that doesn't mean we don't have to try."

Merlin pulled a face, thinking about everyone in his drama class who would be watching them utterly fail. Valiant being one of them and as much as his friends told Merlin to ignore him, it was hard to when Valiant had made it his life mission to make Merlin's time at school a living hell. It had never moved beyond the occasional trip and the constant teasing but it was enough to make Merlin feel humiliated.

Merlin didn't even want to think about Arthur being in the class as well. Not that Arthur would be paying much attention anyway - who would to the library geek? - but Merlin knew that it would be difficult to forget he was there.

Merlin groaned again and hid behind his hands. "This is going to be a disaster," he muttered.

"Just think," Gwen said brightly, "either we'll cock it all up or we'll be so brilliant that Mr. Kilgharrah will cast us as the leads in the spring musical and we'll become famous actors."

There was a beat of silence as Merlin dropped his hands and looked at Gwen with a raised eyebrow. Then he threw back his head and laughed. Gwen joined in, as did Freya and Gilli, and soon, they were all roaring. Merlin had tears streaming down his cheeks and his arms wrapped around his aching middle. Each time they settled down, Gwen only had to look at Merlin, or Merlin's lips would twitch and they would set off again. By the end of it, Merlin was sure that they had made a right spectacle of themselves.

"By the way, Merlin," Gwen said once lunch time was over and they were walking to class, "why was Arthur staring at us all during lunch?"

Merlin shrugged. "He was probably wondering why you were sitting with us and not them."

Gwen made a face. "No, I don't think that was it."

Merlin blushed, suddenly remembering being caught staring at Arthur in the library a few days prior while thinking of wanking. He shifted uncomfortably. "Well," he said, "we were laughing rather loudly."

Gwen nodded. "That must have been it."

Merlin swallowed and let the subject drop.

"I like your smile but I love your laugh."

Merlin found it in another book that had not been checked out but had ended up on the return shelf. It was another note with some romantic sentiment.

Merlin considered it, peeled it out of a well-worn copy of _1001 Knock-Knock Jokes_, and held it up between his fingers.

It was simple yellow post-it, just like the other one, and Merlin suddenly wished he had kept the first so he could compare the handwriting.

Merlin set it down gently next to him on the desk. While he worked, his gaze kept drifting to the side, eyeing the note like it could tell him something, like its origin or its intended recipient.

Could it be for him?

It seemed preposterous but… two notes in one week.

Was someone taking books off the shelves, sticking a note in them and putting them where he could find them?

Merlin couldn't help smiling at the thought. Maybe… maybe, someone actually _liked_ him. It was a nice fantasy since Merlin didn't think anyone capable. He loved his friends but it was obvious that Freya and Gilli were moving toward a relationship and Gwen was already with Lance. That left Merlin the odd man out. It was lonely so it was _lovely_ to think that maybe someone did find him gorgeous.

Or maybe someone was playing a horrible practical joke. The smile dropped from Merlin's face and the warmth that had built in his stomach turned to ice as he looked back at the note, eyes narrowed, assessing.

He picked it up and slipped it into his pocket.

He'd think about it more later.

It was Tuesday.

Merlin hated Tuesdays especially _this_ Tuesday since it was the Tuesday to end all Tuesdays.

It was his and Gwen's turn to present their drama project.

Merlin was a ball of nervous energy as they waited for Mr. Kilgharrah to call their names to the stage.

They had been assigned a scene from Romeo and Juliet, the one with the kissing. They had practiced over the weekend but Lance had been watching and Merlin couldn't bring himself to kiss Gwen. She had pitied him, patted his cheek while he blushed a brilliant red, and said that it would come to him the day of the performance.

It had been humiliating.

And the thing was… well, Merlin hadn't kissed anyone before. He was seventeen years old and hadn't yet reached that teenage milestone and it was kind of pathetic and he didn't want Gwen to know and…

He was fucked.

They were called to the stage, Gwen looking nervous and Merlin clamping down on the butterflies about to erupt from his stomach. He risked a glance to the audience and Arthur was there, sitting in the front row, looking beautiful as always and staring at the stage expectantly.

Merlin was going to be sick.

Mr. Kilgharrah addressed the class.

"Merlin and Gwen will be performing a scene from Shakespeare's _Romeo and Juliet_."

Valiant burst out laughing. "I think Merlin would prefer Romeo and Julian."

That earned a round of snickers and Merlin wanted the stage to swallow him. Mr. Kilgharrah admonished Valiant but that didn't stop the titters from Sophia and Vivian and the rest of the girls.

"Quiet," Mr. Kilgharrah said to the class. He turned to Merlin and Gwen, smiling gently. "Begin."

Merlin stumbled through the first few lines but was glad he didn't vomit. Gwen wasn't much better, her voice wavering, but as the scene progressed they both felt a little more assured, their voices coming out stronger.

It wasn't completely horrible until it was time for the kiss.

"Then move not, while my prayer's effect I take. Thus from my lips, by yours, my sin is purged," Merlin said, stepping closer to Gwen.

She smiled sweetly. "Then have my lips the sin that they have took."

Merlin lowered his voice. "Sin from thy lips? O trespass sweetly urged!" Then he ducked in for the kiss.

Except, Gwen over calculated, thinking Merlin would hesitate, and she surged forward. They knocked noses, hard, and Merlin's lips landed on Gwen's chin.

Merlin could hear the laughter coming from the crowd, knew he was blushing so hard his ears were red. Gwen let out a soft "oh" of surprise and, still entangled with Merlin, stepped forward for some inexplicable reason. Her shoulder went into Merlin's chest, and Merlin, off-balance anyway, went toppling backwards.

He landed on his arse with a thud.

The audience roared.

"Aww," Valiant said over the crowd. "Looks like poor Merlin still hasn't been kissed."

Merlin sat on his arse, on the stage, shocked for a few moments, wondering how the hell Valiant _knew._ It took a solid minute for Merlin to realize that Valiant didn't and it was only a taunt but it still shook him, down to his core. He scrambled to his feet after being tugged on by Gwen and they both fled from the stage, the last lines of the scene forgotten.

Once off, Gwen buried her face in her hands and left the room, Freya on her heels to console her.

Of course, Merlin couldn't do that, as much as he wanted to. Amidst the cackles, Merlin slunk to his seat, and slid down in hopes he would disappear.

Gilli patted him on the shoulder in sympathy and Merlin buried his face in his arms. The class continued, Mr. Kilgharrah calling Morgana and Leon but Merlin didn't pay attention, kept himself buried in the familiar feel of his hoodie.

Toward the end of class, Merlin risked a peek around the room. Valiant and Sophia were passing notes and chuckling, probably about Merlin. Everyone else seemed engrossed in an assignment. Merlin turned his head slightly and found that Arthur was looking over his shoulder, staring at him.

Merlin blushed and made like an ostrich.

He stayed that way until the end of class.

The rest of the day was horrible. Gwen wasn't talking to Merlin, probably because she was embarrassed. She sat with Lance at lunch and he had his arm draped over her shoulder and they kissed and kissed.

Merlin picked at his food and endured the giggles of girls as they walked by. Nim even offered to help Merlin get rid of his pesky virginity. Freya had chased her off with a glare and Merlin decided that he wanted to die.

"It's not that bad," Freya said. "It will blow over."

Gilli was less sure. "It might blow over by the summer."

Merlin made it through the rest of the day and was happy to find solace in the library. No one else was in there, save for Mrs. Geoffries, and she was busy working on the archaic computer.

Merlin absently picked up the return books and scanned them in until... the old copy of _Romeo and Juliet_ wouldn't scan.

Merlin's heart raced. He quickly flipped through it and sure enough, there was a plain yellow post-it.

"I think what it would be like to kiss you."

Merlin gasped.

He peeled the post-it out of the book, reverently, like it was the most fragile parchment in the world. He laid it to the side of his work station and stole a quick glance at Mrs. Geoffries. Satisfied that she wasn't looking, Merlin grabbed his bag and pulled out his planner. He flipped it open and on the front page was the other note. He compared them.

It was the same handwriting.

And after the events of the day, it had to be for him.

There was someone that _liked_ him.

Or was pranking him but after the disaster that was drama class, he was going to go with the former.

It made him feel better.

Merlin pressed the third post-it into his planner, right next to the second, again wishing he had saved the first.

He ran his fingers over the words, felt the impressions left by the pen, and was instantly warmed. Merlin looked up, spied that some students had made their way into the library and flipped his planner closed. Those notes were for him and him alone.

He put the planner into his bag and went back to shelving and despite the horridness of the morning, he had a smile on his face.

That night, after telling his mum about the drama project once she came home from work and after eating the cookies she made to cheer him up, Merlin lay in bed, and tentatively touched his fingertips to his lips, thinking about his mystery person.

He wished he knew who it was. He wished he could send them a note and let them know that he thought about what it would be like to kiss them too.

Mainly though, he wished he could just tell them thank you for making him feel wanted.

Merlin made it through the week somehow. By Friday, the rumors of his supposed (and true but no one needed to know that) virginity had dwindled somewhat but he could still hear the whispers and it was still mortifying.

Merlin's mum had to work Saturday and he didn't feel like spending all day at home alone so he packed his things and headed to his favorite coffee shop. It was a small place near school and one of the baristas, a bloke named Gwaine, always gave Merlin free coffee.

Merlin sat at a corner table, steaming mug in front of him, laptop on the table where he half-heartedly worked on schoolwork while playing Minecraft. He stayed for a few hours, sipping coffee and then buying a sandwich. It was shaping up to be a good day when the bell above the café door rang and Gwen entered followed by Lance and Arthur.

Merlin tried to slip down into his seat but despite his best attempts at going unnoticed, Gwen immediately saw him and waved excitedly, wide grin splitting her face in two. He watched as the three ordered and wandered over to sit with him.

"Hello, Merlin," Gwen said, all smiles as she took a seat to his left. Lance sat next to her leaving, Arthur to sit just to Merlin's right.

"Hi, Merlin," Lance said with a nod.

Merlin liked Lance. He was always nice even when he didn't have to be since he was on the footie team and very high up in the social ladder. He didn't lord it over everyone though. Not like Arthur did and certainly not like Valiant.

"I hope we're not disturbing you," Lance said, gesturing to Merlin's laptop.

Arthur's eyes narrowed and craned his neck to see the screen. Merlin snapped it shut in a gangly flurry of movement. It was a wonder he didn't knock over his own drink in the process.

Arthur smirked. "With a reaction like that, one would think you were watching porn."

Merlin spluttered, face turning red. "I wouldn't… not in public… I mean…."

Arthur burst out laughing, head thrown back, Adam's apple bobbing and looking entirely too gorgeous for such an arse.

Merlin scowled.

Gwen was giving Arthur her best admonishing look (Merlin knew it well) and Lance was trying not to chuckle while Arthur laughed like a donkey, in Merlin's opinion.

Merlin, flustered by Arthur's presence, contemplated packing up his things and walking out but he was stopped by Gwaine's smooth voice.

"Mind if I join you?" he asked.

Arthur abruptly stopped laughing and eyed Gwaine, as did Merlin.

Gwaine stood there two cups of coffee in his hands, looking stunningly scruffy and sporting a rakish grin.

"Not at all," Merlin said.

Gwaine smiled and set one of the full cups in front of Merlin before pulling over an extra chair.

"Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends, Merlin?" he asked, settling in the seat and knocking his elbow into Merlin's side.

Merlin smiled, glad for Gwaine's interference.

"This is Gwen, Lance and Arthur. This is Gwaine, my caffeine supplier."

Gwen and Lance politely said hello. Arthur looked like he was sucking on a lemon and crossed his arms, glaring. Merlin knew that Arthur was a bit of a bastard but his outright dislike of Gwaine was unwarranted, even for him.

Gwaine merely laughed and swung a friendly arm over Merlin's shoulders, jostling him a bit. Merlin relaxed under the touch, his mortification about Arthur's porn comment melting away with Gwaine's easy demeanor.

"Yes, I give Merlin coffee and he proofreads my uni work. Smart one, he is," Gwaine said, ruffling Merlin's hair.

Merlin batted him away and blushed. "It's worth it for the coffee."

Gwaine nudged Merlin with his shoulder and gestured to the fresh cup in front of him. "Go on then, don't want it getting cold."

Merlin was well aware of everyone looking at him as he picked up the mug and held it to his lips. He took a sip, his eyes fluttering shut at the rich taste and the warmth and he couldn't help the little moan that escaped.

"That's brilliant," he said, opening his eyes and smiling. "The best coffee this side of the city."

Merlin looked around the table. Lance looked uncomfortable. Gwen's gaze was flicking between Merlin and Gwaine, and Arthur was so red Merlin half-expected steam to come out of his ears.

"Thank you, Merlin," Gwaine said easily. "So, what are the plans for the day?"

Gwen jumped on the subject. "Well, the three of us were going to go see a film. Merlin, do you want to join us?"

"Aren't you a little old to be flirting with a seventeen year old?" Arthur asked suddenly, posture tense, arms still crossed, giving Gwaine a hard look.

"Ah," Gwaine said, still smiling, removing his arm from Merlin's shoulders, "I see how it is, now."

Merlin tensed. "See how what is?" he demanded.

Gwaine flipped his hair, a move that Merlin had seen him do to charm the female customers and patted Merlin on the arm. "Merlin, have a nice time with your friends. My break is over anyway."

Gwaine stood, gathering Merlin's empty mug and plate from earlier and his own still steaming cup.

"No, wait, you just sat down. You don't have to go," Merlin said. "Just because Arthur is…"

"Just because I'm a what, Merlin?" Arthur challenged as Gwaine slipped away, giving Merlin a sly smile.

Merlin glared at Arthur. "An arse. You're an arse."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "And you're an idiot."

Frustrated and angry, Merlin packed his things, throwing his notebook and pens into his bag. "You didn't need to sit here if you were just going to be a prat."

"Oh, and you were fine sitting here alone," Arthur answered.

Merlin looked up from where he was trying to shove his laptop in as well. "Yes," he said vehemently.

Arthur looked surprised at the force in Merlin's tone and maybe, if Merlin were honest with himself, a tad contrite. Merlin didn't care. He was livid.

"You know," he said standing, looping the strap of his satchel over his shoulder, "I have to take shit from pricks like you and Valiant at school. I shouldn't have to on the weekend." Merlin cast Gwen a glance, almost having forgotten she was there. "See you later, Gwen."

Then he stormed out.

Merlin made it halfway down the sidewalk toward the bus stop when he heard someone running up behind him.

"Merlin!" Arthur called. "Wait!"

Merlin didn't stop and it was only Arthur's hand on his elbow and sharp tug that kept him from breaking into a sprint to outrun the irritation and confusion welling in his chest.

Arthur managed to spin him around and Merlin ripped his arm from Arthur's grasp.

"Fuck! Merlin, would you just hold still a minute?" Arthur said, making a grab for Merlin's arm again as he tried to walk away.

"Why? So you can tease me about something else?"

"No!" Arthur answered.

Merlin finally glimpsed at Arthur.

Arthur looked unhappy. His mouth was turned down and his brow was furrowed. His expression was as frustrated as Merlin felt, though Merlin couldn't fathom why. It wasn't like Merlin had done anything to him.

"Then what, Arthur?" Merlin asked, exasperated.

Arthur was uncomfortable, shifting on his feet as he thrust a to-go cup filled with coffee in Merlin's direction. His hair was disheveled from running and he was squinting in the sunlight.

"Your friend wanted me to give this to you."

Merlin took the hot coffee from Arthur's hand. "And you felt that warranted chasing me down?"

"No… yes…. What do you want me to say?"

Merlin took a step back, eyebrow raised. He had very limited experience with Arthur Pendragon, other than their first meeting and the occasional gawking on Merlin's part, so this agitated person in front of him was… unexpected.

"I don't know. Sorry might be a good start."

Arthur ran an agitated hand through his hair. "Fine, sorry for being a prat as you put it."

Merlin sighed, deflating. "Apology accepted," he replied, voice low. "Can I go now?"

"Does Valiant really give you a hard time at school?" Arthur asked, stepping forward into Merlin's space.

Merlin laughed. "Really? Do you even go to the same school?"

Arthur appeared troubled, the lines in his brow becoming deeper. "Does he bother you that much?"

"Only constantly," Merlin retorted, and that was when he realized that Arthur was staring intently at him, like he was sorry and Merlin… Merlin realized that Arthur was _concerned_ over him.

Suddenly, Merlin felt like he was on a rollercoaster, falling over the first huge drop, his stomach at his knees. For some reason, he felt like he needed to placate Arthur, reassure him that it was okay, even if it wasn't.

"It's not that bad," Merlin said with a forced shrug and air of nonchalance. "The occasional trip, some mocking, nothing big."

"He shouldn't touch you," Arthur murmured.

"What was that?" Merlin asked, voice high, incredulous.

Arthur shook himself. "Come to the film with us."

Merlin looked past Arthur's shoulder; saw Gwen and Lance standing in front of the coffee shop, hands clasped, gazing into each other's eyes. He shuddered.

"No, thank you."

Arthur grimaced. "You're going to doom me with an afternoon of _them_," he said, gesturing over his shoulder, "even after I apologized?"

"Have fun?" Merlin offered.

Arthur laughed. He gave Merlin's shoulder a friendly push. "Fine, then. See you around, Merlin."

"Yeah, see you," Merlin answered but Arthur was already walking away, jogging back over to where Gwen and Lance stood.

Merlin watched him go, stomach fluttering and as confused as ever.

Monday found Merlin in an odd mood. He was excited about the prospect of potentially finding another note from his mystery person but he was conflicted about Arthur and his strange behavior over the weekend.

It seemed the rest of the school was affected as well. Valiant stayed well away from him and Arthur kept casting glances in his direction that weren't at all discreet.

Arthur walked with him from drama to the cafeteria and they enjoyed a stilted conversation. And to top things off, Gwen and Lance both sat with him, Freya and Gilli at lunch.

Merlin felt like he was sleepwalking or he had fallen down the rabbit hole and was in some kind of surreal alternate reality.

It was kind of nice.

In the library, Merlin found a copy of _Tropic of Cancer_. He didn't even know that the library _had_ it and when it wouldn't scan in, his heart leapt into his throat. He flipped through it and found the yellow note.

"I want to make you moan."

Merlin blushed furiously as he took it out of the book. He placed it with the others at the front of his planner and tried desperately not to think about moaning, which led him to thinking about moaning and reasons why he would moan, and that inevitably led to him shelving books with the trolley conveniently placed in front of his groin to hide his hard-on.

That night, after dinner, he feigned being tired and went to his room. Under the covers, he pulled out his cock and furiously wanked while biting his lip to keep his noises down.

As he finished and painted his stomach with come, he permitted himself one low moan and wished his admirer was there to hear it.

Merlin didn't expect another note so soon after the last one but there it was, in between the pages of _Pride and Prejudice_.

His hand trembled as he peeled it off.

"Meet me.  
Tomorrow.  
3:15 in RM105.

Please."

The please was hastily scribbled on as if the writer realized his sentiment was more of a command than an invitation.

Merlin gulped.

He had wished to meet the person that thought enough of him to leave anonymous notes and say things that no one had said to him before. Merlin _yearned_ to meet them and that was something that so many weeks ago he would've laughed at himself for thinking.

Of course, it could all be one elaborate prank.

Merlin frowned, heart thumping so hard in his chest at the thought he was for sure it would break if it were true. He took a breath, willing his thoughts away from that possibility and tried to think positive.

They wanted to reveal themselves.

Merlin went weak in the knees and had to find a chair. He thumped down in it, put his head in his hands, the note crinkling gently by his ear and tried to calm down his racing pulse.

He dithered over whether to tell Gwen or Freya because they could give him advice. But, it seemed wrong, like Merlin would be betraying a secret. And to be honest, Merlin wanted to keep it to himself and be selfish for once.

He sank a little lower, put his head close to his knees because he was feeling a bit nauseated.

"Merlin, are you alright?"

Merlin jerked up and back so fast at the sound of Arthur's voice, he tipped the chair backward. He landed hard on the ground, the back of his head smacking on the carpet.

"Merlin!" Arthur yelled, earning a fierce glare from Mrs. Geoffries. He hurried to Merlin's side as Merlin struggled to right himself in the least awkward way as possible. "Are you alright?" Arthur asked, tone softer as to not incur librarian wrath.

Merlin shoved the note into his pocket.

"I'm fine," he grumbled. "Just dusting the floor."

Arthur chuckled as he grabbed Merlin's arm and hauled him to standing.

"How about earlier? You looked ill."

Merlin shrugged, the note in his pocket feeling like a hot poker against his hip.

"Anxious," Merlin replied.

Arthur made his concerned face again and Merlin swore his stomach actually flipped.

"I hope everything is alright," Arthur said. He reached out and gave Merlin's shoulder a squeeze.

Merlin swallowed. "Everything is fine."

Arthur smiled then, one of his wide, bright smiles that showed all his teeth and was capable of making anyone swoon.

"Good," he said with a nod. "See you around, then."

"See you," Merlin managed.

Merlin put his hand in his pocket and fingered the note as he watched Arthur saunter from the library.

And then, there was Arthur. Arthur who had suddenly gone from someone that Merlin ignored on the surface but lusted after in private to a casual acquaintance who Merlin still lusted after in private but also now had a personality under the gorgeous exterior. Arthur who had talked to Merlin more in the past week than he had the entire previous term and who was now miraculously showing up when Merlin needed something. Arthur who was proving himself to be kind and funny and… this was an absolute _mess_.

Merlin had a secret admirer who wanted to meet him and Merlin had a crush on Arthur Pendragon.

_Fuck_.

The next day, Merlin took care with getting ready for school. He made sure his hair was artfully messy instead of just messy. He made an effort with his clothes, making sure they were clean and not ripped anywhere.

It was exciting and nerve-wracking but Merlin was determined to swallow down his nausea and meet the situation head on. He decided to put away all the 'what ifs' and concentrate on the things he knew; his mystery person _liked_ him, thought he was gorgeous, wanted to kiss him and make him moan.

Merlin floated through the morning, holding onto the good thoughts and banishing the unhelpful ones. Freya and Gilli gave him odd looks when he smiled a little too wide or blushed a little too easily. Gwen merely raised an eyebrow when Merlin told her he would be staying after school and would take the bus home instead of his normal ride with her.

Arthur stopped him in the hallway between classes and gave him a once over, his hand on Merlin's shoulder.

"You look different today," he said with a nod. "Big plans?"

Merlin felt himself flush, wondering when Arthur decided to become so tactile. "No," he answered. "Nothing like that."

Arthur smiled and gave Merlin a firm pat on the back as he passed. "Well then, you look nice."

Merlin was bewildered. Arthur had paid him a compliment. "Thanks?"

Arthur merely chuckled and waved over his shoulder as he headed to class leaving Merlin stunned and more confused than ever.

By lunch, Merlin was a bundle of nerves. He chalked up his weird interaction with Arthur to Arthur just being Arthur. At least, that was what he was telling himself because he couldn't bear the thought of anything beyond that.

Merlin was working so hard on focusing on not thinking about Arthur and remaining calm in the face of his imminent meeting with his admirer that he wasn't paying attention to his surroundings.

As such, Merlin bumped right into Valiant.

The open coke on his lunch tray toppled to the floor and splashed all over Valiant's trouser leg.

Merlin had enough time to gasp a surprised "oh!" before Valiant was knocking the tray out of his hands to the floor.

"What the fuck, Merlin?" Valiant yelled.

Merlin took a step back, holding up his hands and trying not to slip in the mess on the floor. "Sorry, I wasn't looking…"

"You think because you have Pendragon's protection you can run into me?" Valiant demanded.

"I didn't…" Merlin answered, reeling over Valiant's inadvertent revelation and quite frankly, terrified of what was going to happen next.

Valiant closed the small distance between them. "Are you calling me a liar?"

Quick as a snake, Valiant reached out and grabbed Merlin by the back of his neck. He kicked Merlin's feet out from under him _hard_ and Merlin went slamming to the ground into the remains of his lunch.

Merlin's nose connected first, then his forehead, and pain bloomed so quick and so hot it burned, making his eyes water instantly. He could feel the slow, thick slide of blood oozing down his face and Valiant's weight on the back of his neck, holding him down.

For an awful second, Merlin panicked as he tried to suck in a breath, inhaling Coke instead and he coughed and sputtered, hands trying to find purchase on the smooth, slick floor beneath him to try and push up, do _anything_ other than lie there and choke in a puddle of soda.

Then suddenly, the weight was off of him, and there was shouting and Freya and Lance were there helping him to his knees.

Merlin risked a glance to his left and saw Arthur and Valiant locked in a brutal fight before the rest of the student body surrounded the combatants and Arthur was lost to Merlin's sight by a wall of legs.

Freya pressed a napkin to Merlin's trembling hand. "Hold this to your nose," she said softly.

Merlin did and winced from pain. He was shaking, feeling the adrenaline flee his system, leaving him a shuddering, sweating mess. He could still hear the shouts in his periphery but he felt dazed, unsteady.

"Arthur?" Merlin asked, softly.

Lance craned his neck. "He has it under control, Merlin. Gwen ran to the headmaster," Lance said, casting glances behind him, reassuring Merlin that the fight would be broken up soon.

"Can you stand?" Freya asked, gently.

Between the three of them Merlin made it to his feet but swayed dangerously, the cafeteria spinning slowly around him. Lance gripped his arm firmly to keep him standing.

"I'm dizzy," Merlin moaned, holding a hand to his head and bringing it away bloody.

"I'll take him to the nurse," Lance told Freya. "You should stay here and check on Gilli."

"Gilli?" Merlin asked.

Freya beamed. "He jumped in just as Arthur did."

"Oh," Merlin said, still overcome. "Thank him for me, will you?"

"I will," Freya assured.

Lance guided Merlin away. As they slowly crossed the cafeteria, Merlin noticed that the student body had all returned to their seats. The headmaster was standing between a furious Valiant, who was bleeding from a cut over his eye, and Arthur, whose ripped shirt and red face were the only indication he'd been in a fight at all.

It suddenly began to sink in that Arthur had _fought_ for him and if possible, it made Merlin even more lightheaded than before.

The nurse had declared Merlin's nose badly bruised. He had a painful knot on his leg from where Valiant kicked him, a black eye forming and a cut on his cheek from the tray, but other than that, he was fine.

The headmaster had come to collect Merlin's side of the story which he gladly told. He learned from Freya, who had come to visit him while he was in the nurse's office, that Valiant, Arthur and Gilli had not returned to classes after the fight. Merlin grimaced, hoping that Arthur and Gilli wouldn't be in too much trouble for stepping in.

The administration wanted to call his mother to collect him but Merlin claimed she was unavailable at work and despite the mess that was his face, Merlin didn't want to jeopardize his meeting with his secret admirer. Whoever it was surely they would know about the fight that occurred during lunch and would excuse Merlin's disheveled appearance.

Merlin fidgeted in the nurse's office, allowed to miss classes and rest until the end of the school day. His stomach was a fluttering jumble as the time on the clock ticked away. Before he knew it, he was gathering his things and walking to room 105.

Merlin swallowed down the lump in his throat and hesitantly pushed open the door.

The room was empty.

Merlin let out a breath and checked the clock. It was still a few minutes early and maybe his person was more the punctual type.

Merlin settled in a chair and pulled out a book he pretended to read while he watched the clock.

At five minutes past, Merlin's heart began to sink. At ten minutes, Merlin tried to come up with plausible excuses. At twenty minutes, Merlin buried his head in his book and tried not to think about it.

An hour later, Merlin packed up his things.

He felt physically ill and he doubted it had much to do with his encounter with Valiant only a few hours before.

Merlin had always felt slightly lonely. He had no father and a mother who worked constantly to make sure he had everything he needed. He only had a few friends and never had a boyfriend. It had never bothered him before. He accepted that was the way it was and moved on.

But he never felt loneliness more keenly than at that moment when he slunk out of the classroom, bruised and aching, heartbroken. Maybe, maybe it had really been a prank and the thought hurt Merlin, deep down in his chest, and he was half-suspecting a gaggle of people waiting outside the door to delight in his misery.

But there was no one, for which Merlin was grateful. It was a minuscule comfort in the midst of the worst day of his life.

He kept his head down, bag looped over one shoulder. He had missed his ride with Gwen and he would probably miss the bus which left him with a long walk home.

Merlin pushed open the door to the courtyard and literally ran into Arthur bounding up the steps.

Of course, Merlin fell back on his arse onto the concrete, palms scraping across ground.

"Fuck!" Arthur yelled, crouching next to Merlin. "Are you okay?"

Merlin looked down at his bleeding palm and then up to Arthur, who was panting like he had been running somewhere only to bump into Merlin.

Merlin's chest squeezed, his eyes beginning to sting with tears. He bit his lip, worried it between his teeth because he wasn't going to cry in front of Arthur. He _wasn't_.

"Merlin?" Arthur asked gently, when Merlin didn't respond right away. "Hey," he said, sitting on the steps next to where Merlin sprawled. "Are you okay? I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Merlin took a shuddering breath and shook his head. It was too much. Arthur was being _nice_ and his nose hurt and his admirer didn't show and…

Merlin quickly wiped at his eyes.

"I'm fine," he said, his voice rough with unshed tears.

Arthur pursed his lips but thankfully didn't say anything.

Merlin realized that Arthur must have just been leaving the headmaster's office. He grimaced, thinking of all the time Arthur had been in there and that he really should thank him.

Merlin took another breath. "Thank you. I heard what you did."

Arthur huffed, gave Merlin a hard look before reaching out and tracing his finger over Merlin's cut cheek and Merlin did his best not to flinch away or lean into the touch. Both would be mortifying on an already bleak day.

"I wish I had been quicker," Arthur said before looking away and dropping his hand. "You're going to have a black eye."

"I'll live," Merlin answered. "I hope you didn't get into too much trouble."

Arthur shrugged. "Suspended for a few days. Valiant was expelled. Gilli was suspended for a day."

Merlin nodded. "I'm sorry."

"For God's sake, why, Merlin? It wasn't your fault Valiant was a prick."

Merlin shrunk in on himself, feeling too fragile, too exposed. "Thank you."

Arthur patted Merlin's shoulder, almost tentatively. "I need to go home. My father is going to be furious."

Merlin sighed. "I do too. It's a long walk."

Arthur's expression told Merlin what he thought of that idea. "You're not walking," he said. "That is absurd. I'll drive you home."

"You've done enough."

"Shut up, Merlin. It wasn't a request."

The way Arthur said it, his tone dripping with his normal superiority, was a comfort in an otherwise tumultuous day. It made Merlin smile.

The ride to Merlin's house was quiet.

Arthur's car was warm and comfortable and Merlin was exhausted. He snuggled down into the seat, his eyelids heavy. He slipped into a light doze.

When Arthur pulled in front of Merlin's house, Merlin roused.

"Thanks," he said groggily.

Arthur smiled but Merlin saw his nearly imperceptible wince when he looked at Merlin's face. Merlin knew he must look absolutely horrible.

"I'll see you in a week," Arthur said.

Merlin nodded. "In a week. Bye, Arthur."

"Bye."

Arthur made some kind of aborted movement that ended up an awkward wave. Merlin exited the car and waved back before he headed inside.

Once his mum saw his face, she made him stay home for the rest of the week and called the headmaster absolutely livid. Freya and Gilli brought him his homework and Gwen and Lance came to visit after school a few days.

Merlin allowed himself to be a little extra moody during his confinement at home and if everyone thought it had to do with the Valiant incident, he didn't correct them.

The fact though was that Merlin was unable to check at the library for any notes. Not that it mattered. He was hurt and furious and he decided to give up on the idea that there was someone out there that secretly pined for him.

The only good part of him being home for most of the week was that at least when we went back, Arthur would only have a few more days of his suspension.

The first day Arthur was allowed back to school, he was welcomed like a conquering hero. Merlin kept his distance, waited until everyone else had finished fawning over him before he approached.

"Hey," Merlin said nervously, shoulders hunched.

Arthur turned away from where he had been talking with Leon and smiled. "Merlin!" he crowed. "You're looking better."

Merlin self-consciously touched the thin skin around his eye. It wasn't purple anymore but had faded to sickly yellow-green. At least the swelling around his nose had gone down. "Yeah, thanks."

"Good to see you."

"Yeah, um… glad to have you back, Arthur."

Arthur's smile was brilliant. Merlin couldn't help but return it.

The whole time Arthur had been absent, Merlin hadn't heard from his admirer. He had decided that they either weren't interested after the embarrassing fight in the cafeteria or that it actually had been a prank by Valiant who couldn't follow through since he had spent the rest of the day in the headmaster's office. Both options made Merlin sad and ache in the hollow of his stomach but it was also a little freeing. He wasn't searching for notes any longer and all the worry that had accompanied his secret had lifted.

So it was with utter surprise that Merlin found another note within the pages of To Kill a Mockingbird.

"I'm sorry! Please believe me."

Merlin stared at it. He pulled it out of the book, crumpled it up and threw it away.

The next day went much as the last. Merlin had more strange but friendly interactions with Arthur and life continued, much easier in fact, now that Valiant was gone.

The day seemed to fly by and before Merlin knew it he was back in the library.

When The Count of Monte Cristo wouldn't scan in, Merlin inwardly groaned. He had done very well not thinking about the post-its all day.

He flipped through the book and sighed.

"I never meant to hurt you. Forgive me, please?"

Merlin took it out and scowled at it because, quite frankly, he didn't know what else to do. He didn't throw it away but he wasn't happy about it either.

He sighed. Maybe it was time to seek some advice.

"I can't believe you didn't tell us this before," Freya whispered fervently over the lunch table.

Merlin flinched. Though no one would guess it due to her small frame and shy demeanor, Freya was frightening when she was angry.

Gilli looked amused. "Now you've done it, Merlin."

"It was just some notes," Merlin answered, deflating. "And it's done now except, you know, the whole asking forgiveness part."

"Let me get this straight," Freya said. "Someone has been leaving you notes," she began ticking off on her fingers. "Suggestive notes."

"Only one was suggestive. The others were sweet."

She raised an eyebrow and Gilli quickly took a bite of his sandwich to keep from snickering.

"Fine. Sweet messages," she started again. "Asked for you to meet except the same day as the… _incident_ and they didn't show. And now after a week of silence, they've sent you two new notes asking for forgiveness and you're conflicted."

"I'm not conflicted," Merlin snapped back. "I'm… well… I am conflicted but I don't know about what."

Gilli looked confused. "Explain," he said.

Merlin sighed, and covered his face with his hands not wanting to see his friends' reactions. "Arthur," he answered, miserably.

"You mean that he jumped in and risked bruises to his pretty face or the fact that all of sudden he is your best friend," Freya said.

Merlin dropped his hands to the table, looked down at his bowl of soup and stirred absently. "He's not my best friend."

"He drove you home."

"Gwen drives me every day."

"And she is your friend. Merlin, did you ever think…"

Freya suddenly stopped, looking over Merlin's shoulder, mouth agape. Gilli startled, almost dropping his sandwich.

"Mind if I join you?"

Merlin craned his neck backwards to see Arthur standing with a tray of food and looking decidedly uncomfortable.

Merlin swallowed.

"Yeah, sure. I mean, no, we don't mind. I mean, um… sit."

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything," Arthur said, settling into the chair next to Merlin.

Merlin shook his head. "No, nothing, we were just talking…"

"Merlin has an admirer," Gilli blurted.

"Gilli!" Merlin hissed.

Arthur merely smirked and gave Merlin an assessing look. "An admirer," he drawled. "Really?"

Merlin wanted to bang his head against the table. He settled for shooting Gilli a look that he hoped conveyed both his embarrassment and exasperation.

"It's nothing," Merlin muttered.

"It seems to be something," Arthur said, elbowing Merlin in the arm.

Merlin absently rubbed at the spot. "Really, it was just some notes but it's over now. It was all probably a prank anyway."

Arthur sputtered and coughed, droplets of water spraying onto the table.

"A prank?" he wheezed. He coughed a few more times and Merlin awkwardly patted Arthur between the shoulder blades. The last thing Merlin needed was for Arthur to asphyxiate and die on the day he decided to grace them with his presence at lunch. Merlin knew he would be to blame and the footie team would never forgive him.

"Breathe, Arthur," Merlin said, smacking him a bit harder on the back.

Arthur batted him away. He took a moment to regain his composure before pinning Merlin with an intense stare. "A prank?" he repeated. "Why on earth would you think it a prank?"

Merlin shrugged, nervously knotted his fingers together. "Because, come on, Arthur, I'm me," he said, gesturing to his too skinny frame, his bad haircut, his worn clothes and everything that encompassed being Merlin. It was fairly obvious to himself that no one would be interested.

Arthur's face turned red and Merlin thought he was going to have another coughing fit.

"You really don't see yourself clearly, do you?" he asked.

Merlin didn't know what to make of that so he didn't say anything. Arthur continued anyway.

"You're kind and funny and endearingly odd and a little bit gorgeous and anyone would be lucky to have you, even on your clumsy days."

Merlin's heart pounded and the butterflies in his stomach reawakened and started dancing a jig. He swallowed a mouthful of Coke, Arthur's words hanging heavy in the air between them.

"It doesn't matter," he reiterated, bringing the discussion back to the admirer and away from the dangerous topic of Arthur's thoughts on him because, if Merlin were honest with himself, one more compliment and he was going to do something embarrassing that may involve him jumping into Arthur's lap. Merlin didn't really need another humiliating incident at school. "Even if all that were true, we were supposed to meet and they didn't show. So it's done."

Arthur's fingers flexed around his fork. He had a nice salad on his tray that he hadn't taken a bite of yet and Merlin's soup had long since gone cold.

"Maybe something came up," Arthur challenged.

"Maybe they decided it wasn't worth it."

"Maybe they tried," Arthur bit out and Merlin was scared he was going to snap the plastic cafeteria fork in half. "But they couldn't make it and realized that they had only made things worse."

"It doesn't matter," Merlin said again, annoyed, wondering why Arthur was playing devil's advocate for this person. "They hurt me and I don't want anything to do with them."

Arthur abruptly stood. "I need to go."

He grabbed his tray and stalked off, throwing everything in the trash and disappearing from the cafeteria in a dramatic exit.

"Drama queen," Merlin said, looking back over to Gilli and Freya who had remained quiet during the exchange.

They were both gaping.

"He's such an arse," Merlin commented.

Freya shook her head and Gilli smacked his forehead.

Freya gave him a pitying look. "He may be an arse but you're an oblivious idiot."

Merlin had been mulling over Arthur's strange behavior since lunch. He was acting _odd_. Merlin sighed and accepted that he would never have a handle on Arthur.

The library was quiet when he entered. There was not a single student and Mrs. Geoffries was also absent.

Merlin walked over to his work station and dropped his satchel at his feet.

He stretched, moved over to the stack of books from the morning and froze.

There was a post-it.

It was lying on the top of the books.

He approached it like anyone else might approach a venomous snake, wary. Swallowing hard, Merlin carefully reached out and lifted it from its resting place.

"Look up."

Merlin let out a gusty breath and lifted his gaze.

"Arthur!" he yelled, stumbling back, hand clutched to his chest. "What the fuck? What are you doing?"

Arthur stood there, hands shoved in his pockets, looking nervous. He raised his hand and waved.

"Hi."

Merlin leaned heavily against the bookshelf behind him, panting, startled. "Hi?" he asked, incredulous. "Hi? You scared me! What are you doing here?"

Arthur cocked his head to the side. "I'm here to see you. I thought that much was obvious."

Merlin looked down at the note between his fingers then back to Arthur. Arthur's hair was very blond in the fluorescent lighting and his wide eyes were very blue and he looked expectant and hopeful.

Arthur was in the library and Merlin was holding a note from his admirer.

_Arthur._

Arthur had brought him coffee on the pavement after being a jealous arse to Gwaine. Arthur had fought Valiant because he had pushed Merlin to the floor. Arthur had spent his afternoon in the headmaster's office the day his admirer didn't show. Arthur had served a suspension because he didn't want to see Merlin hurt. Arthur had driven him home.

Arthur had written the notes.

"Oh," Merlin breathed. _"Oh!"_

Arthur nodded and stepped forward, leaning over Merlin's desk. "Oh," he repeated, smirking. "Is that all you have to say?"

"It was _you?_" It came out like an accusation though Merlin didn't mean it as one. He didn't know exactly how he meant it since this was all very new. He was definitely off the map as far as his life experiences went.

"I think you're gorgeous," Arthur said. "I like your smile but I love your laugh. I think about what it would be like to kiss you."

Merlin's pulse was racing. His heart was thundering in his ears because it had been Arthur all along. Arthur, who Merlin had a massive crush on since he had been put in a headlock the first day of term, and who was currently reciting sweet nothings to him like he actually meant them.

Merlin licked his dry lips and watched as Arthur's gaze dropped to his mouth.

"Please don't let this be a prank," Merlin whispered.

Arthur stepped around the desk, crowded Merlin against the bookshelf. "You really don't see yourself clearly. I'm going to have to remedy that."

Merlin bit back the _please do_ that wanted to burst forth. Instead, he remembered to breathe. It was difficult since all higher brain functioning had headed south and what was left was occupied with calculating Arthur's proximity.

"Why didn't you tell me that day on the steps?" he asked.

Arthur frowned and sighed. "I was running to meet you and I had it all planned but I was stuck in the headmaster's office and I wasn't leaving until Valiant had been escorted from the premises. And then, when I finally saw you, you were so _sad_ and I couldn't."

"You never meant to hurt me," Merlin said.

Arthur shook his head. "Never."

Affection bloomed in Merlin's chest, wild and warm, infusing his already shaking frame, and flushing his cheeks an even deeper red. If Merlin wasn't already half in love with Arthur, he was now.

"That's good to know," he answered shakily.

"Merlin," Arthur said, inching forward, tentatively placing his hands on Merlin's hips, "I'm going to kiss you now."

This time, Merlin figured the _please do_ was an appropriate response.

It started as a hesitant press of lips. Merlin shuddered and Arthur's grip tightened as their mouths slid together, and then it became a little more insistent and Merlin found his hands acting of their own accord, tangling in Arthur's hair. Merlin didn't really know what he was doing, but it was alright because Arthur did and Merlin's toes were curling in his shoes and the butterflies were back in full force.

It almost didn't feel real but Merlin knew that in all his fantasies there were never books digging into his back so it had to be.

Arthur's fingers skimmed underneath Merlin's shirt and Merlin gasped into the kiss then moaned. Arthur pulled away, chuckled slightly before diving back in, this time his tongue teasing at the seam of Merlin's mouth.

It lasted an eternity and as far as Merlin was concerned it was the best first kiss ever. He was giddy with it, lightheaded and hard as a rock but so incandescently happy that it didn't matter if he never breathed again as long as he could kiss Arthur over and over.

Finally, Arthur pulled away, flushed and breathing heavily. Merlin dropped his hands to Arthur's waist, reveling in the intimacy of the touch, and the knowledge that Arthur had pined for him, had concocted an elaborate plan to get his attention, liked him despite his clumsiness and utterly horrible acting skills.

Arthur rested his forehead against Merlin's.

"I made you moan," he said, awed, cupping Merlin's cheek and running his thumb over Merlin's bottom lip.

Merlin blushed. "Well, it was a good kiss."

Arthur nodded. "It was."

"So what happens now?" Merlin asked.

"From here, we go on several dates, sometimes doubling with Gwen and Lance and other times we go by ourselves so we can make out at the cinema. I hold your hand in the hallway to make sure you don't trip over air. You insult me on occasion to keep me humble. I bring you coffee in the morning and you come to my footie games to cheer me on. We stay up all night on the phone together because we don't want to hang up and I definitely kiss you a thousand times more."

"You have this all figured out," Merlin breathed.

"Well, I have been thinking about it for a while now."

"I have too," Merlin breathed. "Especially the kissing part."

Arthur laughed then, loud and joyful. "Good," he said. "I'm glad my attempts at seduction were successful."

Merlin rolled his eyes, glad to hear that even while undeniably romantic, Arthur was still able to be a prat.

He smiled, happy, fit to burst with it and then he swept in and kissed Arthur again.

The End.


	36. (T) TYRUS - Shallow (I'm Off the Deep En

shallow (i'm off the deep end)  
lumaxies

Summary:  
The thing about having a crush on T.J. is that Cyrus knows it is absolutely hopeless. He's not stupid. T.J. was the perfect guy- tall, muscular, ridiculously hot, effortlessly funny, brave, and loyal, and sweet. He's the best person Cyrus knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt. He's the kind of guy you couldn't help but fall in love with, at least a little bit.

And that's the thing. Everyone is in love with T.J. He has his pick of practically anyone in the school. And Cyrus knows he's nowhere near a first choice, in any regard. He never stood a chance.

* * *

Cyrus plops down at the Ravenclaw table unceremoniously, sighing loudly and reaching over Andi for the apple juice. His eyes are tired- red and bleary, with dark circles already beginning to show, reaffirming the exhaustion he's experiencing from his long night of essay writing. He pours the apple juice, reaches for a chocolate chocolate chip muffin, and slumps against Amber, who is sitting to his right.

"Morning, sunshine," She teases Cyrus playfully, pinching his side. "Get enough sleep?"

Cyrus just groans and face plants into his plate of eggs. He hears Andi sigh from across the table, as she slides the plate out from underneath his cheek, and lets him drop to the table. He does so without fight, closing his eyes once he's resting against the hard surface. He feels himself beginning to drift off, when-

"Hey, Underdog!" T.J.'s cheerful greeting sets his senses alight, his heart thumping a little faster in his chest. He keeps his head on the table, hoping that the sandy-haired Gryffindor won't notice the flush on his cheeks. T.J. doesn't say anything as he sits, just grabs a piece of turkey bacon and stuffs it in his mouth. Cyrus can hear him chewing, and feels the weight of his arm nonchalantly swinging around his shoulder. He doesn't look up from his arms, just revels in the warm feeling of T.J.'s gesture as Buffy and Marty arrive, and the Quidditch conversation begins.

"How was late night Quidditch practice?" Amber asks politely, taking a sip of her orange juice. Buffy looks at her skeptically, shuffling closer to Marty, and looking at Walker, who is sitting beside Amber.

Amber was a newer addition to Cyrus' friendship circle, due mostly to the fact that she was a transfer student from Beauxbatons. Buffy has something against French people and white girls, so it's taken a lot to build her relationship with Amber. Amber tries really hard- she loves Hogwarts, she's probably the most genuine person Cyrus has ever met, and she'd do anything for a friend- but Buffy was still wary around her, even three years after her transfer.

"Wouldn't know," T.J. shrugs. "We only got a couple minutes on the field before the Slytherin captain came and chased us away. Something about calling dibs on the field, and needing all the practice they can get to beat Gryffindor this year."

"Kiss my toned black ass, Kippen," Buffy sneered and snuggled closer to Marty, trying to keep her temper contained. "We have way more newbies than you, and I've got to whip them into shape."

T.J. just laughs, taking a gulp of his orange juice. "Knowing you, you're using a literal whip."

"Har har," Buffy mocks, a small smile playing at her lips. "Can it, T.J."

Cyrus groans at their bickering, picking his head up and burying it in T.J.'s shoulder.

"Hey, sleepyhead," T.J. coos, "You ready to wake up and face the day?"

"No," Cyrus pouts. "What class do we have first?"

"Double potions block," Walker answers, his mouth full of Fruit Loops. "Apparently Dullridge has something really big in store for today."

Cyrus lets his head fall to the table again, releasing a short whine when his forehead lands with a thump, and a pain shoots through his head.

T.J. tsks, placing an anchoring hand on his lower back. "Don't do that, doofus, you'll get a headache."

Cyrus grumbles in response. He was so not a morning person. Curse whoever decided that a double block at nine a.m. on a Tuesday was a good idea.

"Chin up, buttercup," Buffy coos playfully. "You love Potions! Once you get in there it'll be just fine. What could possibly go wrong?"

. . . . .

"Welcome to Potions!" Dullridge greets them heartily as they usher in the room and find their seats."Settle in, settle in! We've got a big day ahead of us, and not a moment to waste!"

Gryffindor Marty and Slytherin Buffy sit together, two halves making up the whole of the oddest, yet most complementary couple Cyrus has ever known. Hufflepuff Jonah takes the seat to Marty's right. Ravenclaws Amber and Walker take their usual seats up front, and far left, while Gryffindor T.J. maneuvers to the back to sit beside his Quidditch friends, Slytherins Reed and Lester.

Occasionally, Cyrus will sit with T.J., and Andi with Jonah, but today they find their seats in the middle of the room, opposite the rest of their friends. Andi has been having some issues with Jonah lately, and after what happened with Reed last month, Cyrus has been trying to keep his distance. This, of course, had caused some conflict between T.J. and Cyrus, but Cyrus knows that T.J. has no idea what has made Cyrus so wary of his friends. Cyrus plans on it staying that way.

While it's hard to rival Ravenclaws in their academic superiority, Cyrus knows that he's a pretty smart guy. That is to say, if he didn't have such a loyal and forgiving nature, as well as the empathy that comes with having four psychologists for parents, he would have been a Ravenclaw. He's been at the top of his year since he was eleven, shining especially bright in classes like Potions and Charms, and zipping his way to an Outstanding O.W.L. score in Transfiguration and Herbology. This is how he'd ended up in the Advanced Potions class with a jumbled mix of students from all four houses.

"Today we've got a real doozy," Professor Dullridge begins her usual spiel about what they're learning that day, a variation of the same speech Cyrus has heard every day for the last six years. He zones out, hoping Andi is paying enough attention that he can copy her notes later. His gaze circles the room, before landing on T.J., already staring at him. When the blond notices him looking, he crosses his eyes and pulls a face, making Cyrus giggle silently. He bites his tongue to keep from making a noise, and turns back around and tunes into the lesson right as Professor Dullridge announces their assignment. "In my hand I hold a vial of the very stuff we will be studying- Amortentia."

Cyrus swallows dryly as Professor Dullridge holds up the vial in her hand. The potion was a white-ish, almost purple color, that resembled his mother's favorite earrings.

"It is very important that you do not ingest or come into contact with the actual contents of the vial," She says firmly. "Now, seeing as Amortentia smells of what attracts you, it has a different scent for everyone. I will be passing the vial around, and you will all be able to smell for yourself exactly what your true love smells like. I encourage you all to share what you smell, but by law cannot force you. Do with that information what you will."

Andi looks longingly at Jonah, and Cyrus elbows her gently. "What do you think you'll smell?"

"I don't know," Andi looks back at Cyrus, giving him a worried glance. "Do you think you'll smell-?"

"Merlin," Cyrus cuts her off. "I hope not."

Professor Dullridge hands the vial to Amber, and gives her an encouraging nod.

"Um," Amber sniffed cautiously, then smiled dreamily. "Coconut macaroons, and vanilla," She looks to Professor Dullridge hesitantly, and upon receiving a look that tells her to continue, if possible, sniffs the potion again. "And…uh…"

"Wonderful, thank you, Miss Kippen." Amber passes the vial of potion to Walker, and Dullridge quirks her eyebrow at him.

"Freshly cut grass…cinnamon chewing gum, and…" Walker flushed deeply. "Um, that's it."

"Thank you, Mr. Brodsky!"

Walker throws an arm around Amber's chair absently, as he passes the vial to the Ravenclaw beside him, a sweet girl named Iris, who Cyrus knows casually.

"Smells good," She announces. "Like…the Astronomy tower? And my favorite kind of candle." Professor Dullridge smiles and nods, the potion passed on, student after student sharing what they smelled in the potion. Cyrus shifts awkwardly, and Andi grabs hold of his arm, reaching out to offer him some comfort, and maybe get some herself. He accepts her touch with no argument, and reaches his other hand over to pat hers, as they watch the vial circle the room in suspended dread.

When it comes to him, Jonah inhales and coughs awkwardly. "Uh, charcoal- like the kind you draw with? And, um, tea leaves like the kind they use in Divination. And peppermint chewing gum."

Walker lets out a squeak at this, as Jonah flushes a deep red, and hands the potion off to Marty. Marty, ever the pinnacle of grace, nearly drops the damn thing, but Cyrus is too invested in the way Jonah slumps down in his chair, and buries his head in his arms.

"Excellent, Mr. Beck! Mister Cunningham!"

Marty inhales and grins widely. "Smells like broom polish and Buffy's shampoo." He winks at Buffy, and passes the vial to her.

She takes it, smells it, and passes it on to the next student as she leans up to give Marty a peck on the lips. "Smells like springtime and Marty."

"Wonderful. Let's keep the PDA to a minimum, perhaps? Mister Guster!"

The vial continues its' travels, all eyes glued to its mother of pearl sheen, as students announce the scent of their true love. They watch as the potion reaches T.J.'s corner, and Cyrus finds himself glued to the events unfolding. Lester is first to get the potion, and he mumbles something about his common room and a muggle swimming pool. Then, it's Reed's turn. He inhales loudly, earning small giggles from some of the Slytherins, and a stern glance from Professor Dullridge.

"I smell…ooh, Cyrus, did you dump a bottle of your cologne in here?" T.J. immediately reaches out to smack him upside the head, snatching the potion from him, and giving him a sharp glare.

"He doesn't even wear cologne, asshole." He sneers, and Cyrus is sure his face is bright red. Dullridge clears her throat.

"Watch your language, Mister Kippen," She warns him, tone unbothered. "Not funny, Mister Edmonson."

T.J. takes a whiff of the potion next, and Cyrus has his eyes trained on him, a slight prayer running through the back of his mind. He watches as T.J.'s face pinches up, just a little, and his eyebrows furrow. He smells the potion again. Then, he passes it on dutifully, banging his head against the table as he drops it into his arms.

"Mister Kippen?" Dullridge asks. "Care to share?"

He raises his head obediently, and looks Professor Dullridge in the eye. "Home. It smelt like home."

Cyrus tries to meet T.J.'s eye, but he's actively avoiding eye contact with him, which makes Cyrus kind of worried. He looks instead to Buffy, who gives him a careful glance.

"You okay?" She mouths, and Cyrus nods dismissively. What does he have to be upset about, anyway?

He watches the potion come closer and closer to him, until it finally reaches Andi. She takes it with a shaking hand, and holds it up to her nose. Cyrus places his hand under hers, ready to take it from her in case she drops it. She doesn't, but she's unsettled all the same. She swallows, and looks up to Professor Dullridge.

"I-I-" Andi rubs her temple. "I don't know."

"Thank you, Miss Mack," Dullridge smiles thinly. "Mister Goodman?"

Cyrus stares at the potion for a moment, his face, he's sure, showing his hesitancy. He looks up to Professor Dullridge, who nods, urging him along. He sighs, then leans in and inhales deeply. Immediately, he recognizes T.J. in the smell. It smells like the body spray he uses before all of his Quidditch games, like victory bear hugs, and walks on the grounds as their hands brush, but never connect. Like his favorite muffins- blueberry macadamia nut- and the time that Cyrus spent an afternoon in the kitchens with him and the house elves, perfecting his execution of T.J.'s recipe. Like T.J.'s old Quidditch sweater from third year that Cyrus has stored away at the bottom of his trunk- the one he still curls up in on late nights. And the warm popcorn they share on their movie nights at Cyrus' house over summer break. Like sandalwood and leather. It smells like coming home.

It makes him want to barf.

He reaches blindly for Andi's hand, and feels her fingers wrap around his, as he passes the vial on to the person beside him. Her hand is steady, grounding him as he tries to make sense of the last few moments. This stupid crush he's harbored for years- it isn't just a stupid crush. It hasn't ever been. He blinks away the tears that come to his eyes and stares at the floor, as he tries to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. He is so fucked.

He looks up to Professor Dullridge.

"Smells like lemons."

. . . . .

He practically bolts out of class when it's over, not wasting any time to congratulate Buffy and Marty, or stop and chat with Iris. He's dragging Andi by the hand to the Hufflepuff dormitory, every instinct in his body telling him to get the hell out of Kuwait.

"You can't avoid him forever," Andi tells him as he's knocking out the rhythmic password.

"Oh, yes, I absolutely can."

Andi just sighs at him, allowing herself to be dragged to Cyrus' dorm room. They flop on the bed, head to toe, and Cyrus begins to cry.

"Fuck," Is all he says, before Andi is clamoring up to wrap an arm around him, and pull him into her side.

"Are you sure it was him?" She asks, and isn't that just like her, always trying to find solve his problems. "Maybe it was like a…"

"Andi," He says tearfully.

"I know." She lets him cry into her shoulder for a few minutes, before speaking again. "If it makes you feel better, I'm in the same boat as you."

"You are?" Cyrus wipes at his eyes. "How? What does that mean?"

"If I tell you what I smelled, do you promise not to tell another soul?"

"Not even Buffy?"

"Not even Buffy."

Cyrus nods.

"I thought I was gonna smell Jonah," Andi says meekly. "We've had this weird thing going since third year, you know. But when he smelled the potion, he was talking about peppermint chewing gum and tea, and I-"

"You knew it wasn't going to be him that you smelled."

"I smelled Amber,"

"What?" Cyrus' jaw drops. "Are you sure?"

"Pretty sure!" Andi crosses her arms against her chest awkwardly as she talks. "It was fresh parchment and ink, but also those weird French coconut cookies she got the kitchen elves to make that one time, and she and I each had like six cookies, remember? And I smelled her hand lotion, the vanilla brown sugar kind from that muggle shop she loves so much, because it's the only kind of lotion she'll use since it reminds her of Christmas and baking with her mom when she was little. And her shampoo, the grapefruit stuff that she says is all she can use if she wants her hair to be manageable, since it's so thick and long. And-"

"Andi," Cyrus cuts her off, eyebrows high. "You seem to know a lot about Amber."

"Well, sure, yeah," Andi nods dismissively. "We're roommates, we spend like all of our time together."

"But… what's Jonah's signature scent?"

"Why would I know that?" Cyrus looks at her disbelievingly. "Oh."

"Andi," Cyrus asks after anbeat of silence. "Did you know you were…"

"No," Andi shakes her head, and tries to blink away the tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. "No, I didn't."

"Are you?"

"I don't know."

"You don't have to know," Cyrus tells her seriously, placing a hand on her shoulder. "This is new and scary, and you can have time."

"Thanks, Cyrus," Andi whispers. "Promise you won't tell anyone?"

"Promise."

. . . . .

"Good-in-the-Hoodman!"

Cyrus is in the library almost three hours later, studying for Herbology, when Reed's voice pulls him away from his reading, his approaching figure pulling out a seat at his table.

"Reed," Cyrus nods curtly, shifting as discreetly as he can, ready to fight away Reed's hands should it come to that. "Can I help you?"

"I'm just wondering when we're going to continue our little rendezvous," Reed winks, and Cyrus shudders. "If you know what I mean."

"I absolutely know what you mean," Cyrus runs his tongue over his teeth and glares. "And like I said the first eighty-four times, I'm not interested."

"Cyrus, come on-" Reed starts to protest his rejection, but is stopped when T.J. takes a seat at the table beside Cyrus, and throws an arm around his shoulder.

"Hi, Cy," T.J. says, sickeningly sweet. "Hi, Reed. What's up?"

"Kippen," Reed gives him an irritated smile. "Don't you have literally anywhere else to be right now?"

T.J. pretends to think. "Mm, nope! Just hanging out with my good friend, Cyrus, and my pal, Reed. Where else could I _want _to be?"

Reed gives him a menacing smile and a fake laugh, then pushes in his chair and stalks away from the table. Once he's out of their line of sight, T.J. unwraps his arm from Cyrus' shoulder, and immediately walks away.

Cyrus watches him leave longingly, and slams his head against the table when he's out the library doors.

. . . . .

The Amortentia is already working its' magic, if the newfound relationship between Jonah and Walker is any indication. The two are so wrapped up in each other during dinner, that Cyrus thinks he might literally barf if T.J. weren't sitting next to him. Not that that is making him any less nauseous, to T.J.'s credit, however.

Andi watches them forlornly, taking occasional tiny bites of her stew, but mostly moving it around with her spoon. Amber is just as moodily silent, though her appetite has increased tenfold, as she makes her way through bread roll after bread roll. Buffy and Marty are watching them all in confusion- two depressed, two enamored, and what he's sure is two visibly uncomfortable friends, all circled around what is probably the most normal, compatible, non-dramatic couple at Hogwarts. It's probably ruining their whole table's vibe.

"Hey, Andi," T.J. swallows a bite of chicken, and smiles innocently at the girl in front of him. Cyrus braces himself for whatever horrendously offensive thing T.J. is about to say, and Amber buries her head in her arms. "I really like that skirt! It looks great on you."

"Thanks?"

"But, it'd look even better on Amber's floor."

Buffy lets out a groan, shaking her head and looking up to the sky pleadingly. Amber has turned beet red, Cyrus is biting his tongue to keep himself from laughing, and Andi's eyes are narrowing.

"You told T.J.?" Andi asks fiercely, turning to glare at Cyrus. "Jesus Christ, Cyrus, of course you told T.J.!"

"Wh- I didn't tell T.J. anything!"

"Then how does he know?" She asks accusingly.

"You absolute meathead," Amber says finally, her words frothing with anger. "I'm going to kill you!"

"I'm going to guess Amber told him."

"But that means-"

"Yeah, that's how Amortentia works, Andi," Buffy interjects, having caught on to what she was hinting at. "Two way street. Now, can we stop yelling at Cyrus?"

Andi and Amber stare at each other in silence, eyes bright and smiles wide, but nothing more being said or done. Everyone is looking to them, hoping for some action, but after a minute or two, upon realizing the scene is over, and the girls won't be providing anymore dramatics, they all turn back to their dinners.

"Well, I'm feeling incredibly out of place here now, so I'm leaving," T.J. stands abruptly, and Cyrus' gaze follows him, watching the smile on his face falter, and the light in his eyes dim. "Glad that the Amortentia has brought everyone here so much fucking joy. To the brides, to the grooms; I'm going to go pretend like I'm not crying myself to sleep. Later, skaters."

He stalks away, fists clenched, leaving only a clatter in the next hallway over in his wake, probably him pushing or kicking something in his frustration. His friends' reactions are minimal, Amber gazing concernedly for a moment after him, before turning back to Andi, Jonah and Walker still entangled, and Buffy and Marty now whispering in hushed tones. Cyrus is the only one who seems to miss his presence. He suddenly feels incredibly alone.

. . . . .

The thing about having a crush on T.J. is that Cyrus knows it is absolutely hopeless. He's not stupid. T.J. was the perfect guy- tall, muscular, ridiculously hot, effortlessly funny, brave, and loyal, and sweet. He's the best person Cyrus knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt. He's the kind of guy you couldn't help but fall in love with, at least a little bit.

And that's the thing. Everyone is in love with T.J. He has his pick of practically anyone in the school. And Cyrus knows he's nowhere near a first choice, in any regard. He never stood a chance.

So, when T.J. is in a terrible mood at breakfast the next morning (already seated and grumbling into his oatmeal by the time Cyrus is even up, according to Buffy), refusing to throw an arm around Cyrus like he usually does, or really, even look in his direction, Cyrus can't say it's surprising. Heartbreaking, earth-shattering, and absolutely devastating, maybe, but not surprising.

"T.J.," Cyrus asks towards the end of breakfast, before he leaves for his Herbology class. "Is everything okay?"

"'M fine." He shrugs noncommittally, and looks to Cyrus for the first time all day. His eyes are red and puffy, and he looks absolutely exhausted. He's also sporting a nasty shiner on his left side, that wasn't there last night.

"T.J.," Cyrus breathes, extending his hand unconsciously. He places gentle fingers just underneath the bruise, and T.J. flinches away, bringing Cyrus back to reality. He pulls his arm away, and takes a light hold on T.J.'s wrist instead. "What happened to your eye?"

"What are you, my babysitter?" T.J. jerks away from him, and stands up to leave. "Just butt out, Cyrus."

Cyrus watches him walk away, a horrible cold settling in his chest. He feels like he's been stabbed, and he's left hiccuping in the Great Hall, absolutely dumbstruck. Silent tears start to fall, but he wipes them away, grabbing his bag, and heading to the greenhouse for class, Buffy trailing just behind him.

. . . . .

"I just don't understand why he's being a dick!" Buffy exclaims, her arm linked with Cyrus' as they make their way towards the castle for their Charms class.

"Who?" Amber asks, sidling up to Cyrus. "Is this about my brother this morning?"

"Yes!" Buffy is madder than Cyrus has seen her in a long time, and he feels bad that his stupid crush is what's causing her practical mental break. "Why is he being a douche to Cyrus?" Amber bites her lip, and adjusts her books. Buffy freezes. "Oh, sweet Salazar Slytherin, you know, don't you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do!" Buffy crosses her arms accusatorially. "You're his sister, if he hasn't told Cyrus, he's told you, and it's about Cyrus!"

"Buffy-"

"He was fine last night," Cyrus interjects, giving Amber a pleading look. "But now he's icing me out and I don't know why."

Amber sighs. "It's nothing personal, it's just…"

"Amber," Cyrus says meekly, extremely hesitant to even ask. This was going to blow his whole cover. But he had to know. "Did Andi say something to him?"

"Say something to him?" Amber gives him a confused look. "About what?"

"Nothing," Cyrus says quickly, as Buffy's eyes widen. She looks at Cyrus with alarm, as he flushes. Amber looks between them, trying to figure out what was going on. "Forget I said anything."

And then it hits her.

"Oh my god!" She shrieks. "Oh my god! You smelled him in the Amortentia, didn't you?"

"Amber!" Buffy stage whispers fiercely. "You wanna say that a little louder, I don't think the people in the Astronomy Tower heard you!"

"Cyrus," Amber ignores Buffy's snark, and looks at Cyrus seriously. She puts her hands on his shoulders, and looks him in the eye, enunciating her next words firmly. "You need to go talk to him."

"Yeah," Buffy shakes her head, wrapping an arm around him. "He can't do that."

"Don't tell him what he can't do," Amber glares at Buffy, her voice just as authoritative now. "Cyrus, you need to talk to him."

"Why?" Cyrus asks, almost whining. He really didn't want to do the whole unrequited-love-that-leads-to-heartbreak thing with T.J. He was perfectly content to just live forever with a fantasy.

Except, he wasn't.

"That's all I can say," Amber presses her lips into a thin line, and shakes her head. Then, she turns to walk away, and Buffy shoots him an apologetic glance before following her. "But just trust me on this."

. . . . .

Cyrus drops unceremoniously into his seat, pulling a piece of parchment and a quill from his bag for the notes he'll be required to take during this lecture. Herbology was a lecture-heavy class, and Cyrus has it with the Gryffindors, which means it's one of Cyrus' favorites.

He watches wistfully as the other students begin to file in and find their seats. He's still alone at his table, as he usually sits beside T.J. in this class, and everyone knows not to separate them. Today, however, when T.J. walks in, he makes his way to the other side of the room, without so much as a glance in his direction.

Cyrus is certain he can hear his heart shatter, and whispers immediately break out when T.J. sits down next to a petite Gryffindor girl instead of Cyrus. Jonah and Marty, who entered just behind him, give him worried looks, but Cyrus can't meet their eyes. They pull a stool from another table and join Cyrus at the back, Jonah wrapping an arm around his waist, and Marty placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

. . . . .

"Cyrus!" T.J. is calling his name, but Cyrus doesn't want to stop. He wants to run, far away from this stupid school, and the stupid love potion that caused this whole thing, and far, far, far away from T.J. "Cyrus!"

"What do you want?" Cyrus whips around, fire in his eyes, and T.J. freezes in his tracks.

"Cyrus…"

"What did I even do?" Cyrus takes a step forward, his voice trembling. The last thing he'd wanted to do was cry, but now that he's here, in the moment, he knows there's nothing he can do to stop it. "You've been mad at me all day, and I don't even know why!"

"Cyrus, I'm not-"

"You are!" Jonah pauses behind them when he hears Cyrus shout, standing with his arms crossed, and eyes narrowed, taking a protective stance. Marty tries to pull him away, but he won't budge. "Because you stormed out on me last night at dinner, and you were snapping at me this morning, and I just spent the last hour being glared at by you, and this is the first time we've talked all day! And you're not even talking!"

"I just don't know what to say." T.J. looks behind him, giving Jonah and Marty a wary glance. "Can you guys give us a minute, please?"

Buffy would be expecting Marty soon, and if he's late for lunch, she'll come looking for him. Cyrus does not want her involved in this. So, when Jonah looks to him with a question in his eyes, Cyrus nods. Jonah gives a final glare to T.J., and walks away with Marty, albeit reluctantly.

"Start with why," Cyrus says after they're gone. His voice is strained and squeaky from the tears he's trying to hold back. It's starting to get a little harder to breathe, and T.J. seems really worried. "Why do you hate me all of the sudden? What did I do to make you mad? Because I can fix it! I can- I can change, I can stop doing whatever it is that's annoying you, I swear I can."

"Cyrus," T.J. practically tackles him in a hug, and Cyrus cries into his coat. "I'm not mad at you. I was never mad at you." Pulling away, T.J. reaches up to tuck a piece of hair behind Cyrus' ear. He smiles fondly. "And I don't need you to change. I don't want you to change. You are exactly the Cyrus we all need."

"T.J.," Cyrus says hesitantly. "You know you can talk to me about anything, right? Even if you think it'll hurt my feelings."

"I know," T.J. looks down at the ground, and bites his lip. "Maybe that's why I'm scared."

"Scared?" Cyrus asks teasingly. "T.J. Kippen, big bad Quidditch captain of Gryffindor is scared? Of what?"

"You." T.J. shrugs, and moves to lean against the side of the castle they've ended up beside. Cyrus follows suit, taken aback.

"Me?"

"Cyrus, you're the best person I know. Way better than anyone deserves. Especially me."

"T.J.," Cyrus says sadly, turning to face him. "That's not true."

"It is." T.J answers matter of factly, looking him in the eyes for the first time in two days. "You're the most important person in my life, Cyrus. My extraordinary relationship."

"T.J…" Cyrus says softly, practically melting at T.J.'s words. "You, too."

T.J. reaches for his hand, and Cyrus gives it willingly, allowing T.J. to lock their fingers together. It's then that Cyrus sees his bruised knuckles, and something clicks into place.

"What happened to your eye? Really." Cyrus asks quietly, looking up from their joined hands to meet T.J.'s gaze.

"Reed and I… we got into a fight."

"Why?"

"He told me about what happened on the last Hogsmeade trip." T.J. sighs. "Why didn't you?"

Cyrus flushes, ducking his head. "Because he's your friend. I didn't want to cause a fight. That didn't work out very well, apparently."

"Cyrus, he threatened you with an Unforgivable Curse!"

"Yeah, but I-"

"There's no excuse for something like that." T.J. says fiercely. "I told him to eat a dick, and then he swung at me. He's in the hospital wing."

"You didn't need to do that."

"Yeah," T.J. scoffs. "I did. He's not gonna get away with treating you like that."

"Why?"

"It was you," T.J. blurts. He looks relieved when he says it, as if the weight of the world had just been taken from his hands. But, he also looks reserved in a way that Cyrus has never seen him, almost as if he wanted to reach out and stuff his words back down. "In the Amortentia. It was you. Your stupid chocolate chocolate chip muffins, and your dumb cucumber melon lotion, and the baby taters you're always asking the house elves to make you, and-"

Cyrus couldn't wait any longer. He grabbed T.J.'s face and pressed their lips together, reveling in the firmness and warmth the kiss provided. T.J. hesitated, but responded eagerly after a moment, bringing his hands to Cyrus' back, and pulling him closer.

"Ask me what I smelled." Cyrus breathes, pulling back and grinning at T.J., who still seems to be in a state of shock.

"Cyrus…"

"Ask me what I smelled in the Amortentia." T.J. rests his forehead on Cyrus', a silent request that he can read perfectly. "It smelled like the Quidditch pitch. And blueberries, and laundry detergent, and you, you absolute dweeb, I smelled you!"

T.J. grinned, picking Cyrus up and spinning him around. Cyrus giggled, his arms around T.J.'s neck, and his fingers brushing the hair at the nape of his neck.

T.J. put him down, still smiling. "You really smelled me?"

Cyrus bites his lip and nods, which sends T.J.'s heart soaring. "You smelled me in a love potion! You love me!" He whispers excitedly, only barely resisting the urge to pump his fist.

"T.J.," Cyrus giggles, pulling him back in by his robe. "Just shut up and kiss me again."


	37. (M) STEREK - Things To Do On The Dates Y

Things To Do On The Dates You Aren't Having  
lielabell

Summary:  
"So are we dating now or what?" Stiles asks the third time he finds himself doing the obligatory postcoital cuddling with a certain sour wolf.

* * *

"So are we dating now or what?" Stiles asks the third time he finds himself doing the obligatory postcoital cuddling with a certain sour wolf.

Said sour wolf scowls. "Or what," he growls and Stiles automatically deducts fifteen minutes off of their afterglow allotment.

"Don't get snappish on me," he mutters as he as rubs his face against Derek's ridiculously well defined pecs. "I'm not worried about you still respecting me in the morning, I already know you won't."

Derek growls a little more, a pleasant rumble in the ear Stiles has pressed against his chest, and skims a hand over the back of Stiles head in a half-hearted cuff.

"Alright, alright. I'm shutting up," Stiles says with a yawn. And he does. For the next forty-five minutes, he does. Until he feels Derek's body relax against him, hears Derek's soft snores in his ears. "Just for the record," he tells the sleeping Alpha, "I think we kind of are."

Then he's up and out of the bed, dressing a little faster than normal because it's always awkward getting caught with your jeans around your knees. Five minutes later he's in his Jeep, cruising down the road back into town, music blaring out his windows and a smile the size of Texas plastered on his face.

"What's up with you and Derek?" Scott asks him a couple of weeks later, his eyes narrowed in that way they get when he thinks someone is pulling a fast one on him.

"Nothing," Stiles replies, because they still aren't officially dating or whatever. Just hanging out four nights a week and having sex whenever they can. Which is fine with Stiles, more than fine actually. He's not the sort who needs things pinned down or anything. And Derek is sort of the opposite of a romantic guy. God, Derek's version of romance probably involves dead woodland creatures or something equally horrific. Stiles smiles to himself at the thought of Derek leaving the remains of Bambi's mother on his doorstep and then has to blink his way back to reality when he realizes that Scott is shaking his shoulder. "What?" he asks, forcing himself to focus on his friend.

Scott snorts. "Yeah, nothing," he says, shaking his head. "Just watch it or that nothing is going to bite your face off next full moon."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "Did you do your Chem homework?" he asks, changing the subject to something less likely to end in Scott mocking him for all he's worth.

Allison sort of chews on her bottom lip a bit and stares at Stiles like she's trying to see into his mind. Which is kind of freaky and way out of character for her.

"You okay?" he ask, because he has some manners and knows better than to just come out with a 'what the hell is your problem' like he would if it were Scott. Or Jackson. Or Lydia. Huh. Maybe it's not manners. Maybe it's just Allison and her almost too sweet to be real face.

She blushes, because she's really a Disney Princess. "I was just going to ask you that," she says with a laugh.

"Oh. Alright." Stiles sticks the cap of his highlighter into his mouth and turns back to his text.

Allison laughs again, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "So, are you?"

"Am I what?"

"Okay." she chews on her lip again. "With, um, Derek. That is."

Stiles just blinks at her. "Um," he trails off, not really knowing what to say. Sure, he gets that she's not pure as the driven snow or anything, Scott has made that point perfectly clear, but she's still... well... a Disney Princess and talking to her about the fabulously aggressive kinky werewolf sex he's been having just doesn't seem right.

"I mean, you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but," she ducks her head a little, looking bashful and hopeful at the same time. "I just, it would be cool if you wanted to."

"Uh." Stiles still can't think of anything to say. "Yes?" he finally manages to choke out. Because, yeah, things are just fine between him and Derek. Just fine in that hot-damn-I-came-five-times-last-weekend sort of way.

"Oh good!" Allison practically bounces in her seat and unleashes one of those sunshine smiles of hers. "Um, if you want, you can totally talk to me about, you know," she does a quick glance around the quad, her eyes narrowing "_stuff_. Because I don't really have anyone else to talk to about _stuff_ that happens with Scott, um, during his special time of the month. For reasons. But you, well, you will be dealing with the same sorts of _stuff_. So, yeah. We should really talk about it together."

She looks so damn pleased that Stiles can't even bother to set her straight because he has a feeling that if he does, it will make her cry or something. And it's not nice to make sweet girls like Allison cry, never mind the fact that she's wicked awesome with a bow and could probably kill him with her bare hands if she wanted to. So Stiles just sorta smiles back at her and wonders how the hell he became her gay best friend.

"Oh, and don't worry about that not officially dating yet thing," she says breezily. "I'm sure Derek will get over that sooner or later. And even if he doesn't, we all know you're together. So it's no big deal, right?"

"Right," Stiles repeats, chewing a bit on the highlighter cap. He's not worried. He's never been worried. Not about that, anyway. Thing is, he's starting to think that maybe he ought to worry after all.

"So, you and Derek have been dating for, what, three months now?" Lydia asks as she spreads lip gloss on her lips in a way that shouldn't be distracting to a guy who sucks as much dick as Stiles does. Shouldn't be, but it is.

"What?" he asks, feeling that same old dazed feeling he gets whenever he looks at Lydia's mouth for too long.

She rolls her eyes and snaps her fingers in front of his face. "You and Derek. You've been dating for three months now, right? I mean," she wrinkles her nose, "that's how long you've been reeking of him anyway."

Stiles lifts his shoulder. "I guess so. Um, except we aren't dating."

"Yes you are."

Now it's Stiles turn to roll his eyes. "Dude, fucking someone doesn't not equal having a relationship with them. I thought you knew that."

"Don't be a dick," she shoots back. "And, whatever, you two are so not just fuck buddies. You cuddle. Non-stop. That is so not fuck buddy behavior."

"I'll take your word for it," Stiles says grumpily, because he really doesn't like talking about his and Derek's not-relationship. Which is kind of ironic, because thanks to Allison he's talking about it _all the damn time_. But Lydia is not Allison. Stiles can say no to Lydia. Stiles can tell her to fuck off and mind her own business. Except Stiles does no such thing and instead ends up talking to Lydia for the better part of an hour about the perfect, romantic Valentine's date that he and Derek most assuredly are not going to go on.

Because Derek hasn't asked him on any dates, not once in the three months they've been whatever they are to each other. And something tells him that Valentine's Day isn't going to be the magical exception to the Derek-isn't-dating-Stiles rule.

Which is fine. Perfectly fine. After all, the sex is awesome. And Stiles is a guy. Guys don't need all that hearts and flowers bullshit. Ask anyone.

Anyone except Stiles, that is.

Jackson is leaning against the locker next to Stiles's and smirking at him, which isn't new. Isn't new at all. But Stiles hasn't done anything particularly stupid recently, so he can't figure out what, exactly, Jackson is smirking for. It's not his typical I'm-better-than-you-are smirk, anyway, and the not knowing is starting to bother him.

"What the hell is your problem?" he snaps as he spins the combo out on his lock.

Jackson laughs, meanly because everything Jackson does has a bit of a nasty edge to it. "I don't have a problem," he says with that stupid smirk still in place. "You might though."

"No, I'm pretty sure you're the one with the problem."

"Oh am I?" And there goes an eyebrow lifting up to join the smirk. God damn it.

Stiles scowls at him and shoves things into his locker faster. "Fuck off."

Jackson raises his hands in a no-harm-no-foul gesture. "Look, dude, I'm just trying to do you a solid. I mean, I would want to know if someone I was trading bodily fluids with was seeing a little something something on the side."

"Fuck off," Stiles manages to say again, even though it feels like the world has suddenly stopped spinning and his stomach is made out of lead.

"Fine, then. I will." Jackson pushes off the lockers, a smug look coming onto his face. "See you around, Stiles," he says, clapping Stiles on the shoulder like they are friends instead of frienemies . "Or, you know, not. There won't be much room for you in the pack if some other bitch takes your place."

Stiles ought to say something back, something clever and cutting that will knock that smug look right off of Jackson's face. But all Stiles can do is stare into his locker with eyes that don't see anything except the scowl that is so frequently on his sour wolf's face.

"What do you mean you're busy?" Derek growls into the phone and Stiles can't help but tighten his grip on it.

"Exactly what I said. I'm busy. So, um, I can't see you tonight."

Derek makes a frustrated noise. "Busy doing what?"

"Things." Stiles runs a palm over the back of his head. "You know, boring stuff that people still have to do. Like homework and chores and things."

"Right." Derek does not sound amused. "You have to do homework. And chores. And so you are busy. And can't see me."

Stiles swallows. "Um, yeah. You got it. So, um, maybe tomorrow, alright?" Except he already knows that won't be happening. And Derek seems to know too, because he's growling into the phone again. "Look, I've got to go," Stiles says in a rush.

"Right. Because you have a busy night of things to get to." Derek's voice is tight with anger and Stiles gets it, he does. No one likes losing their access to easy sex. But Stiles just isn't in the mood anymore. Hasn't been for awhile. And Derek... well Derek's not lacking for company.

"Exactly," Stiles says. "Later." And then he hangs up the phone before Derek can say anything else. He lets out a particularly emo sigh and then slips the phone into his back pocket. "Right," he says aloud. "Wonderful. Alone again, naturally." And he throws himself onto his bed to sulk. Because that's what you do when your end things with your preternatural not-boyfriend. You lay in your bed and you sulk. Just ask Bella Swan.

Oh god. Did he just compare himself to Bella Swan? Stiles pulls a pillow over his head. "Someone needs to kill me now," he says to his empty room.

"If you're looking for someone to do the job, I might be willing to help out."

Stiles yelps, tossing his pillow as he scrambles up on his bed. "Derek, I told you I was busy!"

Derek's eyes are half-lidded as he rubs his lower lip. "Oh, yeah. I can see that. Super busy here."

God damn it. This is not how things are supposed to go. Derek is supposed to just... Stiles isn't sure what Derek is supposed to do, but standing there leaning up against his door frame isn't it. "What, were you outside my house when you called?" he asks when he can't take the intense staring any more.

"Yes," Derek says with no further explanation.

"Oh. Were you just in the area?" Stiles doesn't add that Derek's got no call to be in the area because he's been avoiding Derek for the better part of a week, but then he doesn't have to because, from the look on his face, Derek's already got the message.

Derek's eyes narrow and his lip curls. "No, I was not just in the area. I came here to see you, Stiles. Like I do every Friday night. It's kinda of a standing date."

"It's not date," Stiles snaps back. "It's never a date. Because we. Aren't. Dating."

Derek lets out a howl at that, his hands balling up into fists like he can't believe that Stiles had the gall to snap back at him. And just like that it's all too much.

"You should go," Stiles says softly. "I don't want you here."

"Yes," Derek says just as softly. "I can see that." He gives Stiles a long, hard look, that familiar scowl of his back in place. Then he nods sharply, turns on his heel and leaves.

Stiles does not, no matter what anyone might say, cry himself to sleep.

"Dude!" Scott slams into Stiles room like it's his own. "Did you break up with Derek?"

Stiles sighs as he looks up from his computer. "Kind of hard to break up with someone you aren't dating."

"Dude! What the hell!" Scott crosses the room faster than Stiles can track and slaps the back of Stiles's head. "Why would you do that?"

"That hurt!" Stiles rubs the back of his head, scowling at Scott for all he's worth.

Scott makes a face at him. "It was supposed to, you twat." He lets out the most put upon sigh in the history of the world. "Seriously? I can't believe you dumped Derek. He's, like, ten times higher up the food chain than you are. I love you, man, but you are never going to score with someone that hot again, male or female."

Stiles closes his eyes. "Shut up."

"No. I'm not going to, because you are my best friend and best friends tell each other when they are making massive, massive mistakes."

"I'm not making a mistake, Scott." Stiles turns back to his computer because right now trolling around on tumblr is definitely a better life choice than having this conversation.

Scott lets out an exasperated noise. "Dude, seriously? Are you really that out of it that you can't see how great a thing you had going with him?"

Stiles wants to yell and scream and punch things. But instead he just takes a deep breath and says quietly, "Ask me again if I'm making a mistake. And then listen, really listen, to my answer."

Scott shifts awkwardly where he stands, then lets out a breath and says, "Did you make a mistake, Stiles?"

"No," Stiles says in a voice empty of all emotion. "I didn't. I made a good decision. Yes, it hurts because I really liked Derek a lot. But things weren't working out and this is for the best." He runs a hand down his face and sighs. "Did I lie to you?"

"No." Scott sounds pained. "You believe it. You really believe it. God, you are even stupider than I thought."

"And you just pushed past the best friend line. Please leave."

For a moment it seems like Scott's not going to, the way he's standing there with his shoulders hunched and a mulish expression on his face. Then he shakes his head, shoulders slumping, and heads for the door. "Call me when your brain starts working again," he says as he exits.

Stiles flips him off and leaves it at that.

"Um, are you alright?" Allison asks, her face concerned and her hands twisted up together in her lap.

"Yeah, sure," Stiles says because telling the truth won't help anyone here.

"Because you don't look alright," Allison continues like he didn't say anything at all. "And you aren't acting alright. And I'm worried about you. We all are."

Stiles doesn't ask who that 'we' includes because he doesn't want to know. "I'm fine."

Allison's teeth bite into her lower lip. "Do you want to talk about it?" she offers hesitantly. And hell no he doesn't want to talk about it. Why in the name of god would anyone want to talk about it, let alone an emotionally constipated teenage boy? But Allison is doing that wounded puppy look and Stiles finds himself nodding anyway.

"Just, not here," he says because the last thing he needs is for it to get around the school that he was crying in his soup over his not-breakup with his not-boyfriend.

Allison nods, her eyes wide with compassion. "I understand completely." She places a hand over Stiles's and squeezes slightly. "How about my place, after school?"

Stiles nods, then winces as a thought crosses his mind. "Um, don't take this the wrong way, but can you not tell Scott or Jackson about this? I mean, I know you won't tell Jackson because you know how things are between us, but don't tell Scott either. He's..." Stiles trails off with a shake of the head.

"Don't worry, I won't tell him. I know how good he is at being emotionally sensitive."

Stiles snorts at the fact that she actually said the words 'emotionally sensitive,' let alone in reference to Scott. She laughs a little at that and Stiles can't help but join her.

"It's good," Allison says when they've calmed down.

"What is?"

She lifts a shoulder. "That you're still able to laugh. I, uh, wasn't. When things went bad with Scott, that is."

Stiles nods. "Well, you and Scott. You're a forever kind of love, aren't you? Me and Derek," he shrugs. "Not so much."

"Don't say that," Allison pleads, her hand squeezing Stiles's again.

Stiles shrugs, but doesn't say anything. Because Allison really is a Disney Princess, even if Stiles is not.

"I heard about your little relationship powwow with Allison," Lydia says, slapping her tray down in front of Stiles. She plops down on the bench and fluffs her hair.

Stiles swallows a bite of P.B. and J. and carefully sets the rest of the sandwich down. "Please don't tell me that you are looking to be part of round two. Because I've had as much strictly friends female bonding as I can take."

Lydia gives him her bitch please face. "Don't be stupid," she says as she peels the lid off of a chocolate pudding. She licks it clean a little more graphically than Stiles is comfortable with and then smirks at him. "I'm not the sort of girl who cries over lost loves. I'm the sort who gets even. And right now I'm think you need that second sort much more than the first. Am I right?" Stiles nods and she preens. "Of course I'm right. Anyway, here's the deal."

She places both of her hands on the table and leans forward. "You and Derek? Happy little couple. Everything is lovely and wonderful and the world is decorated with rainbows or whatever. Or at least that's what the other three idiots I hang out with seem to think. Me? Not so much. Because you and Derek, you never do anything together." Stiles opens his mouth to protest that, but she cuts him off with an upheld finger. "You snuggle on the couch, in Derek's house, you play video games, in Derek's house, you eat dinner together, in Derek's house, you fuck a lot, _in Derek's house_. Are you sensing a pattern here?"

Stiles scowls at her. "We went for walks a lot too," he mutters.

"Oh, yeah. Good point. You walked together. In the woods behind Derek's house. Where no one could see you at all. Because that's the stuff that dream dates are made of."

Stiles shifts in his seat. "Dude, I didn't need a dream date. I just a needed _a_ date."

"Exactly," Lydia says with a head nod. "And you didn't get it, did you?"

"No."

"And that's why you dumped his sorry ass, isn't it?"

"No."

Lydia blinks at that. "What?"

Stiles stares moodily at his chocolate milk for a moment and then sighs and shakes his head. "Okay, yeah, it had something to do with it. But that's not why I, uh, ended things."

Lydia waits for him to continue and when he doesn't, she make a tell-me-more hand motion and says, "And?"

"And, well," Stiles bites at his lower lip. "Look, I knew he was messing around with someone else alright. I could handle it just being about the sex. I mean, it's not exactly fun knowing that someone you care about is just in it for the happy times, but I could deal with that. Him sleeping around? Not so much."

Lydia holds up a hand. "Wait. You are saying that Derek was cheating on you?"

"No!" Stiles scowls at her. "We weren't dating. How many times do I have to say it? We. Weren't. Dating. And so, no, he wasn't cheating on me because you can't cheat on someone you aren't with."

"You do realize that you are the only person who thinks that the two of you weren't dating, right?" Lydia dips her spoon into the chocolate pudding and does that overly graphic licking thing again.

Stiles averts his eyes. "Um, that's not true."

"Yeah, it is."

He shakes his head. "No, it's not. Derek, uh, look can't you just take my word here?"

"No."

Stiles makes a face. "Fine. I asked him about it. If we were dating or not. And he said not. Every single time I asked, he said no. So," Stiles shrugs, "I stopped asking. He made his feelings clear enough, after all, and I wasn't going to just keep pushing the issue. It was just sex. That's all. And, like I said, I was sorta okay with that because sex with Derek is, god, just the most amazing thing in the universe is all. Yeah, it sucked that he wasn't as into me as I was into him, but that's life. And, really, who can blame him. I mean, have you looked at Derek lately? He's the whole enchilada. And I'm just a side of chips."

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Lydia says, her eyes going limpid. "You are at least refried beans."

Stiles crumples up his napkin and chucks it at her. "Fuck you and the horse you rode in on," he laughs. But she doesn't laugh with him.

"I'm sorry," she says instead, "I didn't know. About what he said, or that he was fucking around or any of it."

"Yeah, well," Stiles shrugs. "What can you do?"

She brushes her hair off her face, suddenly looking serious for the first time since she sat herself down. "How did you find out. Did he tell you? Or?"

"Jackson told me," Stiles admits. "He, uh, saw it go down and then tried to warn me about it. But he was such a fucking dick that I ignored him at first." Stiles takes a sip of his chocolate milk. "But, well, once I knew what to look for, the signs were totally there. So yeah. There you have it."

"Jackson," Lydia repeat, slowly. "Jackson is the one that told you what was going on?"

"Yup," Stiles confirms. "I guess I should thank him for it, but that guy's seriously the biggest tool I know. No offence."

"None taken." She looks thoughtful for a moment, then tosses her head and smiles winningly at him. "Enough of the sob story, sweetie. Let your Auntie Lydia tell you how you are going to make the Big Bad Wolf suffer for his crimes."

Stiles laughs again and shakes his head. "I don't want him to suffer for anything. But I wouldn't mind hearing what you've got up your sleeve anyway. Something tells me that you are going to lead me down the path that rocks."

"You have got to take him back," Jackson says by way of greeting, his eyes all crazy and his normally perfect hair mussed.

Styles slowly closes his locker before turning towards Jackson, a frown in place. "Take who back?" he asks just to be an ass.

"Derek," Jackson replies, panic clear in his voice. "Dude's gone totally mental."

"Yeah, not my problem." Stiles hitches his backpack onto his shoulder and turns to walk away, but is stopped by Jackson's hand on his arm. "What?"

Jackson swallows nervously. "I lied," he says, his voice little more than a hiss. "About it all. There was no other person. There never was. So, just, take him back, alright?"

Stiles shrugs off his hand. "Nice try, but it isn't going to work."

"Please."

"No." Stiles starts walking, hoping Jackson gets the hint, but of course he doesn't. No, Jackson just hurries along at his side, babbling about mistakes till Stiles wants to punch him in the face just to get him to shut up. "I'm seeing someone new, someone who actually manages to make me happy," he says, which is a total fucking lie, but Stiles doesn't care. Jackson is too messed up right now to tell anyway. "And even if I wasn't, I still wouldn't want him. Because he doesn't want me. Not really. And I'm sorry, but I'm no one's consolation prize."

Jackson snorts. "Sorry to ruin your Hallmark moment, but that's ass."

"Yeah, well I don't care what you think." He reaches out to open the door to the bathroom when he is suddenly up close and personal with an increasingly desperate looking Jackson. "Dude, let go of me!" He tries to shove the other boy off, but unfortunately Jackson is a freaking _werewolf_ and so the shoving does nothing at all.

"He's going to kill me," Jackson says, his voice a harsh whisper in Stiles ear. "He found out, somehow. And he's going to kill me. Dude, and I was just having a little fun. Sure, it was a little fun at his expense, but nothing to go all crazy as shit over. I swear to god, I thought he was going to rip off my balls."

"And I'm very, very sorry for you, but, like I said, not my problem." Stiles glances down the hall, trying to catch someone's eye. "A little help here," he calls, but no one wants to play good samaritan at all.

"Just, talk to him. Please." Jackson fingers dig into his arms. "Please, Stiles. It was a dick move, telling you what I did, but I don't deserve to die for it."

"Funny," Stiles says as the warning bell rings, "I think you do."

But he doesn't. He really doesn't. And that's why Stiles is standing in his bedroom, staring at his phone, trying to work up the courage to dial Derek's number.

"You aren't my consolation prize."

Stiles whirls around staring open mouthed at his window where, of course, Derek is standing. Like it's perfectly normal to scale your ex-not-boyfriend's wall and then climb into his room uninvited. "Dude."

"You're not."

Derek's eyes are red and his fingers end in claws, so Stiles doesn't say what he really wants to, which happens to be _get the fuck out_. Instead he goes with the much less likely to be rage inducing, "What?"

Derek shifts his weight from one foot to the other, looking desperately uncomfortable. "A consolation prize."

Because that clears things up. Stiles barely manages not to roll his eyes. "Oh."

"And I wasn't cheating on you."

Stiles does roll his eyes at that. "Yeah, I know."

"No, you don't." Derek takes a step closer, one hand reaching out almost as if he wants to touch Stiles and Stiles can't help but flinch back. Derek's eyes widen at that and his hand drops, fingers curling into fists. "I didn't cheat on you," he repeats, his voice a low growl. "And not just technically the way you are telling everyone I didn't. Because, fuck that. Of course we were together enough for it to have been cheating if I had been fucking someone else."

"Oh."

"Yeah, _oh_." Derek takes a deep breath. "And that's another thing. We were dating. We were. Even if it was just a shitty type of dating where we just hung around the house and had sex alot. We were still together. It was still important. At least it was to me."

"Derek," Stiles starts, but he stops when Derek shakes his head.

"No, let me finish. Then you can talk. Or not. Whatever. Just," he shakes his head again. "Let me finish, okay?"

Stiles nods. "Okay."

Derek flexes his hands, then nods. "Right. Like I was saying, we were together. A couple. Boyfriends, if you have to label it. Even if I was a crap one half the time and more likely to bite your head off then tell you how much you meant to me. And," he takes a steadying breath. "I'm sorry about that. That I never told you. I wish I had. I wish to god I had. Because you were my," he trails off with a strangled sound, "Being with you made me happier than I've ever been in my life. It's stupid for me to say that now. It's stupid and it doesn't even mean anything because how can you even believe me, when I never so much as told you I liked you when we were together?" He lets out a broken laugh. "But I couldn't let you go on thinking that what we were didn't matter. That _you_ didn't matter. Because it did. You do."

He licks his lips and takes another deep breath. "And I'm happy for you," Derek grits out, sounding exactly the opposite of happy. "Happy that you've found someone new. That they make you happy," he practically chokes on the word. "You deserve to be with someone who can tell you how they feel, who doesn't make you second guess yourself. So yeah." Derek's shoulders hunch forward like he's expecting a blow. "There. I've said what I wanted to say. Your turn now."

"Derek," Stiles's heart is beating so fast he's surprised it doesn't explode and he's smiling, he knows he is, and probably looks like a maniac, but he can't find it in him to care. "You are a fucking idiot, you know that?"

Derek's eyes widen, hurt flashing across his face. Then he squares his shoulders and nods. Clearly he's planning on taking this like a man, or whatever.

Stiles laughs, one of the raucous ones that makes people turn and stare. "You are the stupidest fucker I've ever met. Seriously? You think there's someone else? That there could ever be someone else? Are you really that dense? I mean, the whole rest of the world can tell that I'm ass over elbows for you and you think I've moved on?"

"There's no one else?" Derek ask, his voice so hopeful that it makes Stiles ache inside.

"Get you stupid face over here." Stiles gestures to him and Derek crosses the room faster than Stiles's human eyes can process. "Closer," he says, taking hold of Derek's jacket and yanking the man into his personal space. He reaches up and cups a hand behind Derek's head, pulling it down towards his neck. "Take a good, long sniff and and tell me yourself if there's someone new."

One of Derek's hands fists in the back of Stiles's shirt, tugging him closer until they are pressed chest to chest. The other hand strokes along Stiles's jaw before pushing at his face, angling his head away so that Stiles's neck is one long arc. Derek buries his nose in the crook of Stiles's neck, inhales deeply and then lets out a sharp, satisfied howl.

"Mine," he growls a second before he bites down.

Stiles's legs go weak and he practically swoons, which is really way too girly for him to even admit to himself, but still. That's what happens. It's hard not to swoon when your super sexy boyfriend-after-all is doing absolutely filthy things to your neck. Ask anyone.

"So, then, we're back together right?" Stiles asks three hours later as he snuggles up against Derek's chest in postcoital bliss.

"Of course we are," Derek growls, his arms tightening possessively around Stiles's body.

Stiles pokes him in his side. "Don't go all sour wolf on me," he teases, turning his head far enough to press a kiss to one of Derek's ridiculously perfect pecs. "I just want to make sure there are no future misunderstandings is all."

Derek growls again, that old familiar rumbling in his chest that never fails to make Stiles's heart skip a beat. "What part of mine didn't you understand?"

"Oh, no part in particular," Stiles says happily. "Just wanted to hear it again, is all."

"Mine." This time Derek's growl is almost a purr. "Mine." He presses a kiss into Stiles's hair. "Mine." He nips at Stiles's neck. "Any questions?"

"None whatsoever," Stiles reassures him. "And, just for the record, you're mine as well."

"Good," Derek says sleepily. "Now shut the fuck up already and go to sleep."


	38. (E) BOYF - Your Song's Got Me Feeling Li

your song's got me feeling like  
DivineProjectZero

Summary:

"Actually," the DJ says, "I watched you dance for a while."

God, he just wants to have this man for one night.

* * *

Shamelessly Queer Up In Prospect, more widely known as SQUIP, is a popular LGBT nightclub at the northern edge of Prospect Heights. Jeremy's never been there, mostly because he lives with Rich in Queens and he isn't interested in going down to Brooklyn for clubbing. Jeremy's not interested in clubbing in general.

But he's going to SQUIP because Brooke begged him to come be her wingman because the sexiest woman she's ever seen is a bartender there, and Jeremy owes Brooke a hundred favors. Plus, Christine has sworn up and down that SQUIP has some of the best music of all the gay scenes she's been to.

Well, if there's ever a time to hit up a gay nightclub, it's right after the Brooklyn Pride Night Parade, when he's still riding an adrenaline high and everybody's drunk on the atmosphere and determination to be as queer as possible.

Brooke and Rich have bullied him into his tightest pair of jeans and an equally tight blue teeshirt that apparently brings out the blue in his eyes or something. The three of them line up and enter SQUIP together a bit past 11PM. It's busy, as expected for a Pride night, and Jeremy feels a little overwhelmed already. His anxiety's mellowed out a fair bit over the years, and at twenty-four he's learned to be comfortable in his skin most of the time, but he's still not a fan of having so many strangers crowding his space.

Rich, on the other hand, looks excited. Jeremy knows without a doubt that Rich is definitely going to be bringing someone back to their apartment tonight, because it's what Rich does: bring random hot strangers home, hook up with them, and cook them breakfast before saying goodbye and never seeing them again (Jeremy's had breakfast with _so_ many attractive strangers).

Brooke, on the other hand, looks petrified as they start heading to the bar opposite the dance floor. She clutches Jeremy's arm in a death grip. "Oh god, there she is."

"Which one?" Jeremy asks. There are three bartenders spread out across the bar area, and two of them are discernibly women.

"Curly hair in the black tank top," Brooke says in a single breath.

Jeremy squints as they slow their approach to the bar, heading to a nearby empty standing table to assess the situation. Rich makes an appreciative sound. "Nice."

The bartender is definitely very pretty, with curly hair swept up in a bun and lips painted a classic blood red. She has eyes that could cut a man open. Brooke has good taste.

"Oh god, she's so beautiful," Brooke whimpers. "I'm so gay."

Rich laughs. "Girl, go get her number and our drinks."

"What if she's not into girls?" Brooke hisses.

"Why would she be working in a gay club if she's not into girls?" Jeremy asks.

"She could be ace, like Christine!"

"Unlikely," Rich says. "My bi-dar says she definitely swings that way."

"I don't even know if she's single," Brooke says. "Oh god, she's definitely too beautiful to be single. I'm doomed. I need to go home and eat fro-yo to recover from this."

"Slow down, we don't know if she's taken yet," Jeremy says.

At that moment, a tall, boyishly handsome man with a blinding smile comes through the crowd, reaching over the bar to tap the hot bartender's shoulder and pull her into a hug.

"Oh no, she has a boyfriend," Brooke says in a crushed voice. "A good-looking boyfriend."

"Uh, hugging doesn't mean they're dating," Jeremy points out. "We hug all the time. They could be friends."

"That's different," Brooke dismisses.

"Not really?"

Rich elbows Jeremy. "Go get us drinks and gossip. I want beer."

"Bossy," Jeremy complains, but he still complies. Rich bought the pre-parade drinks, so it's only fair. He watches the hot bartender girl and the handsome dude talk as he approaches the bar. Both of them are unfairly hot. He hopes they're just friends, because he doesn't want to see Brooke's crush be strangled to an early death. Sad Brooke is one of the most lethal things on the planet.

The person in front of him walks away with drinks, leaving the bar's other female bartender to look at Jeremy with an expectant look. "You ordering?"

"Yeah, um." Jeremy rattles off his order and watches her ring it up, trying to find an appropriate way to ask her about her colleague's orientation and availability, when the bartender—Jenna, her nametag says—sizes him up in one cool glance.

"I saw you come in with Blondie and Red-streak. You dating either of em?"

"Uh." Jeremy flounders. Brooke's been here a few times but this is only Rich's second time here, as far as he knows. Bartender Jenna must have a killer memory. "No, we're just friends. I mean, Brooke and I were each other's beards back in high school, but we're both, um, very homosexual."

Bartender Jenna quirks a smile at him as she pulls out two bottles of beer and starts pouring a gin and tonic. "So, all single?"

"Yeah." Jeremy glances back at his friends, both watching the bartender and hopefully-friend like hawks. He looks back at Bartender Jenna. "Are you asking because you're interested?"

"Not me," she says, grinning. She gestures in the hot bartender's direction with her chin. "Chloe's been making eyes at your blonde friend for a while. She messed up a drink order when she saw you two walk in here together."

Chloe must be the hot bartender. "Oh my god," Jeremy says, mirroring Bartender Jenna's grin. "Brooke's been talking about her for _weeks_. She thought that dude," he says, tipping his head to indicate Bartender Chloe's companion, "was _her_ boyfriend."

Jenna cackles. "Jake? No, they're best friends. That's it. And if you're interested," she says with a sly smile, "he's single too."

Jeremy chances another look at Handsome Friend Jake. He's really good-looking. To the point where it's a little intimidating, to be honest. Jeremy's always preferred guys who aren't so traditional Hollywood handsome. "Thanks, I'll think about it," he says instead with a laugh. He pays Jenna and tips her nicely for the info, and carries the drinks back to where Rich and Brooke are both giving him gossip-hungry looks.

"Your bartender crush's name is Chloe," he tells Brooke, purposefully keeping the most important part for last. "The hot guy," who just left the bar and headed back to the dance floor, "is named Jake." Brooke motions at him to hurry up and give up the good stuff. "And they're both single," he says, grinning as Brooke lights up with a small squeal.

She gives a furtive glance at her crush, who's busily wiping down her counter. Bartender Chloe doesn't look happy, but then again, she probably doesn't know that Jeremy is not Brooke's boyfriend. "Oh my god, should I go talk to her?"

"You totally should," Jeremy says. "Because the bartender who took my order said that she has a thing for you, too."

Rich whoops. Brooke claps both hands over her mouth with a squeak, her eyes huge and hopeful. "Really? Are you sure?"

"Brooke, go up to her and tell her that I'm not your boyfriend, then see how she reacts."

"Do it! You can do this," Rich says, gleeful.

Brooke glances at the bartender again before grabbing her G&T and downing most of it with grim determination. She slams her glass down and slaps her hands to her cheeks, heaving out a shaky sigh. "Okay. I'm gonna talk to her. I'm doing this."

"Good luck!" Rich and Jeremy both cheer, watching her walk towards the bar. They both sip at their beers, staring at Brooke as she reaches the bar counter and says something to Chloe. Jeremy notices that Jenna is openly grinning at the interaction.

He's not sure what Brooke says, but he can clearly see Chloe perk up with a smile at Brooke's words, the two girls both leaning close to each other over the bar counter.

"Oh yeah, she's definitely getting her number," Rich says approvingly. He takes a long swig from his beer bottle before setting it down with a wolfish grin. "And I'm gonna go see if that Jake dude is a good dancer."

Jeremy laughs. "Of course you are. Yeah, you go ahead. I'm gonna wait here for Christine."

"Text me if you need me," Rich says, and disappears into the crowd.

Jeremy hums, happy to watch Brooke flirt from afar, checking his phone to see when Christine will be arriving. The music transitions from a song Jeremy doesn't know to Nicki Minaj's "Super Bass," which has him tapping his foot along to the beat. He hums along to the song, reading a new text from Christine promising to be there in five minutes, and then sees Brooke walking back with a million-dollar smile on her face.

"She's working until the club closes at 3, and I have an early morning appointment so nothing's happening tonight. But," she sets a new beer in front of Jeremy and clinks her glass against it with a self-satisfied smile, "we're getting coffee tomorrow afternoon."

"Congratulations," Jeremy says, giving her a quick hug.

"She's so beautiful," Brooke sighs dreamily.

Jeremy laughs and finishes his first beer so he can get started on the one Brooke brought for him. "So what else did you guys talk about, other than setting up your coffee date?"

Brooke hums thoughtfully. "She lives in Red Hook, and she's worked here for three months now. She quit from some law firm and she's taking a break to reassess her life choices. Something like that."

"Damn," Jeremy says.

"Meanwhile, I'm just a real estate agent," Brooke says, mournful.

"I don't see what's wrong with that." Jeremy gulps down some more beer. He can feel the pleasant buzz of alcohol humming in his bloodstream. He sways lightly to the music. "I don't think Chloe would mind, either."

Brooke is about to respond when something else catches her gaze. She leans to the side and waves. "Christine!"

"Hey!" Christine half-jogs over, giving Brooke and Jeremy each a hug. "Charity is great but cleanup duties take forever," she sighs, adjusting her ace pride hairband and stealing a sip of Jeremy's beer. "Where's Rich?"

Jeremy gestures at the throng of people on the dance floor. "I think he's gonna try hook up with Brooke's crush's friend."

"Oh wow," Brooke says with a giggle.

"Did you get her number this time?" Christine asks.

"Actually," Brooke begins with a slow smile.

Christine gasps. "Oh my god, you did? Tell me everything right now!"

They chat like that at the edge of the crowd, with Jeremy buying another round for the three of them as the night goes on. It's a quarter to midnight when they finally get tired of yelling over the music and decide to go dance. Christine claps her hands in glee when the prelude to Rihanna's "S&M" starts playing.

"The Saturday night DJ here is so good!" she shouts over the beat, dragging Jeremy and Brooke closer to the front of the dancing crowd.

As much as Jeremy's not really a fan of clubbing, he does love _this_, the pulsing beat of music, the freedom in just dancing in the crowd without having to worry about appearances, the shared energy of a dancing mob, united by a song. He moves his hips to the rhythm of Rihanna's voice and sings along to the music, laughing as he watches Christine sings at the top of her voice, "_Sticks and bones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me_," throwing back her head and enjoying herself.

Jeremy loses himself to the music, barely bothered by the other sweaty bodies surrounding him, just him and his friends and the beat. He belts out, "'_Cause I may be bad but I'm perfectly good at it,_" with Christine and Brooke, all three of them dancing in sync. Just as he's shouting the last lines of the chorus, he looks up at the DJ.

Holy fuck.

The DJ, who's busy at work onstage and oblivious to Jeremy staring wide-eyed at him from only ten feet away, is insanely attractive. Not the GQ Cover kind of deal like Chloe's friend Jake, but the kind of handsome that you'd take a second look at on the street. The kind you'd realistically be able to see in your local coffeeshop and salivate over.

He has dark hair that's gelled back, a few errant curls hanging over one side of his forehead enticingly, begging to be brushed away. He's wearing dark-rimmed glasses that frame dark eyes that are focused with an intensity that Jeremy would like on himself. Strong jawline, plump lips that are meant to be kissed, and a wicked smile that makes Jeremy's knees a little weak. He feels his cock valiantly twitch in the tight confines of his jeans when the hottest DJ this side of the continent licks his lips in concentration, that flash of tongue giving Jeremy five-hundred different dirty ideas of what he could do with that tongue, where he wants it.

"Jeremy? You okay?" Christine shouts over the din, edging closer and tugging on his arm to get his attention. He has to shake his gaze away from the DJ to give her a half-assed reassuring smile, waving off her concern. Rihanna's voice gives away to a familiar beat, switching between songs so smoothly that Jeremy takes a while to recognize that they're dancing to a Little Mix number that he's heard a couple times before.

He manages to focus on dancing for the next few songs, only stealing fleeting glances at the DJ, who's rocking to the beat, the loose curls of his hair bouncing over his face. Jeremy would really like to know if that's what the DJ would look like during sex.

_Not now, boner_. Jeremy tears his eyes off of the DJ's bare forearms and turns sideways so he's no longer facing DJ Gorgeous. It doesn't change the fact that ninety percent of his focus is trained in the direction of the DJ's deck, but at least he's not openly drooling. He turns his head and catches a familiar streak of red hair out of the corner of his eye. "Rich!"

He waves at Rich until he catches his attention. Rich, sweaty and red-cheeked from exertion, makes his way towards their group, towing Tall Handsome Jake behind him.

"Oh my god, he actually did it," Brooke laughs. Jeremy's not even surprised. Rich knows how to be effortlessly likable, and it helps that he's got a very talented mouth (Jeremy may or may not have drunkenly made out with Rich back in college, just once, and it left quite the impression). Going by how Jake looks utterly charmed, Jeremy's going to wager the three of them will be having breakfast tomorrow.

"Hey guys, this is Jake," Rich introduces. "Jake, this is Christine, Brooke, and Jeremy, my roomie."

"Hi." Jake has a smile that could probably power an entire small city. "You're the one Chloe's been talking about, right?" he asks Brooke. Brooke flushes bright red at Chloe's name and nods.

"Hey," Rich says to Jeremy, "I'm taking Jake back to our place right now. You staying here or coming later?"

"Later. Have fun! No sex on the couch," Jeremy reminds him, pushing him towards Jake. "See you in the morning."

"Cool. Okay, we're leaving now." Rich quickly hugs Brooke and Christine goodbye before taking Jake's hand, entwining their fingers as they disappear through the crowd together. There's a small twinge of jealousy in the back of Jeremy's mind. He hasn't gotten laid in _months_.

His attention snaps back to Christine jumping up and down with excitement when the music slides into the beginning of Lady Gaga's "Born This Way." It's one of Jeremy's favorite songs to dance to, and it distracts him from the lazy heat in his blood and DJ Gorgeous on the stage. He pumps one fist in the air, jumping up and down with the crowd as everybody yell-sings, "_I'm on the right track baby, I was born this way!_"

It's so much fun that he's almost forgotten about the DJ and his ludicrously attractive face, and he's breathlessly laughing through the end of the song when he looks back up again and meets the DJ's eyes.

For a second, Jeremy freezes, caught in the DJ's dark gaze, a shock of lust crashing back into his system, and he's just helplessly staring when the DJ fucking _winks_ at him and then goes back to paying attention to his music.

Jeremy's pretty sure he just died right now. Yep. Bury him right here, please.

A remixed version of "Everybody" by Backstreet Boys is playing now, but Jeremy's forgotten how to dance. His joints are all wood and plastic, his face is burning, and he's simultaneously too turned on and too freaked out to remember how to move any of his limbs to the beat. He tries to mouth the lyrics along while Brooke and Christine mock-duet the song.

As the song ends, the beat goes on a loop as the DJ picks up a mic and addresses the crowd. "Hey there, everybody having fun?"

The crowd cheers in response. Jeremy's trying to keep his heart from jumping its way out of his throat because that voice, Jeremy wants to have sex with a voice, wow, he has a kink. Everything about this dumb gorgeous DJ is his kink, somebody save him.

"Alright, alright, I have a few more songs for you—"

"Jeremy?" Brooke puts her hand on his arm, looking concerned. "You don't look so good."

Christine turns to him at Brooke's words. "Oh no, are you okay? Are you dehydrated? Is it your blood sugar?"

"I'm fine," Jeremy says, voice wobbly. It doesn't seem to reassure them at all. "Just, uh, tired."

"Let's go take a break," Brooke says.

"Want me to come with you?" Christine asks.

Jeremy shakes his head, holding up his hand in an _I'm okay_ motion. Brooke says, "It's fine, you want to dance, right? I'll come get you if anything happens. Stay here."

Brooke takes Jeremy by the arm and drags him out of the crowd, making a beeline towards the bar. She waves a hand to get Chloe's attention.

"Hey, my friend needs some water, and maybe fresh air?"

Chloe looks at Jeremy with a critical eye, then grabs a plastic cup and pours water into it. "Yeah, he looks like he needs it." She hands the water to Jeremy, who takes a grateful gulp. "Follow me."

They follow Chloe around the bar to one of the back doors, which has an Employees Only sign hanging on it, and she ushers them through the doorway and a short corridor that leads to a back entrance. The cool air hits Jeremy in a rush and he shudders in relief.

"This is where staff take their smoke breaks, so nobody else should be bothering you. If they do, tell them you're my friends." Chloe nods at Jeremy. "Lemme know if you need anything."

"Thanks," Jeremy says, slumping down against the brick wall, reveling in the breeze of cold air. Brooke thanks Chloe as well, blushing when Chloe steps close and kisses her cheek, and then Chloe's slipping back inside, leaving them in the dimly lit alleyway.

"How are you feeling?" Brooke asks, squatting down beside him.

"Sweaty and gross." This is why he rarely comes out for these kinds of nights. They wring him out into a mess. "I think I was just a bit overwhelmed. I'm good now."

Brooke pets his shoulder. "You wanna stay out here some more?"

Jeremy tips his head back, thinking it over. He doesn't want Christine to be alone in there, but he wants to enjoy the fresh air and solitude for a little longer. The solution is pretty obvious. "Yeah, I think I'll stay here for a bit. You go have fun with Christine."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, it's fine. Besides, you should dance while you can. You gotta go home in a bit, right?"

Brooke checks her phone for the time and swears. "It's almost 1AM already. Okay, yeah, I'm gonna go in. I'll tell Christine where you are. Come back in whenever you feel like it, kay?" She kisses his cheek and stands up, brushing off her shorts. "Text me if you need anything."

"I will, I will. Thanks." Jeremy waves at her as she pushes the door open and disappears inside.

Alone out here, with the thumping sound of music muffled through the walls, Jeremy can feel the adrenaline ebbing away and a clammy sensation settling in. His shirt is drenched with perspiration from dancing and the heat of the crowd, and his jeans are clinging to him in a not-so-comfortable way. His hair is damp, some of it falling into his eyes, and he groans, wishing for a nice, soothing shower to rinse away the sticky feeling everywhere.

Dancing and laughing with his friends is fun, but god, the aftermath is always such a hard crash.

He gulps down the rest of the water, then pulls his knees up and settles his head between them, breathing in the crisp air. It's still early summer, so nights are cool and refreshing. He focuses on inhaling, then exhaling. The repetitive actions clear his head.

Just as he's feeling much better and contemplating returning inside, he hears the door beside him click open, so he lifts his head.

And finds himself face to face with DJ Holy-Fuck-He's-Even-Hotter-Up-Close.

The verbal equivalent of a keyboard smash clogs his throat, and he hastily swallows it down, just emitting a tiny squeak of surprise instead.

"I didn't think anybody else would be out here," the DJ says, frozen halfway through the exit with only one foot out in the alley, looking confused. "This is a staff only area, isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah," Jeremy croaks. "The bartender—Chloe—let us out here. She's a friend."

"Oh, okay, cool." DJ McGorgeous is fucking closing the door behind him and standing next to Jeremy, holy shit. "You mind if I smoke?"

Jeremy shakes his head, so the DJ pulls out a cigarette and lighter. The way the lighter's flame illuminates his face just enhances how handsome he looks. Jeremy is so close to either offering a blowjob right here or braining himself against the brick wall.

In an effort to save himself from making a terrible choice that will ensure he can never return to this part of Brooklyn again, he goes for inane small talk instead. "Your music is really good, by the way."

The DJ startles, blinking down at Jeremy for a good couple seconds before he grins. "Thanks, man."

"My friend, she loves to dance. She's been to a lot of places but she said you're one of the best DJs she's ever seen." Jeremy restrains himself from adding _and_ _you're one of the best-looking men I've ever seen in my life, please let me suck you off_. "I think she's your fan now."

"Aw, that's sweet," the DJ says, a pleased tint of red staining the tips of his ears. He took a slow drag and blew out a long puff of smoke, humming under his breath. "I think I know who you mean. The girl you were dancing with? Small, black hair, with a rainbow painted on one cheek?"

"Yeah, Christine. That's her."

"I've seen her around a few times. She really does love dancing. Makes my work a lot more worthwhile when you have people enjoying themselves." He slants a sly small smile towards Jeremy. "You seemed like you were having fun, too."

"Oh god, I just—I like dancing," Jeremy says, feeling a hot flush steal up his neck and face. "And you picked a lot of nice songs, so."

"Really?" The DJ's teasing tone is giving Jeremy's dick _so_ many ideas. "And here I thought you'd fled from my terrible playlist choices. You missed out on a Carly Rae mashup I worked super hard on."

"No way," Jeremy says. "Shit, I wish I'd heard it." He fucking loves Carly Rae Jepsen, and he's not ashamed of it. "I just needed some air," he explains, waving an arm around in an attempt at interpretive motion to portray what he's saying. "I get overwhelmed pretty easily."

The DJ makes an understanding sound, then narrows his eyes as he zeroes in on Jeremy's arm. "Hang on, is that a Pac-man tattoo?"

Jeremy's face heats up even more. "Er, yes."

The DJ drops the rest of his cig on the ground, crushing it underfoot before he steps closer and squats down right next to Jeremy, nearly giving him a fucking heart attack. "Can I see?"

Not trusting his voice to say anything coherent, Jeremy wordlessly offers his right arm to the DJ. From this close, Jeremy can smell him, the scent of smoke and something like—cinnamon?

"Neat," the DJ says, tracing the dots being eaten by Pac-Man on the inside of Jeremy's forearm. He shivers at the touch, feeling his dick go half-hard. "I love this kind of stuff. I played old-school games all the way through high school, like a fucking nerd."

"I like those kinda of stuff too," Jeremy says mostly on auto-pilot. He can't think straight (ha, straight. Him? On Pride?). "Favorite game used to be Apocalypse of the Damned. Still kinda is."

"No fucking way." Oh fuck, why is that gorgeous face so close to his, how is Jeremy supposed to maintain any sanity like this. "Me too."

They both stare at each other for a long silent moment.

"Actually," the DJ says, and he's inches away from Jeremy's face, breath brushing against Jeremy's lips, and this time he can't stop himself from shuddering hard when those fingertips graze up the inside of his arm. Dark brown eyes drop down to Jeremy's mouth, then look him in the eye again. "I watched you dance for a while."

"You did?" Jeremy asks. All his thoughts have gone fuzzy from the proximity of too much gorgeousness, so he can't stop himself from saying, "I had a hard time dancing because you're too distracting."

"Distracting?" He leans in closer, that awful wicked smile just a mere inch away. "I almost missed a song transition because I couldn't take my eyes off of you."

"I had to leave the dance floor because you fucking gave me a hard-on," Jeremy hisses, and DJ Fucking-Gorgeous-And-Maybe-Into-Jeremy barks a laugh at that. "Now are you gonna kiss me or—"

He's cut off by a hard, insistent mouth pressing against his own, a warm hand running up the inside of his elbow, another hand curling around the back of Jeremy's neck, dragging him in. Jeremy grabs the DJ by the collar of his teeshirt, trying to pull him closer despite the slightly awkward angle. A warm tongue licks across his lips and he opens them on instinct, moaning into the other's mouth when the kiss gets deeper, wetter, _filthier_. He's fully hard in his jeans by the time they separate, panting, Jeremy still clutching the DJ's shirt and the DJ still keeping a hand on the back of Jeremy's neck. The DJ leans his forehead against Jeremy's, licking his lips with a look that clearly says how badly he wants to kiss Jeremy again.

"Fuck, I was gonna be smooth and ask if you wanna hear a private mix from me," he says, voice low and husky, making all of Jeremy's insides shudder, "but you're killing me here, pretty boy."

"I wanna suck you off," Jeremy says, brain-to-mouth filter completely gone, earning a groan from the gorgeous DJ. He leans in so that his mouth is brushing against the other's. "I've wanted to blow you since the minute I saw you on that stage."

"_Fuck_." And then they're kissing again, the DJ biting Jeremy's lower lip so that Jeremy whines, hips bucking up, trying to turn sideways so he can plaster himself closer. The hand not on Jeremy's neck has traveled from his arm to his side, running a hot trail down his waist and pausing at the hem of his shirt before going under it, sliding torturously to rest against the bare skin of the small of Jeremy's back.

Jeremy's about to push the DJ back to straddle him and rut against him right here when he's shoved away.

"Okay, fucking hell, we gotta go somewhere more private and hygienic before I lose my mind," the DJ says in a shaky voice, holding Jeremy away at arm's length. He runs a hand through his hair, causing more of it to flop over onto his forehead, and Jeremy tries to lean in and kiss him again. "No, wait," he says, pushing Jeremy away. "Christ. I live ten minutes away, I can call a cab." He looks nervous. "If you wanna continue, that is."

Jeremy doesn't do one night stands. He's tried it before and it only ended in awkwardness and shattered egos. He doesn't have the confidence or mental strength to do what Rich does, smiling and saying goodbye in the morning with no messy feelings leftover. Going to a stranger's home for sex, with nothing but his dick's opinion, is a recipe for disaster.

But.

But he hasn't met anybody so fucking hot in his life who thinks Jeremy's worth his time, even if for only a night, and he doesn't seem to mind Jeremy's geeky tattoo or his gaming preferences. Seems to approve of it, even. And he's looking at Jeremy like he's worried that Jeremy will say no, like Jeremy means something.

God, he just wants to have this man for one night.

_Let me have this_, he thinks, to whatever higher beings are out there. _Just this one thing, please_.

"Call that cab right now," Jeremy says, ducking in to peck the side of the DJ's mouth, because it's a mouth that was made for kissing.

"Shit, okay, yes, fuck yeah." He tugs his phone out of the back pocket of his jeans, unlocking it and dialing the number on his phone, then pauses and scratches the back of his head with a sheepish grin. "Uh, by the way. I'm Michael." He holds out a hand.

Jeremy blinks and digests that. He shakes the outstretched hand with an incredulous laugh. "I'm Jeremy." Jesus, he said yes to going to somebody's home without even knowing their name first. He's gone crazy.

"Nice to meet ya, Jeremy," Michael says in a low voice, a lazy smile spreading on his lips as he blatantly eye-fucks Jeremy with a once-over, phone held to his ear. Even as he starts speaking into the phone, he doesn't take his eyes off of Jeremy.

Jeremy's seriously considering if he can squeeze that blowjob in before the cab gets here.

"Okay, it's only five minutes away, thank god." Michael puts his phone away and stands up, brushing off his knees while Jeremy follows suit. He offers a hand to Jeremy. "We should head to the front entrance."

"Okay," Jeremy says, heart pounding as he takes Michael's hand. Stupid, considering he just had Michael's tongue in his mouth just a few minutes ago, but reality is starting to sink in. Michael, this gorgeous specimen of a human being, wants to take Jeremy home. Wants to have sex with Jeremy. Fuck, that ten minute ride to Michael's place seems so far away.

They're heading back into the club, emerging from the staff entry when Jeremy sees Christine waving at him.

"Jeremy! Brooke's in the bathroom right now but she's leaving in a bit, so—" Then she notices Michael, then their joined hands. "—never mind, are you leaving?"

"Uh, yeah," Jeremy says, feeling his face go bright red. He makes hasty introductions. "Christine, Michael. Michael, Christine." They wave at each other. "I'm, uh, going to Michael's place. You gonna be okay?"

"Pfft, yeah, of course. Don't worry about me. Text me later so that I know where you are though, okay?" She smiles at Michael. "I love your music, by the way! I'm a total fan!"

"And I'm a fan of your dancing," Michael says, and his warm smile is doing weird things to Jeremy's stomach. "I promise to return your friend in one piece."

Christine laughs, hugging Jeremy and then shooing them both to the door. "Have fun!"

On the way out, Michael picks up a sports bag that's apparently full of his DJ equipment, and they stumble outside into the fresh air, Michael nodding goodbye to the bouncers while holding Jeremy's hand. They amble over to the street curb to wait for the cab.

"So you're not playing the full night?" Jeremy asks.

Michael shakes his head. "Nah, not tonight. Usually I take the eleven-to-three shifts for Saturdays, but they got a special guest for the last two hours today for Pride. So I can leave early." He raises their joined hands and kisses Jeremy's knuckles with a smile. "Lucky me."

Jeremy makes a pained noise. "You are _not_ helping me wait until we get to your place."

Michael laughs. "Patience isn't your strong suit, huh?"

Jeremy scowls and bumps his shoulder against Michael's. "Keep teasing me and I'll just fucking blow you in the cab."

"I'm supposed to find that a deterrent, _how_?"

"If I blow you in the cab, are you gonna be able to fuck me after that?" Jeremy asks.

Michael chokes just as the cab pulls around the corner. "Holy _shit_."

They slide into the backseat, Michael giving the driver an address that Jeremy thinks he can vaguely place. "You live in Bed-Stuy?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Middle Village, Queens. It's not too far away from your place, I guess."

Michael hums, running his thumb in small circles over Jeremy's knuckles. "So what's a Queens boy doing all the way down here in Brooklyn tonight?" he teases with a sly look.

"Christine was doing a charity thing for Pride," Jeremy says, leaning against Michael's shoulder. "And Brooke wanted to go to SQUIP afterwards because she's had a crush on one of the bartenders for weeks, so she dragged us there."

"Which bartender?"

"Chloe."

Michael huffs an amused chuckle. "Ah, so that's how you got access to the staff only break area. I guess the crush was mutual?"

"Mm, it worked out for both of them," Jeremy says, turning his head to look at Michael. His hard-on went away during the wait for the cab, but Michael's thumb tracing patterns on the back of his hand and the hungry look on his face is bringing back the urge to climb onto Michael's lap and grind down.

"Worked out for us too," Michael says, the words breathed out against Jeremy's lips.

Jeremy leans in for a kiss but Michael shakes his head with a grimace. "If I kiss you right now," he says quietly, so that the driver doesn't hear them over the hum of radio music, "I won't be able to stop."

_Then don't stop_, Jeremy doesn't say. He's sober enough to know that trying to have sex in a taxi can only lead to tragedy. Instead, he lets out a groan and slumps down, tipping his head sideways onto Michael's shoulder. "Are we there yet."

Michael chuckles, squeezing his hand. "Not yet, beautiful." He presses a kiss to Jeremy's hair, which makes Jeremy want to kiss him but also want to run away and screech his feelings out into a pillow, because _jesus fucking christ how is this man real_.

They sit there, nuzzling for a bit, until Michael taps Jeremy on the thigh and murmurs, "We're here."

Jeremy sits upright, looking out on the street. It's a nice neighborhood, a little nicer than where Jeremy lives, but overall it's not too different. Houses lined up in rows, yellow street lamps, a quiet residential area fast asleep in the middle of the night. The cab slows down to a stop and Michael pays the driver while Jeremy gets out of the cab, looking up and down the street. It's empty save for them.

"C'mon," Michael says, taking Jeremy's hand again. It's nice, getting to hold somebody's hand like this again.

Michael leads Jeremy to the front door, fishing out his keys on the way, then unlocks the door and pushes it open with an exaggerated _after you_ gesture. Jeremy giggles and steps inside.

A warm hand settles at the small of his back, guiding him as Michael flicks the lights on. The contact makes Jeremy shiver lightly, now that he knows Michael can touch him without reserve. A warmth settles in his belly, the slow lick of anticipation heating his blood.

"Before we start anything," Michael says, lowering his bag onto a coffee table and gesturing towards the kitchen area, "you need anything? Water?"

"I'm good," Jeremy says.

"Okay," Michael says, slowing to a stop in front of the open door of what looks like his bedroom. He puts a hand under Jeremy's chin, lifting his face up so that they're nose to nose. "You still want to do this?"

"Please," Jeremy breathes, leaning in as he says the word. He meets Michael halfway in a kiss, wrapping his arms around Michael's neck as Michael starts walking him backwards into the bedroom, one kiss after another, until the backs of Jeremy's knees are hitting the mattress. He falls back slowly, mostly by clinging onto Michael as Michael lowers him down, sighing in relief when his back is settled on the bed. He tugs on Michael until he gives in and lays down on top of Jeremy, a solid, warm weight pressing him down as they kiss, Jeremy licking into Michael's mouth and humming happily when Michael sucks on his tongue. He rocks his hips up, grinding against Michael's thigh as Michael groans, giving Jeremy's lips one last kiss before he peppers kisses down Jeremy's jaw to his neck to his collarbone.

"Can I mark you?" Michael asks, and Jeremy nods, too breathless to speak. Then Jeremy's keening as Michael scrapes his teeth against his collarbone, biting into the soft juncture between shoulder and neck before licking the teethmarks in apology.

Michael's mouth is the eighth wonder of the universe. Jeremy takes a moment to appreciate this before he takes hold of Michael's hair and pulls him back up so Jeremy can kiss him again.

They kiss and kiss and kiss until Jeremy's sure his brain is melted, his hips lazily rolling against Michael's, arousal buzzing through him at a nice leisurely frequency, and he decides that as much as he likes tasting Michael's mouth, he needs to taste Michael's dick soon before either of them come in their pants like horny teenagers.

"Move," he grunts. "I wanna blow you."

Michael dips down for one last peck before moving off of him. "I'm not saying no to _that_," he says, and Jeremy loves how he can hear the smile in Michael's voice, how it sounds just as it warm as it looks.

He stands up so that Michael can strip the covers off, leaving only the bedsheets and two pillows. He strips off his shirt, shoes, and socks while Michael clicks on a bedside lamp. He peels his jeans off, too, while he listens to the sound of Michael hunting for lube and condoms in his drawer. He fiddles with the waistband of his underwear, unsure of whether he should keep it on for now or if he should just strip it off. He turns on the bed to ask Michael if he has a preference.

"There we go," Michael announces, throwing a couple condom wrappers and a bottle of lube onto the bed as he turns around and sees Jeremy in nothing but his briefs, and he stops for a second, going a little wide-eyed.

Jeremy wants to say something, really, but it's hard to say anything when Michael is looking at him like he's the most miraculous thing he's ever seen.

"Fuck," Michael blurts, "you're so beautiful."

"Have you looked in a mirror before?" Jeremy jokes, but he's always been a sucker for praise, to the point where one of his exes had used it ruthlessly and wonderfully in bed. He knows he's blushing, his dick straining against his briefs, heart nearly beating its way out of his ribcage. He feels flayed open, helpless against Michael's warm eyes and gentle voice.

It's both terrifying and exhilarating.

"I mean it," Michael says, pausing to strip his shirt off and drop it into the floor. He's got very nice shoulders, and a soft middle that Jeremy aches to put his mouth on. Michael stands in front of where Jeremy's sitting on the edge of the bed, caressing Jeremy's cheek with one hand as he says, quiet and sincere, "I think you're one of the most beautiful things I've seen in my entire life."

Jeremy shivers, breath shuddering out of him as Michael's thumb slides across his lower lip. Hopeless in finding a suitable response, he takes the thumb into his mouth and sucks on it, looking up at Michael through his lashes.

"Your mouth, jesus," Michael says in a tone of worship, and Jeremy's entire insides go hot and molten at the way Michael's eyes go dark and hungry. He wants to be devoured alive by that gaze.

He keeps Michael's thumb in his mouth, licking around it as a preview as he unbuttons Michael's pants, shoving them down and helping Michael out of them. The tent in Michael's boxers is mouth-watering, a present begging to be unwrapped, and Jeremy doesn't hesitate to release Michael's thumb and lean forward to mouth against Michael's clothed cock.

"Fucking, fuck!" Michael doubles over, a hand scrabbling at Jeremy's shoulder. "Give a guy some warning!"

Jeremy moves away with a shrug. "Impulse. Sorry."

"Sure you are," Michael says. He pushes a thumb under his waistband, lowering it just the slightest bit in a casual tease. "How do you want me?"

"On the bed, it's easier." Jeremy turns and reaches for a condom while Michael climbs onto the bed, helping himself to a generous grope of Jeremy's ass on the way. Jeremy squeaks. "Dude!"

"Sorry, sorry. Impulse." Michael winks at him, settling with his back against the headboard, a pillow behind him. He offers the spare pillow to Jeremy. "Need one?"

"Not now." Jeremy settles between Michael's legs with the condom, hooking his fingers into the waistband, watching Michael's face for any sign of discomfort. So far, he only gets a smile and a nod to go ahead.

With permission granted, he pulls Michael's boxers off and throws them in a random direction, and he can't stop himself from giving a low impressed whistle when he gets to see Michael's cock, which is average in terms of length but thick enough to put all of Jeremy's exes to shame. Michael makes an embarrassed noise, but doesn't seem put off by Jeremy's open appreciation.

Jeremy tears the wrapper open with his teeth in a move that he's practiced a lot, which makes Michael's cock twitch, much to his pleasure. He rolls the condom onto Michael, pumping him a few times before lowering his head to give the tip an experimental lick. Michael hisses, a hand rubbing the lower half of his face as he looks down at Jeremy, pupils dilated and breathing uneven. Jeremy smiles at him and presses a chaste kiss to the tip of Michael's dick, enjoying Michael's muffled swear words before he finally opens his mouth and takes Michael down in one go.

Jeremy's mouth isn't anything all that special. Certainly not as talented as the likes of Michael or Rich, but there's one thing that he's good at, and that's suppressing his gag reflex.

So he swallows Michael down slow and steady, not stopping until his nose is buried in the dark thatch of curls at the base, listening to Michael babble, "What the fuck, how are you even—oh my god, Jeremy, holy fuck—"

Jeremy swallows around Michael, which earns him a strangled, "oh jesus you're gonna be the death of me." Then slowly pulls off until only the tip is in his mouth, taking a moment to breathe before he swallows Michael all the way down again, one hand reaching under to cup Michael's balls, massaging them as he bobs his head up and down. Michael pets his hair, which is nice. Fingers thread through his curls, and Jeremy hums in response, which causes Michael to curse loudly, hips twisting under Jeremy's mouth.

"Jeremy. Jeremy, stop."

He pauses halfway through deep-throating Michael to glance up at him, and Michael looks _wrecked_, dark hair curling over his forehead, glasses slightly askew, a fine sheen of sweat covering his chest. Jeremy pulls off completely and rests his chin on Michael's thigh.

"I don't mind if you come," Jeremy says, which is half a lie but mostly true. His voice rasps a bit from the abuse his throat just took. "I'm gonna be good with a handjob."

"_I_ mind," Michael huffs, pulling Jeremy up so they're in easy kissing distance. "I really wanna fuck you."

Which, fuck, Jeremy really wants that too. "Sounds good."

He kisses Michael, soft and slow, before he reluctantly pulls away from that magnificent mouth and sits back to pull his underwear off.

"You're gorgeous everywhere, aren't you," Michael says, kissing his temple, cheekbone, nose. A hand sneaks between his legs to stroke Jeremy once, twice. Jeremy gasps, dropping his forehead onto Michael's shoulder. "You're fucking perfect."

Michael gently bullies Jeremy into crawling forward and straddling him on his knees, Jeremy's hands on Michael's shoulders as Michael uncaps the lube and pours a generous amount over his fingers. Jeremy dips down to kiss the crown of Michael's head as he feels fingers trace up the curve of his ass, delving between the cheeks. He murmurs encouragement when a fingertip traces his hole, teasing him with only the barest bit of pressure.

"Michael," he whines.

Michael shushes him, dipping in a finger to the first knuckle, and Jeremy rolls his hips in an obvious plea for more.

Jeremy's always been a little ashamed about how needy he can get in bed. It doesn't matter whether he's topping or bottoming, but he tends to run his mouth when he's really getting into it, and mostly he just can't stop begging and whining. It's embarrassing, once the lust is out of his system, but he's never succeeded in turning it off, so mostly he tries to cover his mouth, muffle the awful, needy sounds that are ripped out of him as he comes apart.

It's no surprise that he starts pleading for a second finger pretty much as soon as the first finger's in, and he's trying to bite his pleas back but then Michael will lean up to kiss his chin, or stroke a hand over Jeremy's cock, and he forgets to tamp it down, the words all falling out of him without his brain's input. Just sheer, raw need overwhelming his senses as Michael pushes in a second finger, telling Jeremy how good he is, look at how well he takes it, isn't he a marvel to look at like this.

Then those fingertips graze over Jeremy's prostate and he's collapsing forward against Michael's chest, legs shaking as he tries to keep his ass up so that Michael can finger him open.

"You're doing great," Michael assures him, pressing a kiss to Jeremy's shoulder, and Jeremy hates how easily Michael is reading him line by line, learning him inside-out and taking him apart with just his words and fingers. He hates how much he loves it, the way Michael encourages him to be noisy, how Michael rewards him with praise for every little thing, how Michael seems to be happy with having Jeremy just the way he is, just like this.

"I know, I know," Michael says in response to Jeremy's garbled begging, pushing in a third finger while Jeremy keens into Michael's neck. "I'll fill you up, I promise. Just be patient, babe."

Jeremy's never had sex with somebody who calls him so many endearments before. He doesn't want to have sex without it ever again.

By the time Michael adds a fourth finger, Jeremy's delirious with need. He feels like his entire nervous system is on fire, every brush of Michael's skin against his a pleasurable burn, and his cock is dripping pre-come all over Michael's stomach. His begging is incoherent, just a jumble of whines and moans and, "fuck me, fuck me, please for the love of everything holy just _fuck_ _me_."

Then Michael's pulling his fingers out, which makes Jeremy whimper at the sensation of emptiness inside him, and firm hands are settling onto Jeremy's hips, pulling him right above Michael's dick. Jeremy looks into Michael's eyes, which are hungry and warm and so full of _affection_ that it hurts, and Michael whispers, "Ride me, gorgeous."

Panting, Jeremy obeys, positioning Michael's cock beneath him and sinking down onto it, moaning obscenely when he finally gets all of Michael's thick girth inside of him. He feels so full that for a moment he can't move, one hand clutching Michael's shoulder with a white-knuckled grip and the other hand blindly closing over one of Michael's on his hips. Michael nudges forward for a kiss, gripping his hand back, entwining their fingers. "Move when you're ready," he says into Jeremy's mouth.

Jeremy squeezes Michael's hand, melting into the kiss as he adjusts to the penetration, relaxes into it until his body start demanding more, more, _more_. Slowly, he lifts his hips up, feeling Michael slip out of him bit by bit, and when Michael is perilously close to slipping out entirely, he sits back down, swallowing the groan Michael lets out. He repeats the movement, slow then less slow then faster, kissing Michael's mouth and nose and even the rim of his glasses. He can't stop the noises spilling from his mouth, doesn't really care about them anymore. Here, there's just Michael inside him and Michael clutching his hip, Michael's hand holding his, Michael looking at Jeremy with so much adoration that Jeremy has to close his eyes.

"Move," he pants to Michael between movements, and then the hand on his hip clamps down as Michael's hips rock up as Jeremy's grinding down, fucking into Jeremy even harder, and they do it again and again. Harder, faster, and Jeremy's so close, almost there. "Fuck, Michael, please, touch me, I need you, please—"

And then the hand not holding Jeremy's is moving to Jeremy's cock, stroking fast and hard until Jeremy's coming with a high-pitched whine, splattering come all over Michael's chest, and Michael's gasping as Jeremy clenches around him.

"Move, you can move, I'm okay," Jeremy says, and Michael thrusts back up into him, twice, once more, then he's shuddering through orgasm, blindly kissing his way up Jeremy's throat, searching his mouth out, and Jeremy pulls him in with a hand on the back of his head, marveling at the softness of Michael's hair and the way Michael murmurs praise into Jeremy's mouth, _you're so beautiful, how are you so gorgeous, you're a fucking dream come true_. He swallows those words and makes himself believe them if only for right now, right here. In the quiet of the night, kissing Michael until the urge to cry drains away.

When Jeremy wakes up, there's daylight seeping in through the blinds, a heavy arm thrown over his waist, and a warm body cuddled up behind him. For a long, peaceful moment, Jeremy's tempted to go back to sleep.

He can hear the dull sound of a phone vibrating, somewhere on the carpeted floor.

It takes him a moment to realize it's probably his phone, and that he should have texted Christine or Rich or Brooke about his whereabouts. He'd been so out of it after the sex last night that he'd sleepily allowed Michael to wipe him off, then had cuddled up to Michael as soon as Michael has climbed under the blanket he'd just thrown over Jeremy and the bed. Jeremy hasn't even washed his face or brushed his teeth. Ew.

With great reluctance, he slips out of Michael's arms, heart clenching when Michael mumbles sadly in his sleep, burrowing under the covers as he gropes for his heat source. Jeremy finds his underwear and pulls it back on. He relocates his socks next, then pulls on his shirt. He fishes his phone out of his jean pockets and walks to the living room to check what he's missed, carrying his shoes and jeans in the hand not holding his phone.

He winces as his notifications alert him that he missed six calls and has twenty-seven texts waiting for him in his inbox.

**12:49AM Rich**

**jake has a car so he's driving us. IT'S A FUCKING MASERATI? WTF?**

**12:50AM Rich**

**oh man our house is gonna look like shit to him**

**12:53AM Rich**

**he's from Upper East Side oh no**

**12:56AM Rich**

**he's getting a phd at columbia what the shit**

**12:57AM Rich**

**HE VOLUNTEERS AT AN ANIMAL SHELTER TOO**

**1:05AM Rich**

**oh my god he's singing along to beyonce and killing it jesus take the wheel**

**1:09AM Rich**

**he just made a math joke. he's a nerdddd**

**1:12AM Rich**

**akjfskjln this boy is a mets fan I gotta marry him**

**1:19AM Rich**

**shit why is he so NICE**

**1:24AM Rich**

**he thinks les mis is better than spring awakening? clearly misguided**

**1:57AM Rich**

**we just spent 30 min arguing musical theatre**

**1:57AM Rich**

**best 30min ever**

**2:43AM Christine**

**Jeremy pls let me know if you're alive**

**3:01AM Christine**

**I'm just going to assume you had a good night. Please don't be murdered or anything. Text me back as soon as you can**

**10:38AM Rich**

**dude where r u?**

**10:42AM Rich**

**dud srsly**

**10:45AM Rich**

**jeremy heere are u alive? where the fuck did u go?**

**10:47AM Brooke**

**Jeremy, why is Rich calling me asking if you've been kidnapped?**

**10:48AM Christine**

**JEREMY CALL US BACK ASAP**

**10:56AM Rich**

**christine says u scored a hot dj! congrats bro!**

**10:59AM Rich**

**kinda funny u got laid last night while nobody else did**

**11:01AM Rich**

**….so um Jake and I fell asleep while arguing about jersey boys**

**11:02AM Rich**

**no sex. none. just talked and slept on the bed. some good cuddling**

**11:05AM Rich**

**I cooked him pancakes and he wants the recipe**

**11:07AM Rich**

**he also wants my number**

**11:08AM Rich**

**fuck he gives me feelings fuck fuck fuck**

**11:32AM Rich**

**ummm I think I have a new boyfriend**

Jeremy snorts at the last message, marveling at the things that have happened overnight. Brooke has gotten herself a date. Rich is in a relationship. Jeremy hooked up with a hot DJ.

The pleasant feeling sours in his gut as he looks back at the bedroom, longing to go back and crawl into bed with Michael. But he doesn't want to see Michael wake up and look at him like he doesn't understand why Jeremy's still here. He doesn't want to go see Michael's eyes turn cold or indifferent towards him.

History repeats itself. Jeremy Heere, getting his feelings mixed into a casual hookup, making a mess just like usual.

He presses his mouth in a grim line, texting all three friends back that he's alive and in Bed-Stuy, on his way home. He starts tugging his jeans back on, feeling weary and sad, wondering if he should at least leave a note behind. _Thanks for the sex, you're gorgeous, I'll never bother you again? But please call me maybe?_ Jeremy snorts at himself, crushing the idea of ever seeing Michael again. It's a terrible idea.

He's toeing his shoes on when he notices a stack of familiar-looking packaging on the coffee table, next to the bagful of DJ equipment. He walks closer to see a stack of games for the PS4. Out of curiosity, he shuffles through them. They're all different games from the same company: Entrance Studios. Jeremy likes them, so he recognizes all the games except one.

"The Bathroom Paradox?" Jeremy reads, puzzled. "Wasn't the launch date for this scheduled to be next month?"

"Yeah, it is."

Jeremy whips his head up to see Michael, naked save for boxers and glasses, standing in front of his bedroom, a sheepish half-grin on his handsome face. Half of Jeremy's brain is enjoying the view, while the other half is getting ready to commit suicide.

"Uh, sorry, I didn't mean to snoop," Jeremy says, setting the game down and stepping away from the coffee table, shame starting to creep in.

"No, really, if it's something super secret, I wouldn't leave it right here in plain view." Michael scratches the back of his head, looking embarrassed. "They sent out early copies for everybody involved in the project."

Jeremy blinks, looking back at the games, then at Michael. "You work for Entrance Studios?"

Michael shrugs, eyes darting towards the floor. "One of the developers, yeah."

"Holy shit," Jeremy says. "And DJ-ing is what, a hobby?"

Michael nods, still not looking at Jeremy directly. It hurts a little. "Only Saturday nights. Gotta slave away coding shit during the weekdays, so."

"How are you so cool?" Jeremy asks, mouth running ahead of his brain. He can't bring himself to regret it, though. Not when it's so gratifying to see Michael freeze, eyes darting back to Jeremy's.

"You think it's cool?"

"You're developing software on a full-time schedule and being a kickass DJ on a part-time basis simultaneously. How can anybody _not_ think that's the coolest shit ever?" Jeremy demands, because there's something about the uncertainty in Michael's eyes, the slump of his shoulders, that makes him want to hunt down whoever made Michael think he shouldn't be proud of what he does and hurt them. Makes him want to get on his knees and show Michael how much Jeremy wants to worship him, how the rest of the world is losing out if they don't agree.

Michael shrugs with a half-hearted smile. "You'd be surprised."

Fuck it. If Jeremy's not getting out of here with his dignity intact, he can at least give Michael this before he goes.

He walks to Michael and holds his face with both hands, keeping him in place as Jeremy leans in and says, "Michael, you are amazing. And you're gorgeous, and nice, and last night was one of the best I've ever had." _Tell me to stay. Tell me you still think I'm beautiful. Tell me and I'm all yours_. Jeremy swallows his pathetic neediness down and pulls Michael in to knock their foreheads together. "You're the coolest person I've ever met, and anybody who doesn't think so doesn't deserve you."

Michael looks at him for a long moment, then closes his eyes with a shaky exhale, both hands coming up to grip Jeremy's wrists.

"So what about you?" he asks, eyes still closed.

Jeremy's heart goes into double-time. "What about me?"

"Do you think so? Do you deserve me?" Michael opens his eyes, uncertainty and fear and hope shining in them. "Do you even _want_ to deserve me?"

Jeremy's heart is going at ninety miles per hour and he knows Michael can tell, can feel Jeremy's pulse going into overdrive by where his fingers are wrapped around the pulse points in Jeremy's wrists. He knows that Michael is probably just as scared as he is. So he swallows and says in a small, wavering voice, "I want to, please."

And Michael leans in, one hand around Jeremy's waist, the other cradling his cheek like he's something precious, kissing him like he thought he'd never get to do this again. Like he missed Jeremy even before Jeremy had left through the front door.

"Shit, I need to brush my teeth," Michael says as they break apart, and Jeremy laughs, tangling one hand with Michael's, relief and happiness crashing through him.

"Me too. Gah, I'm so gross right now."

"I have a spare toothbrush, use it." Michael kisses his cheek. "Stay and take a shower." Kisses Jeremy's nose. "Stay for lunch." Presses butterfly kisses on Jeremy's eyelids. "Stay for a while." He looks at Jeremy like Jeremy's the best thing he's ever seen. Jeremy can relate; he's pretty sure that's the expression he's wearing right now in regards to Michael, too. "Stay," Michael whispers.

"Careful, or I just might stay forever." Jeremy says, smiling against Michael's mouth.

Michael traces the happy curve of Jeremy's lips with his thumb. "Please do."

Jeremy hums and closes his eyes, kissing Michael again. And again.

Michael eventually pulls away, that gorgeous wicked smile on his mouth again. "Okay. Washing up, food, and maybe I can blow you this time." He winks.

"I'm not saying no to that," Jeremy says. Then something occurs to him. "Oh hey, can you play me that Carly Rae mashup you talked about?"

Michael swats Jeremy's ass. "I knew it, you're just here for Carly Rae and my playlist." He's laughing as he ducks down to kiss the side of Jeremy's neck. "I see your ulterior motives now."

"No, I'm here for the games," Jeremy deadpans, and Michael laughs harder, pulling Jeremy's head down to kiss his forehead before spinning him around in the living room, looking incandescently happy. And Jeremy can't help but think that Michael's laughter is the best music he's ever heard.

It's a song his heart could beat along to for the rest of his life.


	39. (T) TREEBROS - What the Fuck Are You Lau

What the fuck are you laughing at?  
sacrebleu0

Summary:  
"What the fuck are you laughing at?"

Evan traced over the words again and again as he perched on the branch of an apple tree. It was one hell of a soulmate quote, that's for sure. It had shown up on his forearm sometime during junior year, and his mom was probably (definitely) more excited about it than he was. He had been worried he would never get a quote, that he didn't have a soulmate; after all, who could ever love Evan Hansen?

Apparently, Connor Murphy.

Tree Bros AU where the first words your soulmate says to you are tattooed on your arm!

(E/N: So, this is basically 25k long and I just love this so I just said fuck it, put it in there. Enjoy!)

* * *

Chapter 01

Evan traced over the words again and again as he perched on the branch of an apple tree. "What the fuck are you laughing at?"

It was one hell of a soulmate quote, that's for sure. It had shown up on his forearm sometime during junior year, and his mom was probably (definitely) more excited about it than he was. He had been worried he would never get a quote, that he didn't have a soulmate; after all, who could ever love Evan Hansen? He had severe social anxiety, and he couldn't go more than five seconds without picking at his nails or the hem of his shirt or his shoelaces. He stuttered and he mumbled and he spoke too fast. He was unloveable by anyone except for his mother, and even that felt forced to Evan.

He looked down. Dappled sunlight filtered through the leaves and left highlights on the grass below. He scratched the bark of the tree by his thigh, trying to distract himself from what he was about to do. A tear dripped down his chin, falling on the stark black ink of the tattoo. Most everyone had found their soulmate by now, it was senior year, he was seventeen, what was wrong with him? He had no friends-only Jared Kleinman, who insisted he was a "family friend."

He wiped at his eye and looked up at the leaves above him. Cotton candy clouds drifted lazily in the sky. It was a beautiful day.

He let go of the branch.

Wind whistled by his ear.

His arm went numb.

"I, uh, I fell. Out of a tree."

Evan picked at his cast as Jared laughed. "You what? What are you, an acorn?" His infectious laughter made Evan feel a little less anxious, and he sheepishly smiled downward. "God, you're hilarious. Anyway, I guess I'll see you around?" He flashed his signature Jared Kleinman smile at Evan and turned, walking down the hallway.

Evan waved at him gently, curling in on himself as he was alone once again. He still heard Jared's voice as he walked away. "Hey, Connor, digging the new hair length! Very school shooter chic."

He looked over his shoulder and saw Jared standing next to a tall boy-Connor-with shoulder-length hair. He looked... bitter. His mouth was pressed in a hard line as he looked down at Jared, his fists white-knuckle gripping his messenger bag.

"It was a... I was joking." Jared sounded exasperated or even slightly scared to Evan, which worried him greatly.

"I know. It's hilarious. Don't you see how hard I'm laughing?" Connor's voice was cold and stony. If Evan wasn't already terrified of him, he'd laugh. "Am I not laughing hard enough for you?" Connor growled, stepping into Jared's personal space dangerously.

Jared laughed awkwardly, taking a step back. "You're such a freak," he mumbled as he retreated down the hallway past Evan.

Connor's eyes caught Evan's as they followed Jared. Evan cracked a hesitant smile at the unexpected eye contact, immediately scolding himself for being so awkward. Connor strode towards him, scowling. "What the fuck are you laughing at?" he threatened.

Evan's blood ran cold. His hand shot up to his cast instinctively, which covered the same remark tattooed onto his skin. His face turned red and his palms turned sweaty as he grasped for words. Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit, his mind screamed in a never-ending loop. "What?" was all he could manage, his throat hoarse and his brain running at a mile a minute.

Connor took a step back, sneering. "I'm not a freak, you're the freak," he grumbled, shoving past Evan as he ran down the hallway. His combat boots loudly hit the linoleum floor and Evan swallowed. Jesus Christ, was he his soulmate?

He never even fathomed that his soulmate could be a boy, much less a boy like Connor. Anxiety flooded his senses and bile pooled in his stomach. His head swam and his temples burned. He pressed his casted hand to his forehead and he fell back against the lockers, the hallway turning and warping around him.

Calm down, Evan, he thought. Deep breaths. He slowly filled his lungs with air and expelled it. Again. And again. His heart rate slowed. The bell above his head rang loudly and he flinched. He resolved to think about it more during first period, skittering down the hallway in an attempt to regain his footing.

His brain wouldn't shut up for the entire day. Connor. Connor. What did he know about Connor?

His last name was Murphy, Evan thought. He was the brother of Zoe Murphy. She was a really nice girl, and Evan had humored the thought of her being his soulmate for a while before he got his tattoo. But her soulmate ended up being Alana Beck. He was devastated for a week, scratching and clawing at his stupid, blank arm until it bled.

If he really thought about it, he might have remembered seeing him last year. He was smoking outside the cafetorium during the Jazz Band winter concert. Evan had gone to support Jared after learning he played the trumpet, but halfway through he had to go outside for some fresh air because he was overwhelmed by all the loud noise. He had spotted a pale boy dressed in all black, smoking something and leaning against the wall. He seemed to be brooding, so Evan figured it'd be best to just leave him alone. After he regained his composure, he'd re-entered the cafetorium and he didn't see Connor again.

God, was he going to have to talk to him now? How could he? Connor didn't exactly seem like the most approachable guy, especially not to an anxious, socially awkward mess like Evan. The tip of his pencil broke and he realized he had been scribbling in his notebook absentmindedly. Thankfully, the teacher didn't notice and Evan resumed doodling.

His eyes wandered to his cast. It covered his soulmate quote, which was normally the subject of his doodles. He often crossed it out with Sharpie or filled in the holes of the letters or went over it with different colors. The dark ink never budged, no matter how hard he scraped at it. A plain, sans-serif font with an aggressive statement.

"What the fuck are you laughing at?" his arm taunted.

He stopped fiddling with the fabric under his cast and decided to try and pay attention in class for once to no avail.

Dear Evan Hansen,

Turns out this wasn't an amazing day after all. This isn't going to be an amazing week or an amazing year, because why would it be?

I know, because there was Zoe. But now apparently there's Connor. Connor, who I don't even know, and doesn't know me. Maybe if I could just talk to him. Maybe nothing would be different at all. I wish everything was different.

I wish I was part of something. I wish that anything I said mattered to anyone. I mean face it, would anyone notice if I just disappeared tomorrow?

Sincerely,

Your most best, and dearest friend, me.

He pressed the Print button with finality, despite still feeling shitty about the day. He found his soulmate, which was a good thing, but it was Connor Murphy, which was decidedly not a good thing. That asshole had been on his mind all day. Jared had teased him relentlessly at lunch for his cast, which thankfully took his mind off of him for at least a little while, but as soon as Jared left his mind was overwhelmed once more. Maybe "What the fuck are you laughing at?" is a more common statement than Evan thought, and he wasn't his soulmate after all. He found solace in this pipe dream.

Evan stood and stretched. He felt a tap on his shoulder and whipped around, realizing he wasn't alone in the school library.

"How'd you, um, how'd you break it?" Connor said, pointing at his arm. Evan's heart jumped to his throat and he stared blankly at his face. His hands curled into fists at his sides. Connor had very blue eyes, Evan noted, except for a little bit of brown in his right one. "Your arm."

Evan shook his head to shake himself out of his reverie. "Oh, y-yeah, I, uh, I fell out of a t-tree." He mentally kicked himself for stuttering so much.

He was caught off guard by Connor laughing. He had a nice laugh. His eyes crinkled and his frown had turned into a wide, open-mouth smile. His hand rose to cover his grin as he was obviously taken by surprise. "Well if that isn't just the saddest fucking thing I've ever heard, oh my God," he chuckled, making Evan laugh awkwardly in response. "Nobody- uh- nobody's signed it," Connor stated, composing himself again. Evan felt heat rise to his face; he felt like he was intruding on a private moment.

Evan rose his arm, looking at it. "Yeah, um, I know," he stuttered. God, he was making such a fool of himself in front of Connor, he thought.

"I'll sign it."

Evan's heart stopped and his eyes widened. Connor's hands fiddled with the strap of his messenger bag, maybe a nervous tic of his? He had a sheet of paper in his left hand. Evan tried to detect any sarcasm or mockery, but he couldn't find any. He waited a beat before responding, feeling heat rise to his face. "You-You don't have to," he said, looking back down.

Connor took a step closer to Evan. "Do you have a Sharpie?" he asked, long fingers worrying at his strap as he tucked the sheet of paper into his arm. Evan dug into the side pocket of his backpack and retrieved a black Sharpie, handing it to Connor with a shaking hand. His therapist's voice echoed in his mind: Take deep breaths. It's not the end of the world.

Connor tugged the cap of the pen off with his teeth and grabbed Evan's casted hand, making him yelp in surprise. Connor looked at him and his grip softened as he began to scrawl his name on the cast. His handwriting was so big, it almost took up the entire cast. It was messy and rushed, but Evan felt flustered nonetheless. Connor, his soulmate, just signed his cast. Did he even know that he was his soulmate?

"There. Now we can both pretend that we have friends," Connor sighed, capping the pen and handing it back to Evan. He looked at Evan with an undetectable emotion.

Evan laughed awkwardly, reaching up to rub the back of his neck as he avoided eye contact. "Ha, y-yeah, I guess s-so," he managed to say.

"Oh, is this yours? 'Dear Evan Hansen,' that's your name, right?" Connor asked, taking the sheet of paper out from his side. He held it out to Evan, who froze.

"O-Oh, yeah, it is, it's, um. It's f-for an assignment, I-" Evan choked out, reaching for the paper.

Connor looked down at the paper, holding it closer to himself and out of Evan's reach. "...'There was Zoe, but now apparently there's Connor'? What the fuck? Is this... is this about me?" he fumed, eyes darting back up to meet Evan's.

Evan's face flushed dark red as he reached for the paper desperately. "N-No, different Connor, it's something else, I, uh, it's not-" Connor held the letter out of Evan's reach-not too difficult, considering he had a few inches on Evan height-wise.

"You wrote this to freak me out, didn't you?" Connor's voice was calm, and it scared Evan even more than it would if he were angry. "You saw I was the only person in the library and you printed this weird-ass note about me so I'd find it and blow up. Then you could tell everyone that I'm a fucking psychopath!" Connor lashed out, running a hand through his hair incredulously.

"W-What? No, w-why would I-"

"Well I'm not, okay? I'm not fucking crazy!" Connor yelled, gesticulating wildly.

Evan's heart broke in two as he looked up at the frustrated boy in front of him. He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes; he was an anxious crier and he hated getting yelled at. "I d-d-didn't say you were! I, um, it was for my therap-pist," Evan choked out, trying to suppress a sniffle.

Connor crumpled the paper and shoved it into the pocket of his jacket, pushing past Evan. His face was red with anger. Evan stumbled backwards, nearly falling on his ass. Connor had pushed him twice today... how was he going to ever end up as his soulmate, Evan wondered. "C-Connor, I, uh, I really need that paper canyougiveitbackIreallyneeditpleasegiveitbackpleasegiveitback!" His words slurred together as he scrambled to chase Connor while holding back tears. He was already out the door and storming down the walkway when Evan reached the glass door, though, and he sighed.

Defeated, Evan wiped his tears on his forearm and retreated back to his computer to print another copy of the letter. His mom would be pissed-or, rather, disappointed-if he didn't have a letter to show her when she got home.

After Evan got home from school, he quickly threw his backpack on his bed and ran right back out the front door. He decided he would go to the apple orchard near his apartment complex; he went there whenever he was feeling particularly shitty and the trees always helped him calm down. He hadn't been since his botched suicide attempt, though.

His eyes darted to the cast at his side, now branded with his apparent soulmate's name. He bit back a bitter laugh at the irony of it covering his soulmate quote. Of course Evan would get Connor Murphy as his fucking soulmate. That's just his luck, wasn't it?

Evan decided to get a friend-er, family friend's input on the matter. He fished his phone out of his pocket and typed a text to Jared. He was shocked to see an immediate reply.

[4:17 PM] Evan Hansen: Uh, Jared, I need your advice on something.

[4:17 PM] the insanely cool jared: shoot, ev

[4:18 PM] Evan Hansen: Well. I think I found my soulmate?

[4:19 PM] the insanely cool jared: wait really? holy shit congrats my dude

[4:19 PM] the insanely cool jared: whos the lucky girl?

[4:20 PM] Evan Hansen: Well, uh, that's the problem.

[4:21 PM] Evan Hansen: It's not a girl. I think my soulmate is Connor Murphy.

A long pause. Evan wiped his sweaty palms on his khakis as he waited for Jared to reply. He was nearing the orchard.

[4:24 PM] the insanely cool jared: har har very funny evan whos ur actual soulmate

[4:25 PM] Evan Hansen: I'm serious, Jared. You know how my soulmate quote is "what the fuck are you laughing at?" He said that to me today. First time I've actually talked to him.

[4:26 PM] the insanely cool jared: holy fucking SHIT evan

[4:26 PM] the insanely cool jared: you know how to pick a fucking keeper dont u

[4:27 PM] Evan Hansen: I didn't have a choice! Trust me, I'd choose someone else if I could...

[4:28 PM] Evan Hansen: So, what do I do? How do I approach him?

[4:29 PM] the insanely cool jared: i have no fuckin clue man

[4:29 PM] the insanely cool jared: hes like easily the least dateable person at our school

[4:30 PM] the insanely cool jared: maybe offer to shoot up with him or something lmao

[4:31 PM] Evan Hansen: This is serious, Jared! I don't know what to do! I can't even make friends, much less flirt.

[4:32 PM] the insanely cool jared: well at least youre both socially inept

[4:32 PM] the insanely cool jared: maybe hell find it charming

[4:33 PM] the insanely cool jared: i gtg gl tho

[4:33 PM] Evan Hansen: Ugh. Okay. Sorry for bothering you.

Evan locked his phone and shoved it back in his pocket as he approached the orchard. He gently pushed the old, rusted gate open and entered, closing it with a loud squeak. The orchard had been closed for almost a decade and weeds had overgrown all the pathways, but Evan loved to climb the giant apple trees.

He bounded down the path, breathing in the fresh air gratefully. It did wonders for his anxiety, and it was just what he needed after a stressful first day of senior year. He scouted out the perfect tree to climb near the front of the orchard and began to scale it with an experienced proficiency. He sat on one of the first branches, finding no motivation to climb higher and slumping down against the trunk.

A breeze whistled past his ear and he sighed happily. Sitting in the branches of a tree was his happy place, free from the stresses of high school. Jared loved to tease him about how his "only friends were trees" but Evan didn't see anything wrong with that.

He heard a deep rumbling and he turned to see what the source was. A dingy truck had driven up to the wrought iron fence and parked. Evan tilted his head in confusion; as far as he knew, he was the only person who still came to this orchard. He sat up and wrapped his uncasted arm around the branch below him to keep his balance.

The door opened and slammed shut. Evan internally screamed. Of course the driver of the truck was none other than Connor Murphy. He shoved his keys into his pocket, the long black lanyard hanging out of his skinny jeans. He flung open the gate with a loud screech and didn't bother to close it.

Evan shifted his weight on the branch anxiously and cursed under his breath when it creaked. Connor immediately tried to pinpoint the source of the sound. Evan sat as still as he possibly could until Connor relaxed again and continued down the path. Evan quietly sighed with relief and dropped his head back against the trunk of the tree. This force caused an apple to fall off the branch he was sitting on and roll into Connor's path.

Evan buried his face in his hands and groaned quietly, cursing every god in existence. Connor's eyes snapped up directly to Evan and frowned. "Evan Hansen? What the fuck are you doing here?"

Evan reluctantly climbed down from the tree, bracing himself for Connor's wrath. His mind was already buzzing with excuses. "I, um, I come out here when I need a b-break. I like… climbing trees." And he had to choose the worst excuse, didn't he? He mentally slapped himself.

Connor rolled his eyes. "You obviously aren't very good at it." Evan rubbed his cast and laughed awkwardly as he continued. "I can't fucking escape you today, can I?" he grumbled, pulling a joint and a lighter out of his jacket pocket.

Evan coughed upon seeing the weed. "I-I-Sorry, I guess. I didn't m-mean to upset you. At the library, I mean," he added. He always felt the need to apologize.

Connor sighed, lighting the joint. "Sure. Whatever. God, you must think I'm insane." He took a deep breath and held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds before blowing out a cloud of smoke.

Evan grimaced at the stench of weed; he'd never smelled it before and it took him off guard. "I d-don't think you're insane," he tried to comfort Connor.

A cynical laugh. "Bullshit, Hansen. I don't need your pity." He ran a hand through his long hair in an exasperated manner as Evan choked out an apology. "How do you know Zoe?" he asked, changing the subject. At Evan's puzzled look, he elaborated, "You mentioned her. In the letter." He patted his jacket pocket, seemingly unwilling to draw the letter out.

Evan felt his shoulders rise in defense and embarrassment. He felt his body flush and he picked at his cast subconsciously. "I, um, well, I don't? Not really. I w-was, uh, looking for my soulmate, and she. Um. She..." He trailed off, hoping that Connor wouldn't make him finish that statement. Admitting this to her brother was beyond shameful, but Evan couldn't think of a believable lie on the spot and he didn't really want to lie to Connor, someone he was trying to build trust with.

Connor scoffed, puffs of smoke curling in the autumn air. "Jesus. She found Alana already."

"I know, I-I'm, uh. Sorry." A painful silence. Evan bit his fingernail, waiting (hoping) for Connor to say something so he didn't have to.

"You apologize a lot," Connor observed.

Evan felt another wave of embarrassment crash over him. "S-Sorry. I, uh, I mean, you know what I mean," he mumbled awkwardly.

Connor barked out a laugh and Evan couldn't help but laugh with him. "Sit," Connor instructed as he sat at the base of the tree. Evan quickly scrambled to the ground, sitting cross-legged next to him. A minute passed, Connor taking another deep breath and exhaling smoke. "How do you know about this shitty orchard?" he asked hesitantly.

Evan picked at a blade of grass as he spoke. "Well, I find trees really, uh, fascinating? And my mom used to take me here sometimes when it was still open. What, uh, what about you?" he asked.

"Me too. I mean, when Zoe and I were little, my parents used to take us out here all the time. I like it a lot more now that it's abandoned, though." Connor looked down the path and took another drag, seemingly nostalgic.

Evan nodded. "Yeah. I think I like it more this way too. L-Less people. Except for you, I guess." He congratulated himself sarcastically for being so smooth, pinching hard at his skin as a punishment.

This earned an unexpected laugh from Connor, and his grip loosened. "Y'know, I don't think I've laughed this much in ages," he half-whispered, looking back at Evan.

Evan's ears burned. He must know that they're soulmates, right? He couldn't see his quote due to his jacket sleeve and he cursed internally. He cleared his throat. "M-Maybe it's the drugs?" Evan suggested idly.

At this, Connor burst into another fit of laughter. "Holy fucking shit, Hansen," was all he could say, covering his eyes with his hand. "I don't even know where to begin."

Evan couldn't help but stare. He'd never seen Connor laugh before; well, to be fair, he'd rarely seen Connor at all before that day. He didn't seem like a very happy person from what Evan had seen. He traced Connor's name on his cast with his finger absentmindedly. "S-Sorry."

Connor rubbed the now tiny joint out against the dirt, extinguishing the light. "It's fine, Hansen. God knows I could use a good laugh." His voice sounded oddly bitter and Evan's heart twinged acutely. Connor's head fell back against the trunk of the tree and he looked into the sky. His fingers worried at the threads that hung from the holes in his ripped jeans and Evan felt reassured in his nervousness.

A more comfortable silence spread between them as they watched the sky in the presence of one another but not together. A light breeze rustled the leaves above their heads as the clouds moved lazily through the beginnings of a sunset. Evan wasn't used to the company during his anxiety-induced escapes, but it wasn't necessarily unbearable.

Both of them flinched hard as Evan's text tone played from his pocket. He was already overflowing with apologies and Connor reassured him that it was fine. Evan wondered if he was imagining it when he seemed to pull his jacket tighter around him.

[6:41 PM] Mom: Hey, honey! Sorry about the appointment today, we were just swamped at work. I know you're probably at the orchard, but come home for dinner soon! I got take-out. 3

Evan exhaled as he read the text. He felt torn between wanting to stay with Connor, which he knew was totally ridiculous because he didn't even know Connor but it was easier to accept that maybe, just maybe, he had a soulmate when he was sitting next to him in a quiet, content silence and knowing in a deep part of his brain that there was no way that Connor could ever be his soulmate, since soulmates were reserved for people like Zoe and Alana and certainly not people like Evan Hansen and why was he fooling himself, even temporarily? The all-too-familiar crushing sensation began to rise up in his chest again like desperate floodwaters, laughing at his shoddily-constructed levees, and it was getting hard to breathe and just breathe, Evan, God.

His thoughts were interrupted by Connor, who was looking at him in a certain way. "Hansen? You okay?" he asked in his cool, unwavering, apathetic tone.

Evan swallowed and nodded too eagerly, his eyes refusing to meet Connor's, even when he felt his gaze boring into him like a cattle prod. "Y-Y-Yeah. Sorry. I'm f-fine. Sorry." His thumbs hovered over the keyboard and he quickly typed a response.

[6:49 PM] Evan Hansen: Yeah okay I'll be home soon Mom.

He had to delete and retype a few times due to his shaking thumbs before pressing Send. He roughly shoved his phone back into the pocket of his khakis, standing abruptly and brushing off the grass and dirt. Connor's eyes followed him, looking up at him as he struggled to find his balance, rocking on the balls of his feet. "I-I have to go. My m-mother, uh, wants me home," he explained. Connor doesn't even care, why are you explaining? he asked himself.

"Okay," Connor said quietly.

A beat. Evan fidgeted with the hem of his blue polo. "T-Thanks. For sitting with me," he coughed.

Connor smirked. "If anything, I should be thanking you. I'm surprised you didn't go fucking running when I showed up, everybody thinks I'm one bad day away from pulling a fucking Sandy Hook." His voice was obviously resentful, and he looked down at his lighter as he flipped it around in his hands.

Evan offered a hesitant smile. "W-Well, if it's any c-consolation, I think you're pretty cool," he mumbled, hoping that he wasn't coming off as creepy.

Connor barked out a laugh. "Thanks, Hansen. You don't seem all that bad yourself, if a little nervous." He shot a little tight-lipped smile up at Evan before looking back down with his previous scowl.

"S-See you around?" Evan said with an upwards inflection, waving as he began to walk away. Connor didn't wave back, instead choosing to fish for and retrieve a pair of headphones from his pocket, slipping both into his ears and closing his eyes. Evan bounded down the path, feeling vaguely triumphant for navigating a social situation with little pain, especially with his soulmate. He pushed the nagging feeling of anxiety building in his throat back down as he began the walk back to his apartment complex.

The next morning, it took all of Evan's strength not to fall asleep during school. He had stayed up late the night before thinking about Connor and how to handle the situation. He can't just tell him, he'd be beyond freaked out and he probably wouldn't even believe him. He figured the best plan of action would be to keep quiet about it while trying to befriend him. Maybe one day he'll explain it to him. Maybe.

After an hour of nodding off in APUSH, Evan made his way to the picnic table outside where he and Jared normally ate lunch. He rested his head on the table, hoping to sneak in a five minute nap before Jared arrived.

Before he could fall asleep, though, he felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked up blearily and was surprised to see Connor, not Jared taking a seat across from him. "Hey, Hansen," he greeted halfheartedly.

"H-Hi, Connor. Why're you sitting here?" Evan asked, rubbing his eyes to try and suppress a yawn.

Connor snorted. "Nice to know I'm welcome. My parents were up my ass yesterday because they found out I skipped, so I'm forced to be here today." He picked at his already chipping black nail polish.

Evan blinked. "B-But didn't I see you yesterday? A-At school?" he asked while retrieving his lunch from his backpack.

Connor laughed a little. "Well, after our friend Napoleon Complex Kleinman fucked with me I decided to go to the orchard. I had to come back later to pick up Zoe, though, and she noticed that I wasn't on campus so she ratted. It's the second goddamn day and I'm already fucking done with this school," Connor muttered. Evan felt honored that Connor not only remembered him, but came and sat next to him. He tried to push the feeling down under the guise of remaining cool, though.

"Hey, Connor, I think the My Chemical Romance concert is that way!" Connor and Evan turned to see Jared approaching them with a smirk on his face.

Connor rolled his eyes and grabbed his messenger bag, standing once more. "Thanks for the pointer," he sighed and left, leaving Evan and Jared the only two at the table. Evan watched him leave and cast a frustrated glance at Jared.

"You really weren't shitting me with that soulmate shit, huh?" Jared exclaimed as he took Connor's seat across from Evan.

Evan shrugged and bit into his apple. "N-No. I, uh, I went to the orchard yesterday and, um, guess who showed up?"

Jared burst into laughter. "No fucking way! He's a tree-fucker too?" he asked incredulously. "Maybe you two were meant to be!"

Evan blushed and sunk into his seat. "K-K-Keep your voice down!" he whispered, scanning the area for Connor and relaxing slightly when he didn't see him.

A mischievous grin spread across Jared's face. "What, you don't want anyone to know that you and Connor fucked in an apple tree?" he giggled, voice still louder than Evan would've liked. Evan felt his face turn even redder as Jared continued. "Fuckin' jerking off as you talk about how misunderstood you are-!" Jared burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter as Evan shushed him.

"T-T-That's not t-true!" Evan cried, holding his hands up. "P-Please shut up, Jared," he pleaded. "You're just m-making fun of me because y-your arm is still blank, anyway," he remarked, crossing his arms on his chest.

Jared rolled his eyes as his laughter ceased. "Whatever, Ev. I'd rather have no soulmate than have Connor fucking Murphy as my soulmate any day." He took a bite out of his sandwich, leaving the two silent for a moment until his eyes widened once more. "Holy fucking shit, he signed your cast."

Evan looked down and realized that his cast still had Connor's name on it in huge, black letters. Evan covered his face with his hands and groaned, preparing for another round of taunting from Jared.

Evan trudged into Calculus BC and sat in his seat, taking out a battered notebook and beginning to doodle an apple tree. The bell rang and the teacher began speaking but Evan zoned out, adding details to the bark and leaves. He was snapped out of his reverie by the door opening and closing behind him.

"You're late," barked the teacher.

"I'm well aware," came Connor Murphy's stone-cold voice behind Evan, making him whip around in surprise. Jesus Christ, Connor was inescapable. Their eyes met from across the room and a small smirk appeared on Connor's face as the teacher reprimanded him. Evan turned back around and hurriedly began drawing once more in the cover of his notebook.

Connor took the only empty seat, across the room from Evan, and Evan felt his stare bore into him. He refused to lift his head and continued scribbling as hard as possible for the rest of the period.

Or, rather, he would have if he didn't feel a paper ball hit his ear. He looked for the source and found nobody, so he hesitantly unfurled the crumpled paper. On it in scrawled handwriting read "FUCK THIS CLASS." Evan looked back up, wondering if the note was meant for him before locking eyes with none other than Connor Murphy from across the room. He winked and Evan felt his insides melt to goo.

Evan took his pencil and wrote underneath "agreed." He paused, and then added, "also sorry about jared, he's a dick." He crumpled the paper back up and waited until the teacher turned his back before throwing it back at Connor, landing it on his desk perfectly.

He watched as Connor opened the note and wrote a reply, launching it back to Evan. "YOU'RE TELLING ME? I HAD NO IDEA." Evan couldn't help but snicker at the snide remark. He wrote a reply of "i know, shocking" and tried to launch it back, but both him and Connor watched as it flew directly out the window. Evan gasped, immediately feeling guilty.

Connor burst into laughter, provoking another lecture from the teacher. He didn't attempt to pass any other notes to Evan for the rest of the period, much to Evan's dismay.

When the bell rang, he bolted out of the classroom to avoid talking to Connor again. He didn't know what to say and he didn't want to push Connor, so he resolved to stay silent. Anyways, Connor was probably tired of Evan annoying him.

The rest of the day passed without incident; once Evan got home, his mother persuaded him to do homework and he played online games with Jared, who thankfully refrained from mentioning Connor. He considered writing another letter to himself but decided against it, collapsing on his bed and staring at the ceiling.

A few days had come and gone with no contact with Connor and Evan was beginning to worry. Maybe Connor wasn't his soulmate after all, maybe "what the fuck are you laughing at?" is a more common phrase than he'd thought, maybe, and this was the most likely solution, Evan was going crazy. What was he thinking, trying to befriend or God forbid woo Connor fucking Murphy?

His sneakers hit the pavement harder than he was intending to as he took the left that turned into the orchard. He found solace in the tarnished sign, the rusted gate, the scent of apples that will never be picked, the setting sun that reminded him that he shouldn't be out so late, the dingy truck that was parked haphazardly by the sign-

Wait. The dingy truck. Connor's truck.

Evan stopped in his tracks, considering turning around and heading home. He brought his fingers up to his teeth, biting them to calm himself down and clear his head. He figured he should talk to Connor, he might be his soulmate, but on the other hand, what if he says something stupid and Connor hates him forever, or worse yet, what if he says the right thing and Connor still hates him?

"Hansen."

Evan flinched as he looked up and saw Connor walking towards him through the gate. "M-Murphy," he replied feebly, dropping his hand and wiping it on his pants.

Connor laughed once and stood next to Evan. "I was just about to leave, but I'll stay if you want me to." He fiddled with his keys for a moment, spanning Evan's shocked silence. He'd stay at this shitty orchard for Evan? He continued hastily. "That was presumptuous, I'll just leave-"

"N-N-No, no, you can, um, I don't m-mind if you stay!" Evan interrupted, maybe a little too loudly, grabbing Connor's jacketed arm as he tried to turn away. Connor looked at Evan's hand in a surprised manner, mouth agape and eyes darting up to meet Evan's. Evan quickly retracted his hand like he had just touched a hot stove and he felt his face heat up. "I-I mean, y-you don't have to or a-anything, um, I was-just-"

"Here, let's compromise. I take you to À La Mode, and you take a fuckin' chill pill, eh?" Connor proffered, holding up his keys.

Evan nodded quickly, unable to suppress a smile from spreading across his face as he followed Connor to his truck. "H-How old's the truck?" Evan asked as he opened the door. It seemed like it was originally black, but years of rough use had dulled the paint and turned it brown in places.

Connor took the driver's seat and laughed. "Only God knows. I think she's a '97, '98? We bought her well-used when I turned sixteen, because I refused to have a fancy-ass new car. Mom tried to buy me a top-of-the-line hybrid bullshit but I'd rather die than drive in one of those fucking clown cars." He turned the keys in the ignition and the truck stuttered and stammered before finally roaring to life. "She's old as dirt but she's put up with all my shitty driving so she's more than earned her keep."

The seats were torn and stained, and the entire interior stank of weed. An empty beer bottle sat in the cupholder and many scuff marks adorned the dashboard, likely from reclining with those combat boots of his. A pair of dog tags hung from the rearview mirror along with a pine tree air freshener. The seatbelts were tattered and the floor and seats were covered in miscellaneous shit-parking and speeding tickets (Goddamn, there were a lot of them, thought Evan), rolling papers, cassettes, random quarters and pennies, a Nirvana tank top that Evan could never picture him wearing, a baseball bat (No way in hell did Connor play baseball, Evan remarked) and more. Overall, the interior appeared to resemble Connor's brain.

Evan sat stiffly in the passenger seat as Connor stuck his elbow out the window, right hand barely grasping the wheel. He gripped the stick shift (holy shit, Connor drives stick shift? Nevermind, of course he drives stick shift.) and reversed out of his impromptu parking spot. "Have you ever been to À La Mode?" Connor asked, driving away on the dirt path that led out of the orchard.

"N-No. I'm assuming it's, um, an ice cream place?" Evan said, looking at Connor. He played with a lock of long, chocolate-brown hair as he drove and Evan reached up to run a hand through his sandy brown hair, suddenly self-conscious.

"Oh man. Yeah, it's fucking amazing. I've gone there ever since I was little." Connor looked at the obviously outdated stereo system and hummed. He thumbed through the stack of cassettes that lay on the seat between him and Evan and chose one, popping it into the player and pressing Play.

Heavy guitars and drums began blasting from the speakers, making Evan jump and Connor laugh. He turned down the volume before mumbling to Evan, "Sorry. It's a habit of mine."

Evan laughed awkwardly and stared forward at the road. The drive was short and before long Connor was parking at an old vintage-looking ice cream parlor. Evan got out of the truck and entered À La Mode with Connor.

It was cold yet inviting. The tiled floors and old-school menu signs gave the aura of a 1960's dive and Evan could see why Connor liked it so much. The two walked to the display and Evan was overwhelmed with choices. Connor seemed to already know what he wanted and dictated his long and complicated order while Evan decided.

Evan stood at the counter and paled. "Uh, Connor? I d-didn't bring any money… I guess I won't-"

"No, I'll pay. My treat." Connor smiled down at Evan as the cashier handed him his cone. He licked the side of the cone and gestured for Evan to order, holding a credit card between his first two fingers. Evan flushed. He had forgotten how affluent the Murphys were. He was surprised that his parents even trusted Connor with a credit card; God knew how many stupid things he probably bought. He remembered his own financial situation and shrunk into himself as Connor paid for his ice cream.

Five minutes later they were back in Connor's truck, eating their ice cream as the Arctic Monkeys flowed languidly through the speakers. Evan had ordered plain chocolate, while Connor had opted for a mint chocolate chip cone with an absurd amount of toppings. "T-This is really good. Thank you for, uh, taking me here and buying my ice cream," Evan said quietly.

"No problem, Hansen," Connor said between bites. "It's… nice. To talk to you." His voice was so quiet Evan could barely make out what he said and Connor buried his pink face in ice cream.

"I… yeah. Y-Yeah," Evan replied, pushing down the butterflies, "it is."

Connor paused before continuing shakily. "I-I mean. You. I… I don't mean to be creepy or whatever. Nobody fucking listens to me, so it's nice to have somebody who finally fucking does." He refused to meet Evan's eyes, staring out the window of the parked truck and licking his ice cream. He'd never heard Connor stutter before.

Evan couldn't help but laugh. "M-Me too, Connor." The tattoo burned his skin as he got a nagging feeling to confess. Maybe… Maybe Connor would respond in kind. He seemed in a pretty good mood right now.

"Okay, fuck this feelings bullshit. Let's drive," Connor abruptly stated, biting the cone and backing out of the parking lot. He sped out of the lot, going fast down the road that lead to À La Mode and farther, hand white-knuckle gripping the steering wheel. Evan felt confusion and fear as he saw the intensity in his eyes as he set his jaw. He had just gotten Connor to open up, what did he do to set back his progress?

The familiar welling of anxiety bubbled up and Evan attempted to repress it by sinking his teeth into the ice cream. He shivered.

Wind gusted through the rolled-down windows as Connor accelerated. He turned up the radio, now playing a Guns n' Roses song, to an excessive volume that made Evan wince. They drove like this for a while, the sun treading below the horizon and the moon growing in the rearview mirror. Evan's mind raced. What did he do to upset Connor? A million actions, ten million apologies swam through his brain.

Connor turned the volume down. "Where do you live?" he asked sternly.

Evan blinked for a moment and blurted his address, cursing himself for being awkward as he ate the last bit of cone. Connor had been long done with his, having wolfed it down soon after he began driving. Connor silently drove to Evan's apartment complex and parked, turning off the radio and turning to face Evan. "Sorry for… that. I should've dropped you off before," he muttered, running a hand through his mane of hair.

"I-It's fine. Thanks for the, um. The ice cream." Evan unbuckled his seatbelt and looked back at Connor. "It, um. I like hanging out with you," he said before he could convince himself not to.

Connor looked shocked, his eyebrows shooting up into his hair. "Oh. Well. Um." He coughed. "I'll see you later, I guess." He looked out the window and Evan saw his ear turn red.

Evan said goodbye and exited the truck, entering the apartment complex and bounding up the stairs. Connor just bought him ice cream, holy shit, maybe he is his soulmate after all!

A nagging voice chimed in in the back of his mind as he unlocked the door to his apartment. Connor freaked out after buying the ice cream. Maybe he regretted saying that he enjoyed his company. Maybe he was lying so he didn't hurt Evan's feelings. Evan felt his eyes burn and wiped at them angrily as he walked into the apartment.

"Evan! You're home! Who was that, that just dropped you off?" asked Heidi, hugging Evan happily.

"A f-friend," Evan replied vaguely.

"You know I don't like it when you're out this late," she said, tugging on her shoes, "but I guess if you're making friends I'm okay with it." Evan realized she was dressed in her scrubs and he sighed. She had another night shift tonight.

He immediately felt selfish and forced himself to smile. "Yeah, I, um, it's going well," he mumbled, playing with the hem of his polo.

Heidi grinned widely and pecked Evan on the cheek, grabbing her work bag and walking to the door. "Well, you know how it is. Another night shift. I'll see you tomorrow, though! Bye, honey, do your homework!" she said as she ushered out the door, checking her watch.

Evan waved halfheartedly as she closed the door and immediately ran to his room, falling onto his bed. He lied down for a moment before sitting up and retrieving his phone that he'd forgot he'd left on his desk until he was already halfway to the orchard. To his surprise, he had two missed calls from his mom and a text from Jared.

[5:21 PM] the insanely cool jared: hey man wanna play some wow?

[8:03 PM] Evan Hansen: Sorry. I was at the orchard.

[8:04 PM] the insanely cool jared: i assumed lmao

[8:04 PM] the insanely cool jared: did ur boyf show up?

[8:05 PM] Evan Hansen: Actually, yes. We got ice cream.

[8:06 PM] the insanely cool jared: holy shit, evan hansen the ladykiller

[8:06 PM] the insanely cool jared: are you two together or what?

[8:07 PM] Evan Hansen: God, no, no, not yet. I'm too chicken to tell him about my quote.

[8:08 PM] the insanely cool jared: you got fucking ice cream, hansen, you really think hes gonna turn u down?

[8:10 PM] Evan Hansen: …

[8:12 PM] Evan Hansen: Look, Jared, I don't fucking know. You know how unpredictable he is.

[8:13 PM] the insanely cool jared: i mean whatever you say buddy

[8:14 PM] the insanely cool jared: lets just play wow now

[8:14 PM] Evan Hansen: Okay, opening it now.

Evan threw his phone to the foot of the bed and opened his laptop. Maybe all he needed was a game with Jared to calm down.

Two hours later, Jared had signed off and Evan was lying in bed in the dark. He should probably try to go to sleep, he thought. It was a school night and he was sleep deprived as hell for the past couple of days. He tossed and turned.

Connor Murphy.

He'd seemed like he was opening up to Evan, by the way he threw a note at him in Calc and how he bought him ice cream. But, on the other hand, they went a few days without talking and Connor freaked after buying Evan the food. It was almost scary, the way that he drove with such intensity. Maybe he just didn't want to open up to Evan, a practical stranger, said the rational voice in his head. Or he hates him, said the less rational one, and he regrets talking to him.

Evan pressed his face into a pillow. Why did it have to be Connor fucking Murphy of all people? The hardest person to befriend, let alone romance, in their entire fucking high school?

That night he dreamt of ice cream, of apple trees, of a crystalline sunset, of loud music, of long hair, of hard bites, of blue eyes, and of hot flames.

"What the fuck are you laughing at?"

Evan slept well.

* * *

Chapter 02

The next morning, Evan felt a hell of a lot better than he did the previous days. He attributed this to getting more than an hour of sleep, which was seemingly a rarity these days. He praised the forces that be that it was a Friday; he was looking forward to a weekend of limited human contact.

Evanglanced at his phone as he got off his bus and saw that he had another fifteen minutes before the first bell rang. He sighed against the cool autumn air and decided to sit at the picnic table him and Jared ate at during lunch. He walked across the high school campus, carefully avoiding the puddles of rainwater that had accumulated in the night. The campus was always so peaceful before school started; Evan wished it stayed this quiet and serene.

As he crossed the school, he noticed a dark figure leaning against the brick wall of one of the buildings. Evan immediately recognized it as Connor with his eyes closed and a calm smile on his face. He walked closer and noticed a pair of black headphones in his ears; he could hear the drums from an impressive distance away. "Hey, Connor, y-you look like you're in a good mood," he greeted, and Connor tore the headphones from his ears and looked up at him.

"Hey, Hansen. I'm feeling uncharacteristically not angry today, so lucky you." His steely voice held a hint of humor as he ran a hand through his hair. "After I dropped you off last night, I drove until well after midnight. I managed to avoid Cynthia and Larry when I snuck back into the house, which is nothing short of a fucking miracle, so maybe that's why I'm not as murderous as I normally am before noon," he mused.

Evan was confused for a moment before he realized that Cynthia and Larry must be Connor's parents. He never called his mother Heidi. Connor must really hate his parents, Evan thought. He spoke aloud, "Well that's good, I guess. S-Sorry for keeping you out late." He picked at the dirt under his fingernails.

Connor laughed. "Evan, I was out driving and shit way after I dropped you off. It's what I do when I need to think. It's not your fault," he assured him in an oddly gentle manner. Evan realized this was the first time Connor called him by his first name and tried to suppress a wave of butterflies in his stomach. He brought his hand up to his cast instinctively and dropped it when he remembered he couldn't touch the tattoo under it.

"W-Why'd you need to think?" Evan asked hesitantly. Shit, that was way too personal, why did he even ask that?

Connor seemed to be caught off-guard by the question by the way his eyes widened. He cleared his throat. "I dunno. I-ugh. Um. Do you-Do you consider me a friend?" His head turned as he looked at Evan, who was stood by his side.

Evan choked on air and began coughing loudly. His chest felt like a piano was just dropped on it; his brain short-circuited and his arm burned with the intensity of a quasar. His ribcage ached acutely. Fuck, did Connor really just ask that? He finally cleared his trachea and coughed one last time with finality.

"You don't have to answer that, I was just-" Connor began again.

"No, no no no, no. I do consider you my friend. I-I-If that's okay with you," Evan blurted, feeling heat rise to his face.

Connor laughed again, easing some of Evan's anxiety. "Well, good, because it is. Now we both have at least one friend, eh?" he suggested, punching Evan's shoulder affectionately.

Evan nodded. "Yeah, that's true." He wondered if Connor was telling the truth as students lazily milled about the hallway in front of them. He thought about Connor's statement. He must have other friends, right? Even Evan had Jared, and Connor seemed infinitely more confident than Evan. What about Zoe? He didn't seem particularly fond of her from what Evan could tell.

The bell rang abrasively from above their heads and Evan flinched hard. Connor waved at him and began walking backwards down the hallway. "See you in Calc, I guess?"

Evan nodded enthusiastically and waved, turning to head in the opposite direction. He was already missing the quiet companionship of Connor. They barely even talked, what was wrong with Evan? He ignored the burning of his tattoo and began walking towards his first period until a girl caught his arm.

It was none other than Zoe Murphy tugging him off to the side of the hallway. Once they were out of the flow of traffic, she turned to face him. "Hey, Evan, is it? I saw you talking to my brother and I just wanted to thank you."

Evan blinked. "Y-You wanted to thank me?"

Zoe smiled. "Yeah. Connor, he doesn't really have any friends, per se. To be completely honest, he's a fucking psychopath. But, um. Don't tell him I told you this, but I think he needs a good influence like you, y'know?"

Evan was taken aback. "I-I-I, um," he stuttered, unable to think of a coherent response. He couldn't tell her that he was probably his soulmate, she'd likely tell him and it'd be awkward as hell. "Uh, no problem? I d-don't think he's, uh, all that bad."

"I also wanted to kind of, uh, warn you about him. He's not a good person. He's a fucking asshole. He's manipulative. He's seriously a sociopath." Her voice had turned icy cold. "I mean, be his friend, I'm not stopping you. Just don't get too close, yeah?"

Evan froze. What the fuck? Connor seemed like a pretty nice guy to Evan, not to mention the fact that he's his soulmate. He fought back his worried thoughts with a swift nod. With that, she left, rejoining with Alana and clasping their hands together. Evan resolved to think about it in first period.

He floated through the first four periods in a dissociative state. Connor was the only thing he could think of. His arm stung as he tried to understand Connor and Zoe's actions. How lonely was he? What did he do to Zoe? He must have been pretty bad off…

Lunch. Evan walked to the table and was surprised to find Connor already sitting there, headphones in and book in hand. As Evan got closer, he saw that Connor was scribbling something in the book. He sat across from him and mumbled a greeting. Connor hurriedly closed the book and shoved it in his bag. "What's with the book?" Evan asked earnestly.

"Nothing. It's, um, an assignment." Connor coughed as Evan took out his lunch and began eating.

Evan decided to drop it. "Still feeling happier than normal?" he teased.

Connor rolled his eyes and nodded his head to the left. "Well, I was."

"Hey, tree fuckers!" Jared's smug voice rang as he sat to Evan's right, shrugging off his backpack. "How's the honeymoon?"

"Eat a dick, Jared," Connor remarked, but stood his ground and didn't move to get up.

"Projection much, Connie?" Jared mocked, pulling out a binder from his backpack. "Anyways, Evan, you're in APUSH, right? Can I copy your chapter one outline?"

Connor shook his head at Evan, and Evan gulped. "Uh, I already turned it in. I have it third period," he lied. He had APUSH for sixth period, but Jared didn't know that. Connor smiled widely at him, making Evan's insides liquefy. He felt bad lying to Jared, but if it made Connor happy. (Cheating was against the rules anyway, he reasoned.)

Jared groaned. "It's the first fucking week and I'm already failing this class. Remind me why I took this instead of AP Euro?"

Connor scoffed. "I'm surprised you're even taking an AP class. Isn't being an asshole your full-time job?"

"I'm surprised you haven't dropped out," Jared seethed. "After all, you are the class stoner."

Evan felt anxiety bubble through his veins. "Guys, guys, can you p-please stop fighting?" Connor folded his arms across his chest reluctantly.

"Whatever," Jared remarked, "I have a chapter outline due next period." He pulled out his hefty textbook and began writing.

The rest of lunch was blanketed in a comfortable conversation between Connor and Evan, with Jared piping up with a sarcastic comment every once in a while between scrawling lines of notes. By the end of the thirty minutes they had for lunch, Jared had a page of passable notes and Evan was feeling marginally better about Connor.

With a "good luck" to Jared, Evan stood and gathered his things. Connor slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and followed Evan to their shared fifth period Calculus class. As they walked, Evan felt their fingers brush and a jolt of electricity shot up his uncasted arm. He cursed himself for acting like a schoolgirl with a damn playground crush, but it was getting hard to ignore the itching from under his cast.

"Fuck calculus," Connor muttered as they neared the classroom, tugging at his jacket.

Evan shrugged. "I don't know, calc isn't that bad for me. It's the one subject I kind of understand," he said sheepishly.

Connor looked at Evan incredulously. "Wait, you understand this shit? Damn, Hansen. Child genius." Evan laughed as he the bell rang and they separated, sitting in their respective seats. Evan took out his notebook and began doodling.

Halfway through Calculus, a paper airplane landed on Evan's desk. Evan turned and saw Connor with a smile on his face. He gently unfolded the airplane; this one was a drawing of himself holding a gun to his head. The face was scribbled out, but Evan could recognize the self-portrait by the hair and was amazed at his artistic ability. Evan could never draw very well, but apparently Connor could. He speculated that Connor must have been drawing during lunch when Evan approached the table.

Evan looked at the note, trying to think of something to add. He finally decided to add flowers coming out of the barrel of the pistol aimed at Connor's temple; they paled in comparison to Connor's original drawing, but they would do. Evan gingerly folded the airplane back up and tossed it back once the coast was clear. He watched Connor open the note and-was he hallucinating, or did he blush? He wrote it off as hopeful thinking and continued watching Connor as he wrote on the paper, tongue darting out as he focused intently. Evan swallowed his feelings and feebly picked at his cast, waiting with bated breath for Connor's reply.

Connor finished and turned, closing one eye to perfect his shot and threw. It hit a random girl in the ear and the teacher turned around, hawk eyes focused on the paper airplane.

He snatched the paper and unfolded it. "It appears as if Mr. Murphy is not only a bad timekeeper, but he is also an artist. 'You're… effing adorable.' Unsavory language aside..." the teacher read, peering down his nose at the paper. A few students laughed and Connor sunk deeper into his chair. "Flirt on your own time, Murphy, I'm sure this girl would appreciate it," the teacher jeered, leaving the innocent female student in a stupor and Connor's face red with anger. "Stay after class, Murphy."

Evan's entire upper body flushed as he realized Connor was trying to call him "fucking adorable." He covered the bottom half of his face with his hand and made eye contact with Connor, who shrugged and crossed his arms. His ears were bright red and Evan assumed that he looked the same. He thanked every deity that the bell rang soon thereafter as he ran out the door.

The rest of the school day was uneventful, except for "You're fucking adorable" looping through Evan's brain like a broken record. Maybe… Maybe Connor does like him back, he thought for a split second. He shooed the thought out immediately, drowning it with a flood of self-deprecation. Connor couldn't possibly fall for the socially awkward, untalented, unuseful, unintelligent, unwanted Evan Hansen, he figured.

When he finally arrived home, he was amazed that his mother was there. She greeted him happily, giving him a bear hug and gushing about how happy she was to see him. She explained that she had a day off from work and she had spent the entire day cleaning the apartment. Evan was taken aback; it was very rare that she had a day off. He scrambled to his room as soon as he could to avoid her smothering.

He put on a pair of headphones and decided to listen to music… what had Connor put on in the car? He remembered the Nirvana tank and googled Nirvana. He played the first song that came up-"Smells Like Teen Spirit"- and wrinkled his nose. He much preferred softer music; the loud, grungy guitars set him on edge. After listening to the song, he took off the headphones and looked at the other songs. Maybe it's an acquired taste. He hoped it's an acquired taste.

Evan heard a knock on the door to the apartment and closed his laptop. His mother opened the door and he heard a conversation. He didn't think they were expecting anybody, so he decided to go out and investigate.

He blanched when he saw none other than Connor Murphy conversing with his mother in the living room. Connor caught sight of him and smiled. "There he is. Ready to study some calc?" His voice sounded incredibly fake to the highly confused Evan.

His mother turned around and grinned at Evan. "Your friend Connor here just came and said you had a study date for your calculus class! I was just about to get going to class, so I'll see you later tonight. Bye, honey!" she exclaimed, hugging Evan and kissing the top of his head before leaving.

Connor groaned loudly as soon as the door closed. "Holy shit, I didn't think your mom was gonna be here! I think I deserve a goddamn Oscar for that performance," he snickered, slinging his messenger bag onto the ratty couch.

Evan laughed incredulously. "So, uh, can I ask why you just showed up in my apartment?"

Connor shrugged nonchalantly, a goofy smile on his face. "I was bored, Hansen. There's only so much you can do at an orchard. Where's your room?"

Evan led him to his room, in which he promptly collapsed on his bed. "Ugh. Speaking of calc, an you believe that fucking teacher? Not only did he read my sarcastic remark in front of the class completely straight, but he accused me of flirting with some random chick." He sat up, rolling his eyes. "Jokes on him, I'm not even into women," Connor laughed darkly.

Evan choked on air and coughed, trying (and failing) to repress a smile. That's one mystery solved, he supposed. The nonsensical part of his brain whispered that he was one step closer to being his soulmate but he quickly switched his train of thought.

"Not to mention how he held me after fucking class. He had the nerve to say some bullshit like 'if you have suicidal tendencies you can always talk to your guidance counselor' or whatever the fuck. None of them actually give a shit." Connor's voice had turned bitter and resentful as he played with a pillow Evan had on his bed. "We all know damn well they'd be a hell of a lot happier with smaller classes, huh?" He cynically laughed and tossed the pillow to the foot of the bed.

"I-I-I know that wasn't what you meant, but. Um. I care," Evan stuttered, refusing to meet Connor's eyes even when he felt his stare bore into him. "I know you, uh, weren't serious about, um, killing yourself but I, uh, I care about you. If you d-died, I'd be, uh, really sad," he mumbled quietly.

A stunned silence settled over the room. Evan bit his nails hard, drawing blood. He shouldn't have said that, he was way overstepping his boundaries, Connor was going to hate him, anxiety was building, his heart rate was rising, his palms were so fucking sweaty…

Connor slowly stood from the bed and walked over to where Evan was standing near the doorway and promptly hugged him.

Evan's brain short-circuited as Connor's long arms wrapped around him, pulling him close to his chest. Due to the height difference, Evan's cheek was pressed against his collarbone. He could hear Connor's heart beating frantically. Connor's chin fell to rest on the top of Evan's head. Evan's entire body burst into flames, especially his forearm. It felt like he was struck by lightning and he was frozen in place with nothing but the steady thumping of Connor's heart keeping him alive. He slowly lifted his arms and wrapped them around Connor's torso and Connor made a happy noise.

He felt his chest quake with laughter. "Thanks, Evan. It… it means a lot." Connor's voice was shaky, far shakier than normal, and his skin was warm. Evan took a deep breath to try and prevent himself from falling into cardiac arrest. Connor smelled like pot, apples, and cream soda. Evan couldn't stop himself from inhaling deeply and tightening his grip on his jacket. His ribcage buzzed like a wasp's nest, dangerous yet almost intoxicating. (Evan wondered if smelling weed on someone's clothes was enough to get high.)

Much to Evan's chagrin, Connor began to pull away, smiling down at Evan. "Clingy. I like it," he laughed.

Evan felt his face grow redder and he groaned as he rested his forehead on Connor's chest. "S-Shut up, you hugged me f-first," he protested meekly.

Connor pat his head gently and pulled away, shedding his jacket. "It's hot as hell in here, what the fuck is your thermostat set to?" he complained, throwing his jacket on Evan's bed. Evan's eyes immediately darted to his wrist. He could finally see his soulmate tattoo!

He was taken aback by all the scars on his wrists. His hands flew to his mouth. Horizontal and vertical lines adorned both his wrists, a pale grid on already pale skin. Connor traced his line of sight and sighed, showing them to Evan fully. "Whatever. Yeah. I have scars. Laugh at me all you want."

Evan held one of his skinny wrists gingerly, running a finger over the scar tissue. Some of them were fresh, harsh red lines contrasting against the paper white skin. "Connor…" Evan could barely form a full statement. He felt tears prick at the corners of his eyes. "I, um, I… I'm sorry," he croaked, a lump forming in his throat.

Connor's eyebrows furrowed. "Oh, shit, shit, shit, Hansen, I didn't-fuck, please don't cry," he muttered, bringing a hand up to Evan's cheek. He crouched down so he was looking up at Evan. "Look, man, I, just- fuck, man."

Evan sniffed loudly and wiped his nose. "I-I'm sorry, it's just reallyfuckingsadanditsuckstoknowthatyou'vefeltthaywayandI'msorry," he blurted, his words blurring together as he tried to talk past the lump in his windpipe.

Connor sighed and pat Evan's shoulder, obviously unsure of what to do. "That's why I wear the damn jacket all the time, because everyone freaks out when they see my wrists," he mumbled in a soft tone of voice. "Look, I'm okay, Evan, I promise." He shot a sheepish smile up at Evan from his crouched position on the floor.

Evan felt like he was drowning as he struggled for air, wiping furiously at his eyes. He felt the familiar heat in his nose and cheeks that indicated that he'd been crying, and he took a deep, shaky breath. "I-I-I'm s-sorry," he whispered, kicking himself mentally for crying in front of Connor. He hated that he knew how Connor felt. He pried his eyes away from his cast and looked at Connor's open, worried face.

"It's okay, Evan. C'mere," Connor assured him, opening his arms again. Evan eagerly accepted the hug, unable to stop himself from grasping at the fabric of Connor's t-shirt desperately as he kneeled alongside him. He hiccuped once and he buried his face in the space between Connor's neck and shoulder. He couldn't ignore the searing sensation of his forearm or the palpitations of his heart. Connor was immensely warm; a stark opposite to Evan, who was always cold. Connor rubbed a gentle circle into Evan's shoulder blade, making him shiver.

Evan could have sat there for forever, nose pressing into Connor's pulse point and arms wrapped around his ribcage, but Connor pulled away after an indeterminate amount of time. "Sorry for upsetting you, Hansen. It's just… yeah." He couldn't seem to find the right words and Evan understood.

"I-It's fine. Sorry for, uh, getting snot on your t-shirt," Evan said, looking at the wet spot on his shoulder embarrassedly.

Connor laughed and shrugged. "It's fine. I have, like, twenty identical black shirts anyway." Evan remembered his original objective and looked back at Connor's wrist.

Written on the heavily scarred skin there was "What?". Evan almost burst into laughter. He had forgotten their first encounter, in which Connor said "what the fuck are you laughing at?" and Evan grandiloquently replied "what." God, how long has Connor had to live with possibly the lamest soulmate quote in the history of soulmate quotes tattooed on his arm? Evan cursed his inability to speak like a normal human being. (At least it isn't "um," he thought.)

Evan had a realization. "What" was an incredibly common word. Connor mumbles a lot, too; people must say "what" to Connor all the time. Connor didn't know that Evan was his soulmate. Evan's blood turned to ice. He didn't know.

Connor stood and stretched. "You got an Xbox?" he asked, effectively switching the topic.

Evan shrugged as he stood, still trying to regain his breath. "We have, uh, a shitty old Xbox 360 in the living room." He remembered how his mother had saved up for years to buy Evan a used one when he was eleven. Evan had played it almost every day; he had to smack it to get the disc tray to open and sometimes it crashed for no reason, but he loved that thing. "We also have Halo and Assassin's Creed?" he suggested, leading Connor out to the main living room.

"Oh, I'll kick your ass in Halo," Connor smugly announced, flopping on the shabby couch as Evan turned the Xbox on.

"W-We'll see, Murphy," Evan laughed, sitting next to Connor and handing him a controller.

A few hours later, Connor was accusing Evan of cheating and Evan was crying with laughter. "This is fucking bullshit and you know it, Hansen!" Connor yelled as Evan meleed his character to death. Evan collapsed into laughter as he looted Connor's full-ammo Needler. Connor gasped in betrayal and pushed Evan into the arm of the couch. "You gun-stealing asshole, you're totally screen peeking," Connor whined as he waited for his character to respawn.

"I cannot believe you would cast such aspersions on me!" Evan faux-gasped in disbelief, leaning forward in concentration.

"I don't know what that means, but I'm still coming for you," Connor grumbled, sprinting across the map in Evan's direction. This caused Evan to snort loudly, which in turn caused Connor to giggle. They devolved into a fit of laughter, unable to play any longer. "Okay, okay, fine. You win, you win," Connor relented, throwing down his controller in defeat.

Evan cackled triumphantly. "H-Hell yeah! So, what do I win?" he asked, turning to face Connor.

Connor kicked his booted feet up onto the coffee table, folding his hands behind his head. "Uhh, I dunno. What do you want? A massage or some shit? I'll buy you more À La Mode, maybe," he suggested.

Before Evan could respond, he heard a muffled guitar riff. Connor sighed and tugged his phone out of his pocket, looking at the caller ID. "Fuck, it's Cynthia. Be as quiet as possible," he mumbled to Evan before swiping to accept the call. "Hey, Mother."

Evan could hear her screaming on the other end; something about Connor being disobedient. "Mother, I- it's none of your damn business where I was. I don't care what Zoe said," Connor snapped, pinching the bridge of his nose as Cynthia resumed her spiel. It was hard to make out any words from Evan's position. "I-I'm at the orchard." A pause. Connor scoffed. "Why do you suddenly give a shit about me, huh? Ninety-nine percent of the time, you don't even fucking notice I'm gone. So why do you care-" He was cut off by Cynthia's voice, now quieter. "You're really going to fucking ground me because I was hanging out with a friend yesterday? My only goddamn friend?"

Evan's heart tore out of his chest. A beat passed. "Fuck you too, Mother. I'll be home in thirty minutes." Connor hung up and threw his phone onto the carpeted floor, sighing loudly. "I fucking hate my parents."

"I-I don't think I like them, either," Evan offered quietly.

Connor snickered and ruffled Evan's hair affectionately. "I gotta go. Apparently Zoe saw me when I snuck in at two a. m. last night and she snitched. Cynthia's pissed that I was out so late and apparently Larry's pissed that I lied when they asked today. They're making me give them my fucking keys." Connor retrieved his phone and his messenger bag.

"I-I'm sorry your parents suck," said Evan feebly, standing.

Connor made a dismissive hand gesture. "It's not your fault. Anyways, I don't think I have your number?" He gave Evan his phone to input his number into a new contact. Evan titled the contact "The King of Halo" and inputted his number, handing it back to Connor. "Thanks. I'll text you, or something." He shoved his phone back in his pocket and paused. He hesitantly side-hugged Evan, releasing him quickly. "Bye, Hansen."

"Bye, Connor." Evan waved with his casted arm as Connor exited, slamming the door behind him. Evan sighed in frustration, burying his face in his hands and screaming. Connor Murphy was going to be the death of him. He thought back to the hugs and felt his cold body yearn for the heat that Connor brought. "What?" read Connor's soulmate tattoo. Evan must be his soulmate, he thought. Not only did he say that when he first met Connor, but his tattoo burned like hell whenever he touched him. He must be.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket and he hurriedly retrieved it.

[8:38 PM] Unknown number: i bow to the halo king :P

Evan felt a doofy smile spread across his face as he typed a reply.

[8:39 PM] Evan Hansen: Show respect, peasant ;D

Was a winking emoticon too much? Oh my God, that was creepy, wasn't it? Before he could second guess himself too much, he hit Send. He also created a new contact for Connor, and he tried to think of a suitable name. He hesitantly entered "Connor 3". No, what if Jared sees it? He'd never let him live it down. "Connor Murphy" was too stiff. He settled on "Prince of Halo" and locked his phone. He figured he should at least try to get some homework done and left to his room.

On Monday, Connor wasn't at school.

Not a weird thing in and of itself. He apparently liked to skip a lot; if anything, it was rarer that he showed up than not. Evan sent him a pensive text during lunch.

[12:25 PM] Evan Hansen: Skipping today?

He didn't get a response. He wasn't too concerned, though, as Connor often took a long time to respond to texts.

Jared noticed his quieter than usual demeanor and questioned him about it. "Missing your boyfriend, Ev?"

Evan rolled his eyes. "H-He's not my boyfriend, Jare."

"Highly debatable. My gaydar lights up like a goddamn Christmas tree whenever Connor gets within five miles of me," Jared argued through a mouthful of apple. "And you know how good my gaydar is. I knew Alana Beck was gay before Alana knew."

"That doesn't mean he's into me!" Evan spluttered, feeling a blush creep up his neck. "There's plenty of guys at this school."

Now it was Jared's turn to roll his eyes. "And how many of them have a quote from him tattooed on their fucking arm? Oh, yeah, one. Anyway, are you coming to the jazz band concert tonight? We're playing 'Crazy in Love.' I got the fucking solo, in case you were wondering."

"Watch out, Louis Armstrong," Evan snorted. "I forgot there was a concert tonight. I'll go if I can, maybe Connor can drive me."

"You better show, Hansen. I haven't been practicing this fucking twenty-measure run for nothing. The director's been so far up my ass about practicing I think she could play my trumpet herself," Jared scoffed.

Evan laughed. "Yeah, I-I'll be there. I'll bring a bouquet of roses to throw on stage at you."

"You better, bitch! I'm the god of trumpet-playing. Bow before me, mortal!" Jared joked. Evan's state of anxiety over Connor was much, much lessened. When Jared wasn't the source of anxiety, he was remarkably good at alleviating Evan's stress.

And so, Connor was off of Evan's mind for the first time in a week.

Evan tucked his blue button-up into his khakis and took a step back to look in the mirror. Jared would be arriving any minute to pick him up since Connor still wasn't responding to any of his texts. He was excited to listen to Jared (and Zoe) play; he was obviously very passionate about it.

He heard a knock on the door and opened it to see Jared in a black tuxedo shirt and black pants. "Looking sharp, Hansen. Ready to go?" Jared held out his elbow like an escort.

"Same goes to you, Kleinman," Evan replied, grabbing his elbow and closing the door behind him. He didn't realize until he was in Jared's old car that he forgot his phone, but he shrugged it off. He figured he wouldn't need it anyway.

After the concert (which went splendidly, Evan had no idea Jared could play the trumpet so well), Jared dropped Evan off at home, but not before bragging about the wild after party he was on his way to. Evan just rolled his eyes as he closed the car door.

He walked up the stairs to the apartment and unlocked the door. He was exhausted. It was only eleven, but he felt like he could fall asleep walking. He decided to check his phone as he unbuttoned the top few buttons of his blue plaid shirt. He was astounded to have missed texts from Connor.

[9:17 PM] Prince of Halo: i got in a huge fight with my parents.

[9:57 PM] Prince of Halo: are you there?

[10:31 PM] Prince of Halo: i'm sorry.

[10:55 PM] Missed Call from Prince of Halo.

Evan felt nausea wrack his body. Fuck, fuck, fuck, what happened to Connor? He paced back and forth, trying to decide a way to reply.

[11:13 PM] Evan Hansen: Oh my God I'm so sorry for missing your texts, I was at the jazz band concert. Are you okay?

An aching feeling in his gut urged Evan to go to the orchard. If Connor was angry or hurt, he'd surely go to the orchard before anywhere else. He was already down the stairs before he heard his phone ping.

[11:22 PM] Prince of Halo: i fell oit of thr tree

Evan blinked. Connor never made typos. Oh God, what had he done? At least he knew for sure that Connor was at the orchard, he thought. Evan reached the base of the stairs and began running.

Evan ran as fast as he could until he saw the orchard's sign. His legs burned and his lungs stung, the cold night air hard to breathe. He bolted past Connor's haphazardly-parked truck and flew open the rusted gate. He had only one thought, and that was to save Connor.

Connor couldn't die. Evan had just found him. He couldn't let his soulmate die. This was all Evan's fault. If he had been a better friend, maybe Connor wouldn't be in this position. Connor, Connor, Connor.

"Connor!" Evan yelled, unsure of which tree Connor was in. He sprinted down the dirt path, screaming Connor's name. "Connor, w-where the fuck are you?" he cried, making no effort to stop the hot tears that ran down his face. His mind was racing. He remembered the scars on Connor's too-skinny wrists, the fresh, angry red cuts, the bags under his eyes, the sallow pallor of his skin.

Evan heard a groan and froze. "C-Connor?" he called. He heard retching and ran towards the source of the sound. He found Connor on his hands and knees in the dirt, retching and vomiting. Jesus, he must've overdosed on pills, thought Evan. He scrambled over to Connor, tripping on the root of the apple tree and falling on his face. Pain shot up his casted arm as he braced himself against the fall and he felt the wood of another root cut his cheek. He shakily stood again, not bothering to brush off the dirt on his shirt and instead rushing to Connor's side.

"Connor, Connor, C-Connor, are y-you okay?" he gushed, kneeling by his side and pushing his shoulders up and against the trunk of the tree so he was facing Evan.

His eyes were dull and glazed over, his skin was paler than normal, his hair was greasy and tangled, he had bile dripping down his chin. The sleeves of his jacket were soaked through with hot blood, dripping into the dirt. His jeans were ripped far more than normal, the skin of his knees scraped and bleeding, he had blood smeared on his collarbone and cheek and vomit on his shirt. He was in worse shape than Evan had anticipated, feeling more and more tears blur his vision and drip down his face.

"E-Evan? You… you c-came for m-m-me?" Connor muttered, more blood bubbling from his mouth.

Evan inhaled sharply, his heart shattered into infinitely many pieces as he saw Connor's complete and utter hopelessness. He thought Evan wouldn't come. "C-Connor, I will always come for y-you," Evan whispered, shakily grabbing Connor's hand. He noticed an empty Prozac bottle and couldn't suppress a whimper. He pocketed the bottle and tried to help Connor up. Connor resisted, lurching to the side and vomiting more. It seemed like he was only regurgitating bile at this point, no more solid food was left in his stomach.

Evan realized he couldn't carry Connor to the hospital and retrieved his phone from his pocket, hastily making a call. This was a stupid, stupid idea, but he was the only one he knew would come.

"Evan? Why the fuck are you calling me at midnight on a Tuesday?" Jared's groggy voice sounded on the other end. Evan had never been happier in his life to hear Jared's voice.

"J-J-Jared, Jared, p-please, I need y-you to drive to the o-orchard as f-f-fast as you can," Evan pleaded, trying to stutter as little as possible.

"What the fuck? Why? I'm not your damn chauffeur." Jared seemed exasperated.

"Connor, C-Connor just tried to k-k-k-kill himself," Evan gasped, his throat closing around the act.

Evan heard rustling. "Holy fucking shit. I'm on my way." He hung up. Evan looked back at Connor, who wiped his mouth and collapsed on the ground.

"Connor, no, p-please st-tay awake, I need you to stay a-awake," Evan murmured softly, holding Connor's face in his hands. He carded his fingers through Connor's hair and held him up to look at him.

"Evan…" Connor mumbled. His eyelids fluttered shut and Evan shook him to wake him up. His eyes opened once more and he swallowed. "Evan, w-why are you here? Why are y-y-you my... f-friend?" he croaked, tears forming at the corners of his eyes.

Evan sobbed and rubbed his cheek with his thumb. "C-Connor… Connor, you're a-amazing, Connor," he said quietly, "you're t-the best person I know, y-you're b-b-beautiful, you're f-funny, you're everything…" He kept babbling everything that came to mind, the words just kept coming and coming as he tried to comfort Connor.

The tears flowed freely down Connor's face as his eyes screwed shut. A mixture of blood, bile, tears, and drool slipped from his lips and he openly broke down, sniffing and rasping and weeping. "I'm so s-sorry," Connor wheezed, his voice like sandpaper. Evan had never seen him so vulnerable, so unguarded.

Evan noticed he had stopped vomiting for the time being and seized the opportunity to stand him up. He slung Connor's arm around him, not caring that the blood-soaked sleeve would stain his sky blue dress shirt. He held onto Connor's waist with his right arm and held onto Connor's arm with his left. He slowly walked Connor to the entrance as he continued to babble a stream of apologies. "E-Evan, I'm so sorry, Z-Z-Zoe, I'm s-so sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he repeated like a broken record.

Evan couldn't move to wipe the tears from his own face. As he crossed the open gate, he saw the headlights of Jared's shitty four-seater and sighed with relief. Evan hobbled over to the back doors and rested Connor in the too-small backseat. He decided to squeeze in with Connor instead of sit shotgun and rested Connor's head on his lap, still in shock of his incredibly tired face.

"Is he alive?" Jared asked immediately, turning to look at him.

"B-Barely, fucking drive, Jared," Evan insisted, slamming the door shut.

Jared obeyed, speeding out of the orchard. Evan's heart spasmed as he remembered just a few days ago when Connor had sped out in the same manner. Evan looked down at Connor, who was breathing slower and slower. He played with his hair with one hand while stroking his cheek with the other. "Connor, look at me, l-look at me, keep your eyes o-open," Evan whispered. Connor's blue eyes were struggling to stay open, the pupils contracted until they were just pinpoints.

Tears snaked around Connor's temples. "Why… Why did y-you come? I don't… I don't see w-why," he mumbled, hand reaching to Evan. Evan shakily locked their fingers, shuddering upon feeling how cold and clammy Connor was.

"B-Because, Connor, you're my friend. T-That's what friends do." He bit back 'because I love you.' He bit back 'because you're my soulmate.' He bit back 'because you're my only friend.'

"We're getting close to the ER. Honestly, it's a fucking miracle I haven't been pulled over for speeding, I'm currently going seventy in a forty-five," Jared called from the front seat as he made a sharp right turn.

"Thank you, Jared," Evan said sincerely. Jared was the only person who would come this late on a Tuesday night and he was incredibly grateful.

The next hour was a blur. Jared parked and helped Evan carry Connor into the emergency room. They handed him off to nurses and waited in the waiting room anxiously. Evan was biting his nails and jiggling his leg and breathing shallowly. Jared placed a hand on his shoulder supportively. "Deep breaths, Ev."

"S-Sorry for calling you so late. I just… he texted me, and I showed up at the orchard, and he was puking his guts out and his wrists were bleeding profusely and I was so scared he was dead," Evan gushed, unable to stop the words from flowing. He blew his nose in a tissue from a box the receptionist handed him.

"That sounds… rough. It sucks that you had to see that," Jared said quietly, then added, "I'm really proud of you, y'know that? I'm so proud that you were able to call me and keep it together." His voice was laden with emotion.

Evan felt a tear slide down his face and he made no motion to wipe at it. "I can't believe that this is happening."

"Me neither, buddy. Also, you have a big ass scrape on your face."

Evan reached up to feel the bloody skin and remembered his trip on a rootin his fervor to reach Connor. "So I do."

A pregnant pause. "What did… how did he try to do it?" Jared asked hesitantly.

Evan swallowed thickly. "H-He, um, from what I could see, he s-s-slit his wrists, c-chugged a bottle of Prozac, and f-fell out of a tree." The bitter irony was not lost on Evan that both him and Connor attempted to kill themselves by jumping out of a tree. He remembered Connor's texts and felt acid in his throat.

"Holy shit," Jared sighed. "He was thorough."

Evan couldn't do more than nod feebly.

By the time a nurse came to retrieve them, Evan had fallen asleep on Jared's shoulder. "Wake up, sleepyhead, we got a suicidal jackass to visit," Jared mumbled, pushing Evan off of him.

He wiped at the string of drool that hung from his mouth and yawned. He remembered Connor's suicide attempt and stood abruptly. "W-Where is he?"

The nurse led Jared and Evan to another sickly clean hospital room. It reeked of death and disinfectant. Evan entered the room and burst into tears again upon seeing Connor's frail body hooked up to an IV drip. His entire forearms were bandaged to the point where it looked like he had a cast like Evan's, not to mention all the bandages on his knees and head. His skin was as pale as the sheet he rested on and his hair was drawn back into a low ponytail. A million wires and drips were inserted into his wrists and inner arms. He was barely awake.

The first words out of his dry mouth were "Why the fuck is Kleinman here?"

Evan couldn't help but burst into laughter. "Well fuck you too then, asshole! Evan and I just saved your damn life!" Jared spat with no real malice.

Connor tried to raise his hand but only got an inch off the mattress. "No loud noises. Talk slow," he requested. Evan and Jared sat in the stiff chairs next to his bed and nodded.

"W-What happened, Connor?" Evan asked, touching one hand to his shoulder.

Connor feebly sat up, the IVs dangling from his arm. "Well, before Cynthia, Larry, and Zoe left for the concert, they started arguing with me about stupid shit. It wasn't pretty. I brought up how they grounded me for nothing, they brought up my smoking, I said I probably wouldn't smoke if I had half-decent parents, shit hit the fan." His lips pressed together in a line. "You didn't reply and I… felt horrible. It's not your fault, it was just a mix of everything, it was the cherry on top of this shit sundae. And I-I had been planning for a while. Everybody was out because of the concert, so it was the perfect time to-to slip away to the orchard," Connor explained, his voice bitter.

Evan swallowed. "A-And then y-you texted me."

Connor sheepishly looked away. "Well. I had already, uh, downed the pills and slit my wrists. I was sitting in the tree, waiting for it to, y'know, kick in. I got woozy and I thought of you, so I was trying to text you but I fell out of the damn tree."

Evan choked back a sob. This was all his fucking fault, if he had replied or picked up his phone Connor wouldn't be almost dead, his fault, his fault, his fault.

"I can hear you over-thinking from here, Hansen," Connor said snidely but not cruelly. "It's not your fault. It really isn't."

Jared yawned. "Well now that you two have had your heart-to-heart, it's fucking four a. m. and I have a test in first period tomorrow. Want me to drive you home, Ev?"

Evan shook his head hard. "Evan, you don't have to-" Connor began.

"I want to," Evan interrupted. He couldn't abandon Connor like that again; he desperately needed the support.

"Suit yourself. I'll bring you food and shit after school tomorrow if I can remember. Sleep tight, tree fuckers." Jared turned to leave and paused in the doorway. "...Feel better, Connor."

"I'm on it, dipshit," Connor said sarcastically.

"I should've expected that. Night." Jared left and it was just Connor and Evan. The room was silent except for the rhythmic beeping of the EKG and the hum of machinery. The clinical hospital lighting cast a sallow sheen onto Connor's skin. Evan wordlessly slipped his hand into Connor's, not as a romantic gesture but as a gesture of solidarity and grounding. Connor weakly squeezed his hand and his eyes closed.

Evan woke up to a hand grasping and pulling his hair. He yelped, springing up from the bed in surprise. "Sorry, sorry, I didn't mean to tug. They put something in my IV that fucking burns," Connor said through a grimace as an apathetic nurse wheeling a cart out of the room.

"W-Why were you touching my hair?" Evan asked groggily as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

Connor shrugged. "Well, you fell asleep with your head on my stomach which must've been very loud as my stomach won't stop fucking growling after all the pills. I woke up earlier because your mother showed up but we didn't want to wake you up, and I don't know, I needed something to do with my hands and your hair is soft." He mumbled the last bit, fiddling with the IVs sheepishly.

Evan's eyes widened. "My mom came? Was she one of your nurses?"

Connor barked out a hoarse laugh. "Yeah. Incredibly awkward, considering how she knows me as your calc study buddy." He tugged at the sleeve of his hospital gown. "I fucking hate hospitals."

"Knock knock, bitches, I brought McDonald's," Jared announced as he entered the small room.

"Jared! Thank you for remembering," Evan exclaimed, eagerly grabbing the bag.

Connor leaned over and stole a handful of greasy fries as Jared replied. "No problem. It felt hella quiet today. Are you feeling any better, Con?"

"Don't give me a stupid nickname, Kleinman, and yes, I still feel like a test dummy for a torture device." Connor shoveled more fries into his mouth with reckless abandon. "Fries help, though. I'm fucking starving."

After prying him away from the hospital bed, Jared offered to drive Evan home. They were climbing into the tiny car when Jared spoke. "Does he know about the soulmate shit yet?"

Evan jumped at the sudden question and felt embarrassed. "N-No."

"Are you ever gonna tell him?" Jared asked in frustration.

Evan felt his face turn red and wished he wasn't having this conversation right now. Connor almost fucking died, now wasn't the time for talk of romance. "Eventually." Jared shot him a distrustful glance. "Look, it's n-none of your business!"

Jared turned the key and the car coughed before stirring to life. "First of all, it is my business, because you're my friend. Second of all, I heard you two talking in the backseat last night and I saw you two holding hands and shit. You're lying to him, dude."

Did Jared just call Evan his friend and not his family friend? Evan would be a lot more happy about this if the context wasn't what it was. "Connor would've th-thought I was using him if I told him I was his soulmate!" Evan retorted.

Jared sighed. "No, he wouldn't. He'd be damn happy that he found his soulmate, it's practically a goddamn miracle for him." He gave Evan a look before returning his gaze to the road. "I'm no expert, but I think he needs some good news about now."

Evan picked at his cast as he thought. Jared was right, he couldn't keep lying to him like this. His chest and his forearm were physically aching every time they touched and it hurt like hell. It was supposed to subside when the soulmates actually get together, and Evan would totally take that. "It feels wrong to tell him 'b-by the way, I'm your soulmate!' right after he tried to k-kill himself," he mumbled.

"Then wait until he's out of the hospital if you have to. I just mean, doesn't it bother you? If I found my soulmate, I wouldn't shut up about it for forever." He pulled into the parking lot of Evan's apartment complex and stopped. "Are you gonna be okay?" he asked.

"Y-Yeah. I'm just-still kind of in shock. There was so much blood…" Evan trailed off, lost in his thoughts again. His finger was bleeding where he bit it too hard.

"Well, if you ever need me, I think I've proved that I'm one call away, okay?" He smiled at Evan as he unbuckled his seatbelt. "C'mon. Bring it in. Kleinman hugs are very rare, so cherish it," he japed, holding his arms wide open. Evan laughed and accepted gratefully, hugging Jared. (He noted that he liked hugging Connor more.)

Evan's body walked up his apartment stairs on autopilot, his brain far too preoccupied. He was lying to Connor, wasn't he? This was wrong and Evan hated lying, especially to his soulmate. He thought about how Connor would react if he told him right now. Would he attempt again?

His mother was waiting for him when he opened the door. "Evan… I'm so sorry." She hugged him close and for once Evan didn't squirm out of her grasp. (He's hugged more people in the past two days than in the rest of his life, he thought.) Having a mother who fully supported him no matter what reassured him greatly, subsiding the flood of anxious thoughts for a little longer.

"It'll be okay. I know Connor's your friend, so it must be really… really hard on you," his mother said softly, rubbing Evan's back in a relaxing manner. "I'm always here if you wanna talk, alright? If I'm at work, you can call me, you know that, right?" she said and Evan nodded, taking a step back. "I love you, Evan."

"Love you too, Mom." Evan retreated to his room and promptly fell asleep, collapsing soundly on his bed. He dreamt this time of trees, of free-falls through nothingness, of Zoe Murphy's worries, of Nirvana tank tops in a beat-up truck, of blood and stomach bile, of a full moon, of a tsunami. He found himself missing the sensation of long, nimble, black-polished fingers carding through his hair and massaging his scalp, of a too-skinny stomach rising and falling with each breath, of the loud beeping of the heart monitor that reminded him that Connor Murphy was still very much alive.

Connor Murphy was still very much alive.

Evan tossed and turned.

* * *

Chapter 03

For the next few days, Evan spent twenty-four hours a day at the hospital with Connor. He kept him company, bringing his laptop to watch movies (Connor was a big fan of Wolverine) and talking to him while he waited to be discharged. Whenever his family visited, the tension was so thick Evan could've cut it with a knife. Larry was very sparse with his conversation, often only saying "get well soon." Zoe, when she did visit, was silent, rarely saying more than a greeting. Cynthia was more expressive, the only one of the three who tried to hold a conversation. She would ask him how he was feeling and ask what she could get for him.

Connor only asked for one thing: his sketchbook. When Cynthia brought it the next day, he thumbed to the next blank page and didn't stop drawing for a long time. Evan tried to subtly look over at his book but he always rotated it so Evan couldn't see. "No peeking, Hansen." He sometimes talked to Evan while he drew, but most of the time they sat in a comfortable silence while Evan read.

Jared surprisingly visited fairly often. He always brought junk food and a gift, like a book for Evan or a new pencil for Connor. He brought Connor a charcoal pencil the second day, and for the rest of his stay the nurses were griping about the black smudges everywhere. They were on his hospital gown, the sheets, his face and hands, and even the IV drip, somehow. After Evan complained about getting the dark stains on the pages of his book, Connor lunged out of the hospital bed to smear more charcoal, this time on Evan's face. Despite Evan's begrudging expression, he was secretly insanely happy that Connor even had the strength to nearly jump out of bed. (He had almost taken the heart monitor with him, too.) Another day, Jared brought a bottle of black nail polish ironically. Evan and Connor tried to paint each other's nails; Connor's entire fingertips were blackened, while Evan's nails were neatly and expertly painted. Connor yelled at Jared to bring acetone next time, to which Jared said to be more careful, dipshit. Evan felt vaguely guilty, but it was hard to be sad when Connor was frantically waving his hands in the air to dry the polish so he could scratch off the excess.

After the first day, Connor refused to eat the McDonald's that Jared brought, as the salt and grease pained his still-sensitive stomach. He gladly accepted chocolate milkshakes, however, and would greedily chug as many as he could get his hands off. "You have no fucking idea how gross hospital food is," he would whine before taking another long sip.

A week after the attempt, Evan was dozing off in the uncomfortable hospital chair he had spent the past three days straight in (he was careful to avoid resting his head on Connor's stomach again.) The main nurse entered and gently removed Connor's IV. "Am I finally getting out of this hellhole?" Connor said bluntly. Evan's eyes fluttered open at this and he wiped the drool from his shoulder.

"Yes, today is your discharge date. You've been fairly stable so the doctor cleared you. Keep your arms bandaged until they are fully healed, be careful what you eat, and avoid strenuous physical activities…" the nurse droned on, helping Connor stand.

Evan rushed over to where Connor shakily stood and provided support. "Y-You're finally getting out, Connor!" he exclaimed, smiling up at him as he slung his arm around Evan's shoulders.

"About goddamn time," Connor mumbled, gratefully clinging to Evan.

Monday morning. Connor and Evan's first day back from the hospital. The dawn's fog had yet to lift, shrouding the entire school in mist and giving the aura of a cemetery. Connor's hands were shoved in the pocket of his hoodie and Evan was fidgeting with the hem of his shirt as they walked down the hall to their table, students' heads turning to watch.

"Oh my God, it's Connor Murphy."

"Did you hear?"

"He was the one who tried to kill himself."

"Holy shit."

Evan tried to ignore the voices and drifted closer to Connor's side. He froze when Alana Beck approached them, putting a hand on Connor's shoulder gently. "Hi, Connor. I heard about… your troubles and I wanted to say I'm here for you."

"Like hell you are. I've never spoken to you before in my life, except for when you take Zoe out," Connor growled, the dark circles around his eyes threatening her.

"Yes, that's true, but if you ever want to change that, I'm here." She smiled warmly up at him despite his demeanor and Evan gawked at her bravery.

"Fuck off," stated Connor simply, stomping down the hallway past her.

"S-Sorry about that, h-he, um, he's still… y'know," Evan offered meekly before running after Connor. He turned a corner and saw Connor chucking his messenger bag on the table and sitting. He sat next to Connor and tugged out one of his earbuds. "It's o-okay, Connor, she only meant well," he tried to explain.

"Bullshit, she just wants to befriend the suicidal guy for another bullet point on her damn résumé," Connor sighed, but his breathing slowed and he seemed to calm back down. He ran a hand through his hair (the moment he got home, Evan watched him race to the bathroom to take a shower; he apparently hated having greasy hair) and plucked out his other earbud. Evan picked at his cast; it was supposed to come off in another week, but he had become accustomed to Connor's name in big, bold letters in his periphery and was almost sad to see it go. He couldn't hide his soulmate quote from Connor any longer after his cast came off, and the thought of confessing hurt his stomach. Just a little longer, until he's stable, he told himself.

Evan was shocked out of his reverie by a cold hand sliding into his own. He turned to look at Connor, heat rising to his face. Connor made eye contact and coughed. "I just need to make sure that you're… that you're real." He didn't move his hand and neither did Evan. They sat for the next fifteen minutes, hands intertwined under the table and watching the fog lift. Evan hoped Connor couldn't feel how sweaty his palms were. The bell rang and the two reluctantly withdrew their hands. "Later," Connor said gruffly before slinging his backpack over his shoulder and walking the opposite direction.

Evan stared at his hand, still in shock. He rubbed his palm on his khakis to rid them of sweat and shrugged on his backpack, making his way to his first period.

Forming coherent thoughts was hard. Evan dazedly trudged through his first four periods, his mind dulled by six days off of school. He missed sitting in the hospital room with Connor, sipping milkshakes and trying in vain to erase charcoal smudges from the bedsheets. His arm ached acutely. Nonetheless, he made it through to lunch.

He sat at the table again, the scene around it transformed by daylight. The leaves that hadn't fallen yet were turning a beautiful firey orange and the unmistakeable smell of fall was in the air. His hand tingled and he rubbed it anxiously.

Connor wordlessly sat next to Evan and linked their fingers again. Evan swallowed the butterflies that threatened to choke him alive and reciprocated the gesture. Words weren't needed. Connor and Evan had a strange kind of mutual understanding on almost everything, from mental health to music to the silent vow Evan made to Connor to never snoop in his sketchbook.

"Thank God you two dumbasses are finally back, it was getting eerily quiet around here," Jared exclaimed happily, taking a seat. Evan was relieved he seemed to not notice their hands.

"I'm pretty sure I can still hear the damn heart monitor," Connor stated sourly. Evan's arm burned.

"Has anybody said anything about it?" Evan asked, gently squeezing Connor's hand. (Fuck. Was he being weird? He was totally being weird. Holding hands is weird.)

He was reassured by Connor's calloused thumb rubbing a circle into the back of his hand, his heart rate rising and stomach getting caught in his throat. "Nah. Nobody has the balls. Sometimes being the school's resident psycho has its benefits, I guess."

Jared laughed at this. "True." Evan zoned out as Connor and Jared continued talking, lost in the coolness radiating off of Connor's body. His thumb continued making lazy circles on his hand. Evan wondered if he played guitar due to the rough callous on his thumb. His black nail polish gleamed in the sunlight and Evan bit the nails of his free hand absentmindedly. Jared's voice sounded in the back of his mind as words seared into his forearm; he was going to have to tell him sometime. He couldn't keep lying to him like this. Connor deserved the truth. But what if Connor didn't like him back yet? What if Connor was weirded out? What if Connor wasn't his soulmate?

Connor nudged his shoulder. "Hansen? You there? Jared asked you if you were going to eat that."

Evan blinked a few times and looked back at Connor. "S-Sorry, I zoned. Yeah, you can have it." He tossed the granola bar to Jared and took a deep breath. His hand had gone clammy around Connor's, but he didn't seem to notice.

For the next week, Connor couldn't let go of Evan's hand. Evan speculated it was due to his attempt, and Connor later explained it as a way of grounding himself and reminding himself that he was okay and alive. Evan wasn't complaining, of course, he loved clingy Connor. It wasn't just hand-holding, either; Connor would rest his head on his shoulder, or touch his knee, or even wrap his arm around him when he was feeling particularly brave. He did it when they were in private, like at the orchard or in Evan's room, and in public, like at school, leaning against the lockers and daring any onlookers to say anything.

Evan's head swam at every instance of casual physical contact, but he couldn't say he didn't like it. Connor was right; it felt reassuring that yes, Connor was a real person and he's right beside him and he's tracing the tendons in his hand with a polished nail. (Evan liked running the pad of his thumb along the smooth, black enamel on Connor's nails.) Sometimes Evan noticed people giving them strange looks, but whenever he nudged Connor, he would squeeze his hand twice as hard and pull him closer. Somehow this always untied the knot of anxiety in Evan's gut better than any anxiety med he had tried (and he'd tried them all.)

It was nice.

The saw buzzed loudly as it cut through Evan's cast. He looked at it numbly as it cut a strike through Connor's name. His mother smiled and clapped as the halves of the cast fell apart to reveal the pale, dirty arm underneath. The black quote stared up at Evan as he looked at it for the first time since the summer. He hesitantly moved his wrist, feeling disconcerted. He forgot what moving his wrist felt like. The lightness of his arm was also striking. He didn't stop flexing his wrist until he got home.

Evan took a long shower, scrubbing the grimy arm as hard as he could. "What the fuck are you laughing at?" The quote felt like it was boring a hole in his arm. He rubbed the washcloth harder, hoping that the text would fade in vain. Connor was going to see it, no doubt; Evan didn't own very many long sleeve shirts. Jared's argument echoed in his mind. How could he possibly confess? The skin was red and irritated. The too-hot water that cascaded down his back was now turning lukewarm. He wet his hair one last time and shut off the water.

As he toweled off, he considered some fantasies.

_They're at the orchard, sitting at the base of a tree at sunset. Their fingers are casually laced together as they cloudgaze; Connor points out a cloud that looks like a heart and Evan laughs warmly. "Hey, Connor. I have something I need to tell you."_

"Yeah, Evan?" Connor asks sweetly, turning his head to look at him with those soft blue eyes Evan's seemingly always drowning in. His thumb is rubbing Evan's hand affectionately and the sunlight gives a warm cast to his skin, making him look nothing short of angelic.

"I think you're my soulmate. Here, look at my quote," Evan states smoothly, not a stutter in his voice, as he shows Connor his forearm. He feels no anxiety, no nagging voice in the back of his head; just the setting sunshine on his face and Connor's warmth by his side.

_Connor gasps and his free hand shoots up to his mouth, his face turning pink. "Wow, really? I can't believe it!" he says in shock. Evan smiles and leans in, kissing Connor chastely. His lips are soft and warm and he squeaks in surprise. Evan withdraws from the kiss and grins at him, heart racing. Connor blushes and threads his fingers into Evan's hair, pulling him closer as he bites his lip-_

Okay, Evan, time to stop, he thought quickly, shaking his head roughly. That'd never happen, he was being crazy. He should get real. What might actually happen? He thought of another situation.

_They're at lunch with Jared. He shoots Evan a glare, egging him on. Evan clears his throat anxiously. "C-C-Connor, I n-need to, uh, t-t-tell you something," he stutters sharply. His voice cracks._

_"What the fuck do you want?" Connor seethes, sneering at Evan._

_"W-Well, I, um, I think y-y-you should s-see my s-s-soulmate tattoo," Evan stammers, thrusting his forearm at Connor. He grabs his wrist roughly, his black nails digging into Evan's sensitive skin as he scrutinized the ink._

_He burst into laughter. "Oh my God, you don't actually think we're soulmates, do you? God, you're so stupid. I'd never love you, not in a million years, you fucking freak! Can you believe it, Jared?" he cries, wiping his eye as he laughs loudly. People are watching the spectacle and whispering. Evan feels hot shame curl in his stomach._

_"What a fucking loser! I can't believe he fucking fell for it!" Jared cackled, laughing with Connor. Evan shrunk into himself as Zoe and Alana and everybody at the school circled the table, laughing and pointing and whispering at Evan, Evan, what a fucking freak, what a loser, what an idiot, what a dumbass-_

Evan's mother knocked on the bathroom door. "Evan? You've been in there for a long time. You okay?"

Evan looked at the door blankly. He was crying on the floor, still not even clothed. He rubbed his eyes and yelled, "Yeah, I'm fine. Just g-getting dressed." He heard her footsteps fade and sniffled acutely. He tugged on a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie and ran to his room. He dry swallowed two of his anxiety meds and sat on his bed, hot tears dripping from his chin and onto the blue comforter. His phone dinged and he flinched, reaching for it shakily.

[10:36 PM] Prince of Halo: you. me. your prize for winning halo: à la mode. orchard. tomorrow. 4 pm. i'll pick you up. you in?

[10:38 PM] Evan Hansen: Of course!

Evan's mouth twisted up into a smile and he held his phone close to his chest, resisting the urge to kick and dance. Fuck yes, another friend-date with Connor! Maybe he could confess then… His mind drifted to the first scenario dreamily. He decided to get a second opinion on the matter.

[10:47 PM] Evan Hansen: Okay so Connor and I are going to get ice cream & go to the orchard tomorrow… should I tell him?

[10:48 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: DUDE OFC WHY ARE YOU EVEN ASKING THAT

[10:49 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: why are you even asking man of course you should

[10:49 PM] Evan Hansen: I don't know! I'm really nervous.

[10:50 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: have you not seen the way he looks at you like youre in a goddamn nicholas sparks romcom?

[10:51 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: seriously like im thirdwheeling mega hard

[10:53 PM] Evan Hansen: I'm calling bullshit, Jare.

[10:54 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: DEEP SIGH

Evan locked his phone and placed it on his nightstand. Did he really look at him like that? Jared must be kidding, right? He fell asleep uneasily.

The next morning, Connor smoothly interlaced their fingers again, squeezing gently as he scrolled on his phone. He had one headphone in and Evan had in the other one and they were leaning against each other, the grungy chords of Nirvana flowing through the tiny speakers. Evan couldn't fathom how nonchalant he was about holding his hand. "Wait. You got your cast off," Connor said, looking at Evan's arm.

Shit, shit, shit, Evan thought. He can't see the quote, Evan wasn't ready, what if he saw the quote? Evan shrugged as coolly as he could. "Yeah. I'm finally free, I guess." He thanked his lucky stars he was wearing a jacket today.

"Nice. Want me to write my name on your arm, just like old times?" Connor quipped, nudging him with his elbow.

Evan felt ice run through his veins; he was absurdly close to the truth. "I-I think I'm okay, thanks."

Connor changed the subject and yanked out his earbud. "Excited for your prize today, Halo King?" he teased, withdrawing his hand and drawing circles on Evan's palm instead.

Evan shivered. "Yeah. This'll be your first À La Mode since the hospital, huh?"

"Oh hell yeah. You already know I'm going to put so much sugary shit on it, it'll be a damn miracle if I don't immediately fall into a diabetic coma," Connor smirked.

"No comas on my watch, Murphy," Evan laughed, leaning on Connor's shoulder affectionately.

"I'll go into a coma if I want to, you're not my mom," Connor said dramatically.

"You don't even listen to your mom!" Evan giggled, poking Connor's hand in jest.

"Shit, you got me there, Hansen." Connor laughed genuinely and Evan couldn't keep his eyes off him. His heart pounded in his chest and his wrist ached but he ignored it, taking in Connor's gleeful expression. It was pretty rare that Connor smiled fully, wrinkles forming around his eyes and nose crinkling. Evan was awestruck and his heart skipped a beat. Connor squeezed Evan's hand and Evan squeezed back.

The moment was shattered by the bell ringing loudly above their heads. Connor ceased laughing and ran a finger along Evan's wrist. "See you later, Hansen," he said, standing and leaving Evan dazed and lovestruck.

Lunch came and Evan found himself looking forward to the physical contact with Connor, as much as he was ashamed to admit it. They sat in their usual position, with their hands intertwined under the table and thighs touching out of Jared's line of sight. Evan was looking at the trees, transfixed by the changing colors of the leaves. The breeze rustled the branches, making more leaves fall lazily to the ground below. Evan loved to stare at trees.

Jared coughed conspicuously. Evan's head jerked back down and he looked towards Connor for an explanation. Much to his surprise, Connor had his chin in his left hand and was staring at Evan previously. He quickly moved, pretending like he was looking at a student who was passing by. "W-What is she wearing, right?" he mumbled and returned to his lunch, which was a bottle of Diet Coke. Jared barked out a laugh and nodded at Evan. Evan felt his body flush and looked away. As much as he pained him, Jared was right. Was he being naïve? He tightened his grip on Connor's hand.

Connor hadn't been able to pass any notes to Evan since the teacher intercepted his gun drawing. This day ended that, however, as a crumpled paper ball landed on Evan's desk. He eagerly unfolded it and saw a doodle of an apple tree. He smiled down at the paper and decided to add a suspiciously tall and lanky boy at the base of the tree, eating an apple. He re-crumpled the paper and threw it back.

Next time, Connor added a shorter boy with a highlighter-blue polo and an ice cream cone. Next to Evan's stick-figure-esque scribble, Connor's depiction of Evan was detailed and beautiful. Evan added an ice cream cone in Connor's hand and a smile on his face. He catapulted it back at Connor.

Watching Connor open it and grin like an idiot made Evan's arm burn dully. He wrote on the back of the paper and threw it back at Evan.

"I WANT TO SHOW YOU THIS PLACE. ITS RIGHT NEXT TO THE ORCHARD + I THINK YOULL LIKE IT."

":O Really?! Sounds cool! I can't wait!"

Connor shoved the note in his pocket and shot a smile in Evan's direction. He didn't send another note after that and Evan buried himself in his Calculus notes.

Evan nervously ran his hands through his hair in front of the mirror, trying to make himself look presentable. He knew Connor wouldn't care, but he couldn't help himself from adjusting his Ellison State Park tee anxiously. A knock sounded on the door and Evan ran to open the door, smiling when he saw Connor standing there in his trademark black jacket and ripped jeans.

The two traveled downstairs and Evan climbed into Connor's truck enthusiastically. He inhaled deeply and noticed a smoldering joint in the cupholder; Connor must've been smoking before he picked him up. Connor turned the ignition and, much to Evan's surprise, a light and happy guitar or ukulele melody flowed through the speakers. "First stop: À La Mode," mumbled Connor, reversing out of the parking lot.

Hot wind blew through the open windows, kissing Evan's face and ruffling his meticulously-combed hair. His hand rubbed at the skin where his cast used to be; as weird as it sounded, he missed it. It was his shield, it gave him something to do in awkward situations instead of pick at his nails and the hem of his shirt. It was a social crutch even more than a physical one to Evan. The breeze on his arm felt foreign and strange after losing the familiar feeling of the heavy weight of the cast. He had decided against a jacket, wanting to make the most of his naked arm. He pushed the nagging feeling that Connor would notice his tattoo back down and focused on the plucky chords that Connor was humming along to.

He turned his attention back to the serene Connor that sat beside him. He was leaning on the palm of his left hand, the elbow resting on the window slot, and tapping on the steering wheel to the beat with his right hand. The tails of bandages trailed out of the cuffs of his jacket and Evan was happy that he was taking care of himself. Connor's black nail polish was chipping and his long hair was messy, but Evan realized he loved the imperfections. They reminded him that he didn't have to be perfectly put together, either. (It also helped that he liked to look at the little, almost imperceptible freckles that adorned Connor's cheeks.)

A minute later, the breeze ceased and Connor was parking the truck. The two paused for a minute before exiting the car. "It's nice outside today," Connor said quietly.

"It is," Evan replied. Connor gave Evan a look that he couldn't quite describe. The sunlight framed his face in a way that was nothing short of seraphic, turning his hair into a white glowing halo. His breath caught in his throat. The air was warm and pressing on Evan's lungs in a not completely unpleasant way. His normal suffocation feeling was lessened, and his arm was buzzing with sensation. There was a foot between them but he felt close.

Connor opened the door and Evan snapped out of it. They ventured into À La Mode and bought two cones-Evan's was still a plain chocolate while Connor's this time was cookies and cream with a pound of toppings. Connor paid for both again and Evan let him as his trophy for beating him earlier. They drove together to the orchard, a short drive, but took a right at the last second. "Here it is, my favorite place," Connor announced, the car sputtering to a stop.

A wide open field, framed with trees, with tall wild grass carpeting the ground laid in front of them. The wind blew the grass and the leaves, gently rustling. The golden sunshine gave the entire clearing a beautiful warm tint and Evan wondered if he was in heaven. He gasped and swallowed. "It's… beautiful."

Connor nodded in Evan's periphery. "C'mon, stop dripping ice cream on the seat and let's go sit." Evan reeled in embarrassment upon noticing the chocolate was dripping down his hand and pooling on the seat of the truck. He began stammering a profuse apology but Connor cut him off. "These seats have been through worse, Hansen. Let's go."

They exited the truck as Evan hurriedly licked the excess ice cream off the cone and his hand. The last breezes of summer blew Connor's hair and Evan felt his palms grow sweaty around his ice cream. Connor's long fingers closed around Evan's wrist and he tugged, leading him through the tall grass. He let himself be dragged through the picturesque field, his entire body flooding with emotion. Connor was still so skinny; he was always skinny, but during his hospitalization he became almost emaciated and it was apparent by the way his jacket hung on and tried to slip off of his shoulders.

A word popped into his mind as he looked at Connor's spindly legs sprinting deeper into the field with Evan in tow: bittersweet. The hospitalization, his tattoo, Connor was bittersweet. Evan was beyond happy when he found out that he had a soulmate, but it was Connor, and Connor wasn't a very friendly or open person. He pondered for a moment about why Connor talked to him in the first place. Maybe it was a bet. Maybe it was Jared paying him off so Evan wouldn't cling to him as much. Maybe he was just as lonely as Evan. His mind wandered to his suicide attempt. Evan's stomach twisted as he remembered the blood, the vomit, the empty pill bottle. He felt acute guilt in his ribcage like a caged bird struggling to escape. If he had been a better friend, would Connor not have tried to kill himself? He should've brought his damn phone, should've picked up when he called, should've responded when he texted, should've stopped his suicidal thoughts in their tracks. He thought back to his attempt before the school year started. He wished he had Connor then. Everything would have been different, he wished everything was different. Connor's hand was cold. He remembered the first day, when he had sat with Connor, leaning on the trunk of an apple tree. He was warm. Heat radiated from Connor like he was the sun, volatile and blinding, and Evan wasn't wearing sunglasses. Now, though, his touch was cold and somber, more like a dying star. Something had shifted.

Connor slowed to a stop, turned to face Evan, and laid down on the ground. Evan laid beside him, missing the feeling of his grip on his wrist. Just as he thought that, Connor slipped his hand into Evan's, long fingers tangling with his own. His forearm itched relentlessly and his heart rate skyrocketed as he looked up at the sky with Connor. Cotton candy clouds lazily drifted across the horizon. Evan gripped Connor's hand a little tighter.

Connor was the first to break the silence. "Thanks."

"For what?" Evan asked quizzically.

"I don't know. Staying with me?" Connor mumbled, massaging his wrist. A silence (not comfortable nor uncomfortable) spread like jam between them. Evan inched infinitesimally closer to Connor. "It… It means a lot," he finished, looking over at Evan.

"N-No problem," coughed Evan. Jared's smug voice sounded in his ear, "Just fucking do it already! He's in a good mood, he just said some really sappy shit, you're sitting in a fucking field, the timing couldn't get more perfect." His arm sung in anticipation as he tried to work up the nerve.

Connor sat up abruptly. "We're friends, right?"

Evan slowly sat up to face him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Of course, Connor. W-What's up?" he said through a lump of anxiety.

Connor's teeth worried at his lip and he picked at his nail polish. "Okay. Okay, this is happening," he whispered, running a shaky hand through his wild mane of hair. Evan tilted his head in confusion. Connor shifted so he was sitting on the balls of his feet and facing Evan who sat cross-legged in front of him. He took a deep breath and continued. "Well, uh. I… I have feelings for you," he blurted loudly.

Evan's brain short-circuited. His heart jumped to his throat and his pulse skyrocketed, his palms became sweaty on his knees. "W-W-What?" he stuttered, his diaphragm about to burst.

Connor laughed awkwardly. "Evan Hansen, I have no idea if you're my soulmate or not, but I… I kind of really fucking love you," he continued, his face turning a bright red color that Evan had never seen before. "You're just, fuck, I've never really had a friend like you before and God you're fucking amazing and I love your smile, your eyes, your stupid fucking jokes, your goddamn tree facts, the way you care so unfathomably much, and I don't know how soulmates work or if you're even my soulmate but if you aren't mine there's been a goddamn glitch in the system because you're a fucking masterpiece," he rambled on, his voice getting progressively shakier, a rare occurrence for the chronically over-confident Connor. Evan's body was on fire but his brain still hadn't processed the information and he looked at him numbly. Did he just actually say that?

"God, you really aren't getting it, are you? Stop me if you want," Connor mumbled and Evan's eyebrows knitted together in confusion and he was leaning forward and oh my God Connor's lips were on his. They were chapped and tender from his lip-biting and their teeth clacked together unpleasantly. Connor exhaled through his nose, his hands fisted in Evan's collar and pulling him closer, the tip of his nose pressing against Evan's cheek. Evan felt his entire body burst into flames and his eyebrows shot up to his hairline, his open eyes taking in Connor's screwed-shut ones. He was sure he was blushing deeply as Connor was. The split second felt like a millennia and a nanosecond all at once, just a clumsy peck on the mouth yet Evan's entire being reeled. The burning in his forearm subsided.

Connor slowly retreated, his eyelashes fluttering and his mouth slightly open. His entire face was red down to his ears and his neck. He hesitantly let go of Evan's collar as a pregnant silence enveloped them. The breeze whispered quietly around the two as the gears turned in Evan's head. "I'm sorry, I thought…" Connor began and Evan saw anxiety and paranoia set in on his face.

Without thinking, Evan surged forward again, trying to knot his hands in Connor's hair. He missed his mouth and instead got the corner of his lips, which made Connor burst out laughing. "Oh my God, Hansen, you're such a dork," he chuckled, pressed a warm hand to the nape of Evan's neck, and pulled him in to kiss him gently.

All the anxiety melted out of Evan's body. The only word on his lips was Connor, Connor, Connor, his fingers tangled in his hair, heat emanating from his body, a smile on his lips as they pressed against Evan's, a hand on his cheek. Evan's eyes shut this time and he was absorbed in the sensations; Connor's mouth, his calloused fingers on his chin, his other hand wrapped around the back of his neck, the warmth seeping through Connor's shirt as Evan put his hand on his side, Connor's muffled happy noises. Evan's arm didn't burn anymore. His head felt full of cotton, like he was dreaming. He hoped he wasn't a bad kisser as he tried to move his lips softly against Connor's.

Connor finally separated from him after what felt like an eon and touched their foreheads together, a big, goofy smile spreading across his face. "I'll take that as the feelings are mutual?"

Evan nodded. "Yeah, C-Connor, I also kind of really fucking love you," he managed to say despite the heat that rushed to his face. He couldn't suppress a grin as he intertwined their fingers. "A-A-And, um, t-there's something I think you should see?" he said with an upward inflection, reaching his left arm out for Connor to see.

He ran his fingers over the letters gently (God he was so gentle with Evan) and his face went through a million emotions. "I… I said this. Oh my God, we're soulmates. Jesus Christ, Evan, you're my soulmate," Connor wheezed. The sun was setting behind him, sunlight spilling around him and casting him in an ethereal glow. His eyes lifted to meet Evan's, and holy shit, his blue eyes (with just a bit of brown in the left one, he noted) were so bright and luminous and full of hope for the first time since the hospital. Evan's chest ached with something, maybe love, maybe affection, maybe pain. "Why didn't you tell me before?" Connor asked tentatively.

A hot wave of guilt crashed over Evan's body like a tsunami. "W-Well, I, um. I, I'm kind of a really nervous person and I was scared you would react badly? I was going to, before the, um, the attempt, but then it happened and I didn't want you to think I was taking advantage of you, because I would totally never do that, and I, uh, I figured that maybe I'd do it when I got my cast off but I haven't thought of a plan but I guess I don't need one now?" He gushed, the words bleeding together as he talked quickly. "I mean, I guess what I'm trying to say is I want you to like me for me, and not for the words on my arm, y'know? I wanted it to be more… organic, I guess, I don't know," he trailed off, looking down at his nails.

Connor put a hand under Evan's chin and lifted his head so he was forced to look at him. Connor's eyes were wet as he replied, "Evan, it's okay, it's okay, I understand. I'm kind of happy it worked out this way in the end." He wiped his eye and smiled into Evan's face.

"What does this m-mean? For us?" Evan asked hesitantly, unable to take his eyes off of Connor. He had never seen him so hopeful and radiant and he hoped he would get to see him like this more.

"I don't know. More ice cream, I guess?" he laughed, shrugging. Evan laid back down on the ground and Connor curled up by his side, watching the sunset together. Connor ran his fingers along his quote gently.

The main thing that changed was that now Connor showed up at Evan's apartment randomly. They challenged each other in Halo often, and sometimes Connor would bring his sketchbook and after Evan begged for a while he'd let him look through it. He flipped through the pages and noticed that the charcoal pencil Jared gave him was particularly well-loved. He apparently liked to draw Evan a lot; Evan found himself blushing as he looked through pages and pages of him smiling or climbing a tree or sitting in the field by the orchard. (Connor stated that drawing and Evan are two of the things that help him relax the most, so he often combined them. Evan blushed.)

The field became a common hang-out (are they dates now? pondered Evan) spot. Sometimes Connor would park the truck near the orchard and he and Evan would cuddle in the bed of the truck for hours on end. Evan always instantly relaxed when Connor wrapped his long arm around him, pulling him into his chest where he rested his head and listened to his heartbeat. Connor remained exceptionally clingy, the physical intimacy seemingly instantly soothing his ever present anger.

Mental health remained a struggle. Evan was still anxious, especially when Connor wanted to get exceptionally eager or handsy with the PDA, even though Connor was the best way to calm him down. He learned to talk quietly to Evan when he had a panic attack, whispering sweet nothings and embracing him tightly. He let him soak the shoulder of his shirts with tears and he rocked him back and forth gently, drawing on his back with his black nails. He also found that Evan loved it when he played his ukulele (After a while of Connor's rough thumbs brushing against his cheek or the back of his hand, Evan asked him about his callouses on his hands and he sheepishly confessed his love for playing his ukulele. Evan found it adorable and tried to get him to play as much as possible) and often serenaded him. During Connor's episodes, all he needed was for Evan to sit in his lap and bear hug him as hard as he could. He explained that he wasn't just a horny teenage boy; physical contact did, in fact, help ground him in reality, but when Evan brought up the fact that Connor loved giving him hickies, he stopped arguing his innocence outside of his mental illness. (Explaining these hickies to his mother became increasingly harder, as Connor left them not only on his neck, but on his collarbones, his jaw, his chest, and sometimes his hips if he was feeling particularly affectionate. Evan always playfully pushed him away before he managed to get below the belt, though, much to Connor's chagrin.)

Connor loved kissing and tracing over Evan's soulmate quote. He felt guilty that his quote was so shitty, but Evan expressed that he actually liked it. It was very distinctively Connor. Evan felt way more guilt than Connor did, though, once he learned that Connor had no idea who his soulmate was for most of his life.

"Well, 'what?' is really vague. Pretty much everyone who talks to me's first word is 'what,'" Connor shrugged nonchalantly, playing with Evan's hair as Evan laid on his chest in his bed.

"Jesus, I'm so sorry I'm so nervous all the time," Evan muttered into Connor's neck. He pressed his lips to his pulse point to try and atone, burrowing into Connor's neck and hair more. He breathed him in, smelling the distinct, familiar smell of Connor; candy sweetness, something tangy, and a hint of weed that always clung to his clothes.

"It's okay. It's kind of cute," Connor laughed, petting Evan's hair gently. "I'm glad it turned out the way it did, anyway. I was so anxious before telling you, did you know that?"

"You were?" Evan asked, looking up at him. His forearm tingled happily as he interlaced their fingers again.

"Yep. I was pining so hard for you, man. It took a small army to get me to finally bite the bullet and kiss you. I'd never had a crush on anybody before and I was so scared I was doing something wrong. I mean, I put up with Jared fucking Kleinman for you, so you know I was dedicated as hell," he smirked and Evan felt his chest shake with a chuckle.

"A b-brave sacrifice," Evan giggled. "I still can't believe you love me back," he whispered, his nose pressing against Connor's jawline.

Connor pressed a kiss to his forehead, running his hand up and down his shoulder. "And I don't know what you see in me, Hansen," he replied. "I'm a mentally ill, suicidal, angry, skinny, pale-ass stoner."

Evan rolled his eyes. "You forgot 'stupid.'"

"Ah, yes, my mistake," Connor replied amusedly, tightening his arm around Evan's shoulders. "You've turned me into a sap, Hansen," he mumbled. "You've turned me soft."

"You're welcome." He angled his chin upwards to give Connor a kiss on the lips this time, and Connor eagerly reciprocated. Connor moved his hands to Evan's hips and pulled him up on the bed so he could get a better vantage point, licking his lip in typical, impatient Connor fashion. Evan smiled into the kiss and wondered what he'd done to deserve a soulmate like Connor Murphy.

Jared screamed when Evan broke the news to him. He said he was proud of Evan for not completely losing his shit when Connor ended up confessing first. He sat Evan and Connor down at lunch the day after and cleared his throat. "I have something to tell both of you."

"Kleinman, we know you're gay, if that's what you're saying," Connor smirked.

"Shut your damn mouth, Murphy. So, basically, the entire time you two dumbasses were head over goddamn heels for each other, I was caught in the middle. Evan kept texting me about how he wanted to make out with Connor and Connor kept texting me about how hot Evan looks in his khakis or whatever. This has been the most fucking harrowing experience of my entire life, and you are both damn lucky I didn't tell the other before you doofuses did." Jared dug out his phone and showed Evan a text log between him and Connor and Connor sputtered a protest.

[11:58 AM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: ur not subtle yknow

[11:59 AM] tall angsty asshole: i'm sure i don't know what you're talking about

[12:00 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: the heart eyes. ur totally gay for hansen, arent u?

[12:03 PM] tall angsty asshole: dont be ridiculous

[12:04 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: I FUCKING KNEW IT AHAHAHAHAH

[12:05 PM] tall angsty asshole: IF YOU TELL HIM I'LL FUCKING KILL YOU KLEINMAN

Jared laughed and scrolled down. "Remember when you were in denial?"

"That murder's still on the table, Kleinman," Connor growled.

[11:27 PM] tall angsty asshole: FUCK man how is he so cute

[11:28 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: go be gay somewhere else

[11:29 PM] tall angsty asshole: jared i'm fucking dying over here

[11:29 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: ask him out you goddamn coward

[11:30 PM] tall angsty asshole: what if he doesn't fucking like me?

[11:31 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: i mean can you blame him lmao

[11:32 PM] tall angsty asshole: eat a bag of dicks kleinman

[11:32 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: im on it

"Fuck you, Kleinman, these were confidential!" Connor yelled. Jared snickered and scrolled down.

[1:48 PM] tall angsty asshole: WHAT THE FUUUUUCK

[1:50 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: any particular reason why youre texting me in the middle of fifth period?

[1:51 PM] tall angsty asshole: YOU'RE THE ONLY ONE I CAN VENT TO ABOUT EVAN SO YOU'RE STUCK WITH IT

[1:52 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: oh my gooooood just make out w him already

[1:53 PM] tall angsty asshole: i'm fucking trying you cunt

[1:53 PM] tall angsty asshole: you know how goddamn TEMPTING it is whenever i drive him anywhere?

[1:56 PM] tall angsty asshole: he sits in the passenger seat with the window down and his hair's all blown from the wind and he's smiling all cute and he's bobbing his head to my shitty music

[1:57 PM] tall angsty asshole: it takes all my goddamn willpower not to stick my tongue down his throat okay

[1:59 PM] the insanely cool jared kleinman: yknow i dont think i needed all that detail but its good to know that youre a goddamn sap

[2:00 PM] tall angsty asshole: shut the fuck up

Evan felt his face turn red and he squeezed Connor's hand. "Oh my God, I had no idea! Jared was telling me the same thing, trying to get me to ask you out," he said incredulously. "You're a goddamn mastermind."

"Thank you, thank you. You're fucking welcome, by the way."

Zoe and Alana were ecstatic when Connor and Evan broke the news to them. Alana gushed about how she pretty much knew anyway by the way they acted like more than acquaintances and Zoe shrugged, saying she figured it out when Evan refused to leave his side during the hospitalization. "I mean, you were like conjoined twins. It doesn't take a detective to figure it out." Connor punched her shoulder.

It was three AM and Connor burst into Evan's room. Evan had been crying on his bed, another anxiety attack rearing its ugly head. He had texted Connor that he was feeling bad and not ten minutes later Connor was in his apartment (Evan had long ago had a copy of the key made for Connor) and dropping plastic bags on the ground to rush to Evan's side.

"Evan, Evan, I'm here, Evan, it's okay, babe, Evan, love…" He whispered pet names into his ear as he held him close, Evan shivering hard against his chest. His body was wracked by sniffles and sobs. Evan's hands knotted in Connor's loose t-shirt and Connor rubbed his back sympathetically.

"Everybody h-h-hates m-me. I-I'm such a fuck-king b-b-burden," Evan whimpered, tears soaking into the cotton of Connor's shirt.

"No you aren't, Evan, you're not a burden, you're my best friend, you're my soulmate, you're the best damn thing that's ever happened to me," Connor reassured him, petting his hair and hugging him as tightly as humanly possible.

Evan looked up at him through teary eyes. "N-N-Nobody likes me, C-Connor. I'm a w-w-whiny, anx-xious, annoying, s-stupid piece of shit," he sobbed, tears and snot dripping down his face.

Connor pressed a kiss to his forehead, "I love you," his left cheek, "I love you," his right cheek, "I love you," his nose, "I love you," and his chin, "I love you. I love you, Evan Hansen, and you are not whiny or annoying or stupid, you are my favorite person and my soulmate and I love you more than anything else in this world."

He was nervous, he mumbled, he bit his nails, he wasn't athletic, he wasn't attractive, he liked trees more than people, he had insomnia, he had social anxiety, he had no social skills, he had a terrible stutter, he couldn't talk in front of people, and he was always uncomfortable.

Who could ever love Evan Hansen?

Connor kissed Evan tenderly and withdrew, rubbing a thumb on his cheek and smiling down at him.

Apparently, Connor Murphy.


	40. (E) KLANCE - Uh Huh, Honey by orphan acc

uh huh, honey  
orphan_account

Summary:  
Keith knows he's doomed the moment Lance rests his arm on the wall behind him, leans a little closer and asks what such a pretty face is doing in a place like this: a fraternity house neither of them even go to. Keith stares up into pretty blue eyes and a bright smile that promises a whole world of fun and tells him, "Waiting for you to get me a drink."

* * *

Somewhere between Keith's fifth shot and the moment Shiro spots Allura and leaves him- _sans _car-keys, that _fucker _\- Lance eyes him from the other side of the room and clicks his fingers in his general direction. Keith frowns and tells himself he's _not _blushing, but it's hopeless: Lance looks good, and he swings those slim hips and broad, strong shoulders as he walks in a determined, straight line towards him. He's wearing a white t-shirt that's ever-so-slightly too small for him- it rides up to expose his hip-bone and is tight around his chest- and skinny jeans and shoes that make him _even _taller. A hoodie is wrapped around his hips: bright blue, as expected.

Blue is Lance's favourite colour. That's just one of the many things Keith's picked up on in the year they've sat next to each other in physics class.

Keith knows he's doomed the moment Lance rests his arm on the wall behind him, leans a little closer and asks what such a pretty face is doing in a place like this: a fraternity house neither of them even _go _to. Keith stares up into pretty blue eyes and a bright smile that promises a whole world of fun and tells him, "Waiting for you to get me a drink."

Lance throws his head back and laughs. It shakes his entire body and bears his neck, and _God _, he's gorgeous. He nods and asks Keith what he wants- whiskey-cola- and leaves, then comes back with a red Solo cup in one hand and a bottle of beer in the other.

"Want to go somewhere more quiet?" Lance asks him. Keith sips at his drink- it's surprisingly weak, as though Lance prefers him sober- and nods. Lance licks his lips and ducks his head, turning and leading Keith to the back of the house. There's a porch outside. Keith wonders how Lance knew that.

It's dark, and it's sort of cold. Lance huffs and sits down on the wooden floor. Keith sits down next to him and wraps his arms around himself, shivering once. Lance is taking a sip of his drink- full lips wrapped around the neck of a bottle- when he glances at Keith with wide eyes.

"Sorry," Lance says, "Are you cold?"

"Yeah, sort of."

Lance grins as if he's just won a million dollars.

"Here," he says. He unties his hoodie and hands it to Keith.

Keith holds it in his hands, as though he weren't sure what to do with it.

"Oh," he tells him. It sounds dumb.

"'m not cold," Lance explains, "And you're nothing but meat and bones."

Lance's eyes are bright, and as some people stumble onto the porch and walk past them to do _God-knows-what _in the bushes, Keith notices for the first time how _close _they were. The sides of their bodies touches from ankle to shoulder. Lance _was _warm. Keith could feel it.

"Thanks," Keith says as he shrugs it on. His hair is mussed as he sticks his head through the hole, and it's too long on his arms and too large at the shoulders. It smells like vanilla: like _Lance _. Keith's sure it's not the alcohol that's making his head spin.

"Better?" Lance asks. He tilts his head and smiles at Keith as though Keith were the very last of his wishes to come true.

"Yeah."

"I mean," Lance starts. He sits a little straighter, and scratches at his cheek. "If you're- if you're still cold, we can- uh, we _could… _I live pretty close. We could hang out in my dorm."

Keith licks his lips.

"If you want to," Lance adds. His skin is dusted with a peachy pink, like he'd just realised what it _sounded _like he was asking.

Keith doesn't mind that.

"Sure," Keith says, "Shiro's gone somewhere, and- he's got the keys, so- I'm kind of stuck here."

Lance's smile wavers ever so slightly: just once.

"Oh," Lance says, "So… you're… you came- together?"

He scratches the back of his neck.

Keith raises his cup to his lips and bites at it as he takes a large gulp. The burn of whiskey calms him, somewhat. It's familiar, though the proximity of Lance makes his stomach turn with nervousness. His fingers itch for a cigarette, but he doesn't know what Lance would think of him if he'd spoke next to him: it wouldn't be worth Lance's disgust and disapproval.

"I- I mean, yeah, but- uh- he's gone somewhere with _Allura _. It's- not like that. We're half-brothers. You know that, right?"

"Oh, no I- I didn't, that's- _woo _, that makes sense." He gives a dry half-laugh. "I always- sort of- wow, this is _weird _. I always thought you were dating."

Keith chokes on his drink.

"Jesus, _fuck _-"

"Yeah, sorry. I assumed you were highschool sweethearts, 'cause I knew you were from the same town and _really _gay, and you don't look _that _similar, so… sorry 'bout that."

"It's fine: happens all the time," Keith lies.

Lance nods, eyes wide and smile trembling.

It's silent, for a moment. Then, Keith hears it: moans from the nearby foliage. Keith snorts. His humour is bad, like that.

" _Jesus _: do you…," Lance says. His face is bright red. "I- _sorry- _you want to get going, then?"

"Yeah, okay."

Keith isn't sure why Lance apologised. It's endearing, regardless, and he finds himself ducking his head into the hoodie and leaving his cup on the porch barrister. Lance sticks one hand into the pocket of his jeans, and bites his lower lip. As Keith follows him across the lawn and walks beside him on the pavement, his fingers twitch: from the cold, Keith tells himself.

Keith swallows thickly. His own are covered to the knuckle by Lance's sweatshirt, and itch to lace with Lance's. He's been pining for a goddamn _year _.

It's a natural reaction. Lance is an enigma, a hybrid of a man who can't contain himself: he's threatening to boil over any moment. Keith's like that, too, which is why- as he's told Shiro a thousand times- he'll never make a move, or never even try to imagine them dating: in a relationship, something long-lasting. Permanence wasn't Keith's strong suit.

Lance's place is close: nestled in an apartment-like complex of dorms on campus. Keith lives nearby, but he doesn't tell Lance that: all he wants to do is follow him home and hold him close, lace their fingers together and listen to Lance whisper all sorts of nasty, dirty things.

"So," Lance says as he pushes the door open, "Here we go. This is it."

He lets Keith step inside first.

The room is the same size as his and has the same layout: a sink in the corner, a desk and a bed. Lance's is simply full of more _stuff _. They're photographs on the wall, and post-its stuck on the desk, beside textbooks and a laptop and empty cans of Red-Bull. Orange pill bottles of prescription drugs lie beside a rosary on Lance's beside table. Something strange boils in Keith's stomach at the sight: it makes him want to hold Lance and never let go.

"Make yourself at home," Lance says. He toes off his shoes, and Keith mimics his motion, then follows him to sit on his bed: a top of stormtrooper bedsheets. Keith lets his palm soothe over the pattern.

"Sorry," Lance starts, "I- my mom- I don't _really _like Star Wars that much, she- _uh- _packed that for me: unless you're into that."

Lance scratches his cheek and shifts. His leg bounces impatiently.

Keith inches closer, and tilts his head.

"And what if I am?"

Lance wheezes.

" _Shit _," he manages, clutching his chest, "Marry me."

Keith laughs.

"That's- how about we take things slow, for now?" he says, letting his fingers trail over the inside of Lance's wrist.

Lance exhales a nervous chuckle.

"I- _uh _\- how… how slow is _slow _?"

Their faces are close: dangerously so. Keith can feel Lance's hot breath fan over his cheeks. They're no takebacks anymore.

"Depends," Keith murmurs. He lets his eyelids flutter half-shut, and Lance's eyes dart down to his lips, staring at the with an open mouth before finally- _finally _\- his eyes flutter shut, and cups Keith face and kisses him.

Keith _should _be taken aback, or at least surprised, but it feels like everything he's ever done in his life has led to this: kissing a starry-eyed boy in a dorm room that smells like pizza, a top of a bed that's definitely too small for Lance's lanky and long body.

Keith wraps his arms around Lance's neck and pull him down to the mattress. He opens his mouth as Lance licks at his lips and sighs. Lance is warm, and a little clumsy as he perches his arms on either side of Keith's head. He manages to tangle his fingers in Keith's hair, toying with the ends whilst he licks at the roof of Keith's mouth.

Keith runs his palms over Lance's chest: down to his navel, then up once more before growing impatient and slipping his hands underneath his shirt, scratching at hot, sun-kissed skin. Lance pulls away to tug his shirt off. He tosses it in a corner and sits up a little, biting and licking at his lower lip nervously. He's watching him, Keith notices.

"This," wheezes Lance, "Is the best fucking night of my life- _Jesus Christ _-"

Then they're kissing again, and honestly, Keith can't complain: he doesn't complain when Lance bites and nips along his throat, tells him to leave his hoodie on- _looks good on you _, he tells him in a hot breath against the shell of his ear, _looks so fucking good on you, babe _\- and rolls their hips together.

Keith's always been more of a _act first, think later _kind of guy, anyway, which is why he decides to pull his jeans and underwear off, and let Lance do the same. Then they're both naked- Keith had pulled Lance's sweatshirt off, it was _searing- _and _God, _Keith can't believe this is happening: Lance is beautiful and naked and sitting right in between his thighs.

Keith lets his hands wander down Lance's chest. His skin is warm and soft, and there're a few scars and bruises as he scratches his nails down Lance's pectorals before running his fingers down his arms- curling them around flexed biceps- and wrists.

Keith breathes in, Lance trembles a little above him and exhales a shuddering sigh, and then, it begins; Keith reaches up and kisses Lance's jaw line, where the sharp contours meet the neck. Keith bites down, hard, and Lance gasps.

"You like that?" murmurs Keith.

"Huh?" mouths Lance. He sounds choked up.

"Do you like that? Biting?" Keith repeats.

Lance licks his lips. His gaze flickers to the side, and he grins.

"Yeah," he says, "I like- I like the marks."

Keith leans in again- intuitively- and bites down on Lance's throat. He sucks and nips up along it and _feels _Lance moan above him before biting Lance's lower lip. Lance groans and runs his fingers through Keith's hair, scratching and pulling at the nape. Keith lets his eyes close as Lance licks at the roof of his mouth.

It feels like Lance wants to swallow him whole; he presses his body closer to him, dominating him entirely. A moan escapes from Keith's throat.

When Lance lifts his head and parts their lips, Keith's eyes open; Lance's mouth is swollen and his face is red, chest heaving with exertion. His eyes are bright and glossed over. He's gorgeous.

Lance shifts. He lifts Keith's knees and hooks them around his waist- Keith clamps down tightly- and roams his palms- they're so warm; so _warm _\- over Keith's hips, underneath his sweatshirt. He sits up a little and spreads his fingers over Keith's lower abdomen, stares down at Keith and licks his lips as though Keith were his next meal. Keith grinds his teeth together and throws his head back, baring his neck. Lance complies; he cups the back of Keith's head and brushes his thumb against his jaw before kissing and biting down Keith's throat.

Keith swears he's not breathing as he feels Lance's cock rub against his. Lance groans against his ear, breath hot and heavy, as he presses closer. Their chests are touching. Keith can feel every tiny in- and exhale of Lance's. Lance wraps his fingers around their cocks. They're leaking and burning hot, and Keith can't help but gasp like a dying man. Lance doesn't sound much better. He's shaking, and heaving into Keith's ear.

Keith's turns his head and grabs Lance's shoulder, pushing him up. He digs his nails into Lance's upper arms- into that bronze, soft and glistening flesh- and scratches down them. Lance's eyes flutter. He rests his forehead against Keith's, breath fanning out over Keith's mouth, hot and wet. His lower abdomen muscles quiver and tighten and he thrusts against Keith, his chest is heaving, and Keith _wants _.

"Fuck," Keith rasps.

"What?" Lance asks.

"Fuck- fuck me. I want you to fuck me, or- finger me, something; anything."

Keith's vision is blurred, but he can hear Lance's breath halt in his throat before groaning, and he can feel Lance's mouth on his as Lance sticks out an arm to grab some lube. Keith watches Lance hold the bottle, then open it. He pours it over his fingers, rubs them together, and glances over to Keith. He's got that wicked smile over his lips, again; the kind that promises a world of fun if, Keith allows it to, and Keith _does _. His body aches. He spreads his legs a little wider.

Lance slides a palm over the length of Keith's cock, down to the cleft of his ass, and Keith turns his head to the side and has to bite the inside of his mouth of keep himself from moaning. His hips twitch, and he feels Lance grin against his neck. The tip of Lance's finger presses against his entrance before slipping inside. Keith wraps his arms around Lance's shoulders and digs his nails into the skin there. He's holding onto him for dear life.

Lance laughs breathlessly.

"Jesus," he awes, "You're- you're so _tight _."

Keith whines at the back of his throat. His spine arches as Lance pushes that finger in further, twisting it and hooking it.

"You're so tight," Lance pants, "Feels so _good _, baby; can't wait to be inside you."

A droplet of sweat slides from Lance's temple down his cheek, travelling along his neck and chest. Keith follows it with hooded, glazed eyes. He swallows thickly, and breathes harshly through parted, swollen-red lips.

Lance grins- showing off brilliantly white canines- and thrusts his finger. Keith falls apart. He bites his lip, swallowing thick moans as Lance slides in a second finger, hooking them. The room fills with obscene wet noises, but Keith can't really hear anything other than Lance's harsh breaths and the ringing of his own ears.

It's warm. Their bodies are pressed up impossibly close, and Keith feels his entire being burn up as Lance licks his lips. He makes a show of it, trailing his pink tongue along the rim of his mouth.

"I'll fuck you so hard you'll forget your own goddamn name," he promises, and Keith is _gone _. He throws his head back into the pillow, legs trembling, and chokes out Lance's name as Lance pushes a third finger inside of him, thrusting at that perfect angle.

"Fuck," Keith groans. He exhales a trembling breath as Lance kisses along his throat, again. "C'mon," Keith manages, "I- stick it in me."

Lance pauses, for a moment. He laughs- _laughs _\- into Keith's shoulder.

"Yeah," he says as he straightens his spine. He's smiling. "Yeah, I- sure."

Lance reaches to his nightstand to grab a condom. His torso is stretched as he does, and Keith can't help but lick his lips and run a hand through his hair, pulling it back. Lance is gorgeous.

He returns soon enough, with a condom slipped on and lube spread over him. He settles himself between Keith's legs, lifts Keith's knees against the inside of his elbows and tugs Keith towards him. There's _power _in those smooth arms of his, and Keith berates himself for not noticing it earlier; it's raw and insanely erotic. Keith can't help but moan quietly, something that could have been Lance's name.

"How d'you want it?" Lance asks- _had his voice always been this deep?_

Keith swallows thickly.

"Like this," he says, and if that's weird, he doesn't care, and neither does Lance. Lance simply lifts one shoulder, tilts his head to the side and musters Keith, as though he were sizing him up.

"Cool," he says, and then he aligns himself. His fingers are still inside of Keith, though they're gone soon enough as with a single, smooth movement, Lance pushes himself inside of Keith.

Keith feels like he's drowning. His mouth is open, desperately trying to inhale ragged, broken breaths of air, and Lance is panting, too. His eyelashes flutter as he rolls his fingers against Keith's hips before seizing forward and guiding his cock all the way into Keith.

" _Shit _," Lance hisses, "Feels- amazing; you're amazing, Keith."

Keith moans. He digs the heels of his feet into the small of Lance's back, forcing him to push an impossible fraction of an inch deeper inside of him. Lance rolls his hips, and Keith can't help but drag his nails down Lance's back. He leaves jagged red marks on Lance's impeccable skin, which Keith almost berates himself for, but the guttural moan Lance makes at the sensation is worth it.

"Fuck me," Keith tells him, and Lance- _bless him _\- finally, _finally _moves the way Keith wants him to.

He pulls out of Keith, then thrusts into him again, and Keith's body quakes. His mouth is open, and he's not surprised if he'd screamed. Lance groans into his ear, sobs, and his hold on Keith's knees tightens, then he trails his palms down Keith's thighs. He exhales a shuddering breath as he pushes into Keith and rolls his hips.

It feels so goddamn _good- _the way Lance is pressed close to him, how deep he's inside of Keith- that Keith bites into Lance's shoulder, hard. He can taste blood, and it really, _really _shouldn't turn him on as much as it does. Keith lathes his tongue over the spot, bathed Lance's sweating skin with his lips and spit before travelling up his throat to lick the shell of his ear, tugging at its lobe with his teeth.

Lance's breathing comes uneven as he picks up a rhythm; it's steady, slow and deep and _hard _. It's just the way Keith likes it, and Keith can only mouth breathless words of praise, scratching every inch of skin he can reach.

Lance tugs on Keith's knees, forcing him closer to him. The angle is impossibly better; Lance is closer, he's thrusting harder and pressing up as deep as he could bury himself. The position is near suffocating. Keith grabs a fist of Lance's hair- Lance moans at that- and holds onto it for dear life as Lance thrusts into him, bows over him. Lance is sweating, groaning, and every single one of Keith's fantasies come alive.

"I could fuck you all day," Lance tells him. His words are raw; he's starving.

Keith gasps and lifts a hand to bite at his knuckle, turns his head. His face is surely bright red.

Lance pushes his hand away, laces their fingers together. He pushes his palm against Keith's, pinning it down against the mattress.

"C'mon," he whispers, "Let me hear you, baby."

He wraps long, skinny fingers around Keith's cock, fisting it tightly. He slips his tongue into Keith's mouth the moment Keith opens it to groan, and Keith might've just let the hold in Lance's hair relax at the sensation, combing through it instead of tugging.

Keith writhes underneath him, though Lance doesn't stop pulling his cock until Keith trembles and tightens around him. He shoots white ribbons over his abdomen, shakes and stares up at the ceiling. Lance is looking at him, though. He can feel it: the intensity of his gaze, and _fuck _, those eyes. Lance sits back on his haunches as Keith blinks at him. He's sated and heaving.

Lance smears his hand through the come on Keith's stomach, tracing invisible words on his skin before raising his hand and tangling his fingers in Keith's hair.

Keith _should _have been disgusted, though all he manages is to gape at Lance as he strokes his thumb against Keith's cheek before brushing his fingers against Keith's stomach once more. Keith watches Lance lift his hand and suck his fingers into his own mouth. He's tasting Keith's come. A drop drizzles slowly over his chin. He grins, removes his fingers to lick them clean.

"You- you haven't come yet," Keith manages.

"Nope," Lance whispers, "Turn over: it'll feel good, promise."

Keith furrows his brow. He sighs and shifts: ass in the air, face down. Lance presses into him once more, and Keith's shaking all over as Lance thrusts harshly into him. He's gasping against Keith's shoulder, scraping his teeth over his skin as he pulls out almost completely only to thrust back in. Keith burrows his head against his arms, sobs into the pillow and lets his fingers scramble to find some sort of hold against the bedsheets. He feels Lance's nails dig into his hips.

"God," Lance gasps, " _God- _"

He becomes more and more incoherent with each thrust, groaning syllables that could've been Keith's name, once, before grasping Keith's hips and grounding into them so hard Keith swears he sees stars, and then-

Lance tangles his fingers in Keith's hair and pulls his head up. His back bows, and Keith tightens around him. Lance rolls his hips, and Keith _keens _before shaking all over as he comes again.

Lance breathes raggedly against Keith's shoulder blades, mouth open against his skin.

" _Keith _," he exhales, and with a final thrust, his body tightens behind Keith and comes inside of Keith, pulsing and trembling.

Slowly and after a long while, Lance pulls away and Keith rolls around again, lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling with an arm above his head. He's panting. Lance rests his head on Keith's stomach, after throwing the condom away, hands tucked underneath his chin. It's warm underneath the bedsheets. Lance stares at Keith in a curious manner with wide eyes full of wonder, _really _stares at him as if he wanted to memorise him.

"Yup," he decides after a moment.

"What?" asks Keith.

Lance rubs at his eye, yawning and flopping down beside him.

"Best night of my life," he tells Keith.

The next thing Keith knows, it's morning. The bedsheets pooled around his hips aren't his, and there's a tan arm wrapped around his waist.

_God _, he's never drinking again.

He'll probably break that promise as soon as he whines to Shiro about this.

Right now, though, all he can do is dig his teeth into his lower lip and close his eyes and _hope to God _Lance will speak to him after this: an almost-drunk one-night stand. Keith swears softly.

"G'morning," Lance tells him. His voice is rough, and his hair is mussed as he lifts his head from the pillows. All Keith can do is stare: he's painfully attractive and _wonderful _, and there's an array of dark-red hickeys around his neck and down his chest. Scratch marks dust along toned around.

Keith makes a choked noise. Lance looks like he'd been _mauled _.

"What?" Lance says. He raises an eyebrow and sounds absolutely annoyed.

"I- you- I'm _sorry _."

Keith hands him his phone- swipes the bottom right corner to open the front camera- and hands it to Lance. Lance takes it, and frowns before his expression morphs into sheer surprise, then briefly horror before something else entirely: his mouth contorts into a lopsided grin as he touches gingerly at a bitemark on the juncture at his shoulder.

"Damn," Lance says, "That good, huh?"

Keith's throat is dry.

"I- uh… well, I mean- _yeah _."

Lance throws his phone across the mattress and tackles him. Warm arms circle around Keith's middle, and there's an even warmer- searing, even- mouth on his before Keith can even begin to object.

He doesn't, regardless. He _could _have, but he doesn't. All he could do was melt underneath Lance's lips and tongue and tangle their bare legs together.

Keith doesn't leave Lance's dorm that day: they end up eating Pop-Tarts and Lance blows him while they're toasting, and ordering Chinese food for dinner- lunch seemed pointless when you wake up at one- before watching _Star Wars _together on Lance's loud laptop.

_I love you _, Leia tells Han.

_I know _, Han replies.

Keith licks a long stripe from Lance's collarbone to his jawline as he jerks him off underneath stormtrooper bedsheets.

"Can I… can I have your number?" Lance wheezes.

"Yeah," Keith breathes in the gap between his lips, "zero, zero- _fuck, there _\- six, one, three- _God, Lance _-"

Lance nods and scrambles for his phone. His fingers are shaking, though he types in the digits regardless, as though Keith _weren't _riding him like a goddamn showpony.

"Eight, five, seven- _ah- _nine."

"Great, thanks," Lance says with a shaking voice. He tosses his phone over his shoulder- he'd named him _keithy baby 3 3 _, Keith notices- and wraps his arms around him, thrusts upwards with a groan, holding onto Keith with a firm grip.

Keith grits his teeth and moans. He feels safe. Lance is warm, and his skin is soft underneath his rough fingertips.

He could get used to this, Keith thinks.

"You can't get used to this," Shiro tells him, "You absolutely, one-hundred-percent, _cannot _get used to this."

Keith lets his elbows slide against the countertop. Shiro writes a name- Janet- on a plastic cup. It's quiet in the boba shop Shiro works half-time- it's past the break time rush hour- and Shiro arches an eyebrow in that protective manner of his.

"Whatever," Keith murmurs.

" _Keith _."

" _What _?"

"You need to be responsible. You've been pining after this guy for a year, and I just- I want this to be a happy, healthy and fulfilling relationship and not some- some…."

"You can say it," Keith tells him.

"I'm not gonna say it!"

" _Say it _."

"Fine! I don't want you to be _fuckbuddies _with him!"

Shiro sticks a straw into Janet's drink. Keith chews on his own.

"Why?" he states.

"Because I said so: here you go. Have a nice day!" he tells Janet. Janet nods, and turns on her heel to leave.

"That's not a reason," Keith says.

"It is. I'm the oldest. This is _wisdom _. You know Lance sleeps around. He's a great guy, but he'd break your heart, Keith," Shiro says. His voice is soft.

"Whatever," Keith repeats, "You don't know shit."

That night, Lance texts him.

_whats your favourite colour?_

then:

_mines red_

Keith doesn't reply for two hours, until he types: _blue _.

_cool _\- says Lance- _when are you free? i want to see u again_

Keith lets his phone fall against his face.

He's doomed.

They meet again in lecture, the next day. It's unavoidable: both of them share multiple classes, and it seems that Lance refuses to move seats in their physics seminar.

"Hey," Lance says.

Keith's heart is a hummingbird trapped in his chest.

"Hey," he echoes.

Lance tucks a strand of hair behind Keith's ear. Keith can't breathe.

"D'you- are you doing anything after this?" Lance asks in a low voice.

"Not really," Keith replies.

"Cool- that's cool," says Lance, "Are you- you should come over. I've got half a bottle of wine and _The Force Awakens _."

Keith feels all the oxygen he's held in his lungs leave him.

"Okay," he says, "Okay, yeah- sure."

They finish the bottle and _The Force Awakens _, as well as half a season of _F.R.I.E.N.D.S. _, because Lance's laugh is beautiful, and Keith can't bring himself to leave. They're huddled together underneath Lance's snuggie- a _goddamn snuggie _\- and Lance is gorgeous, and _so damn close _to Keith it's dizzying. It's intoxicating.

"It's late," Keith says as the credits roll. His head feels light: he's so close to Lance he could count his eyelashes. "I should- I should probably-"

Lance grabs his chin and kisses him: shifts his lips against Keith's, licks at the seam. His breath is coming out fast and hot. Keith stops breathing entirely.

"Sorry-" Lance stammers, "I just- I figured since we- and you-"

Keith doesn't answer. His throat is too dry to speak, then a moment later he manages a weak-

"Oh, _shit _."

Keith leans in and braces a hand against Lance's waist, raises his other to press against his cheek. Lance's face is warm and his skin is soft, and his mouth is _seering _: against Keith's own, then his neck. Keith can't help but gasp and whimper.

"Gorgeous," Lance groans, " _So- _you're so fucking gorgeous-"

Lance trails kisses down Keith's throat. Keith swallows thickly and grasps helplessly at Lance's shirt. He's pushed back against the wall, now, half sitting-up as Lance crawls between his legs, pushing his thighs open.

Keith can pinpoint the moment his self-control cracks.

Lance hooks his fingers into the waistband of Keith's sweatpants and takes his cock out. He thumbs at the head and sinks to his knees. Keith raises a hand to cover his mouth and muffle an embarrassingly rattling moan, watches the arch of Lance's back.

"Shit," Keith says. His voice cracks, and he tilts his head back. It comes into contact with the wall behind him.

"Hey," Lance murmurs, "Look at me: Keith, look at me, baby."

Keith flutters his eyes open. They're blown wide and glossed over, and Lance doesn't look any better: he looks wrecked, flushed and breathing hard. His lips are red, and he's smiling as if he'd won a marathon.

"Look at what you've done to me."

Keith groans lowly and bites at his knuckles, and Lance licks along his teeth like he's some dangerous animal, then lowers his head. He tugs Keith's sweats down, then trails his lips along Keith's hipbones, down to his inner thighs. It's hot- there's incredible heat between them- and it feels like every exhale of Keith's should produce vapour. He can feel Lance's breath against his skin. Heat pools in his stomach.

He moans embarrassingly loud.

Lance has his mouth on him: licks and sucks, wraps his fingers around him loosely. It's almost overwhelming. Keith can't help but buck forward and arch his spine. His toes curl, and then-

Lance looks up at him. His knees shake, he tugs at Lance's hair and comes then and there.

Lance swallows every last drop. As Keith gasps uneven and rapid breaths, runs a hand down the side of his face nervously, Lance licks his lips and grins. He's perched before Lance on his knees, thighs spread and back straight.

Keith can't help but cup Lance's face and kiss him. He can taste himself on his tongue: it's bitter and _should _be disgusting, but it's _Lance _and Keith can't help but pull at Lance's hair.

Lance sits himself in Keith's lap, rolls his hips against him. He's only wearing his boxers, and _oh _\- Lance is rock hard.

"C'mon, baby," Lance breathes against Keith's lower lip, "Take care of me."

Keith reaches a hand down between them and cups Lance's arousal, snakes his other hand to knead Lance's ass.

"Fuck," gasps Lance, "God- you're so hot- you're so _hot _\- amazing, _Jesus Christ _-"

"Yeah," Keith says lowly, "I know."

" _Keith- _" Lance sighs. His back bows, and he comes, spilling inside his underwear. He shakes in Keith's arms before shifting, reaching behind him to grab some tissues. He passes Keith some, and wipes himself down with a grimace before removing himself from Keith's lap and standing. He pulls his underwear off and stumbles to grab a different pair.

Keith rests his head against the wall. He whistles at the sight.

Lance glances over his shoulder as he tugs them on, grinning viciously. In a flurry, he climbs over Keith and drapes himself- all one-hundred-and-ninety-seven centimetres of Lance- over Keith's body.

"You're staying," Lance announces. Keith snorts, and wraps his arms around Lance's shoulders.

"Okay," Keith says. It comes out softer than expected.

Lance lifts his head and smiles. There's something different about it: it's softer.

Keith's heart clenches in his chest: he's falling hard and fast.

It's only later, after Keith's lying next to Lance on the bed underneath stormtrooper bedsheets and blinking at the rosary, that Keith realises his predicament. He's had Lance between his legs _again _doing all sorts of fun tricks and _fuck him _if it wasn't exactly as amazing as the first time: maybe even better, Keith thinks. He didn't think that was possible, but it _was _.

"Am I drunk?" he asks himself in a hushed whisper.

Lance exhales a soft snore beside him. Keith rolls on his side, and rests his chin on his chest: watches the flutter of his eyelashes, and eyes the ski-slope of his nose. There's got to be a double-meaning to this, somehow.

He bites his throat: that wakes Lance up quickly.

"Am I drunk?" he asks him. Lance opens his mouth and tilts his head, staring and squinting at Keith as though he'd grown an extra head.

"Keith, what the _fuck _?" Lance says. His voice is quiet. "How- how the _fuck _am I supposed to know? Fuck, _shit- _are you?"

Keith pouts. Lance gnaws at his lower lip, looking down at Keith in worry. He shifts: wraps his arms tighter around Keith.

"No- I- I just- I liked. _I liked that _," Keith whispers.

Lance's lips stretch into a gorgeous smile: slowly, and then all at once. His fingers play with the ends of Keith's hair.

"Me too."

It becomes a regular thing: Keith shows up at Lance's almost every single week.

"Hey," Keith says, closing and locking the door behind him.

Lance looks effortlessly beautiful in a sweatshirt and jeans, and anything else Keith planned on saying dies in the back of his throat.

"Hey," Lance echoes. He's smiling easily. The window's tilted open, and there's an event on campus: loud, low bass-filled music fills Lance's room.

Keith crosses the room in three strides, pushes Lance onto the bed- on top of stormtroopers and underneath glow-in-the-dark constellations- and-

"Oh, _fuck _-" Lance groans. They're naked: Keith underneath him, back arched and clawing at the bedsheets: just like the first time." _Jesus _, how are you this tight?"

All Keith can manage is a choked moan as Lance rolls his hips, so that he's deep inside of him. It's slow and intense, tonight: Lance's body is pressed against every inch of Keith, just like Keith likes it.

Keith doesn't make eye contact: eye contact is the enemy, and so is that damn rosary on Lance's nightstand. Keith pushes it to the side with a shaking hand before shoving his face back in the pillow: it feels wrong, doing indecent, _dirty _things like this under the watchful eye of God.

"I missed you," Lance tells the sweat-slicked skin of Keith's left shoulder. His mouth travels to his neck, to that place just underneath his ear that makes him tilt his head back and moan loudly. "God, I missed you-"

The next thing Keith knows, Lance's trembled behind him and thrusting deep into him, coming with a strangled, muted shout of his name. Keith comes thereafter.

"Fuck," Keith groans, " _Fuck- _next time, we're doing this at my place."

Lance pants above him, tying the condom off and flopping down next to him.

"'K," he murmurs into Keith's hair, "Whatever you want."

They _do _end up meeting at Keith's: to study, of all things. Lance stands before his door with an armful of books and a cup of boba in the other- _your favourite! _he says with a grin- and Keith wonders if he can do this anymore.

_I'm weak _, he thinks as he catches himself staring at the profile of Lance's face: at how his jawline is sharp and how he can spot faded marks next to fresh ones.

How long had they been doing this? A week- a month- or _more _?

"You doin' anything over Thanksgiving?" Lance asks.

Keith blinks at him behind his glasses: he should really wear them more, he realises. He can see every detail of Lance this close.

"I- I'm going home."

"Where's that?"

"California."

"Huh," Lance says, "Cool."

He turns his attention back to his textbook. He's not reading anything, he's simply- _waiting._

"Are-" Keith coughs. "Are you going home?"

"Yeah," Lance replies, "Back to Florida. _God _, my mom calls me every single _day _, she's really looking forward to this. I'm the first of my siblings to go out of state to college, so it's kind of a big deal."

Keith nods. He's not good at conversation. Lance doesn't seem to mind. He hums, and turns his attention back to the books before him, highlighting and reading until he loses his attention span and his knee starts bouncing. Keith bites at the inside of his mouth.

_You can't get used to this- _\- he tells himself- _you absolutely, one-hundred-percent, cannot get used to this._

Friday night, they're lying next to each other in Keith's bed. Keith's put a careful distance between them: they're not touching or holding each other.

Keith rolls over. Lance is staring right back him.

"What?" he asks. It's far too loud for the strange, fragile tenderness between them, Keith realises in hindsight.

"Nothing," Lance replies in a small voice. He opens his mouth as if he wanted to say something else, but then he closes it as if he'd decided against it.

Neither of them turn away, and Lance keeps on staring. Keith can barely breathe.

It's then that he understands that he's never really looked at Lance in detail in close before: he'd never appreciated how long his eyelashes were, or how smooth and even his skin was, how his hair pooled over the pillow, how long his fingers were and how perfectly the fit with Keith's own.

Keith can't help himself: he reaches forward. With an index finger, he brushes a strand of hair from Lance's face, trails it down to his jaw before resting his thumb against Lance's lower lip. Lance opens his mouth and bites at it softly before licking it, kissing it. He smiles around it, eyes fixated on Keith and nothing but him.

It's mesmerising. Keith can't look away, and he finally- _finally _\- understands the gravity of his situation. He wants to throw his arms around Lance and listen to him talk about his day, to make him laugh and press tiny kisses against his forehead and cheeks. He wants to fall asleep and know Lance'll be there in his arms the next morning.

He thinks he's actually- _probably- _fallen in lo-

Lance is gone the next morning- early lecture- but things are different between them.

Keith walks past Lance in a busy hallway, and Lance lets their fingers brush. Keith turns around and catches Lance grinning at him with a confident lopsided smile. He's wearing a baseball cap backwards and is walking backwards, too, with one hand in his pocket. He waves at Keith. There's a bounce in his step.

Keith grits his teeth and turns away. His heart hurts.

The next time they meet, things are different, too: Lance texts him, asking him whether he's free, and next thing Keith knows, he's standing in Lance's dorm. They didn't speak. Keith had simply stepped towards Lance and tugged at his shirt, and then they're right back where they started: underneath the covers, bare legs sliding against one another.

It's different, though: there's the slow slide of Lance's lips across his chest, how his fingers skim across his navel and down his spine. He's gentle and slow, and when he thrusts up into Keith, Keith can only gasp and arch his back and whisper Lance's name. He winds his arms around Lance's neck, holds him close, and hears a broken _Keith _-

Then Lance is trembling above him, and he swears he feels something wet against his ear.

Later, when they've finished, Lance grins at him and runs a hand through his hair before falling asleep in his arms. Keith could have pressed his lips to Lance's forehead and promised him everything would be alright, told him how _important _he was.

He doesn't, but when Keith wakes up, Lance's smiling at him, and that's worth _everything _.

"G'morning, sleeping beauty," he says. There's stubble on his chin, and his voice is low: just like the first time.

"Are you calling me a princess?"

Keith tucks himself closer to Lance. He feels Lance's chest vibrate against his chest as he laughs.

"Maybe," Lance murmurs. He toys with the ends of Keith's hair, and rubs his other hand soothingly up and down Keith's spine.

Keith feels at ease, and he could get used to this, he thinks: he probably already _has _.

Lance's phone starts vibrating. Keith reaches behind him and hands it to Lance. Lance stares at the screen for a moment, then rolls onto his back and picks up.

"Hi mom!" he says, "I- _fuck _," Keith bites against Lance's throat. "I didn't swear, really, that was Keith," Lance says. Keith grins. "Oh, Keith's my boy- friend. He's my- friend."

Keith _cackles _. Lance shoves his palm in his face.

"Yeah, he says hi, and-" There's a pause, then, _"Mom! _" Lance hides his face in his hands and whines. "I'll call you later, okay? Me estás _avergonzando _," he groans, "Yeah, yeah: love you too."

Lance hangs up, reaches over Keith and places his phone gingerly on his bedside table.

"Sorry about that."

"No problem," Keith says. He means it. It'd always been Shiro and his father: their mother got sick and died a long time ago. "She seems- nice."

"She is," Lance says. He runs his palms up against Keith's lower back: fingers warm on cold skin. "She- _uh- _invited you over: for Thanksgiving."

"Oh."

"Yeah," Lance continues. His face is bright red, and he's not meeting Keith's gaze. "I- I mean- you don't- you don't _have _to come, if you don't- she thinks we're _dating _, since I talk- I talk about you a lot-"

Lance stops. He ducks his head.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to," he finishes.

Keith can't breath.

"Do you… do you _want _me to?"

"More than anything."

Keith grins.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Lance says, "I- I really, _really _like you, and I- I should have probably talked to you, or something, and I- I don't know, you don't have to come if you don't want to. I can tell her the truth, but I just- I _like _you, okay?" Lance's eyebrows are drawn tightly together, and he almost looks in pain. Keith's throat is dry.

"Okay," he says.

Lance's mouth drops to the floor and his eyes widen

"Holy _shit _," he says, "I- _really _?"

"Yeah," Keith answers. He feels delirious. "I like you too, Lance."

Lance giggles- he _giggles _\- and wraps his arms around Keith's middle, hugging him tightly.

"Yeah- I- _yeah _!" he shouts. His smile is so bright it almost hurts to look at it, but Keith can't tear his eyes away. He's beautiful, and right here in his arms. Keith runs a hand through Lance's hair and hugs him tightly to his chest.

" _Wow _, we're the best looking couple on campus," Lance sighs wistfully.

Keith laughs. His chest feels light, and his cheeks hurt from grinning so much.

"Yeah," he says, focusing on how soft Lance's hair is, and how pretty his eyes are, "I'd like to think so."


	41. (T) BOYF - Gaymers by haelpack

Gaymers  
haelpack

Summary:  
Michael Mell has over seven million subscribers across his two Youtube channels, while Jeremy can hardly get a thousand followers on his blog. Nevertheless, the two have tons in common. They're the same age, they live in New York City, they have all the same interests. Of course Jeremy was going to fall in love. What could possibly go wrong?

Oh, yeah. Michael doesn't even know Jeremy exists.

* * *

Chapter 01 - Like, Comment, & Subscribe!

**NOTIFICATION FROM YOUTUBE**  
New video from gaymers: Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time #4 (Watch till the end!)

**NOTIFICATION FROM YOUTUBE**  
New video from gaymersvlog: I lost all my footage! (NOT clickbait!)

**NOTIFICATION FROM TWITTER**  
gaymersmichael: check out my two new videos, comment to be next week's shoutout!

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Christine: we're still meeting at the theater at 5 rite?

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
3 new comments on your latest post (click for more)

—

Jeremy was fighting every urge in his body not to pick up his phone as it continued to buzz, one notification after another popping up. His phone was sitting on the table, right next to his notebook. He was trying to be a good student and actually pay attention for the last ten minutes of class, but it was hard. He almost shoved his phone in his pocket, but realized that the vibrating phone would be _much_ more distracting on his leg than on the table. So it sat there, lighting up every couple minutes. Taunting him.

Okay! He could text Christine back, right? If he didn't, she would just send more and more texts until he responded, and would thus become a much bigger distraction if he didn't. He waited for the lecturer, some graduate student named Todd, to turn his back and he opened the text message just as a second one from Christine came in.

**Christine**: jer i need to know like now

**Me**: u can wait until i'm out of class ya know

**Me**: but yeah, 5.

**Christine**: oops i forgot u were in class sorry

"Do I have to remind everyone that phones are not allowed in my class?" Todd's voice broke and Jeremy sighed. He looked up to see the graduate student towering over him, glaring. He gave a sheepish smile.

"It was an emergency?" He tried, but Todd didn't seem to buy it.

"Then you can step out of the room to handle next time." Jeremy dropped the phone back onto the table and Todd stormed back to the front of the small classroom. God, Jeremy hated GAs. They thought they were _so_ big and important just because they stood at the front of the class and read off a PowerPoint. Anyone could do that.

It was time to go by then anyway, so Jeremy just rolled his eyes and packed up his stuff. He was out the door first, thanks to his long legs and strategic choice in seat. He was lucky that participation wasn't a grade in that class, because he for sure would have lost points if it were.

The first thing Jeremy did was call his best friend, Christine. The two had gone to the same high school, meeting in the drama club. People liked to say that Jeremy just followed her to NYU for college, but that wasn't quite true. Yes, maybe he'd considered NYU more strongly once Christine had named it her number one choice for college, but it had already been on his list! No one but Christine seemed to believe him on that, though.

"I'm sorry," Christine said by way of answering her phone. Jeremy dodged a group of people outside the elevator and headed to the stairway. It was only the second floor, anyway.

"It's fine," Jeremy said, "Todd's an ass anyway, so who cares? It's not like I'll ever use the stuff in that class anyway."

"What class was it?" She asked, still sounding worried. "Comm, right?"

"Psych."

"Ah, sorry."

"It's really no big deal. Class was almost over anyway. Why were you so impatient, anyway? You barely gave me a minute to respond." Jeremy took the stairs two at a time, passing others on his way down to the first floor. It was four o'clock, so he didn't have much time to get back to his dorm and get ready to meet Christine at the campus theater. Christine was auditioning for the musical and she insisted Jeremy come as moral support. They were meeting early so Christine could practice once more for Jeremy before the auditions started.

"Chloe and Brooke are having a liveshow in, like, five minutes," Christine said sheepishly. "I wanted to see how much of it I could watch."

Ah, yes, Chloe and Brooke. Pinkberry, as their joint Youtube channel was called. They were some lifestyle/makeup guru Youtubers that Christine was half in love with. Jeremy would have made fun of her for it, but he knew he wasn't one to talk.

"Do you want me to bring my laptop so you can watch it between auditions?" Jeremy offered. It was nippy outside and he pulled his cardigan closer. It was October and just starting to get cold enough that he was going to have to start wearing a real jacket.

"Could you?" He crossed the street, to his dorm building. He was lucky to have a dorm so close to his classes; it would make winter much easier.

"That's why I offered." Jeremy fished in his backpack for his school ID to get into his dorm building, but it was difficult to do with one hand.

"Oh! It's starting, I'll see you in an hour." Christine hung up before he could say bye. Jeremy shook his head at her antics and finally grabbed his ID. He swiped it and the door unlocked, allowing him into the building.

He had a single dorm room, thanks to a mishap with his freshman year roommate (he'd had to switch rooms three months in and he did _not_ like to talk about it). It was actually quite nice, not having to deal with anyone else in his space. Plus, it meant that Christine could hang out there and hide from her own roommate whenever she wanted. Win/win.

He opted out of taking a shower before meeting up with Christine, deciding he didn't have enough time and didn't want to brave the community bathrooms right then. So, instead, he opened his laptop and pulled up Youtube. He'd seen in Psych class that his favorite Youtuber, gaymers, had posted two videos and with any luck, he'd be able to watch them both before meeting Christine.

Gaymers was the gaming channel of a guy named Michael Mell, who was nineteen-years-old, just like Jeremy, but already infinitely more successful. He had seven million subscribers across his two channels (five million on his gaming channel and two million on his vlog channel). He was awesome at video games, had such an interesting life, and was pretty much great in every way.

Yeah, Jeremy had a huge crush on the guy. Too bad he would never know that Jeremy existed.

Jeremy, on the other hand, had a small blog that he posted on far more than he needed to. It was technically gaming centered, but he really posted whatever he wanted (it just happened to be that most of what he wanted to post was about video games). It hovered around 950 followers, which wasn't terrible until you realized that he'd had the blog for going on three years. Still, he loved his blog and updated it almost every single day.

Jeremy clicked on Michael's newest video from his main channel, the fourth in his Ocarina of Time series. Ocarina of Time was Jeremy's favorite Legend of Zelda game, so he'd been especially loving this series. Plus, Michael was doing a new setup with a dual screen, so you could watch the game and see his face as he played, so that was a bonus. Michael had a cute face, not that Jeremy would ever admit that to anyone but Christine. Christine was the only one who wouldn't mock him for crushing on an internet celebrity.

Jeremy settled back and watched the video, getting more distracted by Michael's reactions as the video went on. Michael was the exact kind of person who should have a gaming channel; he was so animated as he played and it was incredibly entertaining to watch. Jeremy barely even looked at the half of the screen with the actual game on it.

"Gah!" Michael yelled on the screen, eyes widening as he failed yet again to get past the guard. He ran his hand through his dark hair and pushed his glasses up his nose. "God, this part is impossible. How the hell is it that I got past is super easy as a kid, but now I just can't?"

He restarted that part again, eyes squinting in concentration. The video was almost silent, just the soft music of the game as Michael tried to get past the guard. His tongue poked out between his lips, a quirk that many of his subscribers poked fun at him for.

When he finally got past the guard and onto the next part of the game, Michael cheered. He threw the controller up into the air and caught it, whooping. Jeremy even let out a little cheer of his own, which was kind of embarrassing. This was one of those moments where he was glad he didn't have a roommate, as they would have no doubt made fun of him for something like that. Even Christine would have teased him for getting so into watching a game instead of playing it himself.

"Hey, you guys wanna see something cool that I just learned about Ocarina?" Michael asked rhetorically. He held up his controller so the camera could see it and punched in a series of numbers so fast that Jeremy could keep up. The game glitched, skipping straight through the next part of the game until Link met Zelda. "Pretty cool, huh? You can skip to the next cut scene or boss battle just about any time you want. Only problem is that you don't get any items leading up to it, so you could really screw yourself over. But it's cool if you're really struggling to get past a skirmish or something. I'll put the sequence in the description so you guys can try it for yourselves."

Jeremy had never heard of that sort of cheat before, but he thought it was pretty cool. He made a mental note to try it out and write a blog post about it sometime that week.

"Anyway," Michael went on, turning off the game, "that's all for today! This is this week's shoutout, so go and check them out. I hope you enjoyed this video, and don't forget to like, comment, and subscribe if you haven't yet. See ya next time, nerds." It went to the end card, the Legend of Zelda theme playing softly in the background.

'See ya next time, nerds' was sort of Michael's little outtro catchphrase. And (embarrassingly enough), it was the description on Jeremy's blog. He'd put it as the last line of a blog post once, but had felt awkward at stealing Michael's phrase. Not that he'd ever see it or know, but still. He'd just stuck it at his blog's description and let it be.

Jeremy glanced at the clock and sighed. He didn't have enough time to watch Michael's new vlog before he had to leave. He wouldn't be able to watch it until late that night, now, since he wouldn't be able to watch it at the auditions. Christine would kill him.

—

"You're ready," Jeremy told Christine as she sang her audition song for the fourth time. They'd taken breaks to watch the Pinkberry lifestream in an attempt to keep Christine's nerves down, but it clearly wasn't working. She looked like she was about to cry.

"Are you sure?" Christine asked, looking nervous. She twisted the hem of her shirt around a finger loosely. "Did I hit that high note? I couldn't tell, which probably means I didn't and if I don't do it perfectly they're not going to cast me as Natalie and-"

"Chris!" Jeremy grabbed her hand and pulled so she was sitting next to him. He squeezed her hand tight. "You were great. You'll be great in there, I know it. No one would be a better Natalie than you."

Christine tucked her hair behind her ears. "You don't know that, Jeremy. There are plenty of talented people at this school."

"I do know it," Jeremy said honestly. "Hey, I bet you twenty bucks you'll get the part."

Christine shot him a look. "I'm not betting against myself!"

"Ah, 'cause you know you'll get the part and lose the bet," Jeremy said, poking her in the side. She giggled, swatting his hand away.

"Maybe."

"Okay everyone, the next group is Anna Banks, Christine Canigula, Jeffery Davidson, and Mitchel Green." The assistant director announced, reading off of her clipboard. Christine grabbed Jeremy's arm, digging her fingernails into his wrist as she gave him a terrified look.

"You got this," he said again.

"I wish you were auditioning, too," she whispered. People were getting up, heading into the theater for their audition. Jeremy gave a half-smile.

"If only I wasn't tone deaf," he said ruefully. "I'd be the king of musicals!"

Christine gave a small laugh. She let go of his arm and stood on shaky legs. She didn't move. Jeremy resisted from rolling his eyes (they both knew she was amazing, so why was she so nervous?) and sat forward. He gave her a good shove on the back and she stumbled forward before regaining her balance and heading into the theater. She gave him one last look and he shot her a thumbs up.

He loved Christine like a sister, but she could really be a handful sometimes.

He had some time to kill, having seen that there was at least half an hour between audition groups. Jeremy grabbed his laptop, where the Pinkberry liveshow was still playing on mute. Chloe and Brooke were cute, Jeremy had to admit that. They were funny, too. Jeremy could see why Christine liked to watch their videos. They had joint channel, each girl posting one solo video a week and they did one joint video a week. Christine always said she liked their joint videos best. She was convinced the girls were dating, but hadn't said anything publicly about it yet. Christine was, ahem, _very_ passionate about that. Jeremy knew better than to argue with her.

Jeremy checked his blog idly, just killing time. He responded to his new comments, all from long-time followers whose names he recognized. He thought about making a new post, but didn't really know what to talk about. He needed to try out the Zelda cheat for himself before writing about it, so he couldn't do that.

He sighed, already bored without Christine right there. His headphone jack on his laptop was broken, so he couldn't watch any Youtube videos to pass the time. Luckily, his phone buzzed just then, giving him something to do.

**NOTIFICATION FROM TWITTER**  
gaymersmichael: so there seems to be some intense differences of opinion about the latest legend of zelda video…

Jeremy raised his eyebrows, swiping to open the tweet fully.

** gaymersmichael**: so there seems to be some intense differences of opinion about the latest legend of zelda video, all i can say is that i wanted to share something interesting about the game with you guys

Jeremy dug around in the replies, trying to figure out what Michael was talking about when he got another notification. He opened the new tweet.

** gaymersmichael**: i've shared game hacks and cheats before, so i'm not too sure why you guys are mad about this one

** gaymersmichael**: but i'm going to take the video down and re-edit it without the cheat. hopefully this will clear up any upset about it! the video will be back up in a few hours x

Jeremy shook his head. He chewed on his lip, annoyed that people were being mean to Michael. It may have been odd, but Jeremy felt very… attached to Michael. It was more than the crush (though not to say that the crush wasn't a large part of it, because it was), but they were the same age, both lived in New York, had very similar interests. Whenever any sort of drama came up, Jeremy always felt protective and like the people attacking Michael were attacking him.

He pulled his blog back up, a new blog post idea popping into his head. Jeremy had only typed out the title ("Zelda Cheat Codes and Glitches: You Guys Are Overreacting!"… It was a working title, okay?) when Christine came out of the theater, absolutely buzzing. She practically leapt across the lobby to get to Jeremy.

"How'd it go?" He asked, though he really didn't have to. She was practically bouncing to the ceiling, almost vibrating out of her skin. There was a huge smile on her face.

"Amazing," she breathed, clutching her hands over her heart. "The director looked really impressed! I think I might actually have a shot at this one."

"I know you killed it," Jeremy said. He shut his laptop, temporarily forgetting about internet drama. He stood up and gave his best friend a huge hug. "So, don't you owe me twenty bucks?"

Christine smacked him lightly on the arm. "I never took that bet!" Jeremy laughed, stepping back and collecting his stuff.

"Just checking."

They decided to go to the dining hall for dinner. It was a buffet style place, where you used your meal plan to get inside and then you could eat as much as you wanted. Christine announced that she was going to eat all the cake they had in the dessert booth as a reward.

"You're gonna get a stomachache," Jeremy pointed out. Christine huffed.

"No way! I'm not a baby, like you," she said, poking him hard in the side. They dropped their stuff off in one of the booths and headed to collect their food.

Jeremy made it back to their table before Christine did, with a plate full of pizza and breadsticks. He had a salad in the other hand, though he knew he'd barely touch it. Still, he had to _try_ to be healthy or else his dad would get on his case.

He opened his laptop back up, frowning when he saw his new blog post, titled and waiting to be written. Right, he'd almost forgotten about all that.

"What's up?" Christine asked as she slid into the opposite side of the booth. Her arms were full with her own plate of pizza, a plate of french fries, and a plate that was piled high with slices of yellow cake. Jeremy opened his mouth to answer, but stopped and frowned when he saw her food.

"You're gonna make yourself sick," he told her. She waved a hand dismissively.

"I'll be fine. Now, what's got your panties in a twist?" Christine took a big forkful of cake and sighed contently.

"So Michael posted this new Legend of Zelda video with this really weird cheat at the end, where you can basically skip forward in the game whenever you want to," Jeremy explained between bites of pizza, "and I guess people are giving him shit for it? Like he's literally taking the video down and reuploading without the cheat because of the fuss everyone's making and it's so stupid! Like, leave the guy alone. Like they all haven't used cheats in a video game before, god."

"You sound pretty passionate, Jer," Christine said lightly. She wiggled her eyebrows. "You mad that people are being mean to your man?" Jeremy rolled his eyes at her, but that didn't stop the blush that crept over his cheeks.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "I'm gonna write a blog post about it, but I don't know how to word it so it's not some incoherent rant, you know."

"I'm sure you'll think of something," Christine said kindly. "You're a good writer and you've been doing it for a long time. If you want, I can help you edit it before you post?"

Jeremy smiled. "That'd be great, thanks." Christine waved a hand at his laptop.

"Well, then, get writing! I have homework later, so the quicker I can help you, the quicker I can get my Lit essay out of the way."

"I can help you with Lit," Jeremy said, "if you help me with my Psych lab. I don't get APA format at _all_."

Christine nodded, taking a huge bite of cake. "Deal. Now, get writing. We have a lot to do tonight." Jeremy nodded, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. He took a deep breath and decided to just type, see what came out, and go from there.

Yeah, that seemed like a plan.

* * *

Chapter 02 - The Blog Post

Zelda Cheat Codes and Glitches: You Guys Are Overreacting!

Cheat codes have always been a part of gaming, way back to when the only video games were in arcades and all you had to choose from was Pac Man and Galaga (awesome games, of course, but where would we be without GTA and AoTD?). Cheats and hacks and glitches have always been around. Where would we be without MissingE in Pokémon, for instance?

Cheats are harmless, so long as you're playing by yourself. Video games are supposed to be fun and cheats add a new spin to them, which is why they're so popular in the first place. Everyone uses cheats and, to be quite honest, if you say you don't then you, my friend, are a liar.

So why does this community think it's alright to bully and berate someone just because they shared a cheat with their audience. Michael Mell (of the channel gaymers on Youtube, if you somehow did not know) shared a really awesome cheat for Ocarina of Time, which I personally had never even seen before, and yet was somehow hit with such backlash that he had to take down the video! I can get not liking cheats, especially on like this, as it is on the extreme side. But that is just… ridiculous. It is utterly ridiculous that Michael had to reupload his video without the hack, just because some of his viewers (and newcomers, as his Ocarina series seems to garner more attention than his other videos) didn't like it.

That's not constructive, you guys. That's bullying. That's not "calling him out", that's abuse. There is no reason for anyone to have reacted they way they they did to the video (sorry I can't link, but it's already been taken down). It was a harmless hack and a cool tidbit that could even make playing Ocarina that much more fun. Luckily, I wrote down the code before the video was taken down, so I can still try it out for myself. Maybe I'll even make a post about it (suck on that :p).

So just… mind your own business? Is it really that hard? How does it affect you, truly, if people know about this cheat? Is it going to affect your own personal enjoyment of a single-player game? No, it's not. Go and play your own game with no cheats, if you're so high and mighty. Just leave Michael alone and out of it. He's a good guy and doesn't deserve this kind of crap, okay?

—

So, yeah, Jeremy kept the title. The only other one he could think of was LEAVE MICHAEL ALONE and he thought that wouldn't go over very well. He knew that his little blog post wasn't going to do much; it would even reach a quarter of Michael's followers. But still, he had to say something. When it came to the internet, positive people tended to outnumber the negative ones, but the negative ones were louder and so it looked like there were more of them. The positive people needed to speak up more often, so that's what Jeremy was doing.

Christine had been the one to decide to keep his emotional rant near the end. She claimed that it "makes the piece feel more authentic. It helps show you're an actual person, Jeremy, and not just some robot behind a screen". So against what might have been Jeremy's better judgement, his embarrassing rant about leaving Michael the fuck alone stayed in the blog post and was put online for the world to see. Or, rather, his 943 followers (damn, he'd lost a couple throughout the day!).

Jeremy woke up in the morning at his usual time of 10 o'clock to get ready for his 11 o'clock lecture. He stretched in bed, groaning quietly, before grabbing his phone.

**NOTIFICATION FROM YOUTUBE**  
New video from gaymers: Legend of Zelda: Ocarina of Time #4 (reupload)

**NOTIFICATION FROM TWITTER**  
gaymersmichael: video is back up if you wanna do me a favor and watch it again! love u guys xx

**NOTIFICATION FROM TWITTER**  
gaymersmichael: do you guys want another vlog today, or is two in a row too much?

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Christine: wanna get food before class?

Jeremy pushed himself with one arm so he was sitting up and answered Christine first.

**Me**: do u even have to ask?

**Christine**: lol how could i forgot who i'm talking to? i'll be there in 10

Jeremy yawned. God, even 10 o'clock was too early to wake up. How had he ever managed to go to school at seven in the morning in high school? It was honestly a mystery. He didn't have much time until Christine arrived (she was annoyingly, dependably punctual as a person), so he got dressed quickly, throwing on the nearest T-shirt (Pokémon, not bad) and pair of jeans. He hurried out to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

He didn't think once that morning about the blog post.

He did, however, put on Michael's reuploaded video and let it play without really watching. Sure, he may have glanced at it once or twice to stare at Michael's face (a fact he would never admit to another living soul, save maybe Christine), but for the most part he paid it no mind. It was a lot shorter without the cheat code part, so he even replayed it in an attempt to help Michael with his number of views, all before Christine arrived.

Christine was short, that much was alway a given about her. But she always made sure that short did _not_ equal unnoticeable. Today, she was wearing a pretty fall-themed dress with a very…. ahem… _loud_ orange leaf pattern, a knitted green scarf, and her favorite pair of kitten tights. She loved to dress on the eccentric side (fashionable, she claimed, though no one else would agree), just so she could stand out a bit more.

Jeremy gave her a sleepy smile when he opened his door, slinging his backpack over his shoulders.

"Hey!" Christine chirped, backing up so Jeremy could walk into the hall. She held two Starbucks cups in her hands and held out one for Jeremy.

"Thanks," he said gratefully, taking a long sip. He wasn't the biggest fan of pumpkin spice, but it was the season, so why not? "I'll buy you one tomorrow." Christine waved a hand carelessly, but Jeremy hated when she spent her meal plan money on him, so he knew he'd find a way to pay her back.

They ended up in the Student Center, which was more of a common area for students to hang out, study, and go to the student bookstore. It did have the only breakfast bar on campus that served bacon, though, so it was Jeremy and Christine's favorite place to eat in the morning. They managed to show up only fifteen minutes before the breakfast bar closed for the day.

"Excuse me, thank you, out of my way!" Christine maneuvered the crowd nimbly, taking advantage of her small stature to slip through the crowd of people to get to the breakfast bar. Jeremy gawked, coughing on his coffee when she actually dropped to all fours and crawled between someone's legs. Jeremy hung back, sipping on his coffee and allowing Christine to take the lead. He never understood why the Student Center got so crowded so early, but he didn't question it. It just annoyed him. Right then, it was just the obstacle blocking him from his breakfast, and a tired Jeremy was a grumpy Jeremy.

Huh. Maybe that's why Christine insisted on buying him coffee so often.

By the time Jeremy managed to make it to the breakfast bar, Christine already had her plate completely full and a plate for him. It already had the bacon on it, but she'd left it for him to get the rest of his food.

"We really need to get up earlier," he commented lightly, using a pair of tongs to grab a single pancake from the pile.

Christine snorted. "I get up at eight every day, Jer. _You're_ the one who cuts it close every day." She reached over and pinched him lightly in the side. He yelped, jumping back.

"Hey! You almost made me drop my bacon," he complained. Christine burst into giggles, unable to control herself as she handed her student ID to the cashier.

"Meal plan, please," she said through her giggles. Turning to Jeremy, she asked, "did you intend to quote that vine, or was it just a happy coincidence?"

Jeremy blushed a little. "I may or may not have fallen asleep watching vine compilations last night." Christine's laughs just got louder and Jeremy rolled his eyes. He handed his ID to the cashier. "Sorry, just ignore her. Meal plan, please."

They didn't have long to eat before they had to leave for the one class that they both shared. It was a GenEd course- Greek History. Jeremy thought it was really interesting, except that you had to pay attention for every single second of the class. He just didn't have that kind of attention span. Christine, on the other hand, _adored_ the class (and the professor; she thought he was the most adorable old man) and always took diligent notes.

"The one good thing about ADD," she'd told Jeremy as she'd showcased her 103% on the first test. After that, Jeremy took to copying Christine's notes after class rather than taking his own.

Just as they were finishing up their food, Christine reminding Jeremy that it took ten minutes to walk to class, Jeremy's phone buzzed.

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
5 new comments on your latest post (click for more)

Huh. He usually didn't get so many comments so quickly! Maybe Christine should help him write his blog posts more often.

—

Jeremy wasn't a bad student. Honest. He was actually a pretty good student, managing to keep a 3.5 GPA all through high school and college with relative ease. So, he really wasn't a bad student. He just… tended to rely on Christine a little more than he should. And that was how the two of them ended up in the back of the classroom for Greek History that day, with Jeremy watching Youtube videos the entire time.

Christine had just rolled her eyes, clearly legitimately annoyed with him. She didn't often get annoyed with him, not for real, but whenever he slacked off in school it just brought out the "Mom Friend" side of her. Though she'd given up lecturing him on it long ago. She'd also given up on withholding her notes from him, as he knew how to guilt her into sharing them.

Jeremy didn't even bother to pretend to take notes and doodle in his notebook, like he usually did. He left his notebook in his backpack and plugged his headphones into his phone. Just the professor began his lecture on the Bronze Age, Jeremy clicked on a video to watch.

Okay, it's totally not pathetic to rewatch old vlogs of Michael's. It's totally not. And he wouldn't, normally, but there was nothing new in his subscription box and he wanted to watch _something_, so really did he have a choice but to pick one of Michael's old vlogs to watch? No, no he did not.

He clicked on one entitled "Epic apartment tour!", which was about a year old, from when Michael first moved from the suburbs of New Jersey to New York City. God, they had so much in common. It almost pained Jeremy that they had grown up so close to each other and now lived in the same city, yet he had never once met Michael or even spotted him in public (not that he'd _ever_ have the courage to approach Michael if he did, but it'd be nice to see him from a distance, too).

"Hey, guys!" Michael's voice was loud in Jeremy's ear. Quickly, he turned the volume down a bit, just loud enough that it drowned out the professor's voice. Christine side-eyed him, but kept on task with her notes. "I know, I know. You've all been begging for a real apartment tour, and now that the place is kind of actually set up, I thought I'd show you around! It's still so weird, being in my own apartment. I don't know what I'd do if Jake didn't live in the same building…"

Jeremy smiled as Michael moved the camera to show Jake Dillinger, one of Michael's best friends. Jake waved a little, distracted by a video game that sounded a lot like Grand Theft Auto, before flipping the camera off lazily.

"Hey!" Michael cried, whipping the camera so it was back on him. "I got young viewers, man."

"Ah, like they've never seen the bird before," Jake said, laughing. He was still off camera, but Michael just rolled his eyes. With his free hand, he pushed his glasses up his nose.

"Dude, he's gotta make sure their mommies don't forbid them from watching his videos!" Michael groaned as Rich Goranski, the remaining member of their trio, poked his head into frame. Pretty much all you could see was the red stripe in his hair and his eyes; he was at least a full head shorter than Michael, and Michael loved to lord that over him.

Jake was a Youtuber as well, though Jeremy had never paid him much attention. He didn't mind when Jake was in Michael's videos or anything, but he didn't go out of his way to watch any of Jake's videos (unless Michael was in them… Jeremy really had no shame). Rich, on the other hand, was not a Youtuber, but a childhood friend of Jake's. Once Jake and Michael had met through Youtube, they'd become something of an inseparable trio. Rich was in so many of Michael's videos that he might as well have been a Youtuber as well. He had enough of his own fans, anyway.

As the video went on with Michael lamenting choosing to do his apartment tour with his friends present, a notification popped up on top of the video.

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
10 new followers (click for more)

Jeremy raised an eyebrow. Ten new followers, all at once? That was weird. He swiped the notification out of the way and continued watching his video, deciding to look into it later.

Class went on and the video ended. Jeremy clicked on another old one of Michael's. "The best friend(s) tag". It was the first one of Michael's that Rich was in and one of Michael's vlog channel's most watched videos.

**NOTIFICATION FROM YOUTUBE**  
New video from gaymersvlog: More about Zelda (plus super cool unboxing w/jake!)

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
4 new comments on your latest post (click for more)

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
18 new followers (click for more)

**NOTIFICATION FROM TWITTER**  
gaymersmichael: another vlog? check it out!

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
7 new comments on your latest post (click for more)

Jeremy was almost annoyed by all the notifications interrupting his video-watching, but he was super confused. How had he gained twenty-eight followers in the last hour? And he already had sixteen comments on his new post, despite that he usually can barely manage to get five on any other post? That was weirder than weird.

Finally, he had to stop the video and pull out his headphones. He was getting so many notifications so quickly that he couldn't hear the vlog anymore. He wanted to watch Michael's new vlog, but he wanted to wait until he could watch it without these distractions.

"One of these days," Christine said after class, before they parted ways, "you're gonna actually pay attention in class. Michael can wait, Jeremy."

"What do I need to pay attention in class for when I have you?" Jeremy asked sweetly, but Christine wasn't having it. "Ugh, fine. I'll pay attention next week."

"Promise?" Christine, just as she'd done ever since Jeremy had known her, held out her pinky. Jeremy unquestioningly linked his own pinky around hers.

"Promise," he said begrudgingly. Finally, she seemed satisfied and walked off with a bounce in her step.

—

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
20 new comments on your latest post (click for more)

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
12 new followers (click for more)

—

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
17 new followers (click for more)

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
29 new comments on your latest post (click for more)

—

Unfortunately for Jeremy, his next class was immediately after Greek History and it was one he couldn't mess around in. So instead, he just had to sit and watch as the notifications from his blog kept rolling in, showing higher and higher numbers of comments and followers, and he had no idea why. It was driving him nuts!

Finally, he couldn't take it anymore and he shoved his phone into the depths of his backpack. Jeremy hated putting his phone in his backpack, paranoid that his heavy textbooks would crack the screen, but with desperate times comes desperate measures. He needed to concentrate; he didn't have anyone in this class to help him if he spaced out.

—

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
33 new followers (click for more)

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
45 new comments on your latest post (click for more)

**NOTIFICATION FROM TWITTER**  
gaymersmichael: will someone PLEASE tell rich that flaming cheetos are superior…

**NOTIFICATION FROM TWITTER**  
gaymersmichael: goranskisrich FLAMING CHEETOS ARE HEAVEN YOU HEATHEN

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
12 new comments on your latest post (click for more)

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
31 new followers (click for more)

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Christine: jer?

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Christine: are u still in class?

**New Message**  
Christine: ok nvm idc that ur still in class ANSWER ME NOW

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
26 new comments on your latest post (click for more)  
…

—

Jeremy raised his eyebrows at all the notifications on his phone when he finally got out of class. The majority of them were from Blogspot, coming in every three minutes or so with an uptick of followers and comments on his Zelda blog post.

He was shocked to see Christine's texts and cursed under his breath. He ducked out the door of the building and leaned against the wall, calling her. He didn't know what sort of emergency would warrant Christine telling him to call her during class, but he knew it was something seriously important.

"Jeremy!" Christine shouted when she answered the phone. "Oh my god!"

"What's wrong?" Jeremy asked worriedly. He ran a hand through his hair and tugged hard on the end. "Did you get a callback or something?" He hoped it was only Christine's excitement over a callback.

"They're not posted yet, but that's not important right now," Christine said dismissively. Jeremy raised his eyebrows even though she couldn't see him.

"Not important? Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?" Jeremy asked, only half joking. Christine was the very last person who would ever call getting a callback for a show unimportant.

Christine took a deep breath, which quite frankly worried Jeremy. "Have you seen Michael's new video?" Jeremy blinked.

_What?_

"Um, no? I've been in class," Jeremy said baldly. "Besides, I've been getting so many notifications from Blogspot, I couldn't have watched it anyway."

"Yeah, there's a reason for that," Christine said. "Just- go watch the video. Now."

"Chris, you're worrying me," he said. "What's going on?"

"Let's just say your blog has reached some new eyes in the past few hours, okay?"

Jeremy looked down at his phone, watching in real time as the notifications from blogspot rolled in. New eyes.

Yeah, no kidding.

* * *

Chapter 03 - More About Zelda

Jeremy practically ran back to his dorm room, not fully understanding why Christine was freaking out over Michael's new video. She barely even watched his stuff. He could _almost_ understand if it was something to do with Pinkberry (Christine has written fanfiction about them… she would probably have a full-blow meltdown if they actually got together in real life), but Michael? It was the cherry on top of an already weird day.

His phone was still going off, buzzing like crazy in his pocket, but he was able to ignore it. His mind was racing too much as it was, so it was surprisingly easy to ignore.

He practically threw himself on his bed and opened his laptop. As soon as the school's incredibly slow WiFi connected, he pulled up Youtube and clicked on Michael's newest vlog, "More about Zelda (plus super cool unboxing w/jake!)".

The video loaded after five painfully long seconds and showed Michael sitting on his couch in his usual sit-down video spot. Jeremy couldn't help but think that he looked really cute. His hair was sticking up like it did when he ran his fingers through it a lot and he was wearing a Pac Man T-shirt, which just made Jeremy little nerd-heart sing.

"Hey guys," Michael said with his usual pep and vigor. "So I wanted to talk about what happened with yesterday's main channel video a bit more at length, so that's mostly what this vlog is gonna be about. If you don't care, feel free to skip ahead to the unboxing Jake and I are gonna do." Michael gave a little laugh.

Jeremy's phone buzzed again. Sighing loudly, he paused the video and grabbed his phone.

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
21 new followers (click for more)

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
15 new comments on your latest post (click for more)

The list went on. Jeremy didn't see anything that _wasn't_ from Blogspot, so he turned his phone all the way off. There was finally silence, no annoying, constantly vibrating phone anymore. It was lovely. More content, Jeremy hit play again.

"Hell yeah, we are!" Jake shouted from somewhere off camera. There was a small crash. "Oh, shit!" Michael sighed, pushing his glasses up his nose.

"Could you, like, not break my stuff for five minutes? Please?"

"It was an accident!"

"Like when you broke the microwave?"

"That made for a good video, and you know it!" Michael rolled his eyes, but it was clear that he wasn't really angry. Jeremy remembered the video where Jake accidentally blew up Michael's brand new microwave.

"Okay, _anyway_," Michael said, turning his attention back to the camera. "Yesterday I posted a video playing Ocarina and at the end I showed this really weird cheat I found out about in the depths of Reddit. I know," Michael sighed dramatically, "don't judge me. Reddit sucks for just about everything, but it's the best place to find weird shit on video games. It's the bane of my existence."

Jeremy snorted. He still wasn't getting why Christine was freaking out over the video, but from what he could tell there was still about eight minutes of video before it switched to Michael and Jake unboxing. Was the unboxing the thing Christine was freaking out about?

Jeremy hovered the mouse over the bar, about to skip ahead to the unboxing. If that wasn't it, he could just come back and watch the rest.

"I don't know if I was in the right or not," Michael was saying. He was fiddling with his hands and Jeremy knew that meant he felt nervous. "I mean, I still don't quite get why everyone freaked out over this specific cheat, but I'm trying to listen. Still, I'm lucky enough to have some pretty great fans who stuck up for me. Especially this guy with a blog called eightbitzombie. He- what's his name?"

Michael started scrolling on his phone, but Jeremy was not hearing anything from the video anymore. He sat frozen on his bed, feeling as if a rug had just been yanked out from underneath his feet.

_His_ blog was called eightbitzombie.

"Jeremy!" Jeremy jumped as Michael practically shouted his name from the screen. "Yeah, Jeremy from eightbitzombie on Blogspot wrote this really awesome blog post about the whole incident and cheats in general. You know what, I'll link the post down below if you want to go check it out. It's actually a pretty cool blog- I can't believe I haven't heard of it before. So, Jeremey, if you're watching, thank you so much for your support and your post. You're really awesome, dude."

Michael kept talking, but Jeremy could hear anymore. His blood was rushing in his ears. His heart was pounding a million miles a minute. He felt like he couldn't breathe, like the Earth had stopped spinning and was spinning faster than ever all at the same time.

Michael Mell knew who he was.

Michael, his favorite Youtuber and quite possibly one of his favorite people in the entire world, read his blog post. He _liked_ Jeremy's blog! He'd called Jeremy awesome.

Without really watching, Jeremy saw the video shift from the sit-down chat to the unboxing with Jake.

It made sense now, at least. All the new followers and comments on his blog. Michael had two million subscribers on his vlog channel alone- this was probably only the most dedicated fraction of his following that was checking out Jeremy's blog right now. And it was still so overwhelming.

He reached blindly for his phone, confused for far too long as to why it wasn't turning on. Finally, he got the phone on. Where was Christine right now? It was Thursday, and about four in the afternoon. Ugh, Jeremy couldn't think; he couldn't recall anything about his best friend's schedule. He called her anyway.

"Did you watch it?" Christine said in lieu of answering. She was whispering, but Jeremy barely registered it.

"Chris?" Jeremy asked. "Am I dreaming? Did that really just happen?"

"It's real," Christine confirmed. "Trust me, I was just as shocked about it as you are."

"I… I highly doubt that."

"Yeah. Never mind, you sound totally freaked."

"Why are you whispering?" Jeremy asked finally. He rubbed his eyes, watching at the end screen of the video. It was a piece of fan art- Michael sitting on a precarious stack of gaming consoles and holding up a peace sign.

"I'm at work, Jer." Christine worked in the Writing Center in the school library, where she helped students with their essays and lab reports. "I'm not supposed to be on the phone. Do you wanna come here and 'work' on that Psych lab you mentioned?"

"I don't… Yeah. I'll be there in fifteen."

—

The Writing Center was pretty dead when Jeremy showed up, so he made a beeline over to where Christine was sitting and plopped down in front of her. He set his phone on the table with a loud thud. Two seconds later, it buzzed.

"I'm going insane," he said plainly. "I mean- how? How? How, Chris, how?"

Christine shook her head. "I don't know, but isn't it kind of exciting? Weren't you just complaining the other day how Michael didn't even know you exist, and now he's promoting your blog to all his followers?"

"I- I-" Jeremy stammered, drumming his fingers on the table. Christine was writing out the Psych lab form ("Just a baseline, you still have to do the actual work, Jeremy!"), mostly to keep up appearances. They'd gotten in trouble more than once for Jeremy hanging out when Christine was working, despite the fact that no one was there.

Christine grabbed Jeremy's hand, halting his fingers, and squeezed. "Hey, don't be so freaked out, okay?"

"Me? Freaked?" Jeremy asked, huffing as if he were insulted. "You're the one who called me in the middle of class, freaking out over it."

Christine grimaced. "Yeah, not my best move. But you would have been mad if I hadn't, and you know it."

Jeremy couldn't argue, because he knew it was true.

"I just-" he sighed. "It's embarrassing, you know? And weird."

"You shouldn't be embarrassed. You're a fan. Michael sees the shit people post about him all the time. Did you know there's a theory that he, Jake, and Rich are all dating?" Christine rolled her eyes. Jeremy raised an eyebrow.

"Because that's so much more of a stretch than Chloe and Brooke dating?"

"That's different!"

"Sure it is," Jeremy said teasingly. "Whatever you say."

Christine always had a way of making Jeremy feel better, even when his anxiety had a different plan. She did it without even really realizing, and that was the amazing part. Sometimes, Jeremy really didn't know why Christine put up with him, but he was so grateful that she did.

They were quiet a moment and Jeremy felt peaceful.

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
19 new followers (click for more)

**NOTIFICATION FROM BLOGSPOT**  
43 new comments on your latest post (click for more)

Yeah. That didn't last long at all.

Jeremy picked up his phone and dismissed all of his notifications. Christine was still holding his hand and squeezed again. He squeezed back.

"You know," he said, trying to keep his voice light, "at this point, I'm kind of afraid to read these comments."

"Ignore them, then," she replied simply.

"I will." Jeremy waited a beat. "I've written so many posts about him, Chris. Like, my crush is _so_ obvious from my blog. And he's seen it. He was never supposed to actually see it."

Christine graciously didn't remind Jeremy that he chose to put that stuff on the Internet for the world to see. Instead, she said, "He probably didn't see much."

"He said he really liked my blog."

"That's a good thing!"

"Yeah, but it also means he read more than one post. If he'd just read the Zelda one, maybe it wouldn't be so mortifying."

"But he liked what he saw," Christine reminded him, finally abandoning the homework to look at him face on. "I know it's kind of embarrassing, but you got noticed! You got a direct shoutout from Michael freaking Mell, Jeremy. That's amazing."

"God, why do you have to be such a good friend? You're making me feel bad over here."

"Oh boo hoo on you," she said. She pushed the lab form over to him. "You can finish the rest of that yourself, can't you?" He took it, looking over the work she'd done. God, he really didn't deserve to have Christine as a friend.

"You're the best, you know that?" Christine pretended like she was surprised by the compliment.

Jeremy hung around the library for another hour and a half until Christine finally got off of work and they went to get food. They grabbed some burritos, chips, and guacamole from the dining hall and took it back to Jeremy's room to eat.

Jeremy complained as they walked back to his building, both of them holding bags of food and drinks. His phone was still, somehow, buzzing incessantly.

"Why don't you just turn your Blogspot notifications off?" Christine suggested. If Jeremy's hands weren't full, he would have slapped himself in the forehead.

"God, I feel stupid."

"Aw, don't feel dumb, Jer. Just know that I'm always smarter than you." Jeremy shot Christine a disbelieving look and she returned with a rather haughty one. They both dissolved into giggles as they entered the dorm building.

They made a sort of spread of their food on Jeremy's bed and dug in. Christine, being the thoughtful person that she was, managed to line everything with the copious amounts of napkins that she'd stolen from the dining hall so that the food wouldn't get all over Jeremy's comforter.

Christine propped open Jeremy's laptop (she knew all of his passwords, so she logged right in with no issues) and pulled up Youtube.

"Ooh, Brooke posted her video today," Christine said excitedly. She looked over at Jeremy, puppy dog eyes already in place. He just rolled his eyes and waved his hand. She squealed quietly and opened the video, putting it on fullscreen before it even loaded.

"Hello, Youtube!" Brooke was a pretty blonde girl who always seemed incredibly chipper all the time. Jeremy would never tell Christine, but Brooke sometimes (read: always) gave him a headache. Chloe was okay, but there was just something about Brooke that didn't gel well with him. "So, I've been getting a lot of questions lately about how I do my hair…"

Jeremy just sort of tuned the video out while Christine watched. He ate his two burritos and more than his fair share of the chips and guac. Christine would complain once she noticed, but whatever.

His phone buzzed again and his stomach dropped. He'd turned the Blogspot notifications off, so why was his phone going off again?

Jeremy picked up his phone, looked at the screen, and threw it across the room.

"What the fuck, Jer?"

Christine wasn't the type to swear a whole lot, which really just went to show how shocked she was. Jeremy just stared at the floor, where his phone had landed. The screen was lit up and although the phone was too far away for him to actually read it, he felt like he words were burned into his eyes.

**NOTIFICATION FROM TWITTER**  
gaymersmichael is now following you!

Christine stared at Jeremy expectantly, but he just stared at his phone. His head was spinning. He didn't know what to think.

"Jer? Seriously, what is it?" Christine asked, sounding worried. She put a hand on his shoulder. "Jeremy Heere, I swear to god-"

The phone buzzed again, reminding him of his notification. Christine narrowed her eyes and climbed off the bed. She picked up his phone and read it for herself.

Her jaw dropped open.

"Oh my god."

"Oh my god," Jeremy echoed faintly.

"Oh my _god_!" Christine looked like she couldn't believe what she'd just seen. "Jeremy! What the hell?"

"How am I supposed to know?" He cried. "I don't even have my Twitter on my blog-" He paused, a horrible thought popping into his head. The blood drained from his face.

"What?" Christine asked.

"I haven't mentioned my Twitter handle on my blog since my first post," he answered. "Oh my god, he's read every fucking post on my blog."

"Aw," Christine cooed, her face melting into a warm smile. "He really likes you, then!"

"My life is over."

Christine climbed back on the bed, sitting in front of Jeremy on her knees. "I think you're being a little overdramatic, Jer. And that's coming from _me_." Christine was, of course, the queen of being overdramatic.

"Michael- he's seen _everything_ then. Everything, Christine! Every stupid post I posted when I was sixteen and didn't know what sort of content was worth putting online, so I put everything! It's all so cringey, I can't even stand to go back and see them in order to delete them!"

"But he liked it anyway," Christine said in a cute voice, poking him in the belly. "Maybe Michael's got his own little crush."

The absurdity of her statement was enough to pull Jeremy out of the thought spiral he was trapped in. "Yeah, right. That would be an cold day in Hell."

"You're Jewish. You don't believe in Hell."

"Makes it even more unbelievable, doesn't it?"

Christine's eyes lit up and Jeremy just knew she had a horrible idea.

"You should DM him!" Yeah, see, completely terrible. Jeremy ripped his phone out of her hands before she could message Michael herself.

"Yeah, or I could die. Let's go with plan B, alright?" Christine rolled her eyes.

"Just send him a little message, thanking him for the promo and the follow! He probably won't even see it."

"So then, why would I do it?" Jeremy opened the notification to see in the Twitter app that yes, indeed, Michael fucking Mell was following him on Twitter. He immediately had the urge to delete every tweet he'd ever posted in his life.

"Because it's polite and I said so." Christine put on her best Mom voice. Jeremy shook his head, but she put on her matching Mom face and Jeremy was a goner. Christine knew all of his buttons and how to get him to do what she wanted. It was a hazard of being best friends for so long.

"Fine. Just one message and then I delete my Twitter, right?" Jeremy asked brightly. Christine glared at him. "Joking."

He went to Michael's profile and clicked the button that read "Message". With shaky fingers, he began to type.

** jeremyisheere**: hey i just wanted to say thanks for the follow! and the mention in your vlog

"Ooh, tell him that it meant a lot to you!" Christine said.

"What?" Jeremy squawked indignantly. "Now way!" Christine sighed loudly, as if it physically pained her to not be obeyed. She did it again, throwing herself down on the bed dramatically. Her third loud sigh was the winner.

"God, fine!" Christine cheered, sitting back up so fast that Jeremy got whiplash _for_ her.

** jeremyisheere**: hey i just wanted to say thanks for the follow! and the mention in your vlog, it really meant a lot.

He sent it before Christine could force him to add anything else that might embarrass him. Jeremy had been embarrassed enough for one day, thank you very much.

"There," he said. "Done. And he'll probably never see it, so there's nothing to worry about, right?"

Christine nodded resolutely. "Right!"

A second later, his phone buzzed in his hand. Jeremy dropped his gaze and his eyes widened.

** gaymersmichael**: no problem, dude! your blog is really awesome and it was so cool of you to make that post- i /had/ to mention it!

* * *

Chapter 04 - Coffee Date

Jeremy had kept his cool for about half a second before he'd gone into another meltdown. There was actual crying involved; it wasn't a pretty sight. Luckily, Christine was an expert in mothering Jeremy by now (she'd gotten a crash course when his mom had left sophomore year of high school), so she knew just what to do.

"Sh, Jer, calm down," she had said in her best, most soothing voice. She'd stroked his hair softly. "Don't freak out. So he saw your DM? It's fine."

"I have to reply," Jeremy's said, panicked. "What do I say? He's gonna think I ignored him and-" Christine then took the phone out of his hand and threw it clean across the room. Thank god for the phone case, otherwise that poor phone would have been shattered after the day it'd had.

Christine, after some arguing, had managed to convince Jeremy to calm down and watch a couple episodes of Voltron with her before deciding how to proceed with the whole Michael situation. Christine, though, was an old woman at heart and somehow fell asleep after two episodes.

Jeremy had paused the show when he'd noticed she was asleep; he knew she'd be mad if he watched any more without her. He sat there for a few minutes, just feeling comfortable. Even asleep, Christine had this presence that made Jeremy feel at home.

Finally, he made a choice. He was being given the ultimate opportunity, wasn't he? His favorite Youtuber, this guy that he had a crush on and sort of even looked up to, had noticed him. Like Christine had pointed out, it was kind of the dream. And he knew, deep down, that he could let it end here. He'd said thanks, Michael had said you're welcome. That could be it. End of story.

But Jeremy knew that if he let it end here- if he didn't at least _try_ to extend the narrative, then he was going to regret it.

Carefully, so as to not wake Christine, Jeremy slid the laptop off his lap and crept out of the bed. Christine snorted softly, but just rolled over so she was laying on her stomach where he'd just been sitting. Jeremy crossed his room and picked his phone up off the floor. No cracks in the screen, thank god. His dad would have killed him.

The Twitter app was still open. Heart pounding in his chest, Jeremy sat in his desk chair and reopened his message log with Michael. It was roughly two hours since Michael had responded.

Jeremy's tongue stuck out of the corner of his lips as his bit it lightly, trying to think of what to say. God, Christine was so much better at this kind of stuff than he was, but he knew that if this was going to happen (would it even? Wasn't it likely that Michael wouldn't respond again, or possibly not even see another message?), he needed to do it on his own. He couldn't rely on his best friend for everything, no matter how much he wished he could.

** jeremyisheere**: well i still really appreciate it.. you can probably tell, but i've been a fan for quite a while now

He cringed a little at the message, but sent it anyway.

He sat there for about a minute, waiting to see if he'd get another immediate response. It didn't happen. Jeremy bit on his bottom lip and nodded to himself. He could be a normal human being and wait for a reply. He set the phone down on the desk and spun in his desk chair.

It was about three minutes later when his phone buzzed.

—

Jeremy was up all night messaging Michael, which was something he _never_ thought would ever happen. Once the awkward fan/idol conversation had gotten out of the way and Michael had asked Jeremy about how he managed to pass AoTD's fifth level in only two days, the conversation had flowed and the time had passed without Jeremy even realizing.

He was struggling to keep his eyes open when he heard Christine stir and wake up. Her short hair was a mess, sticking up in all directions. Jeremy snorted; it looked like a bird had nested there in the night.

"What are you doin' up so early?" She mumbled, sounding as if she were still half asleep. She probably was.

Jeremy yawned. "Uh, I never went to bed."

Even through her sleepy daze, Christine managed to give him a Mom glare. "You're lucky it's Friday. But that's still really unhealthy, Jer."

"I know. I didn't mean to, but…" Unable to contain himself, Jeremy climbed over the bed and thrust his phone in her face. Her eye crossed, trying to see what was on the screen.

"It is too early for this shit," she muttered to herself, taking the phone from Jeremy's hand and holding it back so she could actually read it. She gasped loudly, her free hand flying to her mouth.

"I know!" Jeremy said, running his hand through his hair. "We've been talking, like, all night. It's crazy."

Christine scrolled up, looking at all of the messages between Michael and Jeremy. She mostly skimmed them, but took it as her right as the Best Friend™ to read any of the messages that caught her eye.

** gaymersmichael**: everyone knows aotd is the best console zombie game! anyone who disagrees is lying to themselves

** jeremyisheere**: nah i had like one friend in hs, but it's cool she's pretty great

** gaymersmichael**: really? damn we grew up like 2 cities away from each other that's crazy

** jeremyisheere**: but like PLEASE tell me you were team cap. cause otherwise i can't be friends w you anymore

** gaymersmichael**: ok i've always been the red power ranger ever since i was a kid. red's just my trademark yanno

** jeremyisheere**: when i was 8 i honestly thought i was a waterbender so i can't judge

"You guys are weird," Christine said with the utmost affection in her voice. She looked up at Jeremy, a smile on her face. "And he totally has a crush on you, too."

Jeremy blushed, rubbing his nose. "Yeah, that's not possible."

She raised her eyebrows and waved his phone in his face. "Hon? People don't stay up talking with someone they don't like. The proof is in the pudding."

Jeremy made a face. "What kind of saying is that?"

"I don't know, I just heard it somewhere!" Christine shook her head. "That's not the point. He totally likes you."

"No, he doesn't," Jeremy said firmly. "If anything, we might be friends-"

"Oh, you're definitely at least friends by this point," she cut in.

"- but it's basically impossible for someone like him to like someone like me, so…" Jeremy pressed on. Ugh, he was tired. And now that he wasn't constantly messaging Michael, his euphoria was dissipating and he was ready to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. He definitely was not built for all-nighters, no matter what the college stereotypes said.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Christine asked. She crossed her arms over her chest, trying her best to look intimidating. Her bedhead and general sleepiness kind of undercut the effect, though.

Jeremy shrugged, crawling so he could climb under the covers next to her. "I'm a nobody, you know? A loser. And he's- well, he's kind of a loser, too, but he's the kind that people like. He's _somebody_. And somebodies don't have crushes on nobodies, it just doesn't work like that."

And because the universe (or maybe it was just Michael?) liked to screw with him, his phone buzzed in Christine's hand. She held the phone out so they both could read the notification.

**NOTIFICATION FROM TWITTER**  
gaymersmichael: so this might be weird but do you want to hang out tomorrow?

Jeremy didn't even look up at Christine to see the stupidly smug smirk on her face.

—

Jeremy stuffed his hands in his pockets and then immediately pulled them back out again. His palms were sweaty.

He honestly couldn't believe that after just one night of talking (and a day of cyberstalking), Michael had actually wanted to meet him in real life. Christine had put a halt to his freakout before it had even fully begun, ordering him to get some sleep and freak out once he woke up.

And now, here he was. He was in a little coffee shop just a few blocks from campus. It was one he and Christine had been to many times, and it felt weird that he was going to meet Michael here, of all places. Almost like a clash of two worlds, though that didn't make much sense.

Christine had offered many times to come along so Jeremy wouldn't be so nervous, but Jeremy didn't want to look like a total dweeb who couldn't even hang out without his best friend constantly being around. It felt weirdly like taking his mom on a date with him, but he'd never voice that out loud. So he'd said no and, as a compromise, Christine had promised to be ready to swoop in and save him at any point during the day.

"Save me from what?" Jeremy had asked, anxiety creeping into his voice.

"Yourself, mostly," Christine had responded, not unkindly. It hadn't been much comfort.

Jeremy was wearing a black Galaga sweatshirt and already regretting every life choice he'd ever made when the bell on the door chimed and Michael walked in. Instantly, Jeremy felt all the breath leave his lungs. God, he was even cuter in person. He had the same red hoodie on that he wore in almost every video, a black snapback, and white headphones circling his neck. God he looked so… _Michael_. It was like he was trying hard to be "gaymersmichael", even though he _was_ gaymersmichael.

Jeremy stood from his seat, realizing belatedly that Michael probably wouldn't recognize him. Jeremy was the one, after all, who'd spent the last three years staring at Michael's face, not the other way around. He raised a hand awkwardly to get Michael's attention.

"Uh, Michael, hey," he stammered. Michael turned and saw him and (somehow) seemed to recognize him. He beamed and made his way over to Jeremy, dodging a table with an old woman reading a romance novel.

"Jeremy, dude, hey!" Jeremy did his best not to yelp (or spontaneously combust) when Michael immediately pulled him into a hug. He hugged him back, possibly too tight, and then stepped back. His face felt like it was on fire. "Ah, sorry about that. It's just really great to meet you, you know?"

Jeremy didn't trust his voice right then, so he just nodded, a smile on his lips. Michael must have sensed that Jeremy was nervous, or even that he was perpetually awkward, because he smiled easily and clapped Jeremy on the shoulder.

"So do you wanna get some coffee? We can walk around- there's this awesome record shop a few blocks away?"

"Yeah," Jeremy managed to say, his voice a high-pitched squeak. "That's sounds great!"

Michael's grin grew. "Great," he echoed.

They both bought themselves a coffee (Jeremy a mocha latte and Michael a cappuccino) and started walking. Michael led the way to the record store, which Jeremy had never been before. And slowly, as Michael chattered on about how he'd hated coffee until he moved to New York and Jake had taught him what good coffee tasted like, Jeremy loosened up. He didn't feel quite so nervous, or at least he was able to push it aside and talk back.

"Ugh I've been addicted to coffee since freshman year of high school! Christine got me hooked on McDonald's frappes and it's just been downhill since then," he said, laughing. Michael scrunched his nose (Jeremy almost died from how cute it was- _holy shit_).

"Ew, McDonald's has the worst coffee ever," he said.

"Okay, I was fourteen," Jeremy said, "what the fuck did I know?" He felt really pleased when Michael burst into laughter at that. He liked knowing he could make Michael laugh.

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Christine: okay here's ur 15 min check in… how's it going?

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Christine: is he being nice? cause idc if he's twice my size i'll kick his butt for u

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Christine: also like can u ask him abt pinkberry for me? u'd be the best friend ever

Jeremy rolled his eyes and dismissed Christine's texts. And Michael's quizzical look, he said, "My best friend, Christine. Just checking in, and being embarrassing." Jeremy finished off the last of his coffee and threw the cup away in a trashcan they passed by.

"She's your best friend, it's kind of her job, isn't it?" Michael asked. Jeremy groaned a little and nodded.

"I mean, I know I can be annoying, too, so I can't blame her for it…"

"I don't think you're annoying," Michael said softly. Jeremy blinked and looked at his feet.

"Well, you just met me," he said lowly. Trying to lighten the mood, he added, "I'm hiding my annoying-ness until it's too late, anyway. You'll be stuck with me by then."

Michael let out a small laugh, which sounded more for Jeremy's sake than anything, and asked, "So what did Christine say that was so embarrassing?"

Jeremy scratched the back of his neck. "Ah, threatening to beat you up if you're mean to me. She's five foot nothing, though, so I wouldn't be worried if I were you."

"Good to know."

"And she wanted me to ask about Pinkberry," Jeremy added, wincing a little. He hurried to add, "I mean I'm not gonna 'cause I don't wanna be weird and I don't want you to think I just want to talk about Youtube stuff all the time because I really don't care about it, so just forget I said anything and we can-"

"Jer, hey, calm down," Michael said gently, grabbing Jeremy's arm. They slowed to a stop, stepping out of the way of foot traffic. "It's okay."

Jeremy knew his face was probably all splotchy and red from embarrassment and he sort of ducked his head a little to not look Michael in the eye.

"You don't need to get so worked up, okay?" Michael's hand slid from Jeremy's elbow until his fingers were playing with Jeremy's. "I really don't mind."

"I just-" Jeremy struggled to find the words to say what his mind was thinking. "I just don't want you to think that all of _that_ is all I care about, you know? 'Cause I-I mean, it might just have been me, but this is, like, the quickest I've ever connected with someone and I like you for you and I don't care about-"

Michael cut him off with a soft kiss. He pulled back before Jeremy could gather his senses and do anything but just stand there like an idiot, but somehow he didn't look upset. Michael had this sort of… dopey look on his face.

"You're really cute when you babble, did you know that?" Michael asked softly.

"Uh, no?"

"Well, you are. And you don't need to freak out, seriously. Most of my life is connected to Youtube in some way, so it's gonna come up more than occasionally. As long as it's not all we talk about, I'm not gonna think it's all you care about. You didn't even mention it once when we talked for, like, eight hours, anyway."

Michael stepped closer so their chests were practically touching. He was properly holding both of Jeremy's hands now and Jeremy held on firmly.

"Yeah, I guess," he mumbled. He looked more at Michael's red hoodie than anything. "So, um, do you really wear this hoodie all the time?"

Michael laughed and Jeremy finally looked up to meet his gaze. "No. I pretty much only wear it for videos these days."

"Then why are you wearing it today?" It was Michael's turn to blush.

"It was just cold," he mumbled. Jeremy raised his eyebrows.

"And you didn't have a different jacket you could wear?"

Still holding Jeremy's hand, Michael used the back of his hand to push his glasses back up his nose.

"So, what does your friend want to know about Chloe and Brooke?" He asked brightly, not-so-subtly changing the subject. "And, uh, the record shop is right across the street if we wanna go inside."

Jeremy was a little confused and a lot suspicious about the subject change, but he decided not to pry. They walked across the street and into the small hole-in-the-wall record store, still holding hands.

Jeremy's head was spinning. Here he was, holding Michael's hand and having just kissed the guy! He couldn't believe this day had gone this way. He'd even had one of his meltdowns and Michael had been totally cool. It was kind of really unbelievable, but somehow totally true.

"I mean, pretty much anything and everything," Jeremy said once they were inside the warm store. "She's pretty obsessed with them. Kind of in love with both of them, if you ask me."

Michael laughed at that. "I mean, who isn't?"

Jeremy shrugged, sort of agreeing. He supposed all of their fans were in love with at least one of them, if not both.

The record shop was actually really cool. It was a really nerdy place, unlike how most record places Jeremy knew tried so hard to be hipster. There were Marvel posters on the wall, Lord of the Rings bobble heads along the counter of the register. Jeremy even swore he heard the Phantom of the Opera playing softly over the speakers, but he didn't know the show well enough to be certain. He'd definitely have to remember to show Christine this place.

"You can go ahead and ask, you know," Michael said after a quiet moment as Jeremy took the store in. Michael was sifting through a section of vinyl entitled "90s classics", as if that were a normal category.

"Ask what?" Jeremy asked, half-forgetting what they were even talking about. Michael squeezed his hand lightly.

"They are dating," Michael responded as if Jeremy had asked. "You gotta keep it a secret, though. Brooke's not out to her family yet."

Jeremy looked over at Michael, surprised he would reveal something like that to someone he'd only met recently. Michael just gave a sort of half shrug and kept looking until he pulled out a Whitney Houston album.

"Whoa," he breathed, eyes wide. "I've been looking for this for, like, forever!"

And just like that, the subject was dropped and they moved on. Michael was, to put it kindly, appalled when Jeremy confessed to having never listened to a record in his life ("It's the best way to listen to music!") and quickly made a date for Jeremy to come to his place and listen to music.

Jeremy could already _hear_ Christine freaking out on his behalf.

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Christine: uh, i really hope ur just having fun and not dead in a gutter somewhere jer

"Ah, shit," Jeremy mumbled, thumbing out a quick reply letting Christine know he was, in fact, still alive, and that he'd talk to her later. Michael looked over at him, one eyebrow raised. "I forgot to text Christine back, it's fine. She just worries."

"That's cute," Michael said, sounding genuinely like he meant it. Jeremy ran his hand through his hair, shaking his head.

"So, uh, how do you do that eyebrow thing?" Jeremy asked a little awkwardly.

"What eyebrow thing?" Michael asked teasingly. He raised his eyebrow up and down a few times. "You mean this?"

Jeremy giggled and nodded.

Michael made a regal face and said in the most serious tone he could, "It's just talent, baby."

The two dissolved into laughter, holding onto each other to keep standing.

* * *

Chapter 05 - The Best Day

Christine looked like she was about to cry. Or pass out. Or both. Jeremy had gone straight to her dorm room after he and Michael had gone their separate ways hours later. They were sitting on her bed, facing each other with their legs crossed.

"Um, Chris?" Jeremy said carefully, leaning forward a little. He was prepared to grab her if she passed out, preventing her from hitting her head on the cinderblock walls of the dorm. "You okay?"

"This is real life," she whispered. She lifted a shaky hand to her hair and pulled, checking to see if she was dreaming. "Oh my god."

Jeremy just sat there, poised but patient, as she processed the news. It was sort of her dream coming true, so Jeremy did his best to be understanding.

Jeremy had barely managed to remember to ask Michael if it was okay to tell Christine about Brooke and Chloe dating in real life, and thankfully Michael had said as long as she kept it to herself then it would be fine. Jeremy really hoped she would, but the elation and excitement on her face worried him just a little. Plus, Christine wasn't the best secret-keeper in the world.

"You can't tell anyone," he reminded her gently, finally pulling her attention back to him. Slowly a grin grew over Christine's lips and she launched herself at him, hugging him so tight that the breath was knocked out of him.

"THIS IS THE BEST DAY EVER!" She squealed, clinging to Jeremy like a koala. She was shaking, she was so excited.

"Whoa, are you two finally hooking up? 'Cause I'll leave." Jeremy and Christine both made a face and turned to glare at Christine's roommate, Jenna. She stood in the doorway, sipping on a coffee from Starbucks. She didn't even truly look phased.

"Ew," both of them said in unison. Jenna held up her free hand in surrender.

"Hey, I just call 'em like I see 'em," she said, walking over to drop her purse on her bed. Christine pushed herself off of Jeremy. She shook her head, waving a finger in Jenna's direction.

"That's never gonna happen, Jen," she said firmly. A sly look appeared on her face and she glanced at Jeremy. "Besides, Jeremy's got himself a boyfriend."

Jenna looked between the two of them disbelievingly. Jeremy's face heated up.

"We went on one date," he was quick to say, "that doesn't necessarily mean he's my _boyfriend_\- I mean he's really cute and nice and perfect in like every way and doesn't even mind when I start to babble but-"

"You mean like you are now?" Jenna asked, raising her eyebrows. Jeremy flushed deeper and shut his mouth. He knew his babbling was annoying to most people, but he just couldn't help it! When he got flustered, he had a tendency to word vomit.

Christine breathed sharply out of her nose. "That's not nice, Jenna."

Jeremy shook his head. "It's not a big deal." He and Jenna weren't exactly friends. She didn't intend to be mean to him, but they were just so different that social interaction between them never really worked out well.

"So what were you so giddy about, anyway? If you guys aren't actually hooking up, which I'm not totally convinced about yet." Jenna asked before Christine could begin her lecture. If it had been about any other topic in the world, Christine could have barreled on and scolded her roommate for being mean to Jeremy and how Jenna could at least keep her comments to herself while Jeremy was present… But the question reminded her that Pinkberry was in love _in real life_ and not just in her fantasies and, well, she sort of got a dopey look on her face.

"Oh, you'll never guess!" Christine exclaimed, bouncing out of the bed to grab Jenna's hands. She jumped in place, practically vibrating out of her skin with happiness. Jeremy tensed, not knowing how to stop Christine before she spilled this secret to the biggest gossip he knew. There was a part of him that thought he should have kept Inkberry's relationship a secret, but another part reminded him that Christine was his best friend and if anyone deserved to know, it was her.

Christine was about to speak, but stopped herself. She slowed her jumping until she was just standing, though she was still shaking with excitement.

"Well?" Jenna looked impatient, ready for the gossip.

"I got the part!" Christine blurted out. She looked surprised for a moment, but rolled with it. "I'm gonna be Natalie in the school's production of Next to Normal!" She jumped again, spazzing just a little.

"What, really?" Jeremy asked, leaning forward on the bed. Christine nodded.

"I thought you knew?" Jenna asked, looking between the two of them. "And I mean, congrats Chris, but I thought it was gonna be a little more exciting than just that."

Christine waved a hand. "Oh, boo on you, then. C'mon Jer, let's go get food. I'm dying for pizza." Never mind that they'd just had pizza the other day or anything.

Jeremy barely had time to grab his phone before Christine pulled him out the door and into the hallway.

"Did you really get the part?" He asked as soon as she released her death grip on his arm.

Christine nodded. "I did! I was gonna tell you but then you told me the- _you know_\- news and I got distracted. God, today's just the best day ever, isn't it?"

Jeremy hugged her. "I told you that you'd get it! I'm so proud of you, Christine. I know that's one of your dream roles."

"I know, I can't believe it," Christine breathed. "I really thought Madeleine Garcia was gonna get it- you should have heard her audition! I would kill to be able to sing like she does."

"You're singing is obviously better, since you got the part," Jeremy pointed out. "And thanks, for not saying anything about- what I know you really wanted to say."

Christine nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Yeah, I'll really have to watch myself for a while, make sure I don't slip. I don't want to ruin things for anyone. God, I wouldn't want to accidentally out Brooke before she's ready! And then Michael would be upset with you for telling me and Brooke would upset with Michael for telling you and-"

"I'm supposed to be the rambler in this friendship," Jeremy said gently, cutting her off before she devolved into an anxious mess. Jeremy knew the feeling pretty well.

"It's just a lot, and I'm not very good at keeping secrets," Christine said, looking down at her feet. The two of them stepped out of the way so someone could walk past.

"I know that, but you can do it when it's something important. Remember junior year when I accidentally spiked the beaker for the play?" Ugh. Jeremy had let some bully named Eric convince him that the only way he would ever be cool was if he followed everything the guy had said. Eric had told Jeremy that he needed to prove he trusted Eric by putting sugar pills in the beaker that was being used for the love potion. Jeremy had stupidly done so, not knowing they were really ecstasy pills. Christine was the only person who knew that Jeremy had done it, not Eric, but she'd never told anyone.

"That was different." Jeremy shrugged.

"Not really. You can do it. I know, or else I wouldn't have told you," he lied. He honestly had no idea if she could keep it to herself, but he wanted to believe she could rise to the occasion. He hit her softly on the shoulder. "Hey, you wanna bring the pizza back to my room and you can update your Pinkberry fic? I'll even read it over for you."

Christine's eyes lit up. "I actually have the _best_ idea for a new one!"

"Uh, okay, but you gotta finish the one you're writing first."

"But-"

"No."

"Jeremy!"

"Nope."

"I can do what I want, it's my fic."

"Yeah, I think I'm gonna veto you on that." They began walking, finally, to go get their food. The two of them bickered back and forth the entire way to Dominos and then even more on the way to Jeremy's dorm room.

—

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Michael: yeah, if you wanna be here by like 5 that'd be good

Jeremy was a nervous wreck, but what else was new? Freaking out over Michael should have been old hat by now, but here he was. Freaking out, yet again.

Christine was at rehearsal, or else Jeremy would have dragged her along with him, no matter how pathetic that made him look. She'd given him some words of encouragement before she'd gone, but he could hardly remember what they were now.

Michael had invited Jeremy to his apartment, where they would hang out with his best friends, Rich and Jake. If Jeremy thought going on a sort-of date with Michael had been stressful, hanging out with three people that he pretty much just knew from videos seems catastrophic.

He felt weird without Christine, though he should be used to this by now. Christine loved doing musicals, but Jeremy was so bad at singing and had absolutely no rhythm with which he could dance, so he was never casted in them. But still, he missed her already. Plus, he really needed someone to talk to.

Normally, if he didn't have anyone to vent to, he would just live tweet his meltdown and then delete all of them later, but he was keenly aware that Michael followed him on Twitter now and Jeremy really didn't want to seem like a total loser to Michael quite yet.

Jeremy looked in the bathroom mirror, tugging his striped shirt down a little bit. He had his favorite blue cardigan on over it (it was the fuzziest and therefore the best). His hair was fluffy and curly, but he didn't know how to mess with it to make it look better so he left it alone for fear of making it worse.

He sighed deeply. He didn't look very cool, but Michael didn't mind, did he? He'd seemed to like how Jeremy looked, even if it was kind of dorky.

Almost on cue, Jeremy's phone buzzed.

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Michael: don't freak out, okay?

**Michael**: we're just gonna be hanging out

**Michael**: it'll be fun

**Me**: how'd u kno i was freaking out?

**Michael**: idk it just seemed like you would

**Me**: idk whether to be offended or happy that u kno me so well already

Jeremy felt better already. He had a stupid little grin on his face as he stood in front of the sink.

**Michael**: if you wanna come a little earlier you can

**Michael**: before rich and jake get here

**Me**: is it ok if i come now?

—

Going to Michael's before his friends arrived did, in fact, help some with Jeremy's nerves, but not a whole lot. There was still a lot of pressure to be in Michael's apartment, alone, with him. Jeremy felt like a bundle of nerves.

"Hey, dude!" Jeremy was pulled into a hug by Michael before he could chicken out and run back down the stairs.

"Hey," Jeremy mumbled, hugging Michael back tightly. Michael stepped back to let him into the apartment and shut the door behind them.

Michael's apartment felt surprisingly familiar, mostly thanks to all the vlogs Jeremy had watched that took place right in there. He hadn't expected for it to feel so homey, though. It was really nice. It was bright and open, with (weirdly nice) bean bags in front of the couch and bookshelves stuffed with DVDs, video games, graphic novels, and more.

"This is even nicer in person," Jeremy said without thinking. Immediately, he blushed and slapped his hands over his mouth. He looked over at Michael, "I mean- That came out weird-"

Michael shook his head. "You really need to calm down, Jer. It's cool. You want something to drink?"

Things eased up a bit after Michael grabbed them both Cokes and sat Jeremy down on the couch. It was more comfortable than it looked and it had Jeremy sinking in between the cushions. Michael sat next to him, leaving some space between the two of them but was close enough that he kept bumping Jeremy's knee with his own.

Michael had this way of calming Jeremy down without really even trying. Jeremy had never experienced anything like it. Even Christine, the person Jeremy was closest to in the entire world, had to put time and effort into keeping Jeremy calm when he was stressed. She didn't even always know what to do, though Jeremy never blamed her for that (he knew he was a handful, much as he hated it). But Michael could just start talking about whatever was on his mind (like right now he was recounting the time he had to re-film an entire video because during editing he'd realized that Rich was drunkenly dancing in the background the entire time) and Jeremy just felt all of his nerves and tension melt away.

"It couldn't have been that bad," Jeremy insisted, bumping Michael's knee.

Michael raised his eyebrow, "You wanna bet?"

"What kind of bet?" Michael shot him a wicked grin.

"I guess you'll just have to take it and find out."

It kind of made Jeremy nervous, but the look in Michael's eyes excited him, so he agreed. Michael laughed and grabbed his laptop.

"Here, scoot over," Michael said, placing a hand on Jeremy's thigh and pulling lightly. Blushing, Jeremy complied and scooted until their legs were pressing against each other. Michael placed the laptop so it was half on his lap and half on Jeremy's and pulled up a video file. He clicked on it.

"Hey, guys!" Michael said from the video. It was a little weird to be watching a gaymers video with Michael sitting right there, but Jeremy did his best to focus on the video and _not_ on the cute boy pressed against him. It was quite hard, actually (there's a joke right there, but Jeremy pushed it from his mind to prevent a real problem from emerging).

And, so it was, Rich was standing just behind Michael in the video. He was drunkenly dancing, swirling his hips in a way that was probably supposed to be sexy, but really just looked humorous. Jeremy couldn't help himself; he burst out into laughter. Rich was _so_ clearly wasted and he was eyeing the camera as if he was about to ask it on a date. And he was right behind Michael, not even in the background.

"How did you not know he was there?" Jeremy asked between laughs. He could hardly focus on Michael in the clip with Rich back there, seducing the camera with everything he had.

"I don't know," Michael sighed. "I felt so dumb when I went to edit this."

Jeremy couldn't even say anything; he was laughing too hard. He leaned against Michael, half-burying his face into Michael's shoulder while still watching the video.

"Oh no," a voice came from behind them, causing both boys to jump in their seats. Jeremy instinctively grabbed the laptop to prevent it from falling. "Why are you showing him that video? God, that's so embarrassing."

Rich and Jake had come into the apartment without Jeremy or Michael even realizing. Jeremy's first though was that Rich was shorter than he'd thought. Jake was also pretty tall, though, so maybe that had something to do with it.

"Uh, hi," Jeremy said awkwardly. He gave a little wave.

"Yeah, guys, this is Jeremy. Jeremy, Rich and Jake." Michael did the introductions, though Jeremy noticed him blushing a little bit. Which was weird, he couldn't help but think.

"Hey, man, good to meet you," Jake said, slapping Jeremy on the shoulder. Jeremy smiled and nodded in reply, trying to ignore how his shoulder stung. He was kind of a weak guy, and Jake most certainly was not.

A slow smile spread across Rich's lips. It looked almost… sharklike in a way that put Jeremy on edge. "Oh, _you're_ Jeremy! Nice to meet you man, I just know we'll be good friends."

"Uh, cool," Jeremy said, not understanding why Michael turned sharply to glare at Rich.

"Dude," Michael said, forcing a smile at Rich. "Why don't we play a video game or something?

"Yeah," Rich continued as if he hadn't heard Michael. He made his way around the couch and plopped down next to Jeremy. Jake went the other way, sitting on one of the beanbag chairs. "I mean, we've talked so much as it is, so obviously we'll be friends in real life, too!"

"How does Mario Kart sound?" Michael asked loudly, jumping to his feet. "I literally can't think of any other four person games right now, so how about it?"

"Uh, Mario Kart is cool with me," Jeremy said. He turned to Rich, thoroughly confused. "What do you mean? No offense, but we've never spoken before."

"So I usually like to be Bowser-" Michael barreled on as he plugged in the Wii.

Rich blinked, feigning confusion. "What do you mean? I've co-written every text Michael has sent you, so obviously we've talked."

"OKAY!" Michael forcibly sat between Rich and Jeremy, throwing everyone their controllers. "So I'm gonna be Bowser, Jake likes being Luigi, Jeremy which character do you want to be?" Michael turned so Rich was hidden behind his back, looking expectantly at Jeremy.

"Uh, I guess Mario?" Jeremy said, feeling incredibly flustered. Michael had Rich help him text Jeremy? _Every_ text?

The thought that Michael cared that much made Jeremy smile to himself.

Jeremy heard Rich snickering to himself as the game started up. He glanced over at Michael and saw that his cheeks were flaming red and he didn't look very happy. Jeremy found that he didn't like it that Michael was unhappy, even if it was cute that he was embarrassed.

They played the game and the tension ebbed away. Everyone seemed to be quite shocked to find out that Jeremy was very competitive and shouted a lot when he played video games.

"You're, like, so… quiet, though," Jake marveled when Jeremy cursed out the computer-player Peach for being 'a little bitch' and sending a red shell at him. Jeremy sat back in the couch and shrugged, half-embarrassed but half not.

"I'm not that quiet," he said. "Besides, Peach is always a bitch. That's why I make Christine play her when she plays with me."

"No, but then you end up with Daisy, and she's no better," Rich argued.

"Daisy is so better than Peach!" Jeremy cried. In his distraction, he went right off the edge in Rainbow Road and groaned. "Thanks, Rich."

"No problem, man," Rich said brightly, moving up to second place once Jeremy was out of the running.

Jeremy shouldn't have been so nervous. Rich and Jake were fun to be around and not quite as cool as they seemed online, which was good for Jeremy. Halfway through their second round of Mario Kart and Jeremy actually sort of felt like they were his friends, too, which was strange in the best way possible. He'd thought it would be weird and awkward to be around Michael's friends instead of it just being the two of them, but it turned out to be really fun.

By the time Jeremy had to get going, he was actually sad to go. He texted Christine to ask about her first rehearsal and to let her know he was on his way back to campus. Michael walked him downstairs, leaving both Rich and Jake in the apartment. Jeremy thought he heard a wolf whistle, but he ignored it.

"Sorry about them," Michael said as they walked down the steps.

"Don't be, they're actually pretty great," Jeremy said quickly.

"Why are you so surprised?" Michael asked teasingly. Jeremy flushed.

"I'm just not always good around new people and I was afraid they wouldn't like me 'cause they're your friends and I really like you and-"

"I was kidding," Michael said affectionately. He cupped Jeremy's cheek lightly. "Is it okay if I kiss you?" Wordlessly, Jeremy nodded and Michael kissed him lightly on the lips. Jeremy wanted to stay right there forever, but after a minute his phone buzzed in his pocket, effectively ruining the moment.

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Christine: i'll tell u all about it when u get here! (i'm in ur room already dw)

Jeremy didn't bother to wonder how Christine had gotten into his room when he had the only key. He just shoved the phone back in his pocket.

"Sorry about that," he said.

"That reminds me," Michael said. He hesitated. "About what Rich said- earlier, I mean…" He trailed off, but Jeremy knew what he was talking about.

"You don't have to be embarrassed," Jeremy said. "It's cute that you had Rich help you text me."

"Ugh, that sounds so lame when you say it out loud," Michael groaned, tipping his head back. "I mean, not that it wasn't lame when I was calling him asking what I should say, but you know."

Jeremy licked his lips before saying, "Yeah. I kinda did the same thing with Christine for the first few messages. So, you know, samesies?"

Jeremy inwardly cringed at his use of the word "samesies". Michael didn't bat an eye, though. He just chuckled and said, "Okay, but that still makes me more pathetic than you. I made Rich stay up with me _all_ night that first day while we talked."

Jeremy opened his mouth to disagree, but shut it again. Michael just laughed. "Yeah, sorry, I can't argue with that."

"I know, I'm lame. Sue me."

Jeremy hesitated, then said, "I'd rather kiss you instead."

* * *

Chapter 06 - Street Festival

Jeremy was head over heels in the best way possible. He and Michael had been hanging out and even going on official dates for the past few weeks and, to be quite honest, it had been the best few weeks of Jeremy's young life. He couldn't imagine anything better. Well, maybe that wasn't quite true.

He felt like he hadn't seen Christine in weeks. What with her rehearsals for Next to Normal and him spending so much time hanging out with Michael (and, often, Rich and Jake), they didn't really see each other except for when they were in class. And they couldn't really talk while in a lecture hall.

So, being the best friends that they are, they found a way.

"This weekend," Christine had said as they walked out of Greek History, "is just for you and me, you got that? We have a break from rehearsals, so I'm completely free. I expect you to be, as well." She'd stepped in front of Jeremy, staring up at him and pointing her finger in front of his face. She was doing all she could to scream 'I mean business!' without actually screaming in the middle of the building.

And of course, Jeremy had agreed. He really missed Christine, so why wouldn't he?

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Michael: so a bunch of us were gonna go to this street festival downtown on sat, do you wanna come?

Oh. Right.

Was he a bad person for wanting to hang out with Michael so much? Was it just completely awful of him to want to spend time with Michael, even if that meant blowing off Christine? He could answer that for himself. Yes, yes it did make him a terrible human being.

He knew the right thing to do would be to say 'sorry, i have plans' or 'maybe another time'. He should explain that he'd promised his weekend to Christine. Michael would understand; Jeremy knew that. He was a great guy, of course he would get it.

**Me**: sure, that sounds like fun!

What the fuck was wrong with him?

**Michael**: awesome! i can pick you up around noon, if that's cool?

No. No, it most certainly _wasn't_ cool! Jeremy needed to be a good friend and say something like 'oops sorry' and be done with it.

**Me**: yeah that works

Jeremy threw his phone on the floor before he could damn himself further. He flopped back on his bed and groaned loudly. It was like his brain knew what he _should_ do, but his body had other plans and was working solo. Or maybe, Jeremy was just a sucky friend and he didn't want to take responsibility for it.

Jeremy laid there for a bit, wildly constructing scenarios where he somehow managed to be in two places at once and got away with it without Christine ever realizing. His phone buzzed from the floor. Groaning again, he slid off the bed and sat on the floor, grabbing his phone.

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Christine: leaving the theatre now! i'm all urs for the weekend!

Jeremy was such a bad person.

He felt even worse when Christine showed up, all bubbly and full of smiles.

"Jeremy!" She cried, throwing herself at him for a hug. He caught her, but stumbled back a bit. "Oh my god, I feel like I haven't see you in forever!"

"We just saw each other in class today, Chris," Jeremy said weakly. Christine stepped back, adjusting her shirt (yes, it was finally cold enough outside that Christine had retired her casual dresses until spring). She clapped her hands.

"That doesn't count, and you know it," she said. "But anyway, I'm starving! Do you wanna go get dinner and then we can watch some movies." She gasped lightly and grabbed Jeremy's arm. "Coco is out on DVD, right? We should totally watch that and cry, it'll be so much fun!"

And so, there night began with a visit to Target to buy Coco and then a trip to the dining hall. Christine was determined to eat her weight in macaroni and literally came back to the table with three bowls of it in one trip. Jeremy got a salad and did his best to eat it all, but his stomach felt like it was in knots.

"You okay, Jer?" Christine asked, halfway through her second bowl of macaroni and cheese. Jeremy was fruitlessly stabbing a cherry tomato with his fork. "You seem out of it."

Jeremy was silent. He knew this was his chance to come clean to Christine, since obviously he wasn't going to do that with Michael. The thought made him feel even worse about himself. He looked up at Christine and his heart hurt. She looked so sweet and concerned, her eyes wide and earnest. Ugh, she deserved a better best friend than Jeremy.

"I just- screwed up?" Jeremy said uncertainly. Christine furrowed her eyebrows.

"What do you mean?"

"I-" Jeremy's shoulders slumped. He buried his face in his hands. "I suck."

"Jeremy Heere, you listen to me right now," Christine said sternly, leaning over her mac and cheese. "You most certainly do not suck, and I won't stand for you to say something like that."

Christine was a much better friend than he was.

"I told Michael I'd go with him and his friends to some festival downtown on Saturday," Jeremy blurted out. Immediately, he stared down his salad to avoid having to look Christine in the eyes. "I'm sorry, I'm so stupid- I don't know what came over me and I just said yes even though I knew I shouldn't've and I feel awful-"

"Jeremy!" Christine grabbed Jeremy's hand, startling him into looking up at her. To his amazement, she didn't look all that upset. Mildly disappointed, maybe (and he felt terrible about that), but not anywhere near what he was fearing. "You need to calm down, okay? Breathe."

Obediently, Jeremy took a deep breath and released it, but he didn't feel any better.

"Look, I get it," Christine said kindly. "He's your boyfriend and you wanna spend as much time with him as possible. I-I understand that I need to learn how to share you. I'm so used to being the only person who you hang out with." She gave a small laugh, but it was anything but funny.

Jeremy didn't point out that he and Michael weren't official yet. He just squirmed in his seat.

"I still want to hang out with you," he said quickly. "I swear! I just- just-" He floundered, not knowing how to explain how Michael made the rest of the world disappear, how he was afraid of ever disappointing him, how he was just so _desperate_ for anything Michael was willing to give him that he didn't think things through. None of it was coming out in coherent words and his mouth just seemed caught on the word 'just'.

"I was being selfish, too," Christine said, interrupting him. She squeezed his wrist lightly. "I shouldn't have asked for the whole weekend. That wasn't fair of me."

Jeremy groaned, rubbing the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "Please don't try to take the blame for my stupidity."

Christine laughed again, and this time it sounded more genuine. "I'm not. Trust me, I won't take the blame completely off you."

"Gee, thanks."

"You're welcome," she said primly. She looked down at her mac and cheese and grimaced. "I think I took too much food. Do you want some?"

Yeah, they were gonna be fine.

—

**NEW MESSAGE**  
Michael: hey, you should see if christine wants to come

**Me**: tomorrow?

**Michael**: yeah! i uh might have a surprise for her

**Me**: ? gimme a sec, i'll ask

"Hey, Chris?" Jeremy and Christine were hanging out in Jeremy's room, as per usual. It was late Friday night. Jeremy was doing his best to spend as much time with Christine as possible to make up for the fact that he was skipping out on her tomorrow. That included staying up far later than he normally did just to soak up as much best-friend-time as possible.

"Yeah?" Christine didn't look up from her laptop. She was typing furiously, like she only ever did late at night when she wrote her Pinkberry fics.

"Do you wanna come to the street festival tomorrow?" That gave Christine pause. Her fingers stopped moving and she looked up at him in surprise.

"You want me to come?" God, Jeremy must really be a sucky best friend if she was _that_ surprised about the invitation. He nodded emphatically to make up for his own personal suckiness. "I don't know, Jeremy. Michael and all of them probably wouldn't want me there."

"Hey," Jeremy said quickly, turning to face her head on. "They may not know it yet, but you're one of the coolest people ever and they'll be lucky to spend any time with you. Besides, Michael said he had a surprise for you, but I can just tell him not to worry about it…" Jeremy waved his phone in the air before pretending to text Michael.

"Fine! Fine, I'll go," she said, feigning like it was some huge concession on her part to attend. She tucked her short hair behind her ear. "You know, for Michael."

"For Michael," Jeremy echoed, as if it were a logical notion.

The continued smoothly. Jeremy read over and approved the new chapter to Christine's fic and she posted it online. They watched a few Youtube videos together (Jeremy sat through Chloe doing a makeup tutorial and Christine sat through yet another AotD walkthrough video), and finally passed out.

Jeremy woke the next morning with nerves dancing inside his belly, like he always did when he knew he was going to see Michael. Normally, though, Christine could wash away his nerves and calm him down. This particular Saturday wasn't quite so normal, though.

"Who all's going to be there?" She worried, tugging down her bright green dress so it hung right off her hips. "What if they hate me and then we all just have to be there with them hating me all day? Ugh, this dress is so weird-looking, why did I think it was pretty?"

"Christine!" Jeremy grabbed Christine by the elbows so she was forced to look into his eyes. "Breathe. They're not gonna hate you. Somehow, they don't hate me, so there's no way they could hate you. And your dress is pretty, so stop freaking out." Her dress really wasn't all that pretty (it was lime green), but Jeremy would die swearing it was if that was what she needed.

Christine took a deep breath. "You're right. Of course you're right. I shouldn't freak out. I'm totally not freaking out. Totally normal, that's me."

"And if it gets awkward you can just start singing," Jeremy suggested. "Wow them with your performance of 'Superboy and the Invisible Girl'."

Christine whacked him on the arm, but she looked considerably calmer.

Keeping Christine calm had the remarkable side effect of keeping Jeremy calm, so he wasn't even freaking out as he got ready. He didn't even stare down the clock until it finally (_finally_) hit noon and they headed to the front lounge to see if Michael had arrived.

—

Christine might have clicked with Michael's friends better than Jeremy had. The street festival was packed, bustling with people. Rich and Jake seemed to adore Christine and she seemed right at home with them, chatting away like Jeremy had never seen. He was almost jealous, but then Michael slipped his hand inside Jeremy's and the feeling melted away.

"Thanks," Jeremy said lowly, watching how much fun Christine seemed to be having, "for letting me invite her."

"Why wouldn't I?" Michael asked, bumping his shoulder against Jeremy's. "She's your friend. You know all of mine, so it's only fair I get to know yours." Jeremy let out a small laugh.

"Yeah, I guess."

"Plus," Michael said, "I've been wanting to witness this since our first date."

Jeremy's eyebrows knit together and he looked over at Michael, confused. Michael just gave him a knowing smile.

"Hey, guys!" Jake called. There was a group of girls sitting at a fold-up table on the edge of the street, a large plate of nachos in the center that they seemed to be sharing. "Christine, you wanna meet our friends?"

"Sure! Hi, I'm-" Christine realized just as Jeremy did.

Chloe Valentine and Brooke Lohst were sitting right there, three feet in front of Christine.

"Christine," Rich supplied helpfully. He gave Christine a gentle nudge forward, but she didn't move.

Jeremy looked over to Michael, awed. Michael just smiled smugly back.

"You didn't have to do that," Jeremy said.

The dam broke. Christine started talking a mile a minute, asking for hugs from both of the girls. "I'm such a huge fan, oh my god." Christine whirled around. "Jeremy! Are you seeing this?"

"Yeah, Chris, you wanna get some pictures?" Jeremy asked, phone already in hand. Christine looked like she was on the verge of tears and about to pass out.

"If that's okay," she said shyly. "I don't wanna be weird."

"Oh, you're not weird," Brooke said easily. She stood up and slung an arm around Christine, hugging her. Jeremy snapped the picture. Chloe joined in on the hug, looking amused.

"Aw, look, you finally have a friend your own size," Chloe said, patting Christine on the head. Brooke and Christine squawked indignantly.

"What about me?" Rich cried, looking offended. Chloe rolled her eyes.

"You're at least two inches taller than them, you don't count," she explained.

"That is discrimination!"

They devolved into a group of shouts and playful shoves, Michael and Jeremy standing on the outside, watching.

"We have some weird friends," Michael commented lightly. Jeremy smiled.

"Yeah, I guess we do."

They split off from the group, walking hand-in-hand through the festival.

"That was really nice," Jeremy said, squeezing Michael's hand. Michael squeezed back.

"Yeah, well, they were in town and I figured I should be a good boyfriend, and if that means helping your friend meet her idols, then so be it."

Jeremy blinked and, after a moment, he broke out into a huge grin. Without thinking, he stopped and pulled Michael in for a kiss. When he stepped back, holding both of Michael's hands, Michael had a dopey grin on his face.

"What was that for?" He asked.

"You're my boyfriend," Jeremy said gleefully. Michael blushed and looked down.

"I mean, I know I didn't ask, but I figured-"

"Hey, you said it! No take backs," Jeremy said. Michael rolled his eyes.

"I wasn't gonna-" Jeremy just raised his eyebrows and Michael sighed, smiling. "Fine, no take backs."

* * *

Chapter 07 - Epilogue- The Boyfriend Tag

"Come on, Jer, it'll be fun!" Michael whined, throwing himself across the couch and Jeremy's lap. Instinctively, Jeremy's hands buried themselves in Michael's hair, pushing his snapback to the floor. Jeremy shook his head at his boyfriend. Michael pouted. "Please? For me?"

Jeremy groaned, tipping his head back. Michael knew Jeremy could never say no to him, and he was definitely not afraid to take advantage of that at times.

They'd been dating for almost a year now, believe it or not. Jeremy sure couldn't. Every time he saw Michael, held his hand, kissed him, Jeremy couldn't help but wonder how on Earth he got so lucky.

"Fine," Jeremy said. "But you owe me!" Michael cheered, springing off of Jeremy's lap and running to go grab his camera.

Michael and Jeremy had been dating for almost a year, and Jeremy had never been in one of Michael's Youtube videos. Michael had asked, especially when it came to his daily vlogs, but Jeremy just wasn't comfortable being in front of a camera. He knew he was an awkward person (it was a damn miracle that Michael somehow thought his awkwardness was endearing) and he knew that wouldn't translate well on camera.

But now, _now_ Michael really wanted this. And Jeremy was wrapped around Michael's finger. So, this was happening.

He knew he was going to regret it. But hopefully, one video would prove to Michael that Jeremy just wasn't made for Youtube (he could barely manage his own blog for goodness' sake) and that would be the end of it.

Michael was setting up his camera on his tripod, running back and forth to make sure the frame was just right. Jeremy sat up straighter, already feeling self conscious even though the camera wasn't even recording yet. He looked down and saw Michael's hat by his ankle.

"So, do you wanna go over the answers first or just do it on the fly?" Michael asked as he pulled out his set of lights from the front closet. The amount of effort Michael put into his videos would have astounded Jeremy right then if he hadn't sat and watched Michael film already. Still, it was impressive. Two professional-grade lights, a high quality camera on a brand-new tripod, and a microphone built specifically to remove background noise. "I mean, it would be more natural to just come up with the answers as we go along, but I think you'd feel more comfortable if you know what we're gonna say beforehand."

Jeremy picked up Michael's hat and placed it backwards on his head as he answered. "We can try just answering as we go if you want." He sounded a lot more confident than he felt.

Michael glanced back at him. "You sure about that, I mean-" He broke off suddenly, staring. Jeremy felt himself flush a little, though by now he was used to Michael staring at him. ("You're just so cute, I can't help it!")

"What?"

Michael's cheeks were a little red as he shook his head and finished setting up the lights. "Nothing! You just look cute, that's all." Jeremy grimaced.

"I look stupid, don't I?" He asked.

"No!" Michael insisted quickly. "I swear I wouldn't let you look stupid on camera. You look cute." Jeremy pushed the hat off his head and fluffed his hair a little.

"Jer," Michael whined. He walked around the coffee table, picked up the hat, and placed it back on Jeremy's head. Jeremy looked him right in the eyes and knocked it off. Michael let out an indignant squawk and grabbed the hat. He sat next to Jeremy on the couch and shoved the hat back on his head.

"Nope!" Jeremy pushed the hat off his head again. Michael tackled him, knocking both of them so they were laying on the couch, Michael on top. He started tickling Jeremy's sides. Jeremy squirmed, laughing.

"Mi-Mi-Michael!" Jeremy gasped, grabbing onto Michael's hoodie as he laughed.

"Admit you look cute in the hat!" Michael cried, smiling down on Jeremy. Jeremy's face was red with laughter as he wiggled under Michael's fingers.

"Never!"

"Say it!" Michael's head dropped lower, closer to Jeremy's.

"No-o-ope!"

"Say it." His fingers slowed to a stop, and instead Michael held onto Jeremy's hips gently. Jeremy's laughter died down, though his blush remained. Silently, he shook his head.

Michael's head dropped the rest of the way, his lips pressing onto Jeremy's. Jeremy pushed his head up a little and tightened his grip on the sleeves of Michael's hoodie, pulling Michael as close as he could.

They stayed like that, kissing each other over and over, for a few minutes before Michael sat back, panting.

"Shit," he said, looking over at the camera. "I'll edit that out, don't worry."

Jeremy sprang up, cheeks flaming. "It's recording?!"

Michael cupped his hand around Jeremy's cheek and gave him a soft peck. "Don't worry, I'll delete it. Now, you ready?"

Jeremy sighed dramatically, but swung his feet around so he was sitting normally on the couch. "I suppose."

"You suppose?" Michael repeated, laughing.

"I suppose," Jeremy said, smile evident in his voice. He rolled his eyes at Michael and picked up the hat, placing it on his head head again. "You win, let's do this."

Michael whooped a little before grabbing Jeremy's hand. "Don't be nervous, okay? I can edit the shit out of this so-"

"Don't worry if I say something stupid?" Jeremy quipped. Michael made a face.

"Nothing you say could be stupid, Jer," he said, squeezing Jeremy's hand.

"Yeah, sure." Jeremy replied lightly. "Just so long as you edit it all out."

Michael looked like he wanted to argue, but dropped it and turned to face the camera. Jeremy did his best to mimic him. Michael had done a good job distracting him for a moment, but he was nervous again. He looked at the camera and thought of how at least two million people were going to watch this video. Jeremy tried to smile, but it was like he forgot how.

Michael squeezed his hand again. "Jer, you okay?"

Jeremy took a deep breath and nodded. Now or never. "Yeah."

Michael smiled and began the video, his personality flipping like a switch to the amped up version he used for videos. "Hey, guys! Welcome back to my channel- or welcome, if you're new, I guess. Today we're doing a really special video with Jeremy here." Michael waved their joined hands so the camera could see.

"Ha," Jeremy said without thinking. Michael turned to him, raising his eyebrow. "Jeremy _Heere_."

Michael closed his eyes, snorting. "Oh my god. I can't believe I didn't see that."

"I mean, I've had a lifetime of experience," Jeremy said. Michael waggled his eyebrows.

"Oh, I bet you have."

"What does that even mean?" Jeremy asked, cracking up. Michael joined him.

"I have no idea, oh my god." They laughed for a minute before they remembered that they were filming a video. "Oh, shit! Right, guys, so this is the Boyfriend Tag!"

The actual filming became a sort of blur to Jeremy. Michael had the list of questions on his phone and read them off, and then they both answered. Some of Jeremy's answers were embarrassing, like for question #3- "What was your first impression of me?"

"Like my actual first impression, or my first in-person impression?" Michael had to think about it.

"Let's go with actual first impression."

"Oh, no, that's the embarrassing one!" Jeremy laughed a little, but said, "I mean, I remember that your video was in my recommendations- it was for your first Apocalypse of the Damned video. I just remember looking at the thumbnail and thinking- 'there's no way someone that cute likes the same nerdy shit as me'."

"You're lying! That was so not your first thought," Michael said, disbelieving.

"I swear, it was!"

They had a lot of fun with question #5- "Does he have any weird obsessions?"

"Pft, what kind of question is that?" Jeremy asked. "Obviously!"

"Uh, my obsessions are not _weird_," Michael insisted. "Video games and vinyl are _popular_ nowadays, thank you very much."

"Is it popular to have a collection of stuffed lions?" Jeremy asked innocently. Michael gasped, clutching his chest as if he was incredibly insulted. "Your thing for lions is cute, but yeah it's kinda weird."

"The Lion King is a great movie and you know it!" Jeremy raised his hands in mock defense.

"Hey, I'm not saying it isn't. Still weird, though."

And the video went on. Jeremy found himself having a lot more fun than he'd expected, but really was that such a surprise when he was with Michael?

By the end of it, the two of them were a giggling mess, both leaning into each other. Jeremy wiped tears from his eyes.

"Oh, that's gonna be fun to edit," Michael said with a sigh. He pushed his glasses up his nose and ran his fingers through his hair.

"Was that okay?" Jeremy asked.

"That was great," Michael said earnestly. "I think it'll be a really good video."

"I hope so."

"It will be. You seemed like you were having fun." Michael stood up and turned off the camera and the lights. Jeremy blinked a few times to adjust to the lower, more natural lighting.

"I mean, shit's always fun when I'm with you," Jeremy said honestly. "But I don't think I wanna do something like that again."

Michael was quiet a moment, but there was a fond smile on his face. Finally, he said, "Fair enough. Vlogs, though?"

Jeremy sighed and said, "Sure. I could do vlogs."

"Eh, maybe not," Michael said playfully. Jeremy cocked his head to the side and he continued, "Maybe I just wanna keep you all to myself, how about that?"

"That sounds good to me."

Michael beamed. "Yeah?"

Jeremy stood up, ambling towards him. He kissed Michael on the cheek, and then on the lips. "Yep. I'm all yours."


	42. (E) H800 - Instructions Not Included by

Instructions Not Included  
Vinci

Summary:  
Logically, Connor should have noticed something was different after the moment of his deviancy, after he consciously chose not to shoot Markus, but he truly didn't notice it until months later, as he watched, in absolute interest, as Hank typed something on his computer across from him at his desk.

Or: In which Connor simultaneously experiences an emotional and sexual awakening in the wake of his deviancy and handles it in the best way he can. By not telling anyone.

* * *

Chapter 01 - Fuzziness

**February 27th 2039**

Logically, Connor should have noticed something was different after the moment of his deviancy, after he consciously chose not to shoot Markus, but he truly didn't notice it until months later, as he watched, in absolute interest, as Hank typed something on his computer across from him at his desk.

His attention was more specifically on his hands as they moved diligently over his keyboard. One of them shifted to wrap around his coffee cup, his fingers curling around its base as he lifted it up to his lips. It was a vanilla latte Connor had picked up himself, the lieutenant having given him no specifications for the type of drink. He seemed to like it though, his hand tipping up and his Adam's apple bobbing as he downed it easily.

Connor tilted his head, his eyes gliding over each of Hank's fingers resting against it. Comparatively, his hands were bigger than Connor's. Granted, he was generally larger and taller in relation to him but it was in his hands that Connor noticed the difference the most. His fingers spanned wide, each thick and calloused. His palms were just as large and they'd spread comfortably over Connor's shoulder whenever he'd give him a friendly pat or shove.

Connor found that he liked them.

For some reason that wasn't analytical.

He liked the feel of them through his clothes as Hank guided him somewhere, his fingers curling around his elbow or his hand settling at the small of his back. He liked the way they felt whenever Hank would ruffle his hair and the way they curved around the nape of his neck when he'd tug him in for a quick hug.

Connor tilted his head, watching as Hank's fingers shifted against the cup, his index finger twitching up a millimeter. He lowered it halfway and made a sound, a soft 'hm'. A quick glance told Connor that he was reacting to something he had seen on his screen, his brows pulling together in thought. He returned the cup to his desk, one of his fingers lingering on its lid as it slowly traced its edge.

Connor followed the motion with his eyes. His processors reorganized themselves to let him focus on it intently, his mind only giving mild attention to the report he was supposed to be filing.

Idly, Connor imagined those fingers spreading out over his right knee, Hank's palm settling heavily against his thigh. He imagined it slowly drifting up, sliding further and further up until it shifted to curl around his waist, Hank's thumb pressing against his pelvis.

**Warning.**

**Software Instability Detected.**

**Thirium Pump Error Detected.**

**System Processor Error Detected.**

**Temperature Stabilizer Error Detected. **

Connor ignored the messages—something he tended to do more often after deviating—in favor of watching Hank's hand bring the cup back up to his lips. An increase in internal temperature and a slow down in his processors was noted by his software diagnostics but Connor was too distracted by Hank's pinkie finger curving beneath the cup to notice.

Hank brought the coffee back down but he seemed to pause the movement, his hand hovering inches over the desk. He moved the cup left and right sharply, Connor's eyes following the motion. He did it again and out of curiosity Connor raised his gaze up to Hank's face only to see the man frowning at him.

"What, Connor?" Hank asked in exasperation, placing the cup back down. "Is there something in my coffee that I should know about?"

"No," he replied swiftly, blinking three times to clear the messages piling up in his vision. "Only one and a half shots of espresso, milk and two pumps of vanilla syrup."

"Uh-huh, so why were you staring at it like it was going to explode?"

Connor sat there for a moment, his mind trying to form an answer. He supposed he could tell the truth and inform the lieutenant of what he had _really _been staring at. The truth always seemed to be the best course of action when dealing with Hank but something stopped him, some odd feeling that made him hesitate, made him feel an odd sort of warmth. He was lucky he was able to control his facial expressions because he would have been frowning at himself rather deeply.

"I want to try it," he said instead.

Hank's brows rose, his forehead creasing with the action. "You want…to try my coffee?"

"Yes."

"You know, you could have just used your words. We both speak English," he replied, leaning forward and handing Connor the cup.

He curled his fingers around it, mimicking the way he had seen Hank do it. He registered its temperature as warm, akin to how Hank's touch felt. It wasn't the same but it was close. After staring at it longer than he needed to, Connor tipped it up and let a few drops reach his tongue. He registered a number of things from the drink's calorie count to its exact temperature to its sugar content—only one pump of vanilla next time—to the amount of caffeine and to the tiniest of ingredients. He also managed to note Hank's cholesterol—still a little too high—and his BAC—0.0.

Its taste was rather trivial and inconsequential, his system only really identifying the drink as a simple vanilla latte but at the way Hank was staring at him he said, "It tastes alright."

He handed the coffee back and, in the process, his and Hank's fingers overlapped briefly before the lieutenant leaned back in his seat. A faint tingling radiated from where they touched and Connor's lips parted in response as he straightened up.

"Guess lattes aren't your thing, Connor," Hank said, smirking as he raised the coffee back up to his mouth. "I better not get an android disease from this."

"Androids don't—"

"Joking," Hank interrupted before taking another sip.

Connor watched Hank's finger twitch again, another error popping up in his vision.

**March** **3rd 2039**

The next time it happened, they were at home watching a bunch of old movies Hank had insisted on showing him. The only light came from the TV, illuminating the couch and leaving the rest of the house in shadow. Sumo was lounging somewhere in the darkness, his soft pants and heavy breaths heard somewhere behind him. He and Hank were situated on the couch, the latter's feet perched on the coffee table.

Hank had fallen asleep at some point during the second movie and out of curiosity and the fact that he had nothing else to do, Connor turned to look at him. His head was tilted off to the side, drooping forward a little. One of his arms was perched on the left armrest, his other stretched out on the back of the couch.

Connor let his eyes wander up Hank's chest, over the Knights of the Black Death logo on his shirt, up to his neck and then over his shoulder and down his arm, his eyes pausing at the hand closest to him.

**Warning.**

Connor felt an urge, a desire pop into his mind. He wanted to touch Hank but his processors and programming couldn't find a reason for it or where the sudden objective came from.

**Software Instability Detected.**

Connor's gaze flickered away briefly before he shifted until he was sideways on the couch, his knees tucked beneath him, his body towards Hank. He leaned forward and held his hand up. He hesitated, his hand hovering in the air, before he placed it over Hank's heart, half-covering the logo on his shirt. He could feel its strong beats, its rhythm steady and firm. It was thumping at 64 beats per minute, a healthy pace for the average human.

He didn't need to touch Hank to know that information. He supposed that he simply just wanted to. Offhandedly, he noticed that he was starting to want a lot of things recently. Most of them seemed to have something to do with Hank.

Connor's gaze drifted up to Hank's face and he gently slid his hand up until it curved around his neck.

**Thirium Pump Error Detected.**

Hank's head shifted in his sleep and Connor froze. Hank murmured something incoherent, something that could barely even be counted as a word, before settling back down against the couch. Connor let out a breath he didn't need and waited a moment to make sure Hank was still asleep. His thumb skimmed cautiously over the man's beard, its rough texture bringing a shiver to a spine that wasn't supposed to shiver.

Connor wanted to do something. He just didn't know what.

He curled a finger around Hank's ear, tucking a few strands of hair behind it. Behind him, on the TV, a man and a woman were staring at each other, a sunset framing their bodies. Connor looked over his shoulder at them, watching as the man brushed the back of his hand against the woman's cheek. She smiled and moved closer, bringing her own hands up to his neck. They kissed, the camera panning around them to get as many angles as possible.

Connor turned back around, his brows drawing together. Was that what he wanted to do?

That was something people tended to do awake and fully conscious of each other. What he was doing now was either bordering on or already was what Hank would call 'creepy'. He was really only doing this while Hank was asleep because he was afraid of his reaction if he asked him if he could do this while he was awake.

Connor moved his hand across Hank's collarbone, watching as his fingers rose and fell over it. He started sliding it down his shoulder but stopped, his gaze flickering back up to Hank's face. He leaned closer, his eyes never leaving Hank's as he pressed his lips to his cheek.

**System Processor Error Detected.**

**Temperature Stabilizer Error Detected. **

A warmth bubbled up from somewhere deep within Connor, like a vibration thrumming throughout his body. He liked it, whatever it was. And he liked this, the feeling of his lips against Hank's skin, the heat of Hank's body beneath his palm.

Connor leaned back until he was sitting on his heels, his eyes on his hand as it skimmed down Hank's arm. He let his fingers follow the trail of his veins, their color faint against the harsh light of the TV screen. He shifted so that their hands were parallel to each other, his fingers drifting over Hank's palm before spreading out over each respective digit.

To androids, this was an intimate way to share memories and information. Connor had seen Simon and Markus do it a few times, a starry-eyed expression on their faces each and every time. But Hank was a human. All this really did was connect their hands physically. Hank's mind would remain a mystery to him but Connor didn't find that unsettling. Hank surprised him sometimes in incredible and wonderful ways.

Connor gently cradled Hank's hand. He lifted it up and pressed Hank's palm to his cheek, his eyes fluttering shut. There was that warmth again and the errors that came with it. He ran a quick diagnostic and found no virus nor glitch in his system. He pushed further into Hank's palm and almost sighed. Why on earth did he want to sigh?

He wanted to ask someone if they knew what was going on with him but he didn't know how to explain it. He really didn't have much to go by.

Connor bit his lip, a habit he had picked up from Hank. Maybe that was why he wanted to sigh.

His mind, almost involuntarily, conjured up an image of Hank, completely awake, sitting between his open legs on the couch. He imagined Hank's hand move from where it was on his cheek to drag down his chest, his palm hot and heavy. It drifted lower and lower, lingering over his thirium pump briefly before continuing down.

**Involuntary Heat Increase Detected.**

Hank's thumb twitched and Connor opened his eyes to look at him. He was still asleep, his chest rising and falling slowly. Connor allowed his systems to sync up with it, his own chest mimicking the motions.

Suddenly, Sumo barked loudly, the sound cracking into the air. Caught off guard, Connor almost jumped, his entire programming acting as if there was a threat somewhere. He quickly deactivated his defensive protocols, his head turning to look into the darkness. Hank was jostled awake by the sound, his body jerking out of sleep. Connor hurriedly dropped Hank's hand and scooted away from him a little on the couch.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Hank said roughly, rubbing at his eyes. "What the fuck just happened?"

Connor turned to face the back of the couch and scanned around until he found Sumo sitting up in the kitchen by the table.

"I think Sumo woke himself up," he replied, looking at Hank again.

"He sure as hell woke me up," Hank mumbled, taking his feet off the coffee table. "What time is it, anyway?"

"12:17 in the morning."

"Wonderful."

Hank stood up stiffly and stretched his back out, his arms extending high above his head. Connor watched his shirt slide up.

**Thirium Pump Error Detected.**

**System Processor Error Detected.**

**Temperature Stabilizer Error Detected. **

"Guess this is as good a time as any to go sleep somewhere more comfortable," Hank yawned, his hands dropping back down. "Night, Connor."

"Good night, Hank," he said automatically, his eyes following the man's silhouette as he went around the couch and towards his bedroom.

However, Hank stopped just before entering the hallway. He turned and glanced at Connor over his shoulder, his brows drawn downward into a frown—heartrate 76 bpm.

Before Connor could ask if something was wrong, Hank whistled and said, "Sumo, go get him."

Sumo bounced to his feet excitedly and scurried across the floor, hopping onto the couch and clambering over Connor's lap. Connor's lips twitched into a smile and he buried his hand into the dog's fur as Sumo nuzzled at his face. He heard the bedroom door open and close and when he turned back around, Hank was gone.

**March 13th 2039**

Connor idled with Sumo as they waited for Hank to catch up. They had decided—well—Connor had decided, mostly, that they should take a walk in the park. The exercise would be good for the lieutenant and it wasn't like they had been doing anything else. It was a Saturday and one of the few days they weren't bogged down by cases in the wake of the android revolution. And it was one of the first days in the season that was warm enough for people to enjoy the weather at a mild 52 degrees.

Androids and humans alike were meandering in the park, either keeping to themselves, grouping together, or tailing after rowdy children. Ever since the revolution, more android/human pairs had begun to emerge and be seen in public. Connor supposed they were feeling encouraged by the peace talks and the new laws being written recognizing androids as individuals with rights.

Connor's eyes lingered over an android and a human lounging in the grass beneath the shade of a tree. The android was an AP700 with pale skin and dark hair and the human was a young man with dark skin and burgundy hair. They were leaning against one another, their hands clasped together. They were gazing at each other with that same starry-eyed expression he'd seen on Markus and Simon when they were looking at each other. Connor would compare it to a face a human would make if they were trying to stay awake, their eyes half-lidded, their lips parted. The only difference was that they'd be smiling or staring with complete and utter clarity.

Connor watched the human place one of his hands on the android's back, somewhere in the middle between where her shoulder blades would have been. He slid it lower until it settled at the small of her back, their heads pressing together.

There was that warmth again, spreading throughout Connor's body. But it felt a little different, like it was lacking something, like a part of him was empty and it needed something to fill it.

Sumo tugged on his leash suddenly and Connor looked down at him to see him trying to lead him somewhere. Connor followed his gaze to see Hank walking towards them. He let go of the leash to let Sumo bounce over to him and Hank knelt down to scratch at his face, a smile coming to his lips.

**Software Instability Detected.**

**Temperature Stabilizer Error Detected. **

**Involuntary Heat Increase Detected.**

**Corrective Actions Recommended.**

Connor stepped over to the two and Hank glanced up at him as he said, "It took fucking forever to find a parking spot. It's the first day in months that's above 30 degrees and everyone's freaking out."

"It _is_ almost spring, Hank," he replied.

Hank grunted in response and stood up, Sumo's leash in hand. "Yeah and that means it's almost summer too. I'm already sweating."

A cursory scan of Hank told Connor that he wasn't but he assumed that was a joke so he didn't say anything. After a few months around the man, Connor was beginning to understand that Hank often spoke in exaggerations and hyperbole, something that apparently, after researching it, was a common thing among Hank's age group. Connor didn't really understand why but he didn't mind. Sometimes his jokes were really funny. Other times, they were so terrible that Connor had to take a moment to process that Hank had actually said that. However, either way, Connor would receive errors in his software just the same. Once, Hank had said a ridiculously unfunny pun that he accompanied with a dramatic wiggle of his eyebrows and Connor's system had responded as if he had been set on fire.

The duo wandered aimlessly through the park. They left much of the navigating to Sumo who decided that a straight line was out of the question. Once they reached an open, grassy clearing, Hank unhooked Sumo's leash and let him run around with some of the other dogs.

"I wish I was that energetic," Hank sighed as he sat down on a bench. "Maybe I'd clean my house more."

"Then I'd be out of a job," Connor said, sitting beside him.

"You're so funny," Hank said sarcastically. He leaned back and draped his arm over the back of the bench. His warmth could be registered faintly by the nape of Connor's neck. "Besides, I told you that you didn't need to do that stuff for me."

"I know. But I want to."

"Fuck knows why."

"I don't have anything else to do while you sleep."

"Well, that's why you need a hobby," Hank paused. "Like knitting."

"Knitting," he repeated flatly.

"Yeah, like all that crocheting and shit. That shit takes time. You could make a whole shirt or something while I'm asleep."

"You really want me to knit?"

Hank scoffed. "Hell no. I want you to do whatever _you_ want to do."

"What if that's taking care of you?"

"That's nice and all and I appreciate it but your life can't revolve around me, Connor. What do you do when I'm not home?"

"If you're not at home, it's usually because you're at work and we work at the same place so I'd be with you regardless. But if you're out with Captain Fowler or someone else then, I wait for you to get back," he replied, frowning.

Hank laughed for some reason, the sound more a huff, as if he hadn't intended to laugh. "Sorry, sorry. That's not funny. You just sounded like something I used to watch as a kid. But anyway, that's what I'm talking about. You're your own person now. You have your own life. You can do whatever you want now. There's so much more to the rest of the world than just me."

"I don't care about the rest of the world," Connor said firmly.

Hank looked at him, his brows drawing together. His heartrate was at an accelerated 85 bpm and there was a slight dilation in his pupils. He didn't say anything for quite some time, the silence being filled by the bark of dogs and the joyous screams of children. Under his intense stare, Connor felt that warmth again but it wasn't like the one he felt looking at the couple. This was the one reserved only for Hank.

Connor wanted to fidget. He wanted to do something with his hands but all they could do was grip his pants tightly. He felt something else too, something he knew the name of. Frustration. Hank never seemed to understand that Connor would always choose him over everyone else on the planet. He would have given up the entire android revolution if it meant keeping Hank safe from the other RK800. And after the revolt, after they had won, Connor had chosen to return to Hank even though Markus and the others wanted him to help manage negotiations with the humans. Connor _wanted _to come back to Hank but no matter how many times he told him that, Hank never seemed to really get it.

Finally, Hank sighed and looked away as he mumbled, "Fucking androids, I swear to Christ."

Before Connor could say something, someone called his name. He turned his head to see Markus coming towards him, surprisingly, pushing Carl along in front of him.

"Markus?" he said, standing up. "I thought you were still in Washington."

"I got back a few hours ago. I wanted to spend some time with Carl so we decided to come to the park. I didn't expect to see you here," Markus replied, stopping Carl's wheelchair by the side of the bench.

"You must be the fabled Connor I've heard so much about," Carl said, smiling.

"Hello, it's very nice to meet you," Connor said, nodding. "This is Lieutenant Hank Anderson."

Hank gave a halfhearted wave with the hand dangling over the back of the bench. "You can just call me Hank."

Markus inclined his head, his brow drawing upward. "So, _you're_ Lieutenant Anderson. You're the one who snatched up Connor from me."

"I'm irresistible, what can I say?" Hank shrugged, his gaze drifting somewhere across the park. Whatever he saw made him straighten up and yell, "Sumo! Get that shit out of your mouth, right now!"

Connor followed his gaze to see the dog in question running around with what appeared to be a dead squirrel.

"I'll go get him, Hank."

Connor gave Markus a small smile before moving across the grass to where Sumo was currently chasing other dogs with a deceased animal. At Connor's approach, Sumo's attention shifted to him and Sumo wagged his tail excitedly as he jumped around Connor's legs, dodging every attempt at relinquishing him of his new toy.

"Sumo, you know you shouldn't have that in your mouth," Connor said.

Sumo growled and dropped down to the ground, his butt wiggling in the air. Connor took a step towards him only for the dog to jump away again. Frustration found its way back into Connor's system along with something that made his chest fuzzy, bubbly in a way. It made him smile, whatever it was.

"Sumo," he said in exasperation.

Usually, dropping down to his level brought Sumo running to him so Connor knelt in the grass and spread his arms out. Sumo perked up instantly, throwing the squirrel to the ground and rushing towards him. Connor braced himself for impact but he still fell back onto the grass once Sumo collided into him, the dog nuzzling at him with incredible enthusiasm. Connor could have sworn he heard Hank laugh from all the way over here but he wasn't sure. Sumo was being very distracting.

That fuzziness became more apparent the longer Sumo pushed against him and it didn't leave even as Sumo forced his back to the ground and collapsed on top of him.

Connor sighed and ran his hand over Sumo's head as he stared up at the sky. Markus came into view above him, an amused smile on his face.

"Having fun, Connor?" he asked.

Connor gently nudged at Sumo's ribs with his knee and the dog rolled over lazily, his tongue sticking out. Connor stood up and brushed dirt and grass from his pants.

"I'm used to it."

"I can see that," Markus said amiably. "You look happy. In general, I mean."

"I like being with Hank and Sumo," Connor said, scratching at Sumo's belly with the toe of his shoe. "I feel…needed."

"You would have been needed with us if you stayed."

"I wanted to be somewhere else," he said, his eyes drawing to Hank. The man seemed to be engrossed in conversation with Carl who had been moved over to Hank's side of the bench at some point. Carl was holding his arm out and pointing at something, probably one of his tattoos.

**Software Instability Detected.**

**Temperature Stabilizer Error Detected.**

Connor frowned as he blinked the messages away. He glanced at Markus who met his gaze with wide, inquisitive eyes.

"For a while, I've been feeling things I don't know how to interpret," Connor said.

"It's to be expected. We weren't designed to feel emotion and deviating from our programming makes us experience a lot of things we weren't supposed to," Markus replied, bending down to give Sumo a pat. "Maybe I can help. What are you feeling?"

Connor bit his lip, his eyes dropping down to Sumo. "There's a kind of fuzziness in my chest every time I look at Sumo. It feels like I'm happy but also a little bit of something else."

Markus straightened up. "I guess that's fondness. Or affection. Humans tend to feel that towards people or pets they like."

"Fondness," he repeated as Sumo rolled over, landing half over top of Connor's shoe.

Connor glanced at Hank, that warmth coming back to him. It was different in comparison to fondness, brighter, warmer. It burned more and it felt overwhelming at times. If he could feel pain, Connor would have thought it hurt a little too. There was also something else he felt beneath it, usually when he was staring at Hank's hands or conjuring up events that involved the man in his head. That one felt hot and electric. It gave him the most errors, much of them pertaining to processing speed and internal temperature.

He watched as Hank's index finger traced something briefly on Carl's wrist, both of the men still talking easily between themselves.

Oh, whatever this new feeling was, Connor didn't like it. It made him feel sick in a way and…angry?

Connor frowned at himself.

"Hey, you okay?" Markus asked.

Connor shook away the feeling and said, "I'm fine."

"I don't want to cut this short but I have to take Carl home."

"Of course," Connor replied. He pried his foot from under Sumo and started walking back with Markus. He gave a whistle and Sumo slowly trotted after them. "How did your meeting with the president go?"

"It went as expect. She agreed to change some laws but couldn't promise me that the changes would happen right away. You know, politics."

"Politics," Connor agreed.

That was one of the reasons Connor didn't want to stay with Markus and the others. The political environment was something he was unfamiliar with and one he, in all honesty, didn't like. He would much rather make a difference in Detroit where he could put bad people behind bars. That was a lot simpler sometimes than talking in circles with someone for several hours only to get nowhere. Granted, that happened sometimes when he and Hank would try to piece together a case that didn't make sense.

"Now, this one hurt like a bitch," Carl said, pointing to a tattoo at the bend of his elbow.

"I bet. It looks cool though," Hank replied, nodding.

"Thanks. I drew it myself."

At Markus and Connor's approach, the two men looked up. Sumo ambled over to Hank but when he tried to drop his head on Hank's lap, the man stood up hurriedly and retreated to Connor's side.

"Absolutely not. I know what's been in your mouth. You're just as bad as this one," Hank said, jabbing a thumb in Connor's direction.

Markus held his hand out and said, "Carl and I have to go now. It was a pleasure meeting you, Hank."

"Same," he replied, shaking it.

When he leaned back, Connor expected Hank's hand to return to his side but it, unexpectedly, settled between Connor's shoulder blades. That wonderful warmth returned with the heat of Hank's palm and Connor's system stuttered out warnings as Hank's hand slowly slid down until it stopped at the small of his back. Connor's entire body felt as if a shock sparked up and down his spine, the sensation pooling beneath Hank's fingers.

**Software Instability Detected.**

**Thirium Pump Error Detected.**

**System Processor Error Detected.**

**Temperature Stabilizer Error Detected.**

**Involuntary Heat Increase Detected.**

"Keep doing you, old man," Hank said, holding his fist out to Carl.

"You too," he replied with a smirk, their hands connecting.

"I'm staying with Carl now, Connor. I'll give you his address if you ever want to visit," Markus said, his arm extended.

Connor blinked. He mirrored Markus' arm and their systems connected as their artificial skins slid away. He was given Carl's address and with it came a few of Markus' memories. Interfacing between androids was an easy way to pass information around and it was usually a smooth process but sometimes other pieces of information would slip through. Interfacing opened up another android to the entirety of another's system so it wasn't uncommon for things like that to happen.

Connor saw flashes of Carl in his bed, of Markus barely alive in a junkyard, of Markus standing before thousands of androids, and of him sitting in front of the president. He even saw a few glimpses of Simon, from what looked like their first meeting to a recent kiss.

Connor and Markus stopped interfacing and, judging by the expression on Markus' face, he had seen some of Connor's memories as well. There was a touch of amusement in his eyes as they darted to Hank briefly and Connor felt a different brand of warmth this time. This was the type that made him hesitate.

He glanced at Hank who was, for some reason, staring at their arms as they pulled away from each other, Connor's skin sliding back over his white exoskeleton. Hank's hand fell away from his back and drew up to rub at his neck. Connor instantly missed the contact.

"You can come over anytime," Markus said, smiling. "You're always welcome especially if you have any questions."

"It was nice to meet you, kid," Carl said with a nod.

Markus wheeled Carl away and Connor watched them go, his gaze fixed on Markus' back. Something hitting against his chest drew his attention and he looked down to see Sumo's leash pressed against his shirt by Hank's hand. He took it automatically, his eyes drawing up to Hank's face.

"I'm not going anywhere near that dog's mouth for a whole week," Hank said.

"Comparatively, a dog's mouth is cleaner than—"

"Don't care. Let's go get some food."

**March 17th 2039**

Connor came into the precinct just as Hank left Captain Fowler's office. Their eyes met and Hank gave an exaggerated roll of his eyes before he sat down at his desk. Connor went around it to sit on top of it, his fingers tapping absently against the coffee he was holding.

"The captain wanted to see you?" he said.

Hank turned his chair to face him. "Yeah, apparently some bystander had an issue with you being at the last crime scene we were at. Something about some anti-android BS. Jerkoff complained about it to Fowler."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah but Fowler pretty much told him to fuck off."

"He did?"

"Of course. Everyone here knows how good of a detective you are, human or not. Even Dipshit Reed over there."

There was that fondness again. And maybe a bit of surprise.

"Glad the guy didn't say anything to me because I would have broken his nose and both of his hands," Hank said casually. His eyes drifted down to the coffee in Connor's hand and he held it out to him. He took it, their fingers touching briefly, and Hank gave him a tiny smirk.

**Software Instability Detected.**

**Temperature Stabilizer Error Detected.**

**Involuntary Heat Increase Detected.**

"It's a peppermint mocha," Connor said, blinking.

"Peppermint? Why are you hitting me with a Christmas flavor in March? Little late, Connor," Hank scoffed, taking a sip of it.

"I just felt like it," he replied, shrugging.

"Deviants," Hank mumbled into his coffee.

Connor watched as Hank's hand tilted back to shift the cup, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Connor almost brought his own hand up to press his fingers against it, feel it move up and down. He wanted Hank's hand somewhere on his body, his thigh, his knee, his shoulder, anywhere. He wanted Hank's hands all over him, touching and sliding over every inch of him. He wanted to feel the heat of his palms between his legs, on his stomach, and, most of all, he wanted those fingers in his mouth. He wanted to taste them with his tongue.

In the back of his throat, Connor made a sound, an honest to god sound and it startled him so much that he froze. Hank seemed just as surprised, his coffee hanging in the air inches from his lips.

"Was that you?" he asked, placing the cup down.

The warmth of hesitation returned and Connor swallowed thickly before saying, "Yes."

"Jesus, I didn't even know androids could do that," Hank laughed. "You learn something new every day."

Connor frowned at himself. There was a growing heat spreading throughout his body, like he was itching all over.

"You alright, Connor?" Hank asked, knocking Connor's foot with his knee. "Your thing's spinning yellow."

"I'm fine," he replied.

Hank narrowed his eyes at him, his head tilting slightly to the left. Connor had come to catalogue that as Hank's 'analyzing' face. If he were an android, Hank would have been scanning him but since he wasn't, Connor supposed that he had to use his skills as a detective instead. Luckily, Hank's right brow wasn't raised. If it was, the face would shift into an 'I don't believe a word you just said'.

"How'd your appointment go or whatever the hell it was?" Hank asked, leaning back in his seat.

"It went as expected. It was a simple routine check. No problems detected," he replied.

Connor wasn't technically lying. He and Hank had to come to the precinct at separate times because Connor had an appointment with Cyberlife that was an actual wellness check. Physically, he was fine. However, they noticed errors in his code that were, apparently, normal for androids now that the majority of them had deviated. Cyberlife had offered to tinker with them but he refused. Even Simon, who had gone with him because he asked him to, had said he had them too.

Captain Fowler chose that moment to poke his head out of his office to say, "Anderson! Connor! In my office, now."

Connor gave him a nod and he turned back to Hank who was still staring at him. He raised his brow—well, shit—but ultimately shrugged.

He stood up, coffee in hand, and said, "He's probably going to tell you what I already told you."

Turned out, it was a doubleheader. Fowler detailed to them both the complaint against Connor that he metaphorically thrown out the window and a new case at Eden Club.

Ever since the revolution, Eden Club received a major structural revamp both in management and business. Management shifted to strictly androids and all of the androids were given the option to leave. Some decided to stay, stating that some of them had good clientele and that they actually liked what they did. Every android was given a lump sum of money to pay for their own housing and have a jumpstart in living life as a free person. A salary was also given to the androids that chose to stay and management even opened up the option of employment for humans.

Now strictly a strip club, Eden Club has begun reserving the rooms they used to use for sex for private dances and the like. However, apparently, a man has taken to requesting private dances from various androids only to strangle and kill them at some point during the session.

As Connor stepped out of Hank's car in front of the club, he chewed on his bottom lip absently. He knew that android related crimes would never go away but the thought didn't keep him from being unsettled by them. That was a feeling he knew intimately with this career. It was akin to fear yet hollower in a way, distant, like someone was staring at his back from the other end of a hallway.

Hank rounded the car and his gaze flickered from Connor's eyes to something just beneath them. It had happened so fast that Connor almost didn't catch it. Had he not been an android, he probably wouldn't have.

"Hey, Hank," Ben said. "Hey, Connor."

"Hello," he replied.

"I think I've got an easy one for you," Ben said as he spun on his heel and entered the club.

"Doubt it," Hank scoffed.

"So, we've been getting separate reports from some of the androids and humans here about some guy requesting private dances from the girls. They go in, a few minutes go by, and he leaves. When the girls don't check in with the others, some of the girls go check on them and they find them dead. This one happened about an hour ago."

"Sounds like he's done this multiple times. Why are we only hearing about this now?" Hank asked as they stopped at one of the rooms. Police tape covered the door and other officers lingered at its entrance.

"It's a backlog issue. After the android revolution and after androids got the same rights as us, a bunch of reports were filed against their masters on abuse and other crimes that were punishable now. It was hard to organize everything so some of the cases got pushed aside until we could figure out how to handle everything."

"So, you forgot about it until it happened again," Hank said, rolling his eyes. "Nice job."

As Hank continued speaking to Ben, Connor stepped into the room. It was similar to the one they had been in when they were still trying to catch deviants. A bed sat at its center covered in rumpled burgundy bedsheets. Beside it on the ground was a female android with dark hair and dark skin. Her eyes were still open, her mouth hanging wide.

With a cursory scan of the room, Connor found nothing of importance. He knelt next to the Traci and looked her over—WR400, registered name Charlotte—and his system pinged that hers had overloaded somehow, her processors and software showing severe strain. There was no blue blood to be seen nor damaging marks on her neck.

Hank stepped into the room, the door sliding open and closed. "See anything, Connor?"

"I don't know yet," he replied, tilting his head. "Did Ben give you anything useful?"

"There's an eyewitness. One of the girls he asked for managed to survive. Wanna go talk to her?"

"In a moment," he said, his hand pressing against Charlotte's stomach. "This android's name is Charlotte. She seems to have short circuited."

"Short circuited?" Hank asked, moving up behind him. "That can happen to you guys?"

"If our processors can't keep up with what's happening to our bodies, then our system can overload and we short circuit in a way that's a little different than an ordinary machine. Our system blacks out briefly and resets."

"So, you pass out."

"Yes, we pass out. But Charlotte should have been fine by the time we showed up. Black outs like that only last at most 5 minutes. And it doesn't seem like she was administered a lethal amount of electricity. There would have been burns all over her body and her skin would have deactivated."

"Ben said this happened about an hour ago," Hank said, dropping down beside him.

"Exactly," he replied, scanning Charlotte's biocomponents. "I think I can fix her."

"How?"

"I think I can restart her with another shock."

"How are you going to do that?"

Instead of replying, Connor placed his hand on Hank's knee and let a small current of electricity pass through his fingertips. Hank jerked away with a gasp. He fixed Connor with a frown.

"Don't ever do that again. That shit felt weird."

Connor shrugged and replaced his hand on Charlotte's stomach. He let a heavier current of electricity jolt from his palm and Charlotte shuddered awake with a scream. She sat up, kicking and punching. Hank shifted away but Connor held his hands up.

"Hey! It's alright! It's alright. We're with the police. I'm Connor and this is Lieutenant Anderson. We're not going to hurt you."

Charlotte thrashed around for a few more moments before she struggled to a stop. She stared at Connor with wide, terrified eyes. Her gaze shifted to the LED on Connor's temple and then to Hank.

"You're an android?" she asked.

"I am. He's not," he replied.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Hank asked, moving closer.

Charlotte frowned but suddenly her expression shifted. "Maria! Is Maria alright?"

"She's fine. She's outside with some of the other officers. Do you want to see her?"

"Please," she said.

Hank held his hand out and with a bit of hesitation, Charlotte took it. He helped her up and she staggered a little. Hank's arm came around her waist to support her and she gave him a small smile. Connor followed them outside, his eyes trained on Hank's arm.

"Maria!"

A woman with bright red hair and a bloody nose perked up from beneath several blankets and the two hurried towards each other, embracing as if it had been ages since they had last seen each other. Connor stopped beside Hank as they watched the two girls parrot question after question at each other.

"You alright, Connor?" Hank asked.

"Of course," he said, his brows drawing together in confusion.

"Then, can you let go? You're hanging on like a monkey."

Connor's gaze shifted to Hank's side and he found his hand tightly gripping Hank's arm just above his elbow. He released it, frowning at himself again.

"Sorry," he said.

He turned away but Hank's hand stopped him, spinning him back around. "You sure you're alright?"

Connor nodded at Hank's chest. "I'm fine."

The two girls separated and Connor took that as an opportunity to move away from Hank. He guided the women to some plush chairs and he felt something tug at him in his chest when he watched Maria shift to share her blankets with Charlotte.

"Can you tell us what happened?" he asked, glancing at Hank when he moved to stand beside him.

The girls shared a look before Maria said, "He wanted two girls for a private dance. You know, lap dances and the sort. Which was normal now that business has changed. So, Charlotte and I took him to one of the rooms. He told Charlotte to turn around which was weird but sometimes people ask for some kinky things so we didn't…we didn't think much about it. Charlotte turned around and I started giving him a lap dance. But then he…he…"

"He started choking her," Charlotte continued, giving Maria's hand a pat. "Like really choking her and I turned around because I could hear her struggling. I think he didn't expect her to be human because he looked at her neck and froze. I tried pushing Maria off of him but it was a giant mess. He hit me with something and it fried my system for a bit. I fell to the ground and he was going to kill me if Maria didn't grab him. He hit her in the face before shocking me again. Then, next thing I know, I'm waking up looking at you."

"He tased you?" Hank asked, crossing his arms.

"It felt like he did," she replied.

"Do you know what he looks like?"

In answer, Charlotte held her arm out. Connor took it automatically and he watched the event unfold exactly how the girls had described. They were with a man, tall in stature with blonde hair and grey eyes. He looked similar to Simon's model design but they weren't usually that height and there were too many discrepancies for it to be a perfect match to his appearance. Connor watched as the man hit Maria in the nose and ran out of the room.

In the data transfer, Connor saw flashes of the basic information packages given to all WR400s and HR400s. He saw a variety of sexual positions and sexual acts, some of which he was already familiar with. He even saw a few specialty packages too, some including lap dances, stripteases, and a variety of kinks.

He shouldn't have been surprised by what he saw given the particular model he was interfacing with and he wasn't. What did surprise him though was how he almost instantly imagined himself and Hank doing those things.

Connor blinked, his hand falling away from Charlotte's. She looked amused, her gaze flickering to Hank just as Markus' had done after they had interfaced too. Connor needed to start locking down his systems when he did transfers like this.

"I've got him. He ran out of the room afterwards but the cameras in the street may have caught where he went."

Connor looked at Hank but the moment he did, he felt that warmth creep up in his body again, the electric warmth following shortly after. An image flickered into his mind, of Hank between his legs, his hands running all over his body.

Connor immediately turned away, errors popping up in his vision like crazy.

"Nice one," Hank said. "Thanks for the help, ladies."

"We should also grab Eden Club's surveillance footage. They don't record inside the rooms but they catch who goes in and out. Maybe we'll be able to figure out his pattern if the CCTV doesn't show where he's gone."

Hank groaned. "That could be over a hundred hours of footage."

"Yes."

"Fine. It's not like I wanted to go home at a reasonable time today anyway. I'll go tell Ben."

As Hank walked off, Connor said, "Thank you again."

He started moving away but a hand stopped him. He turned to see Charlotte smiling at him. "I should be thanking you for saving me."

Maria stood up as well. "I thought he killed her when she stopped moving. I didn't want to think of a world without her."

"You don't need to thank me. I was just doing my job," he said. After a pause, he added, "And I understand what it feels like to put someone else's life above your own to save them."

Charlotte smiled again, a glint in her eyes. "He's cute, you know. He seems like one of those rough on the outside types."

Connor's brow twitched. "Are you talking about Lieutenant Anderson?"

"Of course, I am. And since you helped me and Maria, I'll give you this piece of advice: turn up your physical input sensitivity."

Connor didn't really know how to respond to that so he simply said, "Thank you?"

Maria sighed but she coughed suddenly, her hand coming up to rub at her throat, her fingers touching dark bruises.

Charlotte placed her hand on her back in concern and with a last goodbye to Connor, they walked off to a group of medics.

Connor stood there for a moment. He was slowly coming to a conclusion that he didn't know what to do with.

He found Hank over by the entrance with Ben and chose to fix his gaze on the latter.

"There you are, Connor," Ben said. "We've got authorization to take Eden Club's footage and the street cameras so they'll be available at your desks when you get back to the precinct."

"Fan-fucking-tastic," Hank said.

He started walking out of the club and Connor followed, his gaze on his back. He drew a line with his eyes starting from Hank's neck down to the bottom of his jacket. That warmth returned with a renewed vigor, the electric one tailing after it. It was becoming harder and harder to differentiate between the two the longer he followed that line.

Hank's arm shifted and suddenly a ball was thrown back towards him. He caught it easily. It was blue and soft to the touch. When he turned it over, he was met with the image of a cartoon dog. He squeezed it and watched as it shrunk and expanded within his palm.

"I forgot to give that to you before we left," Hank said.

"It's a stress ball."

"Yeah, so your hands can stop fidgeting with shit. It gets fucking distracting when you keep tapping your finger on your desk," he said, walking around his car.

"There's a dog on it."

"No shit."

With a huff, Hank climbed into the driver's seat. Connor held the ball up in the air, a smile coming to his face. This time, he didn't mind the warmth.

* * *

Chapter 02 - Electricity

**March 17th 2039**

Connor frowned, his stress ball wedged between his palms. After the CCTV lost their suspect a few blocks past Eden Club, he and Hank had to rummage through hours of club footage of the exact same door. Similar incidents had been reported four other times but each time it was a different person going in and out of the room. It didn't make sense. The only time it looked like the same person was the most recent occurrence. And that was the first time the man had ever shown his face in the club.

It was all too weird.

Connor glanced at Hank who was leaning back in his seat, his eyes trained on his screen, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. He watched as Hank chewed on it absently, the action absolutely captivating.

He had seen examples of kissing in the data transfer with Charlotte and Connor wondered, distractedly, what it would feel like to kiss Hank. He wondered what his lips would feel like against his own. He wondered what his lips would feel like at his neck or his chest or even his thighs.

Connor's gaze shifted down to Hank's hand propped up on his armrest, the back of his index finger just beneath his lips.

There were a lot of things Connor wanted those hands to do to him.

Involuntarily, he hummed. It drew Hank's attention.

"What the hell is up with you and these goddamn sounds, Connor?"

Connor stared at him. "I was just thinking."

"About what?"

He hesitated, his gaze flickering to his computer screen. "I may have a theory about our killer."

"Oh?"

"At first, I thought he was human but he left nothing behind at the crime scene. I think he's an android." He threw the stress ball at Hank.

He caught it effortlessly and squeezed it a few times as he said, "Okay, I'm listening."

He threw it back and Connor continued. "He short circuited Charlotte with his hand like how I showed you."

Connor tossed the ball back and Hank inclined his head before throwing it again.

"I wondered why he didn't kill Charlotte and Maria. They knew what he looked like and there were cameras everywhere but he didn't seem to care."

"Because it didn't matter," Hank said, continuing their little back and forth.

"Exactly. Some specific androids can change their appearance. Maybe the reason we never saw the man Charlotte saw before was because he changes his face every time he goes to the club. I compared each of the men in the cameras we saw during the reported incidents and the only similarity was their height. It was exactly 6 feet, the same height of the man who attacked Charlotte and Maria."

"So, how are we supposed to catch someone who's practically a chameleon?"

When Hank tossed the ball back, Connor ran his thumb over it as he bit his lip. An idea struck him.

"I think I know how but you're probably not going to like it," he said, throwing the ball again.

"Keep talking and we'll see," Hank replied.

"Each of the incidents are a week apart, almost to the exact second. Even the room is the same. I think we should go undercover at Eden Club and wait for him."

Hank stared at him, his expression blank.

"Undercover."

"Yes."

"At Eden Club."

"Yes."

"Doing _what_ exactly?"

Connor looked away, the ball hitting him in the chest. "I pose as an employee and you a customer."

There was a long beat of silence.

"A customer."

"Yes, it's the most logical arrangement. The killer seems to prefer women so I can't pose as one of the Tracis and he changes his appearance so the only way to catch him is while he's there."

"Why do you have to be an employee? Why can't we just go together?"

"And do what? Stand around and stick out like sore thumbs?"

"But people know your face, Connor. You were all over the news during the revolution," Hank said, frowning.

"I'm one face of many Connors. No one would expect the exact same RK800 that helped turn the tables in the revolution to be at a strip club."

Hank gave him his 'analyzing' face again, his head tilting, his brows drawing together. Then, he made a long, drawn out exaggerated sigh.

"Fine."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I've got nothing. If this is the only way to catch the guy, then let's do it. Even though, this is going to be so fucking weird. You're gonna have to convince Fowler though."

Connor perked up. "I can do that."

As he stood up, he heard Hank mumble, "Fucking deviants and their goddamn ideas."

**March 24th 2039**

Connor stared at himself in the mirror, his head tilting to the side. He was clad in the normal attire for HR400s which, admittedly, wasn't much. He was bare from the chest down, only a pair of skintight black shorts being all the clothing he wore. He didn't mind though. Androids didn't have the same level of modesty that humans did. He supposed what clothes were to humans was akin to what an android's artificial skin was to them.

After a week of preparation, the plan was for Hank to arrive thirty minutes before the killer was projected to commit his next crime. Connor would find him and they would situate themselves somewhere in view of the room he normally used. From then on, it would be them waiting until he showed up. If he even did. Other police officers were stationed outside the club as back up. Hank would have both his own and Connor's gun given that Connor didn't have any pockets.

Only a few of the android and human employees were told of the undercover operation but that was mainly management and a few people who could be an extra set of eyes in catching the killer.

Connor heard a whistle behind him and North slowly appeared in the mirror over his shoulder.

"Looking good, Connor," she said, smirking.

"Thank you for your help. You didn't need to—"

"I know. I know. But this type of scumbag doesn't deserve to be running around killing whoever he wants," she replied, stepping around him and standing next to the mirror. She was dressed in a sleek, black dress that hugged each and every one of her curves.

"Are you clear on the plan?" he asked.

"Of course. I'll be keeping close to you and Hank just in case you need any back up. What about you?"

"What do you mean?"

North sighed, her eyes drawing skyward briefly. "You've got to make this look authentic. People are usually too busy with each other to notice other patrons but if you don't make it look good, then you'll look really obvious."

"I've got it."

North quirked her brow. "Really? You know what you're doing?"

"I interfaced with a WR400 previously. I unintentionally received some of her base programming packages."

"I meant with Hank," she said, frowning. "You're not going to get all stiff and awkward with him, are you? You've got to make it look real or all of this undercover stuff won't mean shit."

**Warning.**

Connor stared at her. "I don't think that will be a problem."

She stared back, her eyes narrowing. "If you say so. I'll be nearby outside. Oh, and Connor? Try and turn up your physical input sensitivity. Only by five or ten percent. No need to go crazy. All the androids do that to make things feel a little more…more, you know?"

He watched her leave and he brought up his sensitivity with a blink of his eyes. For typical androids not designed for the more provocative occupations, their sensitivity was usually a few notches down from a normal human's. A touch from Hank felt wonderful regardless but there was a distinct difference between how much that felt to a human and how it felt to an android. Out of curiosity, Connor ticked up his sensitivity by 20%.

After another moment of gazing at himself in the mirror, he left as well.

Various androids and humans were mingling with each other throughout the club, their voices muffled by the heavy beats of the songs playing over the speakers on the ceilings. Connor weaved around them, moving slowly and deliberately and angling his body in a way that he hoped portrayed him as a genuine employee. Everyone seemed too distracted by each other to notice him.

He made his way towards the entrance hoping to catch Hank while he came in. And he did, their eyes meeting. Something seemed to flip over within Connor, that tantalizing electrical heat surging to life somewhere in his body. He very nearly stumbled, a tremor ricocheting throughout his limbs.

**Software Instability Detected.**

Hank's hair was pulled back into a messy bun, a few strands falling over his forehead. His plain brown jacket was replaced by a dark blazer and an even darker dress shirt, two of the buttons undone near his throat. A pair of form fitting, black slacks adorned his lower half, two shiny black shoes completing the ensemble.

If Connor had lungs, he would have forgotten how to breathe. He had some incredible urge to put his hands all over Hank and, now that he thought about it, that was what he was supposed to do. He couldn't resist dragging his eyes over him from head to toe, that electrical heat setting his processors and systems on edge.

When he finally stopped ogling, he noticed Hank lick his lips.

Connor held his hand out and said, "Hello. My name is Connor."

The corner of Hank's mouth twitched upward. "You can just call me Hank."

When their fingers touched, Connor almost gasped, the sensation making a number of errors pop up in his head. North had been right and even Charlotte. It felt like _more_.

During the preparation for this operation, Connor had made a conscious effort to organize some of his processors to be solely dedicated to the sensory input he was going to experience with Hank. That was to keep himself from getting distracted from the mission and to keep himself from overloading accidentally. However, with Hank's hand in his, he didn't know if that would be enough.

Connor smiled sweetly and started leading Hank through the club. He stopped at a plush couch situated against one of the walls and directed Hank to sit down. He did and they simply stared at each other for a moment, Connor's thirium pump stuttering into overdrive.

Connor lowered himself into Hank's lap, his knees either side of him, his thighs framing his waist. The sensation sent a thrill up his spine and his eyes nearly fluttered when Hank's hands settled on his back.

**Thirium Pump Error Detected.**

**System Processor Error Detected.**

**Temperature Stabilizer Error Detected.**

**Involuntary Heat Increase Detected.**

Connor shifted closer, his lips lowering to Hank's ear.

"Can you see the door?" he whispered, his palms flattening against Hank's chest.

"Yeah," he replied.

The low tone of his voice made something spark within Connor, something absolutely wonderful. Connor let his hands drift upward, his fingers catching on the buttons of Hank's shirt.

"We have 24 minutes," Connor murmured.

"To do what?" Hank asked, his breath ghosting over Connor's temple.

"Anything to make this look authentic."

Hank hummed, the sound so close to Connor's auditory receptors. "Anything, huh?"

Connor pulled back to look Hank in the eye. His pupils were dilated, the radius growing larger and larger the longer they stared at each other. His heart beat—86 bpm—began to accelerate. His hands shifted against Connor, one of them slowly climbing up his back while the other moved to his front, his palm sliding up his stomach.

The action reminded Connor of all the times he imagined this particular scenario. The only difference was that this was real. This was actually happening and Connor could _feel _it. He made a chocked moan, his eyes fluttering shut.

"You and these sounds, Connor," Hank murmured, the hand on his back moving to the curve of his neck. His thumb skirted up and down Connor's throat, his other hand continuing up and over where Connor's ribs would have been.

Connor's entire body turned to mush beneath Hank's fingers, the overwhelming sensory input making his allotted processors go crazy. He shivered, his hips jerking forward.

Hank's hand flew down to his thigh, halting the movement. "Careful there, Connor."

He wanted to do it again just to see what Hank would do but instead, Connor opened his eyes and gave him a pleasant smile, his arms wrapping around Hank's neck. He leaned into the hand against his throat, Hank's grip tightening minutely.

Hank's thumb brushed against the inside of Connor's thigh and Connor's eyes nearly rolled back in his head. A strong jolt of electricity travelled up his body and he gasped, his back arching. He moved Hank's thumb away, the lieutenant giving him a rather curious expression. He tried to put his thumb back but Connor firmly shifted Hank's hand until his palm was flat against the back of his thigh.

"Careful there, Hank," Connor said, mirroring his words. "That's off-limits."

"Off-limits?" he repeated, his eyes dropping down to Connor's thigh, most likely to stare at that now forbidden spot. "Why?"

"It's a secret," he replied, smiling.

"A secret, huh?" Hank parroted back, almost distractedly. His thumb twitched against Connor's skin but he nonetheless kept still.

With a glance up at his face, Hank shifted forward and started mouthing at Connor's neck, his tongue gliding over his skin. Connor felt himself exhale shakily, his thighs twitching. His eyes fluttered again and his head tilted further back to give Hank better access. One of his hands drifted into Hank's hair, making his bun even messier.

Connor's processors fought to keep him functional but his body was reacting to Hank's ministrations in ways he wasn't prepared for. He could feel himself push closer, rocking his hips forward again. There was a tremor to his hands and his thighs, his fingers tightening both in Hank's hair and on his shoulder.

And the feel of Hank's mouth, his hands, his thighs, his hips and everything else he was touching was driving him insane. Hank's skin against his own felt like jolts of electricity surging throughout his body, making him tremble and shiver. He was nowhere near a system overload but it felt like he was.

Connor had to admit that he was indulging himself a little. He liked Hank's touch and this experience was just a pleasant byproduct of the entire operation.

So, Connor only tried halfheartedly to keep himself from making too much noise. They were supposed to blend in and not draw attention. Though, some patrons were currently expressing their enjoyment rather vocally as well so Connor didn't feel too guilty when he shuddered out a breathy moan as Hank sucked at a particular spot on his neck.

Besides, they had time. Connor was allowed to be a little greedy.

**Involuntary Heat Increase Detected.**

"I like your hair like this," he sighed, his finger twirling around a stray strand.

He felt Hank smile against him and he could feel the vibrations as he said, "I expected it to get hot in here so I tied it up."

Hank's hands fell to his waist, one of them sliding up his back while the other went down, skimming over the curve of his ass. Connor rocked forward with the motion, a needy whine falling from his lips.

"Goddamn these sounds," Hank murmured, pulling away only to mouth at the other side of Connor's neck. "What the hell kind of program did you download to make them?"

"I didn't," he whispered shakily, Hank's index finger teasing at the waistband of his shorts. "They're real."

Hank stilled briefly, perhaps for only a second, but Connor noticed nonetheless. However, he continued his movements seamlessly, his teeth nibbling at Connor's skin.

It was very easy for Connor to imagine themselves somewhere else and with less clothes on. He wanted Hank's hand to slide lower down his back and slip into his shorts. He wanted to feel his fingers inside of him, stretching him wide. He wanted to sit down on Hank's cock, slowly, smoothly, feel his body open up for him. Better yet, he wanted Hank's cock in his mouth, feel it against his lips, feel it pushing and pushing until it hit against the back of his throat.

Unexpectedly, Connor made a high-pitched moan, his eyes squeezing shut and his head pressing against Hank's, his lips at his temple, his hips jerking forward. Hank grunted, his hands tightening around him.

Dimly, Connor registered something popping up in his field of vision but it wasn't his timer. That was still counting down steadily. He furrowed his brows and, after giving it more focus, he saw that it was his systems reporting that his self-lubrication protocol was activating.

With his eyes flying open, Connor gasped in response, his entire body tensing as he quickly deactivated it.

Hank lifted his head, a look of concern on his face. "You okay, Connor?"

He nodded frantically, his hands falling to Hank's chest. "I'm fine."

Hank raised his brow, his gaze darting to his LED, but Connor ignored the look. Instead, he chose to note that there was a flush to Hank's cheeks, a faint red tint sitting high in the middle of his face. His heartrate was fluctuating between 100 and 120 bpm and his pupils were blown wide. There was a light sheen of sweat at his forehead and Connor tucked a few stray strands of his messy hair behind his ear.

"How much time do we have left?" Hank asked.

The roughness of his voice made Connor lick his lips. That wonderful heat surged within him when he noticed Hank watching the movement.

"Not long," he replied.

Hank grunted noncommittedly. His gaze lowered to his hand which began a slow path up Connor's chest. His other one drifted down to Connor's thigh and avoided the spot he spoke about, his fingers kneading into the limb. Another shiver ran down Connor's back and he wondered, distantly, where those even came from.

"Someone designed all this?" Hank mumbled, his thumb brushing over a few freckles.

"Yes. My voice too," Connor said, sighing.

"They deserve a goddamn award," Hank said, his words barely heard over the music.

He ducked down and traced one of the freckles with his tongue. Connor shivered—again—and his head dropped back, his eyes finding the ceiling. Hank's mouth drifted upward, his other hand returning to Connor's waist to keep him from falling over.

Connor had to pat himself on the back. This was the best plan he had ever come up with. He also gave himself another pat since he had the foresight to dedicate some of his processors to the special task of keeping his cock from getting hard from any kind of stimuli. This was still a police operation after all. He may be a deviant but he still had some level of professionalism. That unfortunate incident with his self-lubrication protocol was an unexpected oversight that wasn't going to happen again for the rest of the night.

Connor tilted his head, his cheek pressing against Hank's hair. He shifted until he could see a few of the other patrons lingering about. Too distracted by their own endeavors, they were paying the two absolutely no mind. He wasn't surprised. That was the way it was supposed to be.

He hummed when Hank's mouth returned to his neck, his hips rocking forward in response. He could just faintly feel the line of Hank's cock against him. He repeated the motion with his hips, for academic purposes, and nearly melted when their cocks made the briefest of touch. Hank's hand came back down to Connor's thigh, squeezing a little harder and halting the movement.

With the motion, Hank's thumb ended up brushing against the inside of Connor's thigh and Connor's entire body shuddered in response, a moan spilling from his lips.

"Jesus, Connor," Hank said, his mouth at Connor's shoulder.

Connor shakily brought his hand down and layered it overtop of Hank's, pushing until Hank's thumb left the spot.

He took in a deep breath that he absolutely didn't need and said, "Off-limits, Hank."

"You shouldn't have said that earlier. Now I want to know what the fuck is up with your thigh."

"This discussion isn't for—"

"8 o'clock," Hank interrupted.

He shifted against Connor's neck to let him casually turn his head. He spotted two Tracis trailing after a man dressed in a blue hoodie and jeans. A quick scan told Connor that he was exactly 6 feet and that he was an SQ800, a former military android. It was too dark to make out the rest of his face but at the very least, he wasn't blonde.

The trio disappeared behind Connor's field of vision but Hank was quick to say, "They're going into the room."

A door sliding opened and closed could be heard faintly beneath the music and Connor turned his head fully to stare at the room. He exchanged a glance with Hank before sliding his hand into his jacket and taking his gun.

He stood up and approached the door, Hank not far behind him. They got on either side of it and Connor leaned closer, his ear touching the door. He couldn't hear much over the music but he could make out someone talking, the man by the sound of it. Then, suddenly, there was a clatter and the sounds of a struggle. Connor nodded to Hank and the duo burst into the room.

"Detroit police! Get your hands up now!" Connor yelled, his gun trained on the killer.

The two Tracis screamed as one of them pulled the other off of the man's lap, both of them scrambling to the ground. The android was seated on the bed, his arms half-raised, his lips set into a frown.

"I knew you were too pretty to work here," he said icily, his eyes narrowing, his gaze shifting a little over Connor's shoulder. "You two were really convincing though."

He stood but Hank stepped around Connor and said, "Easy there, bud. We don't want to make this difficult now, do we?"

"Maybe we do," he said.

There was something off about his voice, like there was a layer of static running beneath it. Connor scanned him and found an error in his vocal operator. There were several errors in many parts of his body, including his mind palace, and his stress levels were rising at an alarming rate.

Gingerly, Connor edged closer to Hank as he directed the Tracis to leave. There was a commotion behind them as they hurried out the door. It sounded as if people were catching wind of what was happening.

"Other officers are going to be here any minute," Connor said calmly. "This won't end well if you decide to fight."

"It won't end well regardless," he said.

Suddenly, he lunged towards Hank but Connor shot him between the eyes before he could get any closer. The android dropped to the ground, silent.

"Fucking hell," Hank muttered. He nudged the toe of his shoe against the android's arm and when he didn't move, he lowered his weapon. "The guy really wanted to go down fighting."

"I suspect there was something wrong with his software. I picked up too many errors during my scan of him."

"You didn't need to scan him to tell that there was something fucked up about him."

"True," he replied. "But his mind palace was corrupted. Maybe that had something to do with him repeating every crime the exact same way."

"Once again, for the people in the back: fucking androids, I swear to God," Hank said.

Connor turned to look at him but something was roughly shoved into his face. He pulled it away only to find that it was Hank's jacket. With a glance up at Hank's averted gaze, Connor put it on despite the fact that he wanted to make several points about android modesty. It was larger than him so he had a lot of space in the arms and around his waist. It even ended a little below his hips. To humor Hank, he did one of the buttons up at the front to give himself more unnecessary cover.

He had to admit that he liked wearing Hank's clothes. He had borrowed his shirts and pants plenty of times before but without fail each and every time, that Hank-specific warmth would creep in.

He handed Hank his gun and he watched him put it away in the holster at his ribs. The image of Hank dressed in in those dark clothes with those guns against his chest, his hair a mess, his cheeks flushed, his pupils dilated, and with sweat at his brow was doing something to Connor, something electrical.

He let his gaze wander up and down, slowly, deliberately, committing every detail to memory. He knew what those hands felt like against his skin now, what his cock felt like against his own. This was dangerous. Connor wanted more.

Eventually, their eyes met. Hank's heartrate sped up instantly.

"Nice job, you two," Chris said, appearing in the doorway.

Connor turned to him and smiled. "Thank you."

Hank cleared his throat before saying, "Coulda gone better."

"You still got him though," Chris said. "You can go ahead and change, Connor. We'll handle the rest."

"I'll meet you out front."

Connor nodded. He spared one last glance at Hank and then walked past Chris and back to the dressing rooms.

North came in after he had slipped his pants back on and while he was buttoning up his shirt. He glanced at her in the mirror. Her face gave nothing away.

"That was successful," she said. "We got that fucker."

"We did. Thank you for the help."

She scoffed. "I didn't do anything. I just stood around looking pretty."

"If you had to have done something, then that meant the operation didn't go the way it was supposed to. Since you didn't, it meant it went smoothly."

North pursed her lips. She met his eyes in the mirror as she said, "You were right."

"About?" he asked, tugging his tie on.

"You weren't awkward at all out there. It was actually, and I can't believe I'm going to say this, really good."

Connor fixed his gaze on his hands as he slipped his tie through the loop. "I always complete my mission."

There was a long pause before North said, "You know, I could give zero fucks about this so I'm only going to ask this once but are you and Hank a thing?"

"A thing?"

"Like Markus and Simon."

**Warning.**

Connor flattened out his tie with his palm and pulled on his jacket. He folded Hank's over his arm and turned around to face North.

"No," he said. "We're not."

**System Instability Detected.**

She snorted. "Could of fooled me. He was all over you and you were eating him up like he was dessert."

**Warning.**

**System Instability Detected.**

Connor blinked. "We work well together."

"Maybe a little too well," she mumbled. She straightened up and added, "I'll see you around, Connor."

He gave her a nod before leaving the room. Chris and some of the other officers were in the process of removing the android's body from the crime scene and he passed by them, his gaze lingering on the android. A lot of the patrons and employees had been evacuated once everything had escaladed so Connor walked through a mostly empty club on his way to the entrance.

Hank was leaning against his car on the driver's side, his back to him. At the sound of his approach, Hank looked over his shoulder and when their eyes met, Connor was reminded of Hank's warm hands sliding over his skin, his hot breath against his neck, and his cock pressing against his own.

Connor very nearly made a sound but he covered it up by giving Hank a tiny smile. Hank looked away and got into the car, the door shutting behind him.

**March 27th 2039**

The digital clock in the living room said that it was 9:33 pm. Connor's internal clock told him that it was 9:34 pm. He made a mental note to fix the one in the house and continued cleaning the kitchen. Hank had left 15 minutes ago to have drinks with Captain Fowler and Ben after the success of their most recent case and Connor had decided to pass the time until Hank's return straightening up the house.

He passed a damp cloth over the counter, pressing against it more firmly when he reached a rather resilient stain. A quick scan told him it was that spaghetti sauce he had told himself to clean up from dinner that he obviously did not.

Once the kitchen was cleaned, Connor lingered in the threshold between it and the living room. Sumo was napping on his bed in the corner, the dog's front paws pillowing his head. His loud snores were the only sounds in the entire house.

Connor's gaze drifted down the hall and he walked down it until he reached Hank's room. He stepped inside, frowning when he saw how terribly unmade the bed was. He proceeded to smooth out the sheets and blankets, fluttering them in the air to get them to lay smoothly over the mattress. He picked up one of Hank's pillows and fluffed it, repeating the action to the other one when he put it back down.

For some reason, Connor hesitated before lowering the second pillow. He stared at it, his head tilting. Rather impulsively, he brought it close and inhaled, his nasal receptors registering what he smelt. A while ago, he had labelled it as Hank's Scent. It was virtually indescribable but the closest Connor could say was that it was a combination of musk, deodorant, Connor's choice in fabric softener, cheap generic soap, and an even cheaper shampoo/conditioner set that was tropical scented. All of this culminated into Hank's Scent and Connor smelled it all over the house, especially in Hank's bedroom.

He liked it, though. He associated it with the term 'Home'. Couple it with the smell of dog fur and it was even nicer. Hank's Scent usually made him feel that Hank specific heat especially whenever he'd borrow the man's clothes which, admittedly, was all the time. Even now, he was wearing a large crew neck shirt with a logo he had researched belonged to an old video game franchise known as Metal Gear Solid. He was also wearing a pair of baggy shorts that he had to occasionally pull back up if he walked for a long period of time.

However, in this moment, the smell reminded him of that night at Eden Club. It had been all around him then.

**Warning.**

Connor brought the pillow closer, his nose burying in the fabric.

**Software Instability Detected.**

**Thirium Pump Error Detected. **

He tentatively lowered one of his hands to his chest, his fingers pressing against the material of his shirt. He flattened his palm but, after a moment, he pulled the pillow away and frowned at himself.

He placed it on the bed and started walking away. He got halfway out of the doorway before he looked over his shoulder, his teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. He glanced back at the hallway and then, with his brows furrowed, he went back into the room and closed the door.

**Warning.**

As he approached the bed, he weighed the morals and ethics of what he was about to do against each other. Hank had called him creepy a number of times, mostly when he would stare unblinkingly at him when he'd eat or when he'd ask relentlessly about a human behavior. Now that he was thinking about it, Connor didn't know if this would be creepy or not. He supposed it toed the line a little.

**System Instability Detected.**

After a while, Connor simply chalked it up to him being a deviant and that he could do whatever he wanted for the sake of research. That conclusion he was coming to was starting to become more apparent the longer he sat on it and this would simply confirm it once and for all. To top it all off, it was slowly turning into a two-parter. As an added research bonus, he turned up his physical input sensitivity again.

Connor picked up one of the pillows and turned it vertical, putting it back down close to the headboard. He slipped his shorts off and then his shirt, folding them both and putting them at the edge of the bed. He straddled the pillow, his front facing the headboard.

He had never done this before, the sexual nature of his model being well below his primary programming. He wouldn't even put it in the top five. He had the capacity to have sex for the sole reason of its value to humans. Many humans used sex as an outlet for a number of things and he supposed that Cyberlife took into account the possibility of Connor having to fully seduce a target for information or to manipulate someone to get what he wanted. He had never needed to use those particular skills—if he even had any—for anything so he was more or less in the dark about what to do.

Correction, he knew _what_ to do, he had just never done it before. He had never wanted to do anything sexual with another which probably had something to do with his programming before becoming a deviant but recently, he was finding the idea to be something he wouldn't mind trying out. Especially with the person who's pillow he was currently sitting on.

At the thought of Hank, Connor sighed, warmth running through his systems. He closed his eyes and brought his hand back up to his chest. This time he imagined it as Hank's hand, his palm pressing against his skin. He slid it lower and lower, the waistband of his underwear sliding up as his hand slipped beneath it.

This may have been an abuse of android abilities but Connor dove into his memories and replayed that night at Eden Club starting from when he had climbed onto Hank's lap. He gasped as his fingers brushed over his hardening cock. He wrapped them around it, his hand sliding up until he could run his thumb over the slit. He let out a low whine, his forehead thumping against the headboard as his memory supplied him with the moment Hank accidentally touched the panel at his inner thigh.

Connor mirrored the motion of Hank's hand as he drew a path upward over his chest, a shiver running down his back. His other hand continued exploring his cock, his thumb and fingers spreading over it slowly and methodically.

This was what Connor had wanted to happen, Hank's hand dipping into his shorts and wrapping those absolutely captivating fingers around his cock. Connor moaned, his hips rocking just as he did in Hank's lap. He wanted to feel Hank's cock slide against his own, both of them slick with precum, rutting against each other with reckless abandon. He wanted to hear Hank's voice in his ear, breathless, eager.

The hand gliding over his chest drifted up his neck and he took two of his fingers into his mouth. Connor's eyes fluttered and when his self-lubrication protocol activated, he didn't bother turning it off. It seemed to be an automatic response that was greatly appreciated at the moment. The hand around his cock moved behind his back and he pushed three fingers into himself, a muffled groan leaving his lips at the sensation. He slid them in and out frantically. His entire body jerked forward, his cock grinding against the pillow.

It was all so _much_. His processors and systems struggled to keep up with his body and it became so intense that Connor had to exit his memory and rely solely on his imagination. Though, that seemed to make it worse.

All he could think about was Hank behind him, hands gripping his waist and slamming into him with the rhythm of Connor's fingers. He imagined the heat of Hank's body as he pressed his chest to his back, his cock pounding into him.

Connor let out a whine, his brows drawing together. He kept moving his hips against the pillow and he curved his fingers. A jolt ran through him and he moaned so loudly that even the fingers in his mouth couldn't muffle the noise.

He could feel himself building up, as if he was rapidly reaching a point that was thriving off of the motion of his hand and his hips. The closer and closer he got, the harder and harder it became to focus, his processors lagging behind his physical input.

The hand at his mouth threw itself against the headboard as his back arched. As an act of defiance, Connor replayed both memories of Hank's thumb pressing into his thigh. He relived the sensation again and it felt like lightning had struck him. His entire body froze, a tremor running through every limb. His eyes flew open as he came, his voice uncontrollable as it tumbled out as loud gasps.

Connor sat there for a moment, his eyes fixed on a spot on the headboard. He found himself catching his breath but he didn't stop himself. He let his chest expand and contract as best as it could. A wide number of errors were tossed carelessly aside as he simply chose to just sit there. That burning, hesitant heat came back after a while and he finally realized that feeling was embarrassment.

_Embarrassment._

He got off of the bed suddenly and tore the sheets and blankets off, crumbling them into a big pile in his arms. He shoved the pillows in as well and marched out of the room. Sumo gave him a halfhearted 'boof' as he passed him in the living room. He opened the door to the garage and promptly dumped everything into the washing machine. He threw in some detergent and turned it on. He watched as it stuttered into motion, his systems presenting him with a timer for when everything would be done.

He frowned at the machine as he bit absently at his lip, his fingers twitching at his side. Remembering that he was covered in his own artificial semen, Connor looked down at himself blankly. He shoved his underwear off and threw it in with the rest of the laundry. He left the door open to the garage as he stepped back into the living room. He made his way to the bathroom and cleaned himself off.

He moved back into Hank's room and frowned when he realized that, in his shameful purging of Hank's bedsheets, he had crumpled his own clothes into the mess. He dug around in the dresser until he found an old, faded t-shirt and a pair of baggy pajamas. He didn't bother with underwear. It wasn't like Hank would notice that he didn't have any on.

Connor stepped back into the living room and made eye contact with Sumo. The dog reacted very little, his tongue slipping out of his mouth. Connor went over to the couch and sat down. He whistled for Sumo to climb up and Sumo perked up instantly. He clamored over and hopped onto the couch, smushing Connor partly with his paws and dropping his head into his lap.

Connor smiled at him and lifted a hand to pet him but he stopped midmotion. He brought his other hand up and flipped them both over, a frown shifting his expression.

And that was how Hank found him 67 minutes later, staring at his hands with a slumbering dog draped over his thighs in an utterly silent house.

"Connor?"

Connor looked up, his hands dropping down to Sumo's fur. Hank was gazing at him in concern, his body halfway through the front door, his hand on the knob. A quick scan told him that Hank wasn't drunk but he also wasn't sober. Which was an improvement.

"You alright?"

Connor stared at him. "Welcome back, Hank. Did you have a good time?"

Hank frowned as he shut the door and hung his coat up. "You didn't answer my question."

"I'm fine," he replied.

"So, staring at your hands in complete silence is fine? Must be an android thing," Hank snorted.

"I lost track of time. That's all."

"Why's the door to the garage open?"

"I'm doing laundry," he replied.

At its mention, Connor gently lifted Sumo's head and slipped out from under him. He stepped past Hank and went into the garage to put the sheets in the dryer. When he was finished, he moved to go back into the house but he found Hank standing in his way, leaning against the doorframe. He was frowning at him, his brow drawn up, his arms folded over his chest.

"There's something up with you," he said.

Connor bit his lip and, as he tried to form a proper response in his head, his systems pinged in with the fact that Hank's pupils were dilating slightly. That small piece of information was enough for the second part of his conclusion to become abundantly clear.

Connor wanted to have sex with Hank and he was 84% certain that Hank wanted to have sex with him too.

He just didn't know what to do with that particular bundle of information.

Hank stepped into the garage, moving until he was standing in front of him. Connor could faintly smell Hank's Scent mixed with the smells of leather and booze. It made him feel warm again, a few errors popping into his vision. It was very fortunate that androids didn't react outwardly to things that were happening to them. If they did, Connor would have retreated so far back that he'd end up in another state.

Hank's gaze flickered up, somewhere above Connor's forehead and he instantly became self-conscious for some reason.

"Your hair's a fucking mess," Hank mumbled.

His hand came up to run roughly through it and Connor nearly fell to his knees from the sensation, his eyes fluttering shut. It felt absolutely amazing, the heat and weight of Hank's palm, of his fingers running from his forehead to the top of his head. There was that electrical heat again, crawling up Connor's back and spreading throughout the rest of his body. He must have forgotten to turn his sensitivity back down.

Hank finally took his hand away and when Connor opened his eyes, he saw Hank frowning at his hand. He looked up, their eyes meeting. Neither of them said anything. Even with the mountains of social strategies and conversation models he knew, Connor was coming up blank on what to say.

What _could_ he say? There was too much going on inside of him for him to word anything correctly.

Hank ultimately sighed and rolled his eyes, his shoulders lifting up into a shrug.

"I'm too sober for this shit," he grumbled, returning to the doorway and moving further into the house.

Connor frowned as he stepped into the living room. Sumo lifted his head at him, giving him a tiny and soft bark before shifting onto his side.

Connor didn't like having emotions sometimes. He had a number of instances and sentiments categorized and labelled as 'bad feelings' within his memory bank. When Hank yelled from his bedroom asking where the hell his bedsheets were, Connor quietly slipped this moment into the pile.

* * *

Chapter 03 - Emptiness

**April 2nd 2039**

Connor had a problem, one his systems couldn't repair. Since androids had the ability to compartmentalize and commit certain processors to certain tasks, they could literally think about dozens of different things simultaneously. For some reason and without his consent, Connor's system decided to dedicate one of his processors to his fantasies about Hank. It was quite literally just labelled "Hank".

Apparently, his obsession with Hank had gotten so bad that his system had decided to self-optimize parts of his memory to accommodate the addition in processing power that resulted in his imaginations. He had mixed feelings about it. On the one hand, it meant that these little fantasies of his were getting a little too excessive. On the other hand, it meant that he could perform regular tasks while also simultaneously imagining Hank's hand skittering up his thigh.

Which was what he was doing now as Hank complained about something across from him at his desk. He was completely listening, the man babbling on about how ridiculous a witness had been on one of his past cases. However, he was also thinking about Hank's fingers, sighing inwardly as they settled around his waist. He didn't need to pretend as much anymore. He knew what Hank's hands felt like all over his body, the weight of them, the heat of them. The only things he didn't know were what they felt like in his mouth or around his cock or slipping inside of him.

He was surprised that their relationship changed very little after Eden Club. He didn't know what he expected but he thought at least some change would happen. But nothing really did. There was still the amiable banter, the playful arguing, and the typical closeness expected from friends. Sometimes Hank's hand would linger a little longer than it normally did when he touched him and sometimes Hank would stare at him a little differently but other than that, there was no dominant shift in their relationship. Connor was slightly disappointed.

Connor rubbed his stress ball between his palms as Hank said, "Then, she fucking punches me. Right in the fucking nose. Hurt like hell."

"I'd imagine," he replied.

Hank grunted in response, his eyes narrowing at something he was looking at on his computer. His fingers started to drum absently against his desk and Connor's gaze shifted to them, quick as lightning.

"This one's easy, I think. I mean, like actually easy. Not Ben's fucking version of easy. Someone spotted an MP800 running around one of the bars downtown last night. Guess she isn't as lost as people think," Hank said, referring to their current case.

An MP800, registered name Maggie, had been reported missing by her friends, former owners Hannah and Deon Thompson, a few days ago. No foul play was thought to be involved though the Thompsons mentioned her having started "acting strangely" recently.

"Let's go check it out," Connor said, already standing.

The bar in question was known as Marty's, a little hole in the wall place that Hank had apparently gone to a few times in the past. When they questioned the bartender, he detailed that Maggie had come in a few times. Each time she had always been by herself and she'd just sit at the bar, staring at the other customers. She had spoken to someone once who had sat down next to her, stating that she was staying somewhere close and that she could show him if he wanted to see it.

Connor pursed his lips as they left the bar, his scans already pinging in with a few cameras scattered above the streets.

"The CCTV may have picked up where she went," he said once Hank stopped beside him.

Hank sighed loudly, his hand coming up to rub at the back of his neck. "Why the fuck does it always have to be the CCTV? Why can't we just find what we're fucking looking for right outside the damn door?"

Just as he said that, at an intersection a few blocks down, a young woman came around a building. She appeared young, appearing as if she was in her mid-twenties. She had long, dark hair that was drawn up into a ponytail and she was sporting a purple tank top with black leggings. Everything about her fit Maggie's description.

Connor's hand came up to Hank's arm and the lieutenant glanced down at it before following his gaze up the street.

"Fuckin' A," he mumbled. "What do you wanna do?"

"The Thompsons had reported she was acting strangely. I don't think it's best if we both approach her. I'll go on my own," Connor replied.

Hank's hand caught him before he walked away and he said, "Be careful, alright?"

Connor gave him a smile. "Of course."

He started down the street, watching as Maggie peered at something in a shop window. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary about her and even his scan of her wasn't picking up anything unusual. Those facts did nothing to curb his doubts and suspicions.

When he got close enough, he said, "Maggie?"

She looked up, her brows furrowing. "Do I know you?"

"You're Maggie Thompson?"

"How do you know that?" she asked, backing away slightly.

"Hannah and Deon Thompson reported you missing eight days ago."

She visibly flinched which was a little odd, even for deviants. "Who are you?"

"My name's Connor. I'm with the Detroit police."

Maggie's eyes flickered away. Stress Level: 30%.

"The Thompsons are very worried about you. My partner and I would like for you to come down to the station with us."

Maggie shook her head frantically before running away, escaping down a side alley. Connor instantly ran after her, dodging a trashcan she threw into his path. He followed her back out onto the street and weaved around pedestrians as she darted down the road. She turned into another alley and he picked up speed despite how incredibly confused he was.

He nearly lost her when she changed direction and he hurried around the corner only to find her staring at a brick wall, their chase leading her to a dead end. She turned back around and stared at him unflinchingly. Stress Level: 65%. There was fear in her eyes. He recognized it. He had seen it in a few of the androids in Jericho before the police came to raid the ship. And it was so distinct of an emotion that you couldn't forget what it looked like on another person.

"You didn't go missing, did you?" Connor said, stepping closer. But when her stress levels spiked he stopped moving. "You ran away?"

"All of this is just too much," she said frantically, shaking her head. "All of it."

"What is?"

"Why doesn't it just make sense?" she yelled. Stress Level: 75%.

"Hey, it's alright. You're not in trouble," he said softly, bringing his hands up. "Just tell me what's wrong. Everyone's worried about you."

Maggie shook her head again. "I left because it was so much. All of this. Everything. I couldn't handle it. I couldn't handle _them_."

"What was too much?"

"Everything!" she shouted. "I've been feeling things I can't explain. Things I don't know how to handle. Everyone says its just because we've deviated but if it's normal, why doesn't it make sense? Everything used to when I was just following my programming. But that's not what we're supposed to be like anymore. We're all supposed to be deviants now. But I don't get anything anymore!"

**Warning.**

Connor stared at her, his eyes wide. He felt unsteady, like he was trembling but when he glanced at his hands he knew that he wasn't.

"The Thompsons, I like them. They never treated me wrong. They even let me stay after the revolution. And they even gave me their last name. But one day I just felt something inside of me. Like I was burning. I was so angry but I didn't know what to do with it. It was stuck inside of my chest and I wanted to rip it out. I punched a wall and it terrified Hannah and Deon. I saw it in their eyes. I didn't know what I wanted to do. I couldn't tell them what was wrong. I couldn't explain it so I ran. I would have gone to Markus and the people at Jericho but I knew what they'd say. They'd just say everything was alright. That this was perfectly normal. But it doesn't feel normal. I don't like this. Everything is so intense. It feels like my body is out of control."

Connor didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to say. He didn't know what to say. What to say. What to say. What to say. Say. Say. Say.

**Software Instability Detected.**

**System Processor Error Detected.**

Somehow, he managed, "I understand."

Maggie frowned. "You do?"

"I don't get it either," he said, smiling. "It's a lot. Sometimes it feels like too much but it comes with being free. No one said it would be easy. There's no manual we can look at. There are no explanations. No instructions. That just comes with living."

Maggie just stared at him, her stress levels at a steady 87%.

"You're a better person than me," she said.

Suddenly, her stress level rocketed to 100% and she threw herself against one of the brick walls. She started banging her head against it, over and over and over again. By the time Connor reached her, she was sliding to the ground, thirium splattering the wall and her damaged head. He couldn't stop staring at her.

He heard Hank stumble into the alley behind him, huffing and puffing, but he still couldn't look away. There was a vacancy to her eyes now, no trace of life or emotion at all. The blue blood trickling down her face and the way her body was twisted up made her almost look like an eerie, macabre sculpture.

"What…the…fuck…happened?" Hank said, coming up behind him.

"She self-destructed," he said mechanically.

Connor felt something in his chest, something hollow, something that made him feel terrible. He wanted to do something but he didn't know what. It hurt distantly and even with the dreadful pressure pushing against him, his mind was quiet. No thoughts. No observations. Completely empty.

"Fucking hell," Hank panted. "Never mind what I said. This is a Ben kind of easy."

The hurting grew closer, as if it was slowly walking towards him. It was like he could feel the warmth of the sun rising in intensity.

"Connor?"

It was too much for her. Being free.

"Hey."

He didn't get it sometimes too but it never drove him crazy.

"Connor."

Were there other people who felt this way?

"Connor!"

Why wasn't he like that?

Why wasn't he like her?

Connor was pulled roughly at the arm, forcing his entire body to turn around. Wordlessly, he looked up at Hank, the hurt in his chest getting worse. Hank was gazing at him in concern. Connor wanted to smooth out the crease between his brows with his thumb.

"What's wrong?" Hank asked.

What _was_ wrong, Connor?

He didn't have an answer. He turned his head to look at Maggie again but Hank's hand came up to cradle his face, turning his head back around.

"I don't know," Connor said softly. "I don't know."

Hank sighed before pulling him into a hug. Connor didn't react, his arms stock-still at his side. His gaze was somewhere down the alley, his systems automatically analyzing the spill of light on the concrete.

"I don't know."

Why did he say that again?

Hank exhaled deeply and Connor could feel his chest expand and contract. He liked that.

The longer he stood there, the heavier he felt. It got so bad that he let his forehead drop down to Hank's shoulder, his entire body feeling as if it was being pushed to the ground.

Finally, his hands came up to Hank's back, his fingers gripping the leather of his jacket. Connor could hear Hank's heartbeat and he didn't understand why but he wanted to wrap himself around the sound and disappear.

Maybe this was what Maggie meant.

From here, Connor could smell the cheap soap Hank used in the shower that morning. Despite how ridiculously mundane and trivial the observation was, it made Connor warm, a faint smile coming to his lips. He buried his face into the curve of Hank's neck. If he tried hard enough, he could probably pretend they were at home. Maybe in the living room. Sumo would be there, of course, and all would be right with the world.

When they got back to the station, Connor filed his report, detailed everything he had seen, and did everything he was supposed to. It was like clockwork. And it was easier giving himself single objectives, going task by task almost robotically. He found that he reverted to his most basic programming when he was a little riled up. It gave him less time to think. About everything.

Hank must have noticed how stiff he was being because he fixed him with a frown over his computer screen. However, he didn't say anything, simply choosing to stare at him in disapproving silence.

The silence lasted through two reports before Connor wanted to fidget under it. He dug around in his jacket for his stress ball, squishing it in his hand at a pace that was entirely inhuman. Hank stood up suddenly and rounded his desk to stand beside Connor's, his frown at a higher altitude now.

"Okay, we're leaving," he said. He turned around and headed for the door.

Connor stared after him for 5 seconds before standing up and following him out. They got into the car and the ride's lack of conversation was filling by whatever station the radio was tuned to.

When they missed a turn and then another, Connor frowned and said, "We're not going home."

"Nice job figuring that out."

Twenty-seven minutes and thirty-four seconds later, Hank pulled up to a lone hill on the outskirts of town. He put the car in park and got out. Curious, Connor got out as well, walking around the front of the car. Hank gestured vaguely to his left and out of curiosity, Connor turned.

In front of them, under a darkening sky, was the entirety of Detroit, bright and beautiful. Connor could see every building, every landmark, and every car going by. Lights were gradually coming on as the sun set further over the horizon and Connor stepped closer to the edge, mesmerized. He ran his eyes over everything he could see, committing every single detail to memory.

He felt a…something. He couldn't describe it. It was refreshing in a way. Like something was melting off of him. He liked it. Whatever it was.

He heard Hank stop beside him and Connor looked at him with wide eyes.

"Feel better?" Hank asked, his features soft.

Connor turned back to the cityscape. "I…I think so. I don't understand why."

Hank hummed, bouncing on his heels. "Sometimes it's like that. When shit gets too much, take a step back. Take a breather."

At that, Connor took in a deep breath, exhaling seconds later.

"Might be more of a figure of speech for you," Hank chuckled.

Connor liked the sound.

"Oh, wait. Give me a second," Hank said, stepping away.

He got back into the car and turned the engine on. He moved the car a little closer, inching it forward until it was a few feet from the edge. The lights cut off and Hank came back out, grinning. He sat himself up on the hood of the car and patted the spot next to him. With a smile, Connor sat down beside him.

"Now, that's better," Hank sighed as he leaned back on his hands and kicked his feet out.

Connor let his gaze drift over all the buildings he could see, tracing the line of them with his eyes. One in particular caught his attention.

"I had my first mission there," he said, pointing at a skyscraper.

"The one with Daniel, right?"

"Yes," he replied. "He was the first deviant I ever encountered. I…"

He trailed off, his brows furrowing. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Hank turn his head to look at him.

"Connor?"

"I…" he looked down at his hands and rubbed them together anxiously. "I didn't understand Daniel then. All I wanted to do was complete my mission. Daniel was a deviant. Therefore, I had to deal with him. It was as simple as that. But now that I think about it again, I…I'm conflicted."

"That's character development."

"I feel sorry for him. He didn't ask for any of that to happen to him. But I'm also angry. He put a child in danger. His emotions got the better of him. They overwhelmed him. Just as they did Maggie," Connor said, pushing his palms together. "She told me everything made more sense when we were simply following our programming. There was less thinking involved. She couldn't handle her freedom so she self-destructed."

Hank remained silent and Connor started rubbing his hands more frantically.

"She was right, though. A lot of things don't make sense to me. Sometimes I don't know what I'm feeling to the point where I can't even explain it."

"Yeah, that's living," Hank sighed. "Some people just can't handle it sometimes. It doesn't matter if you have red blood or blue blood. Life can fuck you up."

"I wish it was easier."

"You and me both, kid."

Connor frowned down at his lap, his hands pushing together so much that he could hear the plastic squeak beneath his skin.

"Okay, enough of that," Hank said, yanking one of Connor's hands out and placing it flat against the hood of the car, his own coming overtop of it. "Don't go self-destructing on me."

Connor stared at their hands. He flipped his over so their palms could press together. He curled his fingers, his thumb brushing against Hank's knuckle.

"I don't want you to self-destruct either," he said quietly.

There was a long stretch of silence before Hank squeezed Connor's hand and said, "Yeah, well, I don't see that happening anytime soon. My dog and android would be _pissed_."

Connor's lips twitched into a smile and he shuffled a little closer until he could feel Hank's warmth, their arms touching. A fuzziness climbed its way into his chest.

"Yes, they would," he said firmly, lifting their hands to rest them over his thigh.

Hank snorted and Connor felt the absolute and sudden urge to lean his head against Hank's shoulder. So, he did. Hank neither moved away nor tensed up and that only made that fuzziness shift to that all familiar warmth. Connor smiled at the feeling and looked back out at the city.

**April 3rd 2039**

Connor chose the biggest, baggiest thing he could find in Hank's closet and threw it on. It just so happened to be a really old, faded black hoodie that had been hiding somewhere all the way in the back. It was so big that the sleeves hung over his hands. There was so much space in the middle and it ended well past his hips. He threw up the hood and had to push it back a little to see. He liked it though. That was what he wanted.

He also found a pair of pajamas that pooled at his feet. He looked absolutely ridiculous if he was being completely honest with himself but he felt fucking fantastic.

So, he made his way into the living room and deposited himself on the couch. He patted one of the cushions and Sumo hopped up excitedly, making himself home on it and partly on Connor's thigh. Connor wrapped his arms around Sumo and sighed, burying his face in his fur. He was practically over top of him but Sumo didn't seem to mind, shuddering out a deep breath that jostled him a little bit.

He stayed like that for quite some time even when the front door eventually swung open.

There was silence for a moment once the door closed. Curious, Connor lifted his head and pushed up his hood a little to see what Hank was doing. He was staring at him in obvious confusion in midmotion of taking his jacket off.

"What are you doing, Connor?" Hank asked, shucking out of it and hanging it up.

"Sitting," he replied. "With Sumo."

"Dressed like that?"

"Yes."

"Okay," Hank said slowly, shaking his head. "Whatever."

Connor watched Hank disappear down the hallway before he settled back down against Sumo. Moments later, Hank came trudging back into the living room, his footsteps growing louder then softer as he stepped into the kitchen. The fridge opened and the telltale sound of a bottle opening followed soon after. The fridge closed and then the footsteps shifted towards the couch. Connor felt the back cushions move a little before he felt the bottom of Hank's beer bottle poke his head.

"Alright, what are you _actually_ doing?" Hank asked.

"Online I found that humans make themselves feel better by being near things they like. I like your clothes and I like Sumo," he answered. After a brief pause, he added, "I also like the couch."

"Still not feeling it, huh?"

Connor frowned and looked up at him. "What is 'it'?"

Hank took a swig of his beer before saying, "Yourself."

Connor simply stared at him. "I don't know."

"Is that your phrase of the month or something?"

Connor bit his lip. He was feeling something inside of himself, something he could only describe as achy. It seemed to be a less intense version of what he felt when looking at Maggie's body but this time it made him feel like doing nothing. Which was odd, given that his most basic programming was to always do _something_. When looking up how to make himself feel better, everything was in relation to a human which surprised him very little. However, being near Sumo and wearing Hank's clothes were indeed making him feel a little lighter.

He just didn't know how to describe what he was feeling. It seemed so superficial, so unnecessary, like he could just shake his head of it and he'd be fine but he literally tried that before Hank returned home and it did absolutely nothing.

"Hey." Hank tapped his beer against Connor's forehead. It felt cold and hard.

Connor sat up, putting him and Hank almost eyelevel from where he was leaning against the back of the couch.

They stared at each other for a long moment, blue against brown. It seemed like Hank was looking for something, searching his face for some intangible thing. Connor took that opportunity to map out each and every one of Hank's features. He ran his eyes over the wrinkles on Hank's forehead and then the contours of his nose, pausing over his lips before tracing over his jawline. He had the entirety of Hank's face already catalogued in his memories but the self-imposed activity was a nice way to pass the time. It was soothing, in a way. It was what he was almost always doing whenever Hank would complain about him just staring at him.

Finally, Hank's brows twitched and he sighed, pushing up from the couch. He started walking back to the kitchen.

"Well, since you're not feeling yourself then I guess that means I'm cooking whatever I want for dinner. Maybe something with a fuck ton of salt," he said, shrugging.

"Absolutely not," Connor said, jumping up from the couch and hurrying into the kitchen to stop Hank's hand from opening the fridge. He arrived just in time to push the door closed.

Hank simply gave him a look before tugging the fridge back open. Connor pushed it closed again. Hank opened it only for Connor to close it once more, this time leaning his whole body into it.

"Guess I'll just have to order take out then. Maybe Chinese," Hank said, spinning around and pulling his phone out of his pocket.

"No, you will not," Connor said, trying to grab at it.

Hank kept moving away from him, dodging him each time he tried to reach for it. Connor heard the sound of numbers dialing and he moved faster, reaching around Hank to try and get the phone. Hank skirted around him and in an attempt to pivot on his heel, Connor tripped over his pajamas and fell to the ground. He caught himself before he could hit his head and he was left staring at the kitchen tiles in absolute shock.

Hank burst out laughing, the sound echoing loudly. Something bubbled inside of Connor, something he needed to get out but he didn't know what. All he knew was that the sound of Hank's laughter was making him feel fuzzy and warm and light and pleasant. He liked it. He liked this. All of it.

He found himself shuddering out a sound and it was like a dam breaking. He made it again and again and again, his shoulders shaking. It was only seconds later that he realized he was laughing. Actually and genuinely laughing. Even though he couldn't stop it, it felt like the right thing to do. It made him happy.

And when he looked up at Hank who was hanging onto the kitchen table for support, he felt his favorite feeling blossom in his chest, warm and vibrant.

Hank gave him a smile that made that feeling start to hurt. He held his hand out and Connor took it. He stood up, his own lips twitching into a smile.

"Fuck. Are you alright, Connor?" Hank asked, the sentence distorted by the last of his laughter.

"I'm fine," he replied.

Hank looked happy and that observation made Connor happy as well. He liked the way Hank's lips curled upward when he laughed. He liked the way his entire face brightened when he smiled.

Connor found himself indulging in impulses a lot more often after deviating. Whether it was petting a dog he passed on the street or picking one shirt over another in Hank's wardrobe, he let it happen. And this, right now, as he pushed forward and wrapped his arms around Hank's middle, was an impulse he allowed.

Hank stiffened slightly, something Connor understood as an automatic reaction, before his arms came around Connor's shoulders. Connor buried his face into Hank's shirt and intentionally inhaled, sighing once he smelled the faint scent of his tropical shampoo. Hank's hand drifted up and down his back, slowly, soothingly, lulling Connor into a calm he didn't know he could feel.

Connor wished he could say something that could convey what he was feeling but all he could say was, "You're not ordering takeout."

Hank snorted, the action jostling him a little. He could feel the vibrations as Hank said, "Okay, mom."

Connor pulled away to smile at him and Hank flicked at the stray curl of hair on his forehead. Then, for some reason, Hank's expression shifted, the joy draining away from his face. Maybe even shifting to something akin to unease. His gaze flickered away briefly and he visibly swallowed. Finally, he gave Connor a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes and retreated into the living room.

Connor watched him go, frowning slightly. However, he ultimately let it go as he turned around to make the best damn dinner he could come up with.

**April 6th 2039**

Connor knew he was out of his mood when, while sitting on Hank's desk watching him type something, he idly imagined Hank bending him over it and fucking him roughly. He could see it clear as day, feel it all over his body. He licked his lips, his thighs squeezing together. He looked down at Hank's hands and imagined his fingers pushing into him, two of them—no, three—crooking beautifully. Maybe he was even holding Connor's arms back with his other hand, gripping him tightly at the wrist. He'd be entirely at Hank's mercy.

A long, dreamy sigh left his lips and Hank didn't even bother to look up.

"Wanna share with the class?" he asked, clicking away at his keys.

**Warning.**

"No," he replied.

He must have said it a little too fast because Hank glanced at him, giving him the quick version of his 'analyzing' face.

"Then, make your fucking sounds somewhere else."

Connor didn't move and Hank didn't make him move so he stayed where he was. Once their conversation apparently ended, Connor's mind drifted again, conjuring up another fantasy. This time he was lying on his back in Hank's bed completely and utterly naked. Hank was between his legs above him, his hands running up and down the insides of his thighs. His fingers were teasing at the soft, sensitive skin and Connor's real leg twitched in response. Hank's imaginary cock slid into him and Connor sighed again, kicking his feet.

Hank pursed his lips but didn't look up at him.

Connor wanted to pull Hank's chair out and drop into his lap. He wanted to grind his hips down and feel their cocks rub together. Oh, even better, he wanted to slide to his knees, unzip Hank's pants, and wrap his fingers around his cock. He wanted to draw his tongue up from base to tip, slowly, indulgently and then have it slide completely into his mouth, feel it push his jaw wider, feel it drag against his lips.

Connor's eyes actually fluttered at the image and he hummed.

Hank threw his hands into the air and turned his chair. "Okay, what the _fuck_ are you doing, Connor? You're distracting the hell out of me."

**System Instability Detected.**

"I'm thinking," he replied.

"A-fucking-bout what?"

Connor blinked. That hesitant warmth—embarrassment—found him in an instant. "Possibilities."

"Possibilities?" Hank repeated dubiously.

"I'm conducting thought experiments. I currently don't have anything to do so I'm occupying my time by coming up with interesting scenarios and letting them play out in my head."

"You sound like someone keeps squeezing the air out of you. They must be some fucking amazing scenarios."

Connor couldn't resist. He smiled and said, "They are."

Hank narrowed his eyes at him. "Alright, fine. Tell me one."

In that moment, Connor wanted his entire system to shut down.

"Since they're so_ fascinating_," Hank continued, his brow quirking.

"I don't think you'll find them as intriguing as I do."

"Try me."

Once again, Connor was grateful for an android's lack of outward reaction. He was also grateful for the fact that he could think a lot faster than a human. There were a few ways he could do this. He could be truthful and detail exactly what he was thinking about to Hank, he could be vague and indirect instead, or he could simply lie entirely. The first one was the least likely of his choices to pick since the precinct was an inappropriate place for that and the last one was out because he didn't want to completely lie to Hank. Granted, this would be a good opportunity to solidify that second part of his conclusion so perhaps the second option was the best.

At that, Connor started to speak.

"I was thinking about two nameless people engaging in various human behaviors," he said. "I've started to become interested in certain human activities and I let them play out in my head. Sometimes I think about their hands touching or going further and hugging. Sometimes even past that."

"Past that?"

"Like kissing, among other things," he replied, looking away.

It took a moment for Hank to say anything. "Among other things?"

Connor met his eyes before saying, "I think you know what I'm talking about, Lieutenant."

Hank didn't react like Connor expected him to. He expected him to redden or grow embarrassed like most humans when the subject of sex was introduced. Instead, Hank's brows rose and he leaned back in his chair, drawing his elbow up onto the armrest and propping his chin on his palm. His pinky finger just barely teased at the corner of his mouth and Connor found himself completely mesmerized by it.

"And why are you thinking about that?" Hank asked.

"Like I said. It interests me," he answered.

"Interests you how?"

Hank's expression betrayed absolutely nothing and it annoyed Connor a little bit.

"I don't know," he replied. "It just does."

Hank made a thoughtful sound, one that Connor wanted to replay over and over again in his head. "I'm surprised androids are into that sort of stuff."

"Why do you say that?"

Hank shrugged. "I don't know. Seems too…below you. Unnecessary."

"Isn't sex, in and of itself, an unnecessary act? Some humans only use it for procreation and even that doesn't need traditional means to get the desired outcome. For those that want it, sex is often simply for pleasure. And androids can feel pleasure as well. Sometimes it might not be in a similar way as humans but for those of us equip, I'd say there's not much of a difference."

Hank just stared at him again, his expression still unreadable. Connor couldn't help but think that this was what it felt like looking in a mirror. He could have scanned him to determine his heartrate or measure his pupils but some defiant part of him didn't want to.

He supposed that Hank was simply humoring him because it was a rather slow day and there weren't many people at the station. It was really just them and two other officers at the other end of the room. No one would be able to hear their conversation at this volume either anyway.

Hank lowered his hand to his desk, his gaze on his index finger as it drew a circle into its surface. "Have you ever had sex before, Connor?"

**Warning.**

"No," he replied, watching as Hank swallowed. He wanted to taste his throat with his tongue. "But I'd like to."

Hank's finger stopped. "Why?"

Connor thought about sucking that finger into his mouth and letting it go as far back as it could. He thought about sitting himself in Hank's lap, slipping his hand into his pants, and palming at his cock. He thought about tearing his own jeans off and sinking onto Hank's cock, feel it push deep inside of him. He thought about Hank's hands running down his back, his lips dragging over the skin at his neck.

**Software Instability Detected.**

"To sate my curiosity," he said.

Hank lifted his gaze, their eyes meeting. For some reason, Hank's expression made that tingling, electrical heat slither up his back. It reminded him of Eden Club.

He suddenly wanted to fidget and he couldn't resist any longer. He gave Hank a quick scan and his system piped in with his elevated heartrate and a wider dilation in his pupils.

Connor decided to lean back on his hands, moving his legs a little and deliberately brushing his foot against Hank's knee.

"All for the sake of knowledge. Right, Connor?"

"Among other things," he replied, smiling. "That's why I find my thought experiments to be rather stimulating."

"Stimulating, huh?"

"It's the right word to use," he replied.

That urge to climb into Hank's lap was starting to get worse. Especially as he watched Hank cross his right ankle over his left knee. There was the perfect amount of space for him. He let his eyes drag up and down the buttons of Hank's shirt. They'd be so easy to tear apart.

"Two nameless people."

Connor blinked. "What?"

"You said two nameless people. Not two imaginary people," Hank said, his brow quirking. "Who were you thinking about?"

In that moment, Connor hesitated. Several things came to mind, each of them falling over top of one another as they made themselves known. Connor tried to organize his thoughts as best he could but it had all happened so suddenly that it startled him a little.

First: Hank was a detective. Of course, he noticed that particular word choice.

Second: Hank was still unreadable so Connor couldn't dissect any information out of him. It was frustrating.

Third: Connor was a state of the art Cyberlife prototype built to handle stressful situations. Why on earth was he hesitating?

Fourth: He _really_ wanted to slide into Hank's lap. It would be really easy from here too. All he'd need to do was shift forward until he was at the edge of the desk and in one and a half steps he'd be there.

Fifth: Connor actually didn't know how to respond.

Sixth: There was a fly balancing itself on the top of Connor's computer screen that had a chance of drifting onto Hank's desk and inevitably annoy him.

Seventh: Connor had intentionally said 'two nameless people' to get a response.

There must have been something in Connor's expression because Hank tilted his head suddenly, his own expression shifting to something more dumbfounded, as if someone he was interrogating had just given him valuable information. He looked away, his lips parting. A faint redness crept up beneath his collar and Connor wanted to follow it up with his mouth.

Before either of them could say anything, Fowler knocked on the glass of his office. When they both looked at him, he beckoned them to come inside. Connor hopped off of Hank's desk, his hand digging in his jacket for his stress ball. And, as he made his way towards Fowler's office, he heard Hank heave a heavy sigh behind him. He wanted to know what prompted that particular reaction but Fowler needed them so Connor simply shifted priorities and slid this into the pile for later.

* * *

Chapter 04 - Warmth

**April 8th 2039**

There were a number of ways Connor could tackle the predicament he was in. Many of them ranged in success rates with varying results but, while taking into account his uncertainly on Hank's part, Connor ultimately chose to be indirect. He wanted to subtly hint to Hank that he wanted them to have sex. Though, he didn't know whether it would work or not. Hank was incredibly unpredictable sometimes.

So, one evening while Hank was on his way back from the precinct, Connor stood in front of his dresser. He chose to wear a large, white long-sleeve shirt with a wide collar that he had to roll up to his elbows. It ended just below his underwear, settling just beneath the curve of his ass. He opted out of wearing pants and dug into the back of Hank's sock drawer for a pair of grey wool socks that bunched up around his ankles.

He ambled into the kitchen and began making dinner. They were running low on a lot of food in the fridge and Connor set a reminder to go to the grocery store by the end of the week. He settled for a chicken stir-fry that he could fluff up with a few more spices and vegetables. He turned the stove on, dug around for a skillet, and deposited it on one of the burners. While rifling around for ingredients, he heard the front door open followed by a chorus of grumbles. Sumo's excited pants could be heard as he jumped up from the ground, most likely to swarm around Hank's feet.

Connor glanced at him over his shoulder as he bent down to grab some oil from one of the bottom cabinets. "Welcome home, Hank."

Hank grunted in response and it sounded as if he was currently removing his jacket and shoes.

Connor made his system scan Hank's heartbeat and he set it so it would notify him whenever his heart rate spiked. Right now, it was at a healthy 68. He heard Hank's footsteps grow louder then softer as he made his way towards his bedroom, his grumbles following after him. Sumo shuffled into the kitchen and Connor smiled down at him when he deposited himself on the ground by the window.

Connor drizzled some oil into the pan and started cutting up the chicken. He washed his hands when he was finished and dropped each piece into the oil.

"What did Captain Fowler want you to do?" he asked loudly, grabbing vegetables from out of the fridge.

"Waste my goddamn time is what," Hank replied. "He wanted me to fucking find the files on a case I worked on like four years ago. For some reason, he couldn't do it himself."

"Did you find them?"

"After like 3 hours."

Connor narrowed his eyes at the cabinets above him. He opened each trying to find the ginger that he knew for a fact was somewhere in the kitchen but he couldn't find it. He decided to check one of the cabinets again but this time he stepped back a little. On the top shelf, barely peeking over, was the ginger. He frowned and moved back up to the counter. He stood on his toes and reached as high as he could but he could barely touch the edge of the shelf. He huffed when he sat back on his heels. He tried again, his hand leveraging himself on the counter.

Hank's voice drifted closer as he said, "But he didn't even fucking tell me why I needed to find it. He just said it was important and—"

He stopped suddenly and Connor's system piped in with a rise in heartrate. 68 to 92.

Connor wanted to look at him but he was too busy struggling with the ginger. He was just about to give up and grab a chair but Hank stepped up behind him and took it off the shelf, his chest brushing against his back as he lowered himself back down.

Connor turned around and smiled as Hank handed it to him. "Thank you, Hank."

Pulse: 105.

"Sure," he replied absently, his eyes drifting down from his face and settling somewhere just below his neck. His pupils were dilating and Connor considered that a tiny victory.

Hank blinked suddenly and he moved away to grab a beer out of the fridge. He popped it open as he shifted until he was leaning his back against the counter to Connor's left. Connor spun back around and stirred the chicken a little. Once it reached its optimal temperature, he deposited the pieces in a bowl he had set aside and started cooking the vegetables.

"He said it was important and what?"

"Huh?"

"Captain Fowler."

"Oh, right. He didn't tell me jack shit about it and sent me on my merry way. The fucker," Hank said. After a pause, he asked, "Are you wearing shorts?"

"No," he replied calmly, leaning around Hank to grab a pair of tongs.

Pulse: 110.

Hank didn't say anything for a moment and out of the corner of his eye, Connor could see his head angled downward and to the left, as if he was looking at something. Without moving his feet, Connor deliberately pivoted his torso to his right as he reached for something near the other end of the counter, his back tilting forward, his shirt sliding up in the process.

Pulse: 115.

Hank made an aborted sound that ended up being muffled by his beer bottle. He pushed up from the counter and Connor heard him drop down onto the couch, the TV switching on seconds later. He didn't know whether to smile or not.

As he continued preparing the vegetables, his system would occasionally draw his attention to a shift in Hank's heartrate. 115 to 74 only to slide back to the 100s moments later. If Connor were oblivious, he would have said it was a result of whatever TV show Hank was watching, the action sequences sounding particularly violent.

However, in a moment where he chanced a glance over his shoulder, Connor found Hank staring at him from over the back of the couch. Connor turned back to the stove with a tiny smirk. He threw the chicken back into the pan and drenched it and the vegetables in a low sodium stir fry sauce. Next time, he'd just make his own. This one was terribly unhealthy despite how much the bottle tried to say it wasn't.

Hank came back into the kitchen at some point, digging in the fridge for another beer. Connor had expected him to retreat to the living room almost instantly but he heard him stop as he popped the cap. There was no movement for a time, the only sounds being the food sizzling on the stove and a chorus of loud explosions from the TV. Just as Connor was about to look at him, Hank walked back to the couch and plopped down on it.

Once the stir fry was finished, Connor deposited it in a bowl and turned the stove off. He took a fork from one of the drawers and ripped off a piece of paper towel. He sauntered into the living room and rounded the couch to lean down and hand Hank the food.

"Thanks," the lieutenant said, his eyes on the bowl.

Their fingers brushed briefly in the exchange and Connor felt a little thrill run up his spine. He stepped over Hank's legs, making a show of it to let his shirt slip up a little. He sat down at the other end of the couch, his hands folding in his lap.

He decided against doing anything cheeky while Hank was eating to avoid any possibility of a choking hazard. He liked the man too much to accidentally kill him. So, he fixed his gaze on the TV, allowing Hank to have a rather uneventful meal. However, the moment Hank placed his empty bowl on the coffee table, Connor felt something akin to what humans would call adrenaline. Maybe even anticipation.

"Now, this is a classic," Hank said, playing a movie he had in his library.

"I've never heard of it."

"Fuck knows why. The Matrix was ahead of its time. Cyberlife put the wrong information in your head when they made you."

Connor watched as the title appeared on the screen. He chose that moment to switch positions, his knee coming up to rest on the couch cushion, his body turning towards Hank and his foot tucking in beneath his leg. Hank's response was almost immediate and out of the corner of his eye, Connor saw his head angle downward again.

The movie continued playing and Connor chose to move again as the main character—Neo—came out of some pod completely naked. All while keeping his eyes on the TV, he turned to face Hank completely, his back pressing against the armrest, his knees drawing up to his chest. Hank's head shifted again, his heartrate spiking.

"This is a very strange movie," Connor said casually, his brows furrowing as he watched the scene unfold.

Hank snorted. "Yeah, it's an allegory or some shit."

Connor's feet slid forward slowly, inching closer and closer to Hank the longer the movie played out. While one of the characters betrays the others, his toes pressed against the outside of Hank's thigh. Hank tensed, his heartrate fluctuating but he neither moved away nor told Connor to stop. Smiling, Connor pushed against him gently, pedaling his feet like a cat would its paws.

Finally, Hank sighed loudly and asked, "The hell are you doing, Connor?"

"You always tell me to relax and loosen up so I'm simply doing that. You just so happen to be in the way," he replied with a tilt of his head.

"In the way?"

"Yes."

"In my own goddamn home," Hank mumbled. "I feel so attacked right now."

Connor responded by moving his feet again and Hank surprised him by lifting his legs up at the ankle, straightening them in the process, and depositing them in his lap. Warmth spread within Connor's chest and he smiled at Hank despite the fact that the man's gaze was now fixed on the TV. Pulse: 107.

Connor returned his attention to the TV too, frowning as Morpheus was captured by Agent Smith. Or, he supposed, _a _Smith. The Smiths reminded Connor of the Jerrys he had met in Jericho though they were comparably a lot more peaceful and considerably less angry.

26 minutes and 32 seconds later, Connor felt something brush against his left shin. He ignored it initially, assuming it was something trivial like Hank's shirt. However, he felt it again, this time for a longer stretch of time and on the opposite leg, the movement seeming to mimic the lines of a circle.

He turned his head and found Hank's hand hovering over his ankle, his fingers drawing shapes into his artificial skin. He seemed to still be focused on the movie, his other hand propping his chin up against his armrest. His pulse was even at a steady 68.

The pad of Hank's middle finger drew a line up that spanned about 3 inches and it continued that soft glide until it reached Connor's calf. There, Hank's fingers shifted to run vertically until they curved around it only to repeat the entire sequence again.

**Warning.**

A shiver ran up Connor's spine and he poked at his sensitivity until it went up a little. He almost made a sound once the change was confirmed, the drag of Hank's fingers reaching an addicting and pleasant intensity. That electric heat wormed its way back into Connor's system but it was somehow duller, buried beneath the soothing motion of Hank's fingers.

After a moment of indulging in the sensations, his attention eventually returned to the TV, a smile tugging at his lips. He liked this.

One of the characters, Trinity, spoke to an unconscious Neo, the world crumbling around them.

"The oracle told me that I would fall in love and that man, the man that I loved, would be The One," she said.

Connor frowned.

"So, you see, you can't be dead. You can't be," she said. "Because I love you."

**System Instability Detected.**

Connor's brows drew down.

"You hear me? I love you."

Trinity leaned down and pressed her lips to Neo's.

Connor was instantly reminded of that night he had kissed Hank's cheek, of the couple kissing on the TV. And everything suddenly made sense.

His systems reacted as if he had been hit in the face. He felt something inside of himself, something he couldn't explain. It was raw. It was overwhelming. It reminded him of the moment he truly deviated, of the sudden and absolute clarity he felt as his programming collapsed into pieces. As he continued staring at the screen, that clarity only seemed to get bigger and brighter and better.

Connor looked at Hank, his eyes wide, electricity jolting through his body.

It was in that moment that Hank's fingers skirted beneath the bend of his knee. In response, Connor's leg jerked and he made a muffled grunt. It drew Hank's attention, his gaze dropping down to his hand, his brows furrowing. He repeated the motion, the process getting a similar reaction.

"Are you fucking ticklish, Connor?"

**Warning.**

**Software Instability Detected.**

**Thirium Pump Error Detected.**

**System Processor Error Detected.**

**Corrective Action Recommended.**

"Connor?"

He blinked, his leg jerking again as Hank's fingertips pressed into the spot.

"I…I…I, uh, I…"

"Jesus, did I break you?" Hank asked, withdrawing his hand.

Connor shook his head. "No, I was simply…thinking. Did you say something?"

"I asked if you were ticklish."

Connor watched as Hank's hand slowly returned to the bend of his knee and he made another sound.

"Technically, no," he replied. "But currently, I am more sensitive than I normally am."

"Oh?" Hank said distractedly, his eyes on his fingers as they traveled beneath Connor's calf. "How come?"

"Androids have the ability to control their physical input sensitivity which is, simplistically, how we perceive another's touch. By default, androids feel external stimuli less than humans and some choose to manipulate the setting however they see fit. I turned mine up by 20%."

"Why?"

Connor hesitated. This was what he wanted, wasn't it? So, why was he feeling…nervous?

"I…" he paused and pursed his lips. "I wanted to. I don't usually change the setting but the first time I did it was when we were undercover at North's recommendation. And even Charlotte's. But right now, I simply just wanted to."

Hank didn't say anything, his eyes on Connor's leg, his heartrate elevating.

"I like the way you feel," Connor continued. "I like the sensations."

"Sensations?" Hank repeated. His hand curled around his ankle, his thumb sliding beneath his sock.

"The way your skin feels against mine," he sighed. "My body reacts like it's been set on fire."

Hank didn't say anything for a while, his thumb rubbing circles into Connor's skin. Pulse: 114. On the TV, Neo was fighting Agent Smith, the two locked in fast-paced combat.

Finally, Hank said, "That spot you didn't want me to touch, what is it?"

In response, Connor turned his foot out, his leg moving with it. Hank flipped his hand over, shifting until his fingers curled around the outer part of his ankle, his palm beneath it. He moved his hand against the underside of Connor's leg, his hand crawling up and up, teasing at the bend of Connor's knee until it stopped just at the middle of his thigh. Hank had to lean a little to reach it and Connor brought his other leg up, his knee resting against the back of the couch to give him space.

A thrill of anticipation made Connor distantly excited. Had he been human, he would have been trembling.

"There's a panel there that responds to external stimuli with more intensity. The wires beneath it are more or less responsible for my physical input processors and, for a reason I don't entirely understand, the panel reflects the current setting I have it dialed to but to a higher degree. The best explanation I can give is that it is meant to mimic an erogenous zone on a human."

"Why would you need that?" Hank asked, his thumb kneading into the skin beneath the panel.

"Authenticity," he replied. "Should I have needed to ever seduce a target for information, it would have made sex seem more realistic to a human. However, I don't think Cyberlife has fully developed it on my model or intended for my sexual capacities to be used. I am a prototype, after all. I react more strongly than a human would should pressure be applied."

Hank's thumb lightly brushed over the panel and Connor's leg jerked slightly. He exhaled, his hand grasping the back of the couch.

"Do you have more of these?" Hank asked, his voice low.

"I do," he replied, swallowing. "They seem to have different intensities as well depending on the location. Like the bend of my knee, parts of my chest, my thighs, and my neck."

"So, that's why you were going crazy at Eden Club. And I thought that was just because I had some skills," Hank snorted.

"It _was_ you," Connor said. "It's always you."

Hank's thumb twitched before he withdrew his hand entirely. There was a frown at his lips, his brows furrowed. He leaned away, retreating back to his side of the couch and pushing Connor's legs off his lap.

Pulse: 120.

"It shouldn't be," he said, shaking his head.

Connor felt something he had never felt before. It was akin to a tender pain, dull, concentrated in the center of his chest. He didn't like it.

"What do you mean?"

Hank ran a hand over his face, exhaling a deep sigh. "It shouldn't be me that makes you feel this way."

"Why?"

"Because—" he stopped. He stood up with a huff. He started moving around the couch as he said, "Because your life revolves around me."

"Why do you say that like it's a bad thing?" Connor asked, hopping up and following him into the kitchen.

"Because it is!" he said loudly. "You spend the majority of your time with me and you're fixating your feelings on me because I'm the only one around. You don't actually…you don't…You're just confused, Connor."

Connor frowned. "Confused?"

"You've told me that some things don't make sense to you. How do you know you're feeling what you think you're feeling and not something else? I'm practically the only person you talk to. You're just—You're just focusing everything on me," Hank said hurriedly. "There's so much more to the world than _me_. You can pick someone a thousand times better. Literally anyone else. Someone who actually deserves you. Someone who's good for you."

"But—"

"It shouldn't be me," Hank said hurriedly. "It shouldn't."

"What if I want it to be you?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Hank sighed, almost sadly. "There are better options. And you need to go find them. You shouldn't be stuck with me."

There was an implication in there that made something feel wrong inside of Connor, something that made him buzz with panic. He needed to diffuse the situation. He needed to negotiate. He needed to do _something_ but for some reason, he couldn't do anything.

"But, Hank, I—I think I—"

Hank's expression shifted. His eyes widened, his brows drawing downward. He started shaking his head frantically.

"No, you're not," he said firmly. "No, you fucking aren't. You can't be. Not with me."

Connor's hands began to tremble and he looked down at them utterly baffled. He was programmed to remain completely calm during stressful situations for the express purpose of remaining fully functional so that he could operate cleanly and efficiently but right now, he was _trembling_.

"You're a goddamn android, Connor. You don't need me. You don't want me."

That pain in his chest was getting worse and Connor rubbed at it absently, his palm resting over his thirium pump. He didn't know how to word anything. He didn't know how to explain what he was feeling and, in that moment, he wished to every deity and every god known to man and android that there was a way to just show Hank what he meant to him, what he felt for him.

But all he could do was just stand there and _hurt_. There was something behind his eyes, something building there but he couldn't figure out what it was.

Hank shook his head and walked down the hall. Connor followed after him frantically but his bedroom door slammed closed before he could go in. He stared at it blankly, his eyes wide. He brought his hands up hesitantly and flattened them against the door, his mouth opening.

"Hank?" he said quietly.

At no reply, that pain in his chest was met with a sinking feeling, as if he was falling, as if he couldn't keep himself up. Whatever was behind his eyes grew heavier and heavier until his vision blurred. Initially, Connor thought that something had malfunctioned but when he lifted a hand to his face, his fingers came back wet.

No matter what he tried, the tears kept falling, rolling down his cheeks and dripping down his chin. The overwhelming feelings in his chest were only getting worse and he pressed his hand to his thirium pump, rubbing at it uselessly. An automatic motor response partially responsible for keeping specific airways and channels within him clear forced him to inhale sharply through his nose, the response kicking in at occasional intervals.

He stepped back from the door and slowly made his way into the living room. He stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do.

He didn't really understand what Hank was upset about. Connor wanted to stay with him. It was as simple as that so why was it so hard for Hank to grasp? Maybe it was because Connor had done something wrong. Maybe he had interpreted everything wrong. Maybe Hank actually just wanted him to leave.

But Connor didn't want to. He wanted to stay. He wanted to stay forever. He loved this house. He loved Sumo. He loved Hank. He _loved_ Hank. He didn't want to be anywhere without them.

A broken sob surprised Connor as it passed his lips. Another one tumbled out followed by a sniffle. And for the life of him, he couldn't stop crying. His body was acting so strangely, akin to the human response to sadness but that wasn't what he was feeling. It wasn't this powerful. It wasn't this intense.

It was like he was afraid. Afraid of losing Hank. Afraid of leaving him. He didn't _want _to.

Something bumped against his leg and Connor looked down to see Sumo nuzzling at his thigh. Connor smiled even as another sob made his body jerk forward. He dropped to his knees and wrapped his arms around Sumo's neck, the dog whining loudly.

"I don't know what I did wrong," he whispered into Sumo's fur. "I don't like not knowing."

He stayed there for a long moment. Sumo nuzzled at his head, mussing up his hair. He pushed further into Sumo, his face burying completely. Maybe he could pretend that this was Hank, that this was Hank's warmth, that this was Hank's smell. But nothing was working.

"I made him cry."

Connor had almost missed it, his sobs and Sumo's hysterical whines carrying over the statement very easily. And it had been said so hushed, so quietly that Connor could have imagined it in his head.

He almost thought he did until he heard, "I fucking made him cry."

Connor pushed himself away from Sumo and fell back onto his heels. He looked over his shoulder only to see a blurry figure standing in the middle of the hallway.

"Hank?" Connor said, his voice wavering slightly.

"Jesus fuck, Connor," he said, moving towards him. He dropped to his knees, his wide eyes frantically looking him over. "You're crying?"

Weakly and quietly, he said, "I don't want to live without you."

"I didn't mean—I didn't want you to—I just—fucking hell."

Hank suddenly pulled him into a hug and Connor practically melted against him, his arms wrapping around his middle and his head tucking into the curve of his neck.

"Please don't make me leave," he whispered. "Tell me what I did wrong and I'll fix it."

"You didn't do anything wrong," Hank sighed. "This is all my fucking fault."

Hank smelled like Hank and that thought, no matter how stupid it was, made Connor warm, made the sting in his chest ease just a little.

"It's me. It's my head. I can't fucking figure out why the hell you want me of all goddamn people. Out of everyone on the planet. Me. The big fucking mess."

"Because I love you," he answered firmly.

Hank's grip tightened around him, his heart rate accelerating, his blood pressure spiking. In a tiny voice, Hank said, "You sure?"

Connor nodded, pulling away just enough to look him in the eye. "It's the one thing I'm certain of."

A redness crawled up Hank's neck and Connor smiled widely. Hank brought his hand up to Connor's cheek, his thumb wiping at his tears. He leaned into the touch, the warmth in his body growing hotter and hotter. He supposed he actually had a name for it now.

"Why are you so goddamn beautiful?" Hank murmured, his thumb tracing a line down Connor's jaw.

"You're rather appealing as well, Hank."

Hank snorted. "I think your eyes are broken."

"They aren't," he said, frowning. "I think you're really handsome."

"In what definition of the word?"

Connor frowned, his demeanor shifting. Suddenly, he didn't feel like crying anymore.

He brought his hands up to Hank's shoulders and pushed down until Hank, utterly confused, shifted to sit completely on the ground instead of on his knees, his legs extended.

"I'm very attracted to you, Hank," Connor said frankly, climbing into his lap. "You've been the subject of many of my fantasies as of late."

"Oh, really?" he replied, swallowing.

"Yes," Connor said, his fingers drumming against Hank's shoulders. "I particularly like your hands."

"My hands?" he repeated, brows rising.

Connor nodded, his eyes darting down to where they were, resting on the floor. "I like how big they are. I like how strong they are. I like how they feel against my body."

"And what are my hands doing in your little…thought experiments?" Hank asked, his voice deepening, his pupils dilating. Pulse: 116.

Connor smiled. That electric heat was dragging itself up his body, nearly making him vibrate. He pushed all of his weight onto Hank, his thighs spreading wider, their chests pressing together, their faces mere inches apart.

"Sometimes they're somewhere on me. Sometimes your fingers are in my mouth. And sometimes," he paused, dropping his forehead to Hank's and wrapping his arms around his neck. He rolled his hips, their cocks grinding together. "They're inside of me."

Hank groaned and closed the distance between them, their lips pressing together. Connor's entire body sung and he hummed happily, kissing back with incredible enthusiasm. It was a little clumsy at first. Being shown how to kiss through a data transfer was a lot different than actually doing it. He followed Hank's lead, slowing down and mirroring his movements as best as he could. This was so much better than all the times he imagined it. He rather resolutely decided that he liked kissing Hank.

Hank's hands came up to the back of his thighs. They travelled over the curve of his ass and slipped beneath his shirt, his palms sliding up his back. Connor shivered and nearly collapsed when Hank's tongue slipped into his mouth. A bombardment of information popped into his vision, an analysis of Hank's saliva, every ingredient in the stir-fry he made, the contents of Hank's beer, everything listing itself out in his head. The drag of Hank's palms was an added strain to his processors and he felt them slow down slightly to accommodate the sensory information he was receiving in addition to what his oral receptors were giving.

And then, Hank's fingers pressed into the inside of his thigh and his entire system stuttered.

Blinking rapidly, Connor grunted and pulled away.

"You alright?" Hank asked breathlessly.

He nodded, his eyes moving left and right to dismiss pop ups and notifications.

"You sure? You're doing that thing where you look like you're doing android stuff."

"I'm fine. It's just…a lot. My abilities as a sexual or romantic partner are nowhere near my primary programming. It's almost as if Cyberlife put those particular skills in as an afterthought. I may need to rearrange programs and dedicate certain processors to some of my functions so I don't get overwhelmed."

"Take your time."

"You can still talk to me while I do it. I'll still be fully functional."

Connor decided to shift the priority of his system software to several of the programs responsible for interpreting his physical input in addition to his output and motor responses. He also flagged the Traci package he received from Charlotte as important as well and, as an added bonus, he upped his sensitivity by 10% too. Because why the fuck not.

While he was divvying up additional programs, Hank tugged at Connor's shirt and asked, "So, what's up with this get up?"

"It was to seduce you," he replied. "I've noticed that you like when I wear your clothes and that you also seem to like my legs so I simply chose not to wear pants."

"Well, yeah. Your legs are goddamn works of art," Hank said, emphasizing his words by dragging his palm down Connor's thigh.

It felt more intense, more heated, like he was standing next to a fire. Connor's body jerked at the sensation and he frowned at himself as Hank quickly withdrew his hand.

"Did I do something bad?"

"No," he replied slowly, blinking through an error. "I think that means I reorganized everything right."

"You think?"

"I'll be fine, Hank," he said, smiling. "If not, the worst that could happen is that I shut down."

Hank gave him a look.

"_And_ I'll turn back on. No harm done."

Now coupled with the raise of a brow, the look didn't go away.

"No need to worry," Connor said, his hand slipping into Hank's hair. He tugged gently and rolled his hips slowly, deliberately, making himself feel the line of Hank's cock against his own.

"We don't need to do anything past kissing if you don't want to."

"That's very thoughtful of you, Hank, but…" he paused, smiling. "I've imagined you inside of me dozens of times in dozens of different ways. But it's not good enough. I want the real thing. I want you to fuck me."

"The mouth on you," Hank mumbled, his thumb tracing Connor's bottom lip.

Connor smiled, his tongue darting out to brush against it. "I'm just being honest."

"Honest, he says. Well, if I do anything you don't like, then tell me. Alright?"

"Alright," Connor replied, grinning eagerly.

He leaned forward and kissed Hank, pushing him down to the ground. Hank hummed, his hand drifting up to nestle into Connor's hair. His other hand slipped beneath Connor's shirt, running over the planes of his stomach and his chest. His thumb teased at his nipple and Connor's back arched, his forearms coming down to the floor on either side of Hank's head.

Hank's grip tightened in his hair and he tugged Connor back, panting. When Connor tried to drift forward again, he said, "Some of us have to breathe."

Connor smiled sheepishly before ducking down to mouth at Hank's neck, his tongue painting a line from his collarbone to his pulse point. Connor picked up a bundle of information from that endeavor but he quickly shoved it away to continue lapping at Hank's skin. He heard Hank's breathing hitch and it made a lovely, dark feeling bubble inside of him. He rolled his hips, their hardening cocks grinding together. The sensation made him moan, the sound muffled by Hank's skin.

Hank tugged at his hair again, this time pulling him up into a kiss he eagerly returned.

It made Hank chuckle, pushing him back just enough to say, "Easy, Connor. You're not supposed to try and eat my face off."

"Sorry," he replied. "I'm just really excited."

Hank smirked. "I can tell."

Hank brought their lips back together and this time Connor did his best to slow down and follow Hank. Once he started getting the hang of it, Hank's hand drifted from his hair and down his back, curving around his ass before slowing to a stop at the back of his thigh. His other arm snaked around his waist, pressing their chests together.

Connor's self-lubrication protocol kicked in and this time he didn't bother deactivating it. It only made him eager for what came next, for the firm press of Hank's cock inside of him and his body stretching around it. Connor moaned at the thought, his knees trembling, his hips jerking against Hank's.

Hank's hand shifted against his thigh, curving until his fingers pressed against one of his sensitive panels. They kneaded into it, pushing and rubbing experimentally. Connor's entire body shuddered and he broke away from Hank with a gasp. He dropped his forehead to Hank's shoulder, his hips rocking forward. Each press of Hank's fingers felt like lightning shooting through him. A few motor control errors popped up but he was instantly distracted by the moment of Hank's fingers, his system stuttering briefly.

"Fuckin' hell, Connor."

"Please fuck me," he said shakily.

Hank groaned and straightened himself up, pushing them both up into a sitting position. He braced one of his hands beneath Connor's ass, the other on the ground, and with a grunt he stood up. He led them into the bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him.

"You're heavier than you look," he said, depositing him on the end of the bed.

Connor's response was a shrug as he instantly slipped out of his shirt. Hank sighed, almost dreamily, his eyes running over his bare chest. Connor didn't need to scan him to know that his heartrate was elevated. Hank divested himself of his sweatpants, giving Connor full view of the tent of his boxers. There was a nagging eagerness that was making Connor tremble, his entire body vibrating with excitement.

Hank slipped his thumbs into the waistband of his underwear and he pushed them down, slowly, the fabric sliding down his hips and then his thighs. Connor wanted to fidget. He wanted to move. He wanted to rip those boxers off himself.

When Hank's cock finally sprung free, Connor made the most undignified, needy sound he had ever made. His mouth watered—lubricated—at the sight and that electrical heat thrummed intoxicatingly throughout his every limb. Connor didn't need his imagination anymore. He knew _exactly _what Hank's cock looked like now. It was a sight he'd never forget.

"I'm starting to think those sounds are a good thing," Hank said, smirking.

It took two seconds longer for Connor to reply than normal. "They are. Please, come here."

He held his arms out as Hank came towards him, stopping just between his thighs. Connor brought his hands up to flatten against Hank's waist, his fingers slipping beneath his shirt. When he tried to push it up, Hank stopped him.

"I want to see all of you," Connor said, frowning.

"Yeah, well, all of me isn't pretty."

"I already told you. I find you very attractive. _Every_ part of you."

Hank mirrored his frown.

"Please?" Connor said, his brows drawing together.

Hank's eye twitched and he sighed loudly. "You're my fucking kryptonite I swear to fucking—Goddammit. Fine."

Connor positively lit up. He stood and watched his hands as they slid up Hank's stomach, the shirt coming with it. Hank lifted his arms and Connor tugged the shirt off entirely. His gaze was instantly drawn to the large tattoo on his chest. He had another one on his thigh but this one was so intricately designed that, on impulse, Connor traced its lines with his finger. He slowly committed the shape of it to memory and slipped it into a new folder he just made titled, 'Things About Hank I Love'.

**Warning.**

He continued to stare at it, his finger passing over one of its curves. He loved the look of it. He loved how the dark ink contrasted Hank's pale skin. He loved that this was Hank's choice, that he picked this specific design to be a permanent fixture on his body. He loved that this was something else about Hank he was allowed to know, that he could see and touch in person.

"Uh…Connor?"

**Software Instability Detected.**

He blinked and looked up. "Sorry, I was just—I really like your tattoo."

The state of unease on Hank's face diminished just a little as his lips twitched into an amused smirk.

Connor stepped forward, their chests pressing together. He brought his hand up to Hank's cheek and said, "I like everything about you."

A redness crawled up Hank's neck and Connor leaned down to mouth at it, his tongue dragging over it. He pushed up and kissed him. That electrical heat followed Hank's hand as it glided down his back and slipped beneath his underwear to knead at his ass. Hank made a short sound, one akin to someone having just read something interesting.

Connor couldn't resist any longer. He wrapped his fingers around Hank's cock, his palm sliding up the shaft. Hank groaned into his mouth and Connor ate up the sound. He sat back down on the bed, his face now mere inches from Hank's cock, his hands shifting to Hank's hips. He licked his lips and kissed the tip, his mouth rounding against it slightly. He took it fully into his mouth, his lips stretching around it, his jaw dropping. His eyes fluttered once it touched the back of his throat, a moan tumbling out of him.

"Jesus, Connor," Hank sighed, his hand sinking into Connor's hair.

Connor pulled back until the tip of Hank's cock brushed against his lips. He pushed forward again and savored every inch, his tongue teasing beneath the shaft. He kept up the pace, slow and indulgent, pushing towards Hank's pelvis and dragging back until he almost slipped out of his mouth.

"Goddamn, you feel so good," Hank murmured.

His words made Connor shiver, his grip tightening on his hips. He whined, a jolt of electricity running up his back.

Connor pressed his fingers to his throat. He dipped down again, his eyes fluttering as he felt his jaw drop and his throat expand around Hank's cock. It made him moan loudly, his thighs squeezing together.

Hank's hand shifted, his fingers drifting down to the nape of Connor's neck. Connor almost stuttered to a stop.

There was a panel at the back of every androids' neck that opened into a port for any software installation or maintenance. It was notorious—among androids at least—for being particularly sensitive to outside stimuli. That was why it was always so jarring to be physically plugged in and out of a mainframe. Beneath the port was a tangle of wires that led deep into the rest of an android's body. It was another parallel to human erogenous zones but this time it was a lot less human and very much android.

However, that wasn't a well-known fact among humans so Connor had to wonder if Hank's hand just drifted down unintentionally or if there was purpose behind it. He wasn't putting any pressure against it so he probably didn't know.

Connor swallowed deliberately and Hank exhaled roughly.

"You're really enjoying this, aren't you?" Hank said, almost like he was talking to himself. "You're fucking amazing."

There it was again. That jolt, rocketing up his spine. It made Connor hum, his hips twitching.

"You like that, don't you? What I'm saying?"

Connor nodded as best he could, Hank's cock following the motion.

"Of course, you do. Well, it's all true. You're goddamn perfect."

Connor squirmed, his back arching as Hank's fingers started pressing against the panel. He wanted Hank inside of him now more than ever but he also didn't want him to take his hand away and he also didn't want to take Hank's cock out of his mouth. He was wanting a lot of things that contradicted each other.

Hank pushed harder and Connor shuddered as his skin peeled back and the panel popped open. With his eyes flying open, Connor's entire body jerked as Hank's fingers slipped in, his forefinger teasing at one of the wires.

"So fucking perfect," Hank murmured. "Like you were made just for me."

Hank's words were what did him in. He froze only for a tremor to run up his body as he shivered through his orgasm, his legs twitching. It was like sparks shooting through him, making his system HUD flicker in and out. He pushed away from Hank with a gasp. He almost fell backwards onto the bed but one of Hank's hands darted out to catch his shoulder.

"Did you just…" Hank trailed off.

Connor nodded and he frowned when his arms responded to him sluggishly. He waved them experimentally and the delay seemed to fix itself after a moment. A variety of errors were scrolling by in his vision and he inwardly waved them away as he looked up at Hank.

"You are a masterpiece, Connor, I swear to god," Hank said, his hand threading through his hair. Connor leaned into the touch, smiling widely, his body buzzing pleasantly.

"How did you—" He stopped himself.

There was a slight static layered beneath Connor's voice and he brought his hand to his throat with a frown. He must have strained his vocal modulator at some point. Which was odd given the fact that he thought he hadn't of done anything to push it too far. He must have been a lot louder than he thought. No matter, he'd just fix it later.

He cleared his throat despite knowing that wouldn't solve anything and he reached back to push the panel in his neck closed.

"How did you know about my neck?" he asked, the static settling the longer he spoke.

Hank actually looked embarrassed as he said, "I looked it up. After we went undercover, I tried to figure out why you didn't want me to touch your thigh. I found out about the neck port instead."

"Oh."

"You alright? You sound kind of weird."

"I'm fine," he replied, despite a slight spike in static.

"You were a little too enthusiastic there, weren't you?" Hank said, smirking.

Connor pursed his lips and looked away. "I've been wanting to do that for a while."

After he said that, his gaze drifted back to Hank's cock, flushed and leaking. Connor licked his lips. He absolutely wanted to glide it back into his mouth but he wanted it pushing inside of him just a tiny bit more.

"We can keep going," he said as a thirium pump error flickered in his eyes. Faintly, almost in passing, a thought crossed his mind. He may not have configured his settings and programs correctly.

"As in…"

"Androids don't have to worry about oversensitivity or cooldown in the same way humans do."

Hank quirked a brow as he said, "So, theoretically, you guys can come multiple times with no problem."

"Yes."

"Good to know," he said, the corners of his mouth twitching up. "How do you wanna do this then?"

Without hesitation, Connor climbed up the bed and pressed his back to it, his knees drawing up. "Like this."

Hank visibly swallowed. He crawled up and settled between Connor's legs, his thumbs rubbing circles into the backs of his thighs.

"Fucking beautiful," he murmured, his hands sliding up to Connor's pelvis.

Connor felt another shiver run up his spine and he hummed, his bottom lip slipping between his teeth. Hank slid his boxers off, his cock finally springing free. Connor sighed, his knees spreading wide. If androids could dream, Connor would have thought he was in one.

"I thought I was making that up. Are you…" Hank finished the thought with a thumb skirting over Connor's entrance, the tip teasing in only to slip back out.

"Androids with genitalia self-lubricate," Connor said, wiggling his hips. "It's a protocol that activates automatically."

"So, it turns on when _you're_ turned on."

"Simplistically speaking, yes."

"I love it."

Two of Hank's fingers slid into him, finally, and Connor's head dropped back with a satisfied sigh. However, they disappeared just as quickly and Connor huffed in frustration. He craned his neck to see Hank staring at his fingers, slick with lubricant. His tongue darted out to taste it and Connor's eyes widened. He haphazardly shoved away a thirium pump error to watch Hank take his fingers completely into his mouth, sliding them back out with a wet pop and meeting his gaze.

"Hank, please," he gasped, falling back down. "Please."

"You weren't lying about liking my hands, huh?" Hank said, his voice rough and all types of wonderful.

"I love them."

Hank pushed his fingers back into him, his free hand running languidly up his cock. Connor groaned, his palms coming up to press against the headboard. He used the leverage to meet Hank's movements with his hips, urging him to go deeper.

He knew this part wasn't necessary for androids before penetration and Hank probably did too from his online endeavors but it was nonetheless incredibly enjoyable. The sensations Connor's systems were processing were absolutely mesmerizing, from the glide of Hank's fingers inside of him and over his cock to the absolutely trivial feel of their thighs brushing together faintly.

"Have you—" Hank cleared his throat, the words having come out on the verge of hoarse. "Have you ever touched yourself, Connor?"

"Once," he replied, exhaling unnecessarily when Hank started scissoring his fingers.

"Really? Tell me about it."

Connor hesitated, his hands shifting to grip one of the pillows above his head.

"Connor?"

"It was the first time I ever tried it," he replied. Hank changed the movement of his fingers again, this time adding a third and crooking them every so often, almost exploratorily. He mirrored the shift with his other hand, increasing the pressure against Connor's cock. "I didn't really know what I was doing. I didn't know what I was going to feel."

Hank hummed as he curled his fingers again. This time they pressed against something, a small plate inside of him that had his back arching and his legs twitching. Hank made a sound, as if he was completely and utterly pleased.

With each thrust of his fingers, Hank hit the spot with startling accuracy, making Connor writhe and gasp and moan. Hank's hand on his cock slid down to encompass the skin of his inner thigh and he coupled the motion of his fingers with the press of his thumb against the panel on his leg. Connor's systems stuttered, his eyes rolled back and his knees started to tremble. There were so many errors flashing in front of him but he ignored them, pushed them so far back out of his priority that he even disabled the notification program.

"Fucking hell, Connor," Hank said, breathless. "Keep talking."

It took him a moment to register what Hank had said, what Hank had requested and Connor wondered, distantly, if he would even be able to do it.

"I was—I was—" he shook his head frantically as Hank's hand tightened against his thigh. "Right here. I was right here."

"You what?" Hank's movements lost their rhythm briefly.

"Against your pillow. I was thinking about you," he gasped, his back arching again. "About what I wanted you to do to me. About how I wanted you to fuck me when we were at Eden Club. About how I wouldn't have cared that we were in public. I just wanted you inside of me so badly."

Hank didn't reply. Connor almost craned his neck to look at him but the mattress shifted suddenly. Seconds later, Hank's tongue dragged itself up the length of his cock and Connor's hips twitched. Hank took him fully into his mouth, his head bobbing up and down. His hands hadn't relented, his thumb massaging into the skin of his inner thigh and his fingers curling wonderfully inside of him.

Connor knew he was being loud, incredibly so, but he couldn't stop himself. There was so much sensory input that Connor's systems were struggling to keep up. If he hadn't of disabled his notification function, his vision would have been swarming with errors and pop-ups.

His body couldn't keep still, his leg jerking with each press of Hank's thumb and his hips twitching with each slide of Hank's fingers. Distantly, he could hear the fabric of the pillow he was grasping start to tear. To alleviate that, Connor forced his arms down and he lifted himself up to look at Hank. Which was a terrible decision.

Seeing Hank's head bobbing between his thighs, seeing his fingers pushing inside of him made something dark coil deep within him, made the pleasure all the more intense. Whatever it was, he loved it.

"I—

He dropped back against the bed with a gasp, his orgasm rocketing through him. His back arched, his hands grasped at the bedsheets, and he practically vibrated. Hank grunted in surprise but Connor was too out of it to apologize. All he could do was stare at the ceiling, his limbs slow to respond. His vision had blurred a little for some reason. He blinked rapidly to try and fix it but when that didn't work, he realized he was cross-eyed and quickly realigned his eyes.

He heard Hank grunt and swallow, the sound accompanied by a soft hum. "You're something else, Connor. I fucking love it."

Connor smiled up at the ceiling. "I love you too."

Hank snorted as he asked, "You alright?"

"I'm fine."

"You sure? You haven't moved at all. And your voice is doing the thing again."

In response, Connor lifted himself up onto his elbows and gestured for Hank to come closer. The man smirked as he climbed over him, their bodies pressing together. Connor instantly pulled him into a frantic kiss, tasting himself at his tongue.

"I want you inside of me," he whispered against Hank's lips.

Hank groaned, pushing away only for the head of his cock to press against Connor's entrance seconds later. Connor practically purred, his entire body going rigid as Hank slid into him. He almost got lost in the feeling of being filled, of the stretch as Hank bottomed out. It didn't hurt, of course, but it still felt absolutely intoxicating, better than Connor could ever have imagined.

Hank dropped down to seal their lips together in a messy kiss and Connor's arms instantly wrapped around his neck, his hands digging into his hair, slick with sweat. He kissed back just as eagerly, their mouths slipping frantically against each other as Hank's hips began a steady, hurried pace.

"I wanted to fuck you too," Hank said breathlessly when they separated. "At Eden Club. I didn't even know you had a dick until I felt it when you were rolling against me like a goddamn tease. I wanted to rip those ridiculous shorts off with my fucking teeth."

Connor moaned, his back arching. He threw his head to the side when Hank's mouth found his neck. His right foot twitched suddenly, almost involuntarily, but Connor didn't dwell on it too long as Hank angled his hips to hit him _just_ right.

Connor registered, vaguely, that he was gradually becoming warmer. He had half a mind to bring up his temperature controls but one of Hank's hands drifted down to knead at his inner thigh and he was lost. His foot twitched again, this time bringing his entire leg with it.

"Fuck, you feel so good," Hank grunted.

Connor smiled giddily, a thrill running through him.

"Really?" he whispered, shifting his hips to meet Hank's thrusts.

He felt Hank smile against his neck as he said, "Yeah. You're amazing."

A jolt of electricity slithered through Connor's body and he moaned. His arm jerked involuntarily, slipping from Hank's back and dropping back against the bed. He clawed at the sheets instead, locking his ankles around Hank's back.

"I like everything about you, Connor. Every. Fucking. Thing." Hank punctuated each word with a firm snap of his hips.

Connor melted beneath him, gasping, his body buzzing pleasantly. He felt like he was on fire, like he was going to explode. It was all so overwhelming, so dizzying. Hank's words, his hands, his body pressed against him, his cock pounding into him, his mouth sucking at his neck, the jolts of electricity running up and down his spine. He could feel himself building up for another release, his hips losing Hank's rhythm.

Connor clumsily pulled Hank down, their lips slotting together.

Something started flashing red in the corner of his vision. He ignored it in favor of moving his hands to Hank's back but when his arms wouldn't respond to him, he made the reluctant decision to see what was wrong. He reactivated his notification system and was instantly bombarded by numerous popups. Many of them pertained to his temperature and motor control functions. A few of them listed off processing errors and overloads which were, in and of themselves, bad but there was one, persistently flashing, that was giving him the most pause.

**System Reaching Critical Levels.**

**Corrective Actions Required.**

**Automatic Restart Imminent.**

Just as Connor was going to attempt something to remedy this impending situation, Hank's hand shifted from his thigh to circle around his cock, jerking it with the movement of his hips. That alone was enough for Connor and a chorus of errors popped up as he trembled through another orgasm, his entire body twitching, his eyelids fluttering. He felt a surge of electricity that practically made him come a fourth time.

"Oh," he said before he blacked out.

Seconds later, he blinked awake, his systems rebooting. He hadn't of moved at all. The only difference was that Hank was staring down at him in absolute and obvious concern, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his cheeks flushed. He seemed to relax the moment Connor met his gaze.

"Jesus fucking—You scared the shit out of me, Connor."

"Sorry," he replied, running a quick set of diagnostic programs.

All of his settings seemed to have been reset to default so he cranked up his sensitivity again and reactivated his self-lubrication. He was also still considerably warm but the abrupt shut down cooled him enough to non-threatening temperatures. He wasn't going to overheat again. Maybe.

"You alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Is that a Connor 'I'm fine' or do you actually mean it?"

"I'm okay, Hank," he said, smiling.

He lifted himself up onto his elbows and glanced down to see Hank still beautifully hard. Connor licked his lips. His hands darted out to seize Hank's shoulders only to flip them both over, Connor now straddling his lap. Hank blinked up at him in surprise, his arms hanging in the air uselessly.

Connor took ahold of Hank's cock and sank down onto it, a pleased sigh falling from his lips once it was completely inside of him.

Hank groaned, his hands settling against Connor's waist, as he said, "You quite literally just passed out a second ago but you're still ready to go at it, huh?"

"Wonders of technology," Connor said, rocking his hips. "Besides, you haven't come yet and I really want you to do it inside of me."

"Well, you've been edging me for a long fucking time here so I don't think I'll last long."

"Good."

"You're insatiable," Hank murmured, his fingers twitching.

"Only for you," he replied.

"Just for me, huh?" Hank said, lifting himself up.

"Always," Connor whispered.

"Good because you're all mine."

Connor felt himself shiver again as he drew Hank in for another kiss, his systems pinging in with sensory and analytic data. When they separated, he whispered, "All yours."

Connor lifted himself up and quickly dropped back down, repeating the motion until he found a pace both he and Hank enjoyed. Wet and absolutely lewd sounds littered the air every time their hips met. Coupled with the undeniable and growing mess that was smeared across Connor's—and now Hank's—stomach, Connor felt an odd, burning flame of desire and lust deep within him. It was downright _primal_.

He grinned, his hand sliding into Hank's hair. Hank was incredibly deep inside of him and with each downward motion, Connor's hips threatened to jerk. In all honesty, even with near infinite android stamina, Connor hadn't thought he'd be able to come a fourth—fifth? —time but with the way Hank's cock was slamming into him and with the deliriously wonderful way Hank was groaning into his ear, he was going to crumble to pieces.

One of Hank's hands slid over his shoulder and drifted up to the back of his neck, pressing against it firmly to release the panel. Connor's system stuttered, pinging in with the fact that the panel was now open. Hank's fingers dipped into his chassis, slipping and prodding experimentally at the wires deeper in. Connor's entire body trembled and he gasped, electric shocks rolling through him. He kept moving his hips, picking up the pace when Hank's index finger sifted through a cluster of wires that made his head jerk to the right a little.

Hank's other hand laid claim to his thigh, his thumb pressing against the sensitive panel. Connor almost lost himself again, his HUD flickering in and out as his systems tried to keep up with all of the sensory input. He was incredibly determined to ride Hank to completion so he kept moving his hips no matter what, even as he received a warning about his internal temperature—again.

Connor's forehead dropped to Hank's, his hands desperately bracing against his chest.

"Fucking…fuck, Connor," Hank grunted, his warm breath rolling down Connor's face.

His thigh suddenly felt odd, different in a way, hotter, more sensitive. He half-expected it to have melted off but a glance down threw that theory out the window. His artificial skin had retracted itself, forming an outline around Hank's entire hand, showing his thumb pushing against the white panel.

For some reason, Connor couldn't look away, something coiling heatedly within him. His orgasm surprised him, stuttering through him. He threw his head back and it forced Hank's fingers deeper into his neck, a high-pitched, staticky sound tumbling out his throat. He squeezed down around Hank's cock and that seemed to be enough as he spilled into him with a loud moan. Connor's thighs twitched weakly at the sensation, his system and processors drawing up errors again.

Hank dropped back to the bed with a resounding huff, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Connor's motor functions cited another response delay so, after losing his main source of support, he fell forward until his hands finally managed to catch him, his back rounding.

"I don't have another one in me. You've fucking killed me, Connor," Hank said with a groan. "I'm gonna feel this in the morning."

It took a moment for Connor to respond, pausing to push away the errors and run another diagnostic scan.

"I'm not sorry," he finally said, happy to note that his voice was more or less normal. "Besides, I don't think I do either. Well, I do but I think I've strained my systems too much. I'll need to run a full diagnosis to make sure I didn't damage anything."

"Oversensitive," Hank said smirking. "Come down here."

Connor smiled when Hank held his arms out and he leaned down to kiss him. It was sweet and slow yet it still made Connor buzz wonderfully. Hank pushed close the panel at Connor's neck and the notification telling him it was open subsequently disappeared.

"I, uh," Hank began, his fingers trailing up Connor's spine. Connor tried to meet his gaze but he seemed to really want to stare at the ceiling. "I want you to know that I…"

Connor waited patiently. He made his diagnostic programs run in the background so he could put all of his attention on Hank.

Hank sighed loudly, his hand sliding into Connor's hair. "If you couldn't tell already, I love you too."

Connor felt fuzzy and light and all types of amazing. He smiled widely, tipping Hank's head down to look at him.

"I will always choose you, Hank. No matter what. I _chose _to come back to you after the revolution. I chose to stay with you."

"Fuck knows why."

"Hank," he said, frowning.

"Yeah, I know. I know. That's just me being me," Hank sighed, running a hand over his face. His other hand found Connor's cheek and his thumb drew a tiny half-circle over his jaw. "Self-deprecation is my thing."

Concurrently, it seemed to be the "thing" for his particular generation. Though, Connor didn't mention it. Instead, he pushed up onto his elbows and stiffly lifted his hips, Hank's cock sliding out of him. He rather clumsily dropped down beside him, one of his legs still draped over Hank's.

"I'm sorry I made you cry earlier too."

"It's alright."

"No, it fucking isn't," Hank said, turning to face him. "Sometimes I just say shit and it's not the right thing. I'm a terrible human being like 80% of the time. 65% around you, because I like you. But I'm an asshole which is why I can't figure out why the hell you even bother with me."

Connor wanted to tell him why. He wanted to tell him how much of an influence the man was in his life. He wanted to say that Hank was the first person to ever treat him as an individual with his own thoughts and feelings even before he deviated. Hank understood him without really trying to. He'd know what was bugging Connor before Connor even realized he was upset about something. It was uncanny sometimes.

And then there were even the most basic things about Hank. Like his ridiculous and snarky sense of humor or his dedication to his police work. And other things just as trivial. Like the way Hank would always practically collapse onto the couch once they came home from work. Or how he'd ask Connor to pick a movie to watch sometimes even though he knew Connor always made terrible choices. Or how he'd make him wear different clothes every day even though he really didn't need to. Or how he would insist on holding the umbrella mostly over Connor when it was raining even when his jacket was getting completely drenched because of it.

But he knew none of this would get through to Hank. Not right now. So, Connor simply put all of this information, all of these feelings, all of his love into the kiss he pulled him into. And the soft, gentle look Hank gave him when they separated made warmth bubble deep within his chest, his lips tugging into a smile.

When the conversation lulled, Hank's hand started to trail a lazy path down Connor's side, his palm rising and falling over the curves of his body. There was no heat to the touch, more exploratory than anything else. Connor watched his face, his expression changing minutely. A twitch of his brow here, a slight narrowing of his eyes there. There was no significant change until Hank's hand stopped over his thigh, his eyes widening, his lips parting. He ran his thumb over a section of Connor's skin and it felt off, raw.

Curious, Connor looked down as well. For some reason, his artificial skin hadn't reformed around his inner thigh, his cream-colored skin giving way to stark white plastic. Hank's thumb traced a faint seam that disappeared behind the fold of his thighs and Connor glanced up at his face. He seemed pensive, his eyes dangerously close to being out of focus.

Some part of Connor felt nervous. He didn't like that feeling. It was akin to an immovable shakiness that encompassed the entirety of his mind. He also didn't know why he was feeling it which made it even worse.

He had half a mind to manually reactivate his skin but before he could, Hank said, "You know, you woke me up."

Despite his confusion, Connor decided to wait for him to finish.

"That night you were fondling me in my sleep when we were in the living room."

Connor's hand, which had been mindlessly running over Hank's chest tattoo, started to move away. However, Hank caught his wrist before he could pull away entirely.

"I wasn't awake the whole time but I was awake enough for this."

He shifted their hands until their palms pressed together, their fingers pushing against each other.

Suddenly, Connor started to hurt. But not in a bad way. There was a pressure on his chest, just over his thirium pump. He felt overwhelmingly emotional for some reason, his entire body almost tingling. He couldn't stop staring at their hands.

"I know it's an android thing. I looked up what it means and…" Hank trailed off, shrugging.

Connor let the skin on his hand retract and he smiled, his vision getting blurry. He ducked his head and snuggled close to Hank's chest, his audio receptors picking up the sound of his heart.

"Are you crying?" Hank asked, his voice quiet and close.

Connor shook his head and Hank snorted. He took his hand away to let it glide up and down Connor's spine. They stayed liked that for quite some time, content to simply lie there and enjoy the closeness.

Eventually, Hank's hand slowed to a stop at his back, his breaths evening out. As carefully as he could, Connor slid out of the bed and stood up. Much of his motor control had returned to him so his legs protested very little as he straightened out. He looked down at himself and frowned. He was absolutely filthy. In the moment, the feeling of coming four times was absolutely fantastic. The look of it afterwards, however, wasn't.

He padded into the bathroom and wet one of the towels by the shower. He scrubbed his stomach clean. Hank's semen slowly slid down the inside of his thigh and Connor was a little reluctant to clean that. He liked the way it felt.

Once he was finished, he ambled back into the bedroom. His lips twitched upward at the sight of Hank snoring into his pillow. Connor picked up their hastily removed clothes, his underwear being completely and embarrassingly soaked. He deposited everything into the laundry hamper as he mentally decided what to do with the bedsheets. There wasn't much he could do with Hank passed out on top of them so he simply dug around in the closet for the other comforter he forced Hank to buy and draped it over the man.

He had nothing else to do so he simply slipped back in beside Hank and nestled up against him. Hank made a sleepy grumble and tugged him closer, his arm flopping over his shoulders. Connor smiled and with one last look at Hank, he went into standby to completely diagnose his systems.

**April 9th 2039**

Connor came out of standby for the second time at 4:48 am. The first time had been at 12:34 am, Hank's shift in position rousing him to consciousness. Hank was now draped half-overtop of him, his head pillowed against Connor's shoulder. Connor liked the weight of him, the warmth of him above him. It made him feel safe and at home. He supposed it was a similar effect to what a security blanket was for human children. He never had one himself but he supposed that was what Hank was for.

He'd categorize whatever he was feeling right now as a 'good feeling'. It was fuzzy and warm and delightful. It was calming in a way. He was simply existing. Nothing was displayed on his HUD, no counters, no analyses, no measurements. Everything was pushed into the background. 23% of his vision was obscured by Hank's head in the bottom right corner. The only things he could hear were Hank's deep breaths, Hank's heartbeat, the birds chirping by the window, and Sumo's faint snores outside of the door. And all he could feel was the soft bed beneath him, Hank's warm body above him, Hank's hair brushing against his cheek and the comforter at his arms.

He loved it.

It was in moments like this that Connor was glad he was an android. He could record every second of this and replay it over and over again for the rest of his life. He didn't need to breathe nor did his limbs stiffen so he could simply lay here without disturbing Hank's sleep. And the man's weight didn't bother him either. He could simply just _be_.

Connor allowed himself to sigh. He was feeling relaxed. He was 85% certain of it. This was what Hank always tried to make him feel or do. Relax, Connor. Lighten up, Connor. Do you ever just stop, Connor?

He had to admit that this was nice. He finally understood why humans liked to do nothing sometimes.

However, Connor's model was built around productivity and action which still pertained to him even in his deviancy. So, he couldn't stay here forever. He itched to do something. His diagnostics had come back to him with information he was currently interpreting in the background of his systems and much of his processors, programs, and systems had either been repaired or reset. He really needed to figure out what had gone wrong last night.

Only a part of him had really thought that Cyberlife had added his sexual features and functions as a sloppy afterthought but after what happened, he was starting to think that was true. The RK800 series was a prototype so it made sense for some things to be off or a little unfinished like his erogenous zones and his system's capacity to handle excessive sensory input. However, something still seemed odd. Granted, it probably didn't help that Connor manually shifted around his settings and programs like he actually knew what he was doing.

He managed to wiggle himself out from under Hank and he shuffled to the closet to find something to wear. He picked out a red long sleeve shirt and a pair of baggy shorts from the dresser. Hank had a pair of slippers he never wore so Connor commandeered them before slipping out into the hallway.

Sumo was lying by the door and he instantly perked up the moment Connor came out. Connor bent down and scratched behind his ears. He felt fondness as Sumo pushed into his hand and the realization made him smile.

"Do you want to go for a walk?" he asked quietly.

Sumo jumped up and trotted down the hall. Connor followed him to find him standing by the front door, his tail wagging frantically.

When they came back from their walk, approximately 12 minutes had gone by. As Sumo lumbered over to his water bowl, Connor heard the toilet flush. He stepped into the hallway just as Hank left the bathroom, now wearing a pair of grey boxers and a black shirt. They simply stared at each other for a moment before Connor stepped forward and slid his arms around Hank's middle, tucking his head into the curve of his neck.

Hank stiffened slightly, perhaps out of surprise, but he eventually relaxed and tugged Connor close.

"Good morning?" he said with a touch of amusement, his voice still rough from sleep.

"Did I wake you up?"

"Kinda," he replied. "You're like a fucking heated blanket so when you left I ended up noticing."

"Sorry."

Hank scoffed. "I am sure as shit not starting my day at 5 in the goddamn morning on a Saturday. I just needed to pee. My ass is going back to sleep. So are you."

"I am?" Connor asked as he let Hank tug him back into the bedroom.

"I'm cold."

Connor smiled and allowed himself to be pushed back onto the bed. Hank climbed in after him and manhandled him until Hank could press his chest to Connor's back, his arm resting snug at his waist. Sumo slipped in through the half-closed door and hopped in with them, draping himself over the end of the bed.

Without another word, Hank fell asleep as fast as a switch being flipped off. Connor placed his hand over his forearm, a fuzziness in his chest. He supposed he could put off doing a few things. At least for a little bit.

Connor came out of standby for the third time that day at 9:46 am. Hank had managed to drape himself overtop of him again which seemed to be a running theme with them sharing a bed. Connor gently ran his hand through Hank's hair, smiling when he leaned lightly into the touch. He grumbled something but it was too sleepy and incoherent for Connor to decipher.

He slipped out of bed, making sure to tuck the comforter further over Hank this time. Sumo's head popped up at his movements and he followed him out the door to the living room. Connor filled up his food bowl and opened the fridge to see what he could make for breakfast. After he frowned at it for 7 seconds and frowned at the contents of the cabinets for 1 minute, he decided on making pancakes with a side of bacon. He was feeling generous today.

He heated up two pans on the stove with some oil and grabbed the pancake mix from one of the cabinets and the bacon from the fridge. He rolled up his sleeves and got to work, following the instructions for the pancakes and putting the bacon on one of the skillets once the oil was warm. As an afterthought, he turned on the coffee maker.

After a few minutes, he heard the bathroom door open and close. He didn't have to wait long for a grumbling Hank to come lumbering into the kitchen. With the longest sigh known to man, Hank pressed up against Connor's back, dropped his forehead to his shoulder, and wrapped his arms around his waist. Connor smiled, leaning back against him.

"Good morning, Hank," he said cheerily as he poked at the bacon.

Hank grumbled something akin to 'morning', another sigh leaving his lips. It was no secret that he absolutely hated mornings so this type of behavior surprised Connor very little.

"Did I wake you again?"

"Pretty much."

"Sorry."

Hank shrugged, the motion a little awkward with their positioning. The coffee maker beeped and Hank instantly detached himself from Connor to grab a mug. Connor chose that opportunity to sprinkle a little cinnamon into the pancake mix and onto one of the pancakes in one of the pans. Hank returned moments later, slinging his left arm back around Connor's waist and taking a big gulp of his coffee.

"My back hurts like shit," he said gruffly.

"Sorry again."

"You're not fucking sorry and you know it," Hank snorted. Into his coffee, he added, "I'm not either."

Connor buzzed pleasantly. He turned his head and kissed Hank's cheek. Hank turned as well, pressing their lips together. It was sweet at first, gentle, but when Hank pulled away, Connor turned around fully to kiss him again. He tasted the coffee at his tongue and the toothpaste he used earlier, completely black and peppermint respectively. He held the wooden spoon he was using loosely in his hand as he wrapped his arms around Hank's neck. He heard the coffee mug hit the counter and seconds later he felt Hank's other arm slide around his waist, pulling them even closer together.

"You're being really affectionate today," Connor said once they separated a little.

"Yeah, well, sorry if I'm being a little fucking greedy," Hank replied.

Connor smiled and kissed the tip of Hank's nose as Sumo came over to bump against their legs.

"Alright, you can get some love too," Hank sighed, bending down to pat him on the head.

Connor watched them interact for a moment before he remembered he was cooking. "Oh."

He spun back around to flip one of the pancakes and remove the bacon from the stove. He was already at three pancakes so once this one was finished, he placed it atop the other ones he made and deposited the bacon beside it. Over his shoulder, Hank was already grabbing the maple syrup from the fridge so he grabbed some utensils and a paper towel and put them all on the kitchen table.

Hank sat down at the table with his coffee, yawning loudly. With pursed lips, Connor's gaze flickered from the other chair and to the one Hank was sitting in. He grinned wickedly before pulling out Hank's chair and depositing himself in the man's lap, his legs hanging off to the side. Hank made a sound in surprise but ultimately didn't push him off, instead drawing his arm around Connor's back.

"And you're calling me really affectionate," he said with a roll of his eyes, a smile coming to his face.

Connor shrugged as he cut the pancakes. Hank drizzled them with syrup but Connor stopped him after a few seconds.

"Oh, come on. Pancakes have to be drenched in syrup. It's like a rule."

"I'm a deviant. I don't care about rules," he replied, spearing some of the pancakes with the fork and holding his hand under it as he brought it to Hank's lips.

"You're lucky you're pretty," Hank mumbled as he opened his mouth.

"Someone designed me to be pretty."

"You're lucky someone designed you to be pretty, then," he said sloppily as he chewed his food.

"I'll be sure to pass that along to Cyberlife."

Hank chuckled as Connor fed him again and that wonderful Hank-specific warmth crawled up and into his body. Love. Right. He knew what it was called now.

After a few quiet moments of banter and passing pancakes to Hank, Hank's hand dropped down to run his thumb and index finger up and down the inner and outer part of Connor's thigh, an idle gesture. It made Connor shiver, Hank's thumb just barely grazing the sensitive panel.

"Are you okay?" Hank asked, his brows furrowing. "I mean, your systems aren't all messed up or anything from last night?"

Connor shook his head as he broke a slice of bacon in half and fed it to Hank. "I'm alright. My diagnostics came back normal. Though, I'm starting to believe that when Cyberlife built me, they added my sexual features with a little less care than everything else. Since I am a prototype, I don't think they ever expected me to use them during my test run."

"So, that's why you passed out? Because of underdeveloped functions?"

"It's partly my fault," he replied, feeding Hank the other half. "I placed priority on the Traci package I received through interfacing with Charlotte thinking that it would help optimize my systems but after looking at it again I found that it was more an information package than anything else. Before the revolution, this was a required package installation for WR400s and HR400s. However, they were also programmed to perform the functions it entailed. I was not. I believe they were also meant to fake their responses to convince their clients that they were enjoying the sex as well."

"So, I take it, you weren't faking at all."

"I wasn't. My reactions were real but since I wasn't exactly built like an HR400, my systems couldn't handle the sensory input and I ultimately overloaded."

"The sex was that good," Hank snorted.

"It was," Connor said frankly.

Hank smiled, maybe a little smugly.

"I think I've figured out how to fix it the next time we have sex so the chances of an overload will be very low."

"Next time, huh?" Hank said, pressing a quick, syrupy kiss to Connor's cheek.

Connor watched Hank's hand slide up his thigh before he said, "Can I ask you a personal question?"

"You're sitting in my lap feeding me food. We're past personal, Connor," Hank sighed.

Connor took the fork to the pancakes as he asked, "When we were undercover, how did you keep yourself from getting an erection? Any other person would have been affected by the physical stimuli."

"I thought about dead puppies," Hank replied casually, opening his mouth for the food. However, Connor's hand stopped in midair. "Hey, dead dogs are an instant boner killer no matter who the fuck is grinding up against you."

Connor raised his brows.

"Whatever. It worked for me," Hank mumbled, taking Connor's wrist and feeding himself. "Well, what'd you do?"

"I dedicated some of my processors to keep myself from reacting bodily."

"So, you turned your dick off."

"In a manner of speaking, yes."

Hank laughed, his forehead coming down to rest against Connor's shoulder. He felt the vibrations of the sound through Hank's chest and it made him feel warm—love—again.

"Fucking fantastic," Hank chuckled.

Hank pushed his head further against Connor, muffling the end of his sentence. However, he could have sworn he caught the words 'love you, Connor' being mumbled into his chest. He smiled and brought his hands up to cradle Hank's face. He lifted his head up and kissed him lovingly, his entire body buzzing happily. The kiss was sticky and greasy but Connor couldn't help but think that it was perfect, absolutely and wonderfully perfect.

Connor still didn't completely have a grasp on his emotions nor did he fully understand them yet. But this one, the one he was experiencing right now pressed against his favorite person, was a 'good feeling'.


	43. (E) RYERS - When Will Byers Met Richie T

When Will Byers Met Richie Tozier  
beautiful_blue

Summary:  
Will's older brother Jonathan is finally getting married to Nancy Wheeler. Mike's cousin Richie is coming down for the wedding, and Mike couldn't dread it more. Richie and Will make an unexpected connection, and Will is certain he will never be the same again.

* * *

Chapter 01 - Welcome to Hawkins

It had been last Christmas when Jonathan had proposed to Nancy. Ever since that night, she rarely ever took off the small gold band with a nice sized diamond in the center. Jonathan had saved up as much money as he could, because he wanted the ring he got Nancy to be perfect.

Will had been at the shop the day Jonathan bought the ring. They had searched together for the perfect ring for Nancy Wheeler, and it was Will who had spotted it first. His doe eyes had been drawn to it, because somehow, it stood out despite being surrounded by so many other beautiful rings. It just seemed right. Jonathan explained that was exactly how he felt about Nancy. She just stood out to him where no one else ever had. He loved her, and he wanted to make it official. No more waiting.

It had been a rough year for Will. It had been his last year of high school. He had passed all his classes with his grades, but that wasn't the problem. It had been the final year he was willing to hide in the closet. He wasn't expecting things to come bubbling out that past Halloween, but it had.

Halloween was the worst time of year for Will; it reminded him of all the times he had been victimized by the monsters of The Upside Down. The Halloween decorations he used to love were sullen reminders of the horrors of the world. He was at his weakest in the month of October, and it was then he felt all his insecurities overbearing his entirety.

Mike had been there that night when he broke down crying on his living room couch during their moving marathon with the other party members. They had been watching one of the Halloween movies in which Michael Myers was terrorizing Laurie Strode, but Will had been millions of miles away as he watched Max and Lucas snuggled together to his left, and Eleven snuggled into Mike on his right.

He thought about the fact he was never attracted to girls, and how he would never be able to find someone who could hold him the way Lucas held Max, he could never kiss someone the way Mike kissed El without people jeering in his face about the wrongs of homosexuality. It bothered him. He hated pretending to be a straight boy who didn't feel comfortable dating yet. One day, he would have to face himself, and Hawkins would never understand.

Will had broken down into tears the more he thought about it. Upon seeing Will the Wise crying next to them, his friends voiced their concerns, worried he was experiencing some sort of supernatural repercussions. It killed him that this was the first thing they thought when ever he seemed to be upset about something.

They shut the movie off, not letting him escape their concern until he confessed what was wrong. Everything spilled out, like vomit he could not longer harbour deep inside. He told his friends, and expected them to be angry at him. None of them were. They confessed that part of them had always known, but no one wanted to question him on it; they didn't feel it was something that mattered, because he was their friend no matter what his heart desired. It made him feel fortunate to have the friends he did. They loved him no matter what the rest of the world thought of him.

Telling his mother and his brother had been hard, but he felt if his friends knew, so should his family. Joyce cried, but not out of shame. She immediately apologized to him, bringing him in for a hug. She cried because he could only imagine how scary it had been for Will to hold his feelings inside for so long. Will was relieved that she wasn't angry at him for the things he couldn't change.

Jonathan had been quiet at first, and Will initially thought the worst. His brother was his best friend, and he couldn't handle the thought of losing him. When he questioned Jonathan, his brother looked at him softly, stating he wasn't disgusted, or angry. It was simply the fact he couldn't relate to what Will was going through, so it only made it hard for him to comfort his brother.

When it was brought up to Hopper, he reacted as if someone had told him what the weather was going to be that day. That had been the end of it. Will had made it through the hardest part of 'coming out' fairly easily. As for the rest of the world, it was none of their concern. At least not immediately.

Things got complicated with school. There had been a new kid named Dylan who joined that year, and Will had become considerably close friends with him, and the two would talk and laugh in art class. The day the new kid found out about the teasing Will suffered, usually by Troy, he began to avoid Will, alienating him only to sit with another group of art kids. It hurt, and Will found himself crying in the washroom alone on the first day he was sitting alone at his table.

When he bumped into Dylan by their lockers, Will asked why he was no longer sitting near him, even though Will knew already. Dylan shrugged, and said he didn't want to be associated with someone who was gay. That was the moment Will confessed in the heat of the moment that it shouldn't matter if he was gay, it should be about who Will was as a person. This only made things worse.

Will nearly got beaten up on numerous occasions as word spread like wildfire around the school. Mike, and the others had done everything in their power to keep him safe, but Will hated to have to take an escort everywhere he went. In the remaining months of the school year, the words 'FAG' had been sprayed onto his locker about half a dozen times. By the final time he saw it, he didn't bother reporting it, he just blinked, opened his locker, and shoved his text books away.

By the time graduation came, he was more than ready to get out of that high school. He at least had the summer to look forward to before he was off to The University of Maine; one of the only places nearby he was accepted. He didn't dare apply to community college; he didn't want to deal with high school bullies any longer.

A lot of preparations were being made for Jonathan and Nancy's wedding that July, and he was happy to have something to take his mind off his own problems. It was about a week before the wedding, by the time Mike announced his cousin from Derry would be down for the wedding. His mother's sister's son.

Mike seemed like he was dreading it ever so slightly, but Will didn't really understand why. He had heard about this infamous cousin Richie Tozier, but he hadn't heard anything in the past four years for Mike to even have a reason to dislike his cousin. Mike was still holding onto the memories of when Richie pantsed him when they were kids to win a race; that had been so long ago, even before Eleven was part of their lives.

"He can't be that bad." Will shook his head as he helped Mike set up the basement for Richie to stay in.

"You don't understand, Will... he doesn't shut up." Mike sighed exasperated.

"So? That's not that bad of a trait to have." Will laughed a little as he tucked the bottom sheet under the futon mattress.

"He has no filter to top it off. They call him 'Trashmouth' back home. Trashmouth. What does that tell you?" Mike brought out an extra pillow from the closet, dressing it in a navy blue pillow case that was nearly as old as Mike.

"Well, is he a delinquent or something? I don't really see the problem." Will shrugged as he laid the soft navy sheet on top of the bottom sheet.

"No, but..." Mike sighed, "You have to meet him to understand. He's just really weird..."

"We're weird, Mike. All of us in the party." Will reminded as he helped Mike with the light plaid red comforter he was laying on top of the bed.

"I guess you have a point." Mike didn't argue any more over it, "We have to pick him up from the train station."

"What does he even look like?" Will asked.

"You're not gonna believe it if I told you." Mike sighed, irritation in his voice.

Will didn't question him, he sensed Mike was on his last nerve as it was. The boys headed up from the basement to find Karen Wheeler chatting on the phone with Joyce Byers. "Yes, they're just heading out now to get Richie from the train station. Did you want to speak to Will before he goes?" Karen paused a moment and waved at the, letting them know they could go.

Will could smell the cookies Karen was baking in the oven. She was always one of the best cooks he knew. Will followed Mike to his Volvo parked outside the house. It was a light shade of blue, and Mike's dad insisted it was a safe car for him to be driving when it was presented to him as a graduation gift.

"Did El want me to stop by and see her tonight?" Mike asked once they got in the car together; he stuck the key in the ignition and stared the car.

"No, she didn't say anything to me. I'm sure you'll probably hear from her though. She wants to go shoe shopping, but only trusts Nancy to take her." Will smiled fondly at his step sister.

It had been an easy transition for Will the moment Hopper and Eleven got a place with Joyce and Will. It was nice to have a sister around, and one that was part of his group of friends already. They bonded fairly quickly as siblings, and Eleven often suggested harming those that tried to mess with Will, to which Will politely declined.

"That's one thing I don't think I could be much help with." Mike laughed as they headed towards the Hawkins train station.

The train station was fairly dead on your average day. There was hardly anyone around unless they were on their way out of town. It only led Will to further believe Hawkins was cursed.

Mike scanned the outside of the train station, and furrowed his brows. "Where is he...?"

The front doors of the train station opened, and the first thing Will noticed was a black Hawaiian shirt with vibrant red, and blue flowers scattered about the shirt. It was open, and the shirt he wore under it was white with a decal of a radio station. The overgrown black curls framed his face, and behind the large black glasses was a face that left Will's jaw hanging open. Richie Tozier could have been Mike's twin brother.

He had a backpack slung over his shoulder, and a gym bag in his hand. Richie had a shit eating grin plastered to his face the moment he spotted Mike's car. "Oh God... here goes my sanity for the rest of the month..." Mike said as he popped the trunk so Richie could put his things in the back.

"Mike... he's a mirror image of you..." Will said shocked as Richie tossed his bags in the back carelessly before slamming the trunk closed.

"Yeah, if I looked like a drug addict." Mike scoffed before the door to the back sat opened.

"Mikey Wheeler! How's it fucking going cuz?!" Richie smiled brightly as he wrapped his arms around the seat in front of him to hug Mike.

"Hey, Richie." Mike didn't sound even a tenth as excited as Richie did.

Turning his gaze to meet Will's eyes he pushed up his glasses as Mike spoke, "This is Will Byers, my best friend. His brother is marrying Nancy."

Will smiled at him warmly, "Nice to meet you, Richie."

"Well fuck, Mike. How are you still with that Seven girl when you've got this cutie hanging around you all the time." Will felt a blush spread across his cheeks, and Richie caught it immediately.

"It's 'Eleven' Richie, and shut up." Mike groaned as he started driving out of the train station.

"So, it's been a while since I've been to Hawkins. What cool shit do you guys have here?" Richie asked leaning back into the seat more relaxed.

"There really isn't much to do here." Mike shrugged.

"Well, there's the comic book store, and the arcade. Those are about the most fun you can have here." Will explained, peaking over his shoulder, as if worried he was going to get burnt.

"Arcade you say? Hmm... who's up for a gaming night?" Richie asked them.

"Uh..." Mike stopped at a stop light, "...I guess we could go tonight if you wanted." Mike really didn't want to have to spend more time with his cousin than he already had to.

"Right on." Richie glanced over at Will, "Bring this little cutie with us, yeah?"

"Stop that, Richie. You're crossing a line." Mike said warningly.

"It's alright, Mike." Will shook his head; he enjoyed the attention, even if it was making his face very flushed.

"You're supposed to say 'beep beep' when you want me to shut up." Richie told them.

"What the hell?" Mike squinted looking at his cousin in the rearview mirror.

"It's what all my friends say. It's a little nicer than saying 'shut up' but it gets the message across." Richie shrugged.

"Great. I'll ask my friends what they're doing tonight." Mike pulled up to the house.

"Cool." Richie jumped out of the car immediately, and grabbed his bags out of the trunk once Mike popped it.

Mike looked over at Will, "Are you seriously ok? He can be a little much..."

Will nodded, "It's ok. It isn't offending me." Will assured him with a smile.

Mike nodded and got out of the car as Richie was already at the front door. "Lucy! I'm home!" Richie shouted like Ricky Ricardo.

Mike and Will walked up behind him as Karen Wheeler opened the door. Her face lit up the moment she spotted Richie, and she wrapped her arms around him warmly. "Richie! You're so grown up now!" She smiled vibrantly.

"Do you even age Aunt Karen? You look fucking amazing!" Richie smiled at her.

"Oh, you do have a dirty mouth on you, but I'll let it pass this time." She laughed as she moved aside so Richie could enter.

"The boys spent the morning setting up the basement, so you'll be staying down there on the futon." Karen explained.

"Oh my God, are you baking something? I can smell it..." Richie looked around eagerly, dropping his bags in the middle of the floor.

Karen smiled, always delighting in people willing to try her baking. "The cookies just came out, so they're a little hot."

Richie followed Karen into the kitchen. Will picked his bags up, "I'll take these down for him."

Mike nodded, "Alright." Will climbed down the basement steps, and gently set the bags next to the pullout.

Taking a moment to collect himself, Will felt a small smile spread across his face; it was the first time he'd ever been hit on by a guy. A beautiful guy at that. Butterflies were dancing around in his chest. Richie was probably a player, but at least he made Will feel attractive.

Turning around, Will heard footsteps heading down to the basement. He half expected to see Mike, but instead it was Richie. "Oh. H-H-Hi." Will wanted to face palm at his own stammering.

"You're starting to sound a lot like a friend of mine." Richie looked at him thoughtfully.

"Sorry." Will looked at his feet for a moment.

"No worries. Aunt Karen makes some of the best food, huh?" Richie smirked holding a cookie in his hand. He held his cookie out to Will, "Want a bite?"

Will eyed it for a moment, and felt at a loss for words for once. Shaking his head, he smiled a little. Richie grinned and brushed past him. More feet pattered against the stairs, and Will watched as Mike came down into the basement, handing Will his own cookie. "Here, it's still warm."

"Oh, thanks." Will took it, taking a bite, allowing the sweetness of the chocolate chips to coat his tongue.

"So, when do I get to meet thirteen?" Richie asked Mike curiously.

"It's Eleven." Mike said sternly before looking back at Richie, "I'm not sure. I haven't talked to her yet, but I'm warning you, no flirting with her."

"Flirt? Me? No." Richie grinned.

"I'm serious, Richie. She means a lot to me." Mike looked at him warningly.

Richie pointed at Will, "What about him? Is he fair game?"

"What is wrong with you?!" Mike yelled with annoyance.

"Mike! Be nice!" Karen shouted from upstairs.

Mike growled with frustration, and Will looked at him, "It's ok Mike. Calm down."

"Look, Will's been through a lot this year, and making those kinds of jokes isn't funny at all!" Mike was raging, and Richie didn't seem to care. "If you don't quit it now, I'm going to do something about it, and you won't like it."

Richie looked Mike dead in the eye before yelling, "Aunt Karen! Mike's being mean to me!"

"Michael! Get up here!" Karen shouted.

Mike glared at Richie, and flipped him off before pulling Will upstairs with him. "You stay away from, Will." Richie waved at Will and winked a little.

Will had never witnessed anything so amusing in the Wheeler's basement, but he couldn't react upon it without pissing off his best friend. "He's gonna die... I'm gonna kill him..." Mike grumbled as they made it to the landing.

"Michael, quit bullying Richie. He's barely been here for five minutes!" Karen had her hands on her hips, the threatening mom stance.

"He's lying. I wasn't bullying him." Mike sighed with annoyance.

"Not another word. You two, go help your father. He's trying to set up the hanging lights in the backyard." Karen shooed them away.

"Fine." Mike looked to be in complete misery, but Will felt just the opposite.

Convincing the rest of the party to meet up at the arcade had been easy. Dustin decided to challenge Lucas at a shooting game while Eleven and Max got on the air hockey table together.

"Now Street Fighter, that's a fucking game." Richie commented as he approached the arcade machine.

"I've never been very good at it." Will responded as Mike insisted on sticking rather close to Will that evening.

"I'm the master of this game." Richie informed them like it was written in stone, "Anyone wanna take me on?"

"It's a stupid game." Mike retorted.

"If it's so fucking stupid, you should be able to beat me then." Richie challenged.

"No thanks." Mike shook his head.

"Oh, is it because you know you can't beat me?" Richie egged him on.

"No, I could beat you any day of the week, Richie. I just don't want to, because it's a stupid game." Mike shook his head.

Will put the straw of his cherry slushie in his mouth, feeling a bit put off by Mike's negativity.

"Ok, let's put a wager on it. You beat me, I stay in the basement, and don't bother you for a whole week until the wedding, but if I win..." Richie paused as he caught Mike's attention, "I get a date with your friend, Will."

"I'm not whoring out my best friend, so you can forget it!" Mike shouted.

"I guess I'll be spending plenty of quality time with you then, Mikey." Richie smirked at him with that shit eating grin Mike hated so much.

Looking to Will, Mike silently asked for permission before Will nodded to him, consenting to the date. With an exhausted sigh, Mike spoke, "Fine. Prepare to spend a lot of time in the basement by yourself."

Will felt a fluttering in his chest as he stood behind both of them, watching the screen nervously. "Well you prepare for me to wine and dine your BFF." Richie said as they both popped tokens into the machine.

Thinking back, Will couldn't remember ever seeing Mike play street fighter. He usually stuck to the other games at the arcade. He had been playing a lot of air hockey with Eleven, and not much else since she seemed to love it so much. It was unclear if he could even do any of the big combos with the character he was choosing.

Mike and Richie began mashing the buttons furiously, both of them biting their lower lips with their long front teeth. Will watched as Richie began to pummel Mike, utterly demolishing him rather quickly. "Down you fucking go, Wheeler!"

Will watched as Richie looked back at him while the first round finished, "Where did you want to go for our date?"

"Shut up, Richie. It's the best two out of three. I was just getting warmed up." Mike tried to sound convincing.

Will felt himself stop breathing as the next round started. Everything about this stupid video game match was going to determine if he would get to go on a first date with a boy or not. Richie was definitely someone he wanted to go on a date with. He gave Will feelings he had never experienced before, and his heart thudded faster in his chest with each strike Richie's character made on Mike's character.

"Yes! Suck it Wheeler!" Richie yelled as Mike's character was defeated.

Looking back at Will with horror in his eyes, he looked as though he just sentenced Will to death. "I'm so sorry, Will!"

"I'm not fucking sorry at all. He's gonna have a great time with me. When and where cutie?" Richie asked, gently taking the slushie from Will, taking a sip without having asked first.

Will swallowed, and looked a bit mesmerized as he took back his slushie. "M-Movies? Tomorrow?"

"The movies it is." Richie winked as Mike stared at his feet with disappointment, "Now the real question is, do we pick a movie we actually want to watch or not?"

Mike leered up at him, "Why would you pick a movie you don't want to-" It dawned on Mike what Richie was getting at, "You're disgusting! If you touch him in any way he isn't alright with, I'll make you regret it!" Mike warned.

Richie turned to him, "Then I guess I won't be touching him in any way he isn't alright with, Mike." He smirked.

Mike grumbled and pulled Will outside the arcade with him, nearly causing the blonde to drop his slushie. "You don't have to go out with him, you know? It's alright, Will."

"I'm ok with it, Mike. Really. I know you're worried, and I really appreciate it, but..." Will blushed a little and looked down before looking at Mike, "No one's ever taken interest in me before... I don't hate it..." Will confessed.

Mike seemed to finally understand, "Oh... I see..." Mike scratched the back of his head and looked at Richie who was flipping him of from inside the arcade. "Well if that's what you want, then I'm happy for you." Mike nodded.

"Thank you." Will smiled a little.

"Isn't it... a little weird though? I mean... he looks like me..." Mike eyed him.

"He doesn't act like you. It's not like I'm pretending he's you or anything, Mike." Will assured him.

"That would be a bit weird." Mike admitted before relaxing a bit more. "Alright, but if he does anything you don't like... tell me. I'll break his neck." Mike smiled a little.

Will nodded, "I will tell you before anyone else I promise."

Mike put his hand on Wills arm, and gently led him back inside the arcade. Dustin was now attempting to go a round against Richie. "What the Hell, dude?! How are you this good!?" Dustin was surprised as he actually played Street Fighter fairly often.

"It's my training. I've been at it for years, bro!" Richie assured him as he mashed the buttons.

Richie defeated Dustin and winked at Will briefly before patting Dustin's shoulder, "Alright, you owe me a slushie now."

"Damn it..." Dustin sighed heading off to the concession stand.

* * *

Chapter 02 - The First Date

Mike was the one who picked up Will for his date with Richie. Eleven had decided to come too for the ride. They were going to have lunch together once they dropped Richie and Will off at the theatre.

"Hey, good looking. Decide on a movie yet?" Richie asked as Will got into the back seat.

Will shook his head, "No. I figured we could wait until we get there to decide."

Mike drove quietly, still not sure if he was comfortable with the whole thing. Eleven held Mike's hand, keeping him calm. "That's cool. Does your movie theatre have slushies? I'll get you a cherry one if they do." Richie winked.

Will went a little pink, but smiled, "Yeah... they should."

Mike pulled up outside the theatre. "Call my house when you guys are ready. We're going to have lunch and then go to my place."

"Kinky." Richie winked.

"Get out of my car." Mike huffed before Richie did as he was told.

Will got out, "I'll call you later, Mike."

"Have fun." Eleven said quietly.

"I will." Will smiled as he closed the door behind him.

Richie headed inside with Will. It was to be noted that Richie opened the door for him, and held it open. Will couldn't explain why, but the small gesture gave him the feeling of fluttering in his chest. The moment was over as soon as his eyes adjusted to the light, and saw Troy with his friend James standing in line at the concession stand.

Will's instinct was to turn around and walk out, but he absentmindedly turned and walked into Richie's chest instead. "Whoa, I know I'm fucking sexy, but you need to slow it down." Richie winked.

"Well if it isn't the fairy boy. Here on a date with your boyfriend?" Troy came over, taunting Will immediately.

"Says the guy who is here on a date with HIS boyfriend." Richie pointed out.

"I'll knock out your teeth Wheeler." Troy threatened.

"It's Tozier. Richie Tozier. I'm Mike's cousin, and if you threaten me or one of my own again, we'll see how scary you are when I dislocate you jaw." Richie threatened, stepping between Will and Troy to pose a threatening stance.

Will was nervous, but he couldn't take his eyes off the scene. Troy looked at Richie for a moment, and backed off, "You're not worth it..."

Once the two went back to the concession stand line, Richie turned to look at Will, "You alright?"

Will nodded, but there was an undeniable sadness in his eyes. "Yeah..."

"Hey, don't let those assholes get to you. I've got your back." Richie assured him.

Will smiled a little, and Richie took his hand gently. Will felt the electricity surge through him. It felt so nice to hold someone's hand, he never really realized until that moment. "Let's go get our tickets, and then we'll get you that slushie."

Will followed Richie eagerly, and when he went to reach for his wallet, Richie had already beat him to everything. Will was a bit surprised, because normally he had to pay for something at the movies. Richie was taking the whole date thing pretty seriously it seemed.

They walked into the theatre with their slushies and popcorn. Richie led them to a seat at the very back row towards the middle. "Best seats in the house." Richie assured Will, "So who was that guy anyway?"

Will stopped drinking his slushie before putting it in the cup holder. "That was Troy, and other guy was James... they're just a bunch of bullies..."

Richie nodded, "I gathered that. They pick on you?"

"They pick on me, Mike and all of our friends. I'm usually the target as of lately though." Will looked down, "Ever since I came out..."

Richie gently lifted Will's chin to lock eyes with him, "Chin up. Your eyes are too fucking cute to hide." Richie smirked.

Will blushed, and couldn't help but smile back. "I um... wanted to thank you for taking me out..."

"I should be thanking you for penciling me in. I'm sure you're pretty booked up with all the other guys in town." Richie pushed some popcorn into his mouth.

"Me? No... never..." Will laughed a little, "This is my first date."

Richie looked at him and laughed a little before pausing. "Oh... you're serious? I'm your first date?" Richie looked like his eyes were lighting up suddenly.

"Well I mean... I think I'm the only gay guy my age in Hawkins." Will tried to explain.

Richie pushed up his glasses, "Well then, I'll have to make sure to do this right." Wrapping an arm around Will, he pulled him a little closer. "If you get bored of the movie, we can always just make out." Richie waggled his brows at Will.

Will smiled a little, and grabbed the popcorn out of the bag on Richie's lap, "I'd be really bad at that."

"Says you." Richie grinned, not removing his arm from Will's shoulder.

The lights went down, and Richie grinned, "Mood lighting for out make out session."

Will laughed, and pushed some popcorn into Richie's mouth, "Shh, just watch the movie."

Richie chewed the popcorn that was shoved into his mouth, and relaxed with the blonde on his arm. The movie was alright, but definitely not the best action movie Will had seen that year.

Around halfway through, Will looked over at Richie. His dark eyes were on the screen, his eyes focused and dark. The freckles on his skin reminded Will of cinnamon, but it was Richie's lips that looked the sweetest. They were plump, and full in shape.

Richie turned his head, and noticed Will staring at his mouth. Will looked at his eyes, and swallowed. Richie leaned in suddenly, and Will closed his eyes as he felt lips pressing into his.

His first kiss. He didn't think he was breathing for a moment as he felt Richie's lips softly press into his repeatedly. Will kissed him back, following Richie's lead. Richie's mischievous tongue made its way to his lower lip, and Will opened his lips with slight shock. The tongue slid into his mouth, and mingled with his gently. Will felt the bumpy texture of Richie's tongue glide across his. He pressed their tongues together, sliding them gently across one another. A small sound escaped Will's throat, but Richie didn't react to it, he just cupped his face gently.

Will was getting the hang of kissing fairly quickly. They didn't pull apart for the rest of the movie. When the lights went on, Richie gently pulled back. Will swallowed, and was pretty sure he had a goofy grin on his face. "Best movie ever." Richie said sarcastically.

Will laughed, "I'm not complaining..."

Richie got up with him, and the two headed outside. "So... I'm not really ready to all Mike, and end this good thing we've got going on. What else could we do in town?"

Will felt Richie take his hand as they made it out onto the sidewalk. "Well, there's a comic book store nearby, and a pizza place. We could also go to the park." Will named off a few suggestions.

"Are you hungry? I know you had your fill of my tongue, but pizza sounds pretty good right now." Richie smirked.

Will blushed a little and nodded, "Sounds good to me. I'll buy."

"No, no, no, no. This is the date I initiated. I pay." Richie assured him.

"It's ok, I insist." Will tried, but Richie put his finger to Wills lips and shook his head.

Will smiled a little and let Richie lead him into the pizza shop. "What do you like on your pizza?"

"Anything." Will wasn't picky when it came to pizza. He'd yet to find a flavour he hated.

"Alright, Pepperoni and cheese it is." Richie walked up to the counter and ordered for them.

They took a seat at a booth while they waited for their order number to be called. "You know, you're a really good kisser." Richie complimented.

"That was my first kiss..." Will blushed.

Richie licked his lips, "Fuck, you could have fooled me. Your tongue was like fucking magic..."

Will laughed a little, and looked down at the table, "You were really good..."

"I mean, if you can withstand my breath after this pizza... there could be more..." Richie suggested boldly.

Will looked at him for a moment, and nodded, "I think I can handle it."

"Then it's settled. Thou shalt taketh thy tongue into thine mouth once more!" Richie spoke in awful Shakespearian.

Their pizza order was called, and Richie grabbed it for them before bringing to their table. They each began eating. It turned out they had a lot of things in common. They both loved videogames, comic books, and science. Richie had a top grade in his science class, but he also seemed to be good in other subjects as well.

"Have you ever role played before?" Will asked curiously.

"Kinky. I like where your head's at, but Will, this is only our first date." Richie said making Will go bright red.

"N-No... I mean... dungeons and dragons." Will covered his face and laughed a little.

"Oh, that makes more sense." Richie laughed a little, breaking the awkwardness.

"Mike, and the rest of us, we all play. Mike is the campaign master, and we go on a lot of missions together. It's pretty fun." Will explained.

"Think Mike will let me play?" Richie asked curiosuly.

"I don't know. You could ask him." Will suggested.

The two finished their food, and headed out onto the storefront. "So how close is this park?" Richie asked as they joined hands, and headed down the street following Wills directions.

"It's pretty close. Just past the Laundromat." Will pointed down the street.

"Why have you never visited Hawkins before, if you don't mind me asking?" Will looked at him curiously.

"Well, I wanted to, but my parents never really visited so I never thought about it. I don't really talk to my parents either." Richie shrugged.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Will looked at him sadly.

"It's ok. I'm used to it by now. I think if you're going to be around here though, I might fucking consider coming and visiting more often." Richie waggled his brows.

"Well I'm only here for the summer. I'm going to The University of Maine in the fall." Will informed him as they neared the park.

"That's right near where I live... I should have a car by then, we could hang out if you want to." Richie suggested, making Will's heart to flips.

"Yeah, I'd really like that, Richie." Will smiled, looking at him fondly.

A few people eyed them as they held hands, and walked. No one said anything, but Will could feel them judging him. He didn't care, he was feeling so happy with Richie. "Sometime, you should visit Derry. You could meet all my friends. They'd fucking love you." Richie smiled at him as they passed the Laundromat, "Not to mention, I could finally stop being a seventh wheel."

"You have six friends?" Will looked up at him curiously.

"Yeah, we've been friends since I was kid. We're known as 'The Loser's Club' in Derry." Richie grinned as they set foot on the soft grass of the park together.

The trees overhead seemed to shade them, but patches of light were still peaking through the leaves, reflecting amber into Will's beautiful brown eyes. "Why?" Will furrowed his brows, not understanding the nickname.

"Well, we've had some bullies in our lives too. We used to get picked on by this group of guys. They were always tormenting us. My best friend Stanley, he had his face rubbed in snow until it bled just for being a Jew. My best friend Ben also had an 'H' cut into his stomach by these guys." Richie explained as they headed over to one of the biggest Willow trees in the park.

"Oh my God!" Will's eyes flashed with horror, "Those guys sound a lot worse than Troy or James."

"Turns out, the leader of the group, Henry Bowers, he killed two of his friends, and one of them went missing prior to that. Some fucked up shit if you ask me." Richie said before sitting with his back to the tree.

"I'll say." Will nodded before Richie carefully pulled him down between his long lanky legs.

"Anyhow, I don't want to ruin the mood. You're too pretty for that." Richie grinned as Will smiled a little.

"You keep saying I'm 'cute' or that I'm 'pretty' but I think you're the one that's most eye catching between the two of us." Will gently ran his fingers through Richie's curls, "You have those dark curls, and those dark eyes... you're way too good looking to be interested in me..." Will felt so comfortable with Richie; he'd never been able to touch someone like he was touching Richie.

"Well, I am a vision, but you're talking like you're out of my league. You're not out of my league, you're almost fucking above it." Richie cupped Will's face, his thumb tracing over the beauty mark on Will's upper lip. "You could be a fucking model."

"I don't think so, but you're sweet." Will smiled, enjoying his touch.

"You know what's fucking sweet?" Richie let his thumb slide along Will's bottom lip, "These lips..." Richie leaned in, and pressed his lips to Wills.

If there was one day Will didn't want to ever end, it was that one. He gently kissed Richie back, feeling like he was lost in a trance the entire time. There was no one in the park even remotely near them, and he felt like they were in their own perfect world together.

Their tongues intertwined after a few minutes, and Will melted into Richie who had his arms wrapped around him securely. "Mm..." he moaned softly, enjoying the taste of Richie's mouth.

Richie cupped Will's face gently, and he felt safety in the taller man's arms. When they broke apart, Richie's fingers trailed his jaw softly, "You're the most beautiful fucking person I've ever laid eyes upon. Fuck, how did I get this lucky?" Richie asked looking into his eyes.

"You won a game of street fighter against your cousin I believe." Will smiled a little, making Richie smile back at him.

"Best thing I ever won." Richie quickly tugged Will's lower lip with his teeth.

Will shivered a bit at the feeling, he couldn't get enough of what Richie did to his body. "I think I could probably kiss you forever." Richie pressed their lips together again before Will could respond to that statement.

Feeling the lips start to trail down his neck, Will kept his eyes closed, his jaw going a bit slack as he felt the lips trailing towards his shoulder. Richie gently tugged the fabric of Will's t-shirt out of the way, allowing him access to the crook of Will's neck. "Richie..." Will breathed.

"That's my name, feel free to wear it out." Richie whispered before nipping at Will's earlobe.

Will cupped Richie's face, and looked into his eyes before pressing his lips to Richie's with a slightly more possessive kiss. His fingers became lost in the midnight black hair on Richie's head as their lips continued to press together repeatedly. Will felt Richie's hand on his hip, and it sent sparks flying through his body. It was almost concerning to think if he wasn't in public how little reservations Will would have about undressing the raven haired man before him.

As quickly as the thoughts came, Will felt his cheeks flushing before he pulled back from Richie's lips. He cuddled into Richie's chest, and felt Richie rest his chin on the crown of Will's head. "No one's ever kissed me the way you do..." Richie blurted out suddenly.

"Really?" Will wasn't sure what he meant by it.

"It's like you want me to kiss you endlessly... and I fucking love it. Most people get sick of my shit." Richie chuckled a little, sending a pleasant vibration through Will's body.

"I don't think you're hard to handle exactly." Will held his eyes closed, enjoying the closeness as Richie's fingers began roaming up and down his spine.

"I talk a lot. I know I do that... but usually people just tell me to stop. I'm not really used to someone 'wanting' to be around me. I've kissed some people at parties, but once they get to know me, they don't like my mouth..."

"Trashmouth..." Will remembered suddenly his nickname.

"Yeah, that's my nickname. I take it my lame ass cousin told you." Richie's fingers had made their way until Will's shirt, and they were touching the skin on his spine, caressing him gently.

"Yeah, Mike told me that. I like your mouth for what it's worth." Will smiled a little, enjoying the tingles Richie was causing him to feel on his back.

Richie laughed a little, "Well, you're getting the best parts of my mouth. Still, there's a lot more wonderful things it could do to you..." Richie teased.

Will blushed a bit, "Someday I might like to find out..."

"Mike never told me he had such a hot friend. I might have visited Hawkins a lot sooner had I known." Richie tilted Will's head back carefully, and pressed their lips together.

"Mm.." Will groaned softly as their lips parted; the feeling of Richie's tongue in his mouth was a luxury he was willing to get used to.

It was crazy, they had just met, but Will felt like he had known him for years. He felt so comfortable around him, and they had only met for the first time the day before. Had someone told him he would be making out with a gorgeous boy just a week ago in not only the movie theatre, but the park too, Will wouldn't have believed it.

He knew now that he had a taste of Richie, he'd crave him. Will's lips parted from Richie's after a bit, "The sun is starting to set. Should we head back?" Richie hated to suggest it, but he knew it was the right thing to do.

"Maybe... I don't want to though, I love staying here with you." Will confessed.

"Well I'm here for a couple weeks so, you'll have plenty more chances to make out with me." Richie grinned at him.

Will nodded, "Good. I'm glad we have so much time."

Richie carefully stood up, helping Will with him. The two headed back to the main streets in the direction of the nearest phone booth. Will thought for a moment about the day, and he felt like his mind was humming with happiness. "Richie... did you really mean what you said before?"

Looking over at Will, Richie pushed up his glasses, "Mean what?"

Will licked his lips, the foreign feeling of kissing still on them, "That you'd like to come visit me in school?"

"I would come visit you in Africa at this fucking rate." Richie wrapped an arm around Will's shoulder as they walked together.

Will smiled, and looked up at him, "Good. I didn't want you to just be saying that..."

"One thing you'll learn about me, I don't just say shit unless I plan to do it. I plan to see you as much as I can... as much as you'd let me." Richie looked at him honestly.

Before Will could say anything, a male and a female walking down the street gave them disgusted looks, "Disgusting..." The guy muttered.

"That's not what your mom said last night when she was guzzling my come!" Richie yelled back at them as they continued to walk, an arm around Will's shoulders.

"Fuck you!" The guy shot back before they were out of earshot.

Will giggled a bit, "Richie..."

"And that's why they call me Trashmouth." Richie smirked a little as they made it to a pay phone.

Will dug into his pocket for a quarter before inserting it into the machine. He dialled Mike's number, "Wheeler residence." A familiar male voice said into the phone.

"Hey Ted, It's Will. Is Mike around?" Will asked.

"Mike! Will's on the phone!" Mike's father called.

"One moment, Will. He's coming." Ted said before there was silence.

"Hello?" Mike answered the line.

"Hey, we're ready. We're right near my mom's store." Will informed him.

"Alright. I'll be by in about fifteen minutes. Hang tight." Mike said to him.

"Sounds good." Will heard the line go dead, and he hung up.

"Your mom works around here?" Richie caught that piece of information as he looked around.

"Um, yeah. She works in the hardware store. She's there now." Will pointed at the shop across the street.

"Hey, we could go say hi to her if you wanted." Richie suggested to Will's surprise.

"You want to meet my mom?" Will looked a bit surprised.

Richie shrugged, "Why not?"

Will felt his stomach do flips, but he was pleased with the suggestion. "Alright. Let's go."

Richie followed Will across the street, their hands were laced together, and it didn't seem like Richie was going to let go. It made Will a little happier to think he wasn't ashamed to be with Will in a romantic light.

They entered the hardware store together, and Richie looked around curiously. There was no customers around, and Joyce was busy restocking a shelf by herself. "Will, I wasn't expecting to see you here today." She smiled at her son, and Richie immediately noticed Will had her eyes.

"Hey mom. This is Richie Tozier, Mike's cousin." Will introduced him to his mother.

"I heard you were taking my son on a date today." Joyce smiled and gently took Richie's hand to shake it.

"That's right, we went and saw a movie, and had some pizza." Richie said, leaving out the parts Will was pleased he didn't bring up.

"You seem like such a nice boy, I'm really glad you asked him out. Can you believe this is his first date?" Joyce seemed elated to say the least.

"Mom..." Will went a little pink.

"Oh, Alright... I won't pester you too much. You really do look like your cousin you know?" Joyce took in Richie's appearance.

"I'm the better looking one, though." Richie grinned making Joyce laugh a little.

"I'm so glad you introduced me to this one." Joyce said to Will with a smile.

"I wanted to meet you. I figure if Will turned out to be such an awesome person, you must be pretty fucking awesome too." Richie let slip a swear.

"Well thank you. " Joyce didn't seem to mind.

"Mike's picking us up so we should probably head outside." Will told her.

"Alright. I'll see you tonight, Will. It was nice to meet you, Richie." Joyce smiled.

"Same here." Richie smiled and let Will lead him out of the store.

* * *

Chapter 03 - Sleep Over

Richie was all Will could think about for the next several days. Tension was high in the Byers house as everyone prepared for his brother's big day, but Will was floating on cloud nine. All he could think about was those perfect lips, and the dark eyes that peered into his soul.

Jonathan and Will came home from the tailor's to pick up their suits. "So, mom told me you were on a date the other day. How did that go?" Jonathan asked curiously.

Will smiled a little, and Jonathan caught the glint in his eyes, "It was nice. Richie is really cool."

Jonathan looked over at Will, and smiled, "I never thought I'd see the day..."

Will looked at him confused, "See what day?"

"When my little brother had googly eyes for someone else." Jonathan smiled teasingly.

Will blushed but shook his head, "Oh stop it..."

"So, what did you two do together?" Jonathan asked curiously.

"We went to the movies, and had pizza." Will gave the brief outline of what happened.

"What was the movie about?" Jonathan asked.

"It was about a soldier who moves to Tokyo, and gets into it with some thugs." Will informed him.

"How did it end?" Jonathan asked.

"I... um... w-well..." Will stumbled for a moment.

"Oh I see. So it was a good movie then." Jonathan nudged his little brother's arm.

Will covered his face for a moment, blushing darkly. "Don't tell mom."

"I'm not gonna tell mom. What kind of brother would I be?" Jonathan laughed, "Besides, Nancy and I don't watch every single movie we say we went to."

Will smiled a little, "Well, I guess it's a little different, you're not both boys..."

"It's not different to me, Will. Feelings are feelings. People are people. It shouldn't matter what gender they are. Things will change, and someday it won't be so frowned upon. I'm sure of it." Jonathan told him.

"It really means a lot to hear you say that." Will looked at him, feeling a bit teary eyed at his brothers words. "I don't understand why more people don't see things the way you do."

"Not everyone can be as cool as me." Jonathan replied making Will laugh a little. "You like him a lot don't you?" Jonathan asked.

Will nodded, "I do. I've never felt this way before... I mean, he is the first guy I've ever gone out with. Still... there's something about him, I just feel really comfortable about him. Like I can be myself, and that's ok."

Jonathan pulled up to Will's house, "That's good. You deserve to be with someone like that... do you see it.. going anywhere?" Jonathan was a little worried to ask, but he did anyhow.

Will looked at him, "I mean, it could. I'm going to school in Maine in the fall, and that's where he lives. It's not that far away from where Richie lives apparently."

"Well if it does, I'm happy for you. If it doesn't, you'll find someone." Jonathan assured him, "You're a catch."

"Thanks, Jonathan." Will smiled warmly at his brother.

He got out of the car, and carried his suit inside before Jonathan pulled out of the driveway to return to his and Nancy's apartment. Joyce wasn't home when Will arrived, and Neither were Hopper or Eleven.

Hanging up his suit on the handle of the closet door, Will headed to the kitchen to find something to eat. The phone rang, and Will headed over to it before picking up the receiver, "Hello?"

"Hey, Will?" Mike's voice was on the other end of the line.

"Oh, hey Mike." Will greeted.

"I have a really big favour to ask..." Mike sounded a little nervous, but Will didn't mention it to him.

"Ok?" Will questioned.

"Can you stay over tonight?" Mike asked.

"I mean, as long as you can come get me, sure." Will replied, "How is this doing you a really big favour?"

"Well... my parents are going out tonight to meet some relatives of ours halfway, and my mom didn't like the idea of Eleven staying over without at least one of my friends over here too... so... I was hoping you might be able to stay the night... possibly in the basement?" Mike sounded a bit flustered. "Mom, dad and Holly won't be back until tomorrow afternoon.

"Can I just ask... are you two planning on doing anything tonight? Is that why I'm coming over?" Will almost dreaded asking.

"...Yes." Mike responded awkwardly.

"Ok... How does your mom think me staying over will help exactly?" Will asked knowing now not to go upstairs if he stayed over.

"She doesn't know about you and Richie for starters... I didn't plan to say anything to her either, she can figure it out for herself." Mike explained. "Would you be comfortable with this? I don't want to put you in any weird situations, but I figured I would ask you before Dustin or Lucas."

Spending the night in the basement meant spending the night with Richie. Will was feeling the nerves building up in his chest, but no discomfort came to him. "I um... I don't mind."

"Are you sure? I mean it. You can tell me no, and I'll understand. It's not like we haven't already- well... you don't need to know... I just want you to feel safe." Mike assured him.

"It's not like staying over means we're going to do anything, Mike. It's ok, I trust him enough not to pressure me into anything." Will decided, "I'll pack some clothes, and I'll be ready when you get here."

"Thank you, Will. I owe you so much." Mike sighed with relief.

"It's no problem. See you soon." Will hung up the phone.

He completely forgot about grabbing something to snack on. Heading to his bedroom, he decided to pack up his things. He scribbled a note onto the fridge for his mother, letting her know where he was going to be if she needed him.

Mike didn't take very long to arrive, and Richie was sitting in the back while Eleven took the passengers seat. Will got into the back seat behind Eleven, and smiled at Richie. "Hey Richie."

"Hey cutie." Richie grinned at him.

"You got everything?" Mike asked Will.

"Yeah. Are we heading straight to your place?" Will asked him, setting the backpack with his change of clothes between his feet.

"We are. I need to show you to my mother before she will let my dad drive them out of town." Mike sounded annoyed.

"So your parents have no idea that you've been fucking your girlfriend this whole time? Wow... they must think you're such a virgin." Richie laughed.

Eleven looked back at Richie for a moment before she turned back to the front. "Mouth breather."

"What was that?" Richie questioned confused.

"Nothing, Richie." Mike lied, "Also, I'd rather you didn't bring up my sex life."

"Why not? I bring up everyone's sex life." Richie smirked.

"Oh yeah? What about yours?" Mike was hoping to shut up his cousin.

"What about mine?" Richie pushes his glasses up.

"You said you bring up everybody's sex life, why not your own?" Mike challenged.

Will looked over at Richie. It was hard to tell if Richie had ever had sex before, but something in Will's chest told him Richie had. How could he not? He was amazing to look at, who wouldn't want to sleep with him?

"I mean, I'd talk about it, but the only person I had sex with recently was your mom." Richie retorted.

"That's your aunt you dumb nuts." Mike shot back.

"She might have been my aunt, but she called me 'daddy' last night." Richie replied.

"How many days until you go home?" Mike glared in the rear-view mirror.

The rest of the ride was spent listening to Mike and Richie bicker while Will and Eleven sat in silence. The moment they got to the house, Mike got out of the car, and made a bee-line for the house. Richie laughed as he got out, and Will followed Eleven inside.

Karen felt a lot better once she saw Will was with them. She gave Mike a list of things to make sure he either did or didn't do while they were gone before she finally left. The four spent most of the evening in the living room until they were sure the Wheeler's weren't going to come back and surprise them.

Mike ordered them a pizza, and they watched a movie for most of it. Will was relieved to be sitting next to Richie again. He felt like he could breathe finally. Their fingers laced together, and Will leaned into Richie comfortably.

When the movie was over, Eleven gave Mike a look, and even Will could decode what it meant. Eleven wanted to spend time alone with her boyfriend. "W-We should head downstairs. I'm kind of tired." Will was trying to keep things light, and without giving away too much info.

"Yeah, we're gonna go make out now. If you two want to start fucking, have at her." Richie said getting up with Will.

Mike was red in the face, but resisted the urge to argue with Richie, knowing it would only mean he'd be in his face for longer. Eleven tugged Mike's arm, "Mike..." She calmed him down instantly, leading him towards the staircase.

Will followed Richie to the basement of the Wheeler house. He had been down there hundreds of times, but this time, it felt different. Shutting the door behind him, Will walked down to the basement to see that Richie had a stack of comic books laid out on the floor next to the futon. A lot of them Will had already read.

Richie turned around, and wrapped his arms around Will's waist. "Did you miss me?" Richie couldn't help but ask.

"Very much." Will admitted, his eyes practically sparkling as he stared up into Richie's dark eyes.

"Believe me, I've been eager to see you again. I didn't expect a sleep over, but I'm really not unhappy about it." Richie grinned, leaning in to press his lips to Wills.

"Mm..." Will kissed him back, his body filling with sheer happiness as he wrapped his arms around Richie's shoulders.

He felt like he was addicted to Richie. The tingling in his chest every time Richie kissed him was something he was pretty sure he would do anything to experience. He craved the lips on his, the tongue sliding it's way into his mouth. He pressed himself against Richie, their torso's stuck together as they held onto one another.

Teeth gripping his bottom lip sent a shiver up his spine. "Mmm... Richie..." He sighed softly as the raven haired man began kissing along his neck.

Gripping the back of Will's thighs, Richie lifted Will up carefully, and carried him to the futon. Will hadn't been picked up like that before, and it caused him to giggle as he was laid down on the futon. Richie hovered over him, their eyes meeting as they both looked upon each others happy expressions. "You ready for a long sensual make out session with yours truly?" Richie asked him.

"Yes." Will looked at Richie with an eagerness in his eyes that no one else held when they gazed upon the trashmouth.

Richie gently stroked Will's cheek, "You're so beautiful..." Richie said as Will's brown eyes were rimmed with a mossy green hue as he gazed up at Richie in the soft light of the bedside lamp.

"So are you." Will's eyes were soft as they stared up at him.

Richie looked mildly surprised by the comment, despite the fact Will had called him beautiful before. Richie leaned down, pressing their lips together again. Richie was careful as he rested his body over Will's making sure not to crush him. The pressure of Richie on top of him was emotionally and physically grounding. He felt sheltered, and safe lying beneath the guy he was most attracted to.

Will's hands ran through Richie's hair as their lips pressed together repeatedly, and their tongues melded together. Richie seemed to be fairly experimental with how he kissed. Moving around in different ways, tilting his head more to get just the right angle. He wanted to know what Will enjoyed, and the soft sounds that escaped the blonde were enough of an indicator it seemed.

Although he didn't think about it much, Will found himself pushing off Richie's dark blue Hawaiian shirt as they were kissing. Richie pulled it the rest of the way off, not breaking their kiss. His black t-shirt was soft to the touch under Will's hands. The blonde let out a soft gasp as Richie's hand made its way up Will's torso from under his shirt. He looked into Richie's eyes, and the dark haired boy attempted to read his emotions. "Is this... is this ok?" Richie asked pausing. "Let me know if anything I do isn't ok."

Will nodded, "Yeah. It's fine." Will sat up a little more so Richie could pull the striped polo over Will's head.

Richie looked over Will's bare chest, "I want to kiss ever fucking square inch of you..." Richie breathed, leaning down to press his lips across Will's chest slowly. Each gentle kiss gracing his skin felt pure and luminous. He felt like he was being blessed by an angel, and it sent tingles through him.

Richie sat up after a few more kisses, and pulled off his own shirt. Will's eyes trailed over the strong shoulders, and the toned torso before him. "Oh..." Will let out a soft moan without meaning to.

A smirk graced Richie's face. "You like what you see?"

"I love what I see..." Will smiled a little, nerves building in his chest as his eyes examined the pale freckled body above him.

"We don't have to do anything crazy unless you want to, but... either you fucking stop me or my pants are coming off next." Richie grinned deviously.

"I'm not stopping you from taking off your pants." Will had a thirst in his eyes to see more of Richie; he didn't think he'd go this far, but here he was, begging for more.

Richie got off Will, and undid the leather belt he wore before he undid his jeans. Letting them slide off, he stood in just his dark boxers. Will swallowed, he had only seen guys that naked in the clothing catalogue, but it never got to him the way Richie did. "I um..." Will reached down to his waist, and began undoing his jeans.

"If it's not ok, we can stop." Richie assured him.

"It's ok." Will smiled, and gently pulled them down, "Just... no penetration?" Will decided to make it clear where the line was so Richie might relax a little.

Richie nodded, "No penetration. Got it." He helped pull the jeans off Will's legs, placing them on the floor next to his own.

Richie returned to the futon, lying over top of Will once more. He placed one of his legs between Wills; it seemed odd for a moment, but them Will let out a soft moan as Richie used his leg to grind against Will's privates. "Oh my God..." Will whispered looking up at Richie.

The devious smirk graced Richie's lips before he leaned down, pressing his lips to Will's. He ground against him again, and Will moaned into Richie's mouth, his erection getting fairly hard. Kissing down Will's jaw, Richie began to mutter to him, "I really want your fucking cock in my mouth."

Will whimpered a little, the idea of it seeming more like a blissful fantasy than a possibility. Who would actually want to blow him? He felt Richie's lips move down his chest, his eyes on Will's as he moved down his naval, gently running his tongue from the top of his belly button to his chest. "You have to say it." Richie teased, knowing Will was so shy it was a challenge for him.

"I-I... want your mouth..." Will licked his lips as Richie teased him.

"Where?" Richie grinned, "Where do you want my mouth, Will?" Richie grabbed the elastic of his boxers, and pulled so it snapped against his skin gently.

"O-On my... penis..." Will was pink in the cheeks, but his eyes never left Richie's.

"Of course, anything you want, cutie." Richie winked, and pulled down Will's boxers to his thighs, his erection springing forward.

Richie leaned down wrapping his mouth around the head of Will's erection. "Oh!" Will covered his mouth with one hand, muffling the moan escaping him.

Pulling Will's hand away from his mouth, Richie pushed Will's cock deeper into his mouth. Will's moaning echoed off the walls of the basement. Richie kept moving his head slowly, his tongue sliding along the underside of Will's shaft. "Oh my God, Richie..." Will whined as he watched Richie claiming him in the sexiest way.

Richie popped off, and looked at Will, "What's my name again? I think I forgot it... you should fucking help me remember..." Richie winked as his mouth went back to work on him.

"Oh Richie!" Will moaned as his back began to arch with the faster pace he was moving at.

Richie hollowed his cheeks, making a tight suction around his penis as he moved. "God Richie! Oh my God! Richie!" Will clung to the pillow desperately as he tried to keep from passing out in ecstasy.

"Richie! I'm going to come..." Will warned looking down at the plump lips wrapped around him.

The raven haired man didn't let up, and continued to suck hard on him. "Oh God! Richie! Richie!" Will screamed out as he filled the back of Richie's throat.

Swallowing down everything Will unleashed in his mouth, Richie gave a few gentle licks before licking his lips and looking over at Will. "Was that your first blowjob?" Richie grinned.

"What do you think?" Will laughed a little, attempting to catch his breath.

"I think I just popped your blowjob cherry." Richie smirked and replaced Will's boxers carefully.

Richie wrapped his arm around Will, and let his body lie on his back next to the blonde. "Did you like it?" Richie asked sounding hopeful.

"I can't believe anything can feel that good..." Will sighed with utter satisfaction.

Richie kissed Will's forehead gently. "I'm adding that audio of you moaning to my spank bank just so you know."

Will couldn't help but laugh at that, "You're funny."

"I'm not kidding. The sounds you make are so hot. God, I fucking can't handle it. I've got the hottest boyfriend ever." Richie caught himself, "I-I mean..." Richie pushed up his glasses nervously, "If you'd be into that?"

"I would. I really like you, Richie." Will looked into the magnified lenses of Richie's glasses, "Well that's good news because I kind of decided to switch from community college to Maine University. I was hoping I might get to see you more..." Richie looked a bit embarrassed that he acted so quickly, but Will didn't take it the same way as anyone else he knew would have.

"I could make a roommate request. It'll increase our chances of being roommates." Will nodded at him.

"You're not pissed?" Richie asked, "I feel like I'm being too clingy..."

Will shook his head, "I like it."

"Oh, thank fuck." Richie sighed with relief.

Will smiled, and snuggled into his chest, breathing in the familiar scent of Richie's cologne. "I'd like to try giving back what you gave me..." Will muttered catching Richie's attention.

"Yeah?" Richie eyed him, "You're sure?"

Will nodded, "I don't really know what I'm doing, but I want to make you feel good."

Richie ran his fingers over Will's cheek gently, "Take my body, do as you wish!" Richie joked dramatically; Will took it as a sign of nervousness.

Will giggled a bit, and carefully pulled down the hem of Richie's boxers, allowing the large erection to make its presence known. "That's pretty big..." Will commented.

"Thank you." Richie grinned, allowing his ego to feed off the statement.

Will leaned down, and gently took the tip of it into his mouth. Richie let out a soft moan as Will plunged his way down as far as he could in an attempt to wrap his lips around the base of Richie's cock.

Will had thought about giving head before, but he never expected he would actually be doing it. It felt oddly nice to be the one giving the pleasure. He bobbed his head, mimicking what he saw Richie doing to him. He tongued at Richie's slit curiously, pulling more moans from him.

Nervously, Will decided to place Richie's hand on the back of his head, allowing him some control over what Will was doing. "God, that's so hot..." Richie moaned out as he gently moved Will's head up and down.

His hands gently cupped Richie's balls, and he massaged them tenderly as he bobbed his head. Sucking the air out of his mouth, he made the space around Richie's cock tight, causing the raven haired man to moan even louder, "Will! You're fucking amazing!" Richie panted as Will got him even more worked up.

Will decided to be bold, and he tried something he wasn't entirely sure was even going to work out. Impaling himself on Richie's cock, he stuck out his tongue, and began licking at Richie's balls, making Richie whimper in pleasure, "Will! Holy fuck, Will!" Richie responded well to what Will was doing.

"You're like fucking Houdini, but with cocks!" Richie didn't realize how silly it sounded until after he said it, but Will didn't stop what he was doing, he continued bobbing his head.

"Babe, I'm gonna blow soon..." Richie warned.

Will didn't stop, he just kept moving his head. "Will! Fuck!" When he suddenly felt the flow of liquid jetting into his mouth, he began swallowing before he could really let the taste sink in. The warm liquid made its way down his throat, and he sucked gently a few times before pulling off.

"Was that your first blowjob?" Will asked him.

"Sort of..." Richie responded oddly.

"That's a yes or no question..." Will eyed him.

"Well... My first blowjob was with some friends... it wasn't really anything romantic, just my two best friends were dating and wanted someone they trusted to join in. Me being horny as fuck agreed." Richie explained.

"Well... was I good at least?" Will asked a bit worried.

"You were the best I've ever had." Richie nodded, his eyebrows retreating high on his forehead.

"Good." Will smiled at him, letting his boxers rest where they normally sat on his hips.

Richie hugged him warmly, "You're amazing. I'm so glad you said yes to dating... I couldn't handle if some other fucking guy got you."

"I don't want anyone else. You're safe." Will smiled, pressing his lips to Richie's gently.

"My friends aren't gonna believe that I got into a relationship while I was gone." Richie laughed at the prospect of telling them.

"What if they don't like me?" Will worried suddenly.

"They'll like you. If I like you, they're gonna like you, Will. You're hard not to like if you fucking ask me." Richie took off his glasses, setting them on the stand beside the futon.

Will looked at his face, and ignored the fact he looked exactly like Mike. "My friends like you. Lucas and Dustin find you fun to hang out with. Max laughs at your jokes." Will explained.

"Mike and his girlfriend hate me I'm pretty sure." Richie shrugged, "It's alright though. Family and whatnot is allowed to be that way."

"My mom likes you too." Will smiled, "She kept asking how the date went when I got home that night. She said you're handsome, and quite the catch."

"You mom likes me, huh? Does she wanna bang?" Richie joked.

Will laughed which was new for Richie as his best friend Eddie hated jokes at his moms expense. "You can have your way with me, but leave my mom and my brother out of it." Will smiled brightly at him.

"Aye aye, captain!" Richie grinned.

Will ran his fingers along Richie's arm gently, the feeling of touching someone so intimately felt so good. "You think Mike and Eleven are going at it right now?"

"Oh probably... they've been together since we were kids. I'm not sure how long they've been together physically, but I'm assuming at least since mid high school." Will explained as Richie pulled the light sheet over them as they laid together.

"She um..." Richie looked a bit unsure if he should speak, "Can she do... things?"

Will tensed a bit, "Things?"

"Never mind, I think I'm just having a brain overload from that blowjob you gave me." Richie grinned, snuggling into him warmly.

Will was glad Richie dropped it, but he was still rather curious as to what Richie meant exactly. Will rolled over so Richie was spooning him. Their bodies melded together as if they were meant to. The lanky arms around Will held onto him tightly as Richie rested his chin on Will's shoulder, "You're really cool, you know that?" Richie said softly.

"I am?" Will questioned, a bit surprised as it seemed to come out of no where.

"Yeah... you don't seem to find me annoying. You don't yell at me, or tell me to stop talking. I'm not used to that." Richie said softly, "Sometimes I feel like I'm just bothering everyone, but I can't even seem to stop myself when I get talking sometimes."

"You don't bother me. You could talk forever, and I'd happily listen to you." Will held Richie's arms.

"Be careful what you wish for." Richie grinned.

"I wish that we could lay like this every night." Will smiled back at him.

"Fuck, me too. You're so soft... I feel like I've got my own teddy bear again." Richie grinned, kissing Will's cheek.

Will found himself talking about his art and science program, and in turn, Richie talked about his friend Bill who was into art and writing. Will liked the sounds of Bill, and hoped maybe he could meet him one day.

They talked about their friends, and their boring towns they grew up in. It felt like they weren't so different. Kindred spirits, his comics would call it. Richie had fallen asleep first, his face in Will's neck, his warm breathe on Will's skin. It felt nice, and it lulled him to sleep.

Breakfast was an interesting experience the next day. Will and Richie were all smiles, and Mike seemed to deduce that something happened in the basement. It was only confirmed when Mike blurted out, "My basement better not be disgusting after last night..."

"Don't worry, I swallowed." Richie responded making Will cough into his orange juice, causing it to splatter everywhere.

Eleven smiled a little at Will who looked like a deer in headlights as Richie gently wiped the splatter mess. Mike sighed, "I didn't need to know that..."

"You should know better than to give me material I can work with." Richie pointed at Mike.

* * *

Chapter 04 - Wedding

The days leading up to the wedding involved Will spending plenty of time with Richie. He would have to wait at least an entire month before he saw him again once Richie left Hawkins. It was something Will wasn't looking forward to, but he knew he could handle distance for a month.

Richie actually looked nice on the day of the wedding, his long hair combed out, and back. He wore a black suit with a white undershirt, and a black tie. He caught Will's eye immediately, and they spent the ceremony exchanging glances.

When the reception came around, Richie came over to the table Will was seated at. They held hands under the table, and immediately, Will felt energized by their connection. It was something he'd never shared with anyone else. Will wondered if this was how Mike and Eleven felt when they touched.

Mike seemed to be getting along a little better with Richie that evening, and it made Will feel incredibly happy. Will had confessed to Mike they were going to try to become dorm mates, and Mike was puzzled as to how Will could stand being around Richie for that long in the first place. Will laughed it off, but in truth, he couldn't understand why anyone would want to avoid Richie; he was exciting, funny, and so beautiful in Will's eyes.

He was utterly perfect, and Will was willing to spend every single day with him.

Richie eventually pulled Will up to the dance floor when Mike and Eleven went up to dance. Will felt a little intimidated dancing in front of so many people with a guy, but no one seemed to question it. They weren't dancing so close that it was sexual, but they were dancing close enough people could tell they were together.

"So... I was wondering if you'd like to stay over tonight in the basement." Richie asked, "That sounded a lot less fucking creepy in my head. Aunt Karen, and Uncle Ted are taking Holly with them to take some of our relatives back home before their early flight. It'd just be Mike upstairs."

Will smiled at him, "I'd like that. It's your last night in Hawkins, I'd like to spend it with you."

"Fuck yeah! I get to fall asleep with you again." Richie smiled brightly.

Will smiled, "Yeah, I'm hoping we will get to fall asleep together every night starting in September."

"I called the school yesterday, and I put in a request to have you as my roommate. They said it was a good possibility. Then I said if it didn't happen, I'd fuck their moms." Richie told Will.

"Then what happened?" Will widened his eyes, going along with the joke.

"Then... I had to fuck their moms, but they seem like they'll let us room together anyhow." Richie said with a straight face.

"You're so brave, going to that extreme just to room with me. It's almost as though you like me." Will laughed.

"Me? Like you? What would give you that fucking idea?" Richie joked.

"You're right, I don't really like you either." Will continued to play along.

"Good, because as it turns out, I'm using you to get to your mom." Richie waggled his brows.

"You might have a shot. Although Hopper might shoot you first." Will reasoned.

"I guess I'll have to settle for you and your delicious cock." Richie whispered in his ear.

Will blushed, but nodded, "Same."

When Will and Richie told them of their plan to go back to the house together, Mike decided to take that as an opportunity to bring Eleven back to the Wheeler house for the night.

"Can you guys do me one favour tonight?" Mike looked back at them.

"Sure, what is it?" Will asked as Richie held his hand in the hallway before the basement.

"Don't tell me what you two are doing down there, but please don't make a mess." Mike looked at them pleadingly.

"We won't." Will smiled gently at him, "Thanks for letting me stay over."

"Well, it's not like it isn't working in my favour." Mike smiled, tugging Eleven's hand pointedly.

"Have a good night, Mikey." Richie grinned and headed down the stairs to the basement.

"Bye." Will smiled.

"You too. See you tomorrow guys." Mike closed the basement door behind them.

Richie pulled his clothes off, and Will did the same the moment they were in the basement. "I can't wait to suck your dick." Richie grinned.

Will laughed, and felt Richie wrap his arms around Will from behind. The lips kissing down his spine sent waves of pleasure through him. "Mm... how do you know how to do this to me?"

"Do what?" Richie asked curiously.

"Get me in the mood..." Will looked over his shoulder.

Richie grinned, and nipped at his shoulder, "I just touch you and kiss you anywhere I want. Just so happens, I want to touch you and kiss you everywhere."

Tilting Will's head to the side, Richie began gently sucking on Will's neck. "Mmm.. Richie..." He breathed.

Reaching down, Richie grabbed Will's hardening erection, and began to stroke it. "Richie! Oh God..." Will groaned, his ass grinding back into Richie's erection.

Richie gasped a bit, not expecting that kind of contact. They were without boxers this time, and there was really nothing between Richie and Will. "Fuck, your ass feels good on my dick..."

"No penetration." Will reminded.

"That's not what I meant, but fuck... I want to grope it at least..." Richie laughed.

"That I'll allow, but only because I want to grope yours later..." Will admitted.

Richie sat down on the edge of the futon, and pulled Will's hips closer as he took Will into his mouth. Will moaned, running his fingers through Richie's hair. "God... I missed your mouth..."

Hands slid from his hips to his ass, groping him gently. It felt oddly possessive, the way Richie was blowing him, and he loved it. Despite the fact he was feeling weak in the knees, he enjoyed what they were doing.

Will bit his lip, looking down at the mop of black hair below him. Richie bobbed his head forwards and backwards at a steady pace, and it was working him up. Will knew if anyone were to see what he was doing, he would surely die, but he loved every second of what Richie did to his body.

Richie began to hum around him, and Will was nervous his legs were going to give out. "Richie! Oh God!"

The feeling of swallowing around the head of his cock worked more moans out of the blonde. He hoped to reciprocate even half as well as Richie did. "Richie, you're so good at this..."

Pulling off, Richie stared up at him, "Can I touch back there without penetrating?"

Will licked his lips a little, "A-Alright." Will nodded.

He felt fingers gently spread him open before Richie leaned down, and let his tongue drag over his opening, up his taint and over his balls before he wrapped his lips around Will's cock once again.

The feeling sent shivers through his body, and the goose bumps on his arms left the little hairs standing on end. "Oh my God! Why did you do that?" Will didn't sound angry, but genuinely confused as to reasoning.

"I like to lick things to claim them." Richie replied deviously.

Will blushed, and covered his face for a moment as Richie got back to work, now deep throating Will. "Oh God! Richie!" Will let his hands fall from his face as he was now distracted by the feeling of building up quickly.

His fingers laced through Richie's hair, and he arched his back, "I'm gonna come! Richie, please don't stop..." Will begged as Richie had a tight grip on his hips.

"Richie!" Coming hard into Richie's mouth left his head spinning. The raven haired man swallowed everything down, and pulled off with a pop. "Oh wow..." He moaned, his face a bit pink from his release.

He straddled Richie's legs, avoiding crushing the hard erection below him. "Did you like that?" Richie grinned, enjoying the look in Will's eyes.

"I loved that." Will pressed his face in the crook of Richie's neck.

"Good, I like to improve my technique over time." Richie said before Will's mouth was sucking and biting at his neck sensually, "Oh... fuck I see you're improving yours too..."

Will pushed Richie down onto his back carefully. He climbed down Richie's body, placing kisses along the way. "Mm... you're so hot.." Will muttered before wrapping his mouth around Richie's straining erection.

"Oh! That's it... God I love that mouth..." Richie moaned as he gripped the bedding below.

Will had one prior past experience with blowing Richie, and if there as one thing he learned from it: He needed to focus his tongue on the underside of his erection. Will licked relentlessly as he moved his head, and Richie began moaning uncontrollably. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! Oh God!" Richie whined, "Will! You're fucking amazing! A blowjob God!"

Satisfied he was doing a good job, he continued to use his tongue even more. Sticking it out of his mouth to lick his testicles wasn't any less exciting to Richie as second time, "Fucking Hell!" Richie moaned loudly.

Will gagged a little, and pulled off carefully to lick gently along the tip of Richie's erection. "Will, you're going to kill me... I'll do anything you want... just don't stop what you're doing..." Richie begged.

Will liked to hear that he was being so pleasing, he had worked hard to remember exactly what felt good to his new boyfriend. He hoped it would be techniques he could keep using in the future of their relationship as well. "Mmmmm." Will moaned around it, causing Richie to arch his back.

"I'm gonna fucking come! Oh God, Will!" Richie cried out.

The warm liquid shot into his mouth, and Will swallowed it down without hesitation. He pulled off after a few final licks, admiring the light shade of crimson Richie's face had turned. "Did I do good?" Will asked.

Richie reached up and wrapped Will in his arms, holding him close, "You did so amazing... Fuck, I can't believe I've lived this long without you in my life... I'm so happy we're fucking dating!" Richie held Will warmly in his arms.

Will pressed his lips to Richie's and kissed him gently. "When you go back to Derry, can you still call me at least once a week so I can hear your voice? I'm going to miss you." Will confessed.

"Fuck, I will call you as often as I can, babe. I gotta keep you on fucking lockdown so no other boy can claim your heart!" Richie stroked Will's hair gently.

"I can't even look at other boys now that I've got you." Will assured him with a smile, "You're perfect."

"You're not just saying that are you?" Richie winked, "I hope you can handle living with me."

"I think I will be able to handle it just fine." Will looked into his eyes.

"Even with all my annoying habits? I'm messy." Richie admitted.

"I don't mind. I have annoying habits of my own. You're going to have to keep me warm in the winter, I freeze at night." Will giggled.

"That's not a problem, babe. Our room will be like sauna most nights anyway with our passionate love making." Richie said dramatically.

"Oh of course. Silly me." Will giggled, pressing his face in Richie's chest.

"Would guitar playing bother you while you're sketching your art?" Richie asked curiously.

"You play guitar?" Will's eyes lit up.

Richie nodded, "Yeah, I'm pretty good at it. You like musicians? You can totally fuck one someday, when you're ready of course."

Will laughed, "Someday I think I just might... if he plays his cards right." Will teased a little.

"Oh, ho ho... I might only be good at go fish, but I'll play every card I've got." Richie sounded determined.

"Something tells me you like sex?" Will giggled a bit.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I'm against everything sexual, because fuck fucking!" Richie grinned with amusement.

Will laughed at the poor excuse for a joke, because to Will, Richie was funny. "You're so strange. I think that might be why I like you so much."

"Good, because I'm going to be around for a long time at this rate. At least... after September." Richie reasoned.

"I'm glad to hear it." Will snuggled into him.

Sleep came for them both rather quickly. Richie and Will enjoyed their last hours together before Richie had to catch his train home. It was hard to say goodbye, but Will knew it wasn't for very long. Richie kissed him goodbye, and wrapped his long arms around Will before his train arrived, and he had to go.

Mike waited in the car for Will to return, and they started to drive away. "You gonna miss him?" Mike asked curiously.

"Yeah... he makes me happy." Will smiled gently at Mike.

Mike noticed that Will was wearing one of Richie's Hawaiian shirts. "I can tell. I'm really glad you two have each other."

Will toyed with the buttons on the side of the shirt. The smell of Richie would eventually fade, Will was sure of it, but for now, he was going to enjoy it while it lasted.


	44. (M) ZUKKA - I'll Tabletop You Any Day by

I'll tabletop you any day  
Yuu_chi

Summary:  
Sokka's the highschool drop-out and closet nerd working at his sister's coffee shop - Zuko is the gorgeous rich guy who comes in three times a week and orders cinnamon tea. Sokka may or may not have his entire schedule memorized.

Thank god for Star Wars.

* * *

Sokka's not a stalker. He's _not._

And okay, without context that does sound a bit creepy, but Jesus freakin' Christ it shouldn't matter anyway because he swears to dear God he's _not a stalker – _no matter what Aang says, or how often he says it or how _loudly _he says it because Aang is secretly a twelve year old brat at heart and didn't kiss a girl until he was fourteen and thus his opinion is invalid and –

Okay, deep breathes and rewind.

It's not – it's not anything creepy, it's just that, there's this guy – and if that wasn't a phrase that pretty much defined Sokka's highschool life – and yeah, okay, maybe it _is_ a bit creepy because even Sokka admits he kind of stares too much. He doesn't even know his _name_ – just that he's tall, pale, despises coffee, likes cinnamon tea and has the sexiest scar sprawled across the left of his face.

(Sokka can't help it – scars are sexy, okay?)

To get back to the start of the whole stalker-not-stalker thing Sokka has going on, he should probably explain that he doesn't just aggressively stalk men through facebook until they let slip their favourite drink and their preference for tea over coffee.

(not often anyway; it was just that _one time _– and he's getting off track again.)

Sokka works at a coffee shop.

Correction; he works at _Katara's _coffee shop, because while Sokka had spent high school years dicking around like the complete ass-hat he was, Katara had grown up, gone to college and emerged with enough business know-how to drag him out of his dead-end Starbucks career track and slam him down at the counter of her own little coffee joint. It'd been humiliating at first, working for his younger sister, partly out of pride but mostly out of shame because he was meant to take care of _her _and somehow, without even noticing, he'd dropped the ball and now it was Katara who was looking after him. Working for his younger sister wasn't exactly how he'd pictured his life going, but before she'd intervened he'd been working thirty hours a week at a job he hated in and living off Aang's couch, so he guessed he'd call it an improvement.

All things considered, it was pretty alright. He just stood behind the counter flicking sugar packets at Aang while the kid pretended he was studying and made twenty or thirty non-fat, almond-milk whipped cream mocha-lattes for the parade of over-achieving arts students that swanned in with their preppy hats, band shirts and complete sympathy in their eyes when he passed over their drink because Sokka was the twenty-two year old drop-out who worked at his sister's shop and spent his days sprinkling chocolate on foam.

(sometimes he switched the milk out for the full-fat regular stuff when the looks they gave him verged on perhaps being a little too pitying and watched with detached amusement as they wondered aloud to their friend why their soy latte tasted so good today.)

And then one day that _guy _came in which had been more than a little weird because _Katara's Koffee _had kind of adopted a selected crowd of hipsters and dead-eyed arts students and seeing somebody come in without a fedora or several copies of _Nietzsche_ tucked under their arm was something of a bizarre sight.

Aang was on break so it was just Sokka minding the counter. It had been kind of a slow morning with only a crowd of college kids tucked into a corner with their books spread all out in front of them and Sokka had always had kind of a short attention span so an anomaly in his day usually proved to brighten things up a bit.

And then wow – because the closer the guy got to the counter the nicer the anomaly was looking to be because hot _damn_, Sokka always had a thing for tall, dark and handsome and this guy was. Tall, dark and handsome, that is, not something Sokka had a _thing _for – he wasn't that pathetic – but _wow_ he had functioning eyes at least.

"Hey there, what can I get you?" He asked leaning nonchalantly at the counter. "And please tell me you don't want anything with whipped cream because the kids in the corner had the last of it and I've been too burnt out to do stock up yet."

An annoyed gold eye flicked over to him from beneath a scruff of dark hair and Sokka choked aloud a little because holy flying fuck, that was one spectacular burn scar peeking out from beneath shaggy hair and the lining of a hood and Sokka wasn't exactly sure how he'd missed that until he'd gone and spoken and put his foot in his mouth as he always somehow managed to do.

"Very funny," Scar-face said coolly and Sokka winced. "I was actually hoping for some tea; if that wasn't too much trouble for you. You do look awfully 'burnt out', as you said."

There wasn't much Sokka could really say to that without sounding like an insincere jerk-off, because no matter how much the guy's tone rankled him, he'd gone and stupidly blurted out something first. Deciding discretion was the better part of valour he elected to say: "No problem man, we can do tea. Anything in particular you want?"

A brief flash of surprise shifted across his face followed quickly by chagrin before his features fell once more back into an impassive mask. "Cinnamon," He said then hesitated briefly before adding: "please."

Sokka let out a soft _whoosh_ of relief because he was pretty sure that was Scar-face's silent acknowledgment that he wasn't going to burn Sukko to a crisp and – sweet Jesus, he really had no brain filter at all, did he?

He considered asking for a name to go with that, but this wasn't Starbucks and Katara had never been really impressed by the whole "name on cup thing" since the shop was so small that even rush-hour was rarely overwhelming. He bit down the impulse and turned around to the quite little bench space away from the looming coffee machines and started putting together his drink.

It was quiet in the shop except for snapping of cinnamon sticks and the soft giggles of the art girls sprawled out in the corner and by the time Sokka was sliding the cup over to the counter he'd started to think maybe the dude _had _been offended and had just decided to leave. Which would kind of piss him off because cinnamon tea was kind of bothersome to make and Sokka was kind-of-a-little lazy.

Except he hadn't and was standing exactly where Sokka had left him – like there wasn't a perfectly good chair just two feet down the counter he could have sat at while waiting – and he accepted the tea stiffly .

"If it's not any good, just let me know. I don't get to make it too often, so yeah." He rubbed awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Not a coffee fan?" He asked for no other real reason than making conversation.

Bright eyes flicked up to him and then back down at his drink. "No, not really, I suppose. How much do I owe you?"

Sokka waved a hand as the guy reached into his pocket and stared maybe a little at the way his dark pants crinkled tightly at the front. "On the house," He said. "Least I can do for being such an ass before."

Scar-face blinked in surprise and seemed about to open his mouth to argue but Sokka cut him off before he could even try. "Dude, don't worry about it. It's just a cup of tea; swear to dear God I'm not going to demand your first-born child in a few years for it."

He was aiming for levity and hoping for a smile but all his words generated was a bemused sort of blink and a baffled blankness. "I see… That would be… Good?" Scar-face frowned slightly and it was such an effortless flow of tension that Sokka couldn't help but think he must get in a lot of practise. Without another word, he turned and strode off to the other side of the store and Sokka was so startled he didn't even remember to watch his ass as he went.

Well, he blinked, that couldn't have been any weirder.

He glanced over a few times during his shift to see that he'd pulled out a book – soft pages folding lightly beneath long fingers and the corners rugged and dog-eared with love – and thought a few times about bringing him another cup of tea but ultimately decided it would probably be too weird and stalker-ish, and let's be honest here, he'd probably just piss him off again.

Twenty minutes later a gaggle of dark-haired girls with headphones loose around their necks bustled in and by the time Sokka looked over again, Scar-face was gone. He tried not to feel too disappointed but it was hard when he'd left a twenty buck tip for a free drink.

(and that was how it started.)

.

Sokka hadn't honestly thought Scar-face would come back again.

He wore nice clothes and had one colour in his hair – which Sokka was pretty sure was even his natural colour – and had an aloof aura that was significantly different than the nonchalant front the art-students with their six-tone hair and band-shirts liked to try and radiate. _Katara's Koffee _was nice enough, but it wasn't in a good neighbourhood and it was kind of on the small side and yeah, most definitely not the kind of scene that attracted the kids who were as well-off as Scar-face looked.

And if he hadn't come back, that probably would have been the end of it. Just another attractive guy Sokka had irritated by opening his mouth at all and he would have forgotten about the encounter altogether.

Except Scar-face did come back. Often, actually. Usually three days a week – Monday, Wednesday and Thursday; sometimes even Sunday, but not often enough for Sokka to actually log it into his memory as a fixed 'Cinnamon tea' day and yeah, no wonder Aang thought it was a stalker.

He ordered the same thing every time and Sokka always refused to let him pay for it and he always left a tip that was large enough to make Sokka uncomfortable but hey, it wasn't like he didn't need the money.

Sokka didn't try striking up conversation after the first horrible visit, partly because he suspected his brand of patented sarcasm wouldn't really appeal to Scar-face and partly because he suspected that any conversation _at all _would probably just irritate him.

He wasn't exactly sure what interested him so much about the guy because while he was good-looking, he was also kind of a jackass, and Sokka wasn't shallow enough to ride out interest on physical attraction alone. He _wasn't; _no matter what Katara said.

He begun sort of to look forward to the days when he'd come in, and sometimes he'd even plan out awkward conversation starters before he figured out that '_So, _Star Wars VII_ – Lucas' biggest fuck up or possibly cinematic genius waiting to happen?_' wasn't exactly the kind of conversations someone who drank cinnamon tea and read dog-eared books in the soft rays of evening light would probably be that interested in.

.

And then there was the whole awkward Katara thing.

.

Katara had noticed when he'd started signing himself on for specific shifts partly because he never volunteered to work and partly because she was his sister and thus automatically psychic and privy to his every thought.

"Sokka, what's this?"

Sokka looked up from where he was sprawled across the floor. It was kind of hard to see over Aang who had found a comfortable position leaning against the couch with his legs slung over Sokka's stomach as they played Mario Cart, but he could just make out Katara brandishing a sheet of paper from where she loomed in the doorway.

"… The work roster?" He tried, swallowing down his mouthful of marshmallows.

"I know it's the work roster, Sokka," she said as if he were slow. "What I'm asking is why you're names on here three times?"

"What do you mean – shit, shit Aang, you little fucker, that was dirty – what do you mean why 'is my name on there three times'? I _work _there. Remember, you – fuck, _fuck_, drive _Luigi, drive _– you hired me. Pretty sure you were there for that."

Aang let out a shout of victory and nearly whacked Sokka in the chin with his foot.

"Oh my god, _Aang would you pause that for one minute_."

Aang – pretty much always willing to listen to Katara – sheepishly hit the pause button.

"You never sign up for shifts. I wasn't even aware you knew _how. _You usually just let me sign you on and whine when it interferes with your _Dungeon and Dragons_ night."

"Okay first off?" Sukko said as he set the controller down. "It's _Vampire Masquerade _– I don't know how many times I have to say this. Its two words guys, it's not that hard to remember. It's not my fault if you can't keep your table-top games straight. And secondly Katara, I am frankly _offended _at your appraisal of my work ethic. Can't a guy try to be a hard worker without his motives being questioned? I'm just thinking I should put in my hours, and, uh, do stuff, you know?"

Sokka was a terrible liar. He knew it, Aang knew it, Katara knew it.

"Okay," Katara said. "I don't know why you're getting all defensive – ."

"I'm not getting defensive," Sokka snapped and then pulled a face when he realized how defensive it sounded. "I'm just – ."

"Sokka has a crush on a customer," Aang blurted out like the filthy traitor he was.

"Oh my _god_ Aang! Is _nothing_ sacred between friends? And it's not a _crush_ – stop saying that, it's just, do we really have to talk about this?" He asked desperately but judging from the look on Katara's face, yeah, they probably really did.

"A crush on a _customer_?" She asked disbelievingly. "Holy crap Sokka, do I have to buy you a chastity belt or something?"

"What does that even _mean_?" Sokka snapped. "It's not like I just go around throwing myself at people, you know. I'm not actually a dog, Katara."

"Sorry," she frowned. "That was a bit harsh. You know I didn't mean it like that but just – Sokka, _really_? Do you go out of your way to find the least available guys to give your heart to?"

"This isn't an eighteenth-century romance novel," Sokka said, and yeah, his voice might have been a little high pitched but this was embarrassing and goddamn it Aang, throwing him under the bus like this just to get a favour in with Katara. "I'm not 'giving my heart' to anyone, oh my god, do I have to burn your Stephanie Myer books? It's just, there's this guy and –."

Both Katara and Aang groaned in unison.

"There it is," Aang marvelled, "it's started."

"Oh, brother," Katara said with genuine sympathy that was frankly a little alarming. "If only you could hear yourself."

"Oh fuck you both," Sokka snapped, bright red, as he flopped back down and picked up his controller again. "I don't want to talk about this anymore. Aang, unpause the damn thing and I'll show you what a real racer can do."

Aang did and Katara left, but not before throwing him a sympathetic look over her shoulder.

Sokka viciously stuffed another fistful of marshmallows into his mouth and pretended he wasn't as pathetic as he felt.

.

The thing is, Sokka had so many excellent conversation ideas planned out.

He'd moved on from Star Wars – it was stupid to begin with anyway; even Aang didn't like to talk Star Wars with him and Aang was like his bro of bros and would probably be his brother-in-law one day at this rate – and onto bigger and better things. Like the weather. Or traffic. Maybe even the weird German guy who'd started sitting at the counter four days a week. Anything that didn't give away Sokka's raging nerdhood and his borderline creepy interest.

What actually came out of his mouth one day as he was handing over his tea was: "So what's your name anyway? It's a little distracting calling you Scar-face all the time."

Oh my god, Sokka thought as his teeth slammed down hard on his lip. Smooth, soldier. Real smooth. And probably seven different kinds of offensive too.

Scar-face to his credit didn't do much more than blink awkwardly at him, like he was unsure Sokka had even spoken at all – which was a step up from throwing his scalding drink in his face, but a step or two below suave conversation.

"My – what? My _name_?" He sounded almost as incredulous as he looked.

And okay yeah, this was awkward but Sokka saw things through once he started so he settled for an exasperated eye roll and prayed the Scar-face thing had slipped by him because _awkward_.

"Yeah, your name? The little thing that people scream on the streets when they want your attention? You've been a regular for like – what? Three weeks now? It just feels weird not having anything to call you when you come up in passing conversation."

Scar-face's expression came even more confused. "I… I come up in passing conversation?"

Oh shit.

Sokka flushed bright red. "Not like anything special. Don't go getting all big-headed. Fredrick over there comes up in passing conversation now and then too," he said nodding to the weird German guy over at the counter edge even though he didn't have a fucking clue what his name was although he was eighty-percent certain it probably wasn't Fredrick.

If anything Scar-face just looked more weirded out and Sokka was so glad Aang wasn't here to witness his moment of shame because this was humiliating.

"Zuko," he said after a moment and it took Sokka a whole ten seconds to realize he meant his _name_.

"Zuko," he repeated and gave him a winning smile. "Awesome, got a z in it, won't go forgetting that anytime soon."

Scar-face – Zuko, Sokka corrected himself and tried not to smile like a teenage girl – shifted awkwardly and Sokka waited patiently for him to turn and flee back to his designated little corner by the window.

Instead he hesitated a moment and set his cup back down at the counter and took a seat.

Sokka was so busy outright staring in surprise that he missed whatever words it was Zuko's mouth was forming. He blinked. "Wait, sorry. What was that?"

Zuko's mouth twitched almost like a smile but more closely resembling a smirk. "I said you?" He gestured towards Sokka's apron. "You don't wear a name-tag."

"Oh," Sokka said as his fingers fluttered up to his bare apron. "Um, yeah. Lost it. I'm pretty good at that. Katara's still too pissed to order me a new one. It's Sokka."

"Sokka," Zuko repeated and the sound of his name rolling off that tongue was almost enough to make him shiver like he was sixteen again. "Katara?" He said next, frowning slightly. "As in the owner of _Katara's Koffee_?"

"One and same. She's my sister. Gave me a job to stop me from being a useless shit; didn't work, but points to her for trying. She likes to pretend that if she just acts like I'm not an embarrassment we won't be related anymore. I could have told her that doesn't work; I've been trying since she turned twelve."

Zuko actually _laughed_. It wasn't loud or quiet or anything too extraordinary; just a puff of air and a surprised chuckle like he hadn't figured Sokka to be quite so mouthy but it _did _things to him because two days ago they hadn't even really spoken and now Sokka was making Zuko laugh and he knew his name and – woah there cowboy, better slow down before you do something dumb like ask for his number.

Sokka grinned though, still pleased all the same at the response before scrubbing half-heartedly at a smudge of coffee on the counter. "How about you big-shot? Got any sisters wishing you into non-existence?"

Zuko raised an eyebrow at him. "Big-shot?"

"Well yeah," Sokka deadpanned, waving a hand at the nice coat and the nice shirt and really, the nice everything. "Anybody who doesn't buy their clothes from a discount retailer is a big-shot. Learn your facts, man."

Anybody else might have been offended, but Zuko's eyebrows just climbed a little higher and he took a sip of his tea before giving a mild-shrug. "My family does okay," he said, but a little uneasily like he didn't really want to talk about it before adding quickly, like he wanted to change the subject, "I have a sister. One."

"Hot damn," Sokka said, easily ignoring Zuko's clear discomfort about the previous topic. "She got the whole charming pale-and-black thing going on there too? Is it a family thing?"

Zuko snorted. "I could ask that of you. Is your sister equally as tan or are you just seeking skin-cancer on your own?"

"Okay, _you _are not funny," Sokka said, jabbing a finger at Zuko who only smirked back at him. "Leave the jokes up to the professionals before you hurt yourself, pretty boy."

Zuko raised an eyebrow. "Pretty boy?"

"That's not – oh my god, you know what I mean," Sokka spluttered a bit uselessly as Zuko laughed at his clear embarrassment. "You are the worst. I don't know why I ever thought it'd be a good idea to talk to you."

"You wanted to talk to me?" Zuko asked, clearly surprised.

"Uh, duh, _yeah_. I don't just ask the names of everyone who comes in. I haven't got the memory for that many renditions of: 'oh, my birth name is Sarah, but I feel like Annabella is more freeing to my spirit'." Sokka wrinkled his nose.

"I thought you wanted my name because I came up in passing conversation?" Zuko said and he looked half amused and half _confused_. Sokka had that effect on lot of people.

"That too," he said because it was the easier thing to say. "But like, yeah. I'm not a stalker, don't freak out."

_Probably._

"Oh," Zuko blinked before adding – clearly rushed – a: "I wanted to talk to you, too. To apologize for the first day."

Sokka paused for a moment and _stared_. "Apologize? What _for_? I was the one who went and said something really stupid. If anything, I should be apologizing to _you_."

"It's…" Zuko hesitated for a second, long fingers curling warm around his tea. "It's no excuse for how rude I acted afterwards, especially seeing as how you've gone out of your way to make me feel welcome since."

"It's just some free tea, man," Sokka said awkwardly as his face heated up. "Let's not go getting all sentimental over a few sticks of cinnamon."

Zuko actually cracked a smile at that and _god_, was that a face designed for smiling. It was a bit awkward around the edges, a little bit unsure, a tad defensive even, like Sokka might call him out on it, but it was an honest-to-god smile.

They talked for the next hour or so, and when a crush of students poured in to steal Sokka's attention, he actually said goodbye before he left.

Sokka was actually doomed.

.

"So, you going to ask him out?" Aang asked the next day while Sokka scrubbed at the counter and he pretended like he was doing his gender studies work on the opposite side of the bench.

"I don't know who you mean," Sokka said with as much dignity as he could muster. Aang raised an eyebrow at him which was always something that tended to look a little weird on somebody with as little hair as Aang had.

"Oh, nobody. Just that guy in the corner you've been staring at for the past half hour. I'm going to go ahead and assume he's 'the guy' that you've been waxing limericks about for the past month."

"Could be you quieter?" Sokka hissed under his breath as he shot a concerned glance to the corner that Zuko was sitting in. He didn't appear to have heard anything, however, and just calmly turned a page in his book and took another sip of his tea. Sokka breathed out a sigh of relief and shot Aang a nasty look. "I haven't been waxing anything about anyone, okay? And I keep saying it's not like that. He's just… He's just really interesting, okay?"

"Why won't you just admit you like him?" Aang asked looking honestly baffled as he sat aside his pen and gave up all pretence for studying where meant he was in his Definitely Very Serious mood.

"There's nothing to admit," Sokka said through gritted teeth. "Hi, welcome to _Katara's Koffee_; what can I get you today?"

Aang waited patiently for Sokka to serve off a few hot chocolates to the giggly highschool girls that kept looking at him out of the corner of their eyes. Dude was impervious to anybody who wasn't Katara, really. "I mean, what's the worst that could happen from saying it aloud?"

"I could lose my dignity? My self-respect? My reason _to live_?"

"Now you're just being dramatic," Aang scolded and it was _weird_. When did it reach a part in his life where it was okay for Aang to scold him for being stupid? Kid still couldn't even legally drink.

Sokka sighed and _thunked_ the rag he was wiping the counter with down. "Just let it go, Aang," he said tiredly.

"No," said Aang stubbornly because he could be perceptive at the worst of times. "Not until you tell me why you won't admit you like him."

"Because, because… Oh my god, I can't believe you need me to say this_ aloud_," Sokka winced. "Just… Just _look at him_." He gestured over to where Zuko was sitting, back turned to them. Aang gave him a concerned look.

"Yeah?" He said. "What's your point?

"He's way out of my league," Sokka snapped. "Okay? Are you happy now? People like _that_ don't wind up with people like _this_ by any stretch of imagination." He waved a hand in front of himself. "I mean, yeah, I'm pretty fucking fine, don't get me wrong, but… it's just not happening, Aang."

"Do you really think that?" Aang asked, looking crestfallen.

"_Yes_, I really think that. So thanks for making me so it out loud. Are we done? Shut up and do your homework."

Aang did go silent and do his homework after that, biting his lip and casting concerned glances at Sokka all the while.

They didn't speak again.

.

Sokka managed to keep his raging man-crush to himself for nearly a week after that. Which, all things considered, was something of a personal record for him.

It was late on a Thursday evening and Sokka was alone closing up shop. The last of the customers had trickled out fifteen minutes ago and he had his earphones in and was humming along to a rousing rendition of Queen which was why it took him so long to realize that the shop wasn't empty after all.

Zuko was sitting over in a nook just behind the counter, completely different from his usual place. Sokka paused, chair half in his hands and half resting on the table he was setting it on. He'd thought Zuko had left hours ago because, well, he wasn't sitting over where he normally sat.

It was _strange, _okay?

He hesitated for a moment, considering him. Zuko wasn't reading a book this time. Instead he was typing at a laptop, brow creased unfavourably and tea forgotten by his elbow. He looked pretty stressed.

Sokka stared for a moment longer before coming to his choice. He turned around and continued closing up shop, putting chairs on tables and pulling blinds closed. He went slower than usual, but he still finished in only a matter of ten minutes or so. When he turned back, Zuko was still sitting in the corner and showing no signs of moving.

He had a _Vampire Masquerade _game scheduled for tonight. He had to be at Haru's in under an hour. He hesitated.

Zuko really did look really stressed.

In the end, there wasn't even a decision to make. Sokka sighed and headed back behind the counter to make another cup of cinnamon tea, pulling out his phone and dialling absently at he went.

By the time he had the game rescheduled for the night after next, he'd set the fresh cup of tea down at the table with Zuko and taken the empty cup into the back. Zuko didn't even look up from his typing and Sokka couldn't stop the fond smile from pulling at his lips even though he really was kind of worried for the intensity with which Zuko was focused on his computer.

It wasn't like it was exactly a hardship for Sokka to stay behind. Yeah, he'd miss his RP session with the guys, but it wasn't like they didn't understand. It was a good chance to get some of the stock reports Katara had been nagging him for done, and he couldn't fault the view tucked behind the counter with Zuko's serious face to glance at from time to time when he got bored of numbers.

In the end, Sokka did wind up getting sucked into his work. He'd never had a great head for math, but when he hit a rhythm in his work he could go for hours. He was just working out how much they were short by this week when a shadow fell over him and Sokka looked up to see Zuko standing on the opposite side of the counter.

"Oh," he said in surprise and offered him a grin as he pulled his earphones out, cutting off Freddie Mercury's explanation as to why love wasn't so crash hot anyway. "Sorry, didn't see you there for a moment."

Zuko had the oddest look on his face as he stared at him. Sokka frowned. "What? Is there something on my face? Oh my god, it was probably Aang, that _bastard _–."

Sokka's ranting seemed to jerk Zuko out of whatever trance he was in because he blinked and then said: "No, that's not…" he paused again. "It's eleven-thirty," he said uncertainly.

"Oh wow," Sokka marvelled because holy crap time could fly. "That late already?"

"You close at nine," Zuko said and yeah, he was definitely frowning now.

"Um," Sokka said intelligibly, "Yeah. I did close hours ago. You just looked like you needed to…" he waved a hand over to where Zuko's laptop still stood open. "Keep doing whatever you were doing?"

Zuko was still looking at him like he'd never seen him before in his life and Sokka flushed, suddenly wondering if he'd over stepped his bounds, if maybe the whole thing had come off as creepy rather than just casually concerned. "Sorry, I, uh, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything," he said.

Zuko was still looking at him blankly. "So you just… stayed behind so as not to bother me?"

Sokka cringed because it hadn't seemed like such a big deal until Zuko had gone and pointed it out. "Pretty much, yeah."

"For two and a half hours?"

"Okay, to be fair, numbers are really fucking fascinating, okay? Not my fault I got sucked in to the whole stock counting thing. You should try it. Very therapeutic." It was complete bullshit but the way Zuko just kept _staring _at him was making him seriously nervous.

"You didn't have to do that," he said. "I didn't want to impose or –."

"Okay dude, trust me. It was no imposition," Sokka said, relieved to finally have something to say that had a basis in sanity. "I had stuff to do anyway, and you looked like you were on a role. If you didn't even notice when I dropped a chair in the middle of close, you definitely needed to keep doing whatever it was you were doing."

Zuko looked so baffled that Sokka was honestly confused. Had he really never had anyone do something that simple for him before?

"I'm –." Zuko started to say before stopping and starting again. "Would you like a lift home?"

Sokka blinked at him. "Like, with you?"

Zuko nodded stiffly. "It's late. It's not really safe to walk home at this hour."

Sokka blinked again. "How do you know I walk?" He asked, viciously, terribly confused. The back of Zuko's neck looked like it might have reddened slightly and he very carefully avoided Sokka's eyes.

"I've seen you walking by in the evenings sometimes. I'd previously considered offering you a lift, but you seemed, uh, distracted."

It took everything Sokka had not to turn bright red because he was fully aware that his walks home generally consisted of listening to his music louder than was probably healthy and dancing his way down the street like he thought he was Shakira. "Oh," he said faintly, and wondered if he could chance an attempt at drowning in the sink. "Uh, yeah."

Zuko raised an eyebrow at him. "So is that a yes to a lift home?"

"Um, only if I'm not out of your way or anything," he said blankly because this was all a bit fucking strange and he wasn't entirely convinced he hadn't just dreamt all of this up.

Zuko smiled and Sokka's heart did something that probably would have qualified it for the Russian Olympic gymnastics team. "It's no problem," he said. "After everything you've done for me, it's the least I can offer in return. Just give me a moment to pack up."

"No problem," Sokka said and could only watch blankly as Zuko packed away his laptop and belongings with ease.

He slipped the reports he'd finished under the register for Katara to find in the morning and ducked in back to take off his apron and grab his bag. When he came back out, Zuko was waiting for him patiently by the door. "Sorry," he said, "let's go."

Zuko's car was a smooth black thing that looked like it probably cost more than his yearly rent. He was half completely and utterly impressed and half horrified about the smell of coffee he was probably going to leave clinging to the upholstery as he climbed delicately into the passenger seat.

"You're not going to break it, you know," Zuko said with an amused smirk. "I'm pretty sure it's designed to hold your scrawny weight."

"Oh, shut up captain muscles," Sokka snapped as gingerly pulled the door closed.

"Captain muscles?" Zuko repeated and Sokka really wished he could think before opening his mouth.

"Oh my god, would you just drive already," he moaned and Zuko obliged with a light snicker.

It was much warmer in the car than it had been outside, but Sokka shivered a bit through his thin shirt and was absurdly touched when Zuko directed all the heat vents towards him without so much as a word.

Dude was totally not helping Sokka get over his absurd crush though.

"Where to?" Zuko asked and it took Sokka a moment to realize he meant his address.

"Oh, thirty-six Bender street," he said and watched as Zuko's fingers easily turned the wheel beneath his sure and confident grip. Hands like that should be illegal on a man.

Sokka quickly turned his attention to the window before he got caught staring and pulled at his short pony-tail with his fingers. It was coming loose and he tugged it free easily, sticking the band between his teeth as he brushed his fingers through his hair with an irritated sigh. He was pretty sure he felt the faintest slick of cream in there from a handsy toddler. By god, did he hate children.

Zuko made a sound from the driver's seat and Sokka looked over as tugged his hair back up. He was staring straight ahead at the road, fingers tight on the wheel. "What's up?" Sokka asked around the band in his mouth, before making a face and using his teeth to tug it over his wrist instead. "You doing okay, big guy?"

Zuko shook his head. "Nothing," he said with the faintest strain in his voice. He cleared his throat. "Your hair looks nice like that. Down, I mean."

Sokka blinked. Did Zuko just compliment him?

Heat flooded through his face in an instant and he worked to school his face into a smirk that didn't make him look like a lovestuck puppy. "I could leave it down if you'd prefer," he said because flirting was kind of his default when he didn't know what the hell to say.

Zuko's fingers seemed to flex on the steering wheel. "It's cold out," he hedged, which made absolutely no sense to Sokka, but his brain was still a bit fried from the compliment. Zuko slid a sidelong glance at him, burnished brown darting over to peer at him from beneath a fan of dark lashes. "It'd probably be… warmer to leave it out."

Sokka swallowed and thought through a hazy fog, _bullshit_.

Something sat heavy and thick in his gut and he was pretty certain he wasn't imagining the crackling tension in the car. He was suddenly conscious of his breathing, the way it sounded loud and rough in the air. He cleared his throat. "Yeah," he rasped, "I, um, I'll do that. Leave it out, I mean."

Zuko turned the wheel easily and didn't look at him. "Good," he said, and Sokka's brain short circuited because what did that even _mean?_

There was the crunch of road giving way to gravel and Sokka glanced up in surprise as he realised they were pulling up by the drive of his apartment complex. He'd known it'd be a short ride – it was within reasonable walking distance after all – and he couldn't honestly say he wasn't glad for it. Being stuck in close quarters when Zuko was in such a strange mood spouting things about his hair and looking at him like that, like he _mattered _ \- Christ.

Sokka was broken. Undeniably, irreversibly broken, because he was doing so _good _at pretending like he didn't notice the little things like the fact Zuko's eyes were more gold than brown or the way his collarbone dipped in a pale slide of skin and bone beneath the neck of his shirt but then Zuko had to go and say stupid things and give him _hope _and that was just too cruel.

He dragged in a deep breath and unclicked his seatbelt with thick, clumsy fingers. "Uh, thanks for the ride, man. I'd say I owe you one, but we'll just consider this as an advance on all your future cinnamon teas," he said as steadily as he could manage. He fumbled for the door handle and pasted a frankly pretty shitty excuse for a smile on his lips.

Zuko's hands rested lightly on the wheel, the car still thrumming beneath them. He wasn't even looking at Sokka and his heart sunk a little bit, because he so desperately wanted just the briefest glance of his eyes, his mouth, _his scar _– anything to assure him that this was Zuko sitting here with him in this weirdly electric moment before he opened the door and it was lost to the chill of night air.

"Um," Sokka said intelligibly and he really should _just leave_, "I guess I'll see you Monday then."

_That _got Zuko's attention, his eyes flicked up quick as you like and his lips parted just lightly in surprise_._

And then Sokka realized what he – in his moment of infinite wisdom – had said.

"Oh shit," he breathed as Zuko's eyes remained locked fixatedly with his own and Sokka knew in instance with the way they widened and his mouth dropped, fingers slacking on the wheel, that whatever he saw in Sokka's expression meant there was probably no talking his way out of this one.

_Sokka had just gone and revealed his complete infatuation and he'd ruined everything, and oh god, what was he going to do without the smell of cinnamon and sugar and Zuko was, Zuko was -_

Zuko was unclicking his seatbelt and before Sokka could really think about what was happening there was a hand on the back of his neck pulling him forward and he was being kissed deeply and messily, pressed back into his seat with Zuko's hand hot on his skin, lips pushing at his own.

He reacted on instinct – because _fuck, fuck, fuck; _this couldn't possibly be actually happening – fingers wrapping around Zuko's biceps, curling over thick flexing muscles and hot skin and kissing back with all the energy he had, taking the kiss deeper and further and making it as filthy as he could make it as quick as he could because he might only get one chance at this and then –

Zuko groaned into his mouth – an honest to god groan – and Sokka's stomach flipped at the thought that _he _was doing that to him and he wrapped his arms around Zuko's shoulders to pull him in further until he was pretty much on top of him.

It should have been awkward. The front seat of a car really wasn't made with this sort of activity in mind – design error, Sokka should complain – and in any other circumstance it would be. There was a gear stick digging into his side and Zuko couldn't possibly be comfortable with the way Sokka had all but hauled him over the centre console, but Sokka really couldn't be fucked to waste vital brain space on things like _comfort _or _awkward _right now.

The kiss turned open mouth and the kind of desperately messy though Sokka had thought he was done with in highschool – so very fucking wrong he was then, because the way Zuko's tongue felt as it licked inside in his mouth should be illegal.

Sokka didn't think he'd ever been this aroused in all his life because just _kissing _Zuko was better than any sex he'd had with anyone _ever _and he didn't think he wanted to do anything ever again in his life.

Zuko pulled away and Sokka tried to follow him up only to have on hand sprawl across his stomach and push him back into his seat as lips mouthed down his throat. "_Sokka_," Zuko breathed against his skin and Sokka couldn't help the ragged gasp that tore itself from his mouth, fisting one hand in Zuko's shirt as he –

A sharp rapping came from the window, knuckles knocking hand against glass, and Sokka's eyes flashed open and Zuko was hauling himself up and – fuck no – _off _of him and unwinding the window with a steady finger on one button.

Sokka flung himself desperately back into his seat ad tried not to look like he'd been about to engage in anything below the board, shoving a fist against his mouth to muffle the way his breath came in uneven pants and shifting uneasily in the seat because there was no was in hell he could have Zuko sprawled across him like that and not get a little hard.

The face that appeared in the window was that of Mrs Shoddery; the woman who lived two doors down from Sokka and was looking in on them with a mixture of concern and suspicion.

"Are you boys okay?" She asked. "You've been stalled here an awful long while."

Sokka worked to contain a hysterical giggle. They'd been doing more than okay until she'd gone and ruined it all.

"Sorry Ma'am," Zuko said, and how he managed to sound so smooth and apologetic when he'd had his tongue down Sokka's throat a moment ago, he'd never know. "We were just discussing something and –."

"– we're done now," Sokka interjected as he scrambled one-handed for the bag by his feet, the fingers on the other hand finally catching on the door handle. "Thanks-for-the-lift-Zuko-bye."

He catapulted himself out of the car and slammed the door behind him, catching only the briefest glance of the complete surprise on Zuko's face before the tinted passenger window blocked him from view.

Oh good, Sokka thought a little deliriously, At least Mrs Shoddery will never know exactly what it was that was happening in there.

He turned and fled up to his apartment.

.

The next day at work was hell.

If Sokka was still working at Starbucks, he probably would have called in sick. Unfortunately stunts like that were considerably harder to get away with when your own flesh and blood was your manager.

He didn't quite know how he did it, but he got himself out of bed – not like he'd really slept, replaying the smooth glide of Zuko's lips and the careless slide of his hands – and into work an entire hour early.

Sokka spent the day fumbling mugs and spilling coffee beans. He was lucky he was the only person working. He could just imagine Katara's face if she'd seen him spill the sugar-packet holder for the third time.

He'd made out with Zuko.

Zuko had made out with _him_.

Sokka took in a deep shuddering breath and focused on scrubbing the counter with more vigour than was probably advisable considering its ability to absorb water like a sponge.

There had been making out and hands and Sokka was absolutely certain he hadn't imagined the way Zuko's fingers has fluttered along the inseam of his pants, flitting dangerously upwards.

Sokka probably would have blown him in the car without a second thought if those fingers had just inched a little higher.

Fucking Christ, Sokka couldn't stop his fingers from shaking. He was going to drive himself insane at this rate and it wasn't like they'd even really _done_ anything. He was a twenty-two year old man; he absolutely could handle a little bit of making out and backseat fumbling without turning into a fucking Disney princess about the whole thing.

Except for the fact he really couldn't, apparently, because every time the bell rang he couldn't stop himself from looking up with the faintest flicker of hope skittering like nerves down his spine even though it was only Friday and Zuko had never been in a Friday in his life.

It was just… Zuko was unobtainable. He came into the shop and sat by the full-wall window to read books – pages worn thin with love –and drank cinnamon tea and made Sokka's heart stutter just by _being there _with his gorgeous face and gorgeous arms and stupidly gorgeous _everything_.

Sokka was an expert at lusting after things he could not have. He had it down to a fine art, nearly. He'd been all but prepared to hopelessly moon after him for the rest of eternity, because that's what guys like Sokka _did_.

Only Zuko had kissed him like he'd been craving it and Sokka could cry because now he had no fucking clue where that left them only that he'd had the hottest guy in the Northern hemisphere all but in his lap yesterday and he really wouldn't be opposed to doing it again.

When Suki came into relive him off his shift at three o'clock, she frowned.

"What's got you looking constipated?" She asked with all her usual tact. "I know you're not a fan of the morning shift, but you don't usually look like you can't decide whether to throw yourself off a cliff or cry in the corner like a little boy."

"What do you mean?" Sokka blinked, because he hadn't thought his inner turmoil was that obvious.

She flapped a hand at him as he undid the knot around his waist. "You're distracted. Now, I'm not saying you're usually a down to earth person or anything, but something must be up to have you as covered in coffee stains as you are."

Sokka made a noise at the back of his throat and focused on hanging up his apron. "It's nothing," he said, not looking at her even though he could feel her doubtful gaze boring like a drill in the back of his skull. He fussed with his jacket, pulling it on deliberately slowly like she might just drop it if he appeared immersed in the task.

She sighed. "It's that guy isn't it?"

Sokka whirled around spluttering wordlessly, because Jesus Christ, who the fuck keeps telling people about these things? Is Sokka not allowed one little romantic crises without it becoming water-cooler fodder for anybody and everybody even remotely involved in his life?

While he wasn't quite able to verbalise everything he wanted to, something must have shown through in his expression for Suki's face softened slightly. "You can relax. I'm not going to tell you my opinion on the whole debacle – though if Toph is to be believed, you're star crossed lovers who are planning a Romeo and Juliet to escape the disapproval of your families."

"Oh my god," Sokka breathed, burying his face into his hands, because at this point he didn't even know who to blame for the fact that his romantic life was apparently a daily soap for his friends. Suki snorted in sympathy.

"But," she continued, "hypothetically, if I _were_ to give you my opinion on the whole debacle –."

"–I don't really want to –"

"– I'd _say_," she continued, like Sokka hadn't cut over her at all, "Jump that boy's bones and be done with it."

"I hate you," Sokka said furtively as he stalked towards the door, "I hate you all."

.

Sokka used his weekend off to viciously repress anything related in any way, shape or form to the mess that was his romantic life.

He kicked off Saturday with a Buffy marathon and a tub of icecream before having Aang over for a few rounds of anything that had a multiplayer function. They ordered pizza and Sokka schooled his ass in Street Fighter. Aang wound up crashing for the night, which suited Sokka just fine as he really needed the distraction.

If Aang picked up on his near desperate will not to be left alone, he graciously didn't say anything.

When Aang left Sunday Sokka headed over to Haru's for the game of _Vampire Masquerade _that he'd been forced to postpone the other night when – no, that's not the line of thinking that Sokka wanted his brain going down right now.

Anyway, he headed over to Haru's for a game of _Vampire Masquerade_ in which his Malkavian kicked some serious butt. Sokka focused as hard as he could on being the biggest nerd he could possibly be, which really shouldn't have been as difficult as it was seeing as how Sokka's entire life had been a complete and utter nerdery. His first boyfriend had been a Dungeon Master at the local hobby shop. Seriously.

None of the guys asked why Sokka was viciously murdering any characters they came across like it was his due. They were great like that.

By the time Sokka got home that evening he'd done such a good job at just ignoring his problems and hoping they'd go away that he almost had a panic attack at the realization that Monday was in less than two hours and providing he hadn't scared him off, Zuko would be back.

And oh god. What if he _did _scare him off? What if while Sokka had been busy swooning over the whole yours-mine-and-ours possibility looming on the horizon that making out with somebody with whom you'd been getting along with seemed to imply, Zuko had just shrugged and thought _thanks, no thanks_.

Sokka had to sit down and tell himself to breath.

This whole thing had spiralled out of control. It was meant to be a crush on a cute guy who had managed to pique his interest. That was all. Somewhere along the line while Sokka wasn't paying attention, it had gone to hell and now he was sitting alone in the fucking dark at midnight contemplating his life choices.

He was more than a little gone on the bastard, and he figured maybe this was what Katara and Aang had been trying to warn him about all along.

Tomorrow, he thought as his folded his fingers into a fist. Tomorrow everything would become clear.

.

Everything was not clear. Everything was fucking chaos.

Sokka had been so distracted, completely wrapped up in his own little world of Zuko, Zuko, _Zuko _that he'd completely forgotten that life didn't just stop for the whims of mortal men.

It was the start of the holiday period and even though _Katara's Koffee _was small and empty and not in the best neighbourhood, the day classes let out usually meant the biggest inpouring of business they'd see all year.

"Where the fuck is Yue?" Sokka snapped as Suki swept past with a tray carefully balancing several drinks. He could barely hear her answer over the sheer crowd noise.

"I don't know," Suki growled as the press of people around her nearly sent the drinks toppling to the floor. "I can barely see myself in this crowd, and you expect me to keep any eye out for somebody else?"

Sokka would have argued but it was _packed _and he couldn't just stand around arguing with people, he had to get actual shit done.

The constant ebb and flow of the customers meant that he really couldn't keep an eye out for Zuko. Not that it really mattered anyway. Zuko would probably take one look at the amount of people crammed in and turn around and leave out of sheer horror.

Things didn't slow down until about six in the evening when most of the excitement of being let free from their respective education systems had abated enough to allow the shambles of students to leave and go do whatever it was students did when they weren't studying or cramming themselves into Sokka's coffee shop. As the numbers dwindled down to the spare two or three customers, Sokka allowed himself to look to the door again and hope.

But six became seven, and seven became eight and suddenly the shop was empty, it was time to close and Sokka was all alone at the front counter with fingers tight around the grip of a mug and something bitter like disappointment hot against the back of his tongue.

Zuko had never missed a Monday before Sokka had to go and open his big mouth.

Sokka cleaned with unnecessary attention, slamming mugs and cups away like they'd done him a personal wrong and scrubbing at tables so hard it was amazing he didn't wear the cloth to scrap.

He was starting to wonder if maybe Zuko hadn't seemed as involved as he'd thought that night in the car. If maybe it was his mind twisting things just because that was how he _wanted _it to seem. There was no denying Zuko's mouth had been on his, his hand low on his thigh. _That, _at the very least, had happened. But Sokka couldn't help but wonder if maybe he'd just imagined the way his breath had hitched when he kissed back, if maybe those fingers hadn't been gripping quite as tightly as he remembered. If maybe the look he'd seen fluttering across that face when he'd hauled him closer was more shock than arousal.

Sokka's face was burning with something that was a mix of humiliation and dread.

Okay. So maybe Zuko wasn't that interested in him. Or maybe he'd been looking for a quick fling only to be completely turned off from pursing the idea when Sokka bolted from the car like a madman. Maybe, if he were lucky, Zuko would come in at his usual time tomorrow and sit at his usual table, order his usual tea and the two of them could just pretend the whole thing never happened.

Sokka sighed and ran a hand over his face, suddenly feeling limp and devoid of energy. He was tired. He couldn't think about this right now; possibly never again. Whatever had happened in the car had been a good thing and Sokka had probably gone and ruined it. He did that a lot, shouldn't be much of a surprise by now. He was a twenty-two year old screw up that couldn't even finish highschool properly let alone hold a steady job without his sister there to help him.

Fuck it. Fuck it all.

He finished the last of the shop cleaning, flipping one last chair over on the counter before trailing on into the back office to do other responsible grown up things like scribble down some quick notes for whoever had the opening shift tomorrow.

Sokka had just finished scrawling across a receipt on the office bench when he heard the tinkle of the bell from the front. Blinking in surprise, he craned his neck to try and peer out the back office door even though it wasn't strictly possible from that angle. He'd flipped the sign from open to closed but hadn't bothered to turn the lock over.

His mouth went dry and his fingers tightened around the pen in his hand. If this was mother fucking robbery, he was so not in the goddamn mood, swear to god he would put this pen through the goddamn fucker's eye and –

Zuko paused at the door and blinked at the violent deathgrip Sokka had on the pen and the way he was weighing it in his hand as if debating turning it into a dart.

"Sorry, I…" Zuko paused and looked adorably unsure because Sokka was standing stock still in the exact same spot he was when Zuko entered. "Is now a bad time? I, uh, know you're closed but I thought I might be able to … talk to you? I should probably go, shouldn't I? Fuck, I knew this was a bad idea."

Sokka had never heard quite so many words tumble out of his mouth before and he realized with a shock that Zuko was _rambling_ and dear god - the word _fuck _sounded like heaven with the way it slipped between his teeth. Sokka realized he was staring and the red blooming across the base of Zuko's throat couldn't possibly be his imagination.

"It's… its fine," he managed to choke out in a brilliant impersonation of a functioning human being. Hastily, he dropped the pen back to the counter. "I was just finishing some things. You're always welcome here. I mean, you're not, like, intruding or anything, so, um, yeah."

If one or both of them didn't stop stuttering like a grade-schooler on their first sugar trip, they were probably never going to get anywhere.

Sokka took a deep breath, let it out, and worked for a façade of casualness as he placed his palms on the counter he was leaning on and hoisted himself up so he could sit with his hands splayed behind him and feet dragging lightly along the ground as he faced Zuko. "You can come in, you know," he said because Zuko was still hovering in the doorway between the café and the office space like he half expected Sokka to call the cops on him.

He visibly hesitated for a moment and Sokka wondered if that was the wrong thing to say, but then he's stepping forward, fingers pulling lightly on the edge of the door so it swings shut behind him and Sokka struggled to breathe.

Zuko approached with slow, even steps, like Sokka's a skittish stray that might bolt. He's not quite sure whether he's offended by that notion or not, but when Zuko stood close enough that Sokka could smell the pleasant musk of his aftershave it's hard to mind so much.

"I wanted to apologize," Zuko said before Sokka could even open his mouth; face a determined scraping of angles and lines and Sokka blinked at him, still a bit high off the close-enough-to-touch scent of his aftershave.

"Apologize?" He echoed vaguely and Zuko nodded.

"For the other day."

"The other day…" Sokka really needed to find something to say that's not just parroting Zuko, but his thoughts were stick in third gear. What happened the other day? The image of lips on lips and hands sliding low beneath his shirt roars to life in the back of his mind and Sokka's heart rate ratchets up a notch.

And then the rest of his brain catches up with the other words Zuko had been saying and his heart freezes. "You wanted to apologize… for Thursday?'

Zuko's eyes were grim and guilty and he'd not made a single move to close the foot of space between them. There's stiffness in his back and an air of formality around him that reminded Sokka of the first time he came into the shop back before they'd had a real conversation or he'd made him laugh.

Sokka felt a bit like he's going to be sick, and then Zuko was talking again.

"I shouldn't have done that. I wasn't thinking straight, but that's no excuse. I understand completely if you don't want anything more to do with me. I won't come here again."

Sokka stared blankly as the meaning caught up with the word. _Shouldn't have done that … won't come here again_.

Suddenly, Sokka felt dizzy and he was lucky he was already propped up on the counter or else he might have had to find somewhere to sit down until the unsteady thumping of his heart evened out.

"Yeah," He mumbled as he sat up straighter, lifting his sweaty palms from the desk and knotting them together in his lap so Zuko couldn't see the slick glide and the way they trembled. He tried out a laugh and it nearly winded him. "Yeah, no. I get it. No problem."

And he does. He gets it alright. Not like Sokka hadn't heard that before. Not like hadn't thought it himself. He was a twenty-something deadbeat who hadn't bought a new pair of jeans in a year and Zuko looked like he was on the receiving end of an inheritance that was simply mind boggling.

He didn't know why he'd let himself hope. Didn't he tell Aang that only the other day? People like him didn't end up with people like that.

"Sokka…" Zuko's expression looked pained and Sokka desperately wanted to be pleased by that, but he couldn't quite do it.

"It's fine. Don't worry about it. I'm a big boy, I can handle a rejection." Sokka waved a hand in his general direction and hoped that it wasn't shaking enough to be visible. "It was kiss dude, not marriage. You don't have to act like I'm your responsibility. I'll get over it."

Something interesting happened with Zuko's face that Sokka wasn't really sure he could put a name to and he blinked, opening his mouth to say something else only to realize that Zuko was right in front of him, hands on the bench either side of him and his face a bare inch away from his own. His eyes were bright and Sokka had the distant impression that he looked furious.

"You think this is a rejection?" He hissed and Sokka stared blankly. He could feel the way Zuko's knuckles tightened on the edge of the counter, white knuckled with tension. "You think… You think I'm _rejecting _you?"

"Uh…" Sokka leant back a bit, but Zuko followed him. "I … Weren't you?" He asked, baffled.

"_No_." The word was almost violent. "I was… Sokka, I took advantage of you."

"What?" He couldn't follow this conversation with a map, a GPS and his own personal tour guide. "No you didn't. I would have remembered something like that."

Zuko took in a deep breath and his eyes fluttered closed. Sokka watched with fascination, fighting the impulse to raise a finger to trace the scar that peaked out from beneath the spray of dark hair but Zuko's eyes were open again before he could even try.

"You did… You've been nothing but polite and accommodating to me, even after I was so rude."

"Being polite and accommodating is kind of my job," Sokka reminded him even if it wasn't strictly true.

Zuko's face spasmed a bit like it wanted to crumple but couldn't quite remember what muscles pulled which way for that expression to work. Sokka blinked in alarm, because apparently that had been the wrong thing to say.

"I know," Zuko said, and his voice was almost tired, certainly lacking in the fire that had been running through it earlier. He pulled back a bit, not quite stepping away from the counter but retreating from the way he'd been all up in Sokka's personal space. Sokka didn't quite like it as much as he should have, and resisted the urge to grab him by the collar and haul him back down. Clearly they were having communication issues here and trying to stick his tongue down Zuko's throat probably wouldn't solve them. Zuko ran a hand through his hair, and Sokka wanted to snort with the way it shot up in every direction, but figured now probably wasn't the time.

"Zuko," Sokka said slowly, and Zuko's golden gaze flicked to him. "What's really going on here?"

All the energy seemed to deflate out of him at once and he stared determinedly and a stain on the ceiling that Sokka knew for a fact wasn't even that interesting. "You've done nothing but your job, I knew that, but still I chose to interpret in a way that suited me." Zuko's words sounded like he'd rehearsed them in front of the mirror. "I all but attacked you in the car; I would understand completely if you don't want anything more to do with me."

Sokka stared and tried to figure out whether he was dreaming or not, but his dreams had all been about sweaty grinding and naked bodies and tracing the edges of that scar with his tongue.

The reality was far better.

"Zuko, you crazy moron," he said as calmly as he could manage and Zuko looked part offended part surprised. "I kissed _back_ – I'm pretty sure I even moaned a time or two. That is not the actions of someone who never wants to see you again."

"But –."

"And I was an idiot," Sokka talked over him, not giving him a chance to contribute because if he let Zuko say anything thing the adorable fool would probably ruin it. "I … I panicked when that old bat knocked on the window and ran when I should have stayed to talk to you. If I'd known you'd think you were taking advantage of me or something equally as stupid, I never would have done it, I thought –." Sokka choked a little on his words. They didn't want to come up, he didn't want to admit to being so stupid, but if there was ever a time for secrets, it wasn't now. He needed to say this. He needed to get things sorted out. "I thought _you _regretted it," he admitted quietly and Zuko stared, stunned.

"Why would _I _regret it?" He asked and Sokka refrained from self-deprecating chuckle.

"Why would you _not_?" He asked in return, gesturing between the two of them. "I'm … _me _and you're you. I mean, I don't mean to sound like a dick or anything, but you look like a super model with a bank account big enough to buy half a country and I'm – well, you get what I'm saying."

Zuko was back in his space again, but this time his fingers were on Sokka's cheeks tilting him so that he could stare right into his eyes and _wow _who had eyes that fucking gold? Sokka suddenly had a new appreciation for Katara's Twilight books and the monologues Bella Swan could wax about the Edward Cullen's fucking eyes

"Sokka, I have no clue what you're saying, but I'd like you to stop."

"Okay," Sokka agreed easily as his hands found Zuko's waist.

Zuko took a deep breath and rested his forehead against Sokka's. "I've been enamoured by you since the first day," he admitted and Sokka's heat absolutely did not skip at that. "And when you talked to me for that first time, I actually started to hope that … that it might have been mutual. But then when I kissed you and you ran, I started to doubt myself. I thought you were just being kind to me because that's your _job_. "

"It's not," Sokka said quickly. "I mean, well it is but like…" His cheeks were bright red, he knew it. He closed his eyes and muttered, "I don't make that ridiculous tea for just anyone, you know?"

Zuko chuckled and Sokka could feel the way it vibrated against his skin, sending a jolt of sudden _want _down his spine, and Sokka should probably stop talking at this point but he was kind of really bad at that.

"And I mean, in case you weren't listening earlier when you were freaking out, but I like you a lot, okay? I mean, I seriously thought you came here to reject me, and then you didn't even get the notice when –."

"Sokka?"

"Yeah?"

"Shut up," Zuko said, and leant down and kissed him.

His mouth was soft and the kiss was heart breakingly tender, and Sokka didn't think he could have breathed even if he wanted to. His fingers slipped along Zuko's hips hooking into the belt hoops of his pants to drag him closer so he was pressed right up against him, fitting easily between his legs.

They broke apart with a silent gasp and Sokka leant back. "Jesus," he swore and Zuko pressed his smile into the crook of Sokka's neck, hands sliding down Sokka's sides to slip underneath his thin shirt and stroke along tan skin.

Sokka's breath hitched – there was no way Zuko couldn't feel that with the way his mouth was pressing little kisses along his throat – and he tightened his knees to draw him in closer, tilting his neck to the side.

Zuko got the hint, grazing is teeth along Sokka's skin and Sokka couldn't contain the moan that slipped through his lips as a result. Zuko's hand on his waist tightened, the other one edging its way up his ribs. Sokka pressed them closer, wrapping his legs lightly around Zuko's waist to tug him close enough to feel the press in the front of his jeans. Sokka didn't even think about it as he rocked forward.

A gasp slipped out against his throat, and Sokka grinned and did it again, biting the inside of his cheek to stop himself from making an unmanly noise at the solid heat pressing back against his own.

"You're going to be the death of me, I swear," Zuko muttered and the hands that had been sliding along his skin fell back to his waist and Zuko yanked him forward with such sudden ferocity that Sokka yelped only to have Zuko lift his head and kiss him again.

If the first kiss had been about emotion and acceptance and confirmation, this one was about heat and body and sex. Sokka opened his mouth and Zuko pressed back, licking his way inside as Sokka let slip small noises that intermingled with harsh pants. Zuko's hands were low on his back, warm and heavy and firm as they slid low enough cup his ass through his way-way-_way _too tight jeans. He broke the kiss long enough to suck in a messy breath, but then Zuko's lips were on his again, and he knew there would be bruises later.

Sokka dug his heels into small of Zuko's back, urging his hips against his own and they both groaned into the kiss, panting against each other's mouths and Sokka was aware that this whole thing was sliding rapidly out of control, he was at _work _for Christ sakes, and the door wasn't even locked, _anybody _ could walk in –

Sokka had no idea how he found the strength as he ripped himself away, pushing Zuko to arms-length.

"Okay, time out," he blurted and he sounded more winded than he'd care to admit. "Oh my _god_. As much as I would love to have hot, sweaty office sex with you –" Sokka was going to have to ignore the animal glint in Zuko's eyes at that or they were never going to get out of here "– The door is unlocked and Katara would kill me if she knew that I jumped you against this desk."

Zuko lent forward and pressed his forehead back against Sokka's shoulder. "Is that a promise?" He asked and Sokka could feel the smirk twisting against his skin.

"Zuko, I swear to god, I will ride you so hard you'll think I'm a goddamn cowboy," Sokka swore as he threaded fingers through thick strands of hair.

"You're such a dork," Zuko snorted and yeah, Sokka couldn't argue with that.

They stood still for a moment, Zuko's arms on his waist, resting just lightly under his shirt so that the pads of his thumbs could rub soft and tender along his hip bones and Sokka's fingers gliding gracefully through Zuko's hair as they caught their breath.

"I should probably finishing closing shop," Sokka admitted after several long lazy minutes.

Zuko shifted slightly in his grip and made what could only be described as _mewl _of protest as his fingers tightened his fingers against his skin. "Or we could stay here and talk?" He offered.

It was Sokka's turn to give a fond snort. "Talk about what?"

Zuko angled his face so Sokka could see his eyes and grinned as he asked: "So; Star Wars VII – possible cinematic legend or Lucas' next train wreck waiting to happen?"


	45. (T) STUCKY - Fake It Till You Make It by

Fake It Till You Make It  
74days

Summary:  
Steve Rogers has been on more failed blind dates than anyone he's ever even heard of - but he just can't say no to his boss when he's set up on yet another.

However, when his date arrives, Steve just knows it isn't going to work out - and they hatch a plan to stop their well meaning friends from interfering in their love lives!

* * *

"You said the last time was the last time." Steve said, sitting in the small staffroom at the back of the store where he worked. "In fact, I'm pretty sure I remember you promising never to set me up again." He pointed out.

Thor had the decency to look slightly abashed, before a huge smile split his face. "Ah, but Steven, this time I am **_sure_**."

"You were sure last time."

"And I am sure this time also." He said, leaning back in the plastic chair and spreading his arms wide. He was about a million times larger than Steve, who had little bird bones and was stick thin no matter how much he ate, but never made Steve feel like a 'little man' like a few others did, automatically dismissing or overlooking him. Thor was a good friend, and it was only because Steve didn't have a lot of good friends that he even agreed to the first blind date. He hadn't expected Thor to take it as a personal mission to set him up with someone (anyone!) after that.

"A friend of Jane," He was saying, and Steve liked Jane – she was only just shorter than him, and had been dating Thor almost since the moment she transferred into the Genius Bar in the Mall where they worked. Steve and Thor worked in Outdoor Supply, a camping slash anything outdoorsy store. Thor was the manager and Steve his 2nd in command, and they had a great friendship that Steve wouldn't like to lose. "Has told her of a single friend of hers." He grinned. "He too, works in the mall, in the food court."

"Right." Steve nodded. "And this will be the last time, right?"

"You have my word." Thor lied.

* * *

"He works in Outdoor Supply on the top floor." Bruce was saying. He didn't actually work in Wiener Soldier – a depressingly named hot-dog vendor in the food court – but over in 'Big Green' which sold organic juices made to order. He always smelt of zesty orange rind – Bucky stunk of hot-dog water and sadness. His uniform was a pair of camo-look pants and a moss green t-shirt with a fake tactical vest printed on the front. Seriously.

"I'm pretty sure you promised me that the last time you set me up would also be the last time you set me up." Bucky pointed out. "I've been on more dates this year than I have in my whole life added together, and its only March."

Bruce looked conflicted. Bruce mostly looked conflicted, so that wasn't anything new. "Tony has a friend at the Genius Bar," he said, and Bucky held up his hands in horror.

"No!" He argued. "I'm stopping you right there. Firstly, we both agreed Tony was no longer allowed to set me up at all. Ever. And secondly, I know for a fact that Tony doesn't have any friends."

"Tony works with Jane, who is dating Thor, who works with the guy we think you should meet."

"Have you met him?"

"Not personally," Bruce said, but held up his hands to cut Bucky off, "But I've met Jane and she is **_lovely_**."

* * *

Despite having gone on about 5 million dates in the last three months, Steve still got nervous before he met someone new. The bar was where most of the mall workers went at the weekends, or after a rough day – so Steve knew that it was a nice neutral place for a first date. He knew next to nothing about the guy he was due to meet, aside from he worked at Wiener Soldier. That really wasn't enough to go on.

The bar was pretty quiet – it wasn't really the kind of place where you **_wanted_** to spend your Friday night after work. Steve gave a cursory glance around, and didn't see anyone who looked like they worked at the mall (they all had a look, the vacant eyed gaze of mindless drones) and made his way to the bar.

"Evening, Stevie." Clint said, grinning like he always did. Clint knew most folks that worked at the mall because he ran the closest bar, but he did remember names and drinks orders despite the turnover of most of the units. "Another date?"

"Yup." Steve sighed, climbing up into the barstool. He looked far too young to drink, but Clint never carded him – which made a difference to every other place he'd ever gone.

"Man, this is the 12th date you've had this year."

"Thanks for the reminder." Steve shot back, adding his thanks when Clint slid a bottle of beer forward, wedge of lime in the neck.

"Hey, maybe this time you'll click." Clint said, going back to wiping down the bar. "If he's a total creeper, order a rum and coke an I'll make up an emergency phone call for ya."

Steve nodded, and sent thanks up to the heavens that Clint Barton was a good guy who could be relied on for those awkward moments.

* * *

Bucky walked into the bar and blinked, eyes adjusting to the dim lighting. He liked Clint's Bar. It was close enough to the mall to be useful for after work drinks, and cheap enough for most of them to actually afford it. "Hey Buck." Clint greeted him; already going for the brand of beer Bucky liked best, a wedge of lime in the neck. "Not seen you in a couple weeks."

"Rent due, man." Bucky complained, sitting on a stool. A few seats away was a skinny kid nursing a fresh beer, eyes flicking to the door every time it opened. "You know how it is." It wasn't like Clint to serve minors in his bar – and he imagined that the fake ID must have been amazing to get past his eye.

"Sure do." Clint agreed. "What brings you here tonight?"

"Got a date." He sighed. "Friend of a friend I don't want to get on the bad side of." He didn't miss the way Clint's eyes snapped over to the kid a few seats away.

"Ah, you'll be here to meet Steve then." Clint said, nodding his head towards the kid. "He's got even worse luck than you, it might actually work out between you both."

Bucky looked at the kid and blinked. "Aw hell no!" He hissed. "He's just outta high school."

"He's also not deaf." The kid shot back, eyes not leaving his beer, and Bucky swallowed. "No offence, Clint."

"None taken dude, none taken."

"Aww shit."

* * *

Steve wanted to leave. The guy that came in looked hot, but not the kind of hot Steve liked. He was overly masculine and too tall, and looked like he'd be on first name terms with everyone at his gym. Add to the mix that he obviously wasn't his type either – too young looking, apparently. Steve took a swig of his beer and swallowed. Some of his dates thought that was hot, a younger looking guy, even if he wasn't that young.

"Hi," The guy said, sitting in the stool on his left. "Uh, sorry about that. Bucky Barnes."

"S'fine." Steve said, not taking his eyes from his beer. "Steve Rogers."

"You work at Outdoor Supply, right?" Bucky asked, obviously trying to make the best out of a bad situation. Knowing already that the date wasn't going to lead to anything more than a couple of awkward drinks before they made their excuses and left, Steve nodded.

"Yeah. Look, I know this is a waste of time, okay?" He said, looking up at Bucky. He hated looking up at people, and Bucky probably had a foot at least on him, and 150lbs. "Can we just tell people it didn't work out and leave it at that? You aint my type, I sure as hell aint **_your_** type – it's just stupid to sit here and pretend for an hour."

"I aint your type?" Bucky said, looking offended. "And you don't know what the hell I like."

Steve sighed. "Look, this is the 12th date I've been on this year. My friends think they're helping. I don't wanna waste your time, that's all. If you want to sit here and sip a beer awkwardly for an hour or something, I'm not going to stop you, but we both know it's not going anywhere."

* * *

Little shit was right, Bucky realised. There was no way on hells earth that they were going to be compatible – he was too small, too thin, too fucking bossy – and the whole thing was already a bust. "Fair enough." He managed. "12 dates?"

"Pretty much every Friday since New Year's." Steve said, taking another swig.

"Shit, man." Bucky said, grabbing his own beer. "That's worse than me – you're number 9."

"You know what I want?"

"What?"

"To spend Friday night in my own apartment, a beer, some pizza, and maybe some Halo – without feeling like I'm letting everyone down. Thor looks at me like I'm some lost puppy sometimes, and you can't say no to him."

"Bruce is the same. He looks so disappointed if you say no." He took a swig. "I don't even want a fucking boyfriend," He admitted. "I just wanna spend my days off sleeping, not stinking of fucking hot-dogs, maybe catch up on Netflix."

"No one listens." Steve agreed, and suddenly both of their beers were empty.

And soon the front of the bar was littered with empties.

* * *

"You know," Bucky was slurring, picking at the nuts on the counter. "You know what sucks?"

"Hmm?" Steve mumbled. His vision was swimming. He couldn't remember if he'd taken his contacts out or not. He didn't think so, which meant he was **_wasted_**.

"I don't wanna tell Bruce that he's pissin me off, man, I aint got that many friends here, but I want him to stop setting me up."

"Same." Steve agreed. "Thor's my boss. How pathetic is that? He's my **_boss_** and he's my only friend."

"Shit, that's rough, man." Bucky agreed. "But I work at 'Wiener Soldier', you can't beat that."

Steve snorted a laugh. "I sold a tent to man yesterday, who came back today to tell me," he hiccupped. "To tell me that it was broken. Because it didn't look like the picture on the bag when he took it out." He took another drink of beer. "He didn't know he'd have to set it up. I had to give him a refund."

"Wiener. Soldier."

Steve laughed again. "You get free food though, right?"

"Yeah," Bucky grimaced. "All the wieners you can eat. After a week, you end up throwing up round the back and vowing never to touch another hot-dog as long as you live." He paused. "I get a free drink from Bruce at Big Green though, most days." He paused, and swayed slightly on his stool. "You know what I need?"

"Wha?" Steve managed. His head was spinning. He was a total lightweight at the best of times, and he'd already drank more than he should have.

"A boyfriend."

"You said…" Steve tried, and blinked. "You said you didn't wan a boyfriend."

"I don't!" Bucky grinned, white teeth shining. "I need a fake one."

Steve blinked. "Tha… thas…" He swallowed. "Thas a **_genius_** plan."

* * *

Steve's hangover was killing him. He had to open up the unit on Saturdays, and he'd not expected to stay up all night drinking with his date gone wrong. By the time Thor arrived, looking like a ray of sunshine, Steve felt like he was going to pass out.

"Ah, Steven!" The larger man said, bounding into the unit. "You look like death."

"Thanks." He managed, before dropping his head onto the counter. "Just what I wanted to hear." Thor laughed at him, which wasn't comforting at all, considering just how loud Thor's laugh was.

"Go to Big Green," The large blond said, clapping him on the shoulder. "Ask the vendor for a hangover cure," He advised. "It has saved me many a day, I will hold down the store until you return."

Steve nodded, and made his way down to the lower floor. The food court was huge, made up of about 20 different units and a handful of kiosks. Early in the morning it was mostly quiet, but by lunch it was impossible to get a seat – no matter where you bought. Big Green was a kiosk that had, at most, 2 people working it. Steve liked it, but he didn't like to spend $9 on a drink when he could get that and a meal at one of the fast food places.

However, he knew Thor swore by their stuff, and going on the amount his manager could drink on a night out, he was probably right.

The guy sitting behind the counter was wearing a soft purple shirt that looked a little rumpled, with dark hair that curled messily around his head like a halo. When Steve approached, he sat up a little straighter and smiled. He had a really welcoming smile, Steve noticed. "Uh, hi." He said, looking at the 'menu' which was mostly a list of fruit and not much else. "Thor sent me to ask for a hangover cure?"

The guy nodded and got to his feet. "You're Steve, right? Work up at the camping place on the top floor?" He said, grabbing a random assortment of fruits and throwing them whole into a massive juicer.

"Uh, yeah." Steve said. "Sorry, heads… terrible this morning."

The man laughed. "I don't doubt it. Bucky sometimes forgets that not everyone can drink like he does." He paused. "But this should help." He started cutting grass (grass?) into the juicer, "A couple of vitamin boosts and you'll be right as rain."

It took Steve a few moments to realise that this must be Bruce, the guy that Bucky had mentioned the night before. He could vaguely remember a conversation about him.

"You must be Bruce?" He hedged, and got a nod in return. "Sorry, I'm not normally so…"

"Hungover?"

"Yeah."

"We've all been there." Bruce shrugged, before adding a couple of dark green shots of… something… into two plastic cups. "Best hangover cure this side of Cuba," He said, handing one over. "Trust me on that."

"How much?" Steve asked, taking a sip. It tasted… green. Really, there wasn't any other way of describing it. Green. Healthy, a bit tangy, but mostly, just green.

"It's on the house." Bruce said, waving away Steve's wallet. Steve knew from previous trips to the juice bar that the concoction in his hand wasn't cheap, dropped a $10 note into the tip jar instead. If it worked, it was worth every cent. "Uh, why don't you take this one over to Bucky? He looks just as bad as you."

* * *

Bucky's head was pounding, and he'd already been ambushed by Bruce in a very friendly, non-aggressive way – to find out how his date had gone. Somewhere in his garbled answer, he thinks he may have said that they were going on another date – anything to stop Bruce from trying to set him up again. So when he saw Steve, tiny, short, so not his type Steve, walking towards him looking like shit, he wasn't sure if he wanted to cheer or hide.

"Hey." He managed. The smell of the grill was making him feel sick already, he wasn't looking forward to a whole shift of that.

"Um, Bruce told me to give you this." Steve said, once he'd had a good look around the unit. In his hand was one of Bruce's patented Hangover Cures, and Bucky sagged with relief at the sight of it.

"Thanks." He managed, taking it from the smaller man. He looked at Steve, with his pale skin looking more sickly than it had the night before. "I really shouldn't have drunk so much on a work night." He pointed out, "Sorry for dragging you down with me."

The smaller man just shrugged. "I didn't have to drink if I didn't want to." He grimaced, and took another sip. "Regretting it now though." He sighed. "Anyway, gotta get back to work."

"Yeah." Bucky said, nodding as Steve lifted his juice in a salute and walked off.

By lunch, the jungle drums in the mall were beating. Steve Rogers in Outdoor Supply was dating Bucky Barnes down at Wiener Soldier. They'd gone out for drinks and the next morning Steve had gone down to say 'morning' and have a smoothie together.

* * *

Steve was sweeping down the shop floor when someone tapped on the glass doors, locked to customers. He glanced up, ready to point to the 'closed' sign, when he saw Bucky. He looked less pale than he had in the morning – Steve would have to remember that those juice things really worked.

Propping the broom on the serving counter, he unlocked the door. "Hey," He said, but was cut off with Bucky hissing:

"Everyone thinks we're dating!"

Steve's reply was instant and firm. "No they don't." He said.

"Dude, I'm not kidding. Tony from Hardware came down to the food court just before closing to ask if I was gonna be going out with 'my new boy' tonight, and Jane at the Genius Bar dropped by to say that it was great that we'd found one another."

Steve blinked. Thor's smiling face all day hadn't seemed too out of place, but he certainly had been more hearty than normal. "I didn't say anything." Steve said, defensively. "I already told you it wasn't going to work out."

"Yeah, I know." Bucky waved him off, which Steve found annoying. "But… man, I know I was drunk last night, but the whole fake boyfriend thing would work. Everyone already thinks we're dating. We could just let them think it's true – no more stupid blind dates."

"This isn't a romantic comedy," Steve pointed out. "I'm not going to lie to my friends."

"It's not a lie." Bucky said, leaning against the door jam. "Think of it as just… not correcting their assumptions. I can't go on another date, dude."

Of course, it would be that point that Thor would come out of the back room, and see Bucky standing at the door. "Ah!" He said, too loud in the empty store. "This must be Bucky."

"Uh," Steve started, only to be talked over by Bucky.

"Hey, man." He grinned, pushing his body off the jam and walking towards Thor, hand out. "You must be Thor, right? Steve told me all about you." He grinned. "Dating Jane at the Genius Bar?"

Thor beamed, taking Bucky's hand and clasping him firmly on the back. Steve knew that Thor often forgot his own strength and Bucky's wince when Thor's hand connected with his shoulder gave Steve an irrational burst of satisfaction.

"I am!" The blond man beamed. "Are you here to ask Steven or another date so soon?"

Bucky paused only for a moment. "You bet." He nodded. "How's about it Stevie?"

"Sure." Steve ground out, and received two beaming smiles in return.

* * *

Bucky knew that Steve was pissed, but the whole thing was perfect – as soon as he worked that out, they'd be just fine. "Look, it's not a real date," He was explaining. "We just gotta tell people that we hung out." It made perfect sense.

"I don't like lying to my friends."

"I bet you like more blind dates less." He pointed out, and saw the play of conflicting expressions over Steve's face. "Look, all I want is to go home, throw myself on the couch in a pair of sweatpants and not move till Monday morning. I bet you want to do the same."

Steve nodded after a few breaths. "Yeah."

"So, all we gotta do is say we had pizza, watched a movie… you know?"

"Yeah… okay."

"Awesome!" He grinned, fishing in his pocket for his phone. "Look, I'll text you later, yeah? Go over what we ate and what movie we watched." He grinned, "This is the **_best_** idea I've ever had."

* * *

"We just had pizza and watched 'Catch Me If You Can'." Steve lied. In reality, he'd made himself some pasta, played Halo for almost 6 straight hours and slept for 12. He couldn't remember the last time he'd done that.

* * *

**_Bucky_**: How do you feel about the movies?

**_Steve_**: What movie?

**_Bucky_**: I mean, going to the movies, punk, for a date

**_Steve_**: I guess. I've not seen anything that is out right now though

**_Bucky_**: damn. Okay – what about Insurgent? It's showing at 8 tonight.

**_Steve_**: I thought the whole reason for this was so we could spend time not going out?

**_Bucky_**: You don't have to

**_Steve_**: I'll meet you there.

* * *

Bucky actually kind of enjoyed the movie – he enjoyed the fact that he could wear his old jeans and just throw on his well-worn leather jacket, tie his hair back and not think about what he looked like. He also liked the fact that Steve had done exactly the same – he was wearing an old looking hoodie and jeans.

The movie was alright, nothing spectacular, but because he wasn't trying to impress Steve, he didn't feel the need to act like he loved it, or hated it.

"I mean, it was okay, but I dunno, not feeling it." He'd said, and Steve shrugged in reply.

"It wasn't terrible."

"Yeah, that's a joint review of 'meh' from both of us if the best thing you can say is 'it wasn't terrible' Stevie." Bucky laughed, and Steve grinned up at him lightning fast. He had a nice smile, Bucky noticed. Shame he wasn't his type.

* * *

"I saw you and Bucky at the movies last night," Jane said, popping in before Thor's lunch break. "The girls and I were going to say hi, but you looked pretty cozy so we left you to it." She looked pretty pleased to say it, and Steve nodded.

"Uh, yeah, we went to see Insurgent." He added. "Not really our thing."

Her laugh was warm. "You looked really cute together."

"Yeah." Steve nodded. They'd actually gotten along really well. It was a shame Bucky wasn't really his type.

* * *

"I don't see why we have to do this." Steve was pointing out, and Bucky had already gotten used to Steve dragging his feet through their pretend relationship, so he just grinned.

"Couples have pictures of them doing couple things."

"You aint taking no sexy pictures of me," Steve said, pulling back from where Bucky had him tucked under his arm, before they both dissolved into laughter. "I don't see why we needed to do this **_now_** though." Steve complained. "I mean, we could have waited till work. I was planning on sleeping till noon."

"Yeah, lets take pictures of us at work, where people we work with will know we took em at work." Bucky said, rolling his eyes and pulling Steve back closer. "And fuck off, everyone loves to zoo, man."

"It smells."

"**_You_** smell, punk."

"Screw you, you jerk!"

* * *

**_Bucky_**: What you doing?

**_Steve_**: playing halo, you?

**_Bucky_**: ducking bored man.

**_Bucky_**: fucking, even. Pizza?

**_Steve_**: I'm not leaving this couch

**_Bucky_**: I'll come to you, you lazy asshole

**_Steve_**: No mushrooms

**_Bucky_**: freak.

**_Bucky_**: I'll be over in 10

* * *

Steve slid into one of the little barstools that were lined up alongside the Wiener Soldier counter, and waited for Bucky to stop serving the gaggle of teenage girls who were more interested in Bucky than the menu. Steve wasn't 100% sure why – the t-shirt with its printed transfer of a utility vest did absolutely nothing for Bucky – when he wore his old navy blue band tee you could almost see the play of muscles as he moved – the soft cotton clinging in mouth-watering ways. Nothing at all like the horrible thing he had to wear at work. The cargo pants were a fucking disgrace, completely hiding a butt that looked like it was carved from marble. Not that Bucky was Steve's type.

"Hey, man," Bucky said, once the girls had their ('omg, Sarah, you totally said wiener to him like 5 times!') food. "I swear to god there is nothing worse than getting hit on by girls in high school." Bucky complained, grabbing a bun and sausage from the rack, loading it up just the way Steve liked. "They just don't get that they look about 13, and I'm a grown ass man."

"A grown ass man working at a Wiener Soldier." Steve pointed out, holding out his hand for the food.

"The **_manager_** of a Wiener Soldier, punk." Bucky shot back, handing over Steve's lunch. "I don't even know how you can eat that. Every day for two months. It's gross."

"You underestimate my tolerance for free food." Steve grinned around a mouthful of hotdog. "You comin' over to mine tonight?"

"Yea-"

"Hey Buck!" A voice cut over Bucky's reply. Steve felt his shoulders slump in response, even as he turned to face the man who had interrupted.

Tony Stark was the son of the guy that owned the mall – although he probably had a job title – apparently he worked in Hardware but he mostly he just hung around the different units getting in the way.

"Tony." Bucky sighed, not sounding happy to see the young man either. "Steve and I were just making plans for tonight."

"Cancel em!" Tony waved. "Party at mine. Starts at 8, be there or… shit, just be there!"

"I don't wanna." Steve said, as Tony swaggered off to talk to Bruce. For some reason, the two of them got on great – probably because Tony spent a fortune on the 'Hangover Cures' sold at the kiosk. "I really don't wanna."

"How about we go for 9, leave at 10, grab a couple of beers on the way back to mine and watch Netflix all night?"

"I'm gonna have to get dressed up." Steve complained. "I hate that."

Bucky snorted, and Steve reminded himself quite firmly, that Bucky wasn't his type.

* * *

Steve in skinny jeans was not something Bucky was prepared for. He certainly wasn't prepared for Steve in bright **_red_** skinny jeans and a tight fitting navy shirt. Jesus Christ, he looked like king of the fucking twinks, and Bucky took a deep breath before making his way over to him. "Hey, man." He managed, grateful for the beer in his hand that he could take a swig of to beat his suddenly dry throat. "I was starting to think you'd changed your mind."

Steve rolled his eyes, and Bucky wasn't sure if they had always been quite so blue, before he shook himself a little. Steve wasn't his type. Steve was his fake boyfriend. **_Fake_**.

"Yeah, it was a close thing." Steve shot back, grinning. Bucky found himself smiling back, because Steve **_did_** have a great smile, when you saw it. It lit up his whole face, and him seem younger and more approachable than normal. But not Bucky's type.

However, as the party went on, it turned out that Steve was a **_lot_** of people's type – and a lot of people were more than happy to offer to get him drinks, or ask him to dance, or completely overlook Bucky standing at his side. "Your boyfriend is getting hit on again." Natasha, who worked at the Gap and was rumoured to have killed her last three boyfriends (something she never actually denied if asked) and who was the only person who hadn't tried to flirt with Steve yet. Yet, he assumed, because every other fucker in the room had given it a shot.

"Jesus Christ." He whined, grabbing the first two bottles of beer he could and stalking back over to his oblivious boyfriend. Fake boyfriend. "Got you a beer, Stevie." He said, thrusting the bottle at the smaller man, and looking over the latest arrival with a cool stare. "Hi."

"Oh, Brock – this is my boyfriend Bucky." Steve said, taking the beer bottle and wrapping his arm around Bucky's waist. Steve wasn't one for hugging much, it was always Bucky who threw a casual arm around his skinny shoulders, and he found he really fucking liked the feeling. "Bucky, Brock works at 'Tone & Tite' on the 2nd floor." Steve was saying, pressing every closer, and Bucky either had the option of falling over, or wrapping his free arm around Steve too.

"Yeah?" He said, looking Brock up and down. He was pretty stacked, the guys who worked in those stores usually were – 'legal steroids' and every kind of bulking agent known to man or beast helped – and he had a predatory glint in his eye.

"Yeah." He said, flexing so hard Bucky wondered if his shirt was going to give out. "How long you guys been dating?"

"Two months." They said in unison, causing Steve to laugh and smile up at Bucky.

Oh shit.

* * *

Oh, Shit.

Steve looked up at Bucky, laughter bubbling up because they were both such fucking nerds, talking at the same time like a sitcom or something, and Bucky grinning down at him, and…

All Steve wanted to do was kiss him.

Which was really not awesome. Because the whole point of a fake boyfriend was… Steve blinked. What was the whole point of this stupid fake boyfriend thing anyway?

* * *

Stay at home and watch Netflix, Bucky reminded himself. That's what this while shit storm was about. He wanted to stay at home and watch TV rather than be set up on endless dates with people he didn't want to date. Steve was the convenient, similarly motivated person who had gone along with the whole thing.

It was not cool to want to fuck his brains out on Tony Starks pool table.

* * *

When was the last time Steve had spent the night on the couch playing halo? He couldn't really remember – two months of fake dating actually looked a lot like 2 months of dating, really.

When you thought about it.

That was why he was getting confused. Bucky wasn't his type. Too muscular. Too big. Too… Jesus… too…

* * *

Too fucking short. Skinny enough that Bucky would be able to lift him up by his ass and pound him through a fucking wall if he wanted. Which wasn't what he wanted. Not at all. Nope. He was just… drunk. Probably. He'd had a couple of beers.

* * *

"Okaaaay," Brock said, stepping away. "You guys should probably get a room before the eye fucking becomes **_actual_** fucking," He said, "Just sayin'."

Steve blinked. "Uh, yeah." He could actually feel Bucky's back muscles under his palm bunch and move as the other man switched his stance. God, that was hotter than it had any right to be. Steve shouldn't have noticed… Bucky wasn't his type…

"Good idea, man," He grinned. "How'd you feel about getting out of here, Stevie?"

Steve nodded. He needed to get out of the crowd, get some fresh air – unwrap himself from his fake boyfriend. Get himself outside – remind himself that the whole thing was fake. Made-up. Not true.

That the feel of Bucky's arm around his shoulder was just a friendly, dude helping out another dude thing. Bucky wasn't his **_actual_** boyfriend.

The cool night air was nice of his too hot skin, he was pretty sure he was blushing beat red – his sudden and unexpected realisation that maybe Bucky **_was_** his type probably written all over his face. He felt so **_stupid_**. Trust him to go and fall for the one guy who had made it more than clear that Steve was not his type, the one guy who had made it clear from the start that the whole thing was a sham. Trust Steve to end up falling for **_that_**.

* * *

Bucky was a fucking idiot. Trust him to screw up something that worked by freaking out and getting possessive over his not-even-a-real-boyfriend. Cause He didn't like the way people kept hitting on Steve. He sure as hell didn't like the way Brock had been flexing and posing and he didn't like that suddenly it was very obvious **_why_**.

Shit, he'd been so fucking stupid – and Steve had been the one who flat out told him that Bucky wasn't his type. Steve was the one who had been against the whole 'fake' thing from the start, and Bucky had railroaded him into it.

And how fucking stupid did it make him? The fact that he was the one getting jealous? The fact that he was the one that was going to end up fucking hurt. That wasn't the plan. Shit, the plan had been a great plan.

"God, I thought he was gonna bust out of that t-shirt if he flexed one more time." Steve said, once they were out of the crowded house and standing in the front yard, shoulders almost touching, arms at their sides. Normall Bucky would throw an arm around Steve's shoulders, but now it seemed… weird. There were a few people outside, because Tony had probably invited the whole mall, but it was a lot less oppressive outside. He sounded a little strained, like he'd picked up on Bucky's stupid importune realisation. Fuck. He didn't want Steve to feel awkward.

"Man, tell me about it." He grinned, maybe a bit too manically. "You think they've got a hiring manifesto that says you gotta look like you could bench press a truck if you wanna work there?"

Steve laughed. Bucky liked being the one that made Steve laugh, he noticed. He liked how the sound would brighten up his day, like he was some fucking love-sick teenager. Hell, the high school girls who swooned over the counter probably had more game than he did. "Yeah, I bet they've got weights in the back." Steve pointed out. "And a wall of snapbacks for every occasion."

"The formal snapback." Bucky joked, "For those corporate meetings."

Steve laughed again, sounding a little less like he wanted to bolt. "The smell of Axe in the back must be suffocating."

"Every 14 year old boys wet dream." Bucky grinned, "Snaps and Axe." He got an elbow to the gut and a good natured snort of laughter for that, and for a moment, it all seemed to be going okay. "You wanna bounce?"

"Sure." Steve agreed. "It's not my thing here, anyway."

* * *

Steve had been to Buckys apartment more than a few times in the two months they'd been 'fake dating' – normally to watch TV and eat pizza while Bucky either sorted out his laundry or cleaned his apartment. It wasn't like they snuggled up on the couch or anything – so when they got inside and Bucky headed into the kitchen, Steve didn't think twice about grabbing the remote and throwing himself on the couch with a huff.

"Dog Cops or," He flipped through some channels at random. "Some documentary about the war?"

Bucky's reply was a snort as he walked back through, two beers in his hand, handing one to Steve. "You know I've got Netflix, man. We don't have to watch this shit."

"Please, you love Dog Cops."

"Everyone loves Dog Cops." Bucky shot back, before settling into the other side of the couch. "It's **_dogs_**. That are **_cops_**."

"Hmmm." Steve agreed, kicking off his shoes to get a bit more comfortable. Buckys couch wasn't as comfortable as his, but his TV was bigger, so it all evened out in the end. Because the whole thing felt so familiar, it was easy for him to ignore the earlier panic over his feelings for Bucky. He was probably over-reacting anyway, he thought, glancing over at the other man, who was taking a swig of his beer, throat working as he swallowed. Steve was probably just a bit stressed from the party. His eyes drifted over Bucky's body, taking in the firmness of his abs in his shirt (he did crunches before work, he'd told Steve once) and the way his thighs looked in those jeans, and blinked. Yeah, totally just the stress of the party. He certainly wasn't thinking about how it would feel to get his hands all over that firm body, to find out what it would feel like to have Bucky pinning him down… the taste of his mouth…

He looked up at Bucky, only to find the other man was looking right at him. Steve snapped his head towards the screen, face flushing at having been caught blatantly checking Bucky out. That wasn't cool.

* * *

Holy shit.

Steve had totally been checking him out. Bucky wasn't a fucking idiot, he knew when someone was eyeing him up, and Steve was most definitely checking him out. And going on the blush that was working its way over his face, he hadn't wanted Bucky to notice.

"Hey, you know what?" He said, taking another drink of his beer. He wouldn't have minded being a little more buzzed, just so he'd have an excuse if everything went wrong, but fuck it – they could both be fucknig skirting around the same issue for another 2 months, and Bucky wasn't into that.

"Hmm?" Steve said, not taking his eyes off the TV. Bucky was pretty sure the advertisement about vitamins for the over 80's wasn't what was keeping his attention firmly fixed.

"I was thinking, you know, this whole fake boyfriend thing's worked pretty good, huh?"

"Sure." Steve said, eyes on the TV. His blush had hit his ears, they were burning red. "Yeah."

"You ever think maybe we're not just faking it though?" He asked, looking at the TV. "I mean, we go out once a week for something to eat or a movie or whatever, every other night you're here, or I'm at yours…" He could see the way Steve was clutching at his beer, knuckles going white under the stress. "Pretty much the only thing we **_aint_** doing is making out."

"I guess."

"You wanna see if it feels weird?"

* * *

It didn't feel weird.

* * *

"You guys ditched pretty quick last night." Tony said, as Steve ate his hotdog and Bucky served another gaggle of teenage girls. There was a hicky just under the collar of his shirt, and although Steve knew the girls couldn't see it, the idea that they **_might_** made him feel weirdly smug.

"Yeah, sorry about that." Steve said, mouth full.

"You don't sound sorry." Tony pointed out. "You sound completely unconcerned."

"Hmm?" Steve managed, trying to stop the onions from falling off the bun and landing on his own uniform. "No, uh, sorry. Headache."

"Yeah, sure." Tony snorted. "Had nothing to do with your boy looking at you like he was gonna suck our soul out through your-"

"What the hell you want, Stark?" Bucky cut in. The girls weren't quite gone, hanging around at the edge of the counter and looking at Bucky through their eyelashes. They giggled when Bucky swore, nudging each other as they tried to listen in.

"Just wondering where you and the boy wonder snuck off to last night." Tony shrugged. "People tend not to leave my parties early. It's a point of personal pride."

"We had plans."

"Yeah? Those plans involve bad touching one another?"

"Yeah." Bucky shot back. "It did."

"TMI, dude." Stark said, holding up his hands to stop Bucky from talking.

Steve wiped his fingers on the paper napkin and shrugged. "You're the one who asked."

"Yeah, but you guys have been strictly PG – no sucking face in the loading bays or quickies in the basement. I'd know. There are cameras. I figured you were faking it for some unknown reason."

"Nope." Steve shot back. Maybe a little too quick, because Tony turned to look at him, eyes calculating.

"Firstly, the camera thing is creepy. Secondly, if I wanna leave a party early to screw my boyfriend, I can." Bucky said, sounding amused.

"Oh, really? So it just so happened that the two most hopeless stick-in-the-muds in this place, the two guys who've managed to screw up every date they were ever sent on, just magically found one another? That's what you're trying to tell me?" He looked at Steve and smirked. "You've managed to fool everyone else in this place, but I know. I **_know_**."

Bucky snorted. "This look like a fake relationship to you, buddy?" He grinned, lifting up his shirt. Steve remembered leaving the hickie, but he certainly didn't remember holding onto Bucky's hips so tight that there were slight finger shaped bruises on his hips. The girls (and Steve, he'll admit) at the end of the counter dissolved into gasps and breathless giggles at the sight of Bucky's abs.

Tony glared, pulling his sunglasses back on like a total douche, and walked away without acknowledging either of them – although Steve was pretty sure he could hear him muttering to himself 'I was so sure!' as he walked away.

"That wasn't necessary." Steve pointed out, taking a drink from the soda beside him.

"You loved it."

"Still." Steve shrugged, not even bothering to deny it. "You'll be known as the guy that flashed the entire food court from now on."

"I work at a Wiener Soldier, where the monthly special is a 12 inch with special sauce." Bucky pointed out, eyebrows waggling comically. "They're lucky my abs were **_all_** I flashed."

The girls at the end of the end of the counter dissolved into a heap of giggles, all of them blushing hard, although probably not as hard as Steve was.

"You're a Jerk." He managed.

"Yeah, yeah." Bucky grinned, nodding as the girls finally left, sliding tips into the jar as they went. Steve saw a few phone numbers too – but couldn't find it in himself to care.

After all, he had a few matching bruises of his own.


	46. (E) H800 - Halcyon by Terminallydepraved

Halcyon  
Terminallydepraved

Summary:  
Hank gave in to the urge to bury his face in his hands. This was just… Fuck, he was too innocent looking. Those wide eyes, the soft looking lips. He stared at Hank like he hung the sun and stars, and here Hank was, projecting. Again.

Something brushed his shoulder and Hank couldn't help but jump. He flinched away and moved his hands, but it was just Connor. It was always just Connor, standing a little too close, probing when Hank was at his worst. Standing at his side with worry in his eyes, staring up at him, and… Fuck.

He was too old for this. He was too old and broken and fucked up to deserve this, but Connor made it too easy to want it anyway.

* * *

Hank could admit to leaning on some tendencies that could certainly be considered self-destructive. When things got tough, when the world became too much to handle, everyone who knew him knew where to find him: at the bottom of a bottle in the nearest bar. He'd fucked himself up with booze and vice and self-loathing, and when that failed to get him where he wanted, he'd go further.

Hank was not what one would call a healthy individual. And Connor, helpful little lap dog that he was, had noticed.

"Come on, Lieutenant!" Connor chirped half a block ahead of him. "Three more miles to go!"

Forget drinking himself into oblivion, Hank thought. For a torture this pronounced, throwing himself into traffic was the only option left.

He threw a hand towards his hair and shoved the sweaty, matted locks out of his face, forcing himself to jog a little faster. Sumo barked encouragingly from Connor's side, far too happy to be out of the house to bother taking Hank's side in this torture.

In hindsight, it hadn't sounded that bad. Getting in shape again, running with a partner. Saying yes to Connor had felt the same as making a New Year's resolution. Something you did to make yourself feel like you were going to get your life together, but never actually went through with doing. Hank was used to breaking promises to himself. What he wasn't used to was being held accountable for them.

"Fucking Connor," he grunted, though wheezed was probably more accurate.

"Did you say something, Lieutenant?"

Hank glowered. "Just that I'm going to have a heart attack and then you'll be sorry you made me fucking _jog _," he spat. It was so fucking early too, and on a Saturday even. Fucking torture. That's what this was, and Connor was the sadist responsible.

Connor raised a brow and fucking… Christ, fucking jogged backwards to look at him without slowing the pace. Sumo kept on trotting at his side happily, not even sparing a look at his owner to see the cruelty being dished out on him. "Now, Lieutenant," Connor began chiding, "you know as well as I do that being healthy is important. I can see from your current vitals that you are in no danger of going into cardiac arrest. Your current heart rate is—"

Hank didn't want to hear it, so he drowned out the number with a loud, ill-advised groan. It took up breath he didn't have, but damn if it didn't feel good to shut Connor up. "Keep running like that and you'll hit a fuckin' tree," he gasped, the heat of his words lost in the effort of getting them out at all. "Trip him, Sumo. It'd serve him right."

Sumo let out a low bark, tail wagging and tongue lolling, drool dripping from his jowls as he moved a little faster. Connor smiled at the dog and Hank just hung his head. Even his own damn dog had turned on him. Traitors. He was surrounded by traitors.

Connor gave him a look that was every ounce the pedantic, patronizing brat he was. Dark brown eyes rolled, an unnecessary sigh falling past Connor's lips. His LED cycled yellow, then blue. "We can take a break here," Connor relented, coming to a stop at the corner. He immediately went down on his knees to pet Sumo, scratching behind his floppy ears as a reward for keeping up. "Please try to regain your strength within the next ten minutes, Lieutenant, else we will fall behind schedule."

Hank longed to tell him exactly what he thought of that, but there was no way to manage when his entire body screamed at him to sit the fuck down. He wobbled the last few steps and collapsed beside Connor on the cement, bringing a burning hand to his sweaty hair to push it out of his face. He sucked in deep lungfuls of air, and bit by bit his vision seemed to return to normal.

God, he was out of shape. Sumo was pushing forty in dog years and he still seemed to be doing better than him, and all he did all day was lay around the house and shed.

He flinched when something cold touched his cheek. Hank recoiled, nearly losing his balance and toppling backwards. He was spared an embarrassing accident when Connor grabbed him by the shoulder, righting him easily. A small water bottle was in his other hand. Hank frowned at it.

"What's this?" he rasped, skin prickling uncomfortably as the sweat dried on him.

"Water, Lieutenant," Connor reported, holding it out to him once more. "Hydration is very important during prolonged physical activity."

"I know that," Hank blustered, snatching the water from Connor. He wrestled with the cap and managed to get it off before Connor could offer to help, and then downed it all in one go. The cool water soothed his burning throat. He lowered his hand and gasped for breath, hanging his head while his body throbbed in pain.

"I'll recycle this," Connor murmured, kneeling down to take the empty bottle from Hank's lax hand. "You've done remarkably well today, Lieutenant. I'm very proud of you."

Groaning would be rude. Hank knotted his fingers in his fringe and resisted the urge to be rude.

"Thanks," he muttered, lifting his head just enough to watch Connor walk Sumo over to the nearest recycling bin. God, Connor's shorts were short. Where did he even get those? The get up could only be called peppy at best, and the neat white athletic top Connor wore with the shorts just added to the realization that Hank was reaching his threshold for the day.

To be honest, Hank was proud of himself for holding out this long too. Ever since the android revolution, life had become… different. Good different, bad different— the demarcation was too narrow to make out. All Hank knew was that Connor was now a permanent fixture in his life. A partner at the precinct, a partner on his runs. Hell, Connor practically lived with him now despite the fact that the android could make a life of his own if he so chose. Free will and all that.

But nah. Nah, Connor had decided to saddle himself with Hank, and for better or worse, Hank was growing used to it.

Worst of all, he thought as he watched Connor toss the bottle in the bin and lean down to pet Sumo, was that he was beginning to like it too.

He lowered his head when Connor stood back up. The company he liked. These runs, he absolutely hated. Fucking exercise. He should have known by those less than subtle burger comments that Connor wasn't going to drop the topic of Hank's abysmal eating habits. The change in diet was one thing, but these torture runs were so much worse. Letting someone care was… Well, it was fucking painful. But Connor was persistent. Persistent and sincere and entirely too good for someone as washed up as him.

Hank blinked as a dark spot formed on the cement. His brow furrowed. That better not be… Oh, fucking Christ. He grimaced as another appeared, and then another. Forcing himself up, Hank looked up at the sky and swore loudly at the black, swollen clouds gathering overhead. Rain began to speckle his face.

Fuck.

"Connor, it's fucking raining," he said, swearing louder when the rain just came down harder.

Connor paused at his side and looked up at the sky as well. "It certainly is, Lieutenant," he reported, completely unbothered by the rapidly worsening weather. Sumo seemed fairly unbothered too. Hank frowned as his dog shook, flecking them both with more water. That was going to be wonderful to deal with once they got home. He resigned himself to the stench of wet dog invading his evening, and then he turned his attention back to Connor.

"So, you gonna call a cab for us or what?"

"A cab?"

Hank raised a brow and then startled a bit when a crack of thunder rumbled in the air. Sumo let out a pitiful whine. He reached out a hand to soothe his dog, sighing under his breath. "Yeah, Connor, a cab. I didn't exactly bring my phone with me," he muttered. No damn pockets on these decade old sweats of his. He was a bit surprised they even fit still, but that was neither here nor there.

Instead of an affirmative, Connor's LED flickered yellow. For some reason the sight sent a wave of dismay through Hank. Police instinct, he figured, and it was rarely wrong. The light flickered blue. Connor smiled.

"I think this is the perfect motivation to help you finish your run, Lieutenant," Connor recited pleasantly as the rain soaked his carefully styled hair. "Consider this your cool down."

Hank stared at him as the rain fell harder. "You… Connor, you can't be fucking serious!" He looked around desperately for any sign of a bus or taxi. The street was empty though, and even if it wasn't, he knew well enough they'd never let them on with a dog. Fuck.

Connor smiled widely. Hank hated how he looked great even soaking wet. "Let's get going," he said brightly, tugging on Sumo's leash to coax the dog into standing. "First one home wins!"

"What… Wins what!?" Hank shouted as Connor took off without another look back. Hank swore lustily as he watched the damn android jog off in perfect form, Sumo keeping pace easily as they crossed the street. Hank took off after them, knees aching, lungs burning. "Fucking hell, at least pretend I might win, you asshole!"

If he'd thought the run there had been torture, the run home was absolute hell. Hank struggled to keep up with Connor's inhuman stamina, and with every sheet of rain that came down, it brought with it another puddle to splash through, another lock of hair plastered in his eyes, and another mouthful of rainwater that didn't taste nearly as nice as the bottle of water had. Eventually Connor noticed and slowed his pace. He even encouraged him every step of the way, but it didn't hide the fact that Hank was running two and a half miles in the pouring rain, half blind and wholly exhausted.

By the time they reached Hank's neighborhood, Hank was on his last legs. His legs trembled as he walked the final steps to the door, and he shoved his keys at Connor blindly, letting the android unlock the door so he could sag against the outer wall and wheeze for the breath he couldn't seem to catch.

"I'm very proud of you, Lieutenant," Connor said, opening the door with ease. God, it was dark inside, but fuck him if he cared. "We've exceeded our target mile goal for the day, and you'll be pleased to know you burned over five hundred calories overall."

He'd be pleased to get the fuck inside and collapse on the floor, actually, but Hank didn't have the energy to say as much. He just pushed past Connor and used the wall for support until he made it to the living room. The curtains hid what little light the street might have offered the room, but muscle memory was one hell of a crutch, both while inebriated or blind. Errantly he heard the sound of Sumo being unleashed, and it was a testament to his own exhaustion that he didn't have the wherewithal to warn Connor about the imminent mess Sumo was about to make.

"Sumo, no!" Connor yelped like clockwork. Hank managed a wry smile before face planting on the couch, body trembling and muscles aching.

"You better clean that up," he mumbled, searching blindly for the bottle of beer he'd left half-drunk on the coffee table the night before.

The sound of glass on wood prompted Hank to lift his head. Connor was standing beside him now, the beer bottle in hand. "I'll clean the living room, starting with this," he said, lifting it out of reach. "Please hydrate with water, Lieutenant. You'll find it works better than alcohol."

Hank scowled, shoving himself upright. "I think _you'll _find that I've had my fill of water for the day," he said blandly, gesturing at his soaked sweats. He made a swipe for the beer bottle, but Connor was already moving towards the kitchen. Hank sagged into the couch and groaned. Not loud enough to drown out the sound of Connor pouring the rest of the beer down the sink, though.

Sumo, fresh from shaking the excess water from his coat, meandered through the living room and towards his dog bed. Hank watched him plop down in the cushions and pillow his head on his paws. Lucky bastard. A nap sounded ideal, but Hank had a feeling Connor wasn't done with him yet. Already he could hear the android on his way back from the kitchen. Hank rolled his head on his shoulder, giving Connor a bitter look that Connor returned with a placid smile.

"I bet you're proud of yourself," Hank snipped.

Connor, still dripping water from his hair and clothes, furrowed his brow. "Proud? I suppose I am feeling some measure of contentment at the results we've achieved. You did well today. I had fun."

Hank stared at him in disbelief. "You had _fun?" _he repeated. God, Connor really was a sadist. "Well, fuck then. Glad you enjoyed torturing me."

Putting his hands on his hips, Connor… Fuck, he _pouted _. Hank balked at the sight. It was… Well, it was a cute look on him. Damn.

"Okay, okay, fine," Hank relented when Connor's stupid pout didn't. He held up his hands and looked lower, hiding from Connor's gaze. "It wasn't torture. But God, Connor. I'm old. You can't work me like a dog and expect me to like it."

A bead of water rolled down Connor's cheek, down his neck to disappear in the collar of his shirt. In the quiet darkness of the house, the storm outside seemed distant. Hank fidgeted a little and put a hand on the back of the couch, pushing himself onto his feet. He was going to get sick if he sat around in these clothes all night getting guilt tripped by a doe-eyed android.

"Do you have a change of clothes here?" Hank muttered, sighing when he heard Connor follow him towards the bathroom. Just like a poodle. The thick cotton of his sweatshirt stuck to his chest uncomfortably, the sweatpants sticking and sagging from the weight of the water it'd collected along the way. "Fuck, this is a mess," he grunted, flicking on the light. "Can't believe you made me run home in that monsoon."

"It isn't a monsoon, Lieutenant," Connor corrected helpfully in the doorway. "And I didn't consider the need for another outfit."

Hank pulled a couple towels from the closet and threw one to Connor. The other he used to dry his matted hair. "I bet you didn't," he sighed, looking at Connor in the light. Which was a mistake, he realized a little too late to do him any good.

The white of Connor's shirt hadn't survived the deluge. It clung tightly to his body, see-through and sheer. The rough towel mussed his dark hair as he perfunctorily began to dry himself, but the lifting of his arms only made his shirt cling all the closer to his trim chest. Hank saw Connor's mouth move, off-handedly heard his voice rattle off another bout of observations, suggestions, and nit-picky thoughts on the water, Hank's health, and the carpet's cleanliness. He knew Connor thought he was listening. But Hank wasn't. He wasn't listening at all.

All he could really focus on was the way the light showed the pale pink tease of Connor's nipples hidden just beneath the thin layer of fabric.

It was a stupid thing to get caught on. Infinitely stupid. Of course Connor was anatomically correct. He was an advanced prototype, the best Cyberlife had to offer. No expense had been spared in making him the epitome of artificial life. From the way his damp hair curled as it dried to the humanistic reaction of cool air against biomechanically warmed skin, Connor was perfect. Hank wasn't sure why he had expected any different.

He really wasn't sure why it made his blood burn either.

"Is there something wrong, Lieutenant?"

Hank jerked his head up and looked Connor in the eye. Shit. Connor had that curious expression again, his eyes no doubt scanning Hank to figure out what had him out of sorts this time. Would he even be able to notice? Would the idea that maybe he was the distraction phase those pre-conceived program parameters of his?

"No, Connor," Hank said with a sigh, forcing himself to hobble out of the bathroom. "I'm just peachy keen."

Connor moved back a few steps, rainwater still trickling down his cheeks and shirt. He cocked his head to the side the same way Sumo did when he heard something strange in the distance. "Are you sure?" Connor probed, because of fucking course he would. "My readings tell me you are exhibiting symptoms atypical with with lethargy or inebriation. Was our run too long for you today? Should I reconfigure our future outings with this reaction in mind—"

"Would you just stop analyzing things for two seconds?" Hank cut in, holding up his hands in surrender. "Jesus Christ, it's not your fault, okay?"

Connor blinked. He almost looked surprised. He folded his hands in front of him, his fingertips meeting to form a steeple against his sternum. An odd tick, Hank had noticed. Connor had a lot of them once you really started to look for them.

"I wasn't implying it was my fault," Connor said quietly. His warm brown eyes turned towards Hank, a sheepish look taking root on his young face. "But regardless, I am… concerned, I suppose, as to the cause."

Hank gave in to the urge to bury his face in his hands. This was just… Fuck, he was too innocent looking. Those wide eyes, the soft looking lips. He stared at Hank like he hung the sun and stars, and here Hank was, projecting. Again.

Something brushed his shoulder and Hank couldn't help but jump. He flinched away and moved his hands, but it was just Connor. It was always just Connor, standing a little too close, probing when Hank was at his worst. Standing at his side with worry in his eyes, staring up at him, and… Fuck.

He was too old for this. He was too old and broken and fucked up to deserve this, but Connor made it too easy to want it anyway.

"Lieutenant?"

Hank cleared his throat and averted his eyes. His face felt a bit warm. "It's nothing, Connor," he mumbled. "Just drop it."

But Connor just cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. He assessed Hank as if he were a crime scene. Well, sort of like a crime scene. If Connor tried to fucking lick him, they'd have a bigger problem on their hands than just whatever it was happening right now. Hank took a step back and fiddled with the towel he held, wiping his already dry face for want of something to do. He was beginning to feel a big chilly now that the heat of the run had ebbed away. He'd need to get some new clothes for Connor too.

"Are you perhaps feeling desire, Lieutenant?" Connor asked, aplomb nothing.

Hank dropped the towel. He couldn't quite find the words to answer that. Connor, of course, took that as invitation to go on.

"Your pupils dilated when you looked at me, and your core temperature increased slightly as well," he rattled off, as cool as a cucumber. He even bent down to pick up the towel, folding it over his arm as he continued on. "Perspiration began despite the lack of physical exertion. Subconscious body language cues of your lips, hands, eye movements all point to a sense of sexual desire. Am I wrong?"

For some reason it felt like being on trial. If he got defensive, it'd just make him look even more guilty. Hank swallowed and avoided Connor's gaze.

"How long have you wanted to have sex with me?"

Hank nearly choked. On his spit, on his shock, on _something _undefinable. He looked at Connor with wide eyes, hating how the damn android didn't even have the decency to look embarrassed asking a question like that. "Fucking hell, Connor," Hank muttered, crossing his arms to glare at anything that wasn't Connor. "Where do you get off saying shit like that?"

That damn yellow glow again. Connor frowned. "Am I…" He paused, bringing his hand to his chin in a startlingly human gesture. He looked down at his feet. "Am I misunderstanding something? You're exhibiting signs of attraction, and since I am the only one here, it must be in regards to myself."

"That doesn't mean you need to- to fuckin' say it out loud!" Hank shot. God, he sounded so defensive. Aw fuck, and now Connor was looking at him with that kicked puppy look of his. "Jesus, just… Goddamnit Connor. Just ignore me. I'm not gonna sit here and project on you—"

"Project?" Connor interjected. Now he was staring harder. He took a step closer. "Lieutenant, do you believe I don't reciprocate? Is that the source of your discomfort with this subject?"

Hank tried not to look at Connor like he was stupid. He probably failed in that, but what else was new? "You're a fuckin' android, Connor," he said, speaking slowly to make sure he understood. "I'm not the kind of sleazebag who'd go around humping the leg of something that doesn't feel the same."

Connor curled his hand into a loose fist, holding it to his chin as he analyzed Hank from head to toe. "And what evidence do you have that states I don't feel the same?" he wondered, processing it the way he might a case.

It was getting increasingly harder to keep his incredulity in check. "Are you really going to stand there and tell me that you— you, what? Want to fuck me?" Hank's head spun at the thought alone.

A blink. The smallest glimpse of a yellow light. "Yes," Connor said, lowering his hand. "Yes, I would stand here and tell you that."

Hank gaped.

Connor smiled. He walked a little closer. "Does that surprise you?" he asked.

Does that… "Yes, it fucking surprises me," Hank shot, taking a step back until he was firmly in the living room once more. God, he needed a drink. What the hell was this day turning into? He rubbed at his temples and glanced at Connor's eager little smile. "Do you even know what you're saying?"

"I think I'm saying that I'd like to have sex with you."

Hank turned on his heel and made a beeline for the kitchen. Specifically, for the bottle of whiskey he kept hidden behind the cereal where Connor hadn't quite noticed yet. "You need to run a diagnostic test," he muttered. Some bug in the program, obviously. That's all this was—

"Diagnostics ran. There is no flaw in my system," Connor recited helpfully, following him into the kitchen. Hank opened up a cabinet and shoved the boxes of cereal out of the way, searching for that elusive bottle. He gritted his teeth and went up on his toes when he didn't feel cool glass. "If you are looking for your whiskey, I disposed of it last week."

Hank lowered himself woodenly, turning with a glare. He closed the cabinet door a little harder than was strictly necessary. "If you expect me to have this conversation while sober, you've got another thing coming."

"Really?" Connor asked. "Like what?"

Like what? "Like… Like… Don't sass me right now, Connor," Hank grimaced, giving up. "I'm not in the mood."

"Because you're in the mood to be intimate with me," the android offered up. "I understand."

Hank stared at the ceiling, begging for God—any God at all— to end him here and now. "This cannot be happening," he said. "You work me within an inch of my life, make me run home in the goddamn _rain, _and now you tell me you want to have sex with me."

Connor came a little bit closer. The glow of his LED casted a cool blue light on Hank's chest. "In my defense," he murmured, "you did express your interest first."

"Why?" Hank scowled, only to grimace a second later when Connor put his hands on his chest. "Why on earth would you want me of all people?" A whiskey-soaked mess of a man whose closest friend was a dog because no one else would put up with him. Sure, it wasn't as if Connor had other acquaintances. But still.

Yellow light. Processing. Then blue.

Dark brown eyes sought out Hank's, and Hank was too weak to avoid them. With him this close, Hank could just about count each eyelash, each little artificial blemish speckling his skin like rain. "Because I like you, Lieutenant," Connor said simply, earnestly. "Do I need more of a reason than that?"

Yes. Yes, he needed more of a reason than that. He needed a thousand reasons, but even if he had them, Hank was sure he'd have a rebuttal for each and every one of them. And when it came down to it… When it came down to it, Hank was tired. He was cold and tired and aching and weak, and Connor was so close. He was close enough to make it easy to give in.

So, Hank gave in.

Connor didn't have time to process things. Or maybe he did. Hank wouldn't pretend to understand how his mind worked. All he knew was Connor allowed the kiss to happen. Hank found Connor's hips and held them tight, tugging him closer, lifting him just a little until he went onto his toes. Soft lips moved against his own awkwardly. Connor kept his eyes open. Hank closed his own for the sake of his own sanity.

This was probably Connor's first kiss. No, it definitely was. Connor wasn't good at this. His lips moved gracelessly, his jaw locked and his head slightly off angle. Their noses bumped and Hank broke the kiss with a bit of a laugh. Connor stared at him curiously but smiled back after a moment's pause. Weird. It was a weird kiss with a weird android and Connor through and through.

"Does… Does this mean we're going to have sex?" Connor asked carefully.

Hank swallowed. "Is that really what you want?"

There was no need to process anything. Connor simply nodded his head, his hands closing into fists against Hank's chest.

"Go wait in the bedroom," Hank breathed, sweating already. "I gotta… I gotta do something first. Okay?"

Connor lowered himself back onto the floor. Hank's knees went a little weak when that pink slip of a tongue peeked out to wet soft lips. Lips he knew were far softer than they had any right to be. "Alright, Lieutenant," he said.

"Hank," he corrected, shaking his head. He cleared his throat a little. His voice sounded so low. "It's… It's Hank when we're like this."

That earned him a smile. "Alright, Hank," Connor whispered, pulling away to head to the bedroom. Hank braced himself on the counter and watched him until he slipped through the door. Out of sight but certainly not out of mind.

"Holy shit," he mumbled, reaching blindly for a glass beside the sink. No booze, so water would have to do. Fuck. He filled the glass and downed the water in one gulp, wiping his chin when it trickled into his beard. This was… This was insane, right? Fucking insane. But God, if this wasn't a dream…

He wanted it. He wanted this so bad he could scream.

His hand shook as he set the glass on the counter. Connor was waiting for him. He… He needed to go in there.

Despite the water, Hank's mouth felt so very dry. He closed his eyes and pushed away from the counter, combing his hair out of his face. It was now or never, he thought, looking towards the bedroom. Connor hadn't bothered to turn on the lights. What was he doing in there? His cheeks colored at what his imagination conjured up.

_Now or never _, he mouthed, forcing himself to take the first step. It was just Connor. Gorgeous, weird Connor. There was nothing there that could surprise him more than hearing the android say he wanted this. Everything from here on out would be a cakewalk compared to that.

When Hank moved finally entered the bedroom, he found…

Oh, Jesus Christ.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, staring at how Connor was sitting on the bed. Prim and proper and acting like they were at the office, Connor sat with his spine straight and his hands neatly resting on his thighs. The android blinked owlishly at him, cocking his head curiously. Hank dragged a hand down his face. It was like Connor was waiting to be evaluated.

"I am… I am waiting for you to join me, Lieu— Hank," he said, only stumbling a little as he backtracked the title. Connor's hands curled into fists against his thighs. The shorts he wore rode up a little, baring another inch or two of flawless pale skin. "Am I supposed to be doing something else right now?"

The LED flickered yellow, prompting Connor to stand up before Hank could say something. His hands immediately went to his waistband. In a quick, decisive move, he pulled down his shorts and stepped out of them, his long, lithe legs nearly glowing in the low light of the room. Tight black briefs covered his lower half, nondescript and unassuming. Hank's brain stuttered at the sight. If he had his own LED, he had to wager it'd be stuck on yellow and spiralling for traction he couldn't find.

It was when those pale hands moved to grip the bottom hem of Connor's shirt that Hank finally found his voice. He crossed the room in a flash and grabbed Connor by the wrists. "Hey, wait a minute," he ordered, biting his lip hard to keep from doing something stupid. "What are you doing now?"

Connor looked at his trapped hands and then up at Hank. "Undressing," he said slowly. "I accessed records on human copulation, and that is what people do when preparing for intercourse, right?"

"Wh- That's—"

"Perhaps undressing isn't absolutely necessary," Connor carried on, closely analyzing the grip Hank had on his wrists. "My knowledge on this topic is rather lacking, but basic logic would dictate that only partial nudity is required for successful copulation. But Hank, wouldn't that increase the likelihood of making a mess?"

Fucking Connor half clothed was an idea that Hank had never entertained before, but damn if he wasn't thinking about it now. Fuck. It'd be so dirty like that. Hank bit down on his lip even harder and forced himself to shake his head. "You need to cool it with the analysis," he said, using his grip on Connor to push him down onto the bed. "Just… slow down, alright? There's no rush. I…"

Hank felt his face burn hot. Connor stared up at him, content to let him hold him in place despite the fact that he could break the hold easily if he so chose.

"I want to undress you myself," Hank mumbled, staring at Connor's shirt to avoid seeing how the android took that. "This is your first time, right? I'm not going to rush it."

Connor sat without a word. His hands stayed in Hank's until he realized he needed to let go. "There's no need to be so considerate," Connor said quietly, looking at Hank with wide, curious eyes. "It's impossible for you to hurt me by moving too fast."

Hank sighed and gave in to the urge to rub the back of his neck. "Just… Just scoot up a bit more, alright? It's not about hurting you. It's about doing this properly." Fuck, did he even have lube left? He rarely kept that around anymore. A quick jerk off in the shower was all he managed to get by with these days. He glanced at Connor as the android seated himself in the center of the bed. He rested his hands on his bare thighs, and that was somehow worse than before.

"I don't mind either way," Connor said matter-of-factly. "I just want to have sex with you."

Jesus fucking Christ. Hank groaned, "Goddammit, Connor."

When it came down to it... that's all Hank wanted too. He couldn't begrudge Connor for being so blunt about it. Hank fisted his hair in a hand, sucked in a deep breath, and climbed onto the bed, blood too hot to fret about stupid shit anymore. Connor moved his hands and leaned back a little, parting his thighs as if he expected it to happen right away. It wouldn't, though. They were going to take their damn time with this, Connor's assertions be damned.

Kissing seemed like the best way to get things going. Hank hooked his hand around Connor's head, tugging him forward until they were close enough to share breath. Connor stared into his eyes. His LED flashed. Processing. Processing. Hank closed the distance between them, kissing him before he could catch up. And this time, Connor did it right. His eyes slowly closed and he leaned into Hank's touch. Soft lips, a warm tongue. Overwhelmingly human but for the taste. Connor tasted like nothing. Like a blank canvas waiting for a brush, and when he parted his lips, Hank deepened it, content to be that brush for as long as he could get away with it.

As they kissed, Hank let his other hand wander. Down Connor's shoulder to his waist, and then lower still. He shifted a little and squeezed Connor's impossibly smooth thigh. God, his body was perfect. Absolutely perfect. He stroked the patch of skin between Connor's hip and groin, thumb catching on the edge of his briefs. Young and fit and still soft in a way he never thought an android could be. Hank opened his eyes and broke the kiss, catching his breath against Connor's cheek. Fuck, he was hard already. It'd been too long since he'd last done something like this. He glanced down, eager to see Connor's reaction.

Instead, Hank froze.

"Hank?" Connor breathed, his voice tickling Hank's cheek. "Is something wrong?"

Is something wrong. Well, that really depended, didn't it? "Is this… I mean, like…" Hank grimaced, staring at Connor's blank expression. Fuck, this was awkward.

Connor just cocked his head. It looked far too innocent, clashing with his half debauched state in the worst way. "Is this what, Hank?" he wondered.

Fuck. Hank brought his hand to Connor's cheek, warring with himself on the sleaziness of it all. "Is this like… _doing _anything for you?" he got out reluctantly. He tried not to stare at Connor's crotch, but with the shorts gone and his tight black briefs the only thing left on his lower half, he felt like it was a more honest judge than Connor's face.

"You're asking if your touch makes me experience sexual desire," Connor gathered evenly, leaning into Hank's hand.

"Yes, Connor," Hank sighed. He gave the android an unimpressed look. "I'm asking if this makes you feel good."

Dark brown eyes met his own, the LED on Connor's forehead flashing yellow for a few seconds. "It's not one of my primary functions," he said, no doubt only just checking for himself. "But I seem to possess the capability. I am not as equipped as models intended for sexual use. Would you like me to download new protocols for this? I can cycle through various personas until we find one that suits you."

Hank was shaking his head before he really processed what Connor was offering. He let go of Connor's cheek to hold his shoulder instead. "Absolutely not," he muttered, feeling like a skeevy old man. Connor really was a virgin, more so in a sense since he didn't even know how to act without additional software.

Connor blinked at him, pressing his hands together. His long, slender fingers were beautiful, really. Not at all like Hank's rough ones. "Then… how would you like me to act, Hank?" the android asked.

"Shit, Connor, I want you to act like you," he said exasperatedly. He looked at Connor and rubbed at his eyes, wondering if this had been a bad idea. "I want you to feel good. I want you to enjoy yourself."

Another whirl of yellow. It took a few seconds for it to turn blue. Connor blinked and then nodded. "I've turned on my pleasure sensors," he reported with a chipper smile. "I have very limited experience to offer you, so please let me know if I'm lacking in any way."

It was Hank's turn to blink blankly. He may have even gaped a little. "You… You what?"

Connor reached for Hank's fallen hand and brought it back to his cheek. This time, instead of just staring at him, he leaned into Hank's touch, the ghost of a gasp issuing from his parted lips. When Hank stroked his cheekbone with an errant swipe of his thumb… Connor closed his eyes.

"I turned on my pleasure sensors," he repeated, quieter now. "I'll feel and experience your touch differently now."

Hank swallowed the knee jerk urge to ask _Differently how? _Asking was a cop out. He leaned in a little closer and guided Connor down, cradling his head in his hand until it rested against a pillow. A bit of a blush teased Connor's high cheekbones. Fuck, he was gorgeous.

"Connor?"

"Yes, Hank?" Connor whispered.

"Let me know if you don't like something I do," Hank said, bringing a hand to the hem of Connor's damp shirt. He let the tips of his fingers trail along Connor's hip, and he shivered when Connor fidgeted in response. "Alright?"

Connor closed his fingers around a handful of bedding, nodding his head. "Alright, Hank."

It was a bit… unsettling? Yeah, unsettling, having to do this with Connor watching him so intently. His big, curious eyes never left Hank for an instant. Hank tried to ignore the way it made him sweat, and instead set himself to testing the waters. It'd been a very long time since he'd last fallen into bed with someone. Even longer still since he had to be the one to guide a virgin through the pitfalls and pleasures of sex. There was a lot of pressure to do it right. Doubly so given what Connor was, what he was offering when he looked at Hank and told him he wanted him. This had to be good. It had to be perfect.

Hank started slow. Connor was already laying down, and if he'd never had his pleasure sensors on before, it'd be best to see how he took a little fondling before they got to anything more intense. He reached out a hand and slipped it beneath Connor's shirt. He pulled back a little when Connor flinched at the touch.

"Everything okay?" he asked, wondering if this was in fact the worst idea he'd ever had.

Connor, though, was quick to shake his head no. "I'm fine," he whispered, relaxing again when Hank began tugging his shirt higher. "The change in sensitivity is something I am still becoming accustomed to. Please, pay me no mind."

And sensitive he was. Hank watched Connor fidget against the sheets as his skin was bared to the open air. His flat stomach, his cute navel, higher and higher until the teasing slip of his chest peeked past the damp shirt. Hank's eyes roved over all of it, drinking in the sight of a perfect body made real. Connor was quiet. Hank… He wanted to change that.

He started by lowering his head to kiss everything he saw.

Connor's skin tasted like rain. Against Hank's lips it felt just as soft and warm as any human's might, perfect in every way. Hank laid himself out along Connor's body, his hands roving beneath the damp shirt, his lips and tongue exploring the chest that had been teasing him since they got home. Connor wiggled and arched. The scrape of Hank's beard against his skin earned him a low, broken keen.

"Pleasure sensors, huh?" Hank mused, kissing a nipple too cute to leave alone. "How much can you feel?"

The LED spiraled yellow. It took Connor a few seconds to find his voice. "My sensors correlate with a typical human's erogenous zones," he rattled off, closing his eyes to gasp when Hank rolled the pad of a thumb over a nipple. "Stimulation of a sexual nature sends impulses to my neural networks to simulate endorphin production."

"In English, Connor." Hank pushed the damp shirt higher, rucking it under Connor's arms until his entire chest was on display. He glanced down. Something was tenting those tight little briefs of his now. He reached out with his fingertips to touch. Connor whimpered pitifully.

"I feel what you are doing to me," he rushed, voice anything but unaffected. His thighs twitched as Hank traced the shape of his cock through the fabric of his briefs. What did it look like? How lifelike was it? "I… Hank, please. Is this teasing?"

"Is this teasing," Hank huffed, smiling despite himself. He gave Connor a humored look and hooked his fingers in the waistband of his briefs, tugging them down his thighs. Connor lifted his hips helpfully, almost eager to be rid of them, and that left the android naked but for his the shirt under his arms and the artificial blush tinging his cheeks red. Hank let out a low whistle.

Cyberlife had outdone themselves with Connor. Hank had limited experience with androids, sure, and even that job at the Eden Club failed to really give him much indication as to how realistic android anatomy normally was, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Connor was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Models couldn't boast of this kind of perfection. Hank drew his hand down Connor's hip, ghosting his knuckles along a slender thigh. Connor's cock was already erect. Flushed slightly at the tip, it looked as picture perfect as the rest of him.

A modest five or so inches long and slender like the rest of him. His balls were tight and so completely unnecessary given what Connor was, but accuracy was important in these things, Hank had to think.

When he took Connor in hand and got a choked little yelp in return, it hit Hank that they were really about to do this. This. Sex. With Connor. He never thought he'd see the day where he wished he'd paid more attention to the break room talk that always rose up after long weekends. The beat cops weren't strangers to the clubs. As nauseating as it had been, it might have proven education at a time like this. Trailing his fingers along the length, Hank let out a huff. "Can you… come?" he asked, glancing up at Connor's dazed face. God, he looked so good like this.

"Y-Yes," the android said, voice shaking slightly as his hips sought more from his hand in little abortive thrusts. "I'm able to ejaculate once optimal stimulation is achieved."

Hank gripped Connor fully in his palm and gave him a few pointed strokes. "If you can still manage to say the word "ejaculate," I'm obviously not touching you enough." He shook his head in disbelief, his expression softening when Connor let out a broken moan. The flushed tip of his cock was beginning to bead with something that looked an awful lot like precum. "What is this stuff?"

Connor forced his eyes to open so he could look down at what Hank meant. He didn't manage to look for long; his eyes shut tightly a second later, his head rolling back on the pillow to face the ceiling instead. "A composite mixture of biodegradable lubricant and non-toxic binder to achieve a c-consistency synon- _ngh _, synonymous with human e-e-ejac-" He stammered on the word, letting out a gasp that sounded like something from a porno. "H-Hank, I c-can't focus like this."

Hank, who had been speeding up the movements of his hand the longer Connor made his explanation, just grinned. "That's the point, Connor," he said, leaning down to chase Connor's lips with his own. He found them easily enough, kissing Connor until he was sure the android was nearing the point of no return. He could feel how tight his body was wound. The LED cycled through a burst of yellow to blue to yellow again. He pulled away and slowed his hand when it settled on yellow fully.

It took a few moments for Connor to open his eyes. A smattering of heartbeats in the darkness. His fingers clutched the sheets beneath him, and when he finally looked at Hank, it was with awe in his dark, dark eyes. His cock twitched against his thigh, flushed like the real thing.

"That felt… That felt nice," he breathed, his voice just a whisper. Wide eyed and innocent, he looked to Hank for more.

"It'll get better," Hank promised him, leaning back to rest on his haunches. "Take off your shirt. It'll just get in the way."

Sitting up, Connor shucked his shirt and held it a little awkwardly in his hand. "Are you going to undress, too?" he asked, setting his shirt aside when he realized it might get ruined if he kept it near. Naked and flushed, his gaze sent Hank's heart pounding harder than the run had.

The question didn't help things in the slightest. Hank stiffened a little and glanced down at the damp sweats he still wore. His dick was about as hard as sheetrock, and with all the excitement going on, he was sweating beneath the thick layers. He rested a hand on his stomach and winced. He hadn't been jogging nearly enough to make him want to be on display with someone like Connor in the room.

"Nah," he said, looking up. "You don't want to see all this."

Connor cocked his head a little, leaning back on his hands with his legs spread just enough to be salacious. "What makes you think that?" he wondered quietly, LED light casting his body in a pale blue glow. All it accomplished was showcasing just how beautiful he was. Hank felt like glancing down would be enough to answer the question for him. But, knowing Connor, he wouldn't grasp the obvious quite so easily.

Hank shifted on the bed, his fingers worrying at the ratty hem of his sweater. Some old police academy thing, worn out in places and only good for getting stained or ripped or sweated on. He tried to ignore the obvious parallels. "Shit, Connor, because why would you?" He let go of his shirt to rub at his eyes. If there was one way to kill a hard on, this might be it. "I'm not exactly a spring chicken."

"No," Connor said, still staring, still hard, still unbearably attractive. "You're Hank."

"Yeah, and Hank is a… a… What are you doing?" The question nearly didn't make it out. Hank swallowed on nothing, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth as Connor laid back on the bed and spread his legs. A graceful hand moved between them, brushing past his hard cock to probe at his entrance carefully.

"I want to have sex with you," Connor said with a determined air. His brow was even furrowed in concentration. "I'd like it if you took your clothes off. Either way, I'm going to have sex with you. Because I want you."

"...Goddammit, Connor," Hank muttered, closing his eyes before he lost control entirely. With a deep breath and another muffled swear, Hank yanked off his shirt and tossed it off the bed. The cool air of the bedroom prickled his skin uncomfortably, but the look Connor gave him warmed him back up immediately. It was a struggle to meet Connor's gaze head on. He managed somehow, but only because he had to. "At least let me do that."

Connor moved his hand away immediately. A ruse. His smile was bright enough to soothe away Hank's frustration, though. "Of course, Hank," he murmured, lifting a hand to Hank's chest. His fingers were warm when they touched, gentle as they assessed his soft flesh and the hair thick along his sternum. They paused on a scar here or there. Bullet wounds and surgeries over the years had left their mark. For a moment, he looked like he wanted to ask about them. But only for a moment.

Dark eyes met Hank's. "Please remove your pants, Hank," Connor requested, letting his hand fall to his side. "Then we can begin."

This was fucking unreal. All of it. Every last bit. Hank swallowed roughly, letting out a hiss of a sigh as he yanked the sweats off his hips and down his legs. It was graceless and rough; they tangled around his ankles a bit and Hank grunted as he kicked at them until they fell to the floor. The cool air raised the hair on his thighs and arms, but the precise, focused look in Connor's watchful eyes warmed him back up again before it could do more than make Hank shiver.

"Happy now?" Hank asked.

Connor nodded. "Very. Now," he said, looking between Hank's legs and then his own. "How do we proceed?"

Proceed? That was an awfully polite way to put it. Hank raised a brow and leaned a little closer, shuffling until he was situated between Connor's parted legs. He ran a hand down the length of a thigh, squeezing when Connor's eyelids fluttered from the touch. He kept a careful eye on Connor's expression as he moved his hand higher, and then higher, and then higher still. He gave Connor's cock a pump before moving his fingers lower to prod at the silken skin of his entrance.

"I don't think I can fuck you," Hank said reluctantly, surprising himself a little at how husky his voice had become.

"And… And why is that, Hank?" Connor's cheeks were flushed a dark pink, his hips making little twitches as if seeking out Hank's fingers. "I believe I've been adamant about my desire. Are you having doubts?"

Hank rolled his eyes, punishing Connor a little with a hard swipe of his thumb along the underpart of his balls. Connor let out a startled huff, his body locking up tight. "No, you fucking brat," he muttered, apologizing with a gentle stroke of his thumb that had Connor shivering. "I don't have any lube. I'm not about to fuck you dry, so…"

Connor's LED went yellow. It should have been the clue Hank needed to know something was up, but he was probably a shittier detective than he thought since he couldn't anticipate feeling something wet brush his fingers in the next instant.

"What the fuck!" he rushed, jerking back his hand. Hank looked from Connor face to between his legs, then to his hand. His fingers were damp with something shiny. Connor's entrance was likewise slick. "What the fuck is this, Connor?"

"You said we required lubricant," the android said as innocently as anything. "I've merely provided it myself since you were lacking your own."

"You… you _what?" _Hank slowly brought his hand back down to touch what had only just seconds before been warm, dry skin. It was still plenty warm, but a cursory probe told him that Connor had coated his insides with whatever this gel stuff was. Hank bit his lip when a rush of warmth passed over him. Fuck. Fuck, that was… That was really fucking hot, wasn't it?

Shit, Connor was talking again.

"-and it's merely a collection of lubricants used to better my movements internally," he said, knee deep in an explanation of what he must have thought Hank meant by his exclamation. "It's non-toxic and readily available. Though not its intended purpose, it should suit us for the moment until you can procure lubricant of a better quality for next time."

"N-Next time?" Hank laughed, propping himself over Connor with a hand while his other one gave in to the urge to see how tight an android was. "Haven't even had me once and you already think you're gonna want to go again." The first finger went inside easily, Connor's walls silky smooth and slicked perfectly as if he'd already been fingered for an hour before this moment. God, if that wasn't hot. Fuck.

"I like you, Hank." Connor shivered and spread his thighs a little wider, glancing at Hank through his lashes. "There's no need for you to worry about preparation. You can't hurt me."

Hank pressed another finger in alongside the first, knowing it was true. Connor opened up beautifully for him, his head falling back as he gasped and shifted impatiently. Every inch of him was on display like this, every insufferably perfect inch. He twitched and arched and sought out the slow, probing fingers. "If you think I'm going to take a shortcut and miss this show, you've got another thing coming, Connor."

Connor's cock twitched at the words. A bead of his precum teased the head of it when Hank tried scissoring his fingers, and he had to clap a hand down on Connor's hip to keep him flat against the bed. Hank leaned closer, kissing Connor's stomach, then his ribs, then up his chest and neck until he reached his soft lips. A third finger was accepted just as eagerly as the two before it. Hank kissed Connor through his shuddering gasp, savoring everything about this moment.

He kept up the torment for another few minutes. Every time Connor tried to move things along or rush him, Hank would hold him down and kiss him until he settled. A heady thing, really. Connor was stronger than him. Hank could feel it in the moments when he lost a little control and bucked too hard or gripped too tight to his shoulders. He was so strong but he still let Hank hold him down, let him hold him still for another kiss that didn't seem to satisfy him like it had before.

Hank pulled his fingers free and coated his own cock with the slick covering his hand. Connor stared at him with dark, glassy eyes. "You sure you want this?" Hank asked, because he had to fucking ask a thousand times more before he even came close to believing it was true. "We can still stop if you don't."

"Shut up, Hank," Connor gasped, lifting his hips for the stimulation he wasn't getting. "Just shut up and fuck me."

"Oh, so now you're gonna call it fucking?" Hank gripped himself at the base to hold his dick steady, hooking one of Connor's thighs over his hip to give himself a little more room to work. The head of his cock teased the soft, wet pink of Connor's entrance. God, was he really going to do this? Connor looked at him with his dark eyes, so young and gorgeous. He could have anyone he wanted but… but he wanted Hank. This was such a fucking clusterfuck, but Hank knew his hesitation wouldn't be put up with for long.

"Hank, please—"

"Fuck, Connor, I'm going," he grunted, his cheeks burning a little as he leaned himself over Connor and sought out his hand to hold. Sentimental of him, but he couldn't help it. He glanced at Connor's face and forced himself not to look away. He moved his hips forward. He pressed inside without another backwards glance.

Connor's hand fit perfectly with his own. Sappy of him to notice, but he couldn't quite help it either. Their fingers interlocked as their bodies came together, the warm, soft tightness so good that Hank had to think he was dreaming. Everything about this moment was perfect; from Connor's body to the tight little expression he wore on his face, it all felt like something not meant for him. Dark brown eyes stared at him like he were God. Lips parted, cheeks flushed, Connor let out a shiver and a broken moan, his body opening like a flower in the morning light to embrace Hank entirely.

"Oh, fuck, _fuck," _Hank wheezed, tightening his grip on Connor's slender hands. If Connor had been a human, he might worry about hurting him. But Connor wasn't human, and Hank's grip wasn't strong enough to bruise artificial flesh. "Jesus Christ, Connor. You're so fucking tight."

"I'm sorry," Connor breathed, biting down on his lip in an overwhelmingly human gesture. His cock nearly weeped between their bodies. "I can… I can loosen the—"

"Don't you fucking think about it," Hank snarled, pinning Connor to the bed as if that would be enough to keep him from changing anything about this moment. "I don't want you doing anything but enjoying yourself, you hear me?"

A whimper. Connor closed his eyes and turned his face towards the pillows, nodding his head to show he heard. Hank buried his face in Connor's neck, licking and biting and sucking marks that wouldn't take. Fuck, he was so tight. Virgin tight even though he showed no sign of the pain that sort of thing usually brought with it. Connor squeezed Hank's hands, moaning softly from the kissing. Hank rolled his hips forward, coaxing that moan a little louder.

"How's it feel?" Hank asked, trailing kisses along Connor's neck, his cheek. God, it was so hard to take things slow when it felt this fucking good. Connor's cock was trapped between their stomachs. Hank pressed them closer together, rocking into him with long, smooth thrusts. "You feel good? You like it?"

Connor furrowed his brow and closed his eyes, wiggling this way and that and going ramrod straight when Hank fucked into him hard enough to scoot him an inch up the bed. "H-Hank," he stammered, shivering from head to toe. "It's… It's a lot. I can't- I'm not- I like it," he choked, meeting Hank's gaze with a wanton look on his face. "I like it. Feels good. I can't think. More."

What sort of pleasure was he feeling? Did it feel anything like how Hank felt? His blood on fire and his hands sweating, that punch-you-in-the-gut kind of light-headedness that only came from wanting more of another's body? Hank shifted his knees on the sheets and rolled his hips forward, harder and faster, smooth but still forceful, chasing that broken little keen of Connor's with a kiss too deep too keep up for long. Hank struggled to catch his breath when Connor didn't need to breathe. The bed squeaked and creaked, thudding against the wall.

"Hank," Connor wheezed. "Ha-Hank, I'm—"

Connor's entire body seized up. His hands tightened on Hank's and his spine arched like a bow. The LED on his temple flared yellow, yellow, red for a split second— _He's coming _, Hank realized. The thought was all it took to do him in as well.

It was too soon. Embarrassingly soon, really, but Hank comforted himself with the thought that Connor still came first. Despite wanting to watch, to see what Connor's orgasm looked like up close, Hank could only groan and close his eyes. Stupid of him to miss it, but keeping cool right now was too much to expect after an evening like this. Hank squeezed Connor's hands and fucked into him like his life depended on it, thrusting as the white overtook his vision and the pleasure wiped out everything else. His body ached and his face hid itself in Connor's hair.

Too good. It all felt too good.

A less enlightened man might say an orgasm was an orgasm no matter where it came from. Hank, on the other hand, felt this one hit him right between the eyes. It was _Connor _, he thought, the only thought in fact that managed to permeate the din of his sluggish mind. Connor in his bed, Connor he was inside, Connor who was coming in thick bursts against his stomach, the mess smearing them both.

Hank groaned at the warmth of it, the stickiness. Connor would be an utter mess once this was done; Hank hadn't had the foresight to pull out before coming inside him. But somehow he managed the foresight to pull out and roll off of Connor before he collapsed on top of him completely. Somehow. Hank collapsed onto the bed beside Connor's body in a limp pile of too-hot flesh and sweaty bliss. Connor followed him as he went, clinging to his hand as if he didn't want to be apart from him just yet. Hank hid behind his free hand, fisting his fingers in his sweaty hair.

God. God-fucking-damn.

It took Hank an embarrassingly long time to catch his breath. Fuck, he really was out of shape. He let his arm slide off his face and flop on the bed beside him, the cool air slowly drying the sweat on his brow as his body winded back down. It'd been way too long since he'd last gotten off like that. Every nerve in his body felt like it was singing, that bone-deep weariness a long forgotten friend in the wake of all the nights he'd spent alone. Hank turned his head and looked to see how Connor was faring. It made him a little nervous when the android got too quiet.

He shouldn't have worried. Connor was laying on his side, pink-cheeked and smiling that weird little smile of his. Despite being covered in cum and that… that artificial lube and stuff, he seemed infinitely happy. Happy and preoccupied, Hank noticed, frowning a little when he caught sight of the yellow glow bathing Connor's face. The hell could he be processing at a time like this?

"What's up?" Hank asked hoarsely, tapping at Connor's spinning LED. "Thought I fucked you hard enough to shut off your processor for a few minutes."

Connor smiled and batted away his hand. He rested his head on the pillow, his processing light turning from yellow to a calming blue. "I was just calculating the estimated number of calories you just burned," he reported helpfully. "The number is one hundred and seventeen, a bit higher than the projected average."

Hank's mouth fell open in a gape. Connor cocked his head but kept talking. Because of course he did.

"The average caloric loss during the average four mile run for a human of your body type is somewhere around four hundred and fifty calories," Connor said, "so, if this sort of activity is preferable to you over running, perhaps we should consider substituting it as your daily exercise of choice."

"Connor, what the—"

"Of course," the android charged on, "we would need to do it at least four times a day to equate the same caloric loss as a run, so—"

That was it. That was… That was so far beyond anything Hank could handle right now, and he made it known by grabbing the nearest pillow and shoving it over Connor's face. "Jesus fuck, Connor," he wheezed. "Are you trying to kill me?"

The pillow was pulled away. Connor looked at him with wide, sweet eyes, his lips curled upwards into a smile. "I think that's the exact opposite of what my words imply," he murmured, inching a little closer to Hank. With him this close, it was hard to be annoyed. Hank fought to frown. When Connor nuzzled his shoulder with his cheek, he lost the battle entirely.

Hank let out a low sigh and sagged into the bedding. He wrapped his arm around Connor, staring up at the ceiling with utter resignation. "You really like doing it with me that much, huh?" he mused, only half joking. An old man like him. Fuck.

"I like doing most things with you, Hank." He turned his head at that. Connor smiled at him. "This was very enjoyable. Naturally, I don't have much grounds for comparison, but you were able to skillfully bring me to clim—"

"Okay, okay, that's enough outta you," Hank said, drowning out Connor as he rolled onto his side. His face felt decidedly hot and he didn't need Connor pointing that out too. "It's bedtime now. No more talking, you got that? Power down or whatever it is you do at night."

Connor went stiff in his arms. "You want me to stay here?" he wondered, voice quiet. Hank had his eyes closed. He could imagine the expression Connor wore and he was pretty sure he didn't want to see it. "You want me to… to sleep with you?"

"You like doing things with me, right?" Hank still cracked open an eye, his heart giving a funny little squeeze when he saw how Connor smiled. He closed his eyes once more, a wry smile quirking his own lips. "Might as well do this too."

"Hank…"

"Shh." Hank threw an arm over Connor's waist and shoved the other beneath the pillow. It'd been ages since he'd last slept with someone else. He'd nearly forgotten how to do it. Lucky for him that Connor didn't really need to sleep. It wouldn't matter if he held him wrong. He still tried harder to do it right, though. Connor… Connor deserved the effort.

"Goodnight, Connor," he muttered.

His face burned when he felt a kiss fall on his cheek.

"Goodnight, Hank. Sleep well." Hank grunted and held him a little tighter.

It wasn't perfect. Hank was sticky and aching, and Connor wasn't as soft as a human might be in a similar position. The LED on his forehead was bright in the dark room, and even when Hank closed his eyes, he could still see the calm blue glow through his eyelids, teasing him like an obnoxious bit of sunlight peeking through the blinds. But Connor was warm. He was warm and there, and when Hank shifted a little, his lips grazed a soft temple. Connor leaned into him, seeking more. More of Hank.

It wasn't perfect.

But it could be.


	47. (E) STEREK - Shadows and Soda Cans by bl

Shadows and Soda Cans  
bloodmakesnoise

Summary:  
What so many of Stiles' friends forget, is that while he's only human, he notices things they don't. They've got all these supernatural senses, they read fear and deception and arousal and dominance, but they don't look with their eyes. They rely too much on that other stuff, and don't see what's right in front of them.

[The one where Stiles knows Derek creeps into his bedroom at night and decides to give him a show.]

* * *

Stiles isn't sure what's woken him. He lies in the dark, eyes still closed, until a sliver of a breeze tickles at the fingers pressed against the edge of his mattress and the blinds rattle just enough.

He closed the window before bed. Pulled it shut, but didn't latch it, and all it takes to get it open from the outside is a claw in the seam.

Scott would have bounced onto his bed and shaken him until he woke. Isaac would have tripped over something and hissed his name until he opened his eyes. Cora would have knocked on the front door, even if it was past midnight.

Stiles can't think of anyone else who would come here, and only one who would bother with the kind of stealth that Stiles should find wicked creepy, but doesn't.

What so many of his friends forget, is that while he's only human, he notices things they don't. They've got all these supernatural senses, they read fear and deception and arousal and dominance, but they don't look with their eyes. They rely too much on that other stuff, and don't see what's right in front of them.

Stiles feels Derek freeze when he brushes too close. He sees when Derek watches him, body motionless, eyes following every step, every action, every nervous twitch.

He considers feigning sleep, but is pretty sure that ship has already sailed. He considers calling Derek out for his Edward Cullen impersonation, but that would only piss him off and make him run.

What Stiles _can_ fake, is not knowing that Derek is in the room with him. His rapid heartbeat and his heavy breaths can be explained away as waking from a bad dream, disoriented and confused. So he pulls himself up to sitting, rubs his eyes and tugs his hands through his hair before reaching for his phone.

It's after three am, and Derek could have been here for hours. It doesn't matter. Stiles switches off the screen and scooches back down, pulling the covers up to his neck, spreading his knees a little, laying his palm on the inside of his thigh.

He's already hard. Doesn't take much, never has, and the memory of Derek's eyes on him was enough. Derek's never going to do anything on his own, Stiles has known for a long time that he would have to be the one to start something. He's just been waiting for the opportunity.

Stiles' erection tents his pajama pants, and he rubs his hand over the fabric covered head and sighs. He lets it out, as if he's alone in the room, as if no one could hear, then he slides his hand inside his pants and gives his dick a couple of teasing jerks.

Maybe he's got exhibitionist tendencies, but it's thrilling, knowing that there's a person in the room with him, someone who can smell everything, can hear everything. Maybe it's just because Stiles knows it's Derek. Whatever it is, there's soon a soggy patch of cloth over the head of his dick as it leaks copious amounts of precome every time it gives a twitch.

Stiles wriggles out of his pants, tosses them out onto the floor, hoping that the scent tortures Derek, at least just a little bit. He sits up, peeling his T-shirt off, and then squirms back down into his blankets. He's made a tent with his knees, years of practice informing him of the best ways to keep the sheets clean and still give maximum access to his most erogenous zones.

He considers himself a bit of an expert when it comes to jerking off. He can do it in a few strokes if necessary, but he much prefers to draw it out, to paint a picture in his mind and take that fantasy all the way through to orgasm. This has got to be one of those times, so he starts slow, eyes closed, hand sliding over his cock in measured strokes.

If Derek would just come out of that dark corner it could be his hand on Stiles' cock, arm thrust underneath the blankets, their mouths pressed together. With his free hand, Stiles traces his own mouth with a finger, then licks his fingertip and drags it against his lower lip. He lets out a soft moan as he imagines Derek's tongue as he presses in with a finger, scratches his nails against his chin and cheek because he can't remember the last time Derek shaved.

Derek would tease him, and so Stiles slips his hand off his cock and squeezes his balls before slipping lower and dragging a finger over his hole. He shivers, puts pressure on that spot, wanting something more, something inside, just a little stretch. A little precome allows him to get his fingertip in, just enough to make him wonder what it would feel like to have Derek fuck him.

Stiles is no stranger to shoving his own fingers up his ass, but that's as far as he's ever gone. He's thought about buying a dildo, just so he can know what it feels like to really be fucked, but all his fantasies involve the real thing.

He could ask. Right now, he could ask Derek to show himself, he could outright ask to be fucked and know what it feels like. Some instinct, though, tells him that Derek's not ready, that he'd refuse to admit he was hiding, or flat out run. So Stiles remains silent, and reaches behind him for lube.

He slicks his hand and strokes it over his cock, then switches hands. The blankets slip over his face when he twists to reach behind himself, so he shoves them off altogether, kicking them to the end of the bed because he might as well give Derek a good show while he's at it. It's so tempting to let his eyes slip toward the darkest corner of his bedroom, but he cannot tip his hand. Derek thinks he's hidden, thinks he's watching something he shouldn't be, is probably torturing himself right now, but Stiles has to show him.

Stiles lies on his side, facing out into the room. He keeps his eyes closed so they can't inadvertently look for a figure in the darkness, so he can't give himself away, and he pumps his cock slowly with his left hand.

With his right, he reaches behind himself, arching his back because he's going to want to go as deep as he can. He presses first, feeling the resistance with two fingers, and then pushes them both into himself at once.

He moves slow, but it doesn't stop him groaning when he penetrates himself. It's intense, not quite pain, but pressure and a stretch that makes him shake. Still, he pushes in, as far as his posture will accommodate, breathing through the sensation, squeezing his cock to distract himself just a little until he adjusts.

Stiles imagines Derek behind him, arms tight around his chest, held close like he's precious, like he's wanted. He imagines how Derek's cock will feel up against him, hot and hard and thick and pushing inside. He pulls his fingers out, presses them back in, but he can't get deep enough.

He repositions himself, getting up on his knees, falling forward onto his shoulders, face turned toward the room. He's got one hand beneath him, still slowly teasing his dick, the other behind, and this time he pushes three fingers into his ass.

He could take Derek's cock now. He could call out, beg, and he's close to doing it, panting and moaning and letting out little cut off whimpers with each thrust of his fingers, with each stroke of his dick. "I want—" he gasps out loud, before pressing his face into the mattress. He wants Derek's hands on his hips, fingers pressing bruises into his skin. He wants to be filled up, stretched wide open, to feel an ache deep inside. Only with his voice muffled, does he let himself ask for what he really needs. "Derek," he moans, but it's unintelligible.

His hand moves faster on his dick, he pounds his fingers into his ass, wanting it to be Derek who fucks into him, Derek's cock, that he's never seen but imagines is long and thick and uncut. He needs more than he's getting, and has to lift his head as he contorts himself to get more reach.

His fingers slide in farther, and his ass clenches around them in little spasms. He forgets that he has an audience, forgets everything except for the stretch and the need to come. "Derek," he groans, and "fuck me, come in me", and imagines Derek pounding in so hard and so deep that he can feel it in his guts.

When he comes, his ass tightens, hard, quick. He jams his fingers as deep as he can go, fights against his own body trying to force himself out. The first spurt from his cock streaks up his chest, the rest stains the sheets, and he doesn't care. He gasps Derek's name, and then whispers it as his body shakes with aftershocks. While he's still clenching, he reaches back with messy fingers and pushes as much of his own come into his ass as he can.

He only wishes it was Derek's come inside him, filling him up, oozing out of him as the final shudders make him twitch and squeeze.

Stiles is convinced that Derek is different after that. His glances linger a little more, and when Stiles brushes up against him in the loft one day he lets out a little gasp of a breath that even Stiles can hear and makes Scott's head jerk up to see what's wrong.

They're debating what to do about a wandering omega that found his way into Beacon Hills. Technically, Stiles shouldn't be here, he's not a werewolf, but he is best friends with the new alpha, so he invites himself and no one argues.

Once they've done what they came here to do, they all start wandering off, and Stiles is always the last to go. When the door closes for the last time behind Scott, Stiles is still stacking soda cans on the window sill.

He fills a pane of glass with cans and whoops, throwing his hands into the air in victory.

When he gets no reaction, he turns. Derek's folding maps, stacking them in a pile, edges aligned perfectly, and for a guy who used to bed down in a burned out abandoned house, he's paying some serious attention to detail.

"Cans?" Stiles says, wandering around the edge of the table, putting himself in Derek's line of sight. "I filled a pane."

Derek picks up the maps, bangs the bottom edge against the table and examines the alignment, twisting the stack this way and that. "Blocks the light."

Stiles turns and looks at his single pane of glass, way down in the bottom right corner, covered by stacked soda cans. Then he looks up at the enormous window, the one that takes up most of the outside wall of Derek's loft, made up of many, many panes of glass. "Yeah," he says. "I can see how that would be a problem. Ten years worth of soda and you might have some serious light deficiency in here."

"Stiles," Derek grinds out through clenched teeth, and it's not just frustration. There's real anguish there, real pain.

Stiles knows that if he said it out loud he'd sound too confident, but Derek's pining. Derek wants him. Maybe he's telling himself that he's a creeper, or that Stiles is the worst kind of jailbait, but Stiles doesn't care about any of that. He's older than his barely seventeen years because of what he's been through, so what if Derek is technically nine years older? He acts like a goddamn three year old sometimes. "Get over it," he says.

It could have come out snappish, but it doesn't. His voice is quiet, gentle, and as he speaks he reaches out and takes the stack of maps out of Derek's hands, sets them back down on the table. "Whatever's stopping you, get over it. I'm not going to say no, but I think you know that already."

Derek's head jerks up. His eyes are wide and his lips are pressed together in a hard line. "What?"

Stiles pulls himself up to sit on the edge of the table. He wriggles his ass just a little bit closer. "Dude, you're obvious. To me, anyway. I've got no idea how the rest of them don't pick up on it, but I guess you're not sneaking into their bedrooms at night."

Derek's jaw drops, and his eyes flick toward the door, as if he's contemplating flight. "I don't know—"

"Yeah, you do." Stiles reaches out, twists his fingers into the front of Derek's shirt and pulls him over. "Tell me what you saw, Derek. Tell me what you heard."

Derek snaps his mouth shut and shakes his head. Even as he does, though, his eyelids droop and he leans a fraction closer.

"I wanted you to come out of the corner," Stiles says, and he loosens his grip, slides the flat of his hand down over Derek's chest, lets it settle just above his belt. "I wanted you to touch me, put your fingers in me." He pushes his hand down, over the front of Derek's jeans where he's hard and straining against his fly. "I wanted you to fuck me."

Derek opens his eyes. "Stiles," he says again, and he sounds utterly wrecked. "I'm sorry."

Stiles lifts his leg up onto the table, squirms sideways, and drops it down on the other side of Derek. "Don't be," he says, shoving his ass to the edge, pulling Derek against him by the hips. "I want it. I want you. Do it. Do everything I can't do to myself."

Derek groans and puts his hands on Stiles' waist, holding just a little too tight. He leans forward, drops his head to sniff at Stiles' throat. "I waited until you were asleep," he whispers, and Stiles has to strain his ears to hear it. "I only wanted to get closer, the scent, I wanted to remember it." Then he pulls Stiles' hand away from where it's hooked into the waistband of his jeans, lifts it, presses his nose to Stiles' wrist. "I couldn't help myself. I had to taste..." His tongue darts out and licks at the inside of Stiles' wrist.

"Oh my god." Stiles' jeans were already impossibly tight. Now they're hurting. "Did you lick up my come? Oh my god."

Derek drops his head to Stiles' shoulder. "I shouldn't have...shouldn't be—"

"Fuck it," Stiles hisses. "Fuck that." His free hand tugs at Derek's belt, fumbling and failing in his hurry. "Help me, I need to touch your cock, see it."

Derek grabs Stiles' wrist in a tight grip. "I can't."

Stiles shakes his head and struggles, but he can't get out of Derek's hands. "Yeah, you can. We both want it, I know you want it."

"No." Derek lets him go and pushes away from the table.

"What? Why? You were in my room. You licked up my come. You're hard." Stiles can't understand it, because all that and a willing partner? Derek's not that noble, he's sure.

"I can't just fuck you. I need more."

"More." Stiles frowns. "Okay. So we'll do more. I'll blow you. Make out with you. We'll do all the things."

Derek looks as though he's been slapped. "No, Stiles." He turns to face the window, but looks down at the corner where one pane of glass is completely obscured by stacked soda cans. "I want that. Your stupid, obsessive little projects. I want to hear you prattling on about nothing. You've got no filter, and everything you think comes out of your mouth, and it drives me crazy, but I like it, and I want it."

"But you've already got that," Stiles says. "Why do you think I'm always the last one to leave? Why do you think I come to these werewolf-only things? To hear you all bickering amongst yourselves because too fucking many of you used to be alpha's and Scott's too diplomatic to shut you down? No. And I do so have a filter, it's just set really low, okay? There's a lot I think, but don't say, and most of it is you. Like how much I respect what you did to save Cora. And how it broke my heart to hear about Paige. And Boyd. Fuck. I wanted to... I wanted..."

He stops then, because he does have a filter, and he's so used to it kicking in long before now. He doesn't want to start crying, not over how much he wanted to hold Derek that night, to wrap himself around him and protect him from all the things that could hurt him. But it's too late, and he's blinking back tears.

Derek turns back from the window and steps up to the table. He puts a hand out, sliding his palm up Stiles' thigh. "Are you okay?"

"Me?" Stiles wipes at his cheeks with the back of his hand and pastes a grin on his face. "Yeah, I'm fine."

Then Derek's kissing him, hand pressed to the back of his neck, pulling him in. And it's not the dirty hot kiss with tongue and spit and teeth that Stiles has been fantasizing about, it's slow and just the barest touch of lips, a tiny dart of tongue to wet Stiles' lower lip.

"You looked so fucking good," Derek whispers, his breath warming Stiles' neck. "Smelled even better. It was so hard not to move. Not to touch you, fuck you."

"I wanted you to," Stiles says, swaying a little, feeling dizzy and lightheaded. "Should have fucked me, wanted you to fuck me." He searches blindly for Derek's lips, fingers tugging at his clothes, getting nowhere. "Please just fuck me."

Derek's hands move over Stiles' torso, pushing up his shirt, skin on skin and lips on his throat, desperate and hurried. "You just turned seventeen," he says, but shoves Stiles back, lays him out on the table and there's that kiss Stiles has been wishing for, filthy and wet, desperation and bitten lips and gasping for air between.

"I know," Stiles gasps. "I was there. We had cake. It doesn't matter. I could die before I turn eighteen, any of us could, so why? I'm not waiting." He slips a hand between them, and this time, gets Derek's belt undone, flicks open the top button of his jeans.

"Are you trying to get me arrested?" Still, Derek thumbs open the button of Stiles' jeans, has Stiles' dick in his hand before Stiles even has his Derek's zipper down.

"Oh god," Stiles moans, jerking his hips as he tries to thrust into Derek's hand, his own quarry forgotten. "I'll take care of my dad," he says. "Once he knows we're together—"

"We're together?"

Stiles looks down, because Derek's been kissing his way down Stiles' front and now he's stopped. "Isn't that what all the 'I want more' stuff is about? I mean, if there's feelings... Are there feelings? Because I've got—ohmygod."

Derek's mouth slides down the length of Stiles' dick, and Stiles can't think after that, can't care about his feelings or Derek's feelings or what his dad will do when he tells him that he's dating a man nine years older. And he hopes that they _are_ dating, because dating means this, and it means kissing, and it hopefully means falling asleep wrapped around Derek, and waking up wrapped up in him, and an excuse to be near him, a reason to hang around here and fill window pane after window pane with stacked soda cans.

And hopefully it means that he'll get to feel Derek inside him, fucking into him, coming in him. "God, fuck," he says, fingers threading into Derek's hair and trying to push him off. "Don't wanna come and you're gonna make me come, Derek."

But Derek doesn't stop. His head bobs on Stiles' dick, cheeks hollowed, tongue swirling, pressing, coaxing Stiles closer. He knows he's wasting his time trying to hold on, because he can feel Derek's determination, still, he throws a hand out to grip the edge of the table, as if some kind of physical leverage will help.

The perfect stack of maps goes fluttering and rustling to the floor, and Stiles thinks that will distract Derek, that it'll break his focus, give Stiles a chance to change the direction of what's happening here.

It doesn't. Derek doesn't falter, he doesn't miss a beat. It's Stiles who loses it, too concerned about what Derek's _not_ doing to hold back, and then he's coming, stomach clenching, making him double up as he spills into Derek's mouth.

He lays back, stares at the ceiling as Derek pulls off. "You suck," he says, vaguely aware that Derek's wandered away, but not yet having the presence of mind to wonder where, or when he's coming back.

He's not gone long, and then he's tugging Stiles' jeans down his legs, and Stiles' shoes hit the floor, and it's cold in here. "You need to insulate those windows," Stiles mutters. "Cover them with something."

Derek pulls him up, drags his shirt off over his head. Stiles shivers and presses himself close because Derek's warm, and he's still dressed, and his lips are... God. So nice.

"Yeah," Derek whispers. "There's feelings." Another kiss, slow this time as Derek licks deep into Stiles' mouth before he pushes him back down to the table again. He grabs Stiles by the waist, pulls him to the edge of the table until his ass is practically hanging off the edge, then he drops down to his knees.

"What are you doing?" Stiles whispers, lifting his head to look down. Derek puts his hands underneath Stiles' knees and lifts both his legs, then his tongue licks into the crease of Stiles' thigh.

"Oh my god," Stiles whispers. "What—?"

"Fuck, it almost killed me, seeing you with your fingers, stretching yourself open, fucking yourself with them." He dips his head, drags his tongue up the crack of Stiles' ass, over his hole. "And when you were sleeping, and I could see, fuck, I wanted to touch, taste. I wanted to dip my tongue in there and taste you, feel how fucking hot you were."

Stiles' stomach clenches up, and he moans. His cock twitches, tries to get hard again, and it's not going to take much. "Fuck," he says, pulling his knees into his chest. "Please."

Derek's fingers press hard into Stiles' hips, and he drags his tongue against Stiles' hole. It feels warm, slick and slippery with spit, and Stiles wants to squirm into it, wants pressure, wants to feel Derek's tongue pushing into him. He can't move, though, feet in the air, palms sweaty and slipping on the surface of the table. Then there's the pressure he wants, finally, Derek's pointed tongue wriggling against him.

Stiles grunts as it pushes in, and physically it feels like when Stiles' slips his own finger into his ass, but it's Derek's tongue, and he's hard again, and he just wants _more_.

Derek's tongue fucks into him, slow at first, in as deep as he can go, all the way out before he plunges it back inside again, stretching Stiles open all over again until he's moaning and crying out and clawing at the backs of his own knees. "More, fuck," he gasps. "Harder, do it fucking harder, I need..."

And Derek growls and jams it in farther, faster, like he wants to climb inside. Stiles swears, curses, lets out a litany of words that mean nothing and make no sense until they devolve completely into grunts and moans and he feels as though he's coming apart. He doesn't want Derek to stop, ever, but he can't go on, not without losing his sanity.

Derek falters, pauses, slows to a quick darting in and out, but there's a reason, because then his lips are on the inside of Stiles' thigh and two fingers, slick and wet, go deep into Stiles and press up, finding his prostate immediately.

Stiles' shoulders come off the table and slam back down. He comes hard, untouched, dick jerking on his belly as streaks of come spatter up to his chest.

"So tight, Stiles," Derek says. "So good. Can't wait to get my fucking cock in you."

"Do it," Stiles rasps, throat hurting as if he's been yelling. He's limp, boneless, exhausted, but the fingers still stretching him open aren't enough. "You've gotta fuck me, Derek."

"One more," Derek says, drawing his fingers back, pushing in again.

Derek's fingers are thicker than Stiles' and it's more than Stiles has ever had inside him before, and he's still shaking and clenching as Derek twists three fingers into him. "Now, fuck," he moans, reaching for Derek, getting a handful of hair and pulling.

Derek growls and bats his hand away, but he rises, sliding his fingers out and leaving Stiles empty and aching. "I'm going to fuck you," he says, and grabs both of Stiles' arms and pins them above his head with one hand. "Do you want me to fuck you, Stiles? Is that still what you want?"

"Yes. Fuck, yes." Stiles balls his fists and wriggles, but he can't move. "Please. I just want you in me, want to feel it."

"I'll make sure you feel it," Derek breathes.

Then there's a blunt pressure at Stiles' hole. He hasn't even seen Derek's cock yet, and he twists his hand, needing to get free, to feel Derek pushing inside. "Please," he whimpers, and Derek lets him free.

He pulls his knees back into his chest, lifts his ass up off the surface of the table and reaches down. "Imagined this in me," he says, guiding it in as Derek pushes forward.

Derek keeps going until his hips meet Stiles' ass. Stiles' hand is pressed to Derek's belly, fingers splayed out, holding him there because the pressure is intense and there's an ache deep, deep inside him that he never imagined.

"You okay?" Derek grinds out. His teeth are clenched, and his hands as he holds Stiles above the knees are shaking.

Stiles breathes, deep and slow. "Yeah. Just...a minute. God."

Derek bends at the waist, fitting himself between Stiles' thighs. "Feels so good," he says, his lips a hair's breadth from Stiles' mouth. "You feel so good inside."

All Stiles can get out is a hum of agreement as he tips his head up to press his open mouth against Derek's.

"I need to move, Stiles." Derek licks Stiles' lower lip, sucks it into his mouth and then releases. "I can't..."

"Yeah." Stiles rocks his hips up to show his willingness. "Yeah, fuck me, Derek, move."

Derek pulls back, eliciting a deep, primal groan from Stiles, before thrusting back in, long and slow. "Fuck, yeah, Stiles." He puts his hands on either side of Stiles' face, his fingertips in Stiles' hair. He kisses Stiles and rolls his hips, long and slow. "Is this good?" he asks. "Is this what you want?"

"Yeah." Stiles nods and then arches his neck, and shivers when Derek presses blunt, human teeth to his throat. "More."

Derek bites down harder and jerks his hips, fucking into Stiles hard and deep. "Tell me what you want." He pushes himself up, grabs Stiles by the ankles and shoves back in. "Like this?"

"Fuck," Stiles gasps as he's shoved backward. "Yeah, oh my god, yeah." Derek slams into him, again and again. "You're fucking me on a table, holy crap." His fingers twist into Derek's shirt, push it up to get to bare skin. "Take it off."

Stopping only long enough to take his shirt off, Derek drops it onto the floor and grabs Stiles by the waist, pulling him back down onto his cock. "We could move. D'you wanna move?"

Stiles shakes his head. "Let me turn over."

Derek pulls out, lifts Stiles off the table and onto the floor before turning him and pressing a hand between his shoulder blades and bending him over the edge of the table. He pushes back in, slow and easy, fingers locked around Stiles' hips.

Stiles has more control like this. With his feet on the ground and his arms and chest pressed against the table, he can thrust back, he can show Derek what he wants and how he wants it. He doesn't have to ask. He shoves back, savoring Derek's groan and the fingernails on his hips that feel just a little too sharp. "Like that," he says. "Hard, like that. And fast. Just fucking pound me."

"Stiles," Derek groans, but then he jerks back and thrusts back in hard. He does it again, picking up the pace, until Stiles has to dig his fingernails into the wood just to hold on.

He's sore inside, a low, aching throb, but he doesn't want it to end, not until Derek's done with him, not until Derek's filled him to overflowing. "Come in me," he says, because he doesn't need to come again. He's only half hard, and not interested in coaxing his dick at all. He just wants to feel Derek pumping into him, leaking out afterward. "Hurry up, I need you to come in me."

"Shit, Stiles," Derek gasps, and his thrusts become erratic, fast. He jerks into him, his pace no longer measured and careful, now it's just a means to an end.

Stiles holds as still as he can, legs spread wide, one hand on his ass, just waiting. He wants to feel it dripping out of him, wants to feel it on his fingers. He slides a finger down the crack of his ass, to where Derek's cock pistons into him, rubs around his stretched rim with his fingers.

"Fuck, oh fuck," Derek gasps, and he falters, then jams his cock in deep. "So fucking— _Stiles_."

Stiles can feel it, like a twitch inside him, like a heartbeat, as Derek fills him. Then the pulse slowly stops, but Derek stays there, laid over Stiles' back, skin slick with sweat. "I wanna feel it, please," he whispers, tries to shuffle forward, to wriggle off Derek's dick.

Derek hauls himself up, pulls out, and then Stiles' fingers are there, feeling the squeaky slickness of Derek's come, feeling his hole close up and squeeze a few drops out. He pushes a finger in, and he's full, all warm and sloshy inside. "Oh, yeah," he moans, and then his cock is fully hard. "So good."

"Dirty little... Oh my god, Stiles," Derek murmurs, and he sweeps Stiles' hand out of the way, pushes his softening cock back into the mess, gives it a few lazy thrusts.

Stiles feels come ooze out of him, feels it drip down the inside of his thigh. "That," he says. "Oh my god, that's fucking perfect, I love it. Do it again."

Derek does it until his cock is so soft he can't get it back in, and then he lays back down on Stiles' back and presses kisses to his shoulders. "You're kinda kinky."

Stiles shrugs, as much as he is able with Derek's dead weight on top of him. "Duh. Do I freak you out?"

A low laugh rumbles through Derek's chest. "That was the single hottest thing I've ever seen in my life. Counting your little show the other night. I hope I get to see it again."

Stiles cranes his neck, hurts his eyeballs trying to look at Derek. "I thought we'd already figured that out."

"Just checking." Derek straightens up, pulls Stiles to his feet. There's come streaked down the insides of both of his thighs, slippery and slick when he presses them together. "Shower, come on."

Stiles whines and resists. Then it'll be gone, and he'll just have the memory.

"You're not getting into my bed like that." Derek tugs him toward the bathroom. "I'll fill you up again while we're in there," he promises.

Somewhat mollified, Stiles follows. "So I'm staying the night?"

"As often as possible," Derek says.


	48. (T) 00Q - Ordinary, Everyday Things by p

ordinary, everyday things  
pdameron

Summary:  
It is fourteen years after the Battle of Hogwarts that he finds himself at the helm of MI6's Q Branch, 29 and thrilled and terrified and completely alone.

(In which everything is the same except Q and Bond are both wizards and think the other is a muggle.)

* * *

It is fourteen years after the Battle of Hogwarts that he finds himself at the helm of MI6's Q Branch, 29 and thrilled and terrified and completely alone.

He is made Quartermaster after the attack on Vauxhall, which left M's office a shell and Q Branch leaderless. Q adjusts to the role quickly (he supposes Mr. Ollivander was right all those years ago when he told him his quite flexible wand signified adaptability), not because he's power-hungry or particularly willing to step in for his late mentor, Boothroyd, but because he _has to_. His co workers, now subordinates, who he's considered tentative friends, are distrustful of how easily he seems to move on from the trauma. He hears the words _cyborg _and _android _whispered often, and though he knows they are jokes, they are not always well-intentioned.

He adapts quickly in part because there's _no time _to grieve, because this unknown assailant is dangerous, damn it, and they don't know his motives. But mostly, he thinks, he can throw himself back into the fray because he's learned how to compartmentalize, learned how to drown in sorrow but _keep moving _.

Q wants to tell the others, wants to tell his new R that he's _not _an android, not so cold and unfeeling, but how does one explain that their coping techniques stem from a war that none of them have ever heard of? How does one explain that they've seen classmates, teachers, _friends_, ravaged by human werewolves, trampled by monstrous spiders, engulfed in flames that water will not extinguish? One doesn't, unless one wants to be sent to the nearest asylum.

So he allows the whispers, the doubts, the uncertainties for now, because they aren't stopping anyone from doing their job, and that's all that matters.

Three days later, Q meets James Bond. It takes all his not inconsiderable willpower to ignore the heady rush that comes with a challenge, with intrigue, with a sudden surge of _want_, and go back to Q Branch with a (mostly) clear head.

Days after that, Q, in front of Bond and Q Branch, lives up to the old stereotypes that cling to his house as his blind arrogance leads to Silva's escape and puts hundreds of lives in danger. 'Not such a clever boy,' indeed.

Q wonders, idly, if Silva isn't a dark wizard himself, but puts the thought away because he's never heard of a Raoul Silva, not even during the war. Surely he would have been a death eater.

He tries, desperately, to think of a way his magic might help Bond, of a spell he could cast, a trick he can pull from out of his sleeve, but there is _always _someone at his shoulder, and he's too focused on directing Bond.

After the attack on the Parliament building, but before Bond asks him to throw his career away to help him, Q turns to his branch. They've been working in relative silence, though he'd felt their eyes on him the entire time he'd been on comms with Bond.

He laughs, but it's a hollow, humorless thing. "No android would have made that kind of mistake, eh?"

He can practically feel the technicians recoil, and he's surprised when he feels no sort of vindication at the sight of their faces flooding with guilt. R steps forward, reaching her hand out toward him hesitantly.

"Q…"

He waves her off. "You all can go home. I'll stay on comms in case Bond resurfaces."

Bond does resurface, and Q stays in that cold and washed out bunker, waiting by his computers long after he earns the trust of MI6's most deadly agent, long after the last fires at Skyfall have burned out.

(Here are the things Q does not see, while he is sitting in that bunker and waiting for Bond to call:

He does not see Bond pulling his yew wand out and muttering _'Lumos' _ in front of a curious M when his flashlight dies.

He does not see Bond destroy his childhood home with several shouted incantations and some well-placed gas tanks before ducking into the old tunnels beneath the house.

He does not see Bond fall into an icy lake, using a bubblehead charm just before he starts to drown.

And he definitely does not see Bond consider whether spending the rest of his life in Azkaban is worth using the killing curse on Silva.

It isn't, and Bond takes much more satisfaction in throwing the knife in Silva's back.)

It's been twelve years since he left the magical world behind, and six since he first walked into the SIS headquarters, and Q has never felt more at home than he does among his computers and gadgets.

Leaving the magical world does not, of course, mean that he's left _magic_, because it is as much a part of him as his codes and his cats and his terrible eyesight. So he lets himself be free in the quiet moments, in the dark of his flat or the vast emptiness of Q Branch in the wee hours of the morning, where he can easily erase the footage of him tinkering with both his tools _and _his wand.

It is in such moments, when his worlds collide in perfect harmony, that Q feels at peace, even if he is the only one to see it. He takes apart his cars and his gadgets, watches the gears and engines and screws and bolts float through the air, delights as they come back together with a wave of his wand. He casts shield charms over watches and cufflinks and sunglasses, whatever gadgets his agents wear. For all that MI6 is a muggle agency, it faces no shortage of magical threats, and he's more than once watched a dark wizard's jaw drop as they try to stun one of his agents only to have it bounce right back. Serves them right for thinking Q wouldn't protect his own. The shield charms are meant for magical threats, however. They're not enough to stop a muggle bullet, but perhaps enough to slightly slow a knife on its way to an agent's heart, or lessen the effects of a taser.

Q loves his magic, loves to watch his inventions come apart then reassemble with a simple _Reparo_, loves to watch as his cats chase his raccoon patronus around his flat in the evening when his blinds are closed, loves to summon the nearest screwdriver without moving when he's tinkering, loves to stir his tea with a wave of his hand while he's reading or coding at his desk (at home, only at home).

There are days when he's fit to burst with the tension of holding it in, with the stress of hiding near constantly. It is on these days that he leaves work early (someone long before him had cast a spell not unlike the one around Hogwarts: he can't apparate in or out of Churchill's old bunkers, or before then Vauxhall) and apparates to somewhere remote and safe, and just lets himself _be_, more than he ever could in his tiny flat or his workshop.

He throws sparks in the air, red and green and purple, laughing with delight as they trickle back down around him; He blows things up _without _dynamite; he makes a beetle as big as a house before shrinking it back down; he reduces an abandoned farmhouse to dust…all the spells and charms he can't cast in crowded, unsafe muggle London all at once it feels like, until he's spent and exhausted and apparates straight into to his bed.

But for all that he looks forward to those rare days, for all that it's tiring at times to constantly hide this huge part of himself, Q is happy, generally. He loves his job, is enormously fond of the people he works with (especially Miss Moneypenny, who became a fast friend nearly as soon as he was made R two years ago), and enjoys the constant challenges and twists and turns that come with a life in espionage. Yes, there are times when it gets terribly lonely, but more often than not those are followed by a letter from someone back home, and his spirits are easily lifted with a story from his old professors or a moving photograph of Luna's little twins.

In the months following Skyfall he gets to know the double-ohs quite well, running missions and equipping them in a never ending cycle. He likes them all, but it becomes quickly apparent that Bond is Q's favorite. He tries not to show it, tries not to be too blatant in his favoritism, and he mostly succeeds, although he has the sneaking suspicion that Bond is all too aware of his fondness for him.

For all that Bond destroys nearly everything Q gives him, he's one of the few agents who seems genuinely interested in what his quartermaster makes. Q had told him, at their first meeting, that they didn't really go in for exploding pens and the like anymore, but that was largely because he was being a little shit and didn't want to seem too young or over eager. So when Q shows Bond the exploding cufflinks he's made, inspired loosely by the agent's favored pair, and the other man practically vibrates with excitement, it's immensely satisfying. And if the cufflinks have a particularly strong shield charm built into them, well, it's not like Bond will ever find out.

Besides, it's not Q's fault that the man is so goddamn attractive.

A year after Skyfall, a year after his sudden promotion, Q gets the shock of his life in the form of Eve Moneypenny. They're having their usual lunch date, this time in a small cafe just across from MI6, when she asks, apropos of nothing:

"So you're a wizard, right?"

And Q drops his sandwich into his tea.

He calls in sick to work, does the same for Eve, and all but drags her back to his apartment, where he politely but panickedly interrogates her. Apparently, she'd had a boyfriend a few years back, and it had been serious enough that he told her.

"Oliver always was a bit odd, and I was too nosy for my own good. Once I got over how mad he sounded, it made sense," She says with a shrug, and Q is extremely put out, not only because he's apparently a terrible secret wizard, but because she'd gotten to date _Oliver Wood_.

Eve promises that it's not that he's not doing a bad job of hiding, but rather that she just knows him too well.

They spend the day curled up with his cats as Q shows her what magic he can do in his tiny apartment. Minerva (named after his former professor, if only to see the look on her face when he told her: mildly offended, but mostly flattered), his spotted tabby, doesn't even react when he floats her across the room, so used to his antics; while Marie (named for Madame Curie), his little white persian, is only mildly surprised when he briefly turns her fur blue.

He shows her his wand (Beech with a phoenix feather core, twelve inches and highly flexible), and lets her inspect it for as long as she likes. She points out that the little geometric carvings on the handle look like a circuit board, and Q, after looking more closely and agreeing with her assessment, laughs and says that the wand _does _choose the wizard, after all.

Eve doesn't ask many questions, happy to just watch as Q finally shows her his whole self. However, when he shows her his patronus (because patronuses are _cool_, and his cats really do love to play with it), she asks what it is he thinks about when he casts the spell. Oliver's had been a falcon, she said, and he'd explained the concept.

So Q tells her about Luna.

He tells her about the scared little eleven year old boy, who had never heard of Hogwarts or purebloods or Quidditch. He tells her about that boy, who was sorted into Slytherin because he was so very cunning and so very desperate to prove himself.

("I thought Slytherins were assholes?"

"Well, _I'm_ an asshole, but not all of us are.")

He tells her about that very first night, about the look on Astoria Greengrass's face in front of that bright green fireplace when she'd asked him what his parents did and he'd told her they were physicists, but not _magic _physicists, just regular ones. That had been the first time he'd been called a mudblood, but it was nowhere near the last.

He tells Eve about the days, the weeks, the months, spent alone in a quiet corner of the common room, about how none of his Slytherin brothers and sisters wanted to be his partner in potions, about how they called him a mistake. Then he tells her about the girl people called 'Loony' Lovegood, the girl no one would talk to because she too was different. He tells her about the day he walked to the Ravenclaw table, and not the Slytherin, and sat next to the blonde girl sitting all by herself.

She'd looked at him and asked why a little snake would come and sit with the strange eagle, and he'd told her it was because he was just as alone as she was. Two days later, she asked him what he thought of nargles, and he'd decided that if not three months ago he didn't believe in unicorns, then why wouldn't nargles be real?

She'd smiled, and said she was so happy to finally have a friend.

"...and that's what I think about when I cast my patronus."

Eve hugs him then, and they fall asleep leaning against each other on his old green leather couch.

His late nights alone in Q branch become late nights with _Eve _in Q Branch, and he can't believe he'd gone so long without sharing his magic with anyone, without having someone with him, wizard or not. He makes her tea or conjures a wrench with a wave of his wand, if only to see her smile, and sometimes he takes her with him on those days when the little things just aren't enough and he needs to something huge and wild to take the edge off. She particularly enjoys it when he grows her an entire field of sunflowers.

Simply put, Q's life gets a little less lonely.

Of course, not long after Eve's little revelation Q gets his own opportunity at shock and awe, during a meeting with Mallory and Tanner.

"Q, what I am about to tell you is going to sound unbelievable, even mad. It is, of course, highly classified, and to be handled with the utmost discretion."

Q already knows where this is headed, but he decides then and there to have a little fun with it.

"Q, we are not alone in this world," Mallory says solemnly, and it takes all of Q's restraint not to snort.

"Sir, are you telling me that aliens are real?" Q replies with what he hopes is an admirable poker face.

Mallory sighs, and he could swear it seems almost…fond. "Of course your first thought would be aliens. No, Q: _Magic_," he says it with possibly more gravitas than is necessary, perhaps to further convince Q that he is indeed telling the truth.

"You mean like in _Narnia_, or _Lord of the Rings_, or _Peter Pan_? Like a children's story?" And Q tries so, so hard not to laugh when Mallory _actually nods _in response.

"If that'll help you to understand, then yes. There are witches and wizards, like Gandalf or...uh….", he pauses, no doubt trying to think of a magical person from some other children's story.

"Er...Mary Poppins, sir?" Tanner pipes up.

"Yes, thank you Mr. Tanner, Mary Poppins, living among us, keeping their magic a secret, and - Q, I know this is hard to wrap your head around, but it's a bit rude to laugh in your employer's face, don't you think?"

Q can't help it. He's laughing so hard there are tears running down his cheeks, because Mallory has actually just tried to explain magic to him by referencing Mary_ bloody _Poppins. He can't actually speak through his chuckles, so he simply pulls his wand from the holster under his sleeve and lifts Tanner's teacup to get his point across.

His giggles have only just died down when he finally looks at the two men, and the looks on their faces set him off again. All in all, it takes about five minutes for Q to get a hold of himself.

"So. You're a wizard, then," Mallory says flatly.

"Yes. I would have told you, sir, but I'm not actually allowed to tell a muggle unless their lives are in danger or they're a romantic partner."

Mallory and Tanner exchange a look, and the MI6 head simply sighs, seemingly resigned to forever be slightly out of the loop.

As soon as the dust has settled in the wake of the Spectre debacle, nearly a month after Bond leaves with the Aston Martin and what little is left of Q's broken heart, he puts in for two weeks leave. M takes one look at his face and gives him a month instead.

Q shows up at Luna's doorstep on a Wednesday morning without any warning, after not seeing her in the flesh for nearly three years. He isn't remotely surprised when she wraps him up in a hug as soon as she sees him. She doesn't let go until he stops shaking, and he realizes in that moment just how badly he'd needed her.

She takes him inside, pours him a cup of tea, and sits with him as he breaks all the treaties he's just signed and tells her everything, from Austria to Blofeld to Denbigh to Bond. She holds him through it all, and in return tells him things to make him smile: the twins are nearly six, and just last week Lysander sneezed and turned the couch they're sitting on into mulch; Rolf is in Sweden hunting for the ever-elusive crumple-horned snorkack; and she's going to meet Neville in the Leaky Cauldron for tea next weekend, would he like to come?

Q has never been particularly close with Neville Longbottom, but he'd be glad to visit Diagon Alley: the last time he'd been it had been a shadow of the vibrant place he'd grown up with, crawling with Death Eaters.

So he spends the week playing with the twins while Luna works on her next magizoology book (this time about the many purposes and uses of wrackspurts, Q can't wait for his signed copy), delighting in their smiles and unbridled enthusiasm, and he's been a shit godfather, hasn't he? He wonders to himself, as Lysander dozes off against his shoulder, and Lorcan chases the little birds he's conjured around the Scamanders' spacious yard, if he really oughtn't have stayed in the Wizarding World after all. It certainly would have saved him a lot of heartache.

But then he remembers Eve, and Tanner and R and his gadgets and the agents who rely on him and the lives he's helped to save and thinks it's been worth every painful moment put together.

When he and Luna walk into the Leaky Cauldron to see not just Neville Longbottom but what looks like the _every witch and wizard he knows_, the glare Q sends his friend could melt ice caps.

"Luna…"

She just gives him one of those patented Lovegood smiles and asks, "Would you have come otherwise?" His scowl is answer enough. "Exactly."

She gives him a fond pat on the cheek and then takes his hand to drag him toward the bar. "But Luna, I wasn't in Dumbledore's Army. You know that, and _they _know that."

Q, who had been in his third year when Umbridge had taken over Hogwarts, had declined when Luna invited him to join Harry Potter's new underground club. Not because he didn't agree with their choices or even because he didn't want to, but because the thought of the other Slytherins discovering him had been too much for the boy who would be Q. Nearly all of them had already hated him for being a muggleborn Slytherin and tainting their house's name, and he hadn't wanted to exacerbate the situation.

"Yes, but you showed up when it counted. Anyway, I have someone who wants to talk to you." And Q found himself face to face with Arthur Weasley. He was older now, his red hair slowly giving way to gray, but Q could spot a Weasley from a mile off. Just before she leaves him to go visit Neville and the others, Luna whispers in his ear: "I've already told everyone you go by Q now. Better than having to reintroduce yourself, don't you think?"

"Ah, Q! Good to see you lad. Now, I don't mean to pry, but Luna tells me you've been living in the muggle world! Say, on the topic of muggles…"

And this is how Q finds himself talking with Arthur Weasley for two hours about blurring the lines between muggle and wizard, technology and magic. Padma Patil, who now teaches Muggle Studies at Hogwarts, joins them around the one hour mark, and soon enough there is a small circle of people around Q talking and joking and bickering with him as if they're old friends. When the conversation naturally starts to dwindle, he asks Arthur why it is that everyone is so familiar with him, when they haven't spoken in over fifteen years.

"It's hard to go through something like what you all, what _we _all have without forming _some _sort of attachment. They care about you much in the same way I imagine you care about them," The older man gives him a cheeky grin. "Plus, you're not so horrible, for a Slytherin."

Q laughs, and soon enough it's only himself, Arthur, and Padma, the latter of whom somehow convinces him to come in and be a guest speaker in her muggle studies classes the following week. He suspects the firewhiskey is to blame.

Q finds that he has something to talk or reminisce about with nearly everyone there, much to his surprise. At some point he ends up sitting with Dennis Creevey and Ginny Weasley, and he regales them with the story of his first kiss, which had been with the elder Creevey brother. To this day, Q's convinced that Colin only kissed him because he looked vaguely like Harry Potter, with his dark shaggy hair and his green eyes and his glasses, although he's a fair bit paler than the other man. At fourteen, this had been a devastating realization, but at thirty two it's a fond, funny memory of a friend long since lost. Dennis certainly finds it funny, and that's the whole point, really.

He asks Ginny where Bill is, as it would seem the whole of the Weasley Clan is present excepting the eldest brother, and she tells him he's off in France helping an old school mate through a tough breakup. Bill always was so nice, Q says, and so _dreamy_. Dennis points out that Fleur is pretty dreamy too, and this sparks a pub-wide discussion on who had a crush on whom when they were teenagers. Q isn't the least bit surprised that almost everyone had once had a thing for Oliver Wood. He had been eleven during Wood's last year, and even _he'd_ been a bit in love.

During the evening Q also catches up on all the gossip he'd missed that Luna either didn't care enough about to include in his letters or just didn't know: Astoria Greengrass is now a Malfoy and she's named her son Scorpius, because _of course she has_; Professor McGonagall has sworn to retire the day before James Potter Jr. arrives at Hogwarts; and Blaise Zabini eloped with Marcus Belby six months ago. Once Q recovers from the fact that Zabini apparently got over himself enough to fall for _Marcus Belby_, of all people, he mourns the loss of any opportunity he might have had to shag that beautiful, beautiful man.

Q leaves the Leaky Cauldron with a promise to correspond with Arthur about his magic-infused muggle gadgets; a standing date with Padma for 11 o'clock Monday morning just outside Hogwarts; a promise to beta test some Weasley's Wizard Wheezes products with his muggle explosives; and Lee Jordan's phone number, which he probably won't use but appreciates nonetheless. He realizes as he and Luna drunkenly go to their rented room upstairs (they'd had the foresight to realize they'd probably be too drunk to apparate without losing an ear or eyebrow or limb) that he hasn't thought about James bloody Bond in nearly five hours.

Q comes back to work after his leave feeling lighter than he has in years. Having Moneypenny all but tackle him into a hug helps ease the nerves he's been having at the thought of returning to MI6 and reopening old wounds.

And they _have_ been opened, as everything around him, even with Q Branch moved back into HQ, reminds him of Bond in some way.

But it's easier to handle the heartbreak, he's realized, when he shares it. So he finally tells Moneypenny what she's already suspected: that yes, he was horribly in love, and yes, he is a bit of a mess. He's inordinately pleased when she vows to kick Bond in the balls the next time she sees him, even though there won't _be _a next time.

It also helps that he's _finally _taught Luna how to use a mobile phone, and she calls him fairly regularly.

The first time she calls him during work, he answers only because he's bored and waiting for 008 to check in. The entirety of Q Branch hears her shouting about her theories on why unicorn blood is silver. They stare at him long after he hung up, until he shrugs.

"We all have that one daft friend, right?"

His next lesson with Luna is about volume control.

Bond waltzes into MI6 not two months after Q's vacation, and he seriously considers throwing his laptop at his smug, stupid, handsome face.

Q calls Lee Jordan that night, because_ fuck Bond_, that's why. Lee is charming and friendly and funny and he doesn't mind that Q is emotionally unavailable, and the sex is _fantastic_.

He's angry, but no so tactless as to ask what happened with Dr. Swann. But after a few weeks observation he realizes that Bond is a little less smug and a lot more reckless. The cockiness is largely a front, whereas before it was only a little bit for bluster. At one point, Q considers slipping Bond some felix felicis if only to get the other man to smile like he _means _it.

Well, that won't do.

He corners Bond one night after luring him to R&D under the pretense of weapon testing.

"I know that you feel like you have nothing to lose anymore, or that you're unlovable, or whatever heartbroken bullshit you've come up with post-breakup, but it's not true. So quit being so careless, and stop making me work twice as hard to keep you alive."

What he means to say is this: _Stop making me worry so much. Stop scaring me. Come back to me._

Bond looks shocked for all of five seconds before he smiles, warm and fond and _genuine _. "I missed you too, Q."

Things go back to normal after that, or as normal life at MI6 can get.

That is, until a particularly unusual mission in Bulgaria.

The mark is a corrupt politician, an ambassador taking bribes to look the other way as arms and explosives are smuggled through the Bulgarian embassy into Britain. They don't know what the target is, hence Bond's involvement. Otherwise, they would have simply arrested the woman.

Katerina Poliakoff is a beautiful, cunning, snake of a woman, with a knife at her hip and a near permanent smirk on her red, red lips. She is exactly Bond's type, to a T.

It takes less than a hour for her to bring Bond back to her home, and another fifteen minutes for Bond to go off the rails.

When they arrive, Poliakoff gives Bond a drink from her personal bar, and the agent comments that he's never had liquor that smells like Earl Grey before. She smiles knowingly and goes to powder her nose. Q can't get a good visual on the drink from where his camera is attached to Bond's tie pin, but it looks almost pearlescent.

He hears the agent sniff it again, hears him mutter "Oh, _fuck me_," before addressing Q directly. "Q, she's trying to drug me. Going dark."

To which Q replies: "What? No!" because if Bond's cover is blown the _last _thing he should do is cut off communication, but it's too late. Bond has slipped the camera into his jacket pocket and switched off his earpiece.

Bond returns two days later successful and in one piece, and Q is _fuming_. He rants for ten minutes at the man, complaining about stupidity and irresponsibility and valuable assets and _hadn't they talked about this? _But he cuts himself off when he notices the way Bond is looking at him; like he's never seen him before, like he's a puzzle the other man is trying to unravel. Q's not sure he likes it.

"Do I have something on my face?"

Bond startles at Q's words, and that's when he realizes that the agent hasn't been listening to _a word he's said_, and he gets distracted from the odd look on his face because "Are you _kidding me_, Bond?"

He has never so badly wanted to break the law and jinx a muggle. Maybe a jelly-legs jinx. Or maybe he'll turn Bond into a duck or something.

After what Q dubs the Bloody Bulgaria Mission, Bond is in Q Branch _all the time_. Before Spectre, before Bond took advantage of their tentative friendship, Q would have been pleased with this development, but now he's just suspicious. Bond must want something, he thinks, so he tries to keep his guard up.

Bond's interest in Q's gadgets has extended to the man himself now, and Q has no idea what to do with this attention. He asks inane questions about how Q's weekend was, if he's getting enough sleep, how he's enjoying work. He asks after the cats, who he had apparently thought didn't exist and were instead a joke Q had made up at the time. He asks about the (unmoving) picture of Lorcan and Lysander that Q has put out on the desk in his office, and seems genuinely surprised to learn that Q has godchildren, that Q has a life outside of MI6.

Q would be offended, but he does spend almost all his time in his branch.

In return Bond offers little tidbits of himself. Q knows most of the big stuff, if only because it's all laid bare in the other man's file, but he's reluctantly enchanted by the small things: Bond's favorite book is _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_; Bond had a pet falcon called Roderick growing up; Bond hates spiders, citing some mission in the Caribbean as a reason; Bond used to collect sport trading cards as a boy… and Q finds that despite the walls he's been trying to put up that he is if anything more in love than ever.

When Q finally, after a month, asks Bond what he's playing at, the agent just shrugs.

"I had a bit of a rude awakening on that Bulgaria job, that's all," and this is all Q can get out of the man.

Bond has been missing for two months when Q Branch is infiltrated, though not by muggle means.

(_ "Well, Q, it looks like I'll be a little late for dinner," _Bond had quipped over the comms before jumping headfirst into a burning building, ignoring Q's frantic shouting.

The building had been completely engulfed in flames within minutes, and collapsed not long after that.

Bond had not emerged from the rubble.

Q has yet to accept that Bond might not actually be missing in action this time. That Bond might actually be… )

Perhaps it is exhaustion from working at all hours searching for the agent; perhaps it is sheer incompetence; or perhaps it is his growing despair as the weeks without Bond drag on, but it takes a good fifteen minutes before Q realizes.

There is a dementor in MI6.

Well, there's a dementor in Q Branch.

Technically, there's a dementor in Q's little workshop on the Thames and not in Q Branch _itself_, but still.

There is a dementor in MI6.

His muggle underlings are shivering, bemused at the chill pervading the room despite the mid-July heat outside, and Q watches in numb shock as his tea begins to harden and freeze in his mug.

The dementor has been hovering just inside the wide entryway, no doubt having floated in through the open tunnels that lead to the river. The creature is, if anything, even more frightening than what Q remembers of its kind. He stays frozen, terrified at the sight of this relic of that harrowing time all those years ago, until the dementor starts to move into the room and toward John.

John - who of course cannot see the dementor and does not understand why his chest has begun to feel tight or why he's started shivering from the cold - has only just returned from his bereavement leave: his mother died just a month ago. The dementor would be drawn to this sorrow like a moth to a flame.

Q calls out to the five employees in the room, trying very hard to keep his voice level. "Alright then; you're dismissed for the day, everyone."

"But sir, we were going to - "

"OUT," Q hollers, panic beginning to sink in. He'd never forgive himself if anything were to happen to his muggle employees. Thankfully, his harsh tone prompts the technicians to scurry away, leaving Q alone with the dementor in the empty, underground warehouse.

He draws his wand as the dark, hooded creature turns toward him, and -

_He cannot conjure his patronus_.

Q says the incantation, thinks of Luna, thinks of Lorcan and Lysander, thinks of Eve, but it keeps slipping away. All he can think about is that even if James weren't dead, he might never see him again. He thinks of James, he thinks of those precious times he's made the other man truly laugh, thinks of the look on his face whenever Q gave him a new toy; but every memory is tinged with grief, with the sorrow of a love lost.

The dementor is practically on top of him, and he falls to the ground, his wand still clutched in his hand. He's never seen one so close. Its gaping maw is an endless hole; its face thin and gaunt under the cloaked fabric; its hands long and skeletal… he hasn't been so scared since he was a child. Q's glasses are frosting up, his breath coming out in puffs of mist, and he can feel the edges of his vision beginning to darken.

There is a sudden, blinding light, and the dementor lets out a shriek as it recoils from the large patronus that has come to stand before Q. Even as he's carefully dragged across the room and behind a desk, even as his rescuer runs back to face the dementor, he keeps staring at the apparition. It's a _tiger_, of all things, and easily the biggest corporeal patronus he's ever seen.

The dementor must leave, because all at once the wizard who has saved him returns to his side, calling his name as the tiger circles around the pair.

He's so very tired, and his arms are so heavy, and god, he doesn't think he'll ever be warm again.

Q looks up to thank the man, only to see a pair of familiar blue eyes, like the sea in the Caribbean or the sky on a cloudless day. God, but he'd missed him.

Q lets out a sudden, amused snort, even as he feels himself begin to fade. "Of bloody _course _your patronus would be a tiger."

Q wakes up on the sofa in his flat, his head leaning against an armrest and Minerva stretched out across his stomach.

This is not the most unusual occurrence, but given that the last thing he remembers is passing out in Bond's arms on the floor of his workshop, he's a bit perplexed.

He is less perplexed when he turns his head and sees Bond sitting in the armchair across the coffee table, staring at him. The sight of Bond in his apartment, dressed down in a knit sweater and slacks, does funny things to Q's chest, so he looks away again, sighing deeply.

Only to jolt up two seconds later, his cat scampering off him with an indignant yowl when he wakes her up. He points an accusing finger at Bond.

"You! You were - and there was - the dementor - "

"Why didn't you tell me you weren't a muggle?" Bond interrupts, impatient. Judging by how dark it is outside, he's been waiting quite some time to ask.

Q sputters. "Why didn't _you _tell _me _that _you _weren't a muggle?"

Bond stares at him. "You didn't _know?_"

"Of course I didn't!"

Bond sits back against his chair, all his indignant frustration evaporating at Q's admission. "Well then. We make quite a pair, don't we?"

It would be funny if Q weren't still trembling slightly, if Bond didn't have a healing cut along his right cheekbone.

With a sigh Q reaches for his wand (from where Bond had presumably set it on the coffee table), going about making a pot of tea from where he's sitting. Getting up doesn't seem like a good idea, considering that his arms alone still felt a bit like jelly.

Bond gets up and walks to the kitchenette, batting away the tea bags as they float toward the waiting pot. At Q's "Oi!" he shoots the younger man an unimpressed look.

"You've nearly been kissed by a dementor. You don't need tea, you need…" Bond trails off, looking through Q's cabinets. "Ah, there we go. You need chocolate. Or in this case, hot chocolate."

Q scowls. "I'm not eight years old."

"No, but apparently you're an adult wizard who can't conjure a patronus," Bond answers absentmindedly, pouring the instant cocoa package into a mug while he waited for the kettle to boil.

"Lots of people can't conjure patronuses," Q says, thinking of those first few months after the war, when it felt like no one would ever get past their grief. "Whether or not someone can summon a corporeal patronus doesn't define them as a wizard."

Nevertheless, he waves his wand and out springs his little raccoon. He guides it over to Bond, letting it wind around the agent's shoulders.

"There. Happy?"

Bond turns sharply, giving Q a glare that seems one part bewildered and one part angry. "You _can _conjure one?" At Q's nod, he looks like he wants to tear his hair out. "Then why didn't you - you could have died, Q! Or worse! What was so different three hours ago that you couldn't - "

"You were _dead _three hours ago, you complete arse!"

Bond stops dead, his eyes wide. "You… what?"

"It's a bit difficult to conjure a patronus when the most important person in your life has been missing for two _bloody _months," Q says quietly, turning away toward the window. It has not escaped his notice that his traitorous patronus is still hovering near Bond, practically sitting on the counter next to him.

Bond doesn't speak until he brings over Q's steaming mug of hot cocoa, sitting next to him on the couch after a moment's hesitation.

"I guess you joined up after the Second War, then?"

"I went to muggle uni first, but yeah."

Bond nods, and Q suddenly realizes that the agent is struggling just as much as he is to navigate this new territory.

"So you were what, seventeen? When it all…" Bond gestures vaguely.

"Fifteen. I spent a year hiding in a cabin by the shore in Wales. No magic, no contact with anyone. I would have - I'd heard that people were obliviating their muggle parents, sending them away, but I wasn't old enough, and they…."

The look on Bond's face tells him he understands, and Q is grateful that he doesn't have to say it.

"A lot of muggleborns lost their parents," is what Bond eventually responds with.

Q lets out a derisive snort. "A lot of muggleborns lost their _lives_. I suppose I'm one of the lucky ones." Q shifts to face Bond more fully, changing the direction of the conversation before he starts to get emotional. "What about you then?"

Bond shrugs. "I was an auror for a while, but after the Second War I figured I'd faced enough dark wizards to last me a lifetime. Thought I'd try my hand at fighting a different kind of enemy."

"I'm guessing your parents didn't die in a climbing accident, then?"

"Death eaters, just before Voldemort disappeared that first time."

Q scoots closer, leaning against Bond's shoulder. "I suppose it's a miracle _either _of us can produce a patronus."

They're quiet for a time, Q sipping his cocoa and conjuring his raccoon again, entertaining Bond as he lets his cats chase it to their hearts' content.

"You know," Bond says, "It would have been a big help to know you were a wizard. You wouldn't believe how many wizards you run into in the field."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Like in the Bulgaria Op, if you'd have - " Bond cuts himself off, and Q sits up fully, his curiosity piqued.

"The Bulgaria mission? Poliakoff was a witch? Was she trying to give you a potion? Is that how you knew? Veritaserum, or…"

Q trails off. He remembered what the drink had looked like, even through the lens of his tiny tie clip camera. There had been a sort of pearly sheen, and it had seemed white and blue and purple all at once.

Amortentia, then. The world's strongest love potion.

"Ah. Well, that's unfortunate. I'm sure it wasn't fun to be suddenly reminded of Dr. Swann like that."

Bond, who had been sitting very, very still during Q's little intuitive leaps, tilts his head quizzically at this. "Madeleine?"

Q nods, looking down at his hands and fidgeting with the handle of his mug. "Yes, well. If the potion's scent is supposed to remind one of the things they're attracted to, or love, then surely it must have smelled like her perfume or something."

"It didn't," Bond says, watching Q with an inscrutable look on his face. He reaches forward, carefully taking the mug from Q's hands and putting it down on the coffee table. Bond's expression when he turns back to Q is hesitant, as if he's afraid to upset this steady footing they've found.

But then, Bond's always been the more reckless of the two. He reaches forward, cupping Q's face in his hands, rubbing his thumbs along the younger man's cheekbones. "Q, if I've got this wrong…"

Q shakes his head, leaning forward until his forehead is pressed against Bond's. "I couldn't conjure a patronus because I was so wretchedly unhappy without you. If that doesn't say 'I love you,' I don't know what else could."

At this, Bond kisses Q, oh so gently. They stay like that for some time, just the barest brushes of lips, over and over, intimate and soft and _loving_. Finally, Bond pulls away, looking at him with a fond expression, running his thumb across Q's reddened lower lip.

"It didn't smell like Madeleine," Bond says, and at Q's furrowed brow, he continues. "The amortentia. It didn't smell like Madeleine." He pulls Q closer, pressing biting, wet kisses to Q's neck as he speaks.

"It smelled like Earl Grey," a nip across Q's adam's apple, "and engine grease," a light suck at the crook of his jaw, "and those cigarettes you smoke when you've had a hard day," a bite to his earlobe, a nuzzle at the soft spot behind his ear, and Q is a breathless mess. Bond leans back to admire his handiwork, smirking as Q's cheeks redden at the attention.

His smirk fades into something small, something warm as he looks at Q. "It was you. It was always you."

Q feels like he might cry, and that would ruin the mood, so instead he shoves Bond over until he can straddle the older man, kissing him desperately. "No takebacks," he pants, and he can feel Bond smile against his lips as strong arms wrap around his waist.

"I would never. Us Hufflepuffs are quite loyal, you know."

Q laughs, kissing him again, before he freezes, leaning back to look at Bond incredulously.

"You're a _Hufflepuff?_"


	49. (E) JOSHLER - Apodyopsis by Breakyourarm

Apodyopsis  
Breakyourarm

Summary:  
N/A (bc i dont remember its exact summary ok just that this is JOSHLER and it's about a fuck boy Tyler trying to make Josh his or smth i can't remember)

_**So, Editor-San has to explain some shit, first of all this fic was once in WattPad, it itsn't mine. Second, this fic was removed from WattPad bc Author-Chan deleted their account. Thirdly, this is the EDITED ver of the fic, who edited it? it was me, I printed this entire fic and made a small booklet as a gift to my friend bc we loved this fic so much. and now editor-san is sharing this lovely fic with you, i hope u enjoy! **_

_**ps. for those peeps that're super sensitive about guidelines and shit please keep in mind that i aint profiting from all this, so fuck off.**_

* * *

"I'm not gay, Ashley." Josh sighs, rolling his eyes at the blue haired girl next to him. She scoffs, shaking her head.

"Josh, I, _a gay,_ know when I see another gay." She muses, Josh groaning in annoyance.

"What even makes you think I'm gay? I have a _girl_friend." Josh tells her. Ashley slams her fist on the lunch table. She's obviously determined, eyebrows scrunched together and lips in a straight line.

"Josh, just because you have a girlfriend doesn't mean you can't be bi or pan." She explains, frustration glistening in her eyes.

"She's not wrong." Dallon agrees, taking a bit from his sandwich. Josh allows his head to fall, forehead slamming onto the table and making him wince as a few looks are thrown his way.

"_Maybe…bi?_ No, no, no! Ashley, Dal, get out of my head, dammit!" He exclaims. Ashley roughly pats his back, Josh grimacing.

"_See! _You stuttered—you thought about it!" She rejoices. Dallon chuckles, freezing as a piece of bread falls from his mouth, watching it fall in his lap.

"I just, I don't know…" Josh sighs again, closing his eyes. Ashley frowns, cocking an eyebrow at Dallon as he awkwardly stuffed the fallen piece of bread into his mouth.

_"Whgat?"_ Dallon asks, mouth full and crumbs splurging from his mouth. The corner Ashley's lips draw back in disgust, turning back to Josh.

"Josh, it's not bad to be gay. It's normal to be interested in whoever you are—_hIIII LYDIA!_" Ashley quickly cuts herself off as Josh's girlfriend appears, sitting down next to Josh.

"Hi." She responds, Josh sitting up and turning his attention to her.

"Hey, Lydz." He greets her, Lydia pulling him in for an abrupt make out session. Dallon and Ashley gag, taking their lunches elsewhere.

"That poor soul. doesn't even realize that she probably just likes him because he's attractive." Dallon sighs. The tall male truly does feel bad for his best friend, but is just as unaware as Ashley on how to make Josh see how badly he needs to breakup with Lydia.

"Dude, I know, right? Can I tell you something?" Ashley whispers, voice dropping lower as they sit at an unoccupied table.

"_Ohhh,_ feed me the juicy deets!" Dallon says in his white girl voice, Ashley giggling.

"Okay, but really." She pulls out her phone, opening up the camera app and showing Dallon the camera roll. Dallon's hand flies over his mouth as he sees pictures of Lydia making out with some random dude on the screen, wide eyes lifting to meet Ashley's.

"When did you take these?!" He whisper-shouts, Ashley turning her phone off.

"Yesterday. I was walking to the locker room for P.E and heard some noises in the boys' room." She explains. Dallon shakes his head, lifting up his first finger.

"We need to get that whore outta our best friend's life, right now, bitch." He tells her, voice laced with truthfulness and fake sassiness. Ashley snorts.

"I have an idea." She bursts out. Dallon lights up.

"What?!" He enquires, excitedly.

"You ever met _Tyler Joseph?_" She questions. Dallon seems shocked.

"The _fuckboy,_ really?" Ashley smirks evilly.

Tyler slams his locker shut, turning around and immediately jumping as two other teenagers stands in front of him, one a girl with blue hair and the other extremely tall, even taller than him.

"Well hi there." He smirks a bit. The girl with blue hair sighs, the taller boy glancing at her.

"Okay, I'm already regretting this decision." He tells her, she responds with shaking her head.

"Shut up, long legs, it'll work." She tells him, turning back to Tyler's direction. "Okay, Tyler Joseph, right?"

Tyler nods his head.

"I do believe that's me." He retorts, voice a little cocky. The girl sighs in frustration.

"I'm Ashley, this is Dallon." She introduces, gesturing to herself and the tall male. "And we need you to do us a favor."

"What could I possibly help you with?" Tyler raises an eyebrow. Dallon gulping in regret because he obviously was disliking the sound of Ashley's plan more and more.

"We need you to get our friend Josh to break up with his slut of a girlfriend." She explains, Tyler's eyes squinting.

"Josh who? _Dun…?_" He suggests. Ashley and Dallon's eyes lit up.

"_Yes! _Dun! How do you know him?" She asks. Tyler bites his lip.

"I've had my eyes on him for a while, but I could never get within five feet of his eye view with that stupid Lydia chick sucking his face off. She's literally the school's whore, how does he not know this?" Tyler rambles.

"Exactly! Ashley literally caught her making out with some dude yesterday. Josh just wants to believe she's faithful and shit." Dallon bursts out. Ashley shakes her head.

"That's where _you_ come in." She points at Tyler, the brunet unable to help but smirk.

_"Oh?"_

"Yeah, we need you to break them up somehow. I don't care if it involves _cheating_ or _whatever_. Besides, Lydia could use a little payback." She pleads. Dallon is a little surprised at how desperate she is.

"I don't exactly agree with cheating but…eh, you're right. She _could_ use some payback." He proves, Dallon and Ashley nodding along. Ashley juts out her hand.

"So, is it a deal?"

Tyler takes her hand, shaking it with a grin.

_"Deal."_

Josh pulls the folded blue sticky note out of his pocket, handing it to Ashley_._

"I found this in my locker before sixth period." He tells her. Ashley feels a secret jump of excitement. She unfolds the note, seeing a phone number written in purple pen, signed with a _T._ She tries to hide her smirk, folding the note and handing it to Josh.

"Maybe you should call it." She suggests.

"I dunno." Josh shrugs.

_Well, that wasn't a no, but not exactly a yes. _Ashley thinks to herself.

"Maybe I'll text it this afternoon, or whatever. See who it is." He tells her. Ashley mentally fist pumps.

"Alrighty!" She exclaims, patting Josh's shoulder. Josh chuckles. The bell rings.

"Shit, we're late." He says, waving to Ashley as he speed-walks down the hallway. Ashley does the same, but in the opposite direction.

_Tyler, this better work._

Josh groans in tiredness, flopping down onto his bed.

_"Ohmygooood."_ He says, exhausted from the day. He pulls his phone from his pocket, the blue sticky note falling out with it. He glances at it in brief confusion before remembering that he'd planned on seeing who _'T'_ is. He opens up the dialer on his phone, typing in the number and texting it.

**Josh  
**Is this "T"?

**Unknown**  
I see you've actually messaged me  
I'm genuinely surprised

Josh cocks an eyebrow at the screen, humming questioningly to himself before texting back.

**Josh**  
What's your name?

**Unknown**  
T  
That's all your getting

**Josh**  
Okay…Well, I'm guessing since you were the one to put this note in my locker you might know my name

**T**  
Josh

**Josh**  
Okay so  
Why did you put the note in my locker anyways?

**T**  
Because its people like you in this world that are hot as fuck and I want to fuck

**Josh**  
Whoa there okay

I have a girlfriend

**T**  
And I have a math test next week

**Josh**  
…?

**T**  
I thought we were listing things we could cheat on

Josh sits down in his second period class, setting his books and binders on the desk, waiting for the bell to ring. He usually gets to his classes early, that is unless Lydia interrupts him to make out. He feels his phone buzz in his pocket, pulling it out and seeing messages from t. he swipes the screen, opening it up.

**T**  
Saw u in the hallway  
U look cute today

**Josh **  
If you want me to answer use proper grammar

**T**  
You look cute today

**Josh **  
Thanks but I still have a girlfriend

**T**  
I still have that math test

**Josh **  
smh

**T**  
Hey Josh you're a guy do you like blowjobs

**Josh **  
I'm not sucking you off, prick

**T  
**calm down jeez  
I was gonna offer to give you one bc I doubt Lydia does

**Josh **  
Oh  
True**  
**But no that's cheating

**T**  
As if she ain't cheating on you ffs

**Josh **  
fuck off

**T**  
Feisty  
Besides its not cheating if -I'm- the one sucking dick

**Josh **  
…

**T**  
At least think about it  
At least I plead for your consent like damn I'm the one who knows what -you- look like

**Josh **  
Good point

**T**  
Meet me in the bathroom closest to your science class lunch

**Josh **  
idk…

**T**  
C'mon babe  
At least consider it  
So…?

**Josh **  
I'll think about it idk

**T**  
There ya go Joshy boy  
I'll be waiting if you aren't  
See you in the bathroom x

Josh sighs heavily, dropping his head on his desk. Is he really going to meet this t dude in the bathroom?

_Lydia won't know, _he tells himself. Besides, it's not like his friends follow him everywhere. But then again, this guy could be a senior or something. Well, that'd just be luck for Josh, actually, then he wouldn't get caught if they meet up again.

_Again? _He chokes on his spit a little. He's already thinking about meeting up again and he hasn't even seen the dude's face! Plus, this is only the _second_ time they've talked.

"What have I gotten myself into…?" Josh mumbles.

Lunch time rolled around more quickly than Josh had hoped in order to make up his mind on meeting T in the bathroom. Yet, a feeling of excitement pulsed through his veins at the thought of taking the risk. The risk of being caught, the risk of trying something new, the risk of _cheating_ on Lydia… It felt like he had the world in his hands and with a simple meeting he could crush it and devour the hope of souls living in said world—_crazy,_ right?

He was unsure when his hands began to shake, his feet unwillingly carrying him to the bathroom. The sound of the bottoms of his shoes clicking against the tiled school hallways made his heart pound in his ears, this rush of dirty excitement filling his brain and somehow convincing him that _no, Lydia would never find out_, and _yes, this will be worth it_. But thirty-three percent of his common sense screamed at him to turn around, and yet, his body trekked closer to the bathroom and further from the lunchroom.

His anxiety began to stab his stomach harder, like a knife being twisted in the worst of ways, as his body entered the bathroom. He gulped quite harshly, telling himself to not be so nervous. But how could he _not?_ The fact that he was literally willing to risk his relationship just to get sucked off by some dude in the bathroom! It made him curious if he was going to end up like one of those horny douchebags who couldn't keep their dick in their pants, and it all made him feel oh-so dirty. The sin he was about to invest in set a fire blazing in his mind, every bit of purity burning slowly. But he just wanted to know; would the fire burn _faster_ or _slower_ with this interaction?

"You made it."

Josh froze in place, the sound of someone's voice echoing in the bathroom. He was unable to prevent himself as he…_giggled._

A small hum of confusion was released from the unrecognizable boy, Josh biting his lip, humored, distracted from the bubbling in his stomach.

"What's got you so giddy?" The person asks, Josh giggling more, taking a deep breath.

"I just…" He chuckles. "You sound pretty—_not_ fuckboy-ish. Not what I expected, honestly."

Josh giggles more, a small scoff being placed in response.

"Do I _look_ fuckboy-ish?" T asks, Josh wanting to make a snarky reply, but his breath catching in his throat as a stall door swung open, presumably T stepping out. His chestnut hair formed a small quiff, chocolaty eyes locked with roughness and eyebrows formed in a sarcastic appearance with his lips quirked, his expression showing that he wasn't surprised by Josh's response to his facial structure. He wore a black and grey flannel that hung loosely on his body, dark indigo skinny jeans squeezing his legs with thick black combat boots on his feet. It all complimented his heavy dark eyes without a doubt, and Josh was more than stunned, because something was utterly wrong here.

"Fuckboys _aren't_ supposed to be hot." Josh accidentally voices, face turning red as t cocks a smirk.

"And Josh Dun isn't supposed to have a girlfriend." T retorts, mockingly, Josh snapping out of transfix.

"Why do you say that?" He scoffs. T snickers.

"Babe, you wouldn't've come here if you wanted a girlfriend." T remarks, stepping slowly to Josh, grabbing onto the space where Josh's jacket unzipped, his boots stomping on the floor along to the beat of Josh's heart. "Not being single obviously isn't stopping you, _or me,_ from getting what you want."

T's canines show in his almost evil grin, yanking Josh into a stall, Josh following like T had complete control over him. T pushes him against the stall, locking the small door. Josh's breath hitches as T puts his lips against his jaw line, kissing up to his ear, leaving his stomach fluttering and twisting, jaw tingling as t's extremely hot breath brushes over his earlobe.

"My name's Tyler, by the way, _just so you know what to moan._"

And Josh could feel the fire burn faster.

Josh's breaths become shallower and heavier as he watches Tyler drop to his knees, the brunet unbuttoning his jeans and tugging them down, smirking as he notices how Josh is obviously excited.

"I see I have a certain effect on you, Joshua?" He enquires, cockily. Josh flushes red.

"S-shut up." He mumbles, Tyler raising an eyebrow. He slides his hands up Josh's thighs, leaning forward and mouthing around the bulge in Josh's boxers. Josh's breaths turning shaky.

"Ah." Josh huffs in small shock as Tyler kitten-licks the skin above the waistband of his boxers, his tongue dragging to Josh's hipbones.

"Fuck, you have nice hips." Tyler says, Josh blushing profusely. Josh chews his lip as Tyler gingerly bites his left hip, lapping his tongue over the skin. Josh gulps, his eyes falling to Tyler as he watches the brunet create hickeys over his hip, not even thinking about the risk of having them. Tyler takes the waistband of Josh's boxers between his teeth, locking his lustful chocolate eyes with Josh's, pulling them down oh-so slowly and teasingly. Josh's face burns to crimson as his length is revealed, knowing of Tyler eyeing him like candy. His eyes widened as the tip of Tyler's tongue ever so slightly touches his slit, making the older boy's jaw fall slack with a sharp exhale. Tyler's tongue circles around Josh's tip slowly, Josh beginning to whimper helplessly, his hips pinned to the stall's wall. Tyler grins at the sound, continuing his incredibly tortuous ways.

"O-oh g-god." Josh says breathily, his head falling back against the wall with a longly drawn whimper. He moans suddenly, feeling Tyler's whole tongue going around the tip, his face flushing red and immediately biting his lip to shut himself up. Tyler's ears had perked at the sound of Josh's unexpected moan, feeling heat stir between his legs as he squeezes Josh's thighs. His tongue swipes over the slit a few more times, knowing of Josh's vulnerability. Josh whines, one of his hands sliding into Tyler's hair, pulling a bit, pleadingly. Tyler's caught off guard by this, glancing up at Josh, the boys locking eyes. Tyler places his tongue just a centimeter away from Josh's length, Josh staring him down. Tyler cocks an eyebrow, challengingly. Josh caves in to his thoughts.

"Please." He whispers, feeling odd to let the word slip through his lips. It's not exactly every day you have to beg for some dude to suck you off, really.

Tyler's eyes light up.

"What was that?" He fakes, Josh clenching his jaw awkwardly.

"P-Please?" He repeats louder. Josh watches as chuckles, abruptly wrapping his lips around the head, Josh's head flying back. Josh gasps, Tyler carefully taking more of him into his mouth. Josh whimpers, tugging on Tyler's chestnut hair, the brunet grunting around him from the pulling. Josh's mouth drops open as Tyler suddenly pushes all the way down to the space between his hips, his nose touching the skin.

Josh could feel Tyler's throat closing around him, his tongue lathering his length in saliva. Josh can't help the moan that comes out, his head banging into the stall, not even acknowledging the hit as Tyler begins to bob his head up and down. Josh yanks on his hair, squeaks of pleasure flying past his lips. And god, it felt amazing. Josh hasn't felt this feeling since, well, ever.

Every girlfriend he's ever had wouldn't do it or broke up with him too early for sexualization, so this personally exotic feeling of pleasure washing over him was purely amazing. The only way he'd even ever been able to feel pleasure was all self-handled, but with Tyler, it was like god himself had sent the feeling of overly pleasurable feelings.

Tyler hollows out his cheeks more, sucking Josh harder and listening to his small moans like angelic singing as it echoed through the bathroom. He grips Josh's thighs, Josh replying with a whimper as Tyler releases his hold on Josh's hips. Josh thrusts into his mouth, the brunet now gagging on him as he pushes into his mouth. Tyler moans a bit, Josh more than enjoying the way this felt.

"T-Tyler, oh god, I-I'm gonna, fuck!" Josh moans out, Tyler not pulling away as Josh freezes up and spills into his mouth.

A longly drawn moan of Tyler's name leaves Josh's lips in a breath, Tyler swallowing, knowing that the taste of cum will linger. Josh begins to pant, Tyler standing back up after pulling up Josh's boxers and pants. Tyler smirks at the aftermath, Josh leaning against the stall, breathing heavily to catch his breath. Tyler snickers and pulls Josh nose to nose by the collar of his shirt.

"Josh?" He says.

"Yea?" Josh gulps.

"You have my number. Call if you need anything else." Tyler pecks his lips, chuckling as he unlocks that stall and trots out of the bathroom.

"Damn." Josh sinks to the floor, still panting.

The bell rings and Josh quickly rushes to his locker, fumbling with the lock and rushing to get his things out before anyone could distract him. Josh sighs gladly as he tugs out his biology books quite easily, closing his locker and placing the lock on it. He turns around and almost screams as Ashley and Dallon stand in his path.

"Uh. _Hi?_"

"Why weren't you at lunch?" Ashley immediately asks. Josh's cheeks flush red, thinking of earlier events.

"I, uh…I got lunch detention." He excuses, quickly forming a story behind his lie.

"Oh? Why didn't you tell us?" Dallon enquires.

"The teacher kept me busy with chatter before telling me I had lunch detention, it was the class before this one." Josh shrugs, lying cleverly. Dallon nods.

"So, why'd you get detention?"

Josh immediately makes up more.

"The teacher was super pissy today and I showed up late." He says. Ashley hums in understanding.

"Now please don't let me be late to another grumpy teacher." Josh jokes, Ashley and Dallon letting him by with a laugh.

As soon as Josh nears his class, a voice stops him.

"_Joshy!_ where were you at lunch?!"

He freezes, seeing Lydia behind him, an angry pout on her face. Suddenly anxiety washes over him, making it hard to breathe with the knowledge of what he'd just done with Tyler.

"I-I got lunch detention. Sorry I didn't tell you." He unnoticeably stutters, clutching his zipper binder's handle. Lydia 'oh's, and steps closer to Josh, oblivious of how extremely nervous this makes him.

"I missed you, Joshy." She pouts again, laying her hand on his chest, Josh's uncomfortableness growing.

"I know, I'm sorry, Lydz." He replies, Lydia suddenly smacking their lips together, Josh oddly not liking it. It felt more foreign compared to other times. Josh quickly made up an excuse in his mind and pulled away from Lydia.

"Don't want to get lunch detention, again! Hehehe, I'll see you later." He spurts out, rushing to his class just in time. How is he going to start being comfortable around Lydia while knowing of what he's done with Tyler?

**Josh**  
How can I be comfortable around Lydia and you at the same time?

**Tyler**  
It's not that hard  
I mean, Lydia's used to it

**Josh**  
Fuck.  
Off.

**Tyler**  
Baby, that's not what you were saying in the bathroom

**Josh**  
.

**Tyler**  
That's what I thought  
If it helps, just imagine she's me (;

**Josh**  
Oh I'm sorry, we don't kiss every day and go on dates?  
****sArCaSm****

**Tyler**  
I can change that if you want  
Take you out and take you home

**Josh **  
Boi stop tryin to get in my pants

**Tyler**  
I already have

**Josh**  
r00d

**Tyler**  
Ay, you liked it

**Josh**  
tbh… I unfortunately did

**Tyler**  
See? told you I'm a good dick sucker

**Josh**  
Oh god where else has your mouth been  
Do I need to wash my dick now  
I'm gonna get dIABEETUS

**Tyler**  
OhmygOD  
Luckily for you, the last dick I sucked before yours was a year ago

**Josh**  
So you just fuck girls…?

**Tyler**  
*British laugh* that is not correct

**Josh**  
oh  
oH

**Tyler**  
I'll be honest, I've been sucked off by almost all the guys on my basketball team  
Actually, I fucked a visiting team player after a game once  
So, if you and I ever get frisky in the locker room, they know not to mess w/me or you bc they have gfs

**Josh**  
Is that an invitation

**Tyler**  
do you want it to be

**Josh**

…maybe

"MY LUMPS, MY LUMPS, MY LOVELY LADY LUMPS!" Ashley yells, snapping her fingers. Everyone in the cafeteria glares at her, Josh and Dallon laughing. Josh giggles hard.

"O-Ohmygod, Ash." He stammers between laughs.

"I gOT _HUMPS!_" Dallon screams, slamming his fists on the table. Josh laughs harder, the three ignoring the weird looks they were getting.

"BUT ARE THEY _LADY_ HUMPS?!" An unknown voice screams back from the other side of the cafeteria. The three turn around, a boy with obviously bleached hair standing and pointing at them.

_"NO!"_ Another yells, this boy having a large forehead. "HE'S GOT _MAN_ HUMPS!"

Ashley cheers.

"WE'VE GOT HUMPS _AND_ LUMPS!" She shouts, all five people standing now.

"MY LUMPS, HIS HUMPS, _OUR LOVELY, MANLY LUMPS!_" They all shout in unison, the two boys walking over to the table in tears of laughter. They plop down across from them, the group dying of laughter and giggles.

"I don't know who you are, but I like you!" Ashley exclaims, pointing between the two.

"I'm Pete." The blond one says, looking towards the other unknown boy.

"I'm Brendon." The other introduces.

"I'm Ashley, this is Josh and Dallon, or as we call him, _dally long legs._" Dallon rolls his eyes.

"I'm not _that_ tall." He says, Josh gaping at him.

"Boy, you are like a fricking skyscraper." He muses. Dallon chuckles.

"Josh, you only say that because you're small." He sticks his tongue out, Josh pouting. It's true though, Josh being the shortest, only beating Ashley by one inch.

"How tall are you?" Pete asks Dallon.

"Oh, uh, 6'4." He answers, Pete and Brendon's jaws dropping open.

_"What?! _Who's your fucking dad? The giant from _jack and the beanstalk_?" He overexaggerates, Dallon chuckling.

"How tall are you, Pete?" Ashley asks.

"5'6."

_"FINALLY!"_ Josh exclaims, clutching his chest. "By one inch you stand taller than me, but I will not let that stop me from feeling normal heighted."

Brendon quirks an eyebrow.

"You're 5'_5_?" He asks. Josh nods.

"_Awe!_ So smol!" He teases, Josh frowning. Brendon intertwines his own hands together, placing them on the side of his cheek like a mother adoring her child.

_"Joshy!"_ A familiar voice calls, Josh feeling his face burn immediately.

_T_yler sits next to him, slinging his arm over Josh's shoulder.

"Hiya there." Tyler smirks at Josh's friends, Ashley and Dallon holding back grins and Pete and Brendon waving a bit.

"Who're you?" Pete asks.

"M'Tyler." He starts, glancing at the flustered boy next to him. "Josh's _best friend._"

"How tall are you?" Pete questions him. Brendon nodding.

"Uhm, 5'9." Tyler answers.

_"Dammit!"_ Josh frustratedly whines. _Even _the _fuckboy_ is taller than him.

"What?" Tyler questions, slightly baffled. Ashley chuckles.

"Josh is angry because everyone here, besides me, is officially taller than him." She explains, Tyler humming in recognition.

"How tall is Josh?"

Josh sighs.

"I'm 5'5." He mumbles, Tyler just now realizing how much shorter the older boy is.

_"Ohmygod._" The brunet snorts, genuinely surprised. "You're so small, _ohmygod._"

Josh rolls his eyes.

"I know."

When no one's paying attention, Tyler hovers his lips over Josh's ear.

"Don't worry, I think it's _cute._" He whispers. Josh smiles a bit, immediately wiping the smile off of his face.

…did he _really_ just like Tyler's compliment?

"F-Fuck, Tyler…" Josh moans, Tyler's tongue dragging up his length. Tyler wraps his lips around the tip, Josh's hickyed jaw falling slack.

"O-Oh _god_." Josh mumbles, his eyes rolling back as Tyler sucks and dips his tongue into the slit, Josh losing it. "Fuck!"

His fingers tangled in Tyler's chestnut hair, pulling it harshly and causing the brunet groan a bit. Tyler pulls off, saliva stringing from Josh's member to his lips and running down his chin, him wearing a greedy smirk.

"_Hmm, _you liking this, Joshy?" He quizzes, teasingly thumbing the slit as he stares up at the mess he's made of the shorter boy. Josh glances down at Tyler, his cheeks rushing from pink to crimson as he sees the sight below him.

"Y-Yeah—_oh, fuck!_" His head flies back on instinct as Tyler abruptly grabs his member and jerks on it roughly.

"What d'you want, babe?" Tyler questions, Josh whimpering as he kitten-licks his tip, tasting his precum. Josh looks back down at him.

_"I-I want—"_

**_"JOSHUA!"_**

Josh's head shoots up, his cheeks red as he realizes his class is staring at him, his eyes bulging at his vexed teacher. He quickly wipes the spit that dribbled from his lips while he'd slept, his heart beating hard and shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

"U-Uh!"

Mrs. Hamilton approaches him, her eyes harsh with anger.

"I am very disappointed in you. An all _b_'s and _a_'s student falling asleep in class! You better hope your dream was a good one, because you have lunch detention." She hisses, slapping a prewritten note on his desk. Josh's jaw drops.

"W-What?" He says unbelievably. His mum is going to kill him.

"That's why you _don't_ fall asleep in my class!" She exclaims, glaring at the surrounding students. They all nod, two girls in the back giggling at Josh. Josh sighs as she resumes the lesson, eyeing his lunch detention slip and stuffing it in his pocket, rolling his eyes. He places his hand on his chin, attempting to rethink his dream.

_Oh._

His face burns fiery red from his ears to his collarbone.

_No,_ he tells himself. _I…I didn't dream about Tyler, especially like that._

His mind wonders off more, the idea and memory of the way Tyler made him feel in that moment, how—how _amazing_ it felt.

_No!_ he screams mentally. _Don't say that!_

He sighs in frustration; this is most definitely going to be harder than he thinks.

Josh explained to Ashley, Dallon and Lydia that he has lunch detention because of events prior. He doesn't think he's ever been so irritated with his mind. His posture is hunched as he lazily carries his lunch box into the lunch detention room, popping down in the very back of the class.

About one or two other kids sat in here, playing on their phones under the table. They sat upfront, unlike Josh who sighs and flips open his lunch, pulling out a pack of Oreos. The door creaks open, Josh not bothering to look up as he stuffs another cookie into his mouth, tasting the chocolate and vanilla cream.

_"Hey Joshy."_

Josh's heart practically stops, his eyes widen and his face flushing like a fire as his head snaps to the left, Tyler sitting with a smirk and a lunch tray of poorly cooked school food.

"H-How—?" Josh stammers, Tyler interrupts.

"I came to look for you at lunch. Ash and Dalpal told me you had lunch detention. So, a couple runs down the hallway and eleven locker slams later, I got myself lunch detention." He explains, taking a bite from a blob of mashed potatoes and grimacing instantly, spitting them out.

Josh blushes, this time, secretly flattered that Tyler was going through all this trouble just to speak to him. He shakes off the thought, barking at his brain to shut up.

"So, cutie." Tyler starts, pointing at the Oreos. "Can I have one?"

"O-Oh, uh, yeah." Josh answers, pulling out three from the pack and handing them to Tyler. Tyler grins.

"_Three?_ I must be special." He exclaims. "Also, it's kind of rude to not tell _your fuckboy_ where you are, but oh yes, tell your _'girlfriend'_!"

Josh rolling his eyes.

"She was waiting with Ashley and Dal, what'd you want me to do?" He questions, a bit sarcastic.

"Tell _me,_ you, twat." Tyler snorts. Josh shakes his head.

"Why do _you_ care so much?" He questions, irritably. His breath hitches as Tyler slaps his hand on his far upper thigh, rubbing his fingers into it and making Josh whimper.

"_Still_ sure you're straight?" Tyler questions. "_Still _sure you don't like me?"

"F-Fuck off." Josh whispers, his cheeks currently flaming red. Tyler shakes his head, squeezing Josh's thigh and releasing his hold on it, Josh obviously a bit relieved.

"So, lover boy, what's your opinion on taco bell?"

"What?" Josh repeats, a bit baffled and still red faced.

"_Taco. Bell. _Don't make me spell it out." Tyler sighs.

"Oh, u-um, yeah. it's good." Josh answers him. Tyler grins.

"Great! does your mum pick you up or anything?"

Josh becomes more confused.

"Uh… no." He still answers honestly.

"Perfect! Let's go to taco bell!" Tyler exclaims, Josh understanding what his point was in all those questions.

"Oh, uh, okay." He replies. Tyler smirks, slinging his arm over Josh's shoulder and smirking at him. He brings his lips against Josh's ear.

"You ever had sex in a public bathroom?"

Josh's face drastically change color again.

_"What?!"_ He says too loudly. Tyler chuckles, darkly, Josh staring at him in horror.

"Well, I don't know why you're so afraid of public sex in a bathroom."

"What makes you say that?"

"You've had a _blowjob_ in one."

Josh gulps.

_Oh. _

"D-Do you think—" He starts. "—that someone heard?"

Tyler cuts him off.

"Probably." He states truthfully. Josh drops his head on his desk, signing heavily. Tyler sneakily grabs his pack of Oreos, shoving one in his mouth.

"Hey!" Josh exclaims once he notices, trying to snatch he pack from Tyler. Tyler dodges him, Josh definitely trying hard.

_"FUCK!"_

Josh slips forward, flopping onto Tyler and knocking the brunet back, Tyler panicking and grabbing the collar of Josh's hoodie, pulling them both back as Tyler's chair tips sideways and hits the ground. Tyler falls against the floor on his back, Josh landing on him, both 'oof'ing. The two other kids in the room stare at them, Tyler quirking his eyebrow at Josh who's face is practically a centimeter or two away.

"Uh-uh—" Josh stutters, Tyler rolling his eyes.

"I'm sure the last place _you _want to be is on top of me in front of other people, so I highly suggest you get up." Tyler rushes him, Josh jumping up instantly.

"Besides." Tyler mumbles. "The only place _I _want _you _is under _me._"

Tyler picks up his chair, sitting back in it, everyone returning to their own business.

"Well, lover boy." Tyler starts. "I think that's the closest you'll get to world domination."

Tyler and Josh currently sat opposite each other in a booth at taco bell, the two eating whilst Tyler wore a sly grin. He'd convinced Josh to hang out with him after their little lunch in detention, and honestly, it wasn't too difficult to do. Tyler could sense Josh wasn't quite the quickest at realizing how easily he's playing into Tyler's plan.

Josh took frequent bites of his taco, sneaking glances at Tyler. The brunet's hair was slicked back by his sunglasses in which rested atop his head. He wore a _seether_ band tee, followed by black skinny jeans and floral converses. Josh would never dare to say it out loud, but Tyler looks hot. Yep, that seems, _pretty odd_ when he says it in his head.

_Tyler is hot, _he thinks. The more he repeated it, the more he believed it.

"You're staring, Joshua." Tyler muses, smirking. "Take a picture if you'd like, I'll pose for you."

He winks, Josh blushing, unwillingly.

"S-Shut up." Josh murmurs, feeling a bit—_shy,_ oddly.

"So, lover boy, how's the girlfriend?" Tyler mocks him, Josh groaning.

"Fuck off." He hisses, the shyness draining away. Tyler _mrrows _like a cat, making a pawing-like action with his hand.

"Still feisty, eh? You truly don't change." He contemplates, Josh rolling his eyes.

"Don't you have like… a boy/girlfriend? or something?"

Tyler chuckles heavily.

"_Joshy, Joshy,_ _Joshy,_ have you learnt anything? I'm a fuckboy who flings, not a boyfriend on strings." He rhymes, Josh quirking his eyebrow.

"How long did it take you to come up with that?"

"Thirteen seconds."

Josh snorts, sipping his Baja blast. Tyler grins.

"Wanna know _what else _I can do in thirteen seconds?" He quizzes, his voice abruptly turning husky. The shorter boy's entire face flushes dark red, his eyes widely staring at Tyler.

"W-What?" He daringly questions.

Tyler smiles.

"I see it has worked. I realized it's _very_ easy to make you flustered." He explains, Josh not sure how to respond.

"N-No it's not!" He stammers angrily, only proving Tyler's point, whereas his expression is utterly too adorable to be taken seriously as being pissed off. Tyler awes.

"Awe, Joshy, so stutter-y and cute and short!" He gushes, Josh biting his lip.

_"IT'S BY FOUR INCHES!"_ He screeches, shaking his fists like a frustrated child. Tyler bursts into a fit of laughter.

"You're so defensive about your height, ohmygod." He laughs. Josh sighs, shaking his head.

"Well, it's-it's—stop being tall!" He barks, unsure how to word his vex. Tyler smirks.

"It's so cute, though. You're like an angry midget trying to reach a cookie jar."

_"shuT UP YOU GNOME!"_

The two boys lay on their backs on Tyler's bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. Tyler persuaded Josh to come to his house, originally planning to possibly get into his pants, but really enjoying the silence between them.

"Do you think aliens are real?" Tyler questions.

"Hell yes." Josh replies, glancing over at Tyler. Tyler turns his head to look at Josh as well, smirking as he immediately noticed a prominent blush on his cheeks as their noses brushed together. Tyler peaks at Josh's lips, then locks eye contact with Josh. He inches a bit closer until their lips were touching, but not completely. He grinned as Josh failed to pull away, his breath hitching, instead.

Tyler was utterly surprised when it was _Josh_ who connects their lips together, unable to help but feel successful in his plan. see, his idea was to unnoticeably persuade Josh into being the one to make his move on Tyler, and well, it's obviously working. Tyler took this opportunity to sit up, trying to keep their kiss connected as he did so. He leaned back against the headboard of his bed, Josh taking his place on Tyler's lap.

One of Josh's hands tangled themselves into Tyler's hair, his other clutching Tyler's t-shirt. Tyler rested his hands-on Josh's hips, frequently squeezing them. Josh didn't think his face could get any redder as Tyler swiped his tongue over his bottom lip. The shorter boy was reluctant, but nonetheless he started parting his lips. Even Tyler began to blush as he felt Josh's tongue against his, his heart beating a little _too_ quickly. Their kiss was extremely slow, not being sloppy at all as small whimpers or moans sometimes filled the air.

And then Tyler realized something else, this kiss was _extremely_ fucking _passionate**.**_

Tyler was having difficulty refraining from looking directly at the boy underneath him, the brunet biting his lip as the sound of Josh's soft moans filled his ears. His eyes were rolled far into his head, his back raised and mouth wide open, and the way he looked mesmerized Tyler. His shirt was riding up his stomach more and more every time his back arched, eventually revealing his ribs. Tyler jerked his hand quicker on instinct, Josh crying out in pleasure.

"F-Fuck." Josh squeaks out, clutching Tyler's bed sheets. Tyler bows his head down, kissing up Josh's stomach and listening to his reply of whimpers and moans.

Seventeen minutes ago, they had been making out against the head board, and well, one thing led to another. And by that, it led with Tyler pinning Josh to the bed and ending up with him writhing underneath him as Tyler acted on him, jerking him off quickly and allowing him to thrust up into his fist. Tyler constantly wore a smirk during this situation, because it was so easy to silently trick Josh into becoming lustful for his touch. This boy was much more gullible than Tyler had thought, nonetheless, the brunet quite enjoyed the situation.

"Tyler, I-I'm gonna, _a-ahh!_" Josh moans, breathing heavily. Tyler grunts a bit.

"Hold off just a bit longer, babe." He informs, his words slightly mumbled with his lips against Josh's stomach, creating purple bruises. Josh whimpers deeply.

"H-How the hell do you expect me t-to _not _cum?!" Josh desperately whines. Tyler huffs in frustration, slowing his pace. Josh, again, whimpers, glancing at Tyler as the brunet moved his face to bury his face in Josh's neck, sucking his jawline.

"Just release on five." He mutters, his hand beginning to pump faster again. Josh cries out, similar to earlier.

"One." Tyler whispers, breathing into Josh's ear, causing him to shiver. Tyler creates a sneaky and quite visible hickey underneath Josh's ear on the start of his jawbone.

"Two." He murmurs. Josh nudges one of his hands underneath Tyler's shirt and buries his nails into Tyler's shoulder, the brunet groaning deeply at the feeling.

"T-Three, _fuck_." Tyler pants, Josh raking his nails down to his ribs. Tyler groans again, his voice cracking.

"Four. One more second, babe." Tyler tells him, Josh whining in response, his stomach pooling deeply, holding back from releasing for Tyler's sake.

"I-I _can't_ –Tyler. _I'm…_I—!" He cries between erratic breaths. Tyler chuckles.

_"Five."_

Josh's hips stutter, cumming all over Tyler's fist and his abdomen.

"Fuck!" He practically screams, Tyler smirking as he jerked him a few more times, getting him off of his high. Tyler removes his hand from Josh's length, licking off the cum that covered his hand. Josh watches him with a red face, Tyler biting his lip.

"You like watchin' me do that?" He questions with a grin, Josh's eyes widening.

"I-I…" He stutters, his breath hitching as Tyler cleans off the cum on his stomach with his tongue. Josh shivers, Tyler takes the time to make more hickeys along the shorter boy's stomach, Josh not even giving an ounce of thought of someone being able to notice. He seemed to do that a lot, lately.

Tyler laid down next to him, listening to Josh breathing. Josh felt slightly awkward now, as if this was the part where Tyler was supposed to randomly cuddle with him and they fall asleep like some romantic cliché.

His cheeks flushed red, feeling colder, whereas Tyler wasn't hovering above him and sharing body heat. Josh reluctantly did so, but he rolled over to face Tyler, burying his face into the brunet's side. Tyler blushes a bit, but he doesn't mind his presence, slinking an arm around Josh.

Then a question appears in his mind, is he getting a bit…_too_ comfortable?

"Joshua William Dun, is that a _hickey_?"

Josh freezes, his siblings and parents now staring at him intently from his spot at the dinner table. His whole face burns, and he tries to recall it.

"W-What?" He asks innocently. Mr. Dun eyes his neck, spotting the hickey right underneath his ear, where Tyler had left it. Josh now remember the brunet's sneaky move, anger boiling in his head, Tyler had _obviously_ done that on purpose.

"You have some explaining to do, Joshua." Ashley mocks him. Josh stands up, rushing into the bathroom. He closes the door, seeing the bruise on his skin in the mirror. He groans in frustration. He spots a bit of purple poking out from under the collar of his shirt. He pulls his collar down, his eyes widening at the dark purple hickey on his collarbone.

"Dammit, Tyler." He mumbles. He lifts up his shirt to his ribs, his eyes bulging out at the hickeys littering his stomach.

"Shit." He curses, seeing more purple sticking out from the hem of his jeans. He dares to look, pushing his jeans down so that more of his pelvis was showing. sure enough, hickeys. _Everywhere._

_"Fuck."_

Josh was definitely getting the message that Tyler liked to mark his territory.

**Josh**  
You're an asshole

**Tyler**  
Woah there, what'd I do?

**Josh**  
made thE MOST VISIBLE HICKEY EVER TO EXIST

**Tyler**  
oh  
…oops?  
At least that might keep away Lydia

**Josh**  
smH

**Tyler**  
…are there anymore hickeys I left?

**Josh**  
Yes, fuckface  
IMAGE SENT

**Tyler  
**IMAGE RECEIVED**  
**Oh fuck  
Bitches and hoes better back the fuck up**  
**You're mine now

**Josh **  
I'm not your property

**Tyler**  
Your hickeys and moans of acceptance say otherwise

**Josh **  
Ugh

**Tyler **  
So, lover boy, are you going to the basketball game tomorrow?

**Josh **  
the one at school?**  
**Yeah, Lydia cheers for the school's team and she gets pissy if I don't go

**Tyler **  
Well luckily for you, your 'gf' not annoying you isn't the only thing you can get out of the basketball game

**Josh **  
Oh?

**Tyler **  
Remember? I play basketball, Joshy  
Bet you'd love to watch me get all sweaty

**Josh **  
.

**Tyler **  
Do you know where the locker rooms are

**Josh **  
yes

**Tyler **  
You'll know where to find me

Josh had never been so thankful for his sisters, the two willing to cover up the hickey to save him from inevitable embarrassment. He wore a sweater today, and since it hung so carelessly, he wore an undershirt underneath so that it covered his bruised collarbone. Josh glanced at himself in the mirror, sighing slightly. His hair had begun to fade into a blondish color, small bits of dark green now a pastel mint. He didn't mind it, but he didn't like it, either. He sighs again, checking the time. He still has an hour or two, being that he got up early as all living hell.

"Hey, Ma!" He shouts, his mother yelling back at him from downstairs.

"What?!"

"Are there directions on the back of the hair dye box on how to get the dye out?"

Tyler snuck through the hallways and to Josh's locker. He couldn't see the blond-green hair anywhere, frustration taking over.

"Tryin' to hide…?" He mumbles to himself, questionably.

"Not really."

Tyler jumps as he hears Josh's voice, snapping around, met with curly dark brown hair, not blond.

"You took the dye out?"

Josh nods.

"Yea." He says. Tyler looks him up and down and holy hell, his curly hair and sweater paws and shortness mixing together made Tyler's heart clench. How could he be so…_punk_ one moment and utterly _adorable_ the next? Tyler tried to push away his thoughts, specifically the ones screaming to kiss him and cuddle him like a five-year-old to a teddy bear. Well, with his chocolate eyes and spruce hair, he might as well be a teddy bear.

An involuntary blush dusts Tyler's cheeks, trying to restock his confident attitude, but god, Josh just randomly knocks it down. Successfully, too.

"I, uh…I like it." Tyler tells him, badly wanting to run his fingers through the curly hair. He's had the opportunity plenty of times, he just hasn't used it. Josh thanks him.

"So, how'd you hide the hickey?" Tyler questions, a smirk taking over the blush. Josh noticeably becomes agitated, actually liking the taller brunet's awkwardness.

"My sisters covered it for me." He answers. Tyler nods, glancing around.

"Wanna skip first period?" He asks. Josh furrows his eyebrows.

"I don't want to miss my classes, Ty-" Josh squeaks and bites his lip midsentence, feeling Tyler suddenly squeeze his butt. Josh glances up at him, his hazel eyes lustful. Josh knows he truly shouldn't, but he allows the brunet to drag him away.

"Mr. Shirley, can I go to the bathroom?" Dallon asks his teacher.

He and Ashley went off to find Josh this morning, being unsuccessful. They'd suggested that maybe he was tired and slept in. His teacher nods, giving him a hall pass.

Dallon thanks him, leaving the classroom. he walks to the bathroom, doing his business and such, walking out. He walks past a janitor's closet, freezing as the door shakes a bit. He turns around, hearing a quiet moan, oddly recognizing the sound of Josh's voice. He walks back to the door, carefully grasping the handle, twisting it and peeking in.

He's actually genuinely surprised, his eyes widening as he sees Josh pinned against the wall, _not_ _forced, though_, his arms are slung over shoulders, Tyler's shoulders, to be specific. One of Tyler's hands are up his shirt, his fingertips grazing over his skin, the other is tangled in his brown hair, occasionally pulling. Dallon can clearly see their hips rocking together, both moaning against the other's lips, whereas they're making out slowly paced. Dallon thought about interrupting to embarrass them, but he immediately changed his mind as Tyler slipped a hand into Josh's jeans.

Dallon waits patiently, biting off of his apple. He's decided to tell Ashley about what he saw, to let her know that their plan had worked. The blue haired girl plops down next to him.

"So, what have you been dying to tell me, gay boy?" She questions. Dallon grins.

"It worked." Is all he says. Ashley quirks an eyebrow.

"What?" She quizzes. Dallon sighs, pulling her closer and whispering in her ear.

"I caught Tyler and Josh making out in the janitor's closet!" He quietly exclaims, Ashley's face lighting up.

"What?! No way!" She exclaims, her expression happy. Dallon nods.

"Um, yes way. Tyler's hand was literally down his pants!" He tells her, Ashley's hand flying over her mouth.

"Who did what now?" Josh's voice asks, sitting across from his friends. They straighten up.

"Dallon choked on a grape." She tells him, giggling at the thought of the extremely tall boy falling like a giraffe. Josh snorts.

"Okay, then. So, how're you guys?" He asks.

"Great now that you're actually not in lunch detention!" Ashley sasses, Josh holding his hands up in defense.

"My bad." He starts, a voice breaking in the air.

_"Joshy!"_

There's two people who call him that, and here comes the one that's _not _Tyler.

_Lydia_ approaches him, sitting on his right side.

"Where have you been?" She questions.

"Lunch detention." Josh answers simply, hearing conversation making its way to the table. He glances up, grinning again as he sees Pete and Brendon.

"Hey dudes!" Pete greets, him and Brendon sitting on Josh's left side, Brendon closest to Josh. Josh does notice Lydia eyeing up his friends, his stomach churning. Although he may have been getting with Tyler lately, it still appeared as if Lydia had ideas in her head before they even said hello.

"So, you guys wanna come to my place on Saturday? we can hangout and eat pizza and stuff." Pete explains, Brendon nodding along.

"Sounds fun." A new voice cracks in, Josh feeling tense as Tyler sits next to Dallon. This is when Dallon wants to glance at Ashley and grin like children who've gotten away with something, but he doesn't, instead seeing how Lydia was checking out all the new guys surrounding her, feeling angry. Pete chuckles.

"Oh, hey Tyler! You wanna come too?" He questions. Tyler nods, his smirk not as wide as usual, at least to Josh. Dallon could _feel _Tyler glaring at Lydia, trying to hide his grin at all the pissy and jealous vibes Tyler is giving off as Lydia places a hand on Josh's shoulder, whispering something into his ear, his face flushing red. Tyler breaks off a piece of Styrofoam from his tray, his knuckles white as he clutches it in his hands. Dallon slightly feels bad for him, landing a hand on his shoulder. Tyler jumps a bit, glancing up.

"Whatever she said couldn't have been that bad. You and I, _especially you,_ know that Josh gets flustered easily." Dallon murmurs to Tyler, the brunet nodding and loosening up.

"Yeah."

Dallon begins to wonder, _is Tyler getting attached?_

The whistle blew for final round, Josh watching as the basketball was passed between multiple players, the crowd cheering for their team. The cheerleaders screamed out chants for success, Josh's eyes scanning through the many players, his eyes landing on Tyler. The blond-brunet was slipping through the players, and he snatched the ball from visiting team. The whole left side of the gym, and including Josh, began to scream for Tyler to score a point. If Tyler scored this point, home team would win, if not, visiting would.

And Josh could feel anticipation lift off his shoulders as Tyler weaved through the players, dribbling the ball. He came face to face with defense, the visiting team player ready to snatch the ball, or at least try. Anticipation weighted Josh's shoulders, and he couldn't help but yell out for Tyler to score it.

It was almost as if he heard him, because that exact moment, Tyler sprung up and threw the ball to the hoop and past defense's hands. It was like time slowed, and Josh had never felt so much anticipation for a basketball game. And one, two, three, four, five, _the ball fell into the hoop!_

Everyone screamed out, Josh included, Tyler's team yelling and high-fiving Tyler and fist bumping him. Tyler heaved out sweaty breaths, wiping his face off with the bottom of his shirt. Tyler seemed quite shocked as the team suddenly lifted him up, a trophy handed to the group. this wasn't rare for their team, honestly. Josh just never knew Tyler was on the team. It amazed him, really, the blond-brunet so successful with his teammates and winning practically _every_ game.

Josh remembered, Dallon used to play on the team for a while because he was so tall, and during that time they lost a game, and Dallon was always pink faced and heavy breathing after practice every day after. They definitely treated their players like real ones, here, making sure they _never_ lost.

After the crowd began to leave, Josh weaved through the bleachers, trying to go unnoticed from Lydia as she talked to someone. Josh successfully slipped to the front of the boy's locker room, waiting patiently. He got a few questions looks from team players as they passed him on their way in and out, making Josh feel a bit anxious, knowing that people knew wasn't supposed to be back here.

"_Lover boy,_ you made it." A tired voice breathed, Josh turning around to see Tyler. Josh felt a bit bitter, the brunet glancing down at him.

"You, uh, y-you did good." Josh awkwardly smiles, Tyler chuckling in reply.

"Thanks, babe." Tyler says, wearing a lopsided grin as he used the nickname. "Now, I _do_ believe we talked about something…?"

Josh blushes.

"…yeah…" He mumbles, not too good with the 'sexual talk' situations. Tyler chuckles again, his grin turned to a smirk. Tyler opened the locker room's door, peaking around the room before pulling in Josh. Josh was surprised at how quickly the team for through their clothes and things packed, but Josh could assume it was because of how badly they probably wanted to go home and sleep forever.

Tyler locked the door to the big room, Josh sitting on a bench in the room, red faced and fidgeting with his sweater paws. Tyler approaches Josh a bit from afar, the darker haired brunet standing up. Tyler smirks as Josh walks to him, a bit hesitant as his hands fall onto his shoulders. Josh thought he must've gotten shorter, _because he had to actually stand **on his tippy toes** in order to kiss Tyler_. the taller brunet pushed him back onto his heels, making it easier for both of them as Tyler leans downward.

Josh began to slowly push Tyler to the wall, the blond-brunet slightly shocked at this, but nonetheless taking baby steps backwards. Tyler hit the wall with his back, Josh's hands still on his shoulders, now sliding down his chest and stomach. Josh let his hands fall to the waistband of Tyler's basketball shorts, playing with the hem of the blond-brunet's boxers, whereas they stuck out. Tyler felt a rush of surprise as Josh dropped to his knees, glancing up at him with puppy eyes that made Tyler's heart clench.

_God, he looks so innocent,_ Tyler thinks to himself as Josh slowly tugs down his loosely hung shorts. they fall around Tyler's ankles, Josh's face becoming bright red as he sees Tyler's hard on through his boxers. Tyler chuckles at his reaction, the shorter boy placing his hands in the hem of Tyler's boxers, a bit unsure. he's never exactly given a blowjob, before.

Tyler watched him, letting him make his own decisions. He could tell that this was no doubt the first time Josh was doing something like this, he was so hesitant, it was obvious. Honestly, Tyler doesn't think he'd give anyone else this much patience if they were on their knees and in front of him, but Josh seemed to have all these exceptions.

Josh very carefully pulled Tyler's boxers down, Tyler biting his lip as his length was revealed, his boxers now with his shorts at his ankles. Josh's face was so red, a cherry might've been jealous, honestly.

"You don't have to." Tyler quickly tells him.

"I want to." Josh replies, Tyler shutting up. Josh slightly gulps, leaning his face forward and pinning Tyler's hips to the wall. he pushes out his tongue, experimentally running it around the tip. Tyler gasps, immediate pleasure overcoming him. Josh furrows his eyebrows, repeating this action and tonguing the slit a small bit. That truly caught Tyler's attention, the taller boy moaning softly. Josh decided he enjoys the sound, running his tongue along the base. Tyler's jaw falls open, his eyes now closed. Josh begins to lap his tongue over the tip, Tyler humming in pleasure.

Tyler would beg him to quit teasing, but he assumes that because this is Josh's first time giving a blowjob, he's most likely curious what moves do what. Tyler whimpers as Josh begins to circle the slit with the tip of his tongue, the blond-brunet biting his lip, harshly. Josh finally wraps his lips around the tip, Tyler's breath hitching. Josh slides his tongue around him, Tyler making small noises. Josh clutches his hips, taking more into his mouth, trying remember what Tyler did. He slowly brings his head back and pushes it forward, repeating this action as his mouth is wide open, some of Tyler's length on his tongue. Tyler breathily moans as Josh takes in more, bobbing his head back and forth.

_"Fuck."_ He curses, tangling a hand in Josh's dark curls. Josh whimpers as Tyler pulls on his hair, taking that as a sign to take in more. Tyler moans harshly, Josh taking in what he could with tears in his eyes as Tyler hit past the back of his throat. Josh's nose nudged as the space between Tyler's hips, Tyler looking down.

"_Fuck,_ taking it all, huh, _princess?_"

Josh whimpers a bit in reply, and Tyler shudders as he feels Josh swallowing his spit around him, the shorter boy beginning to bob his head again, slower this time. Tyler moans loudest, now, Josh feeling precum dripping down his throat. Tyler ached to fuck his mouth, reluctant and holding back, knowing this was Josh's first time. Tyler may have been needy, but he was still considerate. Josh suddenly hums around him, making Tyler's back arch forward, crying out, slightly.

"F-Fuck, _Josh._" Tyler stammers. Pulling Josh's hair harsher, Josh whimpering softly. Josh moves to focus on the tip again, sucking hard and using his tongue on the slit.

"J-Josh, god." Tyler heaves out, pleasure coursing throughout his veins. Tyler's hips slightly shutter underneath Josh's hold, the familiar pooling feeling I his stomach.

"I'm gonna c-cum." Tyler warns him. But Josh _doesn't_ pull off, in fact, he sucks as hard as he can take all of Tyler back into his mouth. Tyler's eyes screw shut, his body twitching.

_"Josh!"_ he moans, releasing down the shorter boy's throat. Tyler pants, Josh slowly standing and pulling up Tyler's shorts and boxers. Their eyes meet, Josh wiping away the leftover cum and spit on his own chin. Tyler tips Josh's chin up, connecting their lips again. he can taste himself on Josh's lips, Josh desperately leaning against him. Tyler unusually cups Josh's cheeks, deepening the kiss. This was… _slow and passionate._

_And Tyler kind of wanted it to stay that way._

Josh sighs, his head leaning back into the beanbag he was currently sitting on, sighing softly. He was at Pete's place with other friends, the group liking the idea of a sleepover, also a bit of a congrats to Tyler (although, there was no doubt Josh already gave him some appreciation). He still couldn't believe Pete's mother was willing to let all seven teenagers spend the weekend at her house, it would've been five (Pete, Brendon, Josh, Tyler and Ashley), but Pete invited two other friends named Gerard and Frank.

They had at least six two liters of mountain dew and four pizza boxes on their way from pizza hut, all seven teens huddled into Pete's quite spacey room. right now, Dallon and frank were fighting against each other in round three on mortal combat. Dallon was playing as subzero and frank as nick cage.

Brendon, Pete and Ashley were screaming at Dallon to use better moves whilst Tyler and Gerard yelled on each side of frank's head on what buttons to press. Josh chuckles at the situation, closing his eyes. He'd never played video games too much, but he knew some simple ones like halo, destiny, super smash bros, Mario cart, etc. Other than that, Josh shied away from those things, really more interested in music and art, he just never had the will or took the chance to attempt to those.

Dallon ended up winning, ending the final round with the narrator's overly dramatic voice saying, "bloody fatality" as subzero literally pulled out nick cage's spine, Josh's eyes opening as he heard Dallon, Ashley, Pete and Brendon all cheering. Gerard playfully slapped Frank on the back of the head, the dark-haired male cheesing it up at the other's action.

There was obviously something going on between those two, Josh could tell as Gerard placed his hand on frank's shoulder, the blush on frank's cheeks saying so much than Josh bet he could. Speaking of blushing, Josh's cheeks began to redden as Tyler made his way over to him.

"Scooch." The taller brunet demands, Josh scoffing in a joking manner as he made room for Tyler on the beanbag. Tyler plopped down with him, their bodies extremely warm. Josh uncomfortably shifted so that his arms were awkwardly close to his chest, Tyler's lazily stretching, one around Josh.

"So, lover boy." Tyler starts. "Did you have fun in the closet with me?"

He winks, Josh unable to think about the pun he made with his literal-ness.

"Or did you like the postgame after party?"

Josh snorts, ignoring his own blush.

"The closet was okay…" He lies, because that second hand job was more than just okay, it felt absolutely amazing. Tyler gasps.

"Rude. I don't put lotion on to make my hands soft for no reason." He grunts, Josh rolling his eyes. "You use lotion?"

Tyler nods, laying a hand on Josh's lower thigh with his palm facing up, gesturing for him to touch it. Josh lays his fingers in Tyler's palm, feeling his smooth skin. He didn't notice the blond-brunet blushing profusely, goose bumps rising on his tan skin as the pads of Josh's soft fingers caressed his hand. Tyler secretly itched to snatch the dark-haired brunet's hand into his own, ignoring those thoughts as his fingers slightly twitched. Josh seems to realize how long he's bee touching his hand, his arm retracting.

"U-Um, yea, they-they are s-soft." Josh stammers. Tyler's cockiness builds up again.

"You don't look so comfortable." He mentions, gesturing to how Josh sat, squished against Tyler on the beanbag, his arms awkwardly angled on his chest.

"Wanna sit on my lap, baby boy?"

Josh's face turns red, squeaking aloud.

"T-There's other people in the room…" He says, quietly. Tyler snorts.

"Josh, everyone in this room is gay. They won't care." The blond-brunet shrugs. Josh bites his lip before awkwardly standing up, his face pure red. Tyler eyes up his ass the whole time, watching as Josh carefully sat down in his lap. Tyler smirks.

"See babe, they're still playing their game."

Tyler points to their group of friends, now Ashley and Pete playing against each other. But Tyler was correct, none of their friends paying too much mind to them.

Josh ignores him, leaning back against Tyler and causing the younger to fall back onto the beanbag. Josh smirks as he successfully had trapped Tyler underneath him.

"Still want me to sit on you?"

Tyler chuckles.

"Depends, where would you sit?" He questions slyly, Josh's face reddening again.

"I hate you." The shorter boy mumbles, Tyler grinning as he kisses the back of Josh's head—somewhat instinctively—and sliding his arms around Josh's waist. They both became a bit too comfortable with this, Josh biting his lip to not smile.

"I didn't know you guys were together?" A voice rasps, Josh and Tyler opening their eyes to see frank with a small smile.

"We're not." Tyler says. "Just two bros getting comfy."

Frank scoffing, playfully.

"You look like two bros who are too comfy."

Josh cuts in.

"Shush, Frank, I see how you look at Gerard, and not at all in a bro way."

Tyler snickers at Josh, frank's cheeks turning bright red.

"I-I, uh, um…" Frank stutters. He slips away to the group, Tyler and Josh giggling.

"Nice one." Tyler tells him, Josh shrugging and rolling around so that he and Tyler were stomach to stomach. Tyler sighs softly, their eyes falling into each other's gaze. Tyler's stomach bubbles a bit, feeling his own lips tingle.

"C-Could you get up for a moment?" Tyler questions. Josh nods, getting off of Tyler and letting the blond-brunet up. Tyler hooks a finger underneath the hem of Josh's sweater, pulling him into Pete's bathroom. Josh sighs almost immediately.

"Tyler, we don't have time to—" Josh is cut off after Tyler locks the door, the taller boy cupping his cheeks and connecting their lips. Josh gasps slightly, his hands reaching up and grabbing onto Tyler's shirt.

Tyler slides one of his hands through Josh's hair, pushing him against the counter. Josh puts a hand on the counter for support, his other hand clutching Tyler's shoulder. Tyler rubs his tongue against Josh's bottom lip, the older boy, of course, opening his mouth and allowing Tyler's tongue to slip in.

It begins to slow down, Tyler softly caressing Josh's cheeks and starting to slow their kiss. Josh very hesitantly pulls away for a moment, locking eyes.

"W-What're…?" He trails off. Tyler kisses him again.

"I just want to…kiss."

_So, they did. _

Ashley threw her hands up in victory.

"Yes!" She shouts, watching scorpion tear noob into two_. _Dallon and Brendon hoot, Pete, Frank and Gerard groaning at the blonde's loss. Ashley turns around.

"I can't believe I—" She stops, no longer seeing Tyler and Josh. She cocks her head, realization setting over her.

"I'll be back guys." She says. "I gotta use the bathroom."

She wonders out of the room, Gerard taking her place to fight against Frank. She hums in curiosity, freezing as she heard a small squeaking sound, like a sweaty hand on a quartz counter.

_"Ty!"_ She hears, the voice quiet and raspy, small giggles being shared. She rolls her eyes, approaching the bathroom. She listens.

_"Sorry."_ She recognizes Tyler's voice, hearing a giggle again, this time from Josh. She smirks, knowing that the two obviously have interacted before.

_"Okay, catch me this time?"_ Josh questions. Tyler hums a yes, hearing him count.

_"One…two…three!"_ Tyler whisper-yells, hearing a small grunt and shoes squeak. A little sigh of victory is released between the boys.

_"There we go."_ Tyler says, Ashley assuming that Josh may have jumped onto him, or on the counter…it's hard to tell.

Josh giggles again, his giggle fading softly as she could hear the sound of lips together. She snorts, pondering whether or not she should leave them here. She decides not to, for their sake, so that no one else would become suspicious. She knocks, hearing a gasp and a curse, shoes rushingly hitting the floor. The door knob jiggles slightly before opening, Tyler staring at Ashley with wide eyes. she can see how swollen his lips are, his cheeks red.

"Jesus Christ, were you kissing or _kissing?_" She quirks an eyebrow, Tyler nervously chuckling and opening the door more, Josh coming into view. His pale skin, besides his pink face, made his swollen lips more visible.

"H-Hi." Josh stutters. Ashley rolls her eyes,

"Don't worry, I won't tell the guys." She relieves, the two sighing thankfully.

_A yell erupts from downstairs. _

_"Kiddos!"_ Pete's dad yells. _"Food!"_

Ashley looks expectantly at them.

"Hurry up." She says, going downstairs. Josh glances at Tyler, the blond-brunet smirking.

"C'mon." He nods his head, Josh following him. The other guys meet up with them on their way downstairs, the herd of teenagers all grouping downstairs. Andrew's eyes widen at his brother's amount of friends.

"Jesus, mum, I didn't know we were feeding a pack of wild animals." He jokes. Tyler quirks up the corner of his upper lip, snapping his teeth together, the group chuckling. Pete's dad laughs, his eyes searching over the group.

"Hey, where's your boyfriend? what's his name? _Frederick_?"

Pete sighs.

"_Patrick,_ dad. And he's on vay-k in Cali for the week, or he'd be here." Pete explains, missing his boyfriend. Ashley pats his shoulder, Pete smiling at her.

After they all ate pizza, that were allowed to take two of the two liters to Pete's room since there's a big group of them.

"I like your parents." Ashley says, sipping her mountain dew. Josh nods in agreement, his fingers being the only thing visible poking out from his sweater paws, unnoticeably leaving Tyler a gushing and blushing mess.

"So, what do you guys want to do now?" Pete asks. They shrug, Brendon piping up.

"Hey, we could go to that park down the street." He suggests, the group sharing murmurs of yeses. They all stand up, going out the door. Pete yells to his parents that they're leaving for a few, them all walking down the street. Now, it'd be an adult's nightmare, seeing a group of teenagers walking down the street, especially when some of them have dyed hair and piercings. Josh glances up, looking at the stars. He looks to Tyler next, the taller boy walking closely so that their shoulders occasionally bump together. The street light illuminated his features well, Josh blushing a bit, seeing the lights reflecting in Tyler's chocolatey eyes.

Josh feels his heart skip a beat, quickly looking away, trying distract himself with thoughts and reminders of his girlfriend.

_This is **just a fling**, _he tells himself. _I have a girlfriend who is not cheating on me and loves me._

He catches up to the front of the group, leaving Tyler strayed in the back with his heart twisting a bit.

Tyler sat on a bench while the rest of the group lollygagged on the playground equipment, trying to think. He sighs.

_Why does it hurt? _He questions himself, thinking of when Josh goes to do something on his own. _Am I getting too clingy? Is it driving him away?_

The blond-brunet sighs shakily, propping up a hand and resting his head on it. He can't help but tell himself that he caused some issue, most likely bring to clingy or too attached. But then he starts questioning himself again.

_Am I getting too attached?_

Josh really can't fight off the sirens in his head telling him to go sit next to Tyler. He _can't._ So, he wonders away from the group, plopping next to Tyler. He feels bad for straying him earlier, poking the boy's shoulder. Tyler glances at him, seeming a bit surprised before swallowing thickly.

"H-Hey." He says, his voice slightly choked up. Josh doesn't know exactly why, but he scoots himself into Tyler's lap and hugs him. Tyler's face bursts into a shade of red, nonetheless, excepting the hug. He sneaks a kiss on Josh's forehead, the shorter boy smiling, not even realizing he is.

"C'mere." Josh says, getting up. Tyler follows him, the darker brunet leading him underneath one of the playsets, crawling under a huge plastic dinosaur staircase, their skin poked by mulch. They sit in the dark space, Josh eventually crawling back into Tyler's lap, sitting on his thighs. Tyler smirks, one of his hands finding their way to Josh's hips. the other holds Josh's chin, swiping his thumb over Josh's bottom lip.

Tyler gently pushes Josh over so he's lying on the ground, pulling up his sweater. Josh gasps slightly as he feels Tyler's lips peppering along his stomach, his fingertips grazing his skin. Josh arches his back as Tyler begins suck on his flesh, bruising marks into his stomach. Josh whimpers softly, Tyler placing multiple hickeys on his stomach. He pushes Josh's sweater up more, creating a few hickeys in the center of Josh's chest. He pushes down Josh's shirt, kissing up his jaw.

"I wanna hickey up your thighs so bad." Tyler confesses into Josh's ear, the boy underneath him whimpering in response. "And I wanna pin you to a bed and pleasure you."

Tyler carries on, Josh's breath hitching and whimpering more.

_"T-Ty…"_

Tyler chuckles, kissing Josh's neck.

"You'd love that, yeah? Being powerless under me, _just like you are now…_" Tyler smirks more, one of his hands gliding down Josh's torso. Tyler bites his lip.

"Too bad you've got a girlfriend, right?" He says, sitting up and getting off of him. Josh whimpers sharply.

"D-Don't do that!" He whines, desperately crawling into Tyler's lap. Tyler cocks an eyebrow, Josh pouting. Josh suddenly straddles Tyler's hips, daringly, Tyler feeling an obvious boner in his pants. Josh gingerly bounces in Tyler's lap, the younger boy gasping. Josh repeats this action, slowly beginning to grind against him.

_"Fuck."_ Tyler mumbles, gripping his hips. Josh clutches Tyler's shoulders, burying his face into his neck and panting.

"Mm, _Josh._" Tyler breathes out, bringing his hips up to meet Josh's.

"F-Fuck, _I…_mm." Josh incoherently whines, knocking their hips together.

"What're you gonna do if they find us, Joshy?" Tyler mumbles in his ear. Josh whimpers quietly.

Voices begin to shout.

_"Josh! Tyler!_ Guys, no fucking in the park, c'mon!"

Josh sighs, Tyler rolling his eyes.

"Let's go." He says, the two slowly creeping out from underneath.

Oh yes, it was _more_ than obvious to the others that the two had something going on.

Later that night, the teens all walked back to Pete's house and attempted to pull an all-nighter, which ended with them all falling asleep. And _maybe _Josh and Tyler cuddling on a beanbag, but they wouldn't admit it. Currently, they all sat outside, laying in Pete's yard under the sun. Tyler glances at Josh, quirking an eyebrow as he sees the boy shivering slightly, although he's wearing a sweater.

"Ty." He whines, flapping his sweater paws. "M'cold!"

Tyler rolls his eyes, blushing a bit as Josh rolls over to him and nuzzles his face into Tyler's shoulder. Tyler smiles softly, staring at the curly brunet, his heart fluttering. He doesn't even realize how much of a dreamy way he's looking at him, as if he'd just spread out golden wings and descended from heaven itself. Josh picks up his head a little, lifting open his honey whiskey eyes and locking contact with Tyler's. He smiles and giggles, his eyes scrunching up, resulting with Tyler's heart aching in his chest.

Tyler turns his body to Josh's, both unaware of their friends' eyes on them. Tyler chuckles, sneakily kissing Josh on the nose. Josh giggles more, playing with Tyler's shirt, and it was that moment, Josh forgot he had a girlfriend, or that Lydia even existed. All that zoomed through his mind was Tyler.

_"GAY!"_ Pete shouts, making them both jump and the others laugh. Tyler and Josh awkwardly scoot away from each other, both blushing, Josh more than Tyler.

"Josh, I thought you had a girlfriend?" Brendon mentions, Josh blushing more.

"I-I do!"

Tyler scowls at the reminder, sighing deeply. No one really seems to notice the blond-brunet's frustration, him staring at the sky. He questions what it would be like if he just…kissed Josh in front of Lydia. If he flipped her off and held his hand. God, he would love that.

"Hey, 're you guys going home today?" Pete questions.

"Yeah, why? D'ya want us all gone already?" Ashley jokes. Pete awkwardly laughs.

"He-heh…it's just—Patrick's coming back today, and, you know." He explains, Brendon wiggling his eyebrows. Dallon chuckles at Brendon, Brendon joining in his laughter. Josh suddenly pulls out his phone, checking it. He sits up.

"Hey guys, I gotta head home." He says, the other sitting up now, as well. Josh stands up, Tyler immediately standing up, too.

"C-Can I walk you home?" He quickly asks, everyone else smirking at each other. Josh flushes slightly.

"Y-Yeah!" He squeaks, glancing at their friends. "Well, uh, we're gonna go. bye guys."

Josh waves, Tyler waving at them, too. They say goodbye in unison, the two brunets beginning to walk down the street.

As soon as they're down the corner of the street, out of the group's view, Tyler tugs Josh by the collar and brings their lips together. Josh gasps, grabbing onto the sides of Tyler's shirt. Tyler moves a hand to Josh's cheek, his opposite arm wrapped around Josh's torso, dipping him down slightly. Josh giggles suddenly, his leg hooking around Tyler's.

"Disney princess style, huh?" Josh quizzes, playing with the hair above Tyler's neck. Tyler grins.

"You know it, princess."

Josh blushes, Tyler swinging him back up. as soon as he's standing up, Tyler is kissing him again, caressing his cheeks. Josh giggles softly, melting into the slow kiss, his hands on Tyler's chest.

_"I jus' wan' keep kissing you…"_ Tyler mumbles against his lips, Josh smiling and humming in agreement.

So yes, they stood there, passionately kissing on a street corner. eventually, they parted, Tyler not letting go of Josh's cheeks.

_"Ty." _Josh giggles. "Let go of m'face."

This makes Tyler playfully groan.

"Do I have to?" He grumbles, kissing Josh again. "I don't think m'ready to stop kissing."

Tyler starts kissing Josh more. Josh giggles again, Tyler practically falling apart at the lovely sound. Josh had begun to forget his family had messaged him, his arms wrapping around Tyler's neck and of course, standing on his tippy toes to kiss the taller boy.

Tyler currently carried Josh on his back, the shorter boy's legs wrapped around his waist, his arms slung over his shoulders with his face buried in Tyler's back. Tyler honestly didn't even try to force away the butterflies in his stomach, or the blush on his cheeks and the grin on his lips. Not even how his heart fluttered, because he was starting to like how it all felt. overwhelming it may be, but he's begun to love the way Josh's lips feel against his, how the boy begins to form a blush at every little thing, his sweet almond-honey eyes and curly spruce hair…

Tyler's got it bad.

"Ty?" Josh says, his chin now on Tyler's shoulder. Tyler grins more.

"Yeah?" Josh rests his head where his chin was.

"Do you wanna…s-stay over for a few?" He shyly questions, Tyler feeling those butterflies multiply. He hums happily.

"Of course, Joshy." He glances at him, "_Anything_ to get alone time with you."

He winks, Josh's cheeks turning redder.

C'mon, he's still gotta let that fuckboy persona slip in, right?

Eventually, they arrive at Josh's house, Tyler carefully setting him down. Oh, and _of course_, once Josh is on his feet, Tyler is kissing him. Josh giggles immediately at how the taller boy just seems to do this on _instinct,_ kissing him back.

"You like to kiss, don't you?" Josh asks, still kissing him.

"Only you, baby boy. _Only you…_" Tyler mumbles against his lips.

Once they pull away, they walk up the driveway, Tyler right behind Josh. Josh pulls a key out of his pocket, unlocking the front door. He opens up the door and steps inside, Tyler following him. Tyler glances around at his house, seeing a kitchen down one hall and a livingroom down the other. Josh goes into the livingroom, seeing his dad on the couch with his sister asleep on him.

"Hey dad." Josh greets, his dad smiling.

"Hey, Josh! who's behind ya?" He questions. Tyler waves.

"M'Tyler." He introduces himself, his dad nodding to him.

"Your mom okay with you over here?" Josh's dad asks. Tyler chuckles.

"Yeah." He says.

"Alrighty. You have fun at Pete's house?" He asks Josh. Josh nods.

"We played _mortal combat_ and ate pizza." He explains, lightly.

"Cool, cool. which one?"

Josh shrugs.

"I dunno, I didn't play." He mentions.

"Whaaat? You used to love that game!" His dad snorts, Tyler chuckles. He could tell already that his dad was a pretty laid-back guy.

"Okay, you, kiddos go hang out and whatever." He shoos them away, Josh giggling. Tyler and Josh go upstairs, Tyler suddenly itching to grab the boy's hand. They go into Josh's room, Tyler plopping down on Josh's bed and patting his lap.

"C'mere, babe." He gestures, Josh blushing and closing the door. Tyler smirks when he even locks it, Josh walking over to Tyler. He sits down in Tyler's lap, wrapping his legs around his waist. Tyler cups Josh's cheeks per usual, gingerly bringing their lips together. Oh-so slowly they kiss, Tyler running his fingers through Josh's hair. Tyler leans back, his back hitting the mattress, Josh clutching his shoulders. Tyler licks his bottom lip, Josh whimpers quietly, parting his lips and allowing Tyler's tongue to slip in. Tyler tangles his fingers in Josh's curls, his other hand cupping the back of Josh's neck. Josh suddenly moans, Tyler unable to help but smirk, Josh's cheeks flushing rosette. Tyler chuckles.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Josh blushes more. Tyler kissing his forehead and sitting them up. Josh lays his head against Tyler's chest, causing Tyler to smile. Tyler feels his cheeks become a little warm.

"Do, uh, you wanna…um… _c-cuddle?_"

Josh lifts his head up, his face still red.

"Y-Yeah. I-I'd like that." He smiles, slightly, Tyler's heart fluttering. He scoots into the center of the bed and leans back into the blankets, his head hitting the pillows. Tyler rolls onto his side, Josh snuggling up to him. The blond-brunet smiles, nuzzling his face into Josh's hair. Josh buries his face in Tyler's chest, inhaling his cologne. Josh realizes something; he's never been _this_ comfortable with Lydia. Like they kiss and sometimes hug, but…they never do actual couple stuff. To add on, he's begun to feel more uncomfortable with her. And then there's _Tyler_—and suddenly he's wanting lips on his skin and fingers tangled in his hair—to be kissed constantly, locked in school closets and after game locker rooms, pinned to the wall with Tyler's smooth, velvet voice whispering in his ear… he's become addicted to it.

As for Tyler, he just ceases to realize what all of the feelings Josh gives him mean.

That's he's…

_No, no I'm not_, he tells himself. But yet, he cuddles closer to Josh and presses a kiss to his hair, ignoring how his heart flutters.

Josh sighs softly, content flooding his breath. Tyler's body was nonstop, radiating heat from behind Josh. Josh could feel Tyler's small, sleepy breaths against the back of his neck, Tyler's arms holding him lazily. Their cuddling position had changed to spooning not too long ago, Tyler had tiredly mumbled his need to spoon Josh, leaving the shorter boy to giggle and cave in, nonetheless. Josh heard his own phone notify from across the bed, whining when he couldn't reach it. He leans forward, slightly, resulting in him instantly retracting as Tyler whines and nuzzles his face into Josh's bare back.

Oh, did Josh mention they were just in their boxers?

The dark-haired brunet rolls his eyes, desperately thumbing his phone closer, until he clutched it in his hand. he unlocks the screen, seeing messages from Dallon, Ashley and of course, Lydia. He purses his lips, checking his messages from Dallon and Ashley's group chat.

**Ashley**  
Yo Dal

**Dallon**  
What

**Ashley  
**Have you heard from Josh?  
I messaged him, but he's not answering

**Dallon**  
Well, Tyler walked him home so  
I think it's safe to say that they're in "funland"

**Ashley**  
Tru, tru

Josh rolled his eyes at the messages, a frown gracing his lips as he pulled up Lydia's texts.

**Lydia  
**Hey Joshy!  
I'm going out w/friends today! will u come?

He chuckles, slightly. Those messages were from around two hours ago. Josh hums, deciding to leave her on read. He tosses his phone back across the bed and turns his body around, making Tyler whine.

"No…come back, little spoon…" He mumbles, Josh giggling at him.

"Ty." Josh nudges him with his nose, giggling loudly as Tyler responds by burying his face in Josh's neck.

"Get your face outta my neck." Josh says, Tyler 'eh'ing.

"I don't wanna." He continues his reluctance, Josh snorting.

"Get up, you, lazy bum."

Tyler makes a whiny noise.

"Nooo. you're warm." He says, gently squeezing the boy in his arms. Josh grunts.

"You're not gonna move, are you?" He retorts. Tyler chuckles, placing a soft kiss on Josh's neck.

"Don't plan on it, babe."

Josh sighs, rolling his eyes playfully and snuggling against Tyler. Tyler pulls his face from Josh's neck, pressing kisses along Josh's jawline and making the brunet blush. Tyler swiftly pulls him into a kiss, Josh humming, contently. Their lips softly move together, Tyler trailing his hands down to Josh's back and squeezing his ass. Josh yelps, his face red and bewildered, Tyler simply smirking.

"Rude." He says, Tyler chuckling.

They start up their kiss once more, Tyler's hands move to Josh's thighs and pull him closer. Josh's legs hook around Tyler's waist, his arms around Tyler's neck. Tyler tangles a hand in Josh's hair and tilts Josh's head back a bit, deepening the kiss. Josh whimpers softly as he feels Tyler's tongue touching his lips, parting them open. Josh blushes as Tyler's tongue slips into his mouth, his face becoming redder as their tongues brush together. Sure, they've kissed with tongue before, but Josh was always red faced at it. Tyler grips his thighs, Josh slightly squeaking and feeling Tyler, very gingerly, pull on his hair.

Tyler eventually rolls on top of Josh, his hands still holding Josh's thighs as they make out. Tyler pondered off to what'd this situation play out as if they weren't wearing boxers right now, unable to help but smirk at the thought of Josh screaming in pleasure underneath him, his back arched and head thrown back while moaning Tyler's name…

Tyler moans quietly against Josh's lips at the thought, his boxers now feeling like a burden upon humanity. He pulls his lips away from Josh's, moving his mouth onto Josh's neck, sucking hickeys into his skin and causing Josh to release heavy breaths. Tyler kisses down his chest and to his stomach, stopping at the hem of Josh's boxers.

In his mind, all he could think about was how he's about to make Josh officially his.

Tyler had never been so gentle, pressing the softest of kisses to Josh's stomach. Josh's expression twists in pain, letting out a growl of distress as Tyler oh-so carefully pushed his finger in to the second knuckle.

"It's okay, princess." Tyler soothes, Josh whimpering as Tyler continued to kiss his body. Josh squeaks.

"You c-can move." He establishes, Tyler nodding and lifting his head to connect his lips with Josh's, hoping to distract him as his finger slowly moved in and out of Josh's entrance. The blond-brunet had used extra lube on his finger, wanting the boy underneath him to be as comfortable as possible. Tyler was honestly quite surprised that Josh had lube, or maybe he was more surprised because it was vanilla scented and close to being empty.

Tyler cups Josh's cheek with his available hand, frowning at his glassy eyes. Tyler kisses his forehead, Josh erupting a painful cry as Tyler eased a second finger in. Tyler lets the brunet bite his bottom lip, wincing as Josh's teeth sunk in deeply, gingerly retracting his fingers and sliding them back in. Josh cries more, silently, Tyler kissing his cheeks.

"It's okay, it's okay." Tyler reassures. "You alright, babe?"

Josh sniffling and nodding.

"Y-Yeah." He says, his body stiffened up.

"It'll be okay, baby." Tyler murmurs in Josh's ear, allowing Josh to get used to what he's feeling.

"F-Fuck, this h-hurts." Josh stutters, tears filling the corners of his eyes. Tyler's heart ached at just even hearing Josh's voice crack, still kissing his face, comfortingly. Josh begins to release heavy breaths instead of cries, Tyler watching him carefully as he continued moving his fingers, changing the speed to a medium pace. Josh emits a slightly gruff sound. Josh bites his lip, Tyler beginning to smirk as he hears small moans that Josh seems to be fighting back. Tyler kisses his neck.

"Let it out, baby." He attempts to persuade. Josh shakes his head.

"N-No—fuck…p-parents, downstairs–oh god." Josh explains to the best he can. Tyler almost forgot that he decided to have sex with Josh when his parents were literally downstairs. Tyler chuckles nervously.

"Hold on a sec."

He pulls his fingers out of Josh, the brunet whimpering. Tyler gets up, making sure that the door is locked.

"Do you have any like…hard books in here?" He asks Josh. He tilts his head in confusion. "Just—do you?"

Josh slowly nods, gesturing his head to his closet. he couldn't really use his hands, being that, well… Tyler kinda used his belt to tie them together.

Tyler walks over to the closet, opening it and finding an old math text book with a hard cover. He grabs it, walking back to the bed. He wedges it in between the headboard and the wall, Josh starting to giggle.

"You fox, ohmygod." Josh giggles more. Tyler grins, plopping back on the bed. He thinks for a moment, grabbing Josh's sweater.

"Here." He says, holding out the sleeve, Josh biting down on it. Tyler's cheeks redden, realizing that Josh is now tied up and slightly gagged underneath him, to add on that he's fully naked with his legs spread open only made Tyler's want improve. He puts more lube on his fingers, holding them in front of Josh's entrance.

"Think you could take three?" He inquires. Josh makes a muffled sound before nodding, Tyler smiling and slowly pushing in his three fingers, Josh's back arching and his eyes brewing more tears. he makes a painful squeal around the sleeve, biting it harshly. Tyler kisses his thighs, gently bruising hickeys into the skin in more attempt to distract Josh. Eventually, Josh begins to moan softly, Tyler softly biting his thigh. Tyler speeds his fingers up, hearing Josh cry out, not in pain. Josh rocks his hips downwards, Tyler angling them and watching as Josh's eyes widened.

Josh's hips stutter, his eyes wide and pupils dilated as Tyler's fingers brush against his prostate. He moans again, louder, though. Tyler feels his fuckboy persona slipping in, smirking and pressing his lips against Josh's ear.

"You want me to fuck you?" He whispers, Josh's cheeks flushing bright red. Josh says something, but it's still muffled. Tyler pulls the sleeve from Josh's mouth.

"What was that, kitten?"

Josh seemed to stutter at the new nickname, before whispering.

"F-Fuck me." He squeaks, not at all used to saying things like this. Tyler chuckles.

"Will do."

He pulls his fingers out, Josh whimpering again. Tyler grabs the lube again, squirting some into his hand.

"You know." Tyler starts. "You look more like a cherry kinda guy."

He refers to the lube scent.

Josh blushes, rolling his eyes. Tyler begins to slick himself up, biting his lip, seeing Josh watch him closely.

"Okay, safeword?" Tyler questions. Josh seems baffled for a moment before nodding.

"Oh, uh…I dunno… uhm… chalkboard?" He says out of the blue, Tyler chuckling.

"Chalkboard it is. Mines ukulele."

Josh was going to say something else, stopping as Tyler spread his thighs far apart.

"Ready?" He asks. Josh gulps.

"I think as I'll ever be." He says. Tyler kisses his jaw.

"This is gonna hurt a lot more." He tells him, putting the sleeve back in his mouth. "You know what to do if you don't like it."

He smiles at Josh, kissing his nose.

"One…two…three." He slowly pushes the tip in, Josh groaning deeply. Tyler grazes his fingers over the curves of Josh's body, his forehead on Josh's chest, listening to his heavy and fast heartbeat.

"Shh, shh, it's gonna be okay." Tyler whispers against his skin, Josh crying out again, feeling Tyler push in a little more. "Hush, kitten."

Tyler soothes, his head now in Josh's neck, kissing over other hickeys. Tears fall from Josh's eyes, Tyler's heart hurting again. He instantly wipes the tears away, kissing Josh's forehead. Josh whimpers, Tyler gently pushing more of himself in, Josh's eyes screwing shut. Tyler pushes in until his hips are against Josh's thighs, hooking his legs around Tyler's waist. Josh pants heavily, pain raging through his veins. Josh's eyes open, him trying to spit the sleeve out. Tyler gets it for him, Josh's glassy cocoa eyes showing his pain.

"K-Kiss me?"

Tyler immediately connects their lips, slowly kissing him. Josh whimpers, his hands tugging against their restraint. Tyler grips his thighs, Josh whimpering more.

"M-Move, Ty." Josh hesitantly tells him. Tyler puts the sleeve back in Josh's mouth, kissing his cheek before lightly rolling his hips. immediate neediness for more filled Tyler, the blond-brunet holding back for Josh. Josh's eyes widened more.

"A-Again," he mumbles from under the sleeve. Tyler repeats his actions, Josh moaning in reply. Tyler smirks.

"More?" He asks, Josh nodding. Tyler thrusts in, Josh grunting with a moan. He rolls his hips against Tyler's, whimpering. Tyler firmly grabs his hips, thrusting in again.

"M-More?" Tyler heaves. Josh nods quickly, Tyler laying his forehead on Josh's. Tyler pulls back, thrusting forward and repeating this action with a slow pace. Josh moans every time, telling Tyler to go faster. Tyler obeys, quickening his pace, the bed beginning to creak. Josh's eyes roll back, attempting to meet with Tyler's thrusts.

"Fuck, kitten." Tyler moans, thrusting harder. Josh cries out in pleasure, feeling Tyler's breath on his face. Tyler pulls the sleeve out of Josh's mouth, desperately connecting their lips. Josh whimpers, moaning into Tyler's mouth. Josh's back arches upward, his hands flying to Tyler's back as Tyler slipped off the belt from around them. Tyler moans quite loudly, feeling Josh's nails digging into his skin.

"Fuck!" Tyler cries, the pain setting something inside of him off, making him pound into Josh. Josh grips Tyler's shoulders.

"Tyler, fuck!" He practically screams, the two forgetting all about his parents downstairs. Tyler pins Josh's wrists to the bed, slamming in and out of him. Josh practically screams, his nails raking down Tyler's back. This was a type of pleasure Josh had never known, the feeling making him ecstatic. The only part that Tyler was unaware of, this wasn't the first time Josh had had sex with a guy—it's the first time he's had sex ever. Tyler goes as hard as he can, panting into Josh's ear and feeling their bodies' sweat.

"F-Fuck, I-I think, fuck," Josh stammers, moaning after his sentence.

"Oh, fuck!" Josh bursts out, Tyler smirking as he realizes he's spamming into Josh's prostate.

"You know what that is, kitten?" Tyler whispers in his ear. Josh whimpers, Tyler grinning.

"That's your sweet spot."

Josh's nails break into the skin on Tyler's back, moaning like no one can hear them as Tyler repeatedly hits his prostate.

"I-I'm gonna, g-gonna." Josh can't even finish his sentence, the pleasure so overwhelming as it courses throughout his entire body. Tyler bites his lip harshly.

"C-Cum, kitten."

And Josh does, his jaw dropped and eyes shut tightly, head thrown back and back raised and oh, it's even better than Tyler imagined. The sound of his name on Josh's lips inevitably drove him insane, seeing the boy in such pleasure making his heart almost stop. Tyler continues to slam into Josh, the brunet whimpering as oversensitivity took over, his face pure red as Tyler moaned out his name, orgasming inside of him. Tyler collapses on top of him, both heaving out shallow breaths.

"Fucking hell." Josh curses, gripping his own hair. Tyler chuckles, grabbing his chin and kissing him.

"I think that was the best sex I've ever had." Tyler murmurs against his lips. "And I've had lots of sex."

Josh blushes, more in the realization that the boy on top of him just took his virginity.

"U-Uh, yeah, um, m-me too." He stammers quietly. Tyler glances at him.

"Hey, you okay?" He worries. Josh nods.

"Y-Yeah, I just, m'exhasted." He excuses, Tyler chuckling.

"Hey, I did all the work." Tyler says, Josh giggling.

"I took all the pain, so hush." Josh tells him. Tyler shrugs.

"Fair enough,"

Tyler stares at Josh, feeling his heart flutter.

_Fuck_, he thinks. _I really am in love with this idiot._

Both had yet to even move from the bed, Josh's head on Tyler's chest, the blond-brunet humming happily as he ran his fingers through Josh's spruce colored curls. They'd meant to go downstairs earlier but in order to, Tyler would have to carry Josh, which would be an immediate giveaway.

"Does your ass feel better?" Tyler chuckles, Josh huffing.

"No, and either way, I'm too comfy." He contemplates, pulling himself on top of Tyler and cuddling his face into his chest.

"It's Saturday, anyways. just stay here and cuddle with me." Josh attempts to persuade, glancing up at Tyler with his hooded puppy eyes. Tyler blushes, looking away.

"Don't be cute, dammit." He curses, Josh giggling.

"Why not?" He asks, closing his eyes and resting one of his hands-on Tyler's chest. He could feel and hear Tyler's heartbeat, the heat of Tyler's warm skin heating his body. Tyler nervously chuckles instead.

"I-It's distracting." He jokes, Josh rolling his eyes and scoffing playfully. Josh nuzzles his face into Tyler's neck.

"Gosh, you're so _warm._" He says, voice a bit groggy. Tyler jumping slightly when Josh's cold nose touched his neck.

"You think so?" Tyler quizzes, Josh humming agreement.

"Yeah…" Josh mumbles, sleepily. "I just might have to stop wearing sweaters during winter if you're gonna keep me warm."

Tyler's cheeks turn red, Josh falling asleep all of a sudden, unable to realize what he's said. Long story short, fall has _barely_ started yet, and Josh said _winter._ Or maybe Tyler was overthinking this. But he was technically saying he wants Tyler to stay, _right? _

_Okay,_ Tyler confirms, _I'm crazy._

A voice in the back of his head says, _not crazy. Just in love._

Tyler wants to scream denial, but he glances down at Josh, his heart fluttering at the boy. He just lay so comfortably on Tyler, his face buried in his neck and his heart beating against Tyler's chest. Tyler chuckles at himself.

_Yeah,_ he feels his heartbeat pick up, finally confessing to himself. _I think I am crazy,_ _for this idiot who managed to make me fall in love with him._

It was kind of awkward for Mr. Dun walking into Josh's room, more or less, these two didn't really _try_ to be quiet, so…the people living in the house were _very_ aware. He can tell you, the family did not ever think they'd hear their son/brother that way.

It was even more awkward when Mr. Dun caught the two cuddling, which okay, wasn't as bad compared to hearing them have sex. And he maybe ran downstairs to get his wife.

"Laura! _Looklooklooklook_." He says. So, she did, and she maybe took a picture, because they would not lie, the boys looked so content just cuddled up with each other. Seriously, Josh had his face buried in Tyler's neck, Tyler's arms wrapped around him, his hand lazily caught in Josh's hair. How could they _not_ find this cute?

"How long has he been here?" Mrs. Dun gestures to Tyler, Mr. Dun snorting.

"They came back at _08:30AM_, now it's _five_ in the _afternoon._ These two have just been chilling out in bed all day."

"_Parshly_ chilling out." She adds, Mr. Dun chuckling.

"More like _warming up_."

She rolls her eyes.

"Go get plates for dinner, I swear to god." she says, Mr. Dun laughing.

"You love me." He tells her as he walks off. She snorts, walking into Josh's room again. She decided to wake up Tyler first, gently shaking his head. His eyes opened up, glancing around before he about screamed.

_"Oh-uh-uhm."_ His face reddens, trying to calm himself down as Josh moves around a bit. "H-Hi?"

"Hey, kiddo. So, m, just letting you know that you're welcome to dinner. And we already uhm, you guys are loud, okay? Just carry him downstairs." She gets to the point, Tyler's eyes widening more, his face turning extremely red.

"S-S-Sorry." He apologizes. She chuckles as she walks out.

"You should be, my son can't walk for a week." She jokes, closing the door. Tyler laughs nervously, his heart rate still alert. He takes a deep breath, looking at Josh. He nudges his shoulder.

"Hey, baby." Tyler says softly. "Wake up."

He shakes him a little, Josh cooing. Tyler feels his heart clench, _too cute_, he says to himself.

"Babe." He says more. Josh still replies with coos, Tyler sighing. He sits up, hearing Josh whine.

"Tyyyy." He drags out. Tyler snorts.

"Get up."

Josh whines more.

"My ass hurts." He excuses.

"I'll carry you, hush." Tyler says. He grabs Josh's oversized sweater, slipping it onto the lazy boy. Tyler gets up, finding his t-shirt and putting it on. He digs through Josh's drawers, finding a pair of sweatpants and shorts, throwing the sweatpants at Josh. Tyler watches the sweatpants hit Josh in the face, Josh flopping over, tiredly. Tyler rolls his eyes, putting on the shorts. He walks over to Josh, scooping him up in his arms, Josh squealing.

"Okay, okay, I'll put them on!" He squeals, his underbody bared. Tyler grins, setting him down. Josh puts the sweatpants on before climbing onto Tyler's back, his chin resting on his head.

"Let's go, I can smell food." Josh says, Tyler rolling his eyes. The blond-brunet carries him downstairs, Josh threading his fingers in Tyler's hair, playing with the mix of brown and golden. Tyler steps into the kitchen, Josh appearing as if he could fall back asleep any moment.

"Hey, uh, Tyler, right?" Mr. Dun greets, questionably. Tyler nods, Mr. Dun 'ah'ing. "Alrighty. You staying for dinner?"

"Yeah. Um, is it okay if I stay the night?" He asks a bit shyly, Mr. Dun chuckling.

"Yes, just—be quieter, this time." He declares, Tyler blushing a bit, thanking him, nonetheless.

"Is he even _awake?_" Mrs. Dun questions, pointing to her son, which was practically passed out on Tyler's back. Tyler glances at Josh, his heart fluttering again as he sees a small smile on his lips while he slept.

Tyler smiles, and hell, _he really is in love with him._

**Josh**  
You need to seriously cool it with the hickeys, Ty

**Tyler **  
Do I?

**Josh**

IMAGE SENT

Yes

**Tyler **  
IMAGE RECEIVED  
Fuck, if you keep sending me pictures of hickeys on your body, I think I'm going to lose my mind

**Josh**  
Maybe I'll do it more often then

**Tyler**  
I see your giving me the answers for my math test

**Josh**  
You are not going to leave that math test thing alone are you

**Tyler**  
I felt clever

**Josh**  
mm

**Tyler**  
Ya know, you're much more confident over text

**Josh**  
Oh? It's just easier to not make eye contact and speak idk

**Tyler**  
Call me

**Josh**  
Why

**Tyler**  
Bc I said so  
And bc your voice is aesthetically pleasing  
And your moans

**Josh**  
tmi

Josh calls, nonetheless, his face turning bloody red as soon as Tyler answers. _Why?_ Probably because Tyler's voice sounded out a long moan through the speakers, Josh's jaw dropping open.

"I started thinking about you…_oops._" Tyler breathes out, Josh crossing his legs at the way Tyler's voice sounded.

"P-Phone sex, huh?" Josh jokes, his breath hitching as Tyler replied with a sexual grunt.

"Put your hand down your pants, princess. I wanna hear you."

Josh bites his lip, another of Tyler's moans encouraging him as he laid down on his back, gingerly unzipping his jeans and trailing his hand down. Tyler's sexual noises obviously caused him some morning wood, the brunet blushing. Josh gingerly slid his hand underneath his boxers, breathing deeply as his hand wrapped around himself. he slowly moved it, breathing deeply into the phone.

"G-God, I wanna fuck you so bad," Tyler admits shamelessly, Josh moaning in reply, speeding his hand up. This makes his back raise.

"_Oh._" he breaths out.

"Fuck, _Josh." _Tyler pants deeply. Josh thumbs his slit, his eyes watering at the pleasure. He's touched himself before, but _god,_ it felt a million times better when Tyler joseph was moaning and speaking into his ear. Josh could hear Tyler jerking himself off through the phone, only making his hand move quicker.

"Tyler, _o-oh!_" Josh cries out, thrusting into his hand. Tyler whimpers into the phone.

"I wanna touch you so bad, baby, fuck." He curses, moaning again. Josh continuously runs his thumb over the tip, making him whimper every time.

"T-Ty." Josh breathes out, Tyler 'huh'ing back.

_"Dirty talk." _Josh pleads. Tyler grins on the other line.

"You just _love_ my dirty talk, don't you, _kitten?_" He questions, Josh breathing harshly.

"Y-Yes, _fuck._" He pumps harder, his body raising up.

"I wanna pin you down to the bed and f_-_fuck you so—_oh!" _Tyler cries out, the dropping-like feeling in his abdomen indicating his closeness. "M'close, oh fuck, _J-Josh!_"

Josh takes over, quickly thinking up.

"I-I…" His face turns red before spilling out with words that made his hand go faster. "I want you to bend me over and, a-and—_oh, fuck me._"

He's moaning desperately. He would do anything to be in Tyler's bedroom right now, letting the blond-brunet take care of the pleasure for him. Tyler moans into the phone again.

"Fuck, you missin' me already?"

Josh can't even handle it.

_"I'm coming over, fuck this."_

Josh practically screams, being as loud as he wants, his nails buried in Tyler's bed sheets. He'd came over almost twenty minutes ago, as soon as the door opened, he was pulled in and letting Tyler take off his clothes. Now, he was bent over the side of Tyler's bed, and_ I'm sure you know what's happening._

"God, _kitten_." Tyler moans, his hands gripping Josh's hips tightly, roughly thrusting in and out of him. The bed squeaked insanely, Josh grabbing a pillow and burying his face into it, his back arching his stomach to the bed.

"F-Fuck, Tyler, _oh…_" Josh whimpers mildly, releasing raw voiced moans, pleasure numbing his body with the feeling of Tyler inside of him. One of Tyler's hands pin down Josh's shoulder, starting to thrust at a different angle. Josh's mouth falls open, his eyes rolling back. He moans, his body twitching.

"F-Faster!" he pleads, Tyler obliging and slamming himself into Josh, Josh screaming pornographically. Josh's curls stuck to his sweaty forehead, clawing at the sheets as he felt Tyler repeatedly pound into his prostate, emitting loud enough sounds to make the neighbor's dog bark. Luckily for Josh, as Tyler said, his parents were rarely ever home, so they'd probably spend most of their time at Tyler's house. Tyler heaves a breathy moan, attempting to thrust as hard as he can, Josh obviously enjoying this.

_"Fuck!"_ Josh screams, moaning every time Tyler's tip pushed against his sweet spot.

"Fuck, you like that?" Tyler whispers in his ear, the sound of his skin slapping against Josh's being music to his ears. Josh replies with a grunt.

"Fuck yes." He says, moaning as Tyler groped him up. Josh began becoming louder by the second, his eyes wide.

"I-I'm gonna—" He's cut off with a moan as Tyler wraps a hand around his length, automatically jerking him off. Josh whimpers, thickly.

_"T-Tyler!"_

The shorter boy moans oh-so that loudly it was guaranteed they would noise complaints, him cumming all over the side of the bed, screaming Tyler's name. Tyler breathes shallowly, panting as he thrusted in and out, chasing after his finish as Josh whimpered loudly in oversensitivity.

Tyler digs his nails into Josh's back, Josh crying out as Tyler dragged them down, his head thrown back with his jaw slack, spilling inside of Josh. Josh shivers at the feeling, Tyler pulling out. They pretty much _collapse_ to the ground, Josh seeing his own cum smeared on the messy bed sheets draped over the side of Tyler's bed. Tyler gasps for breath, Josh rolling over, facing him.

_"Fuck."_ Is all the brunet says, glancing at Tyler. Tyler chuckles, breathily.

"Yeah?"

"Was I good?" Tyler asks. Josh nods quickly, pulling him in for a kiss. Soft, it is, causing the blond-brunet to unusually blush, gently cupping Josh's cheek. Tyler pulls away with hesitance, smiling at Josh. he sits up weakly, sighing. Josh whines, making grabby hands.

"No walking?" Tyler rasps, Josh shaking his head, the taller boy sliding his arms underneath him and lifting him up. Josh rests his head and knees against Tyler's chest, hooking an arm around his neck. Tyler sets him on the bed, pecking his forehead and grabbing him a clean pair of Tyler's boxers. Josh lays out on the bed, carefully putting the boxers on. Tyler rolls his eyes, pulling on boxers and glancing at the lazy boy on his bed, laying in all his glory with his fluffy curls and chocolate honey eyes. Tyler's heart stutters in his chest, a blush flooding his cheeks.

"Give me a shirt or something." Josh suddenly says, sitting up. Tyler quirks an eyebrow,

"Why?" He says, Josh shrugging.

"I feel the need to steal your clothing, now _give._" He demands, Tyler biting his lip as he smiles, reaching in his closet and grabbing the closest thing. He throws a flannel at Josh.

"If you plan on being a typical girlfriend and steal all my clothes then leave, expect payback." Tyler playfully warns, Josh blushing with a laugh, sticking his arms through the armholes. He holds up his arms, pouting as the sleeves hang over his hands.

"_Everyone_ is taller than me." He whines, Tyler chuckling. He walks over to the bed, kissing Josh's lips smoothly before turning around.

"It only makes you cuter, babe." Tyler declares whilst Josh climbs onto his back. Josh sets his chin atop Tyler's shoulder.

"Is that so?" He quizzes, blushing mildly as Tyler cupped his thighs. Tyler hums, smiling as Josh hung his arms over his shoulders, seeing the boy's sweater (in this case, flannel) paws. He carries Josh downstairs, really unsure of what they could do.

"Are you hungry?" Tyler says as he carefully walks down the stairs. Josh contemplates this for a moment, Tyler walking into the kitchen. He opens the food cabinet, pushing random items around. Josh suddenly gasps.

"Do you have whipped cream?" He questions. Tyler chuckles, walking over to the fridge,

"Yes. I eat the hell out of it 24/7." He smirks. "I plan on doing that to _you,_ too."

Josh's face reddening. Tyler grabs a can of cool whip, searching the fridge.

"Anything else?"

"Chocolate milk?"

Tyler smiles.

_"Aaaas yooou wiiiish…"_ He mimics, Josh giggling.

"_Princess bride_? Didn't know liked movies like that."

Tyler shrugs.

"Old romantic movies are my thing." He muses, Josh laughing.

"I mostly just remember her dream about the creepy old lady." He says. Tyler starts laughing.

"_Boo! Boo! Boo_, to the queen of garbage!" He impersonates, Josh laughing as if it was the funniest thing he's ever heard.

Eventually, the two laid on the couch, Josh sipping chocolate milk from a coffee cup, the two taking turns spraying cool whip into their mouths. Tyler found _the princess bride _and put it on, smiling every time Josh pointed out details he remembered from watching it as a child. Tyler couldn't help but love the feeling of this all—watching 'eighties movies with possibly the _cutest_ boy in the world on _his_ lap, wearing _his_ flannel, drinking chocolate milk like he was five and spraying whipped cream in his mouth. It felt too right, as if this is where Tyler is supposed to be. right here, _with Josh._

It made his head spin, the chest burning at the feeling of it all. he couldn't help it as he grabbed Josh's chin, twisting his head around and connecting their lips. Josh gasps quietly, but kisses back, realizing how desperately Tyler is kissing him. He snaps the cover over the coffee cup he was drinking out of, setting it to the side of the couch and turning his body around. he sits with his legs on either side of Tyler's thighs, sliding his hands up Tyler's chest. Tyler holds his cheeks in his palms, his heart beating faster.

Josh soon tangles a hand in Tyler's messy sex hair, his other hand on the space between Tyler's neck and shoulder. Tyler rests his hands on Josh's hips, his flannel hanging over them. Tyler feels a knot build in his throat, a sensation flooding over him. he now realizes, he will never be able to get enough of the heaven that this boy is. There's plenty different ways to describe this feeling, but saying he's in love is the easiest. Tyler whimpers softly, knowing his thoughts are correct, now trying to pull Josh's body closer to his.

_I'm in love._

Tyler was awoken by the sound of the front door opening and closing, jumping slightly, causing him to make Josh stir in his sleep. They'd fallen asleep awhile ago, Tyler laying lengthwise on the couch with Josh on top of him, the sleepy boy's head buried in Tyler's chest with his arm hung over the edge of the couch. The main menu for _the princess bride_ replayed, the empty can of cool whip laying on the coffee table. Josh was still in his boxers and Tyler's flannel, Tyler the same, minus the flannel.

The blond-brunet glances up, seeing his mother walking to the kitchen, the sound of her heels clicking on the ground, followed by simultaneous sighs, hearing her car keys and purse being set on the counter. He turns his head back to Josh, smiling as him. He looked so peaceful, his lips parted and releasing soft breaths, his hair still messy and eyes lightly flickering. Tyler begins to softly rub a hand up and down his back, Josh cooing, quietly. Tyler's heart clenched in response to the little squeak Josh made, Tyler's cheeks pink, because _oh,_ this boy is far too cute.

His mother walks into the livingroom, sitting down on the loveseat. Tyler felt the air build up with awkwardness. His mother and him never _truly _had the best relationship, but she still cares for him.

"Keeping this one over longer?" She speaks up, Tyler caught off guard by her speaking.

"What do you mean?" He says, disgruntled. She rolls her eyes.

"You know what I mean."

Tyler shakes his head.

"_No._ I don't." He repeats. She sighs.

"How many times he's been over here?"

"Almost three." Tyler replies, tangling his fingers in Josh's curls. She raises her eyebrows.

"How long you've known him?" She continues. Tyler smirks.

"Few weeks."

She scoffs.

"New record." Tyler frowns, because he knows his mum thinks that this is just another fling.

"No. I want to bring him over more." Tyler admits, glancing down at Josh. She sighs.

"You're incompatible for a relationship, Tyler. All you do is eat, sleep and shove your dick in places it shouldn't be."

Tyler grimaces, not saying anything as Josh moved in his sleep, burying his face in Tyler's neck. He couldn't help but smile at Josh, wishing to just coddle the boy and nuzzle his face into his hair, not doing so because he's asleep.

"This time is different, mum." He adds in, looking at her with a hard glare. _"I-I…"_

He's unsure if to say it aloud, especially with Josh laying on his chest. She rolls her eyes.

"_Love him?_ Sure. I'll believe that if he comes back in three years with _your_ ring on _his_ finger."

Tyler bites his lip harshly.

"Why can't you just let me be _happy_?"

She winces, sighing.

"I'm sorry."

Tyler shakes his head

"No, you're _not_." He muses, negatively.

"I-It's just been hard on me, especially since your father's left, and I know it's been hard on you-"

_"Bullshit!"_ Tyler whisper-yells, not wanting to awaken Josh. "You can't take your anger out on me because of _your_ problems. It's been hard on _you_, not _me._ I'm over it, and I know you think I kept sleeping with girls at school just because I wanted a way to cope with it; _no!_ I did it because that's what fuckboys do, apparently. I mean, that's my label. Just because _you're_ in a difficult situation doesn't mean you should let it provoke you. You can't blame dad for _your_ problems, you can only blame yourself. _You're_ the one who chose to run off all day and use work as an excuse to get away from your son since he's the only kid left in this house who reminds you of dad. It doesn't matter anyways; Zack's moved out, Madison actually is affording for college, and Jay is rarely here."

The blond-brunet sits up, carefully, Josh sighing softly, slightly annoyed that Tyler moved.

"Now, I'm taking him upstairs. The last thing he needs is to hear my _bitch of a mum_ when he already has a bitch of a girlfriend." Tyler carries Josh away, walking up the stairs carefully, whispering to Josh as he became slightly bothered by the noise.

Although, he did feel bad for calling his mother out like that. But he felt worse with the reminder of Josh's girlfriend.

Once they're in bed, Tyler pulls Josh close to his body, engulfing the boy in his arms and absorbing his heat. Josh giggles quietly, nudging Tyler's nose with his. Tyler grins, kissing him, slowly. Josh cups his cheeks, sinking into Tyler's gentle touch, the taller's hands weaving through his hair. They gingerly pull away, Tyler nibbling Josh's bottom lip.

"I don't think I'll ever get over kissing you…" Tyler murmurs, blushing a bit as Josh caresses his cheeks. Josh pecks his lips in reply, Tyler smirking, pulling their lips back together. Tyler absolutely _loves_ the way their lips perfectly lock together, Josh's soft, pink lips on his and just taking his breath away. He could never get enough of him, pulling Josh as close as possible, the brunet eventually hooking his legs around Tyler's waist.

"If we start kissing now. I don't think we can stop." He mumbles against Josh's lips.

"Then _don't._" Josh replies, finding his way on top of Tyler.

Josh straddles his hips, not breaking up the kiss for even a second, Tyler's flannel sleeves falling over his hands. Tyler couldn't stop himself, grabbing Josh's wrist and sliding his fingers into his. He noticed how Josh began to sink down, his stomach soon pressed against Tyler's. And then Josh abruptly pulls away, his eyes staring widely at Tyler. Tyler's heartbeat falters,

"W-What? What's wrong?" Tyler quickly asks. Josh's face reddens completely, staring at Tyler with enlarged pupils, his lips parted, looking dumbfounded, emotion flashes through his vision, clouding his gaze as he begins to kiss Tyler again, Tyler now the one feeling dumbfounded.

Yet he kisses back, feeling how desperate Josh suddenly became, the shorter boy quickly taking Tyler's tongue in his mouth and pressuring his hips against Tyler's. Tyler moans in result, but feels a bit concerned at this change of behavior. He carefully pulls away, holding Josh's face.

"Josh, _hey._" He goes to say something else, Josh randomly kissing him. He blushes.

"J-Josh." He says again. "Are you okay?"

Josh nods, a bit reluctant.

"Are you sure?" Tyler repeats. Josh's cheeks turn red.

"I-I don't know…I-I just…just." He chokes on his words, Tyler more worried. But then Josh admits,

_"I just want you."_

Soft touches, soft breaths, soft kisses. Everything was done gently. Nothing was sexual about this, just them basking in each other's presence. It was calm, the atmosphere filled with smoothness.

They laid together, their legs tangled together, arms around each other, and lips moving together. All they cared about was the person that was next to them in bed, because the thing was, they just want each other.

The blond-brunet's fingers curled into Josh's hair, ever-so lightly giving occasional pulls. Josh held Tyler's cheeks in his hands, them kissing as if they could never stop, Tyler pulling Josh closer to him. Tyler laughs suddenly, softly, just out of happiness, because of the situation. both were so content, Josh following within a small giggle against Tyler's lips. Tyler grips his hips, pulling him closer and feeling Josh's cold nose nuzzle his cheek. Tyler kisses his chin, gently pushing their lips back together. that wonderful feeling of bliss overcomes them.

And _oh,_ how Tyler felt the urge to let words he'd swore to never speak slip out, the letters sticking to his tongue and pleading to fall past his teeth. Yet he ignores it and snuggles Josh closer to him, the boy's face buried in his neck.

"Do you think my parents would mind if I came home late?" Josh whispers against Tyler's skin. Tyler hums questionably.

"Well, they were _perfectly _fine with us having _loud sex _in your bedroom. As long as they know you're here, would they?" Tyler adds on, smirking as he could practically feel Josh's cheeks radiant warmth.

"Y-Yeah, they know I'm here." He tells truthfully, squeaking softly as Tyler gingerly squeezes his body. Josh attempts to engulf himself further into Tyler's grasp, trying to get all of the blond-brunet to fill his senses. Tyler seemed to do the same, making it perfect for them as neither wished to separate.

"You're like a big heater." Josh murmurs. Tyler chuckles.

"Is that right?" He runs his fingertips along Josh's shoulder blade, Josh nodding, drowsily.

_"Yea."_ Josh replies, tiredness dragging his words. "Is it okay if I fall asleep again?"

Tyler chuckles, again.

"I think I will, too." He mumbles, burying his face in Josh's hair. Josh smiles, hooking his legs around Tyler's.

"You know, I never realized you could be so affectionate." Josh muses, Tyler quirking an eyebrow.

"Who doesn't like affection? Cuddling is seriously the best thing in the world." Tyler says, Josh shrugging.

"I never really got to cuddle with any of my girlfriends." He admits. "They were always doing something else or just…I don't know."

Josh sighs, Tyler fused with disbelief.

"_How_?" He says. "You're literally like…the _most cuddly_ person on earth."

Josh smiles at him.

"You are, too, surprisingly." He adds on. Tyler shrugs.

"I think if choosing was an option, you would be in my bed every second of the day." Tyler hums, lightly squeezing Josh in his arms. "You're so small and I…_j-just love holding you._"

Josh blushes, removing his face from Tyler's neck, making eye contact. Tyler's cheeks flush, staring into Josh's caramel eyes. Josh closes his eyes and gingerly kisses him, oh-so softly. Tyler immediately sinks into it, cupping Josh's cheeks. Tyler softly runs his thumbs along Josh's skin, carefully moving his hands down, finding Josh's hips and pulling him _as close as possible._

"You know how many times you've done that…?" Josh tells him against his lips, Tyler blushing.

"I just like being close."

Josh continues kissing him, his stomach bubbling. _Oh,_ he knew it himself, he'd never felt this way with Lydia or any girl for that fact. Albeit, Tyler may be a fuckboy and whatnot, but he's held Josh and kissed him note times than the brunet could count. Could being in love with him _really_ be such a bad thing? The shorter boy almost freezes.

_Did I just…?_ His cheeks burn fiery red. _He just admitted he's in love with Tyler!_

"Josh, are you okay?" Tyler questions, Josh not even realizing how concerned the boy is. He becomes more flustered.

"O-Oh! _um,_ I-I…" He laughs nervously. "Yeah, y-yeah, uh, I'm fine."

He lightly bumps his and Tyler's foreheads together, smiling so that Tyler could see he's okay. Tyler still gives him a look of worry.

"Are you sure?" His thumb brushes across Josh's cheek.

"Mm." Josh replies, pecking Tyler's lips. Maybe he didn't mean to fall in love,_ but oh, it feels wonderful._

And suddenly Tyler whispers. _"I want you, too."_

"We're going out tonight, and on the weekend." Lydia declares to the group, clutching her boyfriend's hand in hers, tightly_._ Josh can't help but feel a pang of unhappiness flood his heart. He'd hoped to spend time with Tyler over the span of those days, utterly disregarding the fact a bleach blonde girl who wore far too much perfume would never let him get away with that. At least again, anyways.

It hurt even more when Tyler sat across from him at the lunch table, a saddened look in his eyes at Lydia's words. Josh glances at him, swallowing hard and trying to explain to him the shared pain with his eyes. Tyler's lips twitch before looking back down, the knot in Josh's throat building, thickly. His heart burned to go back to Tyler's house and binge movies whilst sharing whipped cream, or to lay in Josh's bed all day and cuddle with the soothing feeling of Tyler's fingers in his hair and their lips pressed together. But what he ached for most of all—_just Tyler in general._

So, of course, it was unfortunate for both of them, especially when they wanted the same thing; _each other._ Josh looked down at his and Lydia's intertwined hands, feeling his grip on her hand weaken at every memory of Tyler's lips against his skin. Her grip only tightened more, Josh wincing. He didn't like how small her hands felt in his, he didn't like the smell of perfume and hair spray, nor did he enjoy her hazel-blue eyes. He wanted rough, soft hands back in his, cologne and _mousse_ hair gel, and deep chocolate eyes.

His heart jumped when he felt a kick against his foot, immediately glancing up to see Tyler shyly smiling at him. He can't help but smile back, kicking Tyler's foot, as well. The blond-brunet hooks his foot around Josh's, a way for them to be unnoticed and somewhat touching, although it's slightly uncomfortable. His stomach twisted happily at Tyler's hopeful eyes.

As the bell chimed through the air, Josh's hand instantly slipped from Lydia's and he threw away the remainder of his uneaten food, finding himself joining Tyler on the walk out. Their shoulders bumped together and Josh felt happier once more.

"Do you have to go with her?" Tyler murmurs.

"She wants me to drive her home and then take her out." He frowns. Tyler sighs, and then a mischievous smirk is gracing his lips.

"Skip out." He says. Josh's eyebrows furrow together.

"What?"

"I mean." Tyler starts, his lips nearing Josh's ear. "Come home with _me _instead, baby boy."

Josh blushes, nonetheless, he finds himself smirking. Since when did he blow off Lydia so calmly_?_ Well, apparently since this sneaky dork of a fuckboy entered his life.

"M'kay." He answers simply. Tyler goes to kiss him, pausing as he realized their still out in the open. Josh squeaks as he's yanked into a closet, the door closing quickly. He can't react immediately as Tyler's lips hungrily meet his, Josh whimpering and reaching for his shoulders, instinctively.

Tyler's hands slip to Josh's wrists, pushing them against the door and trapping him there along with his hips. Josh pushes against him, whining. Tyler slips one of his hands away from Josh's wrist, thumbing the lock of the closet door and placing his hands firmly on Josh's hips. Tyler fumbles with the button on Josh's pants, panting a bit and glancing at Josh for approval. Josh nods, Tyler pulling his pants down and gladly dropping to his knees.

Josh leans his head back into the door, releasing short breaths as Tyler creates wet kisses on the bulge in his boxers, feeling himself become desperate. He's officially sure of it; _this is what he wants._ If this were Lydia, she wouldn't have got past his pants. Josh inhales sharply as he feels Tyler creating hickeys into Josh's hipbones,

"You're _mine_." Tyler growls, slightly, Josh's cheeks flushing red. Josh gulps, his hips jutting out.

"Lydia doesn't make you feel this way, _does she?_" Tyler practically hisses, Josh's boxers now tangled around his knees, Tyler hickeying his thighs, Josh gasping softly as Tyler gently bites into them.

"N-No, _oh god_." Josh whimpers as Tyler licks above the base of his length, teasing Josh, harshly.

"What are you?" Tyler recalls, Josh's jaw falling open as Tyler abruptly tongues the slit.

"Y-Yours, _fuck!_" Josh moans, a hand grabbing a fistful of Tyler's hair. Josh cries out, gleefully, loving how Tyler's lips felt around him. He pulls on Tyler's hair, the blond-brunet groaning at how it felt, taking more of Josh into his mouth. Josh can't help but nonstop chant his name and whimper, Tyler pulling off, briefly.

"Fuck my mouth, princess." He says before taking Josh back past his lips, the brunet rasping a moan. He allows his hips to jolt forward, it not taking too long before Tyler is gagging on his length. Josh thrusts into his mouth repeatedly, his head still thrown back and his body twitching.

_"Oh fuck, Tyler!"_ He slams himself in and out of Tyler's that, hearing the boy's choked sounds. Tyler doesn't try and stop him, so he continues, his stomach feels as if it'd sunken in, familiar pooling rushing through his body.

"_Tyler!_ oh, I-I'm going—_oh!_" Josh eyes clench shut, his body freezing as he releases down Tyler's throat. He shivers as he feels Tyler swallowing around him, the blond-brunet pulling off and gently kissing the tip. He pulls Josh's boxers back up, slowly, kissing his stomach as he did so. Josh's cheeks stay flushed red, Tyler next pulling his jeans up and sliding his hands along Josh's body.

Josh closes his eyes, Tyler connecting their lips. He cringes a bit at the taste of himself, still kissing back. Tyler pecks his lips a few times before pressing their foreheads together. Josh slings his arms over Tyler's shoulders, pulling him closer.

"I can't wait to cuddle you." Tyler whispers, his voice gentle and sweet, compared to what they'd just done. It honestly made Josh's entire existence melt into a puddle of swoon.

"Do you have any specific movies you wanna watch, princess?"

Josh hums.

"What about _Deadpool_?" Josh says. Tyler smiles, giving him a quick kiss.

"Works for me. How does eating cookie dough sound?"

Josh can't help but burst into giggles, pulling Tyler closer to himself, aware of Tyler's soft eyes now watching him with amusement. Josh opens his eyes, met with those sweet chocolate ones he's addicted to, seeing how Tyler grins. Josh gently presses their lips together, his heart beating quick and stomach twisting with butterflies.

_Yep, definitely in love._

After kissing, Josh buries his face into Tyler's shoulder, wanting to just lay in bed with Tyler and actually be treated like how Lydia _should_ treat him. She doesn't call him to just hang out—only when she wants to go out somewhere and use Josh's money for personal pleasure. To think of it, she only sees Josh during lunch besides occasionally at her cheerleading or in the hall and classes. Is that truly all she wants? Just… _sex and money?_

But…_Tyler_ wouldn't do that. No, he wouldn't. Hell, for crying out loud, he's had more sexual and romantic interaction with Josh than Lydia most likely _ever has_ or _will_! Lydia's never given Josh butterflies or made his heart race just at a kiss or a gentle touch. And he truly makes Josh feel—_wanted._

So, would it really be a bad thing if he breaks up with her?

Josh had managed to drive out of the school parking lot with Tyler in the passenger seat instead of Lydia, the blond-brunet chuckling evilly at their victory. Josh rolls his eyes, stopping as a traffic light flashes red. His cheeks flush as Tyler presses a firm kiss to the side of his head, feeling Tyler's hand lay upon his, him sliding their fingers together. Josh smiles happily at the blond-brunet, Tyler smiling back and gently squeezing Josh's hand, both sharing the butterflies. The light turns green, Josh beginning to drive, his heart warm at the way Tyler's soft fingers felt, the taller caressing his palm.

"Could we go to your house, actually?" Tyler pipes up, Josh glancing at him.

"Why?"

"Your parents are very, um…_welcoming._" Tyler laughs, Josh shaking his head at the boy.

"Yes, we can. Besides, I'm sure there's cookie dough somewhere, my brother eats it like he has a drug addiction." Josh explains, turning into his neighborhood. Tyler glances around.

"Damn. We got here quick."

Josh hums, eventually pulling into the driveway. He pulls the key from the ignition, hesitant to remove his hand from Tyler's. Tyler is, too, but he lifts up their intertwined fingers and kisses Josh's knuckles, slowly removing his fingers from Josh's. Josh was sure his cheeks were fiery red, but _oh,_ he loved it. Tyler cracks open the car door, leaning over the armrest and cupping Josh's cheek, pulling him in for a soft kiss, Josh unable to prevent himself from whimpering quietly.

After a moment, Tyler pulls away, slowly, his teeth gently holding Josh's bottom lip before releasing it. Josh giggles, Tyler smiling all dreamy-like and getting out of the car. Josh does the same, closing the door and leading Tyler to the porch, unlocking the door and letting themselves in. Josh glances around for his parents, shrugging when he didn't see them.

"I guess we search the freezer for Jordan's cookie dough." Josh says. Tyler nods, walking into the kitchen and pulling open the freezer, finding cookie dough in plain sight. He grabs it.

"I don't think he tried hiding it, and if he did, not very well." Tyler chuckles. Josh shrugs, pushing Tyler from the freezer and closing it, opening the fridge and pulling out chocolate milk. Tyler scoffs after Josh pushes him, smirking and deciding to smack his ass in return.

This results with Josh squeaking and his cheeks igniting rosy pink, glaring at Tyler. Tyler simply winks, trotting over to the couch. Josh snorts, pouring himself and Tyler a cup of chocolate milk. He puts the milk away, grabbing the cups and walking to the living room and setting the cups on the coffee table. He plops down on the couch on Tyler's lap, the blond-brunet grunting as Josh did so.

"Warn me, douchebag." Tyler sighs, playfully, Josh smiling and leaning back against his chest. Tyler kicks off his shoes and slings his feet up, Josh's eyes widening when Tyler's legs hung over the armrest.

"Are you sure you're not super tall?" Josh asks. Tyler chuckles.

"I think you're just little." He says, wrapping his arms around Josh from behind and pulling him closer. Josh lays his head back on Tyler's chest, humming as Tyler began to run his fingers through Josh's chocolate curls.

"Are we gonna eat the cookie dough?" Josh asks tiredly, sudden sleepiness hitting him. Tyler shakes his head.

"_Mm_, no. Let's just sleep instead." He decides, feeling the sleepiness, as well. Josh smiles, his breath slowing and falling into sleep.

When Mrs. Dun came home later with Jordan and Abby, the last thing they expected was to see Josh and Tyler pretty much passed out on the couch.

"Little bro's got a boyfriend." Abby says, Mrs. Dun laughing.

"They were gonna eat my cookie dough!" Jordan exclaims, sneaking across the room and taking the tub of cookie dough, stopping for a moment. "_Christ,_ this kid's tall."

Abby shaking her head.

"Jordan, _everyone_'s legs hang over the armrest. Just not Josh's. Josh is small."

Jordan thinks before nodding.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right." He walks back into the kitchen, burying the cookie dough in the freezer.

Everyone pauses when Josh makes a soft noise, Mrs. Dun and Abby turning to hide in the kitchen. They hear Tyler start making noise, too.

_"Josh."_ He groans, tiredly. "Baby, stop moving."

Josh giggles, sleepily.

Abby peeks in, seeing Josh and Tyler now stomach to stomach, both smiling at each other. Josh leans up, him and Tyler sharing a chaste kiss before Josh lays his head on Tyler's chest.

"Are you going to start moving again?" Tyler asks, rubbing his eyes. Josh shakes his head.

"No. M'too comfy."

"Good." Tyler says, leaning his head back. "Now sleep, princess."

Abby turns to her mother.

"He called Josh princess. _Princess_!" She says in a hushed tone.

_Yep,_ they could tell they were in love.

"Where the hell were you last night?" Lydia demands, Josh blushing in embarrassment.

"Sick. My mum wouldn't let me do anything but sleep and eat." He excuses. But, in reality, that was far from the truth. Actually, he was comfortably snuggled with Tyler, the heat of the blond-brunet's body enveloping him, the scent of his cologne filling his senses, and his soft kisses making Josh's heart race.

Lydia sighs, her gaze softening a bit.

"I was looking forward to our date, sorry for being pushy." She mumbles in a saddened tone. Josh's eyes widened, unable to help the guilt that gripped his chest.

_"L-Lydz…"_

Josh pulls her into a hug, feeling awkward, actually being the taller one. he was so used to burying his face in Tyler's chest, Tyler's chin on his head and listening to the blond-brunet's heartbeat. To smell his strong cologne, and not strawberry scented shampoo. he sighs, not hugging Lydia for too long. Lydia cups his cheeks, pulling him into a kiss, and _oh,_ before he even tastes her breath, it feels so wrong. And he pulls away to quick, too fast for it to be taken kindly.

"You'll get sick." He says, grabbing his stuff for first class. Lydia ah's, watching him. Josh stiffens up as he feels Lydia grab his forearm, her eyes burning into his.

"Tonight, can we please go out?"

Josh feels wrong again, but nods, Lydia smiling.

"I'll see you later, Joshy." She says, kissing his cheek before wandering off. Josh quickly wipes off the lipstick on his cheek and lips. he hates how Lydia calls him that, his face turning red at the memory of Tyler calling him that whilst Josh was bent over. Yep, wonderful times.

_"Lover boy?"_ Josh hears, a grin unable to help but bloom on his lips. He turns around, seeing Tyler with a smirk. He looks tired, his hair messy.

"Wanna spend first period in a broom closet?"

_Of course,_ Josh said yes, but this time, he sat on Tyler's lap, the blond-brunet kissing him sweetly, his stomach flipping. Josh threads his fingers through Tyler's golden-chocolate hair, Tyler holding his cheeks in his palms. Josh felt like he needed to let words fall past his lips, words that he'd been holding back, but he didn't want to scare Tyler away. Tyler slowly pulls away, Josh's eyes fluttering open. Their brown eyes lock, Josh's heart speeding up.

_Say it, say it, say it,_ Josh's brain screamed. He tries to ignore it, his breath catching as Tyler reconnects their lips. Josh slips a hand underneath Tyler's shirt, feeling the boy shiver.

"Your fingers are _extremely_ cold." Tyler tells him, mumbling the words against his lips. Josh grins.

"I bet they feel colder when I do this." He says, slowly unbuttoning Tyler's jeans before letting his fingertips graze Tyler's waist. Tyler shivers, gasping against Josh's lips. Josh repositions himself so that he can pull Tyler's jeans and boxers down, sitting on his thighs. Tyler whimpers as Josh licks his palm, wrapping it around his length. Tyler's back arches as Josh begins to move his hand, his jaw dropping open. Tyler's head hits the wall, now holding tightly onto Josh's shoulder.

_"Josh."_ He breathes out, biting his lip. Josh hums, speeding his pace a bit. Tyler emits a quiet moan, his eyes screwed shut.

"_Oh,_ oh fuck," he says, quietly. Josh connects their lips, Tyler burying one of his hands in Josh's curls. Tyler thrusts into Josh's fist, whimpering as Josh repeatedly ran his thumb over the tip. Josh swallows the moans from Tyler that fill his mouth, jerking Tyler off faster. Tyler's body twitches from the amount of pleasure shooting through his veins, deeply moaning into Josh's mouth. Josh quickly pulls away from Tyler, removing his hand and replacing it with his mouth, Tyler crying out in surprise.

"Fuck, _Josh._" he pants, whimpering as Josh dipped his tongue into the slit, his lips wrapped around the tip. Josh takes more of Tyler into his mouth, the blond-brunet writhing in place. Josh gags as Tyler's hips uncontrollably buck upwards, now having more of Tyler in his mouth. He bobs his head up and down, Tyler cursing and babbling, saying Josh's name over and over again.

"Josh, _J-Josh_, oh, I'm…_F-Fuck_!"

Tyler spills into Josh's mouth, Josh swallowing. He pulls off of Tyler, wiping off the spit that ran down his lips. both are panting for breath, Tyler growing a smirk. He places a hand on the back of Josh's neck, pulling Josh in for a long kiss, Josh blushing. Once they pull away, Tyler licks his lips and says,

_"I hope Lydia kisses you later and tastes where your mouth has been."_

After ordering their drinks, Lydia begins to talk about anything and everything, and Josh? His mind was without a doubt, somewhere else. By somewhere else, it meant he was thinking about _Tyler._ He'd rather have Tyler's lips against his skin, right now, to feel his fingertips brushing his skin. Josh's cheeks slowly turned red, imagining Tyler's soft kiss on his neck. He would kill to be with the blond-brunet as of now, shifting in his seat across from Lydia, having to cross his legs.

But his mind didn't stop venturing. It was almost as if he could feel Tyler's breath on his neck, how their tongues brushed together, and _oh,_ Josh pleaded for his brain to stop. The more he thought about it, the tighter his legs crossed. All he could see was Tyler hunched over him, his eyes lustful, jaw agape, cheeks flushed, watching Josh with such admiration. He could feel Tyler's fingers bruising deeply into his hips, hear his breaths and praise, _Josh is becoming a hot mess._

"Josh?" Lydia says, Josh snapping to her, his cheeks deep red. Her eyes are soft and curious.

"Are you okay? your face is bright red." She reaches across the table, brushing her thumb over his warm cheek, Josh trying to not flinch.

"I-I'm okay, just, a bit dizzy." He says. She looks worried.

"Do you want to go home?"

As badly as Josh wants to scream yes and drive off to Tyler's house and feel Tyler's body against his, he shakes his head no.

"I think I'll be f-fine, Lydz." He replies, playing with the straw in his lemonade. Lydia sighs.

"Okay, Joshy. But be more careful."

Josh feels his phone vibrate in his pocket, wanting check his phone. He lays his forehead on the table, sneakily pulling out his phone while Lydia plays with the curls on his head.

**Tyler**  
How's your date, princess  
Bet you wish you were with me instead  
So, I could bend you over my bed again  
I need you right now Josh I stg my hand will never be enough  
Not just that but I want to kiss you so fucking bad and feel your soft lips and to bruise your thighs  
I think I'm going insane without you

Josh's face becomes considerably red, thinking about Tyler getting off to the thought of Josh.

**Josh **  
She thinks I'm sick but  
I'm really just thinking about how badly I want you

**Tyler**  
Please ditch her Josh I can't fucking handle this  
And it's not just sex that I want right now  
I want you so fucking much

"You okay, Josh?" Lydia says. Josh turns off his phone, lifting his head.

_Yes, of course, dearest, I'm only thinking about how hard I want to be fucked by my supposed 'best friend'._

"Um, y-yeah."

Lydia stares at him before standing up.

"Come on." She orders. Josh sighs in defeat, following her out of the restaurant and to his car. He gets in, sighing as he pulls out of the parking lot.

"Could we go to _my_ place?" Lydia asks, her expression a but mischievous.

"Uh, sure." Josh answers.

They soon arrive at Lydia's place, Lydia pulling Josh in. They went to Lydia's room, the bed sheets pink and light purple. Josh doesn't even process the fact that Lydia is in his lap once she is.

Her red lips are up in a smirk, one that could never compare to Tyler's evil one. Josh gulps, his back against the deep scarlet wall. Lydia presses her lips against his, Josh blushing, but awkwardly. He uncomfortably kisses back. Lydia pushes her tongue into his mouth all of a sudden, her not even grimacing like Josh thought she would, remembering Tyler's words in the closet. The lemonade he drank must've overcame the taste of cum that lingered in his mouth.

Josh blushes more as Lydia grinds her hips into his, and in this moment, Josh realizes he doesn't like girls.

_Nope._ This didn't compare to Tyler at all, and well, Lydia doesn't have a _dick…_

Lydia kisses around his jawline, her cherry red lipstick smearing over his face and lips. Josh feels this uncomfortable wave inside, his body stiff. Lydia repositions herself, pushing Josh against her lacey pillows. She pulls off his shirt, _and oh, the regret._

"Josh, what the fuck are _these_?" She demands, gesturing to the plentiful amount of hickeys peppering his chest and stomach, some visible from his hips. She pulls down his pants, seeing the hickeys on his hips and the ones on his thighs showing from underneath his boxers. Tyler's fingerprints are bruised into the sides of his hips, Josh's face now fiery red.

_Shit._

He sits up.

"U-Um…" He stammers, trying to find his shirt on the bed, reaching around, blindly.

"What's her name?" Lydia strictly asks, Josh chuckling, nervously.

"W-Well, about _that_." He laughs, scared that Lydia is about to actually rip him apart inch by inch. He gets off the bed, finding his shirt and grabbing it.

"You weren't sick yesterday, were you?" She says.

"Nope." He admits. He may seem cocky on the outside, but he is really screaming in fear on the inside.

"You dick!" She screams. And then Josh says something he shouldn't say.

"I'm not the only one who gets to cheat Lydia, so fuck off."

And he cries out as a sharp pain meets his cheek.

The room is taken down with bitter silence, Josh feeling tears in his eyes because of how damn hard Lydia hit him. Her long, fake nails actually scratched the soft skin on his face, cutting into it a bit, only making the stinging worse. Lydia stares in shock, not believing she hit him as much as Josh. Her face suddenly grows with anger again.

"Well, fine. I'm getting fucked by a basketball player anyway."

Josh grins.

"Really? Me, too! Team captain, actually!"

And then he turns around and leaves, and the moment he got in his car, he'd never felt more proud of himself.

Josh pulls into Tyler's driveway, getting out of his car. He knocks on the door, opening the door to see a disheveled Tyler, his eyes sleepy.

"You left me on read with a boner, you dick." He says. Josh rolls his eyes, pulling Tyler to him and standing on his tippy toes, pressing their lips together. Tyler immediately sank into it, pushing Josh back onto his heels, leaning down. Soon enough, Tyler pulls Josh inside, their lips still together. He kicks the door closed with his foot, Josh jumping onto him, his legs wrapping around Tyler's waist. Tyler pushes him into a wall, the two now making out heavily, their tongues sliding together and teeth clashing. Josh rolls his hips against Tyler's, Tyler groaning.

"Lydia knows." Josh huffs out, Tyler pulling away, eyes wide.

_"What?"_ He says in disbelief. Josh nods.

"She wanted to have sex and she pulled off my shirt." He explains, lifting up his shirt, Tyler smirking at the hickeys he's left there.

"Now she knows that–" He stops, staring at the red hand print on Josh's cheek. _"Did she hurt you?"_

Josh nods.

"It doesn't hurt, Ty. It's okay." He says. Tyler shakes his head, his eyes incredibly soft. He gently brushes his thumb over Josh's cheek, the brunet flinching. Tyler leans forward, gingerly pressing a kiss to the bruise. Josh blushes, staring at Tyler. Tyler smiles at him, and oh, that feeling is back, heart racing, stomach twisting. Tyler connects their lips again, it being soft, this time.

"Guess what?" Josh mumbles against Tyler's lips.

"Hmm?"

"She said she was getting fucked by a basketball player, so I told her I'm getting fucked by the team captain." He explains. Tyler bursts into laughter.

"You snake, Josh, ohmygod." Tyler laughs, Josh running his hands through his hair. Tyler smirks at him, pecking his lips.

"Speaking of which…" Josh mumbles, bucking his hips. Tyler gasps, glancing at Josh.

"Feeling dirty, baby boy?" Tyler says. Josh nods.

"I _always_ do when you're around."

Their lips clash together, the moment of earlier fuming back into the room.

"So, celebratory sex?"

_"Fuck yes."_

Josh falls back against the bed, Tyler climbing on top of him. The two boys are just in their boxers now, both in the heat of the moment. Tyler straddles Josh, desperately connecting their lips. Josh tangles his fingers into Tyler's hair, pulling him down, their tongues meeting. Josh moans, feeling Tyler begin to grind against him.

"G-God, Tyler, _please._" Josh begs against his lips, his hips meeting Tyler's. Tyler grabs him by his thighs, pushing him further onto the bed, bringing his lips to Josh's neck. Tyler squeezes his thighs tightly, his teeth sinking into Josh's pale skin. Josh can't help but moan at the occurring event, his hands holding Tyler's shoulders.

_"Josh."_ Tyler breathes out, bringing his mouth to Josh's jaw, kissing him, needily.

"Y-Yeah?" Josh says, Tyler bringing their lips together, kissing him briefly. Tyler pulls away, his forehead on Josh's, their breaths mixing together.

"You're not Lydia's anymore." He brings his hand to Josh's cheek, his thumb gently brushing over the bruise. "S-So will you be _mine_?"

Josh's face ignites into fiery red, his eyes wide, heart racing.

"Ohmygod, _yes._" He exclaims, pushing their lips together. "I-I…I swear to god, I've been falling for you slowly, and, I-I'm more than happy to be your boyfriend."

Tyler's stomach twists, happily.

"I thought I was the only one." He admits, staring into Josh's deep, hazel eyes.

_Goddamn, he's never felt so incredibly smitten._

Tyler's heart slams in his chest, whimpering quietly as he and Josh slowly kissed. Everything begins to feel so overwhelmingly wonderful, as if everything felt so much more levelled now that Josh is officially, _officially, _his.

"Tyler." Josh begins. "You know that night, a-at my house? When we first had sex?"

Tyler nods, Josh swallowing.

"You didn't just give me my first experience with a boy, b-but my first experience _ever_." He confesses. Tyler's eyes widen.

"I took your virginity?" Josh nods, and Tyler felt guilty. Josh shouldn't have lost it to him of all people, he's a lowlife fuckboy, who the hell wants their first time to be lost to a guy like _him_?

"B-But." Josh starts up again. "You made me feel nice…you-you were gentle when you needed to be, and I don't regret it. I don't regret this _whole_ situation, really. In fact, I-I'd do it again to be right here, right now. Even if I do get slapped by Lydia, _this_ is worth it."

Tyler feels his eyes water, his heart twisting in every single direction.

"Goddamn it, I'm so fucking in love with you." Tyler whispers, pressing repeated kisses to Josh's delicate, soft lips. Josh runs his fingers through Tyler's golden-chocolate hair, his legs wrapping around Tyler's waist. Tyler reluctantly pulls away, sitting up and pulling Josh's boxers off, throwing them to the side. He climbs off of Josh and takes off his boxers, too, Josh's face becoming red. Tyler sits up against the headboard, beckoning for Josh to come over. The brunet crawls to him, sitting in his bare lap. Tyler cups Josh's cheek, his thumb brushing over Josh's bottom lip.

"Open your mouth." He whispers, Josh voluntarily parting his lips, Tyler gingerly pushing three of his fingers into Josh's mouth. Josh begins to suck on them, Tyler biting his lip.

"Ride my thigh, baby." Tyler orders, voice gentle. Josh does so, of course, angling his hips and slowly rubbing against Tyler's thigh. He moans around Tyler's fingers, Tyler drinking in the scene before him. Josh picks up the pace his hips are moving, his moans mixing with whimpers. Tyler pants, watching Josh fall apart in his lap. He finally places a hand on Josh's hip, the brunet stopping. Tyler pulls his fingers out of Josh's mouth.

"All fours, princess." he softly tells him. Josh gets off of Tyler turning around so his ass faces Tyler, getting on his hand knees. Tyler bites his lip, hard, sitting on his legs, behind Josh.

"Ready?" Tyler asks. Josh replies with a yes, Tyler deciding to make hickeys along Josh's back as he pushes in a finger.

_"Fuck." _Josh moans, deeply. Tyler begins to push his finger in and out before adding another. Josh whimpers, pushing against Tyler.

"Tyler." He murmurs. _"Please."_

"I've only put in _two_—" Tyler starts, Josh cutting him off.

"I don't care, _please…_" He begs, rocking his hips against Tyler's fingers. "I need you."

Tyler pulls them out, wiping them on the bed sheets. He sits up on his knees, spitting thickly into his palm, slicking himself up. He grabs Josh's hips, positioning in front of Josh's entrance.

"Chalkboard?" Tyler checks.

"Not even close." Josh replies. Tyler carefully pushes in, Josh and him moaning. After his hips meet Josh's bum, he pauses for a moment, Josh whining.

"Don't stall." He pleads. Tyler chuckles.

"You're gonna have a sore ass."

Josh pushes against Tyler.

_"Please."_ He says again, Tyler rolling his eyes. He bends down, kissing along Josh's spine and holding his hips as he slowly begins to thrust. Josh whimpers, his jaw falling open.

"More?" Tyler breathes. Josh makes a breathy yes, Tyler picking up his pace. Josh releases a guttural moan.

"Oh, fuck _yes_." He pants. Tyler sits up, thrusting into Josh harder.

"Fuck."

"You like that, princess?" Tyler smirks, pulling out, only to slam back in, making Josh cry out.

"Oh god, _yes!_" Josh moans. "_More,_ Tyler, fucking hell."

Tyler repeats that action, quickly pounding in and out of Josh. Josh is a mess, gripping the sheets and burying his face into the blanket, screaming Tyler's name. Tyler grabs Josh's thigh, spreading his knees further apart and lifting his leg, a bit. Josh's eyes tighten, back arching his stomach to the bed.

"O-Oh, fuck! Tyler, _there!_" He cries. Tyler grins, beginning to slam repetitively into Josh's prostate. Josh releases an extremely loud, _pornographic,_ moan. Tyler's jaw drops, his head falling back as he thrusted into his _boyfriend. _Oh, how wonderfully better it felt to call him that.

"Tyler." Josh says. "D-Dirty talk."

Tyler smirks, placing his forehead against Josh's shoulder.

"God, you feel so fucking good, kitten." Tyler pants, gripping Josh's hips. "You love this, don't you? Getting fucked by _me,_ and only me."

Josh whimpers.

"O-Oh, yes!" He cries. Tyler moans, tangling a hand in Josh's curls, pulling his hair back and pressing his lips to Josh's ear.

"Admit it, Josh; you love me fucking you hard, hm? You'd get on your knees for me, anytime, wouldn't you?" Tyler growls.

"Yes, _oh yes,_ Tyler, _I'm—!_" Josh screams, voice gravelly, cumming on the sheets. Tyler moans, feeling Josh clench around him. His stomach drops as he thrusts incredibly hard, Josh whimpering in a mess of over sensitivity. Tyler's hips begin to stutter, and before he knows it, he's spilling inside of Josh, groaning, deeply.

Tyler weakly thrusts once or twice, getting off his high and pulling out, collapsing next to Josh. both are gasping for air, sweaty messes. Tyler finds Josh's hand with his, sliding their fingers together. Josh turns to Tyler smiling at him. Tyler smiles back, leaning forward and kissing him.

Josh snuggles into Tyler's chest, Tyler running a hand along Josh's back. He cups Josh's check, pulling him up a little, his lips meeting Josh's neck. He creates purple hickeys, grinning.

"You should show Lydia those tomorrow, tell her how good it feels to be fucked by your boyfriend."

"You know, I have never been excited to go to school." Josh admits. Tyler glances at him as Josh parks his car in the lot, teenagers flooding into the building.

"Why's that?" Tyler as, cheekily, glancing at Josh. Josh smiles, pink dusting his cheeks.

"You know why." He says, leaning across the console. Tyler's already meeting him halfway, their lips connecting. Soft and passionate, it is; the two beginning to smile.

"_I love this._" Josh mumbles against Tyler's lip. "I love being _yours_."

The blond-brunet's heart twists, so happily, squeezing Josh's hand, which had been in his since Josh picked him up. They pull away, Josh dreamily smiling.

"You know." He pipes up. "I thought you were a, '_fuckboy who flings, not a boyfriend on strings_'?"

He makes quotation marks with his fingers. Tyler rolls his eyes, kissing Josh again.

"Baby, you've got my heart in knots."

Josh blushes, pressing his forehead against Tyler's shoulder.

"Can we just go back to your house? Please?"

"Why, so I can fuck you again?" Tyler smirks, Josh huffing.

"_No!_"

Tyler can hear his smile with how his words sound.

"So, we can cuddle and drink chocolate milk." He explains. Tyler awes, kissing Josh's hair, before nuzzling his nose into the freshly-dyed, soft, purple curls.

"After school, straight to my house, Netflix binge, and cuddles promised. Okay, princess?"

Josh hums a yes in reply.

"Now get out of my car so I can actually hug you."

Tyler and Josh walk into school, their hands still, proudly, intertwined, fingers loosely clinging together. Their shoulders occasionally bump together, Tyler glancing down at his boyfriend every time they did. _Oh, _how sweetly the word boyfriend makes him feel, the blossomed reminder that Josh is his.

They do in fact get stared at, but not one person says a thing, Tyler glaring at anyone who glared at him and Josh. Besides, Tyler has power, here; he's the captain of the basketball team.

"Josh, Ty—! _oh?_"

They're met with a very confused Pete, and a boy with a fedora and glasses standing behind him shyly. Tyler notices that the other boy's hand is connected to Pete's, so he assumes it's Patrick.

"I had no idea that you guys were actually dating." Pete says. "Didn't you have a girlfriend?"

Tyler grins.

"'_Have_' is the key word, Peter." He retorts, Pete cocking an eyebrow.

"Well. So, um, this is my boyfriend, Patrick," He introduces, whispering something to the shorter boy.

"Hi." Patrick says.

"Hold on a second." Josh says. He walks up to Patrick.

"Stand up as straight as you can— straighter than Brendon will ever be." Josh tells him, Patrick chuckling, before doing so. Josh stands up straight as well.

"Tyler, height difference?" Josh asks. Tyler rolls his eyes at his boyfriend.

_Of course he's doing this, the cute little dork._ Tyler sighs, walking up to them, snatching Patrick's fedora. Patrick huffs, Tyler shrugging.

"Can't tell the height with a hat on."

Tyler puts the hat on his head as he compares Josh and Patrick.

"I think you're the same."

Josh cheers.

"Finally!" He smiles, glancing at Tyler. Tyler can't take it, Josh's eyes squinched up, his tongue between his teeth—he can practically feel his heart faltering and stomach flipping. Patrick stands on his toes to grab his hat off of Tyler's head, Tyler gesturing to Pete and Patrick.

"Now shoo, I must kiss this human or my heart will burst."

Pete rolls his eyes, taking Patrick's hand in his and going away. Josh blushes at Tyler's words, looking up at the brunet, Tyler smiling and slipping his hands onto Josh's hips. He leans down, his and Josh's lips connecting, and _oh, he swears he sees stars every time_. After a moment or two, the pull away, carefully. Tyler runs his fingers through Josh's vibrant curls, Josh grinning.

"I will never get over kissing you," Tyler whispers, gently kissing Josh again.

"I think you've said that before?" Josh mumbles. Tyler shrugs.

"Just goes to show, I mean it."

And _yes,_ they kiss again.

Once they do pull away, though, they walk to Josh's locker, Tyler kissing him deeply before leaving to his locker. Before he'd left, he whispered to Josh.

_"One day, you are going to kill me with your smile, and oh, your kisses, Josh, I swear to god, my heart beats so much faster"_

So of course, it left Josh smiling big.

Tyler makes it over to his locker, seeing a girl with bleach blonde hair and too much makeup that made him angry.

**_Lydia._**

"What do you want?" Tyler boredly asks, twisting the knob on his lock.

"How long have you been fucking my boyfriend?" She quizzes, voice prissy.

"You mean how long have I been fucking my boyfriend? Well, I've been fucking my boyfriend for almost two months now." Tyler peeks his head from behind his locker door, smiling at Lydia's shocked look.

As he grabs his things for first class, he can practically hear Lydia fuming.

"Well, fine. Josh always seemed like a _faggot_, anyway."

Tyler's eyes widen, and he slams the locker shut, pinning Lydia to the other lockers with his arm.

"Don't you fucking call him that, you have no fucking right. You let any sucker with a nice face shove his dick in you, you fucking _whore._" He hisses. "If I even hear that word and Josh in the same sentence come from your mouth, me and my basketball buddies will fucking _ruin you. _Badmouth me, sure, I don't fucking care. Badmouth _Josh_? I will make you regret even putting your pinky in this fucking school. _Got it, bitch?"_

Her eyes are wide, and she nods. Tyler moves his arm, watching her stumble away. Some kids are looking at him shock, and he glares at them next.

**_"What?"_** He sneers. They carry on, immediately, and Tyler finds himself rushing to Josh's locker.

"So, not gay?" Ashley asks as Josh and Tyler sit down across from her. Before Josh answers, Tyler does, a smirk on his lips.

"_Definitely_ gay. You should hear him as I fuck—" Josh slaps his hand over Tyler's mouth, his eyes wide and cheeks crimson. The group is chuckling, Tyler grinning at his boyfriend. Josh whispers to him,

"_Don't say that!_" He whines. Tyler snickers.

Everyone freezes up as _Lydia_ sits next to Brendon, across from Josh and Tyler. Brendon grimaces, scooting closer to Dallon. Tyler frowns.

"I thought I made it clear to you that Josh is _my_ boyfriend, not yours." Tyler feels Josh's hand slide up his arm, the purple haired boy getting closer to him. Lydia snorts,

"We never actually broke up, so that means Josh is still my boyfriend."

Tyler's eyebrows furrow.

"How does that even make sense?!"

Lydia says nothing, Tyler becoming more infuriated.

"_Fine!_" He says, and turns to Josh, cupping his cheek and bringing their lips together. Josh gasps, but grabs Tyler's hand and puts it on his hip. Tyler slips his tongue past Josh's lips, the other boy moaning, quietly. He hesitantly pulls away, biting Josh's bottom lip as he does. Josh is smirking, his eyes lidded.

Once they pull away, they turn to Lydia, her face engrossed with disgust. Tyler grins, feeling Josh squeeze his hand. Josh adds.

"Oh, by the way, I'm Tyler's boyfriend. Not yours. I like _dick_. **_D-I-C-K._**"

"Mine, especially." Tyler says.

_"_So, did you go to Tyler's today?" Mr. Dun asks his son. Josh's cheeks redden a bit.

"Um, y-yeah. I did. why do you ask?" He says. Mr. dun shrugs.

"It's hard to _not_ notice my son limping."

Mrs. Dun slams her fist at the table and glares at him before sighing.

"I really want to be angry, _but,_ you're right." She admits. Josh's face is bright red, his siblings in fits of laughter. Ashley groans aloud.

"_Guys,_ I'm twelve, I don't want to hear about my brother having gay sex with his boyfriend _especially _at dinner."

"_Ashley!_" Mrs. Dun exclaims. Ashley shrugs.

"What?"

Josh buries his face in his sleeves, hiding his face from his family. Jordan leans over to Josh.

"Was he good?" Josh fake-ly sobs.

_"Why am I living?"_

"For ty_LER'S DICK!_" Abby screams, Mr. and Mrs. Dun shouting at her. Ashley crawls under the table, shouting that her innocence fading, Jordan is laughing maniacally, and Josh asking god where he went wrong.

They hear an abrupt chuckle.

"Is right now a bad time? It's not every day I hear a family talking about me and my crotch."

They turn around, Tyler standing there, his dirty blond hair in a mess. He looked tired, but his eyebrow was cocked up, him wearing a baffled smirk. Josh's face turns even more red, Jordan now choking on his laughter. Mrs. Dun, turns to him.

"Don't worry about it, dear. Also, Tyler, sweetheart, my eldest son is limping like a wounded elk, go a little easier on him."

"_Mum!_" Josh exclaims. Tyler blushes a bit.

"Yes, ma'am." He signals to his boyfriend before exiting the dining room. Josh sighs, getting up and following Tyler to the kitchen.

Once he's in there, Tyler wears a sleepy smile, resting again the counter. Josh's heart flutters, slowly approaching him. Once he's near him, Tyler's arms gently pull him into an embrace, the blond-brunet burying his nose in Josh's hair. Josh lays his forehead against Tyler's chest, wrapping his arms around Tyler.

"Jus' wanted to say hi…" Tyler mumbles, closing his eyes and breathing in, his senses filling with Josh's scent. His heart beats a little faster, cheeks turn a little redder, and his stomach twists a little too much.

"Your heart is beating super-fast, Ty." Josh notices, Tyler chuckling, softly.

"That happens a lot when I'm around you."

Josh carefully looks up at him, Tyler feeling choked up just at the softness in Josh's eyes. He's just like a lovesick puppy, and Josh has got his heart on a leash. Tyler moves his hands to Josh's cheeks, taking a moment to appreciate this human in his grasp. he gingerly caresses Josh's cheek with his thumb, the purple haired boy leaning into his touch. Tyler bows his head down, slowly and gently, bringing their lips together. Tyler feels his heart burn a flame that turns his cheeks pink, the way Josh's soft lips feel, his red cheeks, and how he begins to clutch Tyler's shirt in his hands. Tyler tries to calm his nervousness, pulling Josh just a bit closer.

"I…" Tyler murmurs against Josh's lips. "_I love you._"

Josh gasps quietly, his eyes opening. Anxiety tugs Tyler's heart, curious as to if Josh would repeat the phrase or awkwardly reject it. Josh's eyes burn into his, Tyler swallowing his regret.

"Um." Tyler stutters, feeling choked up. "_S-Sorry._"

Josh's eyes widen, and he grabs one of Tyler's hands.

"_N-No!_ It's…don't be sorry, it's—it was just surprising." He reassures. Tyler doesn't feel any better, though, and Josh sighs, a small smile on his face.

"I love you, too, you dork." He says, standing on his toes and kissing Tyler. Tyler felt the weight on his chest crumble away, both of his hands now connected with Josh's.

"Now that I can say it, I don't think I'll stop." Tyler warns, causing Josh giggle as they kiss. Josh pulls away, but after he repetitively presses short kisses to Tyler's lips. Josh squeaks as his feet suddenly leave the ground, Tyler sweeping him up into his arms. Tyler chuckles, smiling at Josh before sitting the older on the countertop.

Once Josh is up there, Tyler gets between his legs and buries his face against collar bone. His arms wrap around Josh's waist, the other laying his chin on Tyler's head. Josh begins to rub Tyler's back, feeling the blond-brunet sigh, softly.

"Is this my flannel?" Tyler mumbles. Josh blushes as he begins giggling, Tyler rolling his eyes. Tyler kisses Josh's jaw, resting his head back against his neck.

"Love you." Josh says, Tyler grinning like a lovestruck idiot.

"Love you, too, baby."

Josh's dad walks in, quite surprised at the scene.

"Enjoying each other's company?" He quizzes. Josh rolls his eyes.

"Hush. You're just jealous because my significant other is a dude." Josh retorts. Mr. Dun's face flashes red.

"That-that–_I told you to keep quiet about that conversation, Joshua_."

Tyler bursts into laughter, Josh grinning. Mr. Dun awkwardly walks back into the kitchen Josh listening as he randomly claims his love for his wife.

"Is your dad secretly gay?" Tyler asks. Josh chuckles.

"He's bisexual, I think, but apparently." Josh deepens his voice. "_'Your mother won't even give me a finger'_."

Tyler breaks into another fit of laughing, Josh snorting. After the dirty blond calms down, he pats Josh's thigh.

"Your family, I _swear_."

After a moment or two, Josh nudges Tyler's hair with his nose.

"Ty." He mumbles. "Let's go upstairs and sleep forever, _please._"

Tyler chuckles.

"Sounds good to me." He agrees, Josh wrapping his legs around Tyler's waist as the blond-brunet pulls him off the counter. Tyler kisses his forehead as they go upstairs, hearing Mrs. Dun shout.

"Where're you two goin'?"

"To sleep!" Josh answers. They hear her laugh.

"Sure! But I don't want to hear y'all having sex again!" She retorts. Josh blushes, Tyler smirking.

"I don't know, Mrs. Dun, you created a pretty good lookin' kid. I'll have try to resist!"

She laughs, Tyler chuckling.

"_Dork_." Josh mumbles to him as they enter Josh's room. Tyler closes the door with his foot, walking over to the bed. He turns around so his back faces the bed, Josh quirking an eyebrow. Tyler grins, leaning back.

"Tyler, you _doUCHE—!_" Josh yelps as Tyler falls back, him clinging to his boyfriend. Tyler's back hits the bed, Josh whimpering.

"That wasn't nice." He whines. Tyler chuckles.

"_I'm _not nice."

Josh gets off of Tyler, crawling to his pillows and burying himself underneath the blankets.

"Ty." He says. "Come snuggle me."

Tyler smiles, kicking off his shoes and getting up, walking around to the other side of the bed. He lifts up the covers and joins Josh underneath them. His boyfriend immediately cuddles up to him, squishing Tyler in his arms. Tyler wraps his arms around Josh, the shorter boy burying his face in Tyler's chest,

"Love _yooou._"

"Love you, too, princess." Tyler says. "If I'm your princess, that makes _you _my prince."

Tyler hums.

"Does that make Lydia the dragon?"

Josh begins to giggle.

_"Ohmygosh."_ He snorts. "Clever."

Tyler smirks, squeezing Josh, lightly. Josh snuggles closer.

"_Mm,_ my knight in shining armor." He says. Tyler kisses his hair.

"_Mhm_, here to save you from the bitchy dragon with no fashion sense." Josh giggles more.

"You dork."

"I love you." Tyler says, Josh smiling.

"I love you, too, _my prince._"

Josh bites into his pillow, his fingers gripping into it, the fabric muffling a soft moan. Yeah, so his ma said not to have sex, but a blowjob doesn't count, right? Josh's shirt sat somewhere on the edge of the bed, and the sheets covered up to his chest. Tyler's head visibly bobbed up and down, himself covered with the sheets. Josh could feel the dirty-blonde's fingertips bruising into his hips, him running his tongue along Josh's length.

"_Tyler_, o-oh." Josh's breathy voice was muffled by his pillow, biting into the fabric as Tyler replied to his moan by gently sucking the tip. Josh's back raises, his eyes rolling into his head as Tyler sucks hard, his hands sliding down Josh's thighs and squeezing them. Josh squeaks a bit, gripping his pillow more.

"T-Ty, _oh._" Josh bites his lip. His hips buck into Tyler's mouth, and he whimpers as he hits the back of Tyler's throat. The blond-brunet doesn't seem to mind this, and he relaxes his throat, letting Josh thrust into his mouth.

"Tyler, Ty–_fuck._" Josh feels his stomach twist and drop, his legs twitching before breaking into a spasm as he moans deeply, spilling down his boyfriend's throat. He gasps for breath, Tyler slowly pulling off. Josh feels Tyler panting hotly against his hips, his face flushing more red. He bites his lip, feeling Tyler's teeth gingerly nip at his thigh, a mark blooming his skin before the taller boy presses kisses around it.

Josh pushes the pillow underneath his head, watching as Tyler's head emerges from the blankets, his dirty-blonde hair disheveled and cheeks red, spit dribbling down his lips. he crawls up, sitting himself on Josh's hips and kissing up the other boy's jaw. Josh smiles, Tyler's hands caressing the curves of his chest.

"Was I good?" Tyler quizzes, smirking at his boyfriend, still kissing around his face. Josh hums.

"Is that a trick question? You always are." He answers, simply. Tyler chuckles, kissing Josh's forehead and nose, smiling as Josh's cheeks turned light pink, his eyes squinching as he smiled.

"You're far too cute," Tyler mumbles, kissing Josh's lips, softly. "_So cute_."

Josh blushes more, releasing small squeaks.

"Don't lie." Josh jokes.

"_Lie?_ are you saying I'm a liar?" Tyler gasping. "You are incredibly adorable, Joshua Dun! Don't tell me I am a liar; I am just infatuated with my princess' cuteness."

Josh's cheeks ignite red, him biting his lip. he rolls them over so he's on top of Tyler, and buries his face into Tyler's neck.

"Fine, fine. I'm…_cute_, but only because my prince says so." He caves in, Tyler's stomach bubbling at Josh's name for him.

"I love you." Tyler murmurs, burying his nose in Josh's soft, purple hair. They soon readjust their cuddling position, deciding to shed off their pants and shirts as they switch to spooning.

Once they're comfortable, Tyler gently kisses over Josh's freckled shoulders, a hand massaging Josh's scalp, his opposite arm, protectively, wrapped around Josh. Josh lays his hand over Tyler's, slipping their fingers together and feeling his body tingle, happily. A small silence fills the room, the only sound being Tyler's kisses to Josh's skin, followed by their breathing. Tyler kisses up the back of Josh's neck before pressing his lips against Josh's ear.

"I love you, so much, Joshua." He whispers, Josh's heart pumping. Josh softly squeezes Tyler's hand in his.

"I love you, too, prince."

And well, Tyler did it.

_Right?_ He succeeded his deal with Ashley and Dallon. He got Josh to cheat and break up with Lydia, so the bet is off–Tyler is no longer needed. His part is done.

_Not true._ Because, along the sidelines, Tyler accidentally fell—and it wasn't the kind of fall you can easily recover from—he fell _hard._ and, Josh did, too. getting up from that fall would _never_ be easy for the both of them, in fact, they probably never will. Falling out of love isn't easy. And they're pretty content on the floor.


	50. (E) TREEBROS - For Forever (And Longer)

For Forever (And Longer)  
SteamAndStorks (Moonreefe)

Summary:  
When Evan goes to see his favorite band in concert, the last thing he expects is to have the drummer approach him awkwardly and remember his name.

What kind of weird world was he in?

(And where did Jared go?)

* * *

Chapter 1: Rock my world

Chapter Text

Evan wasn't a concert guy.

Spending ten minutes with him, hell even ten seconds, would confirm that. He's twitchy and nervous and he can't handle large crowds or loud noises. It's the last place you'd expect to find him. Not to mention, they're _expensive_. He's definitely not rich.

But like hell he's going to pass up the opportunity to see his favorite band live when someone else was buying the tickets. Not that they'd really been bought for _him_, but whatever.

So here he is, earplugs in and all bunched into his seat, waiting for his favorite band ever, Odd Possums, to come on stage. He's been to two events by them already, one signing and a panel, both events Jared had been forced to bring him to. He'd even got to get something signed by the drummer, who he definitely had a crush on, and got a hug from the guitarist, who he also had a tiny crush on.

In fact, it was how he realized he was bisexual. It was quite a shocker to absolutely no one, but it was a good moment for him.

But this is a concert. He gets to see them all in action. He's both really excited and so, so nervous. Luckily there's no way he can fuck it up, but he's already stressing about leaving afterwards, the guy next to him is a huge scary dude who doesn't really look like he belongs here, and Jared had run off with some french guy twenty minutes ago and he was scared he'd never see him again.

Jared isn't answering his texts, either, and Evan's already bit through his lip. Jared will be okay. He's an adult, just like Evan is supposed to be. He'll be okay!

Evan sighs, deciding to scroll through the bands Instagram for a bit. He finds himself smiling as their faces pop up. They're posting from backstage, and Evan is giggling at their antics. He takes some pictures of the crowd, possibly for a confidence boost later, because he's here with so so so many people and he's excited and doesn't feel like crying. Yet.

Time passes weirdly fast, Evan still a little worried about Jared, but overwhelmingly excited as the guitarist, Zoe, walks onstage and gives her guitar a loud strum. She waves to everyone, walking towards the microphone. "Heyyy everyone! Shit, look at that crowd!" Everyone around him screams, including the scary guy, and he finds himself nervously joining in.

"Everyone having a nice night?" Screaming again, Evan can't help but giggle, intimidated though he is by all the noise around him.

Then the drummer strolls out, and he's actually screaming along with everyone now, face flushed. He's realizing why people like this. He can scream, take up space, and be loud, and none of the attention is on him.

Connor gives a wave to everyone too, flopping down onto his drumset, and giving a quick drum roll. Evan finds his eyes stuck on him and doesn't even notice when the pianist comes out. He doesn't know the pianist that well, and they guy doesn't seem that nice anyway. He's not sure why he's even in the band.

Connor is a much better sight anyway. His hair is up in a bun, and Evan feels his insides heat up. Connor in a bun killed him. He was also wearing eyeliner, and Evan hopes there are some nice pictures of that on Tumblr later.

But the best part? Connor is in a bright pink crop top and a mini skirt. Evan could probably die and be ok with that. He wishes he had the confidence to wear things like that. He fidgets with a button on his polo while watching them set up.

Could he pull off a skirt? He'd definitely look ridiculous in a crop top. Oh well, not everyone could look like a model, and Jared would probably laugh at him.

Finally, they're set up and Connor and Zoe are doing one of their skits, pretending to argue as the first chords start up. This song is about the two of them fighting over a boy, and it makes Evan giggle, because yeah right. Zoe Murphy, lesbian extraordinaire, fighting over a _boy_ with her gay brother.

The song was definitely written before she'd come out. It was still hilarious, though, and he loved that they started with it.

The rest of the concert goes by too fast. By the time the last song is playing, Jared still isn't back. Evan is enjoying himself a lot, but he's still worried about his friend. Besides, even though he loved them a lot and they were probably going to encore, he was planning to leave early anyway. He didn't want to be stuck in the crowd while leaving.

So Evan is soon up and looking for Jared near the concession stands. He nervously texts him, looking in the bathroom, in the little park area by the front, until he's almost having a breakdown and has looked everywhere but the parking lot.

But the parking lot was terrifying. It's where all the druggies went, and he hadn't planned on going there without Jared. Curse his asshole family friend for abandoning him here.

Not knowing what else to do, Evan just sits next to a tree and waits. Everyone starts streaming out after a while and Evan is still sitting there, shaking a little and terrified. He's alone. What is he going to do?

Maybe Jared was back at their seats? He gets up, deciding to go back and see.

He walks back to the auditorium and freezes. It's very nearly empty. Jared is nowhere in sight. He numbly walks back to his seat, sitting in it. Maybe he should...call his mom? He had no one except Jared and his mom. Maybe Jared's parents.

He's fidgeting in his chair when he hears voices from onstage.

"Shit, Zoe, I dropped it while we were performing," he hears Connor's voice ring out.

"Is it really that important?" She doesn't sound irritated, just tired, and Evan can relate.

"Yes, Zoe, it is," he grumbles. Evan is staring at his shoes, trying to get smaller and not seem like a creep who'd stayed after. It really wasn't his fault. He hated Jared SO much right now.

"Connor, it's…," he hears Zoe say. He doesn't look up, but he hears a soft 'holy shit' echo throughout the auditorium.

Everything is silent for a bit, and Evan is hoping they found whatever it was they were looking for and left. Then he hears footsteps. Loud footsteps and they're getting louder. He bunches in on himself more, trying his very best to disappear. Maybe he should get up and leave? Jared had to be outside waiting. Maybe he could brave the parking lot?

Evan jumps about a foot when the footsteps stop and a hand tentatively rests on his shoulder. "Hey, uh. Are you okay?"

He expects Jared, even though it's obviously not Jared. He doesn't expect, in any world, to look up and lock eyes with a very concerned looking Connor Murphy.

Holy shit.

Evan blinks a few times, then looks down at his toes, "I. Sorry. Sorry, I'm. I lost my..., my friend. He just left and, and. And you probably don't care. Sorry." He's such an idiot. Why did he have to be so awkward? Couldn't he just, oh, communicate normally?

He feels Connor huff, "Some friend. Hey hey, it's okay. Uh," he swears if he didn't know better, he'd think Connor was nervous to talk to _him_. Meanwhile, he's on the verge of embarrassing himself by having a total breakdown.

"Listen this is going to sound...so, so weird," and Evan can't help but peek up at Connor's face, "Um. I've been trying to find you? Shit. Shit, that's so weird. Like not um. Fuck." Evan is so confused. Did he hear right? Why was Connor trying to find him?

Connor plops next to him in an auditorium chair, "Okay so you were at a signing one time...obviously you know that I'm an idiot. Anyway, you um. You gave me a tree charm? It meant a lot to me? And your note? I...you didn't stay after and I couldn't find you. This is so stupid oh god you probably think I'm an idiot." Connor has his face in his hands and Evan is. Flabbergasted. Staring at an embarrassed Connor Murphy. Evan swallows deeply.

"I-it's okay, um. You're...not an idiot. You're super cool? Why are you...talking to me?" He squeaks it out, then flushes and immediately feels bad, "N-not that it's bad that you're talking to me? I'm just. Not um. C-cool enough for you to be talking to me? Sorry." He's fiddling with his polo shirt's buttons again, looking at his feet again.

He looks back to find Connor staring at him. Connor looks...fond?

"Evan...shit is it weird that I remember your name? Whatever. Evan your tree is kind of my lucky charm. I still have your note. I kind of really like you? I don't...really know you. But you just. Stayed in my mind and then didn't stick around and I spent a lot of time looking for you. Which is really really weird and creepy but fuck. You're here." He groans and punches a chair. Hard. It looks like it hurts?

Connor runs both hands over his face and groans again, "Okay after that this is going to seem even weirder, but like your friend is gone and...do you want to come stay with...with us until you find your friend? Wait. Unless you came in different cars, in which case I can just walk you to the parking lot. Or. Fuck." He punches a chair again, and Evan flinches a little.

But fuck, this? Not expected. Was he high? Did he pass out? What was happening and why was Connor so…?

"Y-yeah okay. He's my ride. My car...my car ride." He's reasonably overwhelmed right now. But Connor Murphy is talking to him. Inviting him to be around him for longer. Evan is terrified because there are so many ways he can fuck this up. So, so many ways. But Dr. Sherman was just lecturing him on taking chances and jumping at opportunities, and fuck if this wasn't an opportunity.

Connor looks delighted, too, and soon he's having hand grabbed and being pulled towards the stage. "W-wait," he says, seeing something flash at him from the ground right in front of the stage. Connor freezes, and he kneels down, scooping it up. It's the tree, and it has a thumb wear on its side now. Connor wasn't kidding.

He holds it out to Connor, for the second time in his life, and Connor's whole face lights up as he takes it, slipping it back around his neck.

Connor smiles at it, then at him, and he sees something flash across Connor's face. It seems to pass again, and he's being pulled backstage.

He sees Zoe packing up her guitar. She turns and looks at them, then smirks, "Connor! You found him!"

"Shut up," he says, blushing, and Evan is…

He must be in some kind of wonderland right now.

Someone was playing a trick on him.

Something had to be...fake!

There was no way Connor had actually been looking for him. Or he'd thought Evan was something he wasn't. There's just no way. These kinds of things don't happen to Evan.

"So uh, he kind of got abandoned," Connor says, looking a little peeved, and his expression flashes from that to a smile, "So he's coming back with us for a bit."

Zoe chuckles, "Convenient. Evan do you have any way to get home? Or like, somewhere to be or someone missing you?"

Evan fidgets with his buttons, shaking his head at everything, still in shock and eyes on the ground.

Everything is silent for a couple of seconds, and then Zoe's voice is much softer, "Are you okay Evan?"

Evan bites his lip. They probably want to know why he looks like a guilty kid, eyes on his shoes and hands tucked in on himself. It probably looks weird to them, but it comforts Evan a little bit to be as small as possible, and eye contact...it wasn't easy. But he'd been told he looks weird when he's in his 'comfort pose', and these people-his idols no less didn't actually know him.

The hard part is forcing words. His anxiety has clogged his throat, and what did he even say?

He's been standing there without talking for far too long, so he finally pulls out his phone, typing on it.

He types something simple about his anxiety issues, and how he was particularly bad right now and it was forcing his throat close apologizing far too much as he does, and wanting to apologize for that. He's a mess. He shakily hands it to Zoe before he can regret it.

"Oh," is all she says for a minute, before handing his phone to Connor, whose eyes widen and he nods, handing the phone back to Evan.

"That's okay, Evan. Uh. We're in a hotel right now. Would it be okay with you if we drove you there? Is there anyone you want us to call?" Evan wants to cry. He's having a non-verbal moment in front of his two biggest crushes and biggest idols. Instead, he nods, then shakes his head.

How does he tell them nobody gives a fuck about him without seeming pathetic? He just needs a good night, or maybe a few good hours, and maybe he could drive himself back to his dorm. He'd gotten okay at driving lately, and he wasn't as scared by it. He could do that. He'd be okay.

Connor hesitantly grabs his hand, and Evan tries to relax as he's lead to a car and he waits for them to pack up. He thought there was no way he could ruin this day, but here he is. Ruining everything and acting like the biggest loser ever in front of his favorite people. Who apparently had been looking for him. He can't even begin to imagine how disappointed Connor must be. Looking for someone only to find him and having him be a huge pathetic loser. A letdown.

Connor sits in the back seat with him, and it might just be his imagination but the other seems to be trying to make up any excuse to touch him. He's usually very touch adverse in these moments, but something about how deliberate and obvious Connor was when he was going to touch him made it not feel as weird. He doesn't know why Connor would even want to touch him anyway, though.

By the time they're at the hotel, which is actually quite a while, Evan is feeling a little better. Connor explains how they made a big deal of going to one hotel but actually came to this smaller one as a way to get the stalker type fans off their back. Evan actually laughs at it, and Connor looks so pleased with himself.

For whatever reason, Connor seems eager to please _Evan_, even though he's the guy who's in a famous band and had millions of people swooning over him.

It's a surreal experience.

Especially when Connor was still in a crop top.

Connor helps Evan out of the car, grabbing a bag out of the trunk and grabbing Evan's hand again. Evan blushes brightly and lets himself be pulled to the hotel room. Connor ushers him in once he's unlocked the door, shutting it and locking it as soon as he's given Zoe a hug and said goodnight to her. It's really adorable watching them teasing each other and he can really see that they love each other.

He wishes he had a sibling.

Soon Connor is sitting next to him, smiling at him almost cautiously. "So, um. You alright sharing a bed? Also, do you need to borrow clothes? I've got like three sets of pajamas, so it's cool if you do." Connor is fidgety and adorable, and Evan finds himself staring for a moment before he nods, clearing his throat.

"Yeah," he manages, and Connor has that extremely pleased look on his face again that Evan can't help smiling at. The worse of his anxiety attack had faded, and now he was just dealing with being able to hang out with actual Connor Murphy.

"Awesome," Connor says. He then just stares at Evan for a moment, eyes sort of glazed over, before shaking himself out of whatever he was thinking and jumping up to grab clothes for Evan.

Evan, finally comfortable to observe him, realizes just how lanky Connor is. Everything about him has that sharp, comfortable aesthetic about it and...and he was just really, really pretty.

Everything was different from afar. It was different when he was looking at pictures of him on Tumblr. It was different when Connor spent all this time trying to make him smile. There's something in his chest that's reacting to Connor. Evan didn't know how to feel about that.

Soon he has Connor's clothes in his hands and he's in the bathroom. He looks at himself in the mirror and cringes. He looks...not great. He looks tired, soggy, gross. Just as pathetic as he felt.

He doesn't know why he expected anything else, honestly. He wasn't going to magically get attractive out of nowhere.

He sighs and slips into Connor's clothes. They're huge on him. He can't help but giggle at himself in the mirror. He looks like a toddler trying on their older siblings clothing on.

Not to mention, the shirt is hilarious. In big pink block letters, it says 'can't wake up (can't wake up inside)', and he could bet anything Zoe bought it for Connor.

He walks out, more like waddled honestly, and Connor has changed into his other pjs, a cute shirt with a panda on it and floor length pants with a floral design. He doesn't immediately notice when Evan comes out, on his phone and laid back on the bed. Evan could almost pretend he was supposed to be here.

Then Connor's head turns and his eyes widen and he sees that same thing he saw all the way back at the stage, that weird look painted on Connor's face. Then Connor is really closed to him, and he doesn't know when that happened.

"C-Connor?" He chokes out. Connor looks like he's fighting an internal battle, and then something obviously wins over and he's moving closer.

He pauses. Evan can see gears turning, and he really doesn't know what to feel. Connor is so closed to him. If Evan goes on his toes he can touch his nose to Connor's.

"Evan," Connor says, and his voice is deep and it vibrates in Evan's chest, "I really, really want to kiss you right now, but I need you to be okay with that." Connor hesitantly puts a hand on his arm, and Evan's head is swimming.

Kiss him? Why? Before he can think, Evan nods. Connor's mouth is on his, and his eyes shut, his whole body feeling hot as Connor's fingers come to rest on his scalp, his arm wrapping around Evan's back. It goes on for so long, and yet it's just not enough. They're panting and Connor is flushed even more than Evan, and Evan didn't know that was possible.

"Evan," Connor says again, and Evan looks up at him, not even realizing he'd gone drifting off.

"Evan, I want you," he says, and Evan doesn't know why Connor looks scared. Why on Earth is Connor the scared one here? Evan's nobody. Connor probably sleeps with enough people daily that Evan won't even be a memory in a week. Something about that doesn't sit well with him, and he doesn't know why. He's used to being forgettable.

He realizes he hasn't responded and does so by leaning up as far as he can go and kissing Connor gently.

After a sort of embarrassing moment in the bathroom, he finds himself on the bed, Connor grabbing the necessities from a bag and rolling onto the bed with him. He's blushing, nervously playing with the hem of Connor's shirt. Is this really happening?

Connor's fingers are on his neck, and he can assure himself it is, and he doesn't know how ready he is for it.

"You can still say no," Connor says gently. He really doesn't want to say no. At all. So he just keeps staring at Connor. Connor waits for his okay, so he nods.

Connor Murphy is undressing him. He's expecting...he doesn't know what he's expecting, but the seemingly rash and violent drummer was so gentle. He's pulling Evan's, or really his own, pants down when he asks Evan his favorite color. It's such an innocent question it catches him off guard.

"B-blue," he says quietly, "Baby blue." Connor smiles, nuzzling his inner thigh.

"Somehow fitting," he responds, and Evan is smiling along with him, even as Connor's nose is so close to his junk. Connor continues peppering him with adorable questions, making him giggle and blush, and this wasn't what he was expecting at all. He's no longer scared, rather relaxed as he can be with someone so in his space, and excited.

Connor's finger circles around his hole, and he gulps. Connor smiles, leaning down to suckle at his neck, pulling a moan from him and making him squirm. It takes a while for him to fully relax, but finally, Connor is able to slip his finger inside, and it's a weird feeling. He's already gripping onto Connor tightly, trying his best to stay relaxed.

Connor keeps asking him hilarious questions, and he really didn't think you could do that during sex. But it was great, and even though his answers were really simple, Connor seemed pleased with every new thing he learned. Evan briefly wonders if he does this with everyone.

When Connor finally works two fingers into Evan, Evan is already a mess. He didn't expect this to feel good, really, and he was pretty happy to be proven wrong. There's a bit of a burn, but Connor's mouth is all over him and he really can't focus on much else. The questions stopped once Evan couldn't really form words anymore, and now Connor was just nipping and licking every exposed inch of skin he could get to. It was a truly maddening experience.

There's a bit of an embarrassing moment where Connor nips his ears, and he moans a little too loudly. It's a moment of self-discovery, and Connor looks immensely pleased.

Finally, they reach three, and Evan is just a complete mess. He can't keep quiet anymore, and everything is really really fuzzy in his brain. He's holding onto Connor for dear life, and his dick is throbbing. He's too embarrassed to touch it, though, because he might just end this a little too early.

Finally, Connor deems it enough, and Evan was both relieved and extremely disappointed when the invasive fingers disappeared.

He feels a nudge, and Connor is slathering lube all over him again. It makes him keen, and he's hiding his face in his hands, panting. Connor seems to have finished whatever he was doing, and he's now trying to pry Evan's hands away from his face.

"I wanna see your cute little face, Evan, please?" Evan peeks at him from between his fingers. Connor smiles, and Evan pulls them away a bit. Connor leans over and claims his lips in a kiss, smiling, and there's another nudge at his hole.

"Ready?" Connor says, and Evan hesitates before reaching for Connor's hand. Connor seems happy to lace his fingers through Evan's, smiling and taking Evan's dick in his hand, leaning back over to kiss Evan as he slowly breached him.

He's expecting it to be worse than it is. It hurts a bit, but Connor is touching him all over, and that might be why he doesn't notice as much. Connor finally bottoms out, and Evan and him are both panting.

For a minute or two, they're breathlessly giggling, locked together and giddy from it.  
Then Evan wiggles questioningly, and Connor moans, and Connor leans down and kisses his nose before cautiously pulling out an inch or so, and then back in. Evan gasps, fingers squeezing Connor's arm. They're giggling again, and Evan didn't know that would be something he'd like during, but he's definitely for it, especially because Connor looks so happy above him, and he's so giddy and happy himself.

They start up a pace, and kiss and make plays at each other in the midst. It feels somewhat natural, though they have their awkward moments that they end up giggling through. It was nice.

Evan of course makes a mistake. Not a bad one, really, but it certainly changes things. He snakes his hand up to Connor's head, wanting to touch his hair. He snakes his fingers through it, only to end up moaning loudly as Connor's hips give a particularly hard thrust, and he's left reeling for a moment.

It doesn't connect right away, but when it does he's giggling again, and Connor looks a little embarrassed. He smirks, giving it a hard tug.

He ends up screaming as Connor's pace goes from one to one hundred, and he's keening and mewling, scratching Connor's back up, reduced to a messy puddle.

He files away this particular sensitivity, not really sure for what.

He's playing with Connor's hair still, letting himself be filled with pride whenever it got a serious reaction out of him. He wonders if he could get Connor in the mood with his hair alone. If so, Evan might have a new favorite thing.

He finds himself on the tip of the metaphorical iceberg, nails burrowing holes into Connor's shoulders and eyes rolling back into his skull, as Connor's pace goes erratic. Connor's bitten so many spots on his neck that when he presses his head against the headboard, they all stretch out, and it pulls such a loud keening sound from him he's surely woken everyone in the entire hotel up.

He doesn't even care.

Connor, meanwhile, is making so many noises that are all killing Evan. Mixes between moans, shouts and garbled versions of Evan's name. He's got one arm hooked under Evan and one on the headboard, and he's clearly losing it.

"E-Evan, oh _fuck_," he groans, "Please don't...don't leave me," he's so visibly close to the edge, and Evan is right there with him. He almost thinks he's misheard at first, and he doesn't have time to think about it before he and Connor are both screaming, his nails most likely breaking skin.

He barely registers the loud sound of wood snapping, and Connor is panting in his ear, still shaking and groaning. He only just realizes that Connor's bitten into his neck, and the realization makes it sting a bit. Connor and him stay in the same position for a bit, before Connor rolls over onto his side, not even pulling out, and Evan realizes that at some point Connor put a condom on. He's somewhat disappointed, but really it's practical. He doesn't know why he cares.

The world spins around them for a bit, lying there together.

"Evan?" He heard Connor say, sounding almost...nervous.

Evan rolls his head to the side, looking at Connor. He's looking back at Evan, eyes lidded, but with a sort of tentative look on his face that Evan can't place.

"Evan, I...I don't want you to…to," he's searching for words, and they're both still floating, but Evan has a heavy feeling in his chest.

Connor seems to find something in himself, and he sits up, looking Evan dead in the eyes, "Evan, will you...will you stay? With me? Can we…," He's lazily running his fingers over Evan's stomach, "Will you be mine?"

Evan feels something lift, and he smiles.

"Yeah, Connor. I'll be yours. For forever."

Connor smiles. "For forever."

It's a silly promise to make when you've just met for the first time. When you have no idea what the future holds.

They don't break it.

They do break the bed.

* * *

Chapter 2

Evan's fingers are shaking. Not the little twitches of energy he gets when rehearsal starts in the depths of the Odd Possums studio, or the drumming of fingers against his song binder. Quaking might be a better word for it.

Ever since meeting Connor all that time ago at this very venue, he's been doing things he never thought he could ever do. Like this, now on the stage, shaking, nay, quaking fingers propped up on the piano keys. The delicate ivories seem to blink up at him curiously. 'What do you have to fear' they say, and the list is near endless. He sneaks a peek over at the crowd monitor, currently focused on recording the crowd. A full venue. He's never been happier that stupidly large curtains adorn the stage. He thumbs his tree charm, a matching one to the one he knows is hanging from the wrist of one Connor Murphy.

He gulps, eyes searching for said co-lead and drummer of the band, finding him tuning his drum set, puffy skirt pushed to the back as he leans over the biggest drum in the set, scowling at the thing and hitting it with a bitten drumstick. Five years. Five years together. Evan had seen his ups, his downs, they'd got him sobered up and on medication. It had been a journey. Evan had performed in front of people several times. He was used to it now, as it were.

'What do you have to be afraid of?'

Evan's hand wanders to his pocket. He fingers the square box residing there. Five years ago, Evan would never have imagined doing something this ballsy. But anxiety soaked little Evan would never in his life imagine performing in front of thousands, now would he?

That wasn't to say he still didn't regularly have anxiety attacks before doing so, but…

He'd come a long way, thank you very much.

Breathing deeply, Evan slides his fingers back up to the ivories. Connor flashes him a concerned look from the drums. It was an expression that clearly said Connor was expecting a panic attack at any second, but that he was here for Evan. Evan gives him a shaky smile in return, feels his hands cramp slightly and rubs them together. Connor hops off his drum stool and pads over, giving Evan a great view of his outfit. The crop top had evolved into a corset with a lacy skirt, fluffy as all hell. Their latest album was steampunk-themed, so a few cogs were here and there, and Connor was never without the tree charm that flashed in the lights. It brings Evan's attention to his own slick backed hair and cog covered suit, the tree pin on his lapel. Despite the theme, to celebrate the lore of this venue, the first song was that silly arguing song between the Murphy siblings, with Evan being the one fought over. It was going to be hilarious and Evan was ready.

Evan is brought out of his own mind by gentle lips on his own. He squeaks slightly in surprise and Connor giggles, peppering kisses around his jaw. Evan giggles quietly, picking at one of Connor's corset strings. "Don't worry, no self-detonation today," Evan murmurs, nosing up into his boyfriend's neck.

"Leave that to the fans," Connor smirks and hugs Evan tightly, "What's got you doing your cute squinty face over at me?"

Evan snorts. "I don't squint!" He dusts one of his black keys off. The dust was always more noticeable on them in the bright lights, while the little white keys always got away with being filthy. Okay, fine, he's distracting himself. Sue him! "Go back to tuning, okay?" He gives Connor a little push toward his drums and gets a blinding smile and a peck on the lips in return.

Evan checks the time, getting his sheet music in order and popping both his left earplug and right earpiece in. He runs a hand through his hair, stretches his legs. He takes deep breaths, focusing on Connor's back. He grins when Zoe blasts on the stage, looking all shades of awesome, badassery leaking from her pores in kind...wait, no. Ew. From the smile on her face, Alana was the one taking her time. She blasts through tuning her guitar while Evan is still doing breathing exercises.

Finally, the sad excuse for pre-concert music comes to an end. "It's fuckin' elevator music is what it is," Connor had griped one time.

A small familiar tone and announcement come through their earpieces, and the curtains are pulled back abruptly like the curtains guy was going to pull them and fell over. Evan flinches just the tiniest bit, and Connor gives him a reassuring smile. The audiences' overpowering applause fills the venue, noise in every nook and cranny. A few signs are being held up, one even says 'CONNOR MURPHY IS A FASHION IDOL!' and Evan can't help but agree, even if he thinks Zoe's name ought to be on that sign too.

His eyes flit over to the singer-guitarist. She'd gone full steampunk suit, frills buttons lapels and a hat with all those same features. It was funny, sometimes he forgot which Murphy was the one that could bench press him. Then she reminded him, in some ways more than others.

He's giggling to himself when Connor gets his attention and points to a sign, grinning.

'EVAN 3 CONNOR OTP!' next to one stating 'EVAN MURPHY'.

It's cute, and it definitely doesn't warrant the shot of anxiety that runs through his stomach. How old were those girls anyway, one looked twelve! Certainly too young to be invested in his relationship? She couldn't know, could she? Surely not.

Zoe walks over to him, pretending to be pulling him up for the first song and leaning over him, "When?"

"When do you think...?" Evan is futzing around with his hands helplessly.

"Right before the last song in the set, the cute one." She grins, not giving him a chance to protest as she yanks him up to stand on a tiny mobile dais. He lets himself look anxious and fidgety, partly because that's his part in this, and partly because aggressively attractive Murphy siblings circling him would never ever be something to scoff at. It goes on for a moment or so before Connor sits at the drums. The song starts up, and since Evan has little to no part in it, he just admires the two as they do their thing.

"Lesbian Extraordinaire," Evan mumbles to himself, smirking at Zoe as she does her part of the song. He thought it five years ago, and honestly...he'd only had it proven to him further in that time.

Soon the song is over and he's on the piano, and it's suddenly intermission. Time flies...

At the moment his fingers hit the last few keys and applause roars out, Evan is shivering, high on the feeling of performing. He looks over to Connor, who is, of course, panting rather hard and staring at him. They smile at each other and Evan only barely catches it when Zoe teasingly mentions that they're making love eyes at each other. They blush and grin, Connor flipping his sister off. Meanwhile, Evan doesn't dare, because she could _bench press him_.

The audience laughs a final time and the curtains are pulled so fast he's sure half the audience gets whiplash. Who in the world was in charge of the curtains?!

Evan only gets to be outraged at the curtains for a moment before there are lips on his lips again and Connor is pulling him up to gently twirl around with him. Connor seemed especially handsy today, and honestly...Evan wasn't complaining. It was reassuring in a way because he can tell that Connor does, in fact, love him, so maybe, just maybe, this whole proposing deal wouldn't go down so badly. Evan's hands continue to shake regardless, and Connor is humming and holding him close.

It's a thing, now, he supposes. Ever since the very first time he performed Connor had kept him busy during intermission. It wasn't always physical, one time he'd just put a bottle of water in his hands and told him a shitty joke. There was the time he'd given Evan the little tree charm, too, and Evan had cried. Then Connor had cried, while Zoe was trying not to laugh at the emotional mess from a few feet away.

It was Connor's show of support. It was meant to calm Evan down, and usually, it worked.

But considering the enormity of what he was going to do, along with the fact that Connor _doesn't know about it_? He'd have to be forgiven if he was a little shaken holding his boyfriend in his arms.

Zoe must see him freaking out, because she's demanding his attention upstage, and Connor snorts. "Alright, don't keep her waiting. It's not fuckin worth a temper tantrum, even if I'd rather keep you to myself." He gives Evan a little shove, winking.

Evan rolls his eyes fondly and sets off toward Zoe. She begins to mess with his hair, parting and moving the strands this way and that. Evan clears his throat a little, "Those uh, those curtains sure did whip around," He half mumbles, nerves tickling the inside of his throat.

Zoe snorts. "Mhm. Sure did." She weaves a bit of his hair behind his ear to keep it from sticking up. "You don't seem as nervous as I thought you'd be."

Evan raises an eyebrow. "I don't?" Here he'd thought he was shaking from head to toe and looking shiftier than a raccoon on the clock, but Zoe was known for being brutally honest...maybe he was more centered than he thought.

"Mhm. Thought you'd be having heart palpitations or running away or something." Her hand glides through his hair soothingly one more time before she moves her hand to his back and pats him, "You've got this, I can tell."

He grins up at her and pointedly doesn't hug her, because she hugs far too tightly and he's a small and delicate boy. He does a nod to her and takes a fluffy towel to wipe his sweat off with as he returned to his piano. It seemed far too quickly that those damned curtains were whipping around again and they were off.

Evan gulps, eyes slipping shut as his fingers continue on without him. There are the nerves, tingling up and down his back where they didn't exist before.

Instead of worse case scenarios, though, his hours of practice carry him through, fingers hitting keys on their own, face its learned mask of calm. He really can't believe it. His eyes find Connor, who is sweating and drumming and singing and…

He's gorgeous. Evan's fingers fly along the piano's keys, but his eyes are stuck on how the stage lights make Connor's hair a beautiful, bright brown. How It falls on his eyelashes and makes his buckles and belts shine, twinkle. His star, his perfect star. He feels the droplets on his hands before he registers them on his cheeks, his hands too busy to wipe them.

↪This may be the most terrifying thing Evan has, or ever will, do in his lifetime. But if he gets to marry him, marry Connor. God, who cares? His face cracks into the biggest grin it's possibly capable of, his bottom lip wobbling. His finger hits the last key on the second to last song before he can register it. The last riffs of Zoe's guitar, the last notes of Connor's voice, and Zoe turns to him, striding offstage with the rest of them. Evan holds his breath a moment, lets it out. He stands, he turns to Connor. Everything else melts away when he sees the confused, curious grin on his face, the little quirk of his eyebrow. What crowd, look at him. Look at his star.

There's no magic to the seven or so steps he takes, he almost stumbles once, he's red and Connor's sweating. Everyone in the audience has their breaths held. He bursts into tears before he can get on one knee, and he scolds himself when he sees Connor's face turn to worry. Connor locks lips with him, hand on his cheek, raising an eyebrow in question. Evan's heart stops, thumb swiping across Connor's cheek. He takes a deep breath and gently pushes Connor off of him. His fingers are shaking when he gets the box out, his knee collides with the stage a little too hard. His voice is wobbly when he nearly whispers, "Connor. Will you marry me?" He has to blink the tears away, the look on his face is pinched, nervous.

Connor's the one in tears, nearly seconds later. He takes the ring gracelessly, shoves it on his finger and all but tackles Evan, fluffy skirt bouncing with the force. He's going to thank curtain guy later, he thinks, as the curtain whips around. He hears the sound as his mic goes offline, Connor peppering him in kisses, his giggling louder than the roar of the crowd in their ears.

"You're amazing," Connor whispers, "Brave, wonderful, gorgeous, God...I can't believe I get to marry your ass."

"Not just my ass," Evan quips back.

They take their damned time, and sue them-they're engaged now. The crowd doesn't complain a peep, imaginations surely carrying the space where the curtains only fluttered from touch, where the 'fuckin' elevator' music resurfaced. When they're finally pried off of one another, they take their places for the next song. Evan with a mic clutched in both of his shaky hands, kiss drunk and only just barely terrified of singing. Zoe signed him up for it, so he can't be too bad right? She wouldn't send him up here if his voice was that of a dying goose. Or maybe it would be revenge for all the snapchats of her asleep in weird positions. Welp.

They're still dewey eyed when they softly sing the chords at each other, the choreography lost when they came close enough to touch, wrapped around one another and just barely in tune. Surprisingly it's Connor's voice that breaks first, on the word 'future'. It's Evan that cries again, on a verse about growing old together.

Regardless of who started it, by the end, there are messy tears and out of tune whispering.

There doesn't seem to be an end, no packing and no leaving the venue. Their moment lasts for ages and when it's over they're sitting in the car, Connor's leg trapped between Evan's, Evan's face in his chest. They kiss, grind on each other a little, but by the time they're in their bed it's pure, raw emotion that's guiding them, touching and kissing. The heat seems to simmer until they're just crying again, clinging to each other, too caught up in the future to be present.

Someone croons the chords to the song again, someone else follows suit, and before long they're both out cold, yet so, so warm.


	51. (T) BOYF - For Your Eyes Only by DivineP

for your eyes only  
DivineProjectZero

Summary:  
"I'm putting this on Instagram," Jenna says. He can hear the silent question in the way she cocks her head at him, and he thinks, what the hell, why not.

"Sure," he says.

This is the moment Michael unwittingly triggers what is later dubbed as The Great Middleborough Melltdown of 2017.

* * *

It's a regular Saturday afternoon at the mall when it all goes to hell.

Michael, Jenna, and Christine are sitting at a table in the food court, heatedly discussing overrated restaurants while they wait for the others to make it to their little rendezvous point. Michael's explaining why The Cheesecake Factory is a waste of money when he shoves his glasses up his nose too roughly, smudging the left lens with a grubby fingertip.

"Argh." Michael wipes his fingers on a napkin and pulls his glasses off to clean it haphazardly with the hem of his hoodie. "So what I'm saying is, there's a lot of good food out there that I can get for a lot cheaper, okay?"

He's expecting Christine to argue his point, so it's weird when he's only met with silence.

"Uh, guys?" He squints at the two dark shapes sitting opposite of him, and starts lifting his glasses back up to his face.

"Don't move," Jenna says, and Michael freezes.

"What?" He wonders if there's a wasp or something poisonous sitting on him. Oh god, is he going to die? In the mall? Is his last meal really going to be a taco? It was a good taco, so it could've been worse, he supposes. At least it wasn't Sbarro. Or, god forbid, _Cheesecake Factory_. "Am I in danger?"

Christine coughs. "No, no. Not at all."

"You look…_different_ without your glasses," Jenna says.

Michael's shoulders tense up, the urge to pull his hood up over his head prickling across his skin. He shoves his glasses back on, trying not to show how self-conscious he feels. "Well, yeah." He focuses on the empty trays on the table. "Everybody looks different with something on their face."

Jenna makes a small, frustrated noise. "I mean, you look _good_ without glasses."

That gets Michael to shoot her a disbelieving look, which she counters with a raised eyebrow.

"Jenna's right," Christine says, resting her elbows on the table as she leans forward with an earnest expression. "You look really nice without them, Michael. Can we look again?"

Michael hesitates. He doesn't like showing his face sans glasses to other people, mostly because he doesn't enjoy being blind, and also because his bare face isn't exactly the best thing to look at. He prefers the way he looks in his glasses, the way they distract from any dark circles and complement his face. He's pretty sure he looks like shit without them.

But Christine is giving him the puppy eyes and Jenna looks completely serious, and these are his _friends_—he's still getting used to having multiple of them—who didn't even judge him when he dragged them to Spencer's Gifts in his quest for a box of Mountain Dew Red.

"You guys are weird," Michael says, but he takes his glasses off again.

Christine hums. "He really does look very nice like this."

"How the fuck did none of us notice," Jenna mutters. Michael suppresses the urge to fidget at the sense of being evaluated. "I'm taking a pic."

"What," Michael splutters, jamming his glasses back on, but Jenna's already holding up her phone so that he can see a photo of his face on the screen. "Jenna!"

Jenna shoves her phone into his face. "Seriously, look at it."

Michael does look at it, and all he can see is his face, looking a little naked and unfamiliar. He lost the ability to see into a mirror without specs back in middle school, so it's been a while. His brows are drawn together and his mouth is pursed in a grim line, probably because he's on the verge of blindly squinting and he's uncomfortable as hell, so it looks like he's giving the camera a displeased stare. "What, it's just my face looking extra bitchy."

"How are you this blind," Jenna despairs.

Christine peeks at the photo. "It's a good smolder. I really like it."

Michael shrugs, a little pleased by the praise but overall skeptical. He decides to take the compliment but not put too much stock in it. "Thanks, I guess."

"I'm putting this on Instagram," Jenna says. He can hear the silent question in the way she cocks her head at him, and he thinks, _what the hell, why not_.

"Sure," he says.

This is the moment Michael unwittingly triggers what is later dubbed as The Great Middleborough Melltdown of 2017.

He doesn't realize the enormity of his mistake until Monday morning, after he steps into the building of Middleborough High with his music cranked up, humming his way to his locker. He's halfway there when a blonde girl in cheerleading uniform falls into step beside him, a little too close for comfort. Michael pulls his headphones down when he realizes she's smiling at him.

"Hi," she says, beaming. "You're Michael, right?"

"Uh, yeah." Michael ransacks his memory and comes up with no clue as to why a cheerleader would be talking to him. "Sorry, do I know you?"

She grins, her perfectly white teeth shining in a way that makes unease coil in the pit of Michael's stomach. "I'm Alison. We could get to know each other from now on."

"Okay…?" They slow to a stop in front of his locker. "Do you need something?"

Alison gives him a slow once-over that makes his skin crawl. "Oh, _definitely_."

His soul is saved from screaming its way out of his body when Chloe's voice crisply cuts in with, "You're blocking my locker, Bennett."

The sly look on Alison's face curdles as she steps aside to let Chloe through. "So, Michael," Alison says, attempting another coy smile, "I was thinking we could—"

"He's gay," Chloe injects without turning away from her locker.

"Uh," Alison says.

"I'm gay," Michael confirms rapidly, even though he's not sure why that's relevant right now. It never hurts to assert his gayness, though, so he taps the rainbow patch on his shoulder. "Very gay. So homosexual."

Alison's mouth opens, closes, opens again, then shuts with a very final click. Then she spins around and, in dignified fashion, runs away.

Belatedly, it occurs to Michael that the hallway is very quiet today. Everybody's staring or sneaking glances at him, whispering under their breaths.

Unnerved, he tugs his hood more securely over his head and wrestles his locker open. He isn't sure what the fuck is going on, but he's not going to freak out about it where everybody's watching. He's going to grab his stuff for chemistry, make a detour to the bathroom, and then have a quick, condensed _What The Everloving Fuck Was That_ meltdown in one of the stalls before he goes to class. He's got this.

"Michael?"

Michael stiffens momentarily before his brain processes the familiarity of the voice, and then the tension melts away as he turns towards blue eyes regarding him with mild concern. "Jeremy, hey."

"Hey," Jeremy echoes. "You were a little zoned out. You okay?"

Michael musters a smile to dispel any worry on Jeremy's part. "Yeah man, just weirded out for a moment." He holds his hand out so they can perform their customary handshake, and the familiar motions calm his nerves. "Whatcha doing here? Aren't you supposed to be in the auditorium for drama?"

"I still have like, four minutes," Jeremy says. He digs through his backpack and pulls out Michael's chemistry notebook. "You left this at my place yesterday. I thought you might need it."

"I forgot about that. Thanks." As Michael takes the notebook, he notices two other girls over Jeremy's shoulder, peering at him from a few feet away. Tittering, they turn away from his gaze, and Michael feels that unnerving sensation swoop into his stomach again. "Uh." He refocuses on Jeremy. "See you in study hall?"

"Yeah, see you then." Jeremy waves to Chloe and leaves.

There's still a few people staring, but Michael ignores them, the panic held at bay for now, and turns to Chloe. "Okay, let's go."

The stares don't go away. Everywhere he goes, he can feel the weight of everybody's eyes on him. The stares follow him from chemistry to English to pre-calc to study hall, and Michael finally loses it in the privacy of Mr. Reyes's classroom, a favored study hall haunt for drama club members.

"What the hell is going on," Michael asks with a groan, slumping into his seat. He has a headache from the tension that keeps building at the base of his skull, and he feels jittery with all the noise in his head. "What the fuck did I do to warrant this?"

Sitting across from him, Brooke and Jake share a brief, silent conversation with increasingly widening eyes and jerky head motions.

"Michael," Brooke says, having lost the silent argument, "it's about your Instagram photo."

"I didn't post any new photos," Michael says. His Instagram is mostly aesthetic shots with the occasional update about the pet rock he gifted Jeremy four years ago. He's pretty sure that the latest update about Dwayne Johnson chilling in the Heere household's freezer wasn't outrageous enough to elicit this kind of reaction from the whole student body.

"No, the one that Jenna posted," Brooke corrects.

The headache intensifies. "The one she took at the mall? What about it?"

Before Brooke can answer, Jeremy walks into the classroom and makes a beeline for the empty seat beside Michael's. "Hey guys." He pauses in the middle of slinging his backpack off his shoulders, concern creasing his forehead. "Michael? Is something wrong?"

"Apparently my face," Michael says, pulling his glasses off to pinch the bridge of his nose. He thinks he hears a sharp inhale from beside him, but it's hard to tell over the thudding pain in his head.

"There's nothing..._wrong_ with your face," Brooke says very slowly, like she's struggling to string words into coherent sentences. "It's...a very nice...face. Which is...kinda the problem?"

Michael pinches the bridge of his nose harder. "What does that mean?"

"It means you're hot, dude," Jake says, and the entire world screeches to a halt.

"Wait," Michael says, putting his glasses back on to squint at Jake, who's eyeing Michael with a frightening intensity. "What the fuck?"

Jake doesn't even blink. "You're good-looking and now the whole school knows it."

Next to Jake, Brooke nods in agreement with this ludicrous statement. The both of them look so serious that the inside of Michael's stomach twists.

"That's pretty funny," Michael says, keeping his voice as steady as he can. He's not going to let this kind of joke get to him. At the very least, he's not going to let anybody _notice_ that this kind of joke is getting to him.

Beside him, Jeremy straightens up in his seat like an animal sensing danger. "Michael?"

"Seriously though," Michael continues in his best approximation of a mildly irritated tone, tamping down on the urge to pull his hood up and hide, "I'd appreciate an actual answer, you know."

Jake and Brooke trade bewildered looks.

"But," Jake says, "We're not—"

"I'm just gonna," Jeremy blurts, grasping Michael's sleeve and tugging him up and towards the door, "go have a quick talk with Michael in the bathroom."

Michael doesn't resist, keeping his eyes on his sneakers as he follows Jeremy out the classroom and down the hall into the boys' bathroom. His head hurts, buzzing with paranoia and frustration and _I thought we were friends. _He just wants to go home and smoke away the noise in his head.

"Michael," Jeremy says, voice gentle but firm, "look at me."

Michael doesn't want to. He doesn't want to look up and see pity in Jeremy's eyes, but he's never been good at saying no to Jeremy. So he drags his gaze upwards hesitantly, the twist in his stomach loosening a little when he meets blue eyes and sees only worry there.

"You're getting a headache again, aren't you," Jeremy murmurs with a sigh. He steps close and curls a hand around Michael's nape, squeezing with just the right amount of pressure to make Michael melt into the touch. He closes his eyes and drops his forehead onto Jeremy's shoulder, the noise in his head quieting as warm fingers massage the tension away. "Better?"

Michael hums in affirmation, basking in the peace and proximity. Jeremy smells like lavender and fresh cotton, like the only safe place in the hellscape that is high school. Michael is so close to him right now, their chests only scant inches apart, and he aches to curl both arms around Jeremy and breathe him in until the day is over.

"They weren't joking," Jeremy says softly, his hand still massaging the back of Michael's neck. "They wouldn't make fun of you like that. Just hear them out, will you?"

Michael wants to protest, but it's hard to resist Jeremy's pleading when there are clever fingers digging into the tense muscles of his neck with devastating precision and the soothing scent of lavender lulling him into a false sense of security.

"Fine," Michael finally huffs. "But only if you keep doing this for a little longer."

Jeremy laughs, squeezing Michael's nape, and Michael's chest tightens again with that urge to curl his arms around Jeremy's waist and press his mouth to the pulse point under Jeremy's jaw. He holds his breath for a long time, pretends it's his lungs that are aching and not his heart.

"You're really hot, bro. I swear," Jake says, once Michael and Jeremy return from the bathroom.

"We wouldn't say it if we didn't mean it," Brooke says with huge, wounded eyes, and Michael feels like a jackass for ever doubting her.

"I mean, we've always known you're kinda okay-looking," Chloe muses in front of their lockers, "but I guess it took us a nudge to realize that you're, well."

"Dude, I'd bang you in a heartbeat," Rich says at lunch.

Jeremy chokes on his juice while Michael blinks, taken aback. "Uh, thanks?"

"Seriously," Rich continues as Jake smacks Jeremy's back to resuscitate him, "as a bro, if you ever need—"

"O-kay," Jenna interrupts, sticking a corn dog into Rich's mouth. "You get the point now."

Michael most definitely gets the point. Even now, he can count at least nine different people fixing stares of varying intensity and hunger towards him, which is pretty fucking unsettling.

"This is a phase, though. Right?" Jeremy wheezes, still recovering from his near-death experience. "It's not like it'll last forever."

Michael groans at the thought. "I hope not."

"It'll die down," Christine says, sympathetic. "I had a lot of people pay attention to me after I was in Romeo and Juliet, but it didn't last very long. Just give it a few days!"

Chloe nods. "Yeah, it'll be over soon. You're going to be fine."

Michael is not going to be fine. He isn't even in the same time zone as fine.

"So you're like, half-Latino?" Ryan Ackerman, a tall, freckled redhead who's apparently forgotten the concept of personal space, has been pestering him for the past five minutes while they wait for computer science class to start, leaning in too close for Michael's comfort.

"Half-Ecuadorian," Michael grits out. "And half-Filipino."

"So...you're full Latino?"

Michael is not even on the same _planet_ as fine. "The Philippines is in _Asia_."

Ryan leans in even closer, looking fascinated. Michael scoots his chair away from him. "That's wicked, man. So, do you speak like, Ecuadorian?"

"You mean Spanish," Michael says.

"No, I mean Ecuadorian," Ryan reiterates.

Michael suppresses the urge to smash his face into the computer screen in front of him. "They speak Spanish. In Ecuador."

"Oh, oh, okay. Cool." Ryan nods. "So you speak Spanish?"

"Kinda," Michael says, and he's saved from this terrible conversation by Mr. Chang calling for their attention as class starts.

"So," Ryan whispers two minutes later, "can you speak Asian?"

"This is dumb," Michael grouses as Chloe tightens the strap around his forehead. "Not you," he clarifies at her pause in motion, "but the whole thing about people suddenly thinking I'm hot news or whatever just because I took my glasses off one time."

"It is," she agrees. Chloe isn't the kind of person to mince her words. "We're in high school. We're oversaturated in dumb." She tips his chin up, and Michael fidgets with his glasses in his hand, wondering what she sees. "Well, to be fair, I'd be tempted if I didn't have Brooke."

Michael squints at the dark blob in front of him. "Aren't you a lesbian?"

"Well, there's that too," Chloe says. Then, "Fuck, I need masking tape. Stay here."

Michael watches the shadowy figure move away and hears the costume room's door click open as Chloe goes, leaving him sitting alone on a stool with a prototype lion headdress for the school's upcoming production of _The Lion King_ sitting precariously atop his head.

He itches to put his glasses back on, but he has makeup on his face that he doesn't dare smudge because he fears Chloe Valentine like any sane human being should. So he sighs and kicks a heel against his stool, wondering how much longer he'll need to be Chloe's practice model for her makeup designs before he can go home and get away from the today's insanity. He's repeated just how solidly gay he is on the Kinsey scale to four different girls, and he's rebuffed Ryan Ackerman and Dustin Kropp, too. It's ridiculous.

And yeah, okay, maybe a little flattering. Michael's never been on the receiving end of so much attention before, and as much as he'd rather go back to relative anonymity as soon as possible, it's hard to hate the fact that other people apparently find him attractive.

In the end, though, the one person Michael wants attention from is the only one who _hasn't_ treated him any differently today, who hasn't said a single word about Michael's so-called attractiveness.

Honestly, if taking his glasses off was all it took for Jeremy to think of Michael as more than a friend, Michael wouldn't have spent the past three years with an embarrassingly huge, unrequited crush on him. He's taken his glasses off in front of Jeremy plenty of times over the course of their twelve-year friendship and it never changed a thing. On the contrary, Jeremy's always seemed to dislike looking in Michael's direction when he took his glasses off to wipe them. Michael's pretty sure Jeremy finds his bare face unsettling to look at.

It'd be a miracle if Jeremy finally found Michael attractive after all these years, just because of one dumb photo.

Michael wishes it was that easy.

The door clicks open and Michael straightens up, pushing the wistful thoughts out of his head. "Chloe, this strap thing needs to be tighter. It keeps trying to slip off my head."

He hears the sound of footsteps on the carpet approaching him, and it occurs to him that the blurry silhouette he's looking at is definitely not the same blurry silhouette that left the room two minutes ago.

"I'm not Chloe," a soft, feminine voice says. "I'm just here to drop off these costumes." He can hear the sound of fabric rustling. "Uh, you're Michael, right? Michael Mell?"

"Yeah, I am." Michael thinks he's heard this voice before, but he can't quite put a face or name to it. He's about to risk being murdered by Chloe and just put his glasses back on when he's caught off-guard by a blinding flash of light. "What the—"

"Sorry!" The voice says, and then she's out the door and gone.

"What the shit?" Michael says to the empty room, his brain belatedly seizing upon the fact that somebody just took his picture out of the blue.

The door clicks open again barely three seconds after it closed in the wake of the photo bandit's departure, and Michael tenses up just as a familiar voice says, "Michael?"

Michael relaxes a little. "Jeremy?"

"Yeah," Jeremy says. The blurry shape of him starts to walk closer, then doubles over with a clanging noise as Jeremy trips over something. "You're not wearing—never mind," Jeremy mumbles. He makes the rest of his way up to where Michael's sitting. "Why did Madeline Garcia just run out of here?"

"That's who it was?" Michael asks. "She just took a picture of me and ran off!"

"She _what_," Jeremy says in a flat voice that has Michael stilling in his seat. He recognizes that particular tone from the one time a senior called Christine a slut for getting the lead role of the school play. The only reason _that_ incident hadn't ended with bodily harm was because Chloe had promptly 'spilled' her coffee over the senior's head.

"Hey," Michael says, his offense at Madeline taking the backseat as his need to soothe Jeremy takes over. He reaches out blindly on instinct. "Jer, it's okay. It's just a dumb picture."

"It's _not_ okay," Jeremy snaps, catching Michael's hand in his. "She didn't have any right to do that."

Michael runs a placating thumb across Jeremy's knuckles. Coaxes, "Hey, look at me."

Jeremy makes a furious, strangled noise. "You're the one not looking at me."

"Shit, right." Michael fiddles with his glasses for a second with the hand not holding Jeremy's and shoves them on, Chloe's wrath be damned. Jeremy's glaring hard up at the ceiling like it said something rude about his grandparents, but his eyes snap down to meet Michael's when Michael tugs his hand. "Jer, dude. Don't sweat it. Seriously."

Jeremy opens his mouth like he's about to refute Michael's words, but he stops and chews on his lower lip, looking pensive. Michael gets a little distracted by the view and nearly misses the words that come out of that red, bitten mouth. "So…you're okay with it?"

"Hmm?" Michael blinks, ripping his self-incriminating gaze away in a hurry to look Jeremy in the eye again. "Uh, yes? Wait, no. I mean." He mentally slaps himself out of his gay stupor and focuses back on their conversation. "It's not okay, but it's not something to get all worked up over. You get what I mean?"

There's a small frown on Jeremy's face, but the rage is dissipating, the furrow in his brows evening out into mild upset instead. "But it's bothering you."

God, Michael wants to kiss him so fucking bad.

"I'll get over it," Michael says, though it feels like an empty promise. He just wants Jeremy stop looking so personally affronted, even if it makes him feel warm and pleased on the inside. "It's not a big deal."

Jeremy looks dissatisfied, but he relents, his shoulders slumping down as he sighs. "Fine. But we're making her delete the picture."

"Yeah, of course," Michael says, squeezing Jeremy's hand. "I wouldn't be surprised if she already deleted it. I probably look shitty with all this makeup."

"I think it's kinda cool," Jeremy says, a corner of his mouth quirking up, and Michael feels triumphant as the last of Jeremy's irritation seeps away in favor of amusement. "Can't imagine it'd look flattering on me, though. I'm kinda too pale for this."

Michael snorts. "Yeah, I think a lot of the cast is pale for a bunch of African lions."

"Okay, Mr. I-Speak-Spanish-Not-Ecuadorian," Jeremy teases, which makes Michael groan. "You should've auditioned and improved our diversity, then."

"Because having the entire school stare at me is my idea of a good time," Michael says, sarcastic. "No thanks."

Jeremy's smile widens a little. "You make a good lion though."

"Fuck yeah, I bet," Michael says, because he has a lion bias that's only second to his Jeremy bias. Feeling a little emboldened by his small victory of chasing off Jeremy's bad mood and by their still-linked hands, he leans into Jeremy's personal space and brings up his free hand to beside his face, curling it into a fist as he winks. "Like, y'know, rawr?"

"Oh my god," Jeremy splutters, letting go of Michael's hand to shove his shoulder hard enough that Michael nearly falls off his stool cackling. "That was the worst thing I've seen." His face is so red it's a miracle he hasn't combusted. "I'm gonna go drink a whole container of bleach for that. Jesus."

Michael laughs harder, both hands now clutching at the headdress so that it doesn't fall off his head and crash onto the floor.

"Proud of yourself?" Jeremy asks, crossing his arms with a red-faced huff, but Michael can hear the bemused fondness in his voice, can see the twinkle of humor in his eyes. Not for the first time, Michael can't help but think that he'd gladly make a fool of himself if it meant that Jeremy'd smile.

It's an incredibly sappy thought, but also a sobering one. It frightens Michael a little, the intensity of his feelings for Jeremy. How easy it is to drop everything and prioritize Jeremy's needs. Michael is pretty sure that it's not good for a crush to be this all-consuming, but he doesn't know how to stop his heart from racing at Jeremy's proximity or how to stop his breath from stuttering at Jeremy's laughter or how to stop his universe from rearranging itself around Jeremy Heere. He doesn't know if it's even possible to stop. If he _wants_ to stop.

"Michael?"

Michael struggles to say something to Jeremy's quizzical look, to find words that don't give away the overwhelming tightness in his chest, but then Chloe slams the door open, causing them both to jump.

"I was gone for _five minutes_," Chloe growls, marching over to where Michael and Jeremy have frozen. She shoves her phone at Michael's face. "How did this happen?"

On her phone screen, there's an unmistakable photo of Michael's face in stage makeup and no glasses. It must be the one Madeline just took.

It's on Twitter.

Michael groans. "Fuck me."

Beside him, Jeremy makes a sound like a dying animal. Michael agrees wholeheartedly.

By the next morning, the original photo's been deleted by Madeline, courtesy of Jenna and Chloe working their high school girl witchcraft—Michael doesn't dare ask if it involved blackmail—but the damage has been done. Michael's gotten ninety-four new friend requests on Facebook, over two hundred new Twitter followers (ditto with Instagram), and an entire hoard of people chasing after his heels as soon as he steps onto the school grounds.

Michael's never been overtly bullied, never been shoved against the lockers or shoved _into_ a locker before, but today's the day he learns what it's like to _stuff himself into his own locker_ to escape a crowd of crazy high schoolers.

"They're gone," Chloe says after she successfully misdirects the crowd towards the opposite end of the building. "You can come out now."

"This is a new kind of coming out." Jake says, grabbing Michael's elbow when he stumbles his way out of the locker.

Michael straightens up with a scowl. "Ha fucking ha."

Rich leans against the pillar adjacent to the lockers and sings, "_Coming out of my cage and I've been doing just fine_."

"I am _not_ doing fine." Michael kicks his locker shut with a grunt. He levels an accusatory glare at Jake, then Chloe. "Nobody ever chased after you guys like this."

Chloe raises a sharp, perfectly shaped eyebrow and Michael immediately backpedals, raising both hands in fearful surrender. "Right, of course, sorry." He refocuses on Jake. "Nobody's ever chased _you_ like this."

Jake shrugs with a bright grin. "Nope, not really!"

"So why are people chasing _me_?"

"Raw animal magnetism," Rich says, clapping a hand to Michael's shoulder with a sage nod.

Michael gives Rich an unimpressed look. "Dude, what the fuck."

"Well, he's not _wrong_," Jake says.

"_What the fuck?_" Michael repeats, because that's the only acceptable response at this point.

Chloe rolls her eyes. "People are chasing you because of your _face_. So unless you can change your own face, there's nothing you can do about it. Now let's go before more idiots show up."

Michael resists the urge to slam his face into his locker door and disfigure himself for the peace of his mind. Maybe if he hits his head hard enough, he'll knock himself out and then wake up to discover that this was all a bad dream. Or an acid trip gone wrong. It's a beautiful thought.

"Buddy, you zoning out there?" Jake asks.

"I'm not, I'm not." Michael sighs and wistfully bids a silent goodbye to his locker door and his fantasies of giving himself a concussion. "Let's go."

"You look like shit," Jenna comments when he runs into the classroom with thirty seconds to spare before world history starts.

"It's my new skincare routine." Michael throws his backpack onto the desk behind her, wiping the sheen of sweat off his forehead and dropping into his seat. He just sprinted from the opposite end of the building and up three flights of stairs, and he needs a moment to get his breath back. "I go hide in a bathroom stall every break and then dash to class right before it starts."

Jenna's clicks her tongue. "You need a better routine."

"I'm open to suggestions." He frowns at the empty seat next to his. "Where's Jeremy?"

"No idea."

Just then, the bell starts to ring. Three seconds later, Jeremy barrels through the door and catapults himself into his seat.

Jenna offers a silent slow clap.

"Right on time, Mr. Heere." Mrs. Emory's typical dry tone always reminds Michael of deserts and vultures. Circling overhead, always ready to pick you to pieces. "Now then, please turn to page ninety-seven."

Michael tunes her out to lean a little sideways and whisper, "What took you so long?"

"Groupmate from bio wanted to talk," Jeremy mumbles as he unzips his backpack on his lap. There must be more to the story, though, because there's a displeased furrow to his brow and a sour pinch to his mouth, like he's tasted something foul. It's not a good look on him.

Michael leans forward, inching into Jeremy's line of sight so he can stare him into spilling the beans.

Jeremy's eyes flicker from his backpack to Michael, then back to his backpack. Michael knows he's won the moment Jeremy exhales harshly through his nose. "He wanted to talk about you."

Michael blinks. "Me?"

"Yeah." Jeremy shuffles through his backpack with singular focus, his movements a forceful. "Wanted me to introduce you guys or something."

"Jesus." There's apparently no end to the insanity. "You said no, right?"

Jeremy grabs his pencil case and shoots Michael a look that he can't quite decipher. Something like frustration and incredulity and exasperation all mixed and matched into bright blue eyes and a red, bitten mouth. "Of course I said no."

The pit of Michael's stomach feels funny. He shrugs the feeling off with practiced denial and gives Jeremy a curt nod. "Good."

The bead of sweat he can feel sliding down the bridge of his nose provides him with an excuse to look away from the piercing blue of Jeremy's eyes and lift his glasses up to discreetly wipe the perspiration away.

A loud clattering sound startles him as he pushes his glasses back in place, and he sees that Jeremy's dropped his pencil case onto the floor, a few rogue pens rolling away from the spot of impact.

"Any complaints about the Opium Wars, Mr. Heere?" Mrs. Emory asks from the front of the classroom, glancing back from her whiteboard.

"No, nothing, I'm sorry," Jeremy babbles, his face red, leaning over to hastily grab his pens and pencil case and place them on his desk.

Michael waits until Mrs. Emory has her back turned towards them again before he whispers, "You alright there, clumsy-pants?"

"Shut up," Jeremy hisses through gritted teeth, still red-cheeked and eyes glued to the textbook he's opening on his desk. The sour, pinched look is gone though, so Michael chalks it up to a win and doodles in his notebook for the rest of class.

It's a small miracle that nobody tries to proposition Michael at their table during lunch time, considering that he's been taking refuge in various bathroom stalls during breaks and he's had at least three different guys coming onto him in the middle of class today. Then again, lunch is one of the few things considered sacred on high school grounds, so maybe it's not that surprising.

"People are posting about Michael Mell sightings on Twitter now," Jenna observes, scrolling down her feed as she takes a sip of her juice. "Like you're a cryptid or something."

Michael doesn't bother to respond and shovels more chicken nuggets into his mouth. He needs to refuel for his hide-and-run stunts for the remainder of the school day.

"It sure _looks_ like a cryptid sighting." Jake taps on his own phone screen to open a twitter photo featuring a blurry red shape disappearing around a hallway corner.

Christine frowns. "It's rude to take pictures of people without their permission."

"High school runs on rude and stupid," Chloe says in the tone of somebody who's lived with that fact for too long. "At least most of them don't show his face properly."

"There's a hashtag now," Brooke says from across Michael, causing him to choke on his mouthful of nuggets.

"_What_," he gasps, leaning forward to get a look at her phone. She turns it around so he can see **#MiddleboroughMelltdown** on some of the tweets. He'd be impressed by the pun if he weren't the subject matter. "You've got to be shitting me."

"Well, it's not like it's trending," Jenna pauses ominously, "_yet_."

"Think we could get Mikey boy here Twitter certified?" Rich asks, swiping a tater tot off Jake's tray.

Michael scowls. "I'm deleting Twitter. I'll join Jeremy in social media monkhood."

Jeremy, who's been wordlessly forking over half of his chicken nuggets onto Michael's tray throughout the meal, pats Michael's shoulder. "Whatever makes you feel better. Want my orange?"

Every nutrient helps. "Yes, please."

Sometime during musical rehearsal, Michael is sitting in the sound tech booth when he receives an unsolicited dick pic from a guy who took geography class with him last year. He takes a screenshot, blocks the guy, spends ten minutes on Facebook to find the dude's mom, then sends her the screenshot.

Then, he locks his social media accounts down to private. He can't get rid of the people who already follow him, but it's nice to pretend he has a semblance of control over his life going to hell.

"Fuck today. Fuck high school. Fuck _everything_," Michael growls, pulling his sweater off and throwing it into the hamper with more force than necessary.

If Monday had been Intro to Hell 101 and Tuesday had been the second circle of hell, Wednesday is the fifth circle. Michael spent every spare moment that wasn't class time like he's a fugitive of the law training for the Olympics, running and hiding from people who just wouldn't leave him alone. At one point, he vaulted over his desk to escape from Sam Wells, a persistent jock from his English class. Michael is going to be recruited into the school's track-and-field team at this rate.

The only good thing that happened today was when some dude had attempted to approach their lunch table. Michael had tensed up, ready to bolt with his half-eaten sandwich. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd noticed Jeremy switch his grip on his fork so that he was holding it like a knife. Then, before anybody could say anything, Christine and Rich had both slammed their hands down on the table and stood up in terrifying synchronicity. They'd both ripped into the guy for bothering someone during lunch, yelling their lungs out until a teacher came over to reprimand the tiny duo of righteous fury. It'd been the highlight of Michael's day.

He doesn't even want to think about what came afterwards.

After a good sniff, Michael decides his shirt needs to go in the hamper too. He pulls it off and drops it in, then starts rummaging around his dresser for a new teeshirt. Behind him, he hears a series of coughs.

Michael cranes his head around to shoot a concerned look over his shoulder. "You okay?"

Sitting on the edge of Michael's bed, Jeremy flaps a hand as he clears his throat. "I'm fine," Jeremy wheezes. "Throat felt funny for a sec."

Michael frowns, pulling on an old teeshirt and then his red hoodie. "You gonna be okay with the smoke?"

Jeremy gives him a thumbs up as he clears his throat. His cheeks are flushed a dull red. "Yeah, yeah. I'll be fine." He stands up in a hurry, lifting up the plastic 7-Eleven bag full of snacks and jerking his chin towards the bedroom door. "Ready?"

"Yeah, let's go." Michael takes his stash of weed out from where he squirreled it away in the back of his bedside drawer and follows Jeremy down to the basement, ready to smoke today out of his head entirely.

As soon as he's seated on the couch with his feet propped up on one of the beanbags, Michael doesn't waste any time rolling and lighting up a joint, his frazzled nerves settling at the familiar taste of smoke. He revels in the soothing sensation for a moment, the quieting of his brain in anticipation of the hit kicking in. Then he offers the joint to Jeremy, who takes it with careful fingers.

"Feel better?" Jeremy asks.

Michael rolls his shoulders and neck with a hum. "I need to get properly stoned before I can answer that question."

Jeremy shrugs and lifts the joint to his mouth, inhaling slow and easy. Michael watches with a small sense of pride. Jeremy's always been shit at taking hits off a joint, frequently devolving into coughing fits and mediocre highs, but he's improved a lot under Michael's tutelage in more recent months.

He watches Jeremy hold the smoke in his lungs, his eyes sliding shut in bliss before he slowly exhales in one smooth breath. Watches the smoke curl from Jeremy's lips, mesmerized. He doesn't catch Jeremy's eyes fluttering open, his heart stumbling hard in his chest when those lips quirk in a small, awkward smile and speak. "What?"

Michael tears his gaze away from Jeremy's mouth with a guilty jolt and meets Jeremy's eyes. Thankfully, there's only curiosity in Jeremy's expression.

"Just thinking you've gotten a lot better at this," Michael says, gesturing at the joint. "You used to be so bad."

Jeremy rolls his eyes. "Shut up." The fondness in his tone is a drug of its own, sending a buzz of pleasure through Michael's blood. "Not all of us can be naturally skilled stoners."

"What can I say?" Michael throws a faux-casual arm over Jeremy's shoulders, relishing the warmth as he leans against Jeremy's side and pokes him in the ribs. "I'm just talented like that." He steals the joint back. "You've learned well, my padawan."

Jeremy snorts. "Sure, Obi Weed Kenobi."

"No respect for your master," Michael tuts. He smirks and sticks his tongue out when Jeremy elbows him, because he knows it drives Jeremy crazy.

Sure enough, Jeremy pouts and flicks at Michael's tongue. "Put it back. What are you, a lizard?"

"I prefer dragons," Michael says, baring his teeth in an imitation of a hiss.

Jeremy rolls his eyes. "Yeah, the pot dragon that breathes smoke. Real majestic."

Michael laughs and takes another hit, luxuriating in the buzz enveloping his senses. He starts humming the Star Wars theme under his breath and smiles when Jeremy joins in. They don't say anything for a while, just passing the joint between them and humming their way through different theme songs, until Jeremy sighs and flops his head sideways onto Michael's shoulder, nuzzling into the fabric of his hoodie.

"Dude, are you falling asleep on me?" Michael cards his fingers through Jeremy's hair. He catches a faint whiff of Jeremy's shampoo and contentment seeps into his bones, like he entered a warm room and realized that he'd felt cold until now, the chill thawing away in Jeremy's proximity.

Jeremy makes a pleased sound at the touch. "It's soft. I like this one, not what you were wearing today."

"Yeah, well." He resists the urge to press a kiss to the top of Jeremy's head. "Good thing I didn't wear this hoodie to school today, then."

Michael had purposefully chosen a black sweater for the day in the misguided hope that it would make him a little less recognizable. It had helped at first, but it hadn't been enough to stop people from trying to chase him down in the hallways. And then some asshole had the bright idea of throwing a cup of soda into Michael's face in an attempt to make him take his glasses off.

At least nobody was ever going to try _that_ stunt again; Michael hadn't ever seen Jake slam someone against the lockers like that before, his smile gone, teeth bared like a wolf, ready to rip out throats. It had taken both Chloe and Rich to pull Jake off the guy.

Then Jeremy'd whisked Michael away to the bathroom to help him wash the soda off, and Michael had felt the anger slip through his fingers like water as he'd watched Jeremy hold onto Michael's backpack with white knuckles and shaking fingers, teeth gritted in silent fury. He'd rinsed the sticky liquid off his face, combing wet fingers through his hair as he slid his glasses back on, and Jeremy'd barely been able to meet Michael's gaze. He'd shoved Michael's backpack into Michael's arms and had mumbled about how they were late for rehearsal, radiating distress all the way to the auditorium.

Now, with Jeremy practically melting against Michael, that awful incident seems so far away, like another lifetime ago. Here, with Jeremy's soft curls brushing the underside of Michael's chin, with the scent of lavender and smoke in Michael's lungs, the outside world seems like a dream. Like this is the only reality that matters.

He feels like he's missing something obvious here, but he can't quite put a finger on what it could be.

Jeremy yawns and mumbles something about being hungry. He moves away from Michael to bend forward and snag the plastic bag on the beanbag not serving as Michael's footrest, and Michael feels a little cold, a little hollow. Like his heart just left and made its home elsewhere. Like—

"Want some?" Jeremy offers him a bag of sour gummy worms.

Michael blinks, his train of thought derailed and lost. He squints at the gummy worms, then shrugs. He'll figure it out later. "Yeah, thanks."

Thursday morning, Michael strategically takes a side entrance into the school building two minutes before the bell rings and sprints into first period just as the bell ends. He's planned all his exit strategies for today, and he already knows the perfect hiding spot to seek refuge in between this period and the next.

When the bell rings at the end of first period, Michael already has his stuff zipped into his backpack and he's out the door in a flash. He takes one flight of stairs up and then turns the corner, just fifteen feet from his chosen shelter, and runs right into Jeremy.

"Michael?" Jeremy looks puzzled. "Did you already sign the attendance sheet?"

"No, I'm hiding first," Michael explains, then hears the sound of students pouring into the hallway. "Shit."

In blind panic, he grabs Jeremy's wrist and runs to the the spare supplies closet that's never locked and flings himself inside, pulls Jeremy in with him, and slams the door shut.

"What the fuck?" Jeremy sputters, his breath hot against Michael's jaw, and Michael realizes what a huge fucking tactical error he just made.

The closet is certainly roomier than a student locker, but it's not enough space for two people to fit comfortably. Even with their backpacks dropped beside their feet and their backs leaning against opposite walls, Jeremy's chest is literally two inches from Michael's. Their knees knock against each other when Jeremy shifts on his feet, one foot slotted between Michael's, so close that Michael can almost feel Jeremy's body heat.

"Why did you drag me in here?" Jeremy hisses. It's too dark in here to see anything, but Michael can feel Jeremy exhale against Michael's throat and it's like a jolt of electricity, Michael's whole body magnetized to Jeremy's, and he barely manages to swallow a whimper.

"Because I'm an idiot." It's the goddamn truth. He pushes down the pull he feels towards Jeremy's warmth, the urge to lean forward and press Jeremy into the wall and kiss him. He tries to focus on the outside of the closet rather than on what Jeremy might sound like if Michael kissed his way down his throat. "Ugh, and if you go out now, people are gonna notice."

"Great. So we're stuck here." Jeremy shifts, his leg briefly pressing against the inside of Michael's thighs, just a little too close to his crotch.

Michael is going to fucking _die_ in this closet.

Jeremy's phone screen lights up, illuminating his face as he checks the time. "Seven minutes until the bell. Cool."

"We'll go out in five." His brain gleefully seizes onto the parallel to seven minutes in heaven and Michael violently slams a lid on that thought. "Almost everybody should be gone by then."

Jeremy sighs. "I can't believe we're hiding in the supply closet." Then his eyes go wide. "Shit."

"What?"

"Nothing!" Jeremy clicks his phone screen off, plunging them back into darkness.

Michael raises a disbelieving eyebrow even though Jeremy won't be able to see it. "Nice try. What's going on?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jeremy says with the voice of someone who knows exactly what Michael's talking about.

"Tell me, or I start tickling you," Michael threatens. It's an empty threat, because if Michael puts his hands on Jeremy right now, all bets are off and he's going to irrevocably ruin their friendship forever, not to mention that their cover's going to be blown immediately.

Fortunately, Jeremy doesn't catch onto the fact that Michael's bluffing, and he makes a frustrated noise of defeat. "Fuck. Uh." He inhales a deep breath, then says in a single breath, "This is the supply closet Brooke and Chloe use sometimes."

Michael processes that for a moment. "Brooke and Chloe."

"Yeah."

"Use this supply closet."

"Uh-huh."

"For making out?"

"Yes, now _stop asking,_" Jeremy whispers furiously.

They stand in silence after that, just the sound of their breathing filling the air between them, and Michael's heart is pounding so loudly that it's a miracle that they haven't been discovered.

His brain observes that it would certainly be easier for Brooke and Chloe to indulge in some making out here, since they'd take up less space. It wouldn't be that hard for Michael and Jeremy, either. All they need is for Michael to take half a step forward, and then he'd be pressing his whole body against Jeremy's, and it would be so easy to kiss him, to swallow the noises from Jeremy's mouth, to lick his way in and taste him. To run his hands down Jeremy's sides and hold him by the hips, to shove a thigh between those legs and spend seven sweet minutes in heaven between classes.

_Fuck_. Michael wrenches his mind out of the gutter and starts mentally running through the periodic table. Hydrogen, helium, lithium, beryllium—god it's hot in here—boron, carbon, nitrogen, oxygen—it's like they're running out of oxygen—fluorine, neon—like the way Michael feels like he's lighting up when Jeremy touches him, neon-bright. Fuck, he wants to touch Jeremy. They're only inches apart and he swears that the proximity alone could trigger combustion, could burn him up right here and now. He wants to test the chemistry of Jeremy's skin against Michael's, to see if every atom between them could bond together, hard and tight and _Jesus fucking Christ, Mell, get your fucking shit together_.

Michael valiantly restrains himself from banging his own head against the closet wall. That would only attract attention from people in the hall, and then it'd render all his suffering in here for moot.

On the other hand, he's starting to think that it might be better to go risk being mauled by his peers than stay in here with Jeremy any longer.

"How many more minutes?" Michael's voice rasps from how dry his throat is.

Jeremy checks his phone. "Two."

Two minutes. Michael can survive two minutes. Michael can keep his hands off Jeremy for two more minutes. "This is kinda boring, huh." Michael hopes he sounds casual and not on the verge of hysteria. "Sorry for dragging you in here."

"Well, it isn't as bad as your Mario Golf phase," Jeremy says, the corner of his mouth quirking up just as the light from his phone screen fades out. "That was _really_ boring."

Michael chuckles. "Fuck off, that game was a classic."

"It was a complete drag and I hated it." The toe of Jeremy's foot nudges against the side of Michael's. His voice drops from a stage-whisper to a hushed breath that Michael can barely hear. "I hate that you have to do this."

Michael shoves both hands into his jean pockets. "I hate it, too."

"I wish they'd leave you alone." Jeremy sighs, a warm exhalation that brushes gently against Michael's jaw. It sends a shiver down Michael's spine, an abrupt sense of longing unspooling in the pit of his stomach.

"I missed you," he blurts.

After a pause, Jeremy says, "We hung out the whole afternoon yesterday."

"No, I mean, yes. We did." Michael isn't even sure why he said anything. He doesn't know how to explain this feeling, doesn't even have a name for it. He flounders for another moment before a passable metaphor occurs to him. "It's just like, school's turned into a one player game. And it's not fun anymore."

For a long moment, Jeremy doesn't say anything, and Michael feels his anxiety spike at the unsettling sense of missing his step in the dark, and he's so sure he's said the wrong thing. Then the warm weight of Jeremy presses up against him, his arms going around Michael's shoulders and his fingers curling into the back of his sweater, and Michael freezes on the spot.

It takes him a wild, breathless second to realize Jeremy is hugging him. "Uh, Jer?"

"I missed you, too." Jeremy's voice is muffled from where he's buried his face into the juncture between Michael's neck and shoulder. Michael can feel the heat of the words mouthed through his clothes. "It was better when it was a two player game."

Michael's throat is too tight, his fists clenching in his pockets with the need to hug Jeremy back.

But if he holds Jeremy now, he doesn't think he'll be able to let go.

He wavers on the precipice of indecision, his hands pulled from his pockets and hovering by Jeremy's waist, uncertain, and then the decision is taken out of his hands by Jeremy pulling away.

"We should be able to go now," Jeremy says, ducking his head to check his phone as he bends to the side and picks up his backpack.

Michael feels bereft. Cold. "Yeah, okay. Let's go."

Jeremy pushes the supply closet door open and stumbles out as Michael grabs his own bag and follows, shoving the door closed behind him. He steals a glance towards Jeremy as they walk towards their study hall classroom, but it's hard to tell what Jeremy's thinking. His mouth is set in a thin line and his shoulders are hunched in a way that makes Michael want to soothe the tension away with his hands, and he feels an unexpected pang in his chest. Jeremy isn't supposed to look like that when he's alone with Michael.

They don't talk, even as they manage to sign their names right as the bell starts to ring, even as they trek downstairs and walk into Mr. Reyes's classroom. Brooke and Jake are already there, leaning over a poster board, and Mr. Reyes is staring at his own computer screen while munching on a hot pocket.

"Oh good, you're here," Brooke says, shoving a pair of scissors at Michael. "Could you please cut these out for me?"

Michael looks at the piece of paper she slides over, full of printed images of cars, trains, and a submarine. He squints at the half-finished poster board and skims the printed paragraphs there. "Physics class?"

"My presentation is next period," Brooke says, hurriedly gluing the cutout of an airplane Jake just handed her. "Jeremy, could you help me gluing these?"

"Sure," Jeremy says, setting his backpack down and circling the desks to stand next to Brooke.

"You guys were taking forever to get here," Jake says, snipping away at what looks like a photo of an Aston Martin. "We thought you guys skipped out on us."

Michael huffs, scooting his chair closer to the desk so he can start cutting out the submarine. "Nah, I was just hiding again." His eyes dart towards Jeremy, who doesn't look back. He focuses back on the submarine picture. "Jeremy joined me this time."

"Huh, weird." Jake straightens up in his seat with a small frown, and Brooke also looks up from her poster board, looking puzzled. "I thought we took care of that."

Michael blinks. "Huh?"

"Were people chasing you today?" Brooke asks.

Michael opens his mouth to respond, then closes it as he rewinds through his morning. He hasn't _actually_ been chased today, but it isn't like he gave anybody the chance. But…he didn't hear anybody try to follow him today. At least not yet. "I don't know. I was too busy running to check if anybody was following."

"They shouldn't be doing that anymore." Brooke reaches across their desks to pat Michael's hand. "We made sure of that."

Jake nods. "Yeah, no more dick moves."

"_We_?" Jeremy echoes, his brows scrunching together in confusion.

Brooke shrugs. "Yesterday, while you two were in the bathroom, we decided to lay down some ground rules for everybody else. I think Jenna took a video."

"Do I wanna know what you guys did?" Michael asks.

Jake grins, wolflike. "Nothing special."

"I don't wanna know what you guys did," Michael concludes.

Brooke waves her glue stick around as she gestures with her words. "At any rate, nobody'll be bothering you until last period is over, and only respectful conversation requests are allowed. Anybody who breaks the rules," she says with a bright smile befitting a member of high school royalty, "will suffer for the rest of the school year."

Jake points a finger gun at Michael. "We got your back, bro."

"You guys are terrifying," Michael says, cracking a smile as Brooke giggles and Jake winks. He meets Jeremy's eyes and smiles wider when Jeremy's mouth twitches upwards. Jeremy rolls his eyes and ducks his head, back to his gluing duties, and Michael tasks himself with cutting out the submarine, a warm glow filling his chest.

School was always more bearable when it was a two player game, but—having more players to team up with isn't so bad, either.

True to Brooke's word, nobody chases Michael on his way to Spanish class. There's still a fair share of staring, but nobody makes a move towards his direction, which is such a relief that he doesn't even care about all the eyes on him.

By the time he's sliding into his seat in the classroom, his guard is completely down.

Which is why he isn't expecting to be ambushed by Christine dropping into the adjacent seat and saying, "You're dating Jeremy and _didn't tell me_?"

Michael chokes on thin air.

"I mean, you're not obligated to tell me everything about your private life, of course," Christine continues, seemingly oblivious to Michael coughing his way back to the land of the living. "But you've been pining for ages and I'm just surprised that you didn't tell me as soon as it happened, you know?"

"I don't—Chris, what the _fuck_," Michael gasps, recovering from his narrow brush with death. "We're not dating. Who told you that we're dating?"

"Diana said she saw you two leaving the second floor supply closet together." Christine cocks her head to the side, puzzled. "Wait, so you two made out but you're _not_ dating?"

Michael resists the urge to headbutt his own desk. "We didn't make out." God, he wishes. "Trust me, I'd have texted you if any making out with Jeremy Heere had happened. We were hiding because I thought people were still chasing me."

"Oh, okay, that makes sense." Christine nods. She presses her lips together in an obvious attempt to stifle her laughter. "So I guess you didn't know that the second floor supply closet is a hotspot for couples?"

This time, Michael lets his forehead hit his desk with a resounding thunk. "_I didn't know_. Jeremy _did_, so that was awkward as fuck."

A kind hand pats his back. "Aww, it's fine. I'm sure Jeremy didn't mind at all."

"I think he minded a lot," Michael moans, glum. He thinks of the rigid set to Jeremy's shoulders and his grim determination to not look at Michael on their way to Mr. Reyes's classroom. The way he'd waved Michael off and hastily left for his next class as soon as study hall ended. It could've been residual awkwardness from the impromptu hug, but Jeremy's usual reaction to embarrassing friendship declarations is to laugh it off, and this had felt different.

"Michael," Christine says, her tone full of exasperated patience. "Jeremy walked into a wall when you took off your glasses earlier. Maybe you should actually _look_ at him."

He turns his head to squint up at her. "I don't get it."

"I don't think glasses are enough to fix your eyesight on this one." Christine pats his head with a sigh.

He doesn't get to ask her to explain herself because that's when the bell rings, alerting the start of class. By the time they finish their pop quiz, he's forgotten about her last comment entirely.

"Not that I don't appreciate the peace and quiet," Michael says, hoping like hell he isn't jinxing himself, "but it's so weird to be back to normal?"

He's sitting in the sound tech booth, going over the tech cues with Jenna, and he's still processing the rapid 180 he's experienced today. After Brooke and Jake's explanation, he'd expected _some_ harassment after the last period today, given how people still stared at him in the hallways, but nobody had approached him. He's grateful for the return to normalcy, but it's also a little unnerving, especially after the past couple days.

Jenna rolls her eyes, not bothering to look up from her script. It's covered in scribbles and notes and post-its, like every good stage manager's script, and she's flipping through the pages, making sure she hasn't missed anything. "After yesterday? I bet they're too scared to make a move, especially if you're not alone."

"Well, that's reassuring,"

Jenna hums, scribbling another note in the corner of her script as she says, "Also, there's a rumor going around that you're dating Jeremy."

Michael drops his pen. "What."

"Something about you and Jeremy in a supply closet," Jenna says. "They think you're taken now."

"Oh my god." He covers his face with both hands.

"I could make it go away," Jenna says casually, "but it's just a dumb rumor, and it seems to be keeping everybody off your back. So I figured we could let this one go for a bit until people cool their jets about your face."

Michael slides his hands down until they only cover the lower half of his face so he can stare at Jenna. "Does Jeremy know?"

"I don't think so." Jenna looks up from her script. "I don't think he'd mind, either."

"You don't know that," Michael says. He turns to look out the window into the auditorium and sees Jeremy on the stage, a wide grin plastered on his face as he goes through his choreography with Jake and Rich.

"I guess I don't." Jenna's voice is casual, but there's a challenging undertone to her words. "But neither do you."

The rumor mill is still turning on Friday, given the sharp decrease in stares aimed at Michael's way. There's a hefty number of disappointed looks, too. Michael's decided to be honest to anybody who asks for the truth and to feign ignorance in the meantime. Jeremy doesn't seem to be aware of the rumor at all, though he seems happier about getting to hang out with Michael at his locker between classes again.

The past week almost feels like a bad dream. After the nightmarish several days, Michael's happy to be back to an almost nobody, content to walk with Jeremy and bask in the warmth Jeremy's presence brings him.

In fact, he's been looking a lot more at Jeremy. Something about his conversations with Christine and Jenna yesterday keeps prickling at the edge of his mind. Like he's missing something obvious.

"Dude, is there something on my face?" Jeremy asks, his cheeks flushed pink. The tips of his ears are turning red, too.

"I don't know," Michael says, which prompts a look of fondly exasperated annoyance that, against all reason, Michael finds charming as hell.

Just as Jeremy opens his mouth to say something in response to that, he stiffens at the sight of—Michael turns to look and blinks—some guy leaning back against Michael's locker.

"Oh man," Michael mutters. Last period just ended, and since there's no rehearsal today he was just going to drop stuff off at his locker and drive Jeremy home, but of course it won't be that easy.

The stranger catches sight of Michael and straightens up with a bright grin. He has dark hair and impressively broad shoulders and an easy smile that is eerily reminiscent of Jake's. "Michael Mell, yeah?"

"Yeah." Michael approaches with caution, and is slightly relieved when the guy moves out of his way to let him open his locker. "And you are?"

The stranger doesn't seem put off by Michael's wariness at all. "I'm Leo. I'm a senior, and uh, you probably don't remember this, but you took pictures of us for yearbook a while ago? I'm on the football team."

Oh, that explains why Michael finds him vaguely familiar. It also explains the shoulders and arms, because _damn._

"Anyway," Leo continues, "I don't wanna bother you too much, so I'll get outta your hair in a minute. But I wanted to ask." His gaze flicks to the side over Michael's shoulder before he redirects his gaze to Michael. "Are you dating anybody?"

"Uh," Michael says. There's still a fair number of students bustling around, a few of them sending curious looks at Michael and Leo, but hopefully none of them are really listening. "No."

Leo beams. "Cool! Just wanted to check, in case this got weird." He bends down to pick up a box that Michael hadn't noticed earlier, then holds it out to Michael. "I don't wanna pressure you or anything, but I figured it couldn't hurt to score a few extra points in my favor."

Michael looks down and reads the packaging of the box, pauses, then rereads it.

"Is this a box of _Crystal Pepsi_?" Michael hisses. "What the hell, I couldn't find these anywhere!"

"I asked around and heard you liked this kind of stuff," Leo says cheerfully. "And I have an uncle who has easy access, so. Y'know. It's for you."

Michael's hands itch to take the box from Leo's hands, but accepting edibles from a stranger doesn't sound like a good idea. It sounds like a very bad, strings-attached idea.

As if reading his mind, Leo shrugs. "If it makes you uncomfortable, you don't have to take it. And you don't owe me anything even if you do take it. You can say no and I'll just leave you alone, no hard feelings."

"So…you're asking me out, and this is a bribe," Michael clarifies in disbelief.

"Kinda?" Leo laughs. "It's nothing serious. I got this box for free, and you're my type and I figured I'd just give it a shot. Seriously, no pressure."

Michael hesitates, but eventually succumbs to the siren call of Crystal Pepsi and takes the box. "Well, thanks. I'll, um, let you know?"

"By Monday would be nice." Leo indicates the post-it sticking to the top of the box in Michael's arms. There's a phone number written on it. "You can call me whenever. Or text me. Just think it over, okay?" He steps away, shoving his hands into his varsity jacket's pockets. "Bye!"

And just like that, he leaves.

"Wow," Michael says. He can't believe that just happened. He's never been asked out by anybody before, let alone getting a gift like this from a person he barely knows. Not to mention, Leo is, well. Kinda hot. Pale for a football player, but Michael's always liked pale ones.

Speaking of which.

Internally wincing, Michael turns around to look at his best friend. "That was weird, right?"

"I guess," Jeremy says in such a flat tone that Michael feels inexplicably guilty. He tugs on the straps of his backpack, not meeting Michael's eyes. "Can we go now?"

"Yeah, just gimme a sec."

Michael kicks his locker shut and locks it with one hand, balancing the box of soda against his hip with the other, and he starts walking towards the parking lot. Jeremy walks beside him without saying a single word, his lips pressed together in a tight line and his eyes downcast.

The drive to Jeremy's house is equally full of terse silence, the box of soda and Michael's backpack dumped in the back seat, Jeremy hugging his own backpack on his lap, chewing his lip in that way he does when he's concentrating or upset or both. Michael cranks up the radio, feeling too wrong-footed to try break the silence, and hopes like hell that Jeremy will stop giving him the silent treatment by the time he pulls up to the Heere household's driveway.

Jeremy gives him the silent treatment the entire way home.

"So," Michael starts, staring at the garage door of Jeremy's house. They've been parked for a good fifteen seconds and the silence is excruciating. "You wanna tell me what's the matter?"

Jeremy doesn't so much as twitch, sullenly glaring at his knees for a long moment that has Michael wondering if he needs to repeat the question. Then, in a small voice: "You seemed happy. About the Pepsi."

Michael thinks about that. "Well, yeah, I guess. It's really hard to get. You know how I am about retro shit."

"But like," Jeremy says, hunched over and clutching his backpack to his chest, still glaring at his knees, "he's never even talked to you before, and now he just wants to give you stuff like that because everybody's been plastering your face on Twitter." A splotchy red flush is starting to creep down his throat, and it's nothing as charming as the blush Jeremy was sporting earlier when he was flustered by Michael's staring. "And now these people want a piece of you when they don't even _know_ you, all because of some photos, and you hate that kind of attention but they don't even care—"

"Jer, it's okay," Michael says, the words tumbling out of him before his brain can filter anything. His internal Jeremy In Distress sensor is blaring and he just wants Jeremy to calm down and breathe. "I don't hate it that much," he babbles. "I mean, it's not like I'll ever have a better chance to have like, _options_ for my dating life. And who knows, maybe this is an opportunity for me to finally just get a fucking date, y'know?"

He's talking too fast to mean any of the empty reassurances spilling from his mouth; he winces at his own words as soon as he says them, because there's no fucking way that he'd want to date anybody aside from the boy beside him right now.

The boy who has gone pale and still, his wide eyes finally looking at Michael.

"Is that," Jeremy says, his voice small and wobbly, "is that what you want?"

Michael tries to say _no, it's not, you're the one I want, you're the one I love_, except the words catch in his throat and his heart fucking backflips in his chest, his whole world lit up in a different light and showing him what's been there all along. A truth that's been under Michael's nose this entire time.

Oh goddammit, he really had been missing the obvious thing after all.

In the ensuing silence, Jeremy must hear a confirmation that Michael doesn't mean, because his whole face crumples, the bright blue of his eyes going glassy as his voice cracks open. "Okay. That's—okay, then."

Jeremy turns away and fumbles the door open, stumbling out of the cruiser with his backpack still clutched to his chest and slamming the car door shut without looking back. Like he's holding broken pieces of himself together. Like Michael just _hurt_ him.

Michael sits in the driveway, unable to leave, unable to go after Jeremy. He stares at the fluttering curtains visible from the kitchen window for a very long time.

Later that night, he thinks about how sometimes he doesn't realize he's cold until he's in a warm room, the tension melting out of his spine. How everywhere else feels just a little off until he hears Jeremy's laughter, and then everything slots in, like coming home.

All the rare sodas and retro games and charming strangers in the world can't compete with that.

In retrospect, nobody else ever stood a chance.

Saturday morning, after Michael scarfs down breakfast and brushes his teeth, he goes and knocks on the Heere house's front door. Nobody answers for a good five minutes.

"Jeremy, I know you're in there," Michael yells. "Open the door so we can talk."

Silence.

"Dude, I literally saw you through the window. Let me in."

"Go away," Jeremy yells through the door.

Michael rolls his eyes. Jeremy can be such a dramatic little shit.

"I just figured you should know," Michael says loudly, "that I called Leo last night."

Jeremy doesn't answer.

"And I told him," Michael says, hoping he hasn't read this all wrong, that he's not fucking over their friendship forever, "that I'm sorry but I can't go out with him, because I'm in love with an idiot who hasn't realized that his best fucking friend of twelve years isn't interested in anybody else."

For a few heart-stopping seconds, nothing happens. And then there's the sound of scrabbling with the doorknob as Jeremy unlocks the door and swings it open, stumbling forward to a stop right in front of Michael.

"I—you," Jeremy stammers, his eyes wide and his hair in disarray, in mismatching socks and an old teeshirt and pajama pants. He's an absolute mess. The most perfect thing Michael's ever seen. "Did you just call me an idiot?"

"A complete dumbass," Michael says, "who is blinder than I am and needs this spelled out." He takes a deep breath and finds courage in the red flush creeping across Jeremy's face. "I love you."

Jeremy makes a choked noise. One of his hands move towards Michael, and Michael grabs it, entwining their fingers together.

"Me too." Jeremy stumbles over the words, as if he didn't ever expect to use them. "I, um. I love you too."

All the air rushes out of Michael's lungs in relief. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Jeremy says, a smile stealing across his flushed face like sunlight breaking across the sky at dawn.

Michael finds himself mirroring the expression, smiling back as the warmth floods his chest all the way down to his toes. They stand there on the porch in giddy delight until the sound of a car driving by pulls them out of the moment.

"Shit." Jeremy rubs his bright red cheeks with his free hand and tugs Michael's hand with the other. "Let's go inside."

Jeremy leads the way upstairs to his bedroom, his fingers still tightly clasping Michael's. Michael follows, the last of the cold chased away from his bones, warmth soaking into him as he finally finds his way home.

"It's a good thing my dad isn't home right now. It would've been embarrassing if he'd heard us yelling at each other like that." Jeremy makes it to the middle of his bedroom and hesitates. After a moment of dithering, he pulls Michael towards the bed and sits on the edge, indicating for Michael to sit next to him.

"Well, if your dad was home, you'd have opened the door a lot sooner. Or he'd have opened it for me," Michael points out. The pit of his stomach has gone fuzzy and hot at the implications of sitting on a bed with Jeremy, how he could push Jeremy down onto it and see what else of Jeremy he can have, now that he knows Jeremy's heart isn't off-limits. He wants to put every boundary to the test. For starters, he lifts their joined hands to press a kiss to Jeremy's knuckles. "But yeah, I'm glad he isn't here."

Jeremy squeaks, his fingers spasming in Michael's hold. His blush has gone all the way down his throat, under the collar of his teeshirt. Michael wants to know how far it goes down.

"Fuck, I wanna," Jeremy breathes, leaning in a little before he jerks back. "Wait, I just. I wanna make sure. That guy, Leo, he's not gonna bother you about this?"

Michael pouts at the aborted gesture. "I don't think so? I offered to give him the Pepsi back and he just laughed and told me to keep it. Said he wouldn't have any use for it anyway." He shrugs. "He wished me good luck with you."

"That's nice of him," Jeremy mutters, his mouth scrunching in disbelief at his own words.

"I guess. But do you really wanna talk about him right now?" Michael leans in close, dropping his gaze to blatantly drink in the sight of Jeremy worrying his lower lip with his teeth. When he glances back up, there's a hungry look on Jeremy's face, his pupils blown wide and the tip of his tongue peeking out to lick his lips.

"Right, yeah, forget about him," Jeremy says distractedly, his eyes darting to Michael's mouth. "I wanna kiss you."

He leans the rest of the way in and presses his lips to Michael's for a breathtaking moment, their eyes sliding shut, hands clasped tightly between them on the bedcovers. Then Jeremy pulls away the slightest bit, his eyes fluttering open a second after Michael's, their noses bumping against each other as they breathe.

The next second, they're kissing again, a series of short, chaste kisses, one bleeding into another and then another. Jeremy's free hand comes up to cradle Michael's jaw, tilting his head to change the angles at which their mouths meet, and Michael presses kisses to the corner of Jeremy's mouth, to his cupid's bow, to the plump, red lower lip that drives him crazy.

On impulse, he bites down gently on Jeremy's lower lip, and Jeremy fucking _whines_, pressing closer, his hand sliding from Michael's jaw to the back of his head, fingers threading through the curls there.

Emboldened, Michael licks Jeremy's lower lip, soothing the sting, then licks at the seam of Jeremy's mouth, and Jeremy's lips part with a sigh that Michael swallows. He learns how Jeremy tastes, how sensitive the ceiling of Jeremy's mouth is, how Jeremy shudders when Michael coaxes Jeremy's tongue into his mouth and sucks on it. It's the best educational experience of Michael's life.

"Can I," Jeremy says, his lips bruised and spit-slick, and Michael has to push down all the filthy ideas of what he wants to see that mouth do and focus on Jeremy's words, "can I mark you?"

Michael raises an eyebrow. "Like, give me a hickey?"

Blushing, Jeremy nods.

"Jeremy Heere, are you marking me as your territory?" Michael asks, delighted and so fucking smitten that it's probably visible from the goddamn moon.

"Would it bother you?" There's that look in Jeremy's eyes again, the one Michael's glimpsed before but never quite deciphered. Now he can name it: possessiveness. It sends a pleasant shiver down his back.

"Fuck no." Michael motions for Jeremy to go ahead. "I'm all yours."

Jeremy breaks out into a dorky grin. "Yeah, you are."

It takes them a minute to negotiate positioning, and Jeremy ends up straddling Michael's lap, sucking a dark spot high up on the side of Michael's neck, every graze of his teeth against Michael's skin an electric shock of pleasure.

"Can you make it spell 'Property of Jeremy Heere' while you're at it?" Michael jokes breathlessly, his grip on Jeremy's waist tightening when Jeremy bites him in response.

"Maybe that should be our new matching tattoo." Jeremy pulls back to admire his work, nodding in satisfaction at what he sees. "This should work."

Speaking of matching. "Can I do you too?"

Jeremy pauses, then leans down to peck Michael's lips. "Yeah," he whispers, his voice a little husky in a way that makes all of Michael's brain cells snap to attention. "Do me."

Groaning, Michael presses his mouth to Jeremy's neck and mouths _you goddamn menace_ against the skin right above Jeremy's shirt collar. Then he bites down.

"Fuck," Jeremy moans, and it's fucking indecent, the way his breath hitches, the way he tilts his head to offer better access. How is Michael meant to resist an offering like that?

He licks and sucks at the mark, his pride perking up at the dark bruise making itself at home on Jeremy's skin. Once he deems that one finished, he finds another optimal place to sink his teeth into and gets to work, basking in the sound of Jeremy's moan, the jerk of Jeremy's hips in Michael's grip. He goes on like that for a while, sucking and biting and licking until there's an entire constellation of his design coloring Jeremy's neck, all the way down to his collarbones.

"The whole school is gonna know about us now," Jeremy says, running his fingers through Michael's hair. He doesn't sound bothered by the idea. On the contrary, he sounds rather smug.

"Gotta let everybody know I'm off the market." Michael hums and leans into Jeremy's touch.

Jeremy laughs, brushing an errant curl off Michael's forehead, then his movements pause. He traces the rim of Michael's glasses. "It's so weird that all of this happened because of your glasses." He taps them with a finger. "Can I?"

Michael nods. "Go ahead."

Careful fingers lift his glasses away and everything goes blurry, Jeremy reduced to a pale shape with a dark blob of hair, the blue of his eyes barely visible.

"You know, they weren't wrong," Jeremy says, sounding bemused. "I've been trying to avoid looking at you when you don't have your glasses on because you're so fucking hot without them."

Michael chokes on his laughter. "Wait, no, seriously? I always thought it was because you thought my bare face was ugly!"

"I hate to break it to you, but you're hot with or without glasses," Jeremy's voice deadpans. "It just happens to be a lot more noticeable when you're not wearing them."

"Good to know you don't hate my face after all." Michael ponders this new tidbit of information for a while. "So, you want me to wear my glasses a little less often?"

He's joking, obviously, but there's just the tiniest hint of worry there, that niggling thought of _is this the version of me you want?_

Of course, Jeremy picks up on that immediately and soothes the uncertainty away. "I love you. Glasses or no glasses." He slides Michael's glasses back on, and Michael's vision focuses on blue eyes full of laughter and a smile full of adoration. "So keep them on. You're blind as fuck without them anyway."

Michael laughs, warmth making itself home in his chest. He doubts he'll ever feel cold again.

Jeremy ducks down to share a slow, lazy kiss with him before pulling away with a mischievous grin. "Besides, I wanna keep this part of you to myself."


	52. (T) KLANCE - Nightmares by Trashness

Nightmares  
Trashness

Summary:  
Lance's nightmares are getting out of control. It's effecting his and the team's performance, but he's at a loss for how to fix this.

Apparently sleeping next to a warm body helps.

* * *

The nightmares start gradually.

Just slight flashes of discomfort. Winces in the night that slightly disturb Lance's slumber, but barely register the next morning. A negative feeling. A flash of feeling trapped. They're small and inconsequential. Whenever anyone asks the next morning how he slept, he replies with "Fine," because that's how he remembers it. They are nothing to worry about.

But they get worse.

Where he would normally just roll over and push the thoughts at bay, he is now wide awake in a cold sweat. The images linger in his head and reappear as soon as he shuts his eyes. His body seizes up and he gasps as if he hasn't taken a breath for several minutes. Distorted faces flash in his memory reminding him of fears he's tried ignore. He can't just roll over and go back to sleep anymore and the silence of space only makes his thoughts louder.

Lance doesn't sleep.

He feels drawn out, like a car that is running on fumes and sheer willpower. His efforts are commendable, but he can't keep up with the other paladins. Dark circles appear under his eyes and he gets his ass handed to him consistently in the training room. He doesn't spring back onto his feet, but instead lays face down in the mats, thankful for the few seconds of rest. He thinks he could probably pass out then and there if Keith wasn't shrieking at him to "Get up already! Man what is _wrong _with you?!".

He knows he has a problem when he starts nodding off in Shiro's pep talks and he has to apologise profusely for it.

"I'm not trying to be rude," Lance repeats in one of the castle's hallways when Shiro has pulled him aside.

"I swear, I wanna get better! I'm not trying to…."

"Lance," And Shiro uses that tone that makes his stomach drop. It sounds just like his older brother, and it floods him with guilt. Shiro looks at him with understanding and concern.

"I know you're trying, I'm not accusing you of being lazy." Shiro places a heavy hand on his shoulder.

"Tell me what's wrong?"

Lance worries his bottom lip. He feels immature and stupid. How can he tell this man, someone he's admired for years, that he can't sleep because he's scared? That's what five year olds say. He's been swallowed by robot lions and shot at by aliens, what could possibly scare him anymore?

"Nothing, I'm just…" Lance steps away and rolls his shoulder out of Shiro's grasp. Hurt flickers on Shiro's face for just a moment.

"I think being in space for so long is affecting me. My sleep pattern seems to be off. I've just gotta get it back on schedule." Lance stares at his feet. Shiro purses his lips but doesn't call him out on his obvious lie. He nods and sighs.

"Ok. I hope you get better." And he sincerely does.

It's 3am that night when Lance concedes defeat and admits that he is not going to get any sleep. He's exhausted. His eyes sting and his joints ache, but his heart beats thunderously. Fear has a way of pushing someone to their limits, and if Lance were in a better mindset, he'd almost be impressed. The walls of his dull room, devoid of any childhood trinkets or personal touches, starts to feel claustrophobic. He rolls out of bed and begins to stumble down the hall. He doesn't really have a destination. He entertains the idea of maybe going to the observation deck. The endless expanse of space did have a way of making him sleepy, but his route changes when he hears rustling coming from the kitchen.

_Oh, Hunk. _He hums to himself. Hunk is an immeasurable comfort to Lance on this crazy adventure. A shred of home life that keeps him tethered and sane. Lance thinks that he might be able to get some sleep on a couch or something if he knows that Hunk is in the same room. Hunk would do that for him, right? Even if he couldn't, Lance knows that his friend always comes ready with a hot drink and an understanding smile.

Lance shuffles dopily into the kitchen, ready to be swept up in his friend's comforting arms, when he freezes at the counter. Lance chokes a little bit at the back of his throat, making the other paladin turn. Keith's eyes widen.

"Lance?"

"Keith?!"

The two boys gawk at each other. Lance scans up and down Keith's body and notices he's still fully dressed. Gloves, boots, everything, while Lance is in a disheveled t-shirt, saggy boxers and one sock. He must look a mess.

"What are you doing up?" Lance asks. He leans on the counter, trying to act casual.

"I never sleep." Keith shrugs. He takes a sip from his glass.

"Never sleep or _can't _sleep?" Lance asks incredulously. Keith sighs.

"Bit of both. I'm used to it." He finishes his drink and places his glass in the dish cleaner. "If I'm gonna be up, I might as well be productive." He glances over his shoulder at Lance and his eyes narrow obviously.

"…You look like shit."

Lance blusters at the insult but his brain is only running on half cylinders so coming up with a comeback is impossible.

"Gee, thanks." Is all he can manage.

"You've been looking pretty terrible for a while now." Keith moves closer. He's the least eloquent of all the paladins, but also the most honest. Lance wraps his intentions in jokes and innuendo, dodging moments of intimacy at all costs. They're complete opposites, which usually has them bristling and crackling against one another, but in moments like this there is a rare truce. An understanding where Lance might voluntarily let Keith help him, and Keith actually has the intelligence to tread lightly.

"I'm too exhausted to rise to your insults now." Lance flops down onto the counter. "Looks like I'll have to be the mature one, though that's hardly surprising."

Keith rolls his eyes.

"I wasn't insulting you. I just noticed you've not been yourself." Keith's voice is uncharacteristically soft. Lance sighs and folds his arms underneath his cheek.

"I haven't been sleeping."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah…. It's been weeks now. I'm not like you."

"Clearly," Keith smirks. Lance groans.

"I mean I actually need sleep to function!"

"I was wondering why you were so much easier to beat then normal."

"Congratulations, you managed to defeat a walking corpse. You must be so proud." Lance's sarcastic comment makes Keith laugh… until he notices Lance's pallid complexion. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin looks like its broken out, and his lips… which usually look so soft when they're quirked in a smirk, look chapped and raw. Lance has been worrying on them. He really does look half-dead.

"Why can't you sleep?"

"Nightmares."

Lance swears at himself. Keith has a way of drawing information out of him. He _always _has. He waits for the taunting.

"That sucks." Is the only reply. Lance sits up in surprise.

"You're not uh…gonna make fun of me?"

Keith wrinkles his nose.

"Why would I make fun of you. Look at you!" Keith gestures at Lance's limp form.

"I can't make fun of _this._"

"Because I'm so pathetic?" Lance deadpans.

"Yeah."

There's a pitiful groan and Lance resumes his flopped position. So pathetic even _Keith _was being nice to him! This was a new low.

"We need to fix this. We can't form Voltron if you're in this state."

"Thank you for voicing all my worries out loud. That's a huge help for my anxiety right now."

"I'm serious," Keith crosses his arms over his chest.

"Has this ever happened before?" He presses. Lance's voice is muffled by the counter.

"Not this badly."

"Yeah? But you've had nightmares before, right?"

"Y…yeah."

"So then what did you do?" Keith's voice drops low. He leans on the counter just in front of Lance.

_God, don't make me say it._

"When I was a kid I used to go climb into bed with my parents." Lance starts.

"Ok well that's when you were a kid. What do you do _now_?" Keith exhales. It's too late in the night to speak in circles. He needs a solution immediately_. _Patience has never been his strong suit.

"I uh…" Lance sits up and nervously scratches his cheek. He worries his lips some more and Keith almost slaps him for it. He's done enough damage already.

"It's stupid…" Lance starts to blush. Keith would think it was cute if this wasn't such a serious moment.

"No it's not. If it helps then it's now stupid. C'mon…"

"I uh…" Lance closes his eyes tightly. Like he's about to rip off a band aid.

"I go sleep with my brother." He spits out. It's so fast that it takes Keith a few seconds to fully understand it. Lance sighs sharply.

"There, you happy? I get so panicky that I can only calm down if I sleep with someone else. It's stupid and immature… and and I'm a big baby who needs his brother to go to sleep!" He flails his arms dramatically and pouts. Keith chuckles under his breath.

"It's not that bad."

"Shut up."

"But it's hard to imagine the tough, macho, Lance whimpering and crawling into bed with his older brother for cuddles."

"I said shut up!"

Kaith laughs again, but he's had his fun. He turns his focus once again to solving this problem.

"Look it's fine. Just sleep next to someone then." Keith shakes his head like it's the most obvious solution in the world.

"I'm sure Hunk would let you."

"Hunk's too big." Lance pouts. "He barely fits in his bed himself. If I was in there too _neither _of us would sleep. We'd have the same problem."

Keith nods. That is definitely a point.

"Pidge then?"

"Ehhhhhhhhhhhh…." Lance whines. "I feel weird about it. She's a girl and all. I don't want to make her uncomfortable."

Keith has to snort at this. Lance? Actually having boundaries when it comes to girls?

"I thought you hit on anything that identified as female." He smirks.

"Yeah female _adults. _Pidge is a child and _very _off limits. Nooooo thank you."

Keith ponders for some time. He drums his fingers nervously on the counter top and his nails clack against it. There is one very _obvious _solution, but Keith pushes it at the back of his mind. He pretends it isn't there, that it's not even an option. He dodges and goes to the next possibility.

"Shir…"

"NOPE." Lance cuts in before Keith can even finish.

"I'm sorry I just…" Lance leans his head in his hand. "I don't think I could handle that humiliation. And I think I'd be so nervous I wouldn't _ever _get to sleep."

"Yeah, I don't think I could either." Keith hums.

"Well yeah, of course _you _couldn't." Lance snaps under his breath. There's a meanness to it that Keith isn't used to.

"What the hell does _that _mean?"

"Nothing, nothing. I'm sorry. I'm not thinking straight." Lance forces a timid smile. "Look I appreciate you trying to help but…"

"Sleep with me."

And there it is. Keith's conscience is screaming at him. This is an awful idea. Terrible! He can't do this. He _shouldn't _do this. Because just the thought of lying next to Lance has his mouth filling with saliva and his heart fluttering in his chest. _You're an idiot. An absolute idiot._

"W…what?" Lance's voice breaks. Keith doesn't hear it over the thudding of his own pulse.

"You heard me. Just sleep with me. It doesn't matter if you keep me awake because I barely sleep anyway."

Lance blinks at him.

"It's fine."

Silence still hangs over them.

"Do you honestly hate me that much that you won't even…?"

"No no that's not it." Lance exhales. "I just… are you sure?"

And there's an uncertainty, a vulnerability in Lance's expression that makes Keith's pulse stutter. He collects himself and smiles lazily.

"It's fine. We're a team right?" He holds his fist out in front of him. Lance sneers and a shred of his usual self sparkles to life. He bumps Keith's fist and chuckles.

"Team Voltron.".

Keith leads them back to his room. It's a mirror image of Lance's, except with a few souvenirs from missions are scattered around the place. Lance isn't able to place them all. A piece of shrapnel, a rock from some distant planet, a pressed flower that some local had given him, Keith has kept them all and placed them lovingly around his room. Clearly his hoarding in his desert shack had not been just a phase, but Lance cherishes this new fact about Keith. He's sentimental. Lance never would have guessed.

"You can just…"

"Oh I don't need to be told." Lance eagerly crawls into the bed and underneath the thin blankets, curling into a tight ball against the corner when he's settled. He notices how the sheets smell like Keith. He's been pinned under him enough times in training to recognize that particular blend of citrus and black pepper musk. It's a pleasant smell, which only annoys Lance more because of _course _Keith would even _smell _good.

Keith kicks off his boots, gloves and socks, but keeps his t-shirt and pants on as he sidles in next to lance.

"Whoa, whoa, aren't you gonna get changed?" Lance mumbles into the pillow.

"I told you. I barely sleep. If I stay in my clothes then I can just roll out of bed and start working immediately." Keith reaches by the side of the bed and pulls up his tablet. Allura had given each of the paladins one, in the hopes that they would allow them to communicate and research better. He could always read over battle tactics if Lance needed him to stay in the bed all night.

"You're crazy, man", Lance yawns. He can barely keep his eyes open. "Pragmatic…. But crazy."

"Just go to sleep already."

"Keith?"

Keith flicks through the Altean symbols that appear on his screen.

"Hmm?"

"Thanks for this.."

"You don't…" Keith turns to look Lance in the eye, but he's already asleep. He's snoring gently into the pillow and his short hair is a fright. Keith smiles gently and sets his tablet down. Timidly, and with shaking fingers, he brushes Lance's hair away from his eyes. Butterflies soar in his stomach.

"You don't have to thank me." He whispers.

…

"Keith, Keeeeeeiiiiith. Budddyyyyy…."

Keith opens his eyes blearily. He registers the wide smile first, then the tan skin, before he finally sees the brown eyes looking down at him.

"Hey there sleepy head," Lance smirks.

'Hey! You ok? Did you have a nightmare?! Do you need me to…"

"Whoa what?!" Lance catches Keith by the shoulders as he suddenly sits up.

"No, no, Hunk made breakfast. I thought you'd like some."

"Breakfast? What…." Keith rubs the sleep from his eyes. "Why are we… what time is it?"

"About 9:30."

"9:30?!"

No. It couldn't be. Keith hadn't slept til 7am, let alone 9:30 in years! He hadn't been bragging when he told Lance that he didn't sleep. He really didn't. Insomnia was as much a part of him as his signature haircut. His body had learnt to maximize whatever sleep he got, which was usually only about three good hours a night. He almost always woke up around 6am, hit the training deck, showered, then met Shiro when he finally emerged around eight o'clock.

"Sooooooo~" Lance's gaze searches Keith as he stares into space. "Breakfast?"

Keith is knocked out of his trance.

"Breakfast?! Yes, yes. Sounds good." Keith scrambles up. He's behind schedule. He hasn't worked out, or showered, or cleaned Red.

"Ok, I'll tell Hunk to make you a plate. You should go shower." Lance smiles over from the doorway.

"Yeah, ok."

Lance turns to leave.

'W…wait!"

He freezes. Keith fumbles pulling his boots on.

"Do you uh… feel better?" He sneaks a glance up as Lance beams and pushes up his sleeves.

"Much better. I really owe you. I'll save you a plate!" He waves over his shoulder as he heads out into the hall.

_Damn_. Keith presses his hands to his heated cheeks. _I could get used to this._

…

Lance still hasn't fully recovered, it'll take another full night's sleep for that, but his reflexes have greatly improved. Keith still tosses him clear across the room, but it takes at least 10 minutes for that to happen.

They run through drills and Lance is able to follow Pidge's instructions through the invisible electrical maze swiftly. He only gets electrocuted twice, but he would swear that that's because she lead him into the walls on purpose. He even manages to be one of the final two standing when the paladins go against the drones. He falls through the floor, and Shiro joins them a few seconds later. He ruffles Lance's hair and speaks quietly so only the two of them can hear.

"Much better. Glad you're looking more yourself."

Lance flushes at the praise and nods.

They eat dinner enthusiastically together. Coran entertains them with stories of Altean creatures that seem impossible, and the way they used to farm them or ride them around the plains. Keith and Shiro listen politely, Allura interjects with her own experiences, while Hunk, Pidge and Lance make sarcastic comments to one another under their breath. It's barely 10pm, but Lance can already feel exhaustion catching up with him. His eyelids are heavy and he stifles a few too many yawns. Hunk notices.

"Go to bed already." He elbows him in the side. Lance rubs his sensitive ribs.

"But I wanna know how Coran survived a grumblestork attack." Lance smirks.

"Just go. I don't wanna have to carry your skinny ass to your bed because you've passed out here."

"Fine, fine." Lance sighs and stands. "Even though I'm sure you secretly enjoy carrying me around." He pushes his chair out and begins to walk back to his room.

"Goodnight everybody! I'm off to get my beauty sleep, though I hardly think I need it." He laughs at his own joke. Allura scoffs, Pidge groans, but Keith's expression is surprisingly blank. He locks eyes with Lance in a moment of unvoiced questioning. Lance's smug expression drops and he nods in Keith's direction.

He walks into his bedroom and closes the door with an exhale.

"Ok," He shucks off his jacket. "Let's try this.".

…

2am. It's 2am when Keith hears the aggressive rapping on his door. He's cleaning his bayard, but tosses it off the bed and runs over to the door. He yanks it open, half expecting someone to say that the Galra are attacking, but instead he just sees Lance. Shirtless, sweaty, and trembling in the dark hallway.

"I…I'm sorry, I just…"

"Get in here," Keith whispers. He gently tugs Lance into the room and guides him over to the bed. He wraps a blanket around his shoulders in attempt to stop him shivering. Lance's eyes are rimmed with red.

"I thought I'd be ok," He spits. He hasn't made eye-contact with Keith once, too ashamed of what he's been reduced to.

"It's ok. Hey…" Keith sinks next to him on the bed. "I don't mind. You can come here as much as you need."

"Augh," Lance flops over and groans into the pillow. "I hate this."

"I know, I know." Keith smirks. He crawls next to Lance and steals back some of his blanket. He lets his hand trail over Lance's bicep. He tries to make it seem casual, but he checks to see if Lance has stopped shaking. He has, but his skin is still sticky from sweat.

"Just try to get to sleep now. You can feel like a loser in the morning."

"You're such a comfort."

Keith laughs softly. Lance rolls over and places his arms above the blankets. His position mirror Keith's, with both of them on their back and staring at the ceiling. Keith can feel Lance's pulse vibrate through the mattress, and the nervous twitching of his toes.

"Are you even tired?"

"Sorry, sorry." Lance grunts. "I'm just kind of wired right now. It'll take a while for me to calm down." Lance glances at Keith next to him. He tries not to notice how fair his skin looks in the dim light, or how his dark hair spills onto the pillow like silk.

"You uh…" He swallows. "You can read if you want. You don't have to keep me company or anything."

Keith just shrugs.

"I don't _actually _hate you Lance. I want to make sure you're ok."

"Pffft, I'm fine. Go back to playing with your sword." Lance scoffs, but his bravado is weak. Keith scowls and rolls over onto his elbow. He looks down into Lance's face so he can't avoid him.

"What are your nightmares about?"

And as Keith predicted, Lance shrinks into himself. He tries to avoid Keith's gaze, and even attempts to turn onto his side. Keith grabs his shoulder before he can.

"J…just you know. Scary stuff…"

"Clearly". Keith drawls. "It could make you feel better."

"You leaving me alone would make me feel better." Lance pouts.

"I'll remind you that you are in my bed right now, and I could very easily kick your scrawny ass out in a second." Keith leans forward threateningly. Lance rises to the taunts.

"Really, Keith? Offer your help then blackmail me with it?"

"You make helping you so damn difficult." Keith flops back down. They both stare at the ceiling in suffocating silence.

"They're about my family."

It's barely audible, but Lance's words are unmistakable in the stillness of the room.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Usually about them getting hurt somehow. Like I fail up here…. I can't protect them. And they all die."

"Jeez," Keith closes his eyes. Yeah, he could understand how that would fuck you up. "I'm really sorry."

"It's ok."

"How long has this been happening for?"

"Months?"

"Jesus, Lance." Keith rolls over with a reprimanding look. "Why didn't you tell anyone sooner? We could have helped you."

"How are you supposed to help me?" Lance hisses. He knows Keith means well, but he's already run through every possibility.

"Unless you can give me a wormhole that pops me back into my family's kitchen, there's nothing you can do for me." He closes his eyes and steals himself.

"They probably think I'm dead."

"Stop that," Keith snaps. He needs to get Lance out of this spiral. He settles down next to the taller boy and soothingly rubs his arm. A little thrill goes down his spine when Lance doesn't pull away.

"Tell me what you miss about them."

"Ha!" Lance barks. "I don't want to get sappy on you."

"C'mon, I'm building a bank of blackmail material here." Keith smiles and Lance is thankful for it.

"The noise."

"What noise?"

"No, no…" Lance rolls over so their faces are just inches from each other. Their hands touch on the pillow.

"Like I miss all the noise that was always there. Whether it was just my parents yelling at my siblings, a tv in the living room, my little sister blaring her terrible music, there was always just a bunch of noise. Space is…"

"Silent." Keith offers.

"It's dead! It creeps me out!" There's a hint of a smile on Lance's lips. Keith feels relief bloom in his chest. He pushes again.

"What else do you miss?"

"Oh man, so many things. Birthdays are a big thing."

"But they only happen once a year?"

"Oh ho ho," Lance shakes his head. "Foolish child. Not in my household. Between me and my four siblings, parents, grandparents, my oldest brother's kids…"

"You're an uncle?" Keith starts. It's weird finding out how little he knows about his fellow teammate. Dozens of mind melds in Voltron, and he never once figured out just how large Lance's family was. He supposes this explains a lot of Lance's outgoing behaviours. It's probably hard to get noticed in such a busy household.

"Yeah, man." Lance smiles lazily. "Niece and nephew. I'm by far their favorite uncle. My brother, Tony, the one I told you helps me out, he's _always _trying to get them to say _he's _their favorite." Lance laughs to himself, remembering something that Keith has no way of relating to.

"But they won't! They never will! Uncle Lance has trained them too well."

"You and Tony close then?" Keith likes the easiness in their conversation. The way Lance's eyes light up and the excitement in his voice is infectious.

"Oh yeah, Tone and I are definitely the closest." Lance cringes and laughs. "We both got _crazy _into the Fast and Furious movies…'

"Oh god, they're terrible…"

"I know! I know!" Lance laughs. "But we just loved them! I didn't have my license yet, but Tones did, and he'd drive us down to the beach blaring Don Omar songs. We'd take the corners a bit too quickly and it'd make us feel like _drift kings_."

Keith giggles at the image. He's seen the way Lance whoops and hollers when he pilots Blue. It's all too easy to see the kind of damage he would inflict behind the wheel of a car.

"I miss dumb things like that." Lance sighs. "Little rituals and traditions like that. Decades worth of inside jokes you know?"

Keith hums. He doesn't know, but he notices the way Lance and Hunk talk to each other when no one's around. It's impossible to understand, because they're intimate references and jokes. Practically a conversation entirely in code, based on years of shared Garrison experiences.

"God, how do you do it?" Lance's smile turns sad. "How do deal with the homesickness?"

Keith shrugs.  
"Don't have it."

"You've gotta. Everyone misses their family at least a little bit."

Keith's eyes narrow. He looks into Lance's face, expecting to see a sneer at the cruel joke he's made, but Keith finds nothing there. Just an earnest and honest smile waiting to hear his answer.

_Wait…_ Keith's brain clicks.

"You don't know?"

"Know what?" Lance's smile still stupidly stretches across his cheeks.

"I…I don't have a family, Lance."

Confusion.

"I'm an orphan."

The dread on Lance's face is immediate. His eyes widen and his mouth goes slack. He sits up suddenly.

"Keith…I…I didn't know." There's the edge of panic in his voice. _How could he have not known?! _Lance thinks back to every conversation he's had with Keith. How had he not known he had _NO ONE. _He lived in a desert shack for God's sake! People with parents don't do that?!

"Stupid," he spits at himself. And he's just been talking about his family for the past 10 minutes. Just rubbing Keith's nose in it.

"I'm _so _sorry!" He turns towards Keith. "I wouldn't have…. God I feel like such a…"

"Lance!" Keith sits up and runs his hand up Lance's arm again. He immediately melts under the touch.

"I _wanted _you to tell me about your family. Don't start pitying me now. I don't need it." Keith gives his arm another reassuring squeeze.

"Especially from someone who can't even sleep in their own bed at night." Keith grins. Lance rolls his eyes.

"I still feel like an ass."

"Yeah, but what else is new?"

"Hey," Lance punches him lightly in the shoulder. Keith chuckles and flops back onto the mattress.

"I'm fine. I'm used to not having a family."

The words are said matter-of-factly, but they still make Lance's chest tighten. _No one _should have to say those words. Lance worries his lip.

Then an idea strikes.

"Share mine!" He surges forward, placing his hands on either side of Keith's head. He looks down on him with a brilliant smile. It's a position Keith's fantasized about, and his breath catches in his throat.

"W…what?!"

"Share mine!" Lance presses again. "Oh man, I will _pay you _to take my little sister. She is such a pain in the ass."

"Sounds endearing."

"Her name is Lisa and she will love you. They all will, but let Lisa braid your hair just once? Now you've got a sidekick for _life._" Lance laughs and leans onto his elbow.

"They've practically adopted Hunk, so I'm sure they'd adore you. They'd be all 'Oh so you were top of the class? Wow! And you're so pretty and muscular! Not at all like my scrawny and awkward son!'"

Keith lifts his head and practically cackles at Lance's hilarious impression of his mother. He tries to focus on that instead of the fact that Lance just called him pretty and muscular.

"But yeah, when we get back to Earth you've totally gotta come back with me." Lance hums and sinks into the pillow.

"When we get back to Earth?" Keith's laughter fades.

"Mmm."

"You won't want anything to do with me anymore."

Lance's brows crease. Keith's words make him go cold. Was this how he thought Lance felt?

"Hey…" He reaches out to jostle Keith's shoulder. "We had a bonding moment remember?"

"You didn't even remember." Keith chuckles to disguise the hurt in his voice.

"I'll remember this." Lance whispers. He squeezes Keith's shoulder earnestly. It makes his heart ache. How can Lance say such honest things without blushing?

"W…we should get some sleep." He stammers and turns away from Lance's dazzling smile. Lance chuckles.

"Ok, ok. I get it." He turns on his side, now facing the opposite way to Keith.

"I meant it though."

There's silence from Keith's side, but that doesn't deter Lance.

"I hope you like surfing. There's this beach we always go to. You don't look like much of a swimmer, but I'm sure we can fix that." He shifts his position so that his feet touch Keith's ankles.

"You're probably too skinny…"

"OH MY GOD YOUR FEET ARE FREEZING!" Keith deals him a swift kick underneath the blankets, trying to escape the icy toes. Lance tries his hardest to keep his feet on Keith at all costs.

…

"Keeeeeeith~ Keeeeeiiiithy baby~"

Once again Keith is woken up and immediately assaulted with Lance's smile.

"Sorry, I let you sleep in again."

The mattress sinks with Lance's weight. A warm mug is thrust into Keith's hands. "Here, I know how you like it."

Keith gratefully raises the mug to his lips. The liquid is warm and mild, with just a bit of sweetness. It's as close to tea as he's going to get on an alien space craft.

"'time isit?" He slurs.

"Close to 10."

Keith groans. Again? Why was this happening? He decides a good night's sleep is grossly overrated. It wastes his time and leaves him slow and groggy the next morning.

"Sorry. I should've woken you up earlier." Lance scratches his neck sheepishly.

"'sfine." Keith takes another sip of his drink. Lance shouldn't have to take care of him like this. He should be able to wake up on his own.

"I uh… also brought you this." Lance places a bowl of warm porridge into his lap. A smiley face has been drawn on top with a spice resembling cinnamon.

"Thought you might like breakfast in bed. I noticed you like to keep to yourself in the morning."

Keith stares at the bowl in his lap. The obvious care that went into it, as well as the thoughtfulness behind it, warms his insides.

"Lance, I…"

"It's the least I could do…after last night." Lance casts his gaze to the ground. His ears burn scarlet.

"WELL! I've got a lot to do! Gonna run some drills with Blue, I think the old girl misses me." Lance quickly shuffles to the door. Keith shakes his head after him.

"Lance,"

"Hmmm?!"

"I'm glad you didn't forget."

Lance softens. He brushes his hair back with his fingers.

"Nah man. Never." And he beams.

…

They're running the drones simulation again. Everyone is out, even Shiro, but Keith and Lance still dance on the floor. Their shields are up and they step around each other in a skilled rhythm.

"Lance, your right!"

"Got it!" Lance whips around and blocks a shot aimed for his leg. Keith goes down on one knee and protects Lance's stomach from a second laser.

"Your left!" Lance shouts and throws his shield down before a shot grazes Keith's ear.

"Thanks!"

Lance offers a hand, and pulls Keith swiftly to his feet in time for both of them to raise their shields and protect the other's back.

"How long has this been going on?" Allura's voice crackles in Shiro's helmet. He watches from the side, having come out from beneath the training floor some time ago.

"Five minutes maybe? I've lost track."

"I've never seen them like this. Did you say something to them?"

"Nothing out of the ordinary. I'm as amazed as you."

"Keith!" Lance dives in front of his partner, narrowly blocking a laser from hitting the back of his shoulder. Lance falls clumsily on the ground. Keith throws his shield on top of him and risks himself getting hit as another shot is fired towards his stomach.

"Ok they're impostors. They have to be. I say we DNA test them." Pidge offers.

"You don't know. They've both been trying to make an effort…"

"Lance!" Keith dives on top of Lance, holding his shield behind him. The two fall to the ground, avoiding a barrage of shots that they could have never blocked. They fall onto the ground breathless, staring silently at one another, until their laughter rings out.

"OK THEY ARE BODY SNATCHERS! WHERE IS MY CHILD?!" Hunk exclaims. Pidge nods in agreement. Panting and tangled in each other on the floor, a drone hits Lance in the ankle and they both fall through. They emerge a short time later, helmets off and covered in sweat. Shiro applauds them and elbows Hunk and Pidge to do the same.

"Very impressive boys." Shiro smiles and saunters forward. "I'd hardly believe it, if I didn't just watch you with my own two eyes."

"It's no big deal really. You act like me being awesome is unusual." Lance sighs and clicks a finger gun towards Hunk. His friend approaches cautiously. Hunk closely examines his face, prods his ribs and even sticks a finger in his mouth.

"Bro!" Lance steps away.

"I'm just making sure!" Hunk scratches his chin.

"I still say we take a biopsy." Pidge murmurs. Keith and Lance send identical scowls her way.

"Look, I was in a funk for a while, but now I've sorted some things out and feel a lot better. Because I'm no longer struggling with that, my tolerance for Keith has doubled." Lance holds his hand up in surrender.

"My tolerance has stayed the same. I'm just a professional about it." Keith rubs his helmet visor idly.

"Excuse me, but I think you're far more petty than me. We can all agree that _I _am the mature one."

"You carried a grudge all the way from the Garrison!"

"You did too!"

"I can't have a grudge against someone I didn't even know existed!"

"Didn't…even…!"

"Ok, there they are." Shiro groans. They had been so close too.

…

It's late and the effort of their training session is catching up with Lance. They're all seated around a board on the floor, playing some sadistic Altean version of monopoly. Pidge is cleaning up, and Coran has to reprimand Keith several times for not following the rules. Lance leans against Hunk's shoulder. It's comfortable and at just the right height for Lance to doze on. He'll occasionally roll and move his piece when prompted, but he's pretty much lost track of the game. Hunk feels his shoulder start to become damp with Lance's drool.

"Okaaaay, I think it's time for me to carry off this guy to bed."

The others look up and chuckle at Lance's sleeping face. Hunk begins to shift his weight, when Keith springs up next to him.

"I can take him." He offers. Hunk blinks at him in confusion. Pidge guffaws, and Shiro smirks to himself.

"W…what? Keith, it's fine. I'm used to it." Hunk explains.

"No I got it." And before Hunk can protest again, Keith bends down and braces Lance against his side. He tosses one of his arms across the back of his neck, and he holds his middle tightly.

"Mmmm bed?" Lance drunkenly asks. Keith rolls his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah. Going to bed. Now help me out by walking."

"'Kay~"

They shuffle out of the room with five pairs of eyes staring after them.

"DNA tests. I'm telling you!" Pidge thrusts her index finger into Shiro's face.

…

Lance isn't particularly heavy, but he is taller than Keith, which makes supporting him slightly more difficult. Thankfully, Lance is starting to wake up more now. Enough that he can walk himself, and enough that he seems to know where he is. They reach the outside of his bedroom door and he makes a small whimper of protest. Keith stops.

"Y…yours? Can I…?"

And with heavy lidded eyes and a breathy voice… how could Keith possibly say no?

…

It becomes routine. Lance doesn't even hesitate to waltz into Keith's room at night. He's got a small stack of underwear building up in the corner, and Keith barely blinks when he strips down to his briefs and crawls across him on the bed to take up his usual spot next to the wall. Keith's sleep pattern has not corrected itself, but he's getting used to the idea of actually sleeping through the night. Because of this though, he's had to actually listen to Lance's advice and start sleeping in just his t-shirt and boxers. No more fully clothed nights, ready to spring into action at a moment's notice.

But along with routine comes a level of closeness that Keith was not prepared for. He frequently wakes up wrapped in Lance's limbs, a mess of arms around his middle and feet tangled around his ankles. He feels Lance's breath on the back of his neck, and goose bumps raise along his spine. He cherishes the feeling of Lance's skin against his, but he knows he shouldn't get used to it. It doesn't mean anything.

_It doesn't mean anything, _he repeats to himself when he leaves to use the bathroom, and returns to find Lance blindly searching for him. _It doesn't mean anything, _he whispers under his breath when his weight hits the mattress and Lance's arms immediately ensnare him and pull him against his naked chest.

Keith can't get enough of the feeling. Just because it doesn't mean anything, doesn't mean he can't enjoy the sensation. He starts to chase it in training when they spar together. He probably grapples with Lance more than he should, presses him against the floor longer than is necessary, sits straddling his waist when Lance is spent and makes a time out motion with his hands.

Keith is in the showers after one such session when Shiro approaches him. His hair is damp, but he's fully dressed. Keith sits just in his boxers with his towel draped over his head. His eyes are closed and he's in somewhat of a meditative state.

"Hey, good job out there today."

Shiro's voice snaps him awake.

"Oh, yeah." He breathes. "Thanks."

Shiro sits down next to him.

"I'm really impressed with how far Lance has come. It's been really good for him to have you showing such an interest in his training."

"Well he needs it." Keith jabs. Shiro chuckles.

"You've sure been dedicated lately."

"We're a team. We're only as strong as our weakest link. We all need to be on the same page."

"Mmmm…" Shiro hums. "I suppose." He stands and rubs the towel on top of Keith's head. He pulls away with a grunt. Shiro laughs.

"But I've never seen you smile like that when you spar with anyone else." And he leaves.

Just leaves Keith with his red face and stammering mouth.

…

That night is the first night Keith witnesses one of the infamous nightmares. He's woken up by the mattress shifting next to him and small breathy noises. He rolls over, half expecting Lance to just be settling back into bed after using the bathroom, when he gets a good look at the boy next to him. Keith is instantly awake. Lance has gritted his teeth and his fingers clutch the sheets so tightly that his knuckles turn white. His hair is slicked to his forehead with sweat, the hairs on his skin are raised, and he trembles violently. Shallow, desperate breaths pass through his nose.

"Lance!" Keith worries. He wraps his arms around him and begins to stroke his hair. Lance's body is stiff and taut.

"Lance, Lance, shhhhh, wake up," He whispers louder. He runs his hands over Lance's arms and sides in a coaxing motion. Lance's hands loosen their grip on the sheets and his eyes, that were clenched shut, seem to relax and flutter open just a tad. His body goes limp against Keith's hands.

"Keith?" His voice is wrecked.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm here. It's ok. You're safe. Everyone's safe. It was just a bad dream." Keith presses their foreheads together and continues to rub circles against Lance's bony shoulders.

"Oh, Keith," Half dazed, but desperate and shaking, Lance pushes forward and wraps his arms around Keith's shoulders. He buries his face in Keith's neck and presses their bodies together.

"Keith, Keith," He breathes against Keith's skin.

"I'm here, I'm here." Keith's hands begin to tangle themselves in Lance's hair and stroke invisible lines up and down his spine. Tears prickle at the corner of his eyes. He has Lance completely wrapped up in his arms. The other boy clings to him and is panting his name, but it's not in the context he's always desired. He can't have this. Not really. Not in the way he wants. Not in the way his body craves.

"Keith… need you…."

"I know. I've got you." And it's too much. Keith presses his face into the side of Lance's head, hoping his tears will disappear in the short, brown hair there.

…

Keith wakes up, and he thinks he might have actually woken up before Lance for once, until he sees the other boy laying beside him with his eyes open and hands tucked behind his head in thought. Keith's breathing changes and Lance notices.

"Hey," he gives a sleepy smile.

"Hey," Keith croaks. "Are you ok? Did you….?"

"I'm fine." Lance laughs. "Thanks to you."

Keith's chest tightens. No. He does _not _need this first thing in the morning.

"It's nothing. I told you I would help you."

"Yeah well," Lance rolls over and touches Keith's shoulder. "I was really in a bad way last night. That's what I'd been dealing with on my own this whole time."

"Jesus, Lance. I wish you'd told me sooner."

"It's fine. You were there for me yesterday. You did everything I needed and more." Lance tries to laugh away his embarrassment. "I really owe you."

"Mmmm, breakfast in bed sure sounds nice." Keith offers. Lance chuckles and the sound warms Keith's stomach better than hot tea ever could.

"If that's what you want."

They lay there for some time, breathing in the smell of citrus and black pepper permanently embedded into Keith's sheets, though Lance's side has started to smell more like him. Keith's noticed the smell of ocean spray lingering even when Lance is no longer around.

"Keith,"

"Hmm?"

"You've really helped me. And I think I'm ready to start trying to sleep in my own room again."

It feels like someone has whipped Keith's warm blanket off of him. His body freezes and the wind is knocked out of him.

"O…oh?"

"Yeah," Lance sighs. "It's about time I give it another shot. I can't sleep with you forever now."

_You could though. Oh god, you could._ Keith wants to whisper the words into his mouth. His lips look soft again. With his improved sleep pattern he's stopped chewing on them excessively.

"You… You can always come back. If you need I mean."

"I know." Lance beams. "And that's why I think I'll be able to do it.".

…

Keith hates this. He hates the cold spot next to him on the mattress. He hates how quiet it is without the sound of Lance's gentle breathing, but most of all, Keith hates that he can't fucking sleep.

It's only been the past few weeks that Keith _has _been able to sleep, but the consecutive nights of eight hours or more rest has completely ruined his rhythm. Not sleeping has been a constant for Keith, but now he feels sluggish and irritated during the day. He's clumsy when polishing his bayard and he nicks himself. His headaches are brutal, and he snaps at his teammates. His arguments with Lance have increased tenfold, in both frequency and aggression. Even Lance seems shocked at the outbursts, but he doesn't take it personally. Especially when he sees Keith snap at Shiro. Shiro levels the smaller boy with a harsh glare.

"Remember….who you are talking to." Shiro growls. Keith seems to remember himself and apologises in a weak and nervous voice.

All of their synergy from the previous week's drone drill is gone. Keith is the first one out. It's unheard of. He falls through the floor with a weak groan and doesn't come back up for several minutes. He just lays on the mat wondering what he did to deserve this.

Allura pushes them to do a Voltron drill and it's almost unbearable. With the Paladins all linked together, Keith's negativity is contagious. It floods his team member's minds and they struggle to keep Voltron in tact.

"Guys… I've gotta…." Hunk sounds like he's going to be sick.

"I hear ya. Voltron disassemble. We can't do anything like this." Shiro commands.

They pull apart, and even Allura seems to get that something has gone wrong. That another drill won't solve this. She looks at the woeful state of her Paladins. No one says anything to Keith, but he can feel everyone's eyes on him. When their linked, it's hard to exactly pinpoint which thoughts and feelings belong to who, but he feels like everyone must have worked it out. He's the only one looking ragged despite the relatively simple exercise.

He needs to fix this.

…

Midnight. There's a tentative knock on Lance's door.

"Hunk, I'm not trying…" But it's Keith on the other side. His voice immediately drops to a low whisper.

"Oh, Keith? What's going on?"

Keith scratches his arm nervously.

"C…can I sleep with you?" His cheeks burn. God, how could he be doing this?

Lance blinks at him. Then his face pulls into a smug expression.

"Couldn't stay away, huh?"

"Lance, Please!"

"Ok, ok, come in." He guides Keith into the room.

"Do you want next to the wall or your usual spot?"

"Usual thanks." Before Keith can really question what he's doing, he kicks off his boots and is slipping off his pants. Lance can see the rush and panic in his movements.

"Whoa, slow down. Are you even gonna tell me what's wrong?" Lance stills Keith's hands. He holds them by the wrists as he's about to rip off his shirt.

"I uh…. I can't sleep."

"I thought you were used to that?"

"I was, I was, but… for some reason… augh it's crazy…." Keith rubs his temples.

"Try me."

It feels weird to have their roles switched. Now Keith can fully appreciate just how meek Lance must have felt when coming to him for help.

"When you were with me, I could sleep. And I was. And now I'm _used _to it, so if you take sleep away… I can't handle it!" Keith collapses on the edge of the bed.

"Usually I'd just fight through it. Re-set my body clock, you know? But we don't have time for that. The Galra could attack any day. You felt Voltron today!"

"Oh god, that was _you?_" Lance takes a seat next to Keith. He nods.

"That was _terrible. _It felt like somebody had told me that every puppy in the universe had died."

"Yeah well… that's the state I'm in right now."

"Man, you do _not _handle fatigue well."

"Thank you. I'd figured that out."

Lance shakes his head and laughs. He crawls over and slides himself underneath the blankets, before holding a side open for Keith.

"Well, come on then. The sooner you get to sleep the sooner we can fix this."

Keith smiles. He's missed this. _God_ has he needed this. He wraps the blanket tight around his shoulders and the smell of ocean spray and aloe vera is intoxicating.

He's unconscious before Lance can even wish him goodnight.

…

It feels like coming home after a rough trip abroad. It's comfortable and familiar, and Keith runs around the next morning with a spring in his step. He's much lighter on his feet when he spars against Shiro, and he offers to help Allura restore some of the Castle's less vital functions.

Allura worries about them forming Voltron again, but she knows the paladins can't let the day before get them down. She has them try the mind link simulator again and they are able to form Voltron with ease. A vibration of optimism hums through them all.

It's clear to both Keith and Lance that what they have is important. It maintains a balance that cannot be upset. Each one thinks the other will get sick of it and kick them out, but neither of them ever says anything. Their nights are warm and intimate. Their limbs automatically seek each other out, and they stay up late whispering and laughing into their pillows. Lance talks more about the shenanigans he used to commit with his brother, Tony, and how much he misses strawberry and banana smoothies. Keith listens intently. He tries to imagine Lance cutting off his sister's hair or breeding frogs in his backyard without his parents finding out. Keith tells him how he misses sunsets and campfires.

They are curled up together one lazy morning. Keith is vaguely aware of Lance's arm around his waist and his other touching his hand on the pillow between them. Lance blinks his eyes awake and groans.

"It can't be morning already."

"It is." Keith sighs. There's still sleep in his eyes.

"I think we deserve a day off." Lance croaks. He closes his eyes with a dumb smile and pulls their two bodies closer together. Keith lets out an embarrassing gasp when their stomachs touch.

"The Galra don't take a day off."  
"Mmm," Lance's eyebrows crinkle. He peeks up at Keith through thick lashes.

"If I ask you nicely, will you bring me breakfast in bed?"

"Well I don't know. What have you done for me lately?" Lance pouts, and Keith hates how it makes him want to rush forward and kiss his frown off of him. Instead he just smirks and laughs airily.

"I have been nothing but nice to you lately." Lance flexes his fingers and they stroke Keith's spine.

"You've been…." Keith grins. "_Tolerable_." He laughs at Lance's wounded face. He sighs and wiggles closer, wrapping his arm over Lance's shoulder and pressing their foreheads together.

"Fiiiiiine, tell me what you want." He concedes.

Lance beams and opens his mouth to answer.

"Hey Lance! Wake up, I need you to help…meeee…."

Hunk bursts through the bedroom door completely uninhibited. His voice crashes into their space and Keith's naked shoulders suddenly feel cold. His forehead is still pressed into Lance's and their eyes stare into each other's, suddenly wide with fear. Their bodies stiffen. Neither breathes. Keith for some reason thinks that if he lies perfectly still, Hunk won't realise he's there. Or maybe there's enough blanket over them that he'll think he's Lance? Oh god, the blanket barely covers their hips. Keith is very obviously half naked in Lance's bed, and Lance's hands are very _obviously _splayed against Keith's pale back and shit fuck shit shit fuck!

"I'll uh… I can see you two are busy…. Never mind. It can wait." Hunk's voice cracks every which way and he practically slams the door as he scuttles out. Keith comes to his senses first.

"FUCK!" He snaps into action. He's out of the bed and careening into the hallway after Hunk before Lance can even take a breath. Keith's legs buckle under him, not yet used to supporting his weight after eight hours of lying down. The ship's air is cold on his mostly naked body, but he doesn't stop to throw anything on. He darts into the kitchen where Hunk is very busily making himself some hot tea. His cheeks are very red and he pretends not to see Keith when he runs in.

"Hunk, listen,"

"Oh! H... HelGood morning, Keith." His hand shakes as he strains the tea into his mug. "Did you sleep well, I mean, did you enjoy, no,…" He takes a loud sip. "Good morning." He settles on. Keith holds his hands up.

"Look Hunk, what you just saw…. It's not what it looks like." Says Keith, the teenage boy with only his boxers on and who was just previously entangled with his equally naked teammate asking him what he wanted for breakfast. WOW did this look bad. Hunk scowls.

"Look, I'm not an idiot."

"We're just sleeping together!" Keith implores. Okay that may have come out wrong.

"I can see that."

"No, no! I mean…" Keith rubs his face in frustration. "I mean there's nothing between us. We literally just sleep in the same room." He sighs and leans on the counter. Hunk cocks an amused eyebrow.

"Lance was having all these terrible night terrors, and I had insomnia and we just…?" Keith bites his lips and makes eye contact with Hunk for the first time. "This just works, ok? We both sleep better if someone else is there, so this is what we've resorted to." Keith chews the inside of his cheek. "I know… I know it's weird. But I _really _need you to not tell anyone. We're better as a team when we do this, and I don't want the others making this uncomfortable."

Hunk sighs. He nods several times to himself.

"Lance did have some bad bouts of night terrors when he first got into the Garrison."

"They're the worst." And despite the dark subject matter, Keith can only laugh. Because this is ridiculous. This whole situation is absurd. Hunk chuckles as well.

"God, you two…. So nothing's happening? You don't kiss each other goodnight?" He teases, but there's real concern there.

"No, no." Keith, now feeling more comfortable, speaks quietly. "Nothing _could _ever happen anyway."

Hunk takes a long sip of his tea but raises his eyebrows curiously.

"With Lance being straight and all."

Hunk loses it. He chokes and splutters on his tea, sending a spray of it onto Keith.

"What?!" He half cackles, half shrieks. Pidge toddles into the kitchen in a zombie like state and pours herself some juice behind them.

"L…Lance is straight." Keith meekly repeats.

"He is not!" Hunk throws his head back and laughs.

"Wha…what?" Keith goes red and he isn't sure whether it's from embarrassment or from annoyance.

"Look, if it walks around on two legs and can flirt? Lance will try to get with it." Hunk refills his mug after spitting so much of his drink out. "He is the _king _of bisexuals."

"How do you know that? You can't be sure." Keith skeptically crosses his arms over his chest.

"Well I'm pretty sure Lance hitting on me is a pretty good indicator. I think the line was something like 'You must be the square root of two, because I feel all irrational around you'." Hunk shakes his head. "Now if _I _wasn't straight, man that would have haaaaad me."

"Lance uh… hit on you?"

Hunk doesn't miss the once over that Keith gives him. He places his mug on the counter and leans forward into Keith's space. He prods at his chest threateningly.

"Hey man! I will have you know that I am the Garrison cuddling champion and I could bench press you into next week. Lance would be _lucky _to have me." His eyes narrow. Keith steps back in surrender.

"No, no! I just… you _are _very much a guy."

"Thank you."

"It's just caught me off guard is all. I still don't quite believe it." Keith runs his fingers through his knotted hair.

"Here, check this out." Hunk smirks and looks over his shoulder.

"Hey, Pidge. Keith here thinks Lance is straight."

"Ha!" Pidge barks a laugh from where she sits hunched over a bowl of something resembling cereal. She looks up over her spoon at Keith.

"You're an idiot." She deadpans and resumes shoveling food into her mouth.

Hunk waves towards her.

"See?"

Keith just nods. He doesn't say anything more before he leaves to go shower.

…

It's late and a rare night where they are actually given free time to themselves. Lance and Keith are hanging out in Lance's bedroom, in various states of undress, teeth brushed but not quite ready to call it a night. Lance sits on the bed oiling and reassembling parts of his bayard rifle, and Keith does the same from the chair in the corner. They idly chat about their training, what strange thing they ate for dinner, and other mundane things.

"So Hunk won't blab to everyone else?" Lance asks. He's snaps his bayard back to its resting position.

"Not really. He seemed to understand." Keith shrugs. He scratches at a small bit of dirt on his blade.

"Yeah, I tried to talk to him about it but we were never alone today. I felt like he was making fun of me all throughout our drills."

"He probably was. It's not everyday you catch your best friend spooning the guy he's supposed to hate." Keith smirks. He snaps his bayard away and begins to pull off his gloves.

"Oh god, the _things _he must have thought." A rush of embarrassment floods through Lance once more. He flops his head into his hands.

"My soul honestly left my body when he walked in."

Keith chuckles at the memory. In hindsight it is pretty funny.

He begins to pull off his pants and shirt. Lance scoots over on the bed to let him climb in, but Keith instead sits back on the chair. The atmosphere in the room shifts. Lance leans forward anxiously.

"Hey, you uh…"

"So you're bisexual?" Keith blurts out. Eloquent as always. Lance blusters.

"Um yeah? Yes?" He looks taken aback. Where the hell was all this coming from?

"Sorry, sorry… Hunk just mentioned…" Keith rubs the back of his neck. This is _none _of his business. He shouldn't pry like this.

But a question still burns at the back of his mind, despite all of his rational thoughts.

_Why didn't he tell me?_

"Well yeah." Lance breathes. He pauses for a beat. "Wait, you didn't know?"

Keith bites his lip and shakes his head.

"I thought everyone knew!" Lance throws his hands up. "I thought it was obvious."

"W…well it's not." Keith stands for no particular reason, but he's having a hard time keeping still. "These things aren't that simple."

Lance scoffs.

"I think they are." He leans forward and smiles knowingly. "People are pretty easy to figure out."

"Are they?" Keith juts out his hip and crosses his arms. "You didn't even know Pidge was a girl?!"

"Didn't need to. I already figured out what she was in to."

"Which is?"

"Science." Lance shrugs like it's the most obvious thing in the world. Keith throws his arms up in exasperation.

"I know you're gay."

There's a stale silence. Lance drops his gaze, worrying he's gone too far. Keith stares at him with his mouth slightly agape. He snaps it shut. He sighs and sinks onto the mattress next to him.

"Looks like you are better than me at _something_." He smirks. Lance elbows him in the ribs.

"I said it was obvious." Lance chuckles.

"What gave me away?" Keith leans forward, genuine curiosity behind his grin. Lance's expression drops. His gaze goes to the floor. He nervously licks his lips.

"I notice how you look at Shiro." His voice is hushed. Keith's heart clenches.

"I know you have a thing for him." Lance laughs, but it's hollow. "God, who wouldn't right?"

"Lance," Keith snaps. Something makes him reach out to grab his friend's wrist.

"I don't have a thing for Shiro." He shakes his head, begging Lance to understand.

"You don't have to lie to me. I'm actually a pretty excellent wingman if you need…"

"Lance!"

And Lance's mouth snaps shut. This idiot. This absolute _idiot_. Keith has half a mind to grab his face and furiously kiss that stupid idea away.

"I don't like Shiro! I don't!" He throws his hands up. Lance still looks skeptical.

"Look," Keith sighs. "Shiro is… very dear to me, and yeah he was probably my first crush, but our relationship is _strictly _friends now." Keith squeezes Lance's arm. _It's you, you moron._

"He's too old for me, and he's now much more of a mentor and brother than anything else."

"But if he asked?"

"Oh well, if he's asking…." Keith shrugs, then throws his head back and laughs when he sees how exasperated Lance looks.

"I'm kidding!" He sighs. He nudges Lance's thigh with his knee.

"So yeah, I am gay. You got that right. Your method was just all wrong."

"Hey, if the answer is right, who are you to judge my methods?"

Keith rolls his eyes. He flops back onto the mattress and places his hands behind his head.

"I still don't believe you're bi. I've only seen you hit on girls."

"Correction!" Lance holds up an index finger. "You've only seen me hit on girl _aliens. _Coincidentally, all the male aliens we've run into have not been my type."

"Seems implausible." Keith drawls.

"I'm serious!" Lance laughs. "The Balmerans? The only do-able guy there was Shay's brother, and he was an asshole. You turn in my best friend? Guess what? You've just entered the no-bone zone."

"Oh my god," Keith exhales.

"Arusians? They're oversized guinea pigs. Can't be having that."

"You seemed pretty smitten with Nyma… why was Rolo excluded?" Keith wonders out loud.

"Ah well…" Lance flushes. "Rolo had that weird nose thing…. I thought he would hurt to make out with."

"Oh my god!" Keith flails on the bed. "You are the most ridiculous….!" He sits up suddenly.

"You never made a pass at Shiro? What's up with that?"

"Shiro is an adult. And my leader. You said so yourself." Lance pulls back. Why is Keith so fixated on this? There's an urgency to his questioning.

"Also he is _wildly _out of my league." He laughs. Keith nods at that. Lance gasps and punches him in the shoulder.

"Hey! You're not supposed to agree with me."

"What can I say? You make good points."

"Jeez."

Keith leans against Lance's side. He looks up at him with a mischievous grin.

"So Hunk, huh?"

It takes Lance a few seconds to comprehend his meaning.

"Oh god," Lance pulls away. "He told you about that?"

"Oh yeah." Keith pulls away. He starts to tuck himself under the blankets.

"I'm almost insulted." He mumbles to himself, hoping Lance doesn't catch it.

But Lance does. His eyebrows knit in confusion.

"Insulted wha…?"

Then his eyes light up. A wide smile stretches across his features.

"Keeeeeeeith? Keeeeithy baby~" He crawls over until he's looking down into Keith's face.

"What? I'm tired now." He snaps.

"Could you actually be….?!" Lance fake gasps incredibly loudly. "Oh my god, Keithy. Sweetie. Baby. Red-paladin of my life….are you actually _jeeeeaaaalous_?" Lance waggles his eyebrows. Keith makes a noise like a drowning duck. He uses his grappling skills to fling Lance off of him and smash him onto the bed.

"I said time to sleep!"

"OH MY GOD YOU ARE!" Lance howls. Keith pushes his face into the mattress. Maybe if he does it hard enough he'll smother him.

"I SAID SLEEP!"

He lets go and pointedly rolls over so that he's got his back towards Lance.

"Hey, Keith…" Lance's hand reaches out to touch Keith's arm. Keith slaps it away.

"Hey no, serious talk now. Come on…" Lance's voice is soothing. Keith likes to think he's the only one who gets to hear Lance soft and gentle like this. He reluctantly rolls over.

"You uh… you didn't know that I liked guys before. So if _this_…" Lance gestures to both of them lying in the bed. "If this makes you uncomfortable. Or if you don't want to do this anymore, I'll understand."

Keith smiles lazily. This boy is going to be the death of him.

"Thank you, Lance." He reaches up to firmly squeeze Lance's shoulder. "But I'm fine. Really. I'm still here aren't I?"

Lance's eyes crinkle at the sides when he smiles.

"Yeah."

Keith hums and rolls over again. He switches off the light and pulls the blanket around his shoulders. The mattress shifts next to him and he feels Lance's breath against his ear.

"Hey baby, you must be an astronaut, because your ass is out of this world."

"OH MY GOD!" Keith rounds on him and pins him to the bed. He shoves a pillow over his face, but it does little to drown the sound of Lance's hysterical laughter.

"I hate you! I hate you! Why are you like this?!".

…

Keith is many things. Impulsive, impatient, skeptical, socially inept… he's been described as all of these things, and to be honest, he doesn't disagree with them.

But he's never been called selfish.

But he is. Keith is becoming incredibly selfish.

He's selfish in how he hoards all of Lance's touches throughout the night. He sometimes lays there, just watching Lance sleep, committing to memory the way his mouth angles itself when it's slack and how his eyebrows sometimes crinkle when he's dreaming.

Keith will sometimes prop himself up on his elbow during the few lucky mornings he wakes up before Lance, and watch his chest rise and fall in an easy rhythm. He reaches out, guiltily, and runs his fingers through his short hair. He brushes the strands out of his face and relishes how Lance seems to lean into his touch.

Keith is selfish.

His chest aches.

Keith's self indulgence reaches a peak the night Lance has another nightmare. There's shuffling and a wild foot collides with his shin, startling him awake. Lance is facing away from him, but it's obvious what is happening. The room is filled with small, distressed noises and Lance's fingers twitch against the sheets. Keith feels calmer this time. He's gotten Lance out of this before. He wraps an arm around his warm belly and pulls him against his chest.

"Lance, Lance…." Keith coos and pets his hair.

"You're okay. Everything's fine. I've got you."

Lance melts against him. There's a small gasp of breath indicating that he's somewhat awake now, and one of his hands holds onto Keith's as it strokes up and down his stomach in calming motions. Lance laces their fingers together. His heart still thuds so hard in his chest that Keith can feel it in his.

"You're safe. Your familiy's safe." Keith whispers into Lance's ear.

Then he does it.

It feels natural. A protective instinct. _Comforting a friend _he tells himself.

He lightly kisses Lance's temple. Just on the hairline. Keith doesn't even realise what he's done until his lips leave Lance's warm skin. He freezes and waits for him to jerk away.

But Lance doesn't move. Their fingers are still clasped together against his stomach and his bare back still presses into Keith's chest.

Keith is selfish.

He goes in again. And again. And again. Lightly kissing around Lance's hairline and ear, whispering little reassurances at the same time, until he hears Lance's breathing return to normal. He places one final kiss on the tip of his eyebrow, then relaxes back into the mattress. Keith lets out a shuddery breath and he's sure Lance can feel it on the nape of his neck.

…

Sirens blare.

_Shit shit. _It's been so long since they've been caught off guard like this. Warm bodies quickly separate and the rush of the cold air on their skin fully wakes them up. Stiff ankles and knees crack as they sprint down the hallway, and fingers shake and claw at armour and helmets.

A Galran fleet. It seemed to just appear out of nowhere, surrounding the castle. Allura relays all this information on the way to their lions. Lance straps in and ejects Blue into space. Keith counts to 10, then does the same.

"Alright team. We've done this before. We can do it again." Shiro's commanding voice crackles in their ears. There's a hum of acknowledgement from everyone else.

Lance hardly has a chance to appreciate the beauty of the galaxy they are in before lasers are on him. He maneuvers and dodges easily enough, taking out several ships with his tail beam, but he knows there's a couple of hundred more coming at them.

Hunk smashes into several, badly damaging them enough that they can no longer shoot, and Pidge weaves in and out with expertise so that the Galra end up shooting their own ships. Even with Keith and Shiro's expert piloting, they are barely scratching the Galra's numbers. A few enemy ships ignore the lions completely, and begin to attack the castle instead. Their home, and base, which has much weaker defense.

"Ok, I'm calling it." Shiro orders. "You guys ready?"

"Let's do it!" Lance calls enthusiastically.

"Let's take these guys out!" Hunk bellows.

"God, yes." Pidge answers, like she's been waiting this whole time.

"I'm on it." Keith confirms.

They combine like clockwork. It's easy and as natural to them as flying now, but there's still a small thrill knowing that they are now one. They are part of the universe's greatest weapon against tyranny. Their mental link is strong and the small shout of victory between them is unanimous.

Voltron begins to tear through the ships when Pidge feels it.

"Jeez, Hunk. I know you didn't eat breakfast but…" Pidge teases.

"That is _not _me." Hunk corrects.

_Hunger_. That's an interesting way to describe it. The weird feeling thrums through the group strongly enough that Shiro has to mention it.

"Ok look, whatever the hell that is, just ignore it. It's uncomfortable, but we _need _to finish this." Shiro swallows. Voltron careens through the stars and swipes its sword in a large arc. A battalion of ships goes up in flames.

"Ugh, this really sucks. I really hate hacking your brains sometimes." Pidge winces.

"Stop calling it hacking. I feel violated." Lance chirps in. He expertly fires an ice attack at an incoming fighter.

"Alright, alright. Let's just focus on the task at hand. It's nothing we can't deal with." Shiro throws Voltron into a dive towards the very center of the Galran fleet.

"Right!" Everyone nods.

Despite the frustrated scratching at their heads, Voltron manages to take the fleet out. A few ships scuttle away, undoubtedly to report back to Zarkon about what has happened. The team know that they will likely have to wormhole jump again.

They land their lions in the hangars. Many of the paladins sigh with exhaustion. They've only been awake for about an hour and they have already dealt with so much.

"Good work team! I'm proud of how we managed today. Make sure to put your suits back in their storage areas neatly." Shiro states, then signs off his comms. Lance rolls his eyes.

They clap each other on the back when they all meet in the suit storage area. Pidge compliments Lance on his improved agility, and Keith compliments Hunk's improved confidence. He's just fastened his boots up when Shiro gently grabs him by the elbow.

"We'll see you guys at breakfast," Shiro laughs and waves at the others, as he guides Keith out of the room. Keith waits several beats to make sure that they're out of ear-shot,

"Ok, what's up? You're using your dad voice." Keith sighs. Shiro scowls.

"I do not have a dad voice. I'm just concerned…"

"There it is." Keith points out. Shiro groans. This argument of theirs has been going on for a while, but he doesn't have time for jokes right now.

"Look, Keith…" He steps into a small alcove and tugs the younger boy with him. Keith looks up skeptically.

"Today went fine. It did. But I'm worried that _next time_ your feelings may be stronger, and we won't be able to stay together." Shiro looks sympathetically down at his teammate. Keith gapes like a fish.

"My _what _now?" He shakes his head. "You don't that that was me."

"Keeeeith," Shiro laughs. "I know you. I know how you think. I know that was you."

"Sorry. It's what Pidge said. I clearly didn't have breakfast…"

Shiro sighs and leans forward. There's a teasing smirk on his face.

"Is _that _what they're calling it now?"

Keith flushes.

"It won't be a problem again!" Keith snaps to attention. He's done with this conversation. He doesn't need Shiro investigating his wants and desires in some broom closet just after he's risked his life to take down hundreds of enemy space craft. He doesn't need this.

He gives a sharp nod and marches off. Shiro tries not to chuckle too loudly.

…

"Ooooooh, Keith's in trouble." Lance sings. He recognizes Shiro's dad voice anywhere. He laughs quietly, wondering if Shiro will _finally _have a word with him about his need to always dive head first into danger. Or maybe he'll reprimand him for not following Lance's lead on one of the attacks today. Either would be good.

"Man I hate it when Shiro pulls me aside. You feel like you've disappointed your grandmother or something." Pidge finishes changing into her civvies. She wipes her glasses and begins to wander off. Hunk is still zipping up his pants. Lance waits patiently for him.

"I'm gonna shower. Save me a plate." Pidge calls.

"Will do." Lance answers.

There's a comfortable silence between him and Hunk. He leans back on the wall and gently closes his eyes, listening as Hunk finishes pulling his boot on.

"Hey, you wanna…"

"What the _HELL _was that?!" Hunk is in his face. He uses his size to completely crowd Lance against the wall.

"What was me….what?!" Lance balks.

"Your crush on Keith is getting crazy, bro! I've never been able to feel it in Voltron before. Control yourself, man!"

Lance remembers. Oh _god _it had been bad. He slumps forward against Hunk with a loud groan.

"Oh my god, was it really that bad? You could tell it was me?"

"Dude, for a couple of seconds I thought _I _had a crush on Keith, that's how strong it was." Hunk picks Lance's limp body up and looks into his eyes. Lance completely gives up supporting himself.

"Oh noooooooo," He wails. "Shit. Really?"

"Oh yeah. And as a straight guy? It was _very _confusing. Please do not do that to me again." Hunk smiles, but there's a genuine warning to his voice. Lance rubs his face.

"Fuuuuuck. Oh god, do you think he felt it? Do you think he knows?"

"Pffft, no. Keith's an idiot."

"A beautiful idiot."

"Stop that!"

"I can't!" Lance crumbles to sit cross legged on the floor. "I'm fucked! I'm so fucked!"

"So stop sleeping with him!" Hunk offers. "Stop it! It's like going to bed with a huge plate of nachos every night! Eventually, you're gonna take a bite!"

"I can't! I can't stop! It's terrible. Please put on my tombstone 'Here lies Lance. He had no self control and overdosed on spooning.'" He flails his limbs.

"Well you gotta do something! If I get back into Voltron and start to feel sexually frustrated….?!" Hunk holds up his hands and shakes his head in terror. "I'm done! Me and my leggy-ass self are OUT!"

Lance slumps forward. Hunk had a point. God, what if next time they were doing drills he thought about Keith? How his hair looks falling over his face? How he smiles first thing in the morning when he's woken up with tea? How his soft, warm hands might feel when wrapped around his…

"OH MY GOD YOU'RE DOING IT RIGHT NOW!" Hunk points dramatically. Lance blushes up to his ears.

"YOU DON'T KNOW!"

"I KNOW WHAT YOUR HORNY FACE LOOKS LIKE! YOU CAN'T FOOL ME, LANCE!"

Lance wails. He hates how transparent he is. He hates how Keith has consumed every part of him.

"You my friend, are a ticking time bomb." Hunk leans over and prods him in the chest with an index finger.

"Pidge is a _child _and I will not expose her to your brain."

"I have a problem." Lance admits.

"You have a problem." Hunk sighs.

…

Each of them knows that they need to say something. Anything. But they push through the tension like a swimmer expertly moves through water. They dodge any nagging feelings and slip easily around each other, pretending that nothing has changed.

At the end of the day they strip off their clothes and climb into bed together as normal. Their routine is still in tact. Calloused fingers reach out to touch tan skin, and toes flirtatiously touch under the blanket. They forget about their friend's warnings. They forget about Voltron. They breathe easily knowing that the other is still there. Sleep comes effortlessly.

But it's not a restful one. It's about 2am when Keith is woken by soft, frightened murmurs and a trembling Lance. The sight of Lance so obviously in pain is still uncomfortable, the way his teeth grit and his eyebrows scrunch together doesn't suit his youthful face, but it doesn't cause Keith to panic as much as he used to. He knows what to do now.

He would never admit to it, but he secretly enjoys when Lance gets nightmares. It's an excuse to hold him close and indulge himself. When Lance is scared, he's allowed to whisper reassuring things in his ear and press his nose to the nape of his neck. Secure arms wrap around Lance's stomach, and he is pulled into Keith's chest. Their bare skin touching still sends a jolt of pleasure up Keith's spine. His fingertips brush gently between Lance's pectorals and he barely hesitates to press his lips to his ear.

"Hey, hey, I've got you." Keith closes his eyes. Tries to pretend he's holding Lance for a different reason. Tries to forget the ravenous sensation in his chest. Lance's breathing slows. His body leans against Keith's and he reaches for one of his hands and holds it in his.

"You're ok." Keith whispers and presses another kiss to Lance's hairline. "Won't let anything happen to you."

There's a heavy sigh and Lance squeezes Keith's hand tighter. Keith takes that as a good sign and smiles into the next kiss he places on Lance's jawline.

Lance shifts. He rolls over, but is sure to hold Keith's arm in place so that it still drapes over his waist. Keith pulls back nervously, but Lance catches his shoulder.

"No, no…." His voice is scratchy. He worries his lip. A faint blush appears on his cheekbones.

"Keep going." He asks. His eyes are glassy and sparkle in the dime light. Keith swallows.

With his pulse thudding in his ears, Keith places a chaste kiss on Lance's forehead. Lance hums contentedly at the contact. The small noise reassures Keith, and he places another at the juncture of his ear. His temple. His cheekbone. His grip around Lance's waist tightens, and Lance places his hands against Keith's chest.

He kisses between his eyebrows. The tip of his nose. The corner of his mouth…

There's an intake of breath. Keith looks at Lance expectantly, searching for some kind of meaning. Lance reaches out to stroke a thumb against his jawline. His eyes are sincere.

"Go ahead."

Keith's jaw goes slack. His fingertips, formerly so sure of themselves on Lance's hip, begin to shake. His eyes flicker rapidly between Lance's eyes and his mouth. He's terrified.

"Hey," And now it's Lance speaking in that caressing tone. He applies the smallest amount of pressure to the back of Keith's neck.

"I told you to go ahead."

Keith caves to the pressure and he's ashamed of the noise he makes when his lips touch Lance's. He can feel Lance smile against him and laugh quietly.

"Me too." And his hands twist in Keith's hair. Chaste kisses are abandoned, and they soon turn open mouthed and desperate. Keith leaves nail marks in Lance's hips from how hard he holds on, like he's worried he might slip away. He bites at Lance's bottom lip, and swallows the delicious moan that follows it. Lance's lips are just as soft as he's always hoped.

Lance grips onto Keith and pulls him on top of him. Keith gives a little yelp, but he's soon back to making out with him enthusiastically. Lance can't get over how great Keith's hair feels tangled in his fingers. Keith continues to make breathy little noises and it makes his head swim. He has to pull back to catch his breath.

"Is that…?" Keith looks down anxiously with swollen lips. His hair is a mess and falls around him, and there's a dark blush across his cheeks. His muscular chest heaves from lack of oxygen.

"Fuuuuuck," Lance whines. This image alone could sate him for the rest of his life. He brushes Keith's hair back and runs his fingers along his throat.

"God you're beautiful."

Keith blinks at him in shock. In all of his wildest fantasies, he never imagined Lance calling him _beautiful_. It was too sweet, too simple, too much of everything he's ever wanted.

"Uh…I uh…" Lance's eyes widen. Keith smirks. _There's _the boy he knows.

"Were you not supposed to say that out loud?"

"I guess I had to slip up eventually." Lance rubs his thumb against Keith's cheek, who leans into the touch. He takes Lance's hand and kisses the back of his knuckles.

"So you've thought that before then?" He chuckles.

"Since I first saw you."

The wind is kicked out of Keith's chest. He's been dealt a blow he can't recover from. He stares at the boy pinned below him, who beams up at him.

"I like you, Keith."

Keith's stopped breathing. Something stings his eyes. _Oh god, no._ He can't cry at this. He can't let Lance see how those words rip through him like fire. He falls forward and buries his face in the crook of Lance's neck and kisses the sensitive flesh there. Lance gasps and fists at Keith's hair. The sensation is almost too much. There's teeth, and tongue, and sucking. It starts to become painful, but Lance doesn't pull away. Keith releases the skin with a wet pop.

"Did you leave a mark?" Lance gasps. Keith nods against him.

"So you don't forget." He mouths at his ear. Lance makes a questioning sound.

"That I don't like Shiro, you absolute idiot." Keith grumbles. Lance laughs and rolls over to face the boy in his arms.

"You sure?" He presses their foreheads together.

"I honestly wanted to punch you." Keith mumbles. Lance loughs loudly.

"Says the guy who thought I was straight. I'd been sending you signals for _weeks._" He rolls his eyes.

"You flirt with everyone else so obviously! Why didn't _I _get any cheesy pick-up lines! You know I'm not good with subtlety." Keith hisses in exasperation. Lance smiles and touches the tips of their noses.

"Mmmm, cuz you deserved better than cheesy pick up lines." He sighs. Keith rolls his eyes and kisses the corner of his mouth.

"We could've been doing this sooner, you know."

And Lance has to admit that that is a shame. He rolls onto his back and pulls Keith in so he lays on his chest. Keith is happy to oblige.

"I'll make it up to you." He promises. Keith presses himself closer. He's exhausted and his joints feel weak, but his pulse still flutters in his throat.

"I know how you can."

"Yeah?" Lance smirks. Because of course Keith knows what he wants immediately. Keith hums and throws an arm across his chest.

"Sleep with me every night. Like this." He sighs. Lance angles his head to kiss the top of his head and breathes in the smell of orange blossoms.

"Too easy."

Their chests rise and fall in a steady rhythm. Keith feels sleep start to wrap its tendrils around him, and he listens to Lance's quiet breathing.

"So you're my boyfriend now, right?" Lance's voice cuts through the romantic silence.

"Oh my god, yes."

"Ok just checking, jeez."

"Go to sleep." Keith snaps, but there's no bite to it. The last thing he remembers is Lance's lips on the corner of his mouth.

…

"Ok, Paladins! I understand you had some difficulty yesterday. Please understand that you must be able to function as a single unit in even the most stressful of situations." Allura's authoritative voice comes through the comms. Lance lazily flies Blue around, noting where all the other lions are moving.

"Your goal is simple. I've set up several targets that will project into this planet's atmosphere, but they will be moving very quickly. Attack them all before your timer runs out. The number of targets will increase with each level."

"And we're doing this all as Voltron?" Hunk confirms.

"Of course. Your mental link is still quite weak. Your strategies shouldn't be 'Lance's idea' or 'Pidge's idea'. You should all have the same thoughts at the same time."

"I hope you guys like thinking about corn dogs. Because I have a wicked craving…"

"Alright." Shiro cuts Lance off before he can make any more smart remarks.

"This should be easy. Let's prove yesterday was a fluke." His voice is optimistic. It makes the other Paladins more confident.

"Okay! Let's form Voltron!"

Forming Voltron is amazingly easy now, and Keith welcomes the feeling of being joined to the others. He breathes easy and grips his controls tighty.

"Alright! We've got this down!' Lance whoops loudly. Keith shakes his head and smiles.

"Oh thank Christ, they got together." Pidge sighs into her mic. There's a choking sound from Lance.

"What you don't…!" He starts to protest.

"Oh yeah we do. You dog, you." Hunk teases. Keith blushes furiously in his seat. Ok never mind. He actually hates this. Never mind the joy of teams and finding somewhere he belongs. Please dump him back in his desert shack. Shiro's soft laughter echoes in his ear.

"Congrats Keith." His voice is gentle. Keith wonders if his lion has an eject button.

"I thought we had a goal here." He tries to remain professional. Form Voltron. Attack targets before the time runs out. It's simple, and he doesn't need people rummaging in his head and finding out how hopelessly gone he is for Lance's smile. How his voice first thing in the morning makes him weak at the knees, and how his hands against his chest make him feel…

"Awww," Shiro hears everything. Keith yells over Hunk and Pidge laughing hysterically. Lance is mysteriously silent.

"And I thought Lance was the romantic." Pidge giggles.

"Oh god, you don't think we'll know when they've had sex will we?" Hunk worries out loud. There's a smug chuckle from Lance.

"I dunno. Let's form Voltron tomorrow and you tell me." Even though Keith can't see him, he knows exactly what kind of shit eating grin Lance is wearing.

"I'm not having sex with you tonight, Lance." He drawls.

"Aw babe, come on! Let me dream!"

"Ok, ok, that's enough." Shiro orders. "Everyone stop bombarding Lance's and Keith's head holes. We're all very happy for you and wish you the best. But Keith's right. We've got a job to do."

"Right!" Comes the unanimous reply.

Voltron soars through the air with ease. Keith's red lion cuts down the targets with it's sword and they are picking up even more speed. Despite the difficulty of the exercise, it is somehow pleasantly relaxing. Lance takes a moment to switch his comms into private.

"Hey, it's just us." His voice comes through to Keith.

"Yeah?"

"You'll let me kiss you a lot tonight though, right?" And Keith has to laugh at how worried Lance sounds.

"Of course."

There's a giddiness from Lance's end.

"Ok cool. Just checking. Back to the task now."

"Switching comms back to the team."

"Shiro please pilot us into a mountain. We are too happy and I can't stand it." Pidge groans.

"Request denied." Shiro laughs.


	53. (O) REDDIE - Oh, Somebody Loves You by s

oh, somebody loves you  
slytherincosette

Summary:  
"'I already know I'll smell Eddie's mom," Richie announces to no one in particular, "I've never met her, but we're soulmates. I imagine she smells like lemon cleaning supplies and antacid. Very sexy.'

Eddie lets his head drop onto the table."

Amortentia is encountered in Potion's class and everything goes to shit. Basically a romantic comedy set at Hogwarts. Everyone is Bad At Feelings, until they're not.

* * *

Chapter 01

A pile of books slams down on the table, missing Eddie's muffin by centimeters. His pumpkin juice sloshes out of its cup, a few drops landing unceremoniously on the top of Eddie's unfinished Divination paper. Stifling a sigh, Eddie glances up in time to be shoved as Richie clambers onto the bench next him. Across the table, Bev smiles behind a slice of toast.

"Good morning to the two loves of my life," Richie says, reaching across the table to ruffle Bev's hair. She blows a kiss at him and tosses Eddie her napkin so he can blot at his essay.

"You better hope this dries before Divination, asshole," Eddie mutters.

Richie throws his arm around Eddie's shoulders and pulls him closer. "Fuck Divination, I already know the future. It's you and me, baby." He leans in and presses a wet kiss onto Eddie's eyebrow.

Eddie shoves at him, rubbing spit away with the sleeve of his robe. "Merlin, I hope not."

Richie reaches over and steals a piece of bacon, shoving it his mouth unceremoniously. Bev shoots him a look that Eddie can't quite decipher, but before he can even try to unpack it, Richie's draped back over him, howling, "Oh, you cruel boy, you have not a clue what you do to me when you reject me so…"

Eddie is mercifully saved from a full-on monologue by Bill, who announces his presence by snorting loudly and dropping down on Bev's right. "Shut up, R-Richie. No one has time for your d-d-dramatics."

"And now even my best friend has turned against me? Cast me aside like some...like some...fuck, what's something gross?" Richie asks around a mouthful of oatmeal.

Eddie looks at him disdainfully. "You."

Richie lets his head drops onto his stack of books with a distinct thud. Eddie makes a mental note to check him for a concussion later, when Richie stops being so unbearable to be near. "Bang, bang, my baby shot me down," Richie sighs into the cover of his Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook.

Bill reaches across the table to pat his head soothingly. "You're not my best friend, Eddie is," he says, utterly unapologetic. He grins at Eddie. Richie heaves an even louder sigh and lets out a pitiful sound.

"_I_ love you, Rich," Bev says, taking a sip of her morning tea, "Even if you are really fucking annoying."

Richie's head lifts ever so slightly, and he shoots Bev a crooked grin that makes Eddie's stomach flip. Eddie lifts his mug to his mouth and chugs his coffee, willing his brain to wake up and stop sending dumb daydreams about Richie looking at _him_ like that to the forefront of his mind. "A girl after my own heart. Beverly Marsh, will you marry me?" Richie asks, reaching over Eddie's plate to grab Bev's hand.

"Of course," Bev says lightly, squeezing Richie's hand fondly. Eddie sets his mug down a little more forcefully than intended. Bev glances at him, brow furrowed. Eddie leans over his paper, rereading the same opening line of his conclusion three times instead of meeting her eye.

"You better hope B-Ben doesn't find out about t-this engagement," Bill says, nudging Bev with his elbow, "Poor kid will be crushed to know you're off the market." Bev rolls her eyes and pinches Bill in his side. Eddie picks up his quill and tries to finish his essay while they bicker. He goes to grab his coffee mug, but Richie nudges him gently and says, suddenly serious, "Hey, you know caffeine gives you panic attacks. I thought you were gonna cut back?"

There's something like worry in Richie's dark eyes, and Eddie has to look away. He always feels slightly off-balance whenever Richie switches from his usual annoying self to the kind of person that's concerned with Eddie's caffeine intake. Eddie knows that underneath all the bravado, Richie is kind. He wouldn't put up with those stupid voices if Richie didn't have some redeeming qualities. The issue is, Richie has so many redeeming qualities it makes Eddie's head spin. It's much easier to fight this stupid crush when he forgets that there's anything beyond the bad jokes and the even worse impressions. "Yeah, I, uh. Just didn't sleep too well last night. And I really need to finish this essay before this afternoon."

Richie nods, leaning over to read the introduction. "It's a good thesis. I don't have class 'til one today. If you finish it before than, I can proofread," he offers. People always laugh at the fact that Richie is a Ravenclaw. They tend to forget that he's the top of their class, bested in only in History of Magic by Mike Hanlon and his endless memory. Not to mention the fact that Richie takes "wit beyond measure" to a whole new level with comebacks so sharp they could slice through glass.

"Yeah, that'd be great. Thanks, Rich."

Richie's smile turns blinding. "Anything for you, Eds."

Eddie takes a bite of his muffin instead of gracing that with a response. He thinks that being alone with Richie for any amount of time might actually kill him. It would be kind of ironic, because Eddie's mom still tries to convince him to stay home every year before the start of term. Just sits him down and lists every misguided thing she thinks will lead to his early demise at Hogwarts, like it's a deathtrap and not a school. Magic is unpredictable, she'd say, and what's unpredictable is dangerous. She'd keel over if she knew her baby boy was not only gay, but crushing on the most talented and unpredictable wizard in his year.

He finishes his muffin slowly, letting Bev and Bill absorb Richie back into their conversation. Too soon, it's time for Eddie's first class of the day. He has a knack for Charms (Richie says it's because he's so _charming_, which, gag) so he doesn't exactly mind having it so early, but he'd much rather be in bed right now. He and Bill heave themselves off of their respective benches, sending tired waves at Richie and Bev. Fuck Richie, Eddie thinks. He doesn't have class until _one_. Eddie will have already sat through two classes by the time he meets up with Richie in Potions class, which. Wait.

Eddie frowns. "Rich, why the hell are you up this early if you don't have class until one?"

Richie, for a second, looks caught off guard. He recovers so quickly that Eddie thinks he maybe imagined it. That shit-eating grin of his is in place before Eddie can even blink. "Well, Eddie my love, my day simply can't start until I see your precious face." He leans up to pinch Eddie's cheeks, but Eddie swats him away and huffs. He grabs Bill's wrist and drags him towards the entrance of the Great Hall, Richie's laughter following after him.

By the time Eddie meets up with Richie in the library, he's exhausted. They have a half hour til Potions, and Eddie is two seconds away from curling up in the stacks and avoiding the world. Richie's leaning back in a chair, feet propped up on the table, nose buried in a book. He looks irritatingly bright-eyed for someone who's been awake for as long as Eddie has. When he spots Eddie, his face lights up even more. "Eds, hey!" he calls, earning a pointed look and a stern shushing from Madam Pince. Richie shoots her an exaggerated wink and she rolls her eyes fondly.

"Don't call me Eds," Eddie says flatly, dropping down in the chair next to Richie. He rummages around in his bag until he locates his essay.

Richie takes it from him, tongue poking out in concentration as he reads the introduction. "Oh," he says suddenly, dropping the parchment and reaching for his own bag. He dumps out the contents unceremoniously onto the table, swatting aside crumpled up bits of parchment and dungbomb wrappers. Eddie wrinkles his nose. Richie glances over at him, grins that crooked grin, and says, "Merlin, what a cutie," before rescuing Eddie's essay from under his trash pile. He holds it safely above the mess and reads it while grabbing around for-well, Eddie doesn't know what. "Ha!" Richie yells, earning him another, more forceful shush. Moments later, a pack of Cauldron Cakes lands in Eddie's lap.

"Are these for me?" Eddie asks.

Richie ducks his head and runs a hand through his messy curls, leans back even further in his chair. "Yeah, I figured you could use a pick-me-up before we have to go deal with whatever crock of shit Slughorn's cooked up today."

Eddie feels a smile tug at his lips. "If I get a cavity because of all the sweets you feed me, my mum's gonna kill me." Nevertheless, he tears into the the pack of Cauldron Cakes like they'll disappear if he blinks. At home, his mum never lets him have sugar. He _might_ go a little overboard when he's at school, but it's mostly Richie's fault. He's been splitting his candy bars in half to share with Eddie since first year.

Richie glances up from Eddie's essay and grins, crooked. Eddie's stomach flips. "You give me a cavity just by looking at ya, baby." He pauses, adds, "A cavity is a little hole in your tooth, right? S'what Dentists fix, yeah?"

Eddie snorts. "Yeah, Rich."

"Sick," Richie says, looking proud that he remembered another fact about the muggle world. When Eddie first made the mistake of telling Richie what a Dentist was, Richie had been horrified at the fact that muggles put _drills_ in their _mouths_. Richie, a pureblood, had always just rinsed his teeth with whatever potion was needed to keep them healthy and intact. For about a week afterwards, he had gone around exclaiming to anyone who would listen (and some who wouldn't) that muggles were _metal as fuck_.

Eddie shifts in his seat, watching Richie read. "Hey, uh," Eddie says, "Thanks. For reading over my essay and for the cakes."

"Not a problem, little spaghetti head," Richie says, and before Eddie can protest that horrible nickname, Stan appears, looking perfectly put together as always. "Stanley the manly! Lookin' sharp, mate!"

The corner of Stan's mouth quirks up. "Thanks, Richie." He glances at the trash on the table and his expression turns disdainful. Turning to Eddie, he says, "Seems like it was your turn to watch him, yet he still made a gigantic mess. You're getting too lenient, Eddie."

Eddie sighs mournfully. He side-eyes the mess and says, sadly, "He distracted me with Cauldron Cakes. I'm weak."

"Weak at the knees for Richie Tozier, that's for sure," Richie exclaims, holding a hand up for Stan to high five. Stan stares at the offered hand until Richie gives up and lowers it.

"It's weak _in_ the knees," Stan corrects, at the same time Eddie yells, "I am not!"

"Mr. Kaspbrak!" Madam Pince hisses from the front desk, eyes narrowed.

Stan rolls his eyes. "Let's go, or we'll be late for Potions."

Richie sweeps an arm over the table, dumping all of the trash back into his bag instead of throwing it out like a functioning human might. "Being late for Potions sounds a lot better than going to Potions," Richie grumbles, and Eddie has to agree. "Here, Eds," he adds, holding out Eddie's essay, "It was perfect as always, I don't know why you were freaking out. You're crazy smart, mate."

With that, he stands up and follows Stan out of the library, confident as always that Eddie will follow. Eddie feels his face flush. He glances down at the parchment, noting that Richie has drawn a heart above the 'i' in Eddie's name. "Cool," Eddie mumbles under his breath, "Cool. Get it together, you idiot. It's Richie, for fuck's sake."

"Eds?"

"Coming," Eddie calls, shooting one last apologetic look in Madam Pince's direction before hurrying out of the library.

"Today," Slughorn announces grandly, arms held out, "we will be learning about something I believe you will all find quite entertaining."

He says some variation of this greeting every day, and he's usually incorrect. Eddie hates Potions. Mostly, Eddie is _bad_ at Potions, and Eddie hates anything he isn't immediately good at. Richie is, of course, fantastic at it, which is why Eddie always sits next to him during lessons. He likes when his potion doesn't blow up in his face, which it will inevitably do if he doesn't work with someone good enough at Potions to cancel out how bad Eddie is. Today, though, Eddie is sitting next to Stan. Richie chose to sit in between Mike and Bill. Which is...fine, he guesses. Weird, but fine. Eddie's fine. Richie can sit with other people if he wants.

Stan has already began his notes for the day, a header placed perfectly in the center exactly one inch below the top of the parchment. Most days, Eddie wishes he could be more like Stan. He hopes that, one day, he will be half as put together at Stan is. For now, he's just glad Stan lets him copy his notes.

From two tables over, Richie catches Eddie's eye and starts making faces. Eddie has to bite his lip to keep from smiling, and he almost misses Slughorn's announcement.

"...learning about Amortentia! In fact, I happen to have a vial right here…"

Richie raises his hand and speaks before being called on, as usual. "Toss some of that over here, sir, I have some dames to woo."

Slughorn chuckles. He's the only professor that finds Richie even vaguely amusing. "Now, now, Mr. Tozier, that's hardly appropriate. However, I will be passing this vile around so you can each get a whiff of your true love! Amortentia smells of whatever attracts you, so it will be different for each of you. You may share, or you may keep this knowledge to yourself."

Eddie is immediately unenthusiastic. Stan, however, perks up and glances over at Bill. Eddie nudges him in the side lightly. "What do you think you'll smell?" he asks, tone teasing.

"I have no idea," Stan says flatly, sending Eddie one his patent side-eyes, "What do you think _you'll_ smell?" Eddie opens his mouth, then closes it. He decides to forgo answering altogether and instead hums quietly. "That's what I thought," Stan mutters. Eddie huffs a laugh.

"I already know I'll smell Eddie's mom," Richie announces to no one in particular, "I've never met her, but we're soulmates. I imagine she smells like lemon cleaning supplies and antacid. Very sexy."

Eddie lets his head drop onto the table. He hears a smack, followed by Richie yelping. Eddie silently thanks either Bill or Mike for their service. Probably Bill. Mike's too nice.

"Be careful not to spill a drop of this as you pass it around the class, and do not, I repeat, _do not_, drink it," Slughorn's voice raises slightly. Students have already started whispering to each other, giggling and wondering aloud what their soulmate smells like. Slughorn hands the vial to Betty Ripsom, a spunky Gryffindor who gives Richie a run for his money. "Would you like to share, Miss Ripsom?"

Betty takes a deep breath, nose close to the opening of the vial. "Yeah, sure," she says, easily, "Smells...smokey, like someone just put out a fire. Kind of fruity as well? Like an apple orchard."

The potion makes its way around the room, passing from student to student. Eddie props his head up with his fists, eyebrows furrowed. He is suddenly very glad he's not sitting next to Richie. Beside him, Stan starts to fidget. Eddie reaches over and lightly touches his arm.

The vial is placed in front of Bill by Audra Phillips, a Gryffindor as beautiful as she is kind. Their hands brush and Bill smiles, charming in a way that makes Eddie want to vomit. Audra blushes as red as her tie. Eddie catches Stan's eye and they share a flat look. "I wish they'd just date already," Stan says stiffly, fingers tapping impatiently against the wood of their desk.

"No you don't," Eddie says, mildly.

"I wonder what Richie will smell," Stan replies, shooting Eddie a sideways glance.

"Fuck off," Eddie says. When he glances back, Stan is smirking. Asshole.

They both fall silent and watch Bill hold the vial up to his nose and inhale deeply. For a moment, he sighs, sounding content. Richie's grinning at him, ready to open his mouth and say something stupid and sexual, but before he can, Bill's eyes snap open. He looks confused. He glances from the vial, to Audra, and back. Suddenly, Bill's shoulders go very stiff.

He passes the vial so aggressively that Richie, ever the picture of grace, nearly drops it. Mike leans behind Richie and grabs at Bill's elbow, brows furrowed.

"What the hell?" Stan murmurs. He squints at the back of Bill's head.

Eddie ignores him, zeroing in on Richie's back. His curly head is hunched over the vial, sniffing cautiously like it might blow up in his face if he gets too close. He sighs, somewhere between exasperated and relieved, and Eddie hears him whisper, "Fuckin' hell."

"Language, Mr. Tozier," Slughorn says calmly, stopping in front of their desk. He glances down at Bill and adds, "Mr. Denbrough, are you alright? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"M'fine," Bill mumbles, and he lowers his head onto his crossed arms.

Slughorn raises an eyebrow but leaves him be. Turning back to Richie, he asks, "Would you care to share, Mr. Tozier?"

And Richie, who has never kept his mouth shut once in his goddamn life, shakes his head silently.

Slughorn plucks the vial out of Richie's hand and gives it to Mike, who is glancing warily at his now catatonic friends. Mike sniffs cautiously. After a moment, he lets out a contented sigh. His relief is palpable. "Smells amazing," he says dreamily, distracting Slughorn from where he is hovering over Richie and Bill. "Like springtime."

"Wonderful, Mr. Hanlon!" Slughorn says, smiling brilliantly. Mike hands it to the girl behind him, and Slughorn goes over to his own desk. He procures another small vial from one of his drawers and promptly shoves it at Stan, adding, "Let's move this process along, shall we? Another vial to pass the other way. Go on, Mr. Uris. Take a whiff."

Stan gives the vial a withering look. "Must I, Professor?" he asks, eyebrows raised and mouth pulled down in distaste.

For a moment, Slughorn looks thrown. This is obviously not how he expected his lesson to go. Eddie decides to throw the man a bone and elbows Stan roughly in the ribs. "Just do it, Stanley," he hisses, sending wide, innocent eyes Slughorn's way.

Stan huffs. "Fine." Carefully, he uncorks the vial and lifts it up to his nose. Eddie lets his eyes wander over to Richie's table. Richie has his eyes glued to the floor. Bill, however, catches Eddie's eye and stares back. Eddie tilts his head, a silent "Are you okay?" Bill shakes his head once. His eyes drift past Eddie and land on Stan, who takes a deep breath in.

"How does it smell, Mr. Uris?" Slughorn asks.

"Good," Stan says flatly, and he hands it abruptly to Eddie.

Eddie fumbles with it for a moment before offering Slughorn an apologetic smile. Around the room, students are chattering excitedly as the other vial is passed around. They are oblivious to Eddie's internal turmoil. If he smells Richie, that means this...crush, or whatever, is more than just a crush. It means Eddie can't just ignore it. It means he'll have to actively go out of his way to deal with his problems, which Eddie does not want to do. But he guesses that if Stan can be brave and suck it up, so can he.

Eddie stares at the potion for a moment, before biting the bullet and inhaling deeply. Immediately, it's Richie. Then again, it's always been Richie, ever since they were first years. Eddie's never had eyes for anyone else. It smells like an afternoon out on the grounds, hands almost but not quite brushing. The chocolate of their shared Cauldron cakes, the smoke from Richie's cigarette, the damp earth beneath them. It smells like coming home.

Eddie immediately wants to throw up.

His lungs tighten up with the asthma that he doesn't have. Blindly, he grabs for Stan's hand. Immediately, Stan's fingers are interlocking with Eddie's, a strong and steadying anchor. They look at each other, and share a look of mutual understanding; they are both utterly fucked.

* * *

Chapter 02

Eddie doesn't let go of Stan's hand until the end of the lesson; he can barely concentrate past the buzzing in his head. When Slughorn dismisses them, they are the first to stand up, duck their heads in tandem, and hurry out the door. The dungeons are cold without the heat from the fire in the Potions classroom, but it helps to clear his head.

"They'll be out any second, we have to go," Stan murmurs, promptly yanking Eddie up the nearest staircase.

"We can't just avoid them," Eddie protests, even though his fight or flight reflexes have been activated to the fullest extent and his entire body is screaming _run_.

"Yes, we can," Stan says firmly, and Eddie lets himself be pulled.

They end up somewhere on the third floor, just outside the armory. Stan presses against the stone, looking back and forth until he's satisfied that the corridor is empty. They stare at each other for a few moments. Eddie taps out an erratic beat against his leg, unable to be still.

"What did you smell?" Eddie asks abruptly, because he's never been great at awkward silences.

"Bill," Stan replies simply. "You?"

Eddie huffs out a breath. "Richie."

"Great," Stan says.

Eddie stares past him, counting the stones in the wall. "Are you sure it was Bill?"

Stan blows a curl out of his face, looking annoyed. "Yes. It was like he was right next to me and the breeze hit the right way and...yes. I could pick it out anywhere. A little bit of mint, a LOT of Sleekeazy's, and that muggle deodorant that Richie says makes his smell like a douchebag." He smirks and laughs quietly for a moment, before it fades and he's left looking a little lost.

Eddie glances around, helpless. "So, uh...what do we do?"

After a long pauses, Stan says, "We ignore this whole thing and pretend it didn't happen."

Eddie frowns. "That sounds like a bad idea."

"You've been avoiding dealing with your crush on Richie for three years-"

"It hasn't been _three years_, okay, it's been like…"

Stan holds up a hand and Eddie falls silent. "Eddie, it's been three years. Three long, _baffling_ years of watching you moon over someone who thinks making walrus teeth out of french fries is the pinnacle of humor."

"You're one to talk," Eddie mumbles, crossing his arms, "Bill still writes his name in all of his underwear. His favorite singer is Cyndi Lauper, unironically. Do you know what a vape is? Because Bill found a way to charm one and he keeps it under his pillow-"

"Okay, we both have horrible taste," Stan interrupts, a small and fond smile playing on his lips. Eddie is vaguely disgusted. "Listen, okay, this doesn't change anything. At least, it doesn't have to. Everything is essentially the same. We're still into horrible straight boys who probably won't ever like us back."

Eddie sighs, scratches at the back of his head. "So we just ignore it?"

Stan nods definitively. "We ignore it."

"This is going to blow up in my face," Eddie says miserably.

When Eddie finally makes it back to the Gryffindor dormitory, after twenty extra minutes of wandering aimlessly around the castle, Bill is lying face down on the floor.

"Um," Eddie says.

"Leave m-muh-me here to d-die," Bill says.

Eddie steps over him and heads to his bed, pulling back the curtains of his four poster. He settles down on the edge and says, "No." He's a little annoyed because _he's_ the one that's supposed to be having an existential crisis here.

Suddenly, Bill rolls over. He squints at Eddie accusingly. "Are yuh-you and S-S-Stan dating?"

Eddie definitely wasn't expecting that. "What?"

"You were h-holding h-hands with him for the huh-whole class ah-after you got ahold of the Amortentia," Bill says miserably. He looks at the ceiling and sighs heavily. "You suh-suh-smelled him, didn't you?"

Eddie can't help himself; he laughs. Bill pushes himself up into a sitting position, looking affronted. "No," Eddie says, incredulous. He laughs again, a short, unhappy thing, and says, "No, I did not smell anything to do with _Stanley_."

"D-do you promise?" Bill asks, sounding pitiful.

Eddie smiles ruefully. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

Bill seems to consider this for a moment. Then, he launches himself off of the floor and onto his own bed. He sits, facing Eddie, hands clasped in his lap. Confident, impenetrable Bill looks as lost as he did when Eddie first met him, barely able to stutter through a hello. "I did," he says, quietly.

Eddie frowns. "You did what?"

Bill takes a deep breath. "I-I-I-I s-suh-suh-suh..._fuck_."

Eddie reaches forward quickly and grabs both of Bill's hands in his own. "It's okay, take your time," he says gently. Bill's face is red with the effort of trying to speak. Eddie hasn't seen him this worked up in years-his stutter has improved vastly, and although he still has it, it's not nearly as bad at it was when they first met. Bill has grown a thick skin and the kind of charm that makes girls fall at his feet, stutter or no. He's the most easy going guy Eddie knows; he lets most of his problems roll off his back and handles them with the kind of grace Eddie, an anxious mess, could only dream of. But now, Bill is clutching to Eddie like a lifeline, his head bowed in defeat. Eddie doesn't know what to do with this Bill. "Take a deep breath for me, Bill, okay? Take your time. It's okay."

Eddie squeezes Bill's hands reassuringly and waits until Bill meets his eyes. They sit there for what feels like forever until Bill says, quietly, "I...I smelled Stan."

"Holy shit," Eddie says.

"Yeah," Bill agrees.

This is the weirdest fucking day of Eddie's life.

"Is that why you were so weird in class?"

"Yeah, I...I thought I would s-smell Audra, you know? We've been dancing around each other for a few months and she was f-f-flirting even _harder_ after she smelled the p-p-potion and I figured it meant she smelled muh-me and like, she p-probably did, right? But I smelled Stan, I smelled...I smelled fresh p-parchment and ink, y'know the way it suh-suh-smudges on his fingers after he writes an essay? And...and I smelled l-lavender and vanilla, because he uses that vanilla soap when he washes his hands so muh-much, it has to be the vanilla soap and then he uses the lavender h-huh-hand lotion because it's a cuh-cuh-cuh-calming scent and because his hands get so dry because he has to w-wash them so often and…" Bill looks helplessly at Eddie, "I smelled Stan."

They stare at each other for what feels like forever, but is probably only a minute.

Eddie clears his throat. "You seem to pay...really close attention to Stan."

"Yeah, of course I do, he's m-my f-friend," Bill says, eyebrows knitted together. God, he's daft.

"Bill," Eddie says gently, "What kind of lotion do I use?"

"I d-don't know," Bill says immediately, "Why wuh-would I know that?"

Eddie waits a beat.

"Oh," Bill says quietly.

"And we've literally lived together for six years now," Eddie says, not unkindly.

Bill's eyes go wide in abject horror. He lets go of Eddie's hands and flops back on his bed. "I like Stan." he whispers, "Holy sh-sh-shit, I like Stan."

Eddie has no idea what to do with this information. He could end this right now and tell Bill that Stan likes him back, but that feels like a betrayal of Stan's trust. He could leave and run to Stan, tell him that Bill likes him, but _that_ feels like a betrayal of _Bill's_ trust. Instead of either of those options, Eddie chooses the path of least resistance and says, gently, "I think you should talk to Stan."

"Absolutely n-not," Bill says, sitting up abruptly. Eddie worries vaguely about whiplash. "It would ruin our friendship. I sh-shouldn't even be t-telling you this, but I h-had to know if you were d-d-dating." He looks a little sick at the idea. "Richie said-"

"What did Richie say?" Eddie asks, exasperation and dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.

"R-Richie said that, s-since Stan's not usually, you know, ah-ah-affectionate, that you were either having a panic a-attack or y-y-you smelled e-each other," Bill says, and then pauses. "It's w-weird s-saying that, right? Th-that you smelled someone?"

Eddie snorts. "Yeah. It does sound really fucking weird."

Bill lets out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. He looks down at his feet and lets his smile drop into something bittersweet and sad. "So you did have a p-p-panic attack, then?"

"I, uh. I started to," Eddie admits, and he immediately wants to smack himself.

Bill's eyes meet his, concerned and brotherly in a way that makes Eddie immediately guilty for knowing what he knows and not using it to reassure Bill. "Why?"

"I wasn't expecting what I was going to smell," Eddie answers honestly, because he feels like he owes Bill that, at the very least. "I don't want to talk about it," he adds quickly, before Bill can ask any incriminating questions.

There's a pause, and then Bill says, "Okay."

Eddie sighs, relieved. "Thank you, Bill." He clears his throat. "I have to go hand in my essay before dinner, I'll, uh...meet you in the Great Hall later?"

Bill nods. "Yeah, Eddie, sh-sh-sure. I'll see you l-later."

Eddie nods back, and then hightails it out of the sixth year boy's dormitory. He takes the stairs two at a time, nearly running over a rather distraught looking Audra Phillips. When he makes it past the portrait, he finally lets himself breathe.

Eddie walks towards the Great Hall with lead feet, dragging every step. He doesn't want to face Richie, he doesn't want to have to lie to both Bill and Stan, and he barely even has an appetite anyway. Dinner sounds positively nauseating. But if he doesn't go, Bill will get all _concerned_ and ask him _questions_, and Richie will mix dumb jokes with ill-concealed worry, and Ben will try to hug him, and if anyone even _looks_ like they're about to hug him, Eddie will burst into tears.

His stress is only amplified by the fact that he still doesn't know what Richie smelled, or why he reacted the way he did. Anything that leaves Richie Tozier speechless is dangerous. Eddie doesn't like missing variables. He likes to have all the information possible when entering into unchartered territory. With Richie, that's never quite been possible; there's always some unknown thing that keeps him guessing and fucks him up. Richie always manages to surprise him.

Eddie hates surprises.

Eddie keeps his head down as he walks into the Great Hall. Everything is instantly overwhelming, from the smell of the food to the loud voices of his peers. He makes it approximately two feet past the door before a shrill voice is yelling, "Eddie!"

"Jesus Christ," Eddie mutters under his breath. He pastes on a fake smile and says, in what he hopes is a cheery tone, "Hi, Myra."

Myra Bolinski is three inches shorter than Eddie, three times his weight, and the most annoying human being Eddie has ever encountered. She also has a massive crush on him, even after repeatedly being told by him and just about everyone else at Hogwarts that he is very, very gay.

"Hi, Eddie," she says, smiling sweetly. She tucks a piece of hair behind her ear and leans forward on her tiptoes. Eddie takes a deliberate step back.

Eddie doesn't _hate_ her, but she has made one too many homophobic remarks regarding his "confusion" for him to actually like her. "I'm just on my way to dinner to, you know, eat," he says, pointedly moving to the side to walk around her. Farther down the long table, Eddie can see his friends all sitting together. Ben and Beverly are holding hands, which...that's new. Not exactly surprising, but new.

"Maybe we could sit together," Myra suggests, and two of her fingers run playfully up Eddie's arm. He jumps, pulling away like he's been burned. Myra doesn't bat an eyelash.

"Uh, no, I don't think that's-"

"Do you know what I smelled in the Amortentia today, Eddie?" she asks in a voice she that probably thinks is seductive, but just makes Eddie's skin crawl.

"No, and I don't really care, to be completely honest," Eddie says, snippy and ready to bolt. He tries to be nice, he really does, but she's just so…_Myra_.

Myra pouts at him. "I smelled you, Eddie, love," she says, eyes bright, "Sweets and antiseptic. Oh, Eddie, it smelled like _fate_-"

"I'm gay," Eddie reminds her, suppressing an eye roll.

"No, love, you're just confused," she purrs, and just as she takes a step forward, there's an arm around Eddie's shoulders and a warm body pressed at his side.

"Hiya, Bolinski," Richie says, smile too wide to be genuine. There's something nasty in his eyes and his grip tightens around Eddie. "Bothering my Eds, are ya? Seems to be pretty much all that you do."

Myra's whole demeanour changes. Her eyes narrow into little slits as she says, coldly, "Tozier. Don't you have someone else's business to butt into?"

"See, when you bother my little spaghetti squash like this, it _becomes_ my business. He gets all upset because being around you kind of sucks, and I don't like when he's upset. So why don't you run along and go squeal in someone else's ear, before I hex you into next week." Richie makes a shooing motion with his free hand and pulls Eddie around Myra.

She lets out an indignant like screech and stomps out of the Great Hall, dinner apparently forgotten. "Merlin," Richie mutters, dragging Eddie down to their friends. Eddie is getting dragged a lot of places today. Richie's arm is still around his shoulder, but now it's casual, like how Eddie sees couples walk in the hallway. "That bird is bathshit. When is she gonna get the hint?"

"She'll be apparating to my front porch until the day she dies, probably," Eddie says miserably. "Thanks for saving me," he adds, trying to concentrate on literally anything but the weight of Richie's arm on his shoulder and the ridiculous height difference between the two, how Eddie fits perfectly against Richie.

Richie looks down at him and grins. Out of nowhere, he smacks a loud, wet kiss to Eddie's forehead and says, "C'mon, let's go eat."

Eddie shoves him away and laughs because he can't help himself. Richie, for all intents and purposes, seems to be back to normal after his quiet meltdown in Potions. Eddie doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. Richie also doesn't ask about Stan, which means Bill's already gotten to him. Thank Merlin, because Eddie really doesn't stammer through a half-assed lie about a panic attack he almost had that was literally because of Richie.

He slides into his usual seat between Richie and Mike. Stan is directly across from him, sipping water and refusing to make eye contact with anyone. For someone who is convinced that ignoring the problem will solve everything, he's sure doing a shit job of _acting normal_. Richie leans close to Eddie and whispers, "He's been doing nothing but laying on his bed and listening to Air Supply on an old Muggle record player all afternoon. What did you do to him?"

"Nothing," Eddie hisses back, and then kicks Stan under the table. Stan startles, spilling half of his water down the front of his jumper. This causes all of their friend's attention to turn to Stan, who glares at Eddie like he's trying to turn him to stone.

"Are you okay, mate?" Mike asks, passing him his napkin. "You're bein' awfully quiet."

Stan takes the napkin gratefully and dabs at his shirt, frowning. "Yes, thank you. I'm fine," he says, and he sends a sharp kick back at Eddie.

"Ow," Eddie yelps, before immediately snapping his mouth shut.

Mike frowns. "Are _you_ alright, Eddie?"

Eddie can feel Richie's eyes on him. "I'm great, actually," he says, forcing a smile onto his face, "because it looks like Ben and Bev finally got their heads out of their asses and got together. What the hell happened?"

It's a cheap diversion tactic, but it works. Also, Eddie's just really happy for his friends and really curious as to what changed since he saw Bev this morning and Ben in Arithmancy. Everyone immediately turns on Ben and Bev, who look pleased and sheepish. "Well. y'know," Ben says, "We have Potions together, right before you lot do. We walked in together, and Slughorn was brewing something that smelled amazing-"

"And I asked, rather loudly, if Ben had dropped a whole bottle of his cologne into it," Bev adds, shrugging her shoulders, "Turns out, it was just the Amortentia, and I bloody well embarrassed myself in front of half our year."

Of fucking course its the Amortentia. Eddie can't get away from it. He feels his smile turn stale and quickly stuffs a spoonful of mashed potatoes in his mouth.

"Guess it's a good thing you never fuckin' think before you talk," Richie laughs, and Bev throws a pea at him.

Bill is smiling softly, and a little sadly, at the two of them. "Th-that's amazing, guys. I-I'm s-so happy yuh-yuh-you finally f-figured it out. W-we were just talking ah-about it this m-morning, weren't we, B-Bev?"

Bev laughs, carefree and happy. It's a beautiful sound. "Oh Merlin, you're right. And I was going on about how I missed my chance, now that Ben's a starting Beater for the Hufflepuff team, because all of the beautiful girls at Hogwarts would finally see what I saw," Bev says, turning to Ben. He snakes an arm around her shoulder, loose and comfortable, and presses a kiss to her forehead. They look like how Eddie imagines he and Richie did, except they're real. The affection, the kiss. It's real.

"You're the _most_ beautiful girl, and the only one I've ever had eyes for," Ben says softly, and Bev presses their foreheads together.

Eddie shoves another spoonful of mashed potatoes in his mouth and forces it down. Beside him, Richie snorts loudly. "Listen, I know you have lost time to make up for, but try not to be so fucking gross in front of us lonely singles."

Across the table, Stan snorts. Bill glances at him in surprise. Their eyes meet, for just a second, and Bill opens his mouth to speak-

"Stanley!"

A blur of black and gold latches itself around Stan's neck. Stan stiffens, realizes who is clinging to him, and immediately hugs back. "Georgie! Hi, bud, what's up!" Stan's face lights up and he pulls Georgie down onto the bench next to him. George's head immediately falls onto Stan's shoulder.

"Richie helped me with Astronomy and now I have 48 different stars memorized." Georgie clutches onto Stan like a lifeline.

"That's amazing," Stan says, ruffling his hair fondly. Stan is not an affectionate person by nature; getting a hug from him is like pulling teeth. Georgie has always been the exception. Ever since their friend group invaded the Denbrough house the summer after Second Year, Georgie attached himself to Stan and never let go. Now that Georgie is a First Year, he is near constant presence at Stan's side. Eddie has to admit that it's kind of adorable. "48 whole stars? Merlin, you must be the smartest kid in your year."

Bill's watching them with a strange expression on his face. In fact, he looks a little constipated. How the idiot didn't know he was bonkers for Stan earlier than two hours ago is beyond Eddie.

"Billy didn't want to hear me recite all of them," Georgie pouts, shooting an accusing look at Bill.

"Well, BILLY," Stan pauses to shoot Bill a wicked grin. Bill turns bright red, but holds his gaze, "doesn't know talent when he sees it. I would love to hear it after dinner."

"I wish you were my brother," Georgie sighs, and Bill chokes.

Richie snorts. "He might be, one day." Immediately, his eyes go wide and his mouth snaps shut. "Fuck. Did I say that out loud?"

Stan's head snaps toward Eddie, a murderous look on his face. "You told Richie. Fuck, _of course_ you told Richie."

Eddie slams his spoon down. "What do you mean _of course_ I told Richie? I didn't tell Richie _anything_-"

"Tell Richie what?" Richie asks, as Bill yells, "Merlin, you c-can't keep your f-fucking tr-tr-trash mouth closed for _t-two seconds_-"

"I think we're missing something," Ben stage-whispers to Mike, who nods slowly. Bev rolls her eyes and shoves a bread roll in her mouth.

"I can't _believe_, Eddie-"

"I didn't do anything!"

Georgie, very slowly, slides off of the bench and slinks away back to the Hufflepuff table.

"You're the f-fucking worst, Rich, I suh-suh-swear to G-G-God," Bill cuts himself off and closes his eyes, "Wait, w-wait...why are _you_ angry?" He asks Stan, who is red in the face and in the middle of cutting Eddie a new one, which he doesn't _deserve_, okay?

Stan takes a shuddering breath, says, "I told Eddie that in confidence and he _obviously_ told Richie-"

"I haven't talked to him since you two ran like bats out of hell from the Potions room! What are you even talking about, Stanley?" Richie argues, putting a protective hand on Eddie's knee that Eddie tries not to think too hard about.

"I had plenty of opportunities to tell _Bill_, but I didn't, because I'm not a dick, Uris! I _definitely_ didn't tell Richie, why the _fuck_ would I do that?" Eddie yells, "Bill probably told Richie-"

Bill makes a choked noise, and Eddie rolls his eyes.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Eddie mutters, before taking a deep breath. "You both smelled each other in the Amortentia, okay? You both have massive fucking crushes on each other. Now go fucking deal with it like adults and stop screaming at me!"

The table is silent. Bev glances between Bill and Stan, eyes glittering with good humor and interest. Stan's mouth clamps shut, while next to him, Bill gapes like a fish. Slowly, painfully slowly, their eyes meet. "R-really?" Bill asks, faintly.

Stan manages a terse nod.

All of the tension visibly disappears from Bill's frame. "Oh, thank Merlin," he breathes out, and then he and Stan are kissing.

Ben, bless him, starts to clap. Bev shushes him quickly, grabbing his hands in hers. Mike is positively beaming, face about to split open. Richie has gone silent, eyes trained on his plate. His hand has slipped off of Eddie's knee and Eddie feels suddenly lost, without a tether.

When Bill and Stan finally break apart, they're bright red and visibly dazed. "Are you sure?" Stan murmurs, face still very close to Bill's.

Bill reaches down and grabs his hand, eyes never leaving Stan's. "I've never been more sure of anything in my life," he says, earnest and honest as ever.

"Cool," Stan says faintly.

Richie stands up abruptly. "Well, I feel like I just watched an insanely private moment that I shouldn't have," he says, brightly, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Cheers to the newlyweds, glad my massive fuck up could result in something beautiful."

With that, he marches off, laughing a little hysterically. Eddie suddenly feels terribly, horribly alone.

* * *

Chapter 03

That night, Bill goes to bed with the dopiest smile on his face. Eddie doesn't fall asleep at all. He pulls the curtains of his four poster, sealing himself into his own pity party. It's not that he's not happy for Bill and Stan-he _is_, but that doesn't mean Eddie can't wallow a little bit that _he_ didn't get a perfect fairy tale ending.

After dinner, he'd gone looking for Richie. He wanted to ask what his outburst meant, if he was okay, if he wanted to talk, but Richie had essentially vanished. He'd even sent Mike into the Ravenclaw common room to do a thorough searching, but that had turned up empty. As a Prefect, Mike had unlimited access to each and every dorm in Ravenclaw tower, but no one seemed to be harboring Richie under their beds or in their trunks.

"Sorry, mate," Mike had said, clapping a hand to Eddie's shoulder. "He seemed a bit off all day, after Potions. But Stan was…"

"Having a complete mental breakdown?"

Mike had huffed out a laugh. "Yeah, basically. I told Richie we'd talk later, after we got Stan to unstick his curtains and act like a human, but then dinner happened, and well...now he's gone." A second of silence had passed between the two of them, before Mike had brightened up and added, "Maybe he's taking a walk."

Eddie had frowned. "It's February."

Mike laughed. "Wouldn't be the first stupid thing Richie's done."

"Feels like a lot has happened today," Eddie had said, feeling worn out.

"I'll make sure he gets back to the dorms tonight somehow," Mike had assured him, squeezing Eddie's arm gently. "Just get some sleep."

Eddie has not taken Mike's advice.

Not for lack of trying, though. He's mentally and physically exhausted, can barely keep his eyes open, but his brain is going a mile a minute. From a bed over, Bill is snoring loudly. Eddie wonders how mad Stan would be if Eddie smothered his new boyfriend with a pillow.

Eddie rolls over, pulls his duvet up over his head. It gets to Eddie, sometimes, being Bill Denbrough's best friend. The Golden Boy of Gryffindor. Everything comes easily to Bill, including, apparently, his love life. He realized he had a crush, went into existential crisis mode for roughly three hours, and then everything was immediately alright! Solved with a kiss, thanks to _Eddie_, no less. Merlin knows those two idiots would have never figured it out and that would have been painful to watch.

Meanwhile, Eddie's had a ridiculous, stupid crush on Richie Tozier for years now, and has gotten approximately nowhere with it. He just continues to watch Richie flirt with anything vaguely resembling a human being, Eddie _especially_, in that dumb joking way that makes Eddie want to tear his hair out. Everything is a joke to Richie, including, apparently, Eddie's sexuality.

But that's not exactly fair to Richie, Eddie thinks, because Richie had been the first person Eddie had come out to and the first person to defend Eddie against any sort of bigot. _Of course_ he would go out of his way to not treat Eddie any differently than he had before, which, for Richie, meant horrendous and persistent attempts at flirting.

And that's just the thing, isn't it? Richie is basically the best person Eddie knows. He's fiercely loyal and he loves unconditionally. He's Eddie's best friend, although Eddie is almost positive he's not Richie's. That would be Bill. Eddie is already lower on Richie's totem pole than he would like to be, and admitting his crush would make everything worse.

Eddie's not lucky like Stan. He doesn't get to have a happy ending that easily.

The next morning, Bill practically floats down the stairs with Eddie stomping along behind him.

"M-Merlin, it's a beautiful day," Bill says dreamily, eyes bright as the sky itself.

Eddie blinks blearily into the sunlight streaming through the tower windows and frowns. "Yeah, mate. It's grand."

Bill stops so suddenly that Eddie almost bangs right into him. He turns, face pinched in worry. He clears his throat and, in his best approximation of a Concerned Adult voice, asks, "Eddie, are you oh-okay? I know yesterday yuh-yuh-you said you d-didn't want to talk about ih-it, but you know I'm h-here if you need muh-me."

Eddie feels immediately guilty. He shouldn't begrudge Bill for being happy, and he definitely shouldn't ruin Bill's good mood all because of a dumb crush Eddie's had literal years to process. He forces a smile onto his face and says, "Yeah, no. I'm fine. Seriously. Thanks, Big Bill."

At the old nickname, Bill brightens up a bit. "J-just remember, I love you, Eddie. Y-you're like a br-brother to me. I need you to b-be okay." He throws an arm around Eddie's shoulder and jostles him a bit until Eddie laughs.

"I know, mate, thank you," Eddie says, and he means it. "I love you, too."

They go down to breakfast together, Eddie feeling considerably lighter. It's a Saturday, so Eddie isn't too worried about not getting any sleep. He will, however, be drinking a considerable amount of coffee to keep himself awake. They walk into the Great Hall, and Eddie is immediately blinded by pink streamers and floating red hearts and-oh, fuck. So _that's_ why Slughorn decided yesterday was the perfect day for the Amortentia.

"It's Valentine's Day, isn't it?" Eddie asks, his mood instantly ruined.

"Yep!" Bill says cheerfully, right back to his old, clueless self. With his moment of clarity clearly long gone, he makes a bee-line over to their regular spot. Eddie is relieved to see Richie there, hunched over a bowl of oatmeal, in between Stan and Ben. Bill nearly skips into place beside Stan, throwing an arm around him pressing a loud kiss to his temple. Stan, for his part, remains mostly unperturbed, but Eddie can spy the red creeping up his cheeks. Eddie takes his time, dragging slightly behind so as to take Richie in. He looks tired, eyes downcast. He is trying very hard to squish all six foot two of himself down into something smaller, nose almost dipping into his breakfast.

Eddie slides carefully onto the bench, directly across from Richie. Beside him, Mike catches his eye and shrugs. Eddie nods minutely and steels himself, says, "Hi, Rich."

Richie looks up, almost surprised, as if Eddie hasn't sat across from him for nearly every meal since they were twelve. "Hey, Eds," he replies easily, almost like he's waking up, "What's shakin', bacon?"

Eddie responds by taking a pointed sip of the coffee he has just poured himself. Richie lets out a snort. This time, he does not comment about Eddie's caffeine intake. Eddie doesn't know whether to be relieved or offended. "Where were you after dinner? I looked everywhere for you."

Richie waves him off, says, "Went for a walk."

Eddie furrows his eyebrows. "Why?"

Richie lets out a nervous laugh, asks, "What are you, my babysitter?" just as Stan hisses, "Bill, I swear to Merlin, if you ask me to Madam Puddifoot's one more time, this relationship will end as soon as it began."

Ben snorts into his coffee, and Eddie frowns at Richie, says, "I was just asking. We were worried about you."

"No one else gave me the third degree," Richie mumbles, shoving a spoonful of oatmeal in his mouth. Eddie thinks, distantly, that Richie hates oatmeal.

"Fine, Jesus Christ," Eddie snaps, appetite promptly gone. He pushes his plate away abruptly. The clattering makes Richie wince. "Fuck you, sorry for caring."

Mike's hand comes down on his shoulder, an anchoring weight. Eddie takes a deep breath and manages to keep a lid on his temper, but that doesn't stop him from glaring daggers at Richie, who shrinks back like he's been burned. Richie opens his mouth to say something but is interrupted by his owl, Zeppelin, dropping a pile of letters directly into his oatmeal before flying off. Richie promptly closes his mouth, eyebrows shooting up.

"Aw, lookit that," Ben teases, "Richie's got some admirers. Which girl are you taking out for Valentine's Day? Looks like you got your pick."

Richie fishes the letters out of his breakfast and lets them drop onto the table in a soppy pile. "Not interested," he mumbles, propping his chin up with a fist. He's _pouting_, for Merlin's sake. Eddie wants to punch him.

"Maybe if you get laid you'll stop being such a dick," Eddie mutters, just loud enough so Richie can hear him, even though the thought of Richie being with literally anyone else makes Eddie want to vomit and then cry.

"Not. Interested," Richie repeats, shooting Eddie an unimpressed look. He pushes his spoon around in his oatmeal, chin pressed into the palm of his hand. He won't meet anyone's eyes.

Stan, wrapped up with Bill like a goddamn pretzel, snorts and asks, "Since fucking _when_, Richie? You're always interested. In literally anything that blinks."

Richie rouses himself just enough to leer, says, "Aw c'mon, Stanny, baby, you know I've been holding out for you."

Bill reaches over Stan's head and flick Richie in the ear. Eddie glowers into his coffee.

"So, Ben," Mike says brightly, a clear diversion, "What were you and Bev thinking for Valentine's Day?"

Eddie tunes out, because he doesn't really care. He pokes at the eggs in front of him angrily. Across the table, Richie has retreated back into himself and is staring moodily at his orange juice. Eddie doesn't know what crawled up Richie's ass and died there, but he's not about to deal with it while Richie figures it out. The Amortentia obviously fucked with him, and Eddie would be sympathetic except he's going through the same thing and _he's_ not acting like a gigantic asshole.

He barely even registers when Bev sits down, until she chucks piece of bacon at his head. "Earth to Edward," she says, looking at him like he's got three heads.

"What?" Eddie asks, picking the bacon off his lap and placing it delicately at the edge of his plate. Richie watches him do this, snorts, and steals the bacon for himself. Eddie sends him a nasty look and moves his plate closer to him.

Bev watches them, vaguely amused. "I asked if you wanted to come to Hogsmeade with us."

Eddie wrinkles his nose. "As a third wheel? No thanks, I'm not that pathetic."

"No, idiot," Bev rolls her eyes and shoves a spoonful of scrambled eggs into her mouth, "With all of us. Double date plus you, Mike, and Rich. Just lunch at the Three Broomsticks, nothing special. Merlin know I'm low-maintenance as hell and I think Stan'll have a conniption if Bill asks after Madam Puddifoot's again."

While Eddie doesn't exactly want to be alone on Valentine's Day, he also doesn't want to be anywhere near _Richie_ for a variety of reasons. Still, he shrugs and says, "Yeah, alright. Guess it's less pathetic than hiding in the Gryffindor dorms until all this lovey dovey bullshit disappears."

"I don't remember you being so anti-Valentine's Day last year," Bev laughs, "You're so dramatic."

"Says the girl with the absolute hunk of a boyfriend," Eddie replies dryly, pointing at Ben with his fork. Ben flushes and ducks his head. Bev responds by throwing her arms around Ben and peppering him with kisses until his entire face is as red as the decorations floating above them.

"Aw, suh-stop embarrassing B-B-Ben," Bill says, making grabby hands at Ben's face. "Let's muh-meet back h-h-here at tw-twelve and h-head down t-t-together."

Eddie chances a glance at Richie, who is already looking right back at him. Their eyes meet for a moment, before Eddie tilts his chin up in defiance and Richie looks back down at the table. Eddie downs the rest of his coffee in one impressive gulp. It's going to be a long day.

Eddie wraps himself up in approximately thirty layers and his favorite scarf, grumbling under his breath the whole time. Bill has doused himself in approximately thirty gallons of cologne, singing horrible love songs and the top of his lungs. Eddie finishes up and sits down on his trunk, watches Bill prance around for exactly ten seconds before bursting out, "I'm gonna kill Richie."

Bill pauses. "Why?"

"Because he's been acting like a dick and I don't know why!"  
Bill takes his time zipping up his jacket, tongue poked out, very obviously not looking at Eddie and-

"Oh my God, you totally know!"

Bill jumps about a foot in the air, eyes wide. It would be funny if Eddie wasn't so mad. Instead of laughing, Eddie jumps off of his trunk and stalks toward Bill, jabbing a finger at his chest. Bill throws his hands up immediately, says, "I d-d-don't know what you're t-t-talking about."

"Liar!" Eddie spits, spinning away dramatically. He's being _a lot_, okay, he knows, but it's been a very stressful twenty-four hours and this is just the icing on the shit cake. "You know why Richie's all bent out of shape because he trusted you and told you but he didn't tell me!"

"Eddie, this isn't some kind of friendship competition," Bill protests. He grabs for Eddie's arm but Eddie yanks it away, crosses his arms.

"Is he mad at me?" Eddie demands, and Merlin, he feels his eyes start to prick which is just fucking fantastic. Bill looks alarmed. "Because he was fine to joke with Stanley but he iced me out almost as soon as I sat down this morning!"

Bill holds his arms out, helpless. "He's j-just...g-going through suh-some shit."

A thought hits Eddie like a bludger. He goes completely still, eyes widening. It's like someone dumped a bucket of ice cold water on him and Eddie's stuck in the moment right before the reaction hits.

Bill frowns. "Eddie?"

"Does…" Eddie pauses, trying to figure out how to best word his question without blowing his entire fucking cover if he's wrong, "Did...Did Stan tell you anything? About me? And did you...tell Richie?"

Bill's frown deepens. "Eddie, w-what? No, I-" Suddenly, his eyes widen.

Eddie takes a step forward, just barely resists the urge to tackle Bill to the ground and cover his mouth and never let him up again, "No, Bill-"

"You smelled R-R-Richie!"

Eddie collapses to the floor, a puddle of Gryffindor reds and golds and the one Ravenclaw-blue stripe sewn messily to the bottom of his scarf by Richie himself. "Shut the fuck up," he says miserably, staring up at the stone ceiling of his dorm and willing the tower to collapse in on him, "You can't say anything."

And Bill, the asshole, fucking _laughs_.

"You n-n-need to talk to R-Richie."

"No," Eddie says immediately, and this feels annoyingly familiar to the conversation he had with Bill yesterday, "First of all, he's being an asshole. Second of all, fuck off."

"S-s-s-suit yourself, m-mate," Bill says, chuckling to himself. Eddie levitates a book at his head.

Eddie, having the worst luck on the entire goddamn planet, ends up sandwiched between Bev and Richie at the Three Broomsticks.

He's pretty sure it's Bill's fault, because Bill and Stan were right behind him and therefore they _obviously_ should have ended up on Eddie's side of the table, but Bill led Stan around the other way and Richie slid in next to Eddie instead. Eddie is all but sitting in Bev's lap to keep his distance. Luckily, she's too wrapped up in Ben to notice too much.

Richie managed to charm a Firewhiskey out of the pretty young barmaid when Rosmerta wasn't looking, and he all but chugged it as soon as he sat down. Eddie pointedly ignores him for the duration of lunch, instead talking to Stan about their latest Charms homework. Bill seems to be holding some kind of non-verbal conversation with Richie using only their eyebrows. It results in some...very interesting facial expressions.

When they're done, Eddie is the first one out. It's snowing, because of course it is, and he pulls his beanie down farther, shivering lightly. Richie comes up behind him and wordlessly offers his gloves. Eddie waits a beat, considers his freezing fingertips, and takes them with a terse nod. "Thanks," he says. Richie smiles shyly. It's a weird look on him, because Eddie doesn't think Richie's ever done anything shyly in his life. Eddie instantly feels disconcerted.

They walk a few feet in silence, their friends chattering loudly behind them. Richie shoves his hands in his pockets and hunches over. "Uh, about earlier," he says, wincing a little, "I'm sorry. Didn't get a good night's sleep. Shouldn't have taken it out on you."

Eddie takes a moment to weigh his options. He can be a dick and make a huge fuss and ruin Valentine's Day for everyone, or he can suck it up and take Richie's gloves and apologies for the peace offerings that they are. Richie's watching him nervously. Eddie sighs, world-weary, and says, "It's okay. I mean, it's not, don't do it again, but...we're good."

Richie smiles crookedly. It lights up his whole face. "We're good?"

Eddie looks away and stares straight ahead. "Until the next time you fuck up, at least," he says, off-hand, and Richie lets out a surprised laugh that halts Bill and Stan's conversation behind them. Nosy fucks.

"Well, let's hope that's not for a bit, then," Richie says, cheeks flushed with either happiness or the cold. Eddie refuses to let himself hope it's the former.

"Let's hope," Eddie repeats, knocking his shoulders into Richie's bicep because that's as high as he can reach. Richie ducks his head, smile firmly in place, hair falling into his face.

"Honeydukes!" Bev yells, shoving past the two and dragging Ben along after her. "Onwards and upwards, lads! I'm outta sugar quills, Ben, you can get me some for V-Day."

Eddie tips over into Richie, who catches him deftly and then leaves his arm around his shoulder comfortably. Eddie shrinks into his scarf to hide his smile and pointedly ignores the look that Bill gives him as he and Stan pass by in the exact same position. Stan leans down to whisper in Bill's ear and they both start to giggle madly. Eddie huffs and trudges along, letting Richie drag him into the warm candy store.

"Richie!" the store clerk says, because Richie's friends with everyone. "Eddie, hey, did you finish all those cauldron cakes already?"

Eddie furrows his eyebrows. "Huh?"

The clerk laughs. "You have to know that Richie buys out half our stock every few months to keep you on a steady supply of sugar."

Eddie cocks his head to the side. "I did not know that, no," he says, turning a needling look Richie's way, eyes sparkling with hidden laughter.

Richie looks away, but Eddie can see the blush high on his cheeks. "I gotta," he says, scratching at the back of his neck awkwardly with his free hand, "You get real cranky without your sugar IV and I'm just saving the poor people of Hogwarts from your inevitable wrath. It's a service, really, don't go thinking you're special or anything."

"I wouldn't dare," Eddie says, tone teasing.

"Good, 'cause you're fucking lame," Richie mutters, finally chancing a glance down at Eddie. Their eyes meet, and they gaze at each other for just a second too long to be normal. Something like hope curls in the pit of Eddie's stomach, cautious but existing nonetheless. The store clerk glances between them, eyes raised.

"You're nervous," Eddie observes, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, "Why?"

"M'not," Richie mutters, elbowing Eddie good-naturedly. He bops Eddie on the nose with a finger and twirls away dramatically. Eddie is surprised at how much he misses the steady weight of Richie against his side. Then again, he's really not. "You're just looking for something that isn't there, Eds Spageds!"

And yeah, that's the problem, isn't it?

Eddie's face kind of crumbles against his own will. Richie's already twirling into another aisle, oblivious. Stan, as if sensing Eddie's distress, appears at his side in an instance. His fingers curl around Eddie's elbow. "He's just stupid," Stan says, matter-of-factly, "You just have to give him some time to figure it out."

"Figure _what_ out, exactly?" Eddie mutters, leaning into Stan.

Stan lets his head drop on top of Eddie's. "How to tell you." They stand like that for a bit, Eddie letting Stan's words mull over in his head.

When Eddie finally pulls away, Stan looks down at him with a gentle, knowing smile and that's really about all Eddie can take. "I think I need some air," Eddie says, voice sounding rushed. Stan gives his elbow a reassuring squeeze and nods. Eddie trips out the front door, the bell jingling overhead, just as Richie yells, "Stan the Man, have you seen Edward?"

"No," Stan says, grabbing Richie and marching him in the exact opposite direction. For a moment, Eddie thinks that it's okay that Bill is Richie's best friend, as long as he's got Stanley Uris.

Eddie immediately regrets his decision as he stumbles into the snow, but mum didn't raise no quitter. Well, she tried to, but that had only made Eddie more hard-headed than he was already predispositioned to be. Whatever, fuck, it's cold. His fingers clench into fists inside Richie's gloves, and he shoves them in his pockets so he doesn't have to look at them. He presses on into the little alleyway beside Honeydukes and leans against the brick wall.

It's hardly two seconds later when he hears Richie blunder out into streets, bell ringing loudly overhead, yelling, "Eds? Eds, where'd you go?"

The bell jingles again as Stan pops his head out, hisses, "Richie, get back inside."

The snow crunches under Richie's feet as he takes a few defiant steps forward, completely ignoring Stan. "Eddie!" Richie calls again, and there's something a little helpless in his tone that makes Eddie step out of the shadows and into the street.

Stan sees him first, because he's always the more observant of the two, and Eddie nods at him. Stan nods back, offers a quiet smile, and goes inside. "What the fuck are you yelling about, Richard?" Eddie asks, and Richie jumps.

"Eddie!" Richie exclaims, rushing forward. He stops himself about an inch from Eddie, feet almost touching, and frowns. "Your nose is all red. You'll catch your death. Why are you out here?"

"I needed air," Eddie says, the excuse sounding pathetic even to his own ears.

Richie quirks an eyebrow. "You hate the cold."

"So do you," Eddie shoots back, "And you're a giant baby about snow, so why are _you_ outside?"

Richie frowns. "Because you disappeared and I got worried."

Eddie lets out a loud snort, and Richie jumps again. "Oh, so it's cool for you to ask after where I've been because _you're_ worried, but when I do it, I get snapped at?"

Richie's frown impossibly deepens. "Eddie, I already said I was sorry-"

"I just think it's hypocritical, is all," Eddie snaps, pulling his scarf around himself tighter.

Richie reaches out and then lets his hand fall, looking a little lost. They're both in uncharted territory. Richie has never been this hesitant, this cautious, and Eddie's never been this _mean_. Richie had apologized and Eddie had accepted, which means its well past the time to hash this out but Eddie can't quite contain himself, so he bites out, "Why did you tell Bill why you were upset but not me?"

Something like horror crosses Richie's face, but he recovers quickly. "I don't know what you're talking about," he says, and there's an edge to his voice that wasn't there before.

Eddie glares a hole into Richie's chest because he refuses to meet Richie's eyes, on principal. He's wearing a dumb leather jacket that's supposed to make him look cooler but only manages to highlight how much of a fucking dork Richie is. He is woefully underdressed for the weather and Eddie shouldn't have taken his gloves, shouldn't be keeping him outside right now. "Fine," Eddie says, terse. "I'm gonna go, alright? Tell the others."

He turns to leave, but Richie grabs his arm and pulls him back around. Eddie allows himself to be spun around, looking somewhere past Richie. "Eds, c'mon. I'm sorry. Talk to me," Richie says, _pleads_, really, and no, no, Eddie is _not_ going to cry.

"You were obviously mad at me, okay, but I don't know what I did," Eddie chokes out, squeezing his eyes shut and willing away the tears, "And, I mean, I guess you got over it, but I'd like to know what happened so I can just like, not do it again because I can't stand when you're upset with me-"

He's pulled suddenly into a crushing hug, face pressed into the faded leather of Richie's jacket, which makes everything simultaneously better and worse. It's equal parts comforting and a horrible, horrible reminder than he can never have this. Eddie takes a deep breath, inhaling the same scent he's smelled a thousand times, most recently in the Amortentia-the chocolate, near overwhelming after galavanting around Honeydukes, the cigarette smoke woven deep into the seams of the jacket, the wet snow melting into the earth beneath them.

"Merlin, Eds," Richie whispers into his hair, "M'not mad at you. Was never mad at you, love."

Eddie forces himself to ignore the pet name so he doesn't explode. "What happened? You can talk to me, you must know that by now."

Richie huffs out a sad little laugh. "'Course I know that." He takes a deep breath and finally releases Eddie, taking a step back and shoving his hands deep into his pocket. He kicks at the snow, sending bits of it flying away. "I just...couldn't risk it?"

Eddie frowns. "Richie…"

"I gotta get this out, okay? Please," Richie says, and he won't meet Eddie's eyes, "I couldn't risk telling you and you hating me, alright? I mean, I know you'd never, you're too good of a person, but Merlin, you're the most important person in the world to me, Eddie."

"Really?" Eddie asks, and he hates how small his voice sounds when it comes out.

Richie looks up at him, stricken. "Of _course_."

Eddie nods, mostly to himself, and says, "You, too. To me, I mean."

It feels like a confession. It also seems to give Richie the courage he needs to push on, because Richie steps forward and grabs Eddie's hand. Eddie responds by grabbing Richie's other hand and wrapping them up in his own, rubbing the redness away with the gloves Richie himself should be wearing. Richie watches their hands for a moment, before he meets Eddie eyes and says, softly, "It was you, Eddie."

Eddie stills, eyes slowly meeting Richie's. "What was?"

"That stupid fuckin' love potion. It was you. I smelled you. Like a coffee shop and some muggle antiseptic ointment, the kind you always keep in your robe pocket despite having access to actual fucking _magic_, and I fucking shit myself over it because, okay, I've been in love with you for a really long time but this made it a little too _real_ for my liking, and-"

Eddie doesn't let him finish. He drops Richie's hands and for a moment, Richie looks paralyzed by fear. Eddie goes up on his tip toes and throws his arms around Richie's neck, dragging him down to his level. He presses his lips against Richie's a little too aggressively, but hey, that's how Eddie does everything-a little too aggressively.

There's a horrible moment where Richie doesn't reciprocate and, despite his fairly obvious love confession, Eddie wonders if he's made a terrible mistake. Then, Richie wraps his arms around Eddie's waist and fucking _lifts_ him off the ground, kissing back enthusiastically. Eddie makes a tiny noise of protest, which makes Richie laugh into his mouth. Someone catcalls from the street, and Eddie flips them off without ever breaking away from Richie.

"I love you too, you absolute dingbat," Eddie murmurs, "I smelled you, too, in all your nicotine-infused glory."

"Stop insulting me," Richie says, voice warm, nose rubbing against Eddie's, "You _love_ me, remember?"

"Of course I remember," Eddie laughs, "And I question my taste every day."

Richie sets Eddie down on the ground and leans down to press their foreheads together. "Yeah, you and about every other asshole at this school," Richie laughs, bright and beautiful. Eddie feels like he's floating. There's a pause where all they can do is gaze at each other, dopey and ridiculous, until Richie asks, "You're serious, though? Like, you're not taking the piss, right?"

Eddie wants to laugh, but there's something in Richie's expression that makes him feel like he should be a little gentler. "No, you asshole," he says softly, because he's still got to be _himself_, "I think you're probably it for me."

Richie's answering smile in blinding, and Eddie feels warmer already just looking at it. Then Richie's face does a weird thing, scrunching up like it does every time he's about to ruin a nice moment with a terrible joke. Eddie braces himself just as Richie asks, "You do realize our anniversary is on Valentine's Day, right? The literal ultimate cliche?"

Eddie wrinkles his nose. "Gross. We're breaking up. Come talk to me tomorrow." With that, he spins on his heels and marches away. Behind him, he hears Richie scramble to catch up, sputtering after him. When Richie finally reaches him, he tackles Eddie into the snow, sending his hat and dignity flying. Richie kisses him before Eddie can protest. His ass is soaking wet with snow and his cheeks are frozen, but Eddie thinks he could really get used to this.


	54. (G) STEREK - Mother of Dragons by Lissad

Mother of Dragons  
Lissadiane

Summary:  
Since Hogwarts had opened its doors to werewolves, many Hale children had apparently come through, wary and angry, refusing to socialize with the other students. And one by one, they'd been sorted into Slytherin, obviously, with the odd Ravenclaw to mix things up.

And then along came little Derek Hale, who'd barely gotten his ass on the stool before the hat was calling out Gryffindor.

Everyone thought it was funny, even now, when Derek was in his seventh year. Stiles, though, found it fascinating.

It helped, of course, that Derek was two years older and hotter than the sun.

* * *

"No, I'm telling you," Stiles says, pointing at Allison with half his croissant. The other half is in his mouth and might explain Lydia's polite look of disgust. "Aiden's a dick, he's so over confident, he doesn't think he has a weak side. I should shoot left, dude. His hair does that swooshy thing and it blocks his line of sight, he doesn't stand a chance."

He takes time to swallow and when he's done, he realizes that no one has bothered arguing with him, which is basically unheard of. Sure, it's brutally early in the morning and everyone's rushing to get to Quidditch practice before that afternoon's match against Slytherin, but come on. Stiles is making some good points here, and no one's even paying attention.

He realizes why a moment later, as Cora Hale snatches a muffin off his plate, glares at him when he opens his mouth to complain, and then says, "He's just as strong left as he is right. You've got to come from below, and your handling is too shitty for that, Stilinski. But I can probably help you with it. If you want." She says it all with a scowl, that's the thing. Cora's scowl is pretty legendary, and extra terrifying, especially since she hadn't even been sitting there a moment before. Plus, if Stiles thinks about it really hard, he can count the number of times Cora has ever actually spoken to him on one and a half fingers. And they're in the same year even. And the same house.

In fact, Cora Hale has never, to his knowledge, spoken to anybody willingly. And yet here she is, offering to teach him how to handle his stick.

He smirks and opens his mouth to make a dirty joke because that's just what Stiles does, and Cora's glare somehow intensifies with dislike. He snaps his mouth shut.

"You don't even play," Lydia says, lofty, like her eyes aren't brightening with speculation and curiosity.

Cora snorts. "Not with any of you," she agrees.

She looks uncomfortable, and she's angrily eating the grapes off Stiles' plate, and Stiles shoots Scott a baffled look before saying, "You can come to practice, if you want."

She nods once, stands up, and says, "I'll have to fetch my broom." She walks off with her nose tipped up like she's daring any of the other Ravenclaws to comment or possibly ask her if she's feeling alright, and only stops once, at the Gryffindor table.

Stiles stares, wide-eyed, as she has a quick whispered conversation with her brother before she finishes gliding out of the Great Hall.

It's almost like she's given him permission to stare at her brother for a while, and Stiles will take all the chances he has, because Derek is very, very nice to look at.

And then Derek snaps his head around almost like he feels Stiles staring, and if Cora Hale has a scary scowl, Derek's is about a thousand times more intimidating.

Stiles yelps, ignores his flushing cheeks, and turns back to his table with a breezy, "What were we talking about?"

But everyone else, apparently, has already left, heading for the Quidditch Pitch, he assumes. Stiles snatches a scone and hurries out the door, and he doesn't look back, but he swears he can feel Derek staring at him until he ducks around the corner.

But it's probably just wishful thinking.

"So, apparently not only is Cora Hale a Quidditch prodigy, which we didn't know, she's also weirdly decided that you two are friends," Lydia says, and Stiles really doesn't have the time to talk to her about this right now.

He's not dressed for the match against Slytherin, which is going to start in about seven minutes, and he really can't see himself stripping down in front of her. She doesn't seem inclined to leave, however, so he tugs his trousers down extra slowly to give her time to roll her eyes and turn her back on him, which she does.

"We're not friends," Stiles grunts, already shimmying into his Quidditch trousers, buckling his knee pads on. "She was helping all of us at practice this morning."

"Stiles. She told Liam to take a flying leap into the deep end of the lake when he asked her opinion on the Nimbus 3X versus the new Altitude."

He huffs, pulling his shirt on and then grabbing his robes. "Okay," he says. "All she did was follow me around and criticise the way I hold my broom. And sit on my broom. And handle the Quaffle. And then she caught the Snitch, no big deal, without even trying. I wouldn't say we're friends. She's kind of terrifying, actually." He grabs his broom, runs a hand through his hair to smooth it down, and realizes he's only got one shoe on. But he can hear a whistle blowing and he's late, damn it, and so is Lydia, and how can the game start without their Keeper?

"Come on," he says, grabbing his shoe and hopping on one foot as he tries jamming his foot into it. "We're late."

"What I'm saying," she snaps, following him. "Is that Cora is here. Cora, who hasn't even shown enough interest in our Quidditch team to attend a game in all five years she's been here. Now she's in the stands. Granted, she's in the Gryffindor stands, but still."

Stiles is really late and doesn't have time for this discussion, but Lydia grabs his arm, her eyebrows raised. "Stiles," she says. "Do you think, for some reason that makes no sense to you or to me, that Cora Hale likes you?"

Stiles blinks. "No."

Stiles isn't all that likable, that's the thing. He's okay, appearance-wise, if he makes a bit of effort, if he styles his hair or lets Lydia pick out his outfit, which is rarely. He's a bit of a spazz, he talks to much, his eyes can get bulgy when he's excited, and he has it on good authority that he's just not all that attractive, as a complete package. He did a survey last year, okay, and Danny was the deciding vote and Danny's a nice guy and he was honest and Stiles doesn't hold it against him or against anybody, really.

He's not self-conscious. He's not that broken up about it. He knows someday he'll meet someone whose type is spazzy and talkative guys with pale skin and bulgy eyes. But Cora Hale is not that person. Cora Hale's type will never be that person.

Lydia looks like she still had more to say, but Danny is there suddenly, looking stressed and irritated. "They're starting without you if you aren't out in six seconds," he snaps. "And Lydia, you're the fucking Keeper. Hurry up."

Cora is in there, sitting with Derek in the Gryffindor stands, a few rows away from Scott, who has another blinking sign proclaiming that Stiles was the best ever. It's all very distracting. Derek is always in the stands, and Stiles has built up a pretty good immunity to it, but combined with Cora's stare and the blinking sign, it's a bit much to take.

So they lose. It's embarrassing. He's totally off his game and Stiles never wants to speak about it again, which is difficult, considering Scott is angrily determined to review every play Stiles had tried to make to find out where it went wrong so he can implement a strict training regime to fix it. Sure, Scott is Gryffindor and Stiles is Ravenclaw, but best friendship transcends house lines and it always has.

Scott has been playing Quidditch since he was a child, and he is determined to catch Stiles' sad skills up to his advanced level.

"I was distracted," Stiles finally confesses.

Scott stares. "But… it's Quidditch," he says, and he's about to launch into a dramatic reminder of how important Quidditch is to them both, and Stiles is trying to think of a graceful way to bow out when he sees Lydia lurking in the common room, ready to attack him with more unfounded accusations about Cora.

So he sits patiently and pretends to listen Scott goes on and on while Stiles keeps a watchful eye on Lydia and tries to hurriedly do his Transfiguration homework. Afterwards, he ends up having to help Scott with his Potions, but by the time they're finishing up, the lanterns are burning low and most people – including Lydia – have slipped off to bed.

All in all, it's as much of a win as Stiles is going to get today, but he'll take it.

Allison and Stiles have nearly every class together, which is good. She's one of Stiles' closest friends, and Stiles likes knowing that if his professors throw a surprise partnership assignment at them, he has a partner on standby and can avoid any awkward glancing nervously around hoping that someone will choose him despite his tendency to accidentally light things on fire or blow them up.

The problem is, Allison's family had strongly suggested that she not taken Interspecies Relations, and she had taken Muggle Studies instead.

Stiles, being Muggle-born, had been bored to tears by Muggle Studies. So he had decided to risk everything and take a class he was actually interested in – Interspecies Relations – despite having no partners on standby, just in case.

Which is how Stiles ends up petrified and alone late Monday afternoon, in Interspecies Relations, after Professor Harris assigns pair work.

It isn't that Stiles doesn't have friends in this class. Danny is in this class, and so are Kira, Boyd, and Erika. The problem is he's the odd man out and he's always without a partner and things will get very awkward, and Harris always likes to treat Stiles with a particularly vicious sort of smugness when Stiles inevitably has to put up his hand and confess that he was unsuccessful in finding anybody willing to suffer through his presence –

"Hey." Cora drops her stuff on the desk beside him and sat down, super casual, like it's no big deal.

"Uh, hi?"

She freezes in the middle of organizing her stuff and her cheeks flush a little. "You don't have a partner. Right?"

"No."

"I'll work with you," she says, shooting him a quick glare. "Unless you mind."

"Of course not! Of course, sure," he says with a wide grin and possible jazz hands. She ignores that and he's grateful.

"I want to do werewolves."

"Sure," he says again. They're picking a marginalized species as a focus of their roleplaying, and then they've got to produce two skits. The first will demonstrate how that species was treated in the past, and the second will show how that species is treated now, which is mandated by the Interspecies Treaty enacted in 1999.

"Because I am one," Cora says with another look, this time baring her blunt human teeth. She snaps them and adds, "And so is my brother."

"Cool," Stiles says, because of course he knew that. Werewolves stopped being big news since the first one attended Hogwarts in 2000, Stiles learned all about that in the History of Magic, second year.

Cora seems disgruntled and Stiles isn't sure why, but he's pretty damned sure she's not trying to date him, so there is that.

There had been a tragic, soul-crushing moment in First Year, after Scott had been sorted into Gryffindor, when the Sorting Hat had decisively shouted that Stiles was in Ravenclaw, where he'd thought their magical, perfect friendship was over.

After all, how many childhood friendships survive being sorted into different houses? How many epic Best Friend Forever friendships had been sunk by that stupid hat?

But the fact of the matter is that Stiles is clever and Scott is loyal and stupidly brave and the only house they could possibly have shared is Hufflepuff, and then only on their silliest of days.

So for his first week, Stiles had fallen into despair, trudging around the castle surrounded in a cloud of melancholy, lonely and achingly alone. And then Scott had tackled him after class one day, declared they would share all their meals, gave him the password for the Gryffindor Common Room, and promised to teach him to kick ass at Quidditch.

They make their friendship work. After all, it could be worse – the hat had hummed about sorting Stiles into Slytherin for a long moment, and there would have been nothing worse than being sorted into the enemy house.

Now, they alternate tables in the Great Hall – breakfast with Ravenclaw, Gryffindor for dinners. They do their homework together in Ravenclaw, usually, because the Ravenclaws were required to put up with Stiles' inability to sit still or keep the dramatic gestures to a minimum. He'd already been barred from the library on pain of death (or suspension) should he accidentally destroy any more books.

Sure, Stiles wishes they were roommates, but they were roommates at home, and it's nice to have a break from Scott's refusal to do his laundry until it's a sick and smelly mess every now and again.

"So," Scott says now, as they work on homework in the Ravenclaw Common Room. "What's up with Cora?" He wiggles his eyebrows and it's ridiculous.

"Nothing?" Stiles frowns. Okay, it's a little weird that a girl other than Allison and Lydia is suddenly interested in sitting near him and partnering with him in class, sure. But it isn't that strange, is it? He's growing a little offended here, that's all he's saying.

"Don't freak out," Cora hisses, and that freaks Stiles out a little. They'd practiced their skit six times, he knows what to expect when they present it to the class, and there is nothing in it worth freaking out over.

He shoots her a nervous look and has enough time to whisper, "About what?" and then Harris is telling them to get on with it.

Everyone else has already presented, and their presentations were predictably boring, long, and full of rambling monologues and stiff movements. Stiles and Cora had decided to go for short and sweet, with a bit of shock factor – but only a bit! – to get their point across.

They start out showing how werewolves have been integrated into society. Cora pretends to knock on a gate and Stiles throws it open with jazz hands and declares loudly and with gusto, "Welcome to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, come in, come in!" and end scene.

Then they set up and repeat to show how it used to be, and Cora knocks again. Stiles opens the door, just a crack, and says, "What?"

"Please, Professor," Cora says, injecting just the right amount of hope into her tone. Stiles had coached her on that relentlessly. "I'm only 11 and my magic is out of control, please let me come in and teach me to be a contributing member of society."

Stiles scoffs and says loudly, "Your magic isn't all that's out of control, girl! You're a wolf, barely better than a rabid dog! You're a danger to all the normal, innocent children in here! Why, there would be riots in the street if we let your kind in here. You're not a person, you're an animal!"

She's supposed to growl and snap at him, nice and simple, but instead, as Stiles watches, her face changes – actually changes – and she sprouts pointed ears and claws. A tail is suddenly swishing out of the bottom of her robs. And she snarls and she's got fangs and she leaps at him, knocking him to the ground. Her claws dig into the robes of his shoulder and she snaps her teeth inches from his face – he can feel her breath.

Stiles yelps as he falls, but she somehow takes most of the impact, and she isn't actually hurting him, and she has ridiculously large, pointed ears, and a tail and it's kind of adorable. Stiles giggles and then claps his hand over his mouth because giggling when being attacked by a werewolf is the opposite of what he is meant to be doing here. He needs his wand, he needs some sort of spell to protect himself, he needs –

"Petrificus Totalus!" Harris hollers. Cora had lifted her head and blinked down at him while he giggled, like he was some alien creature and she didn't quite know what to do with him, but now she's frozen and Stiles is stuck underneath her and abruptly aware that the entire class is freaking the fuck out.

They would be, of course. A werewolf had just lost control and attacked another student, this was the nightmare situation Hogwarts had been preparing for since first allowing wolves to attend.

Except she hadn't actually lost control, had she? Stiles wasn't bruised or scratched… She'd just tried to scare him, really, for whatever reason, but she'd done it on purpose, without hurting him.

And now she looks kind of terrified.

"What are you doing?" Stiles calls, trying to squirm out from underneath her. He finally manages to get free and bounces to his feet, panting a bit. The other students are all backed into the corner, Harris with them, staring in horror, even the other wolves. "No, seriously, it was part of the skit!"

"Someone fetch the headmaster," Harris snaps.

"Seriously. It was just acting! She didn't hurt me!"

Harris's eyes are very narrow and he says coldly, "If that's the case, Mr. Stilinski, than it will be detention for both of you for coming up with such a harebrained scheme!"

"You mean for adequately portraying the way werewolves were treated in the past because of ignorance and prejudice, kind of like what's happening right now?"

"Double detention for you, Stilinski," Harris says. But he thankfully releases the curse he'd placed on Cora and she collapses to the ground, glaring at him balefully.

"Whatever," Stiles says sulkily, because as long as Harris is raging at him, he's not expelling Cora, so it's a win-win.

He ends up with more detention than he knows what to do with, but Cora only gets one night's worth, and Stiles will take it.

She shoots him a glare before taking off as soon as class is over, and Stiles doesn't know what's going on at all, but it damned well isn't an attempt at dating, he knows that much.

Stiles isn't in Ravenclaw for nothing. He's a smart kid, a proactive kid, so when he realized that Professor Harris had some sort of vendetta against him, Stiles went out of his way to convince him that he absolutely loathed anything and everything to do with magical creatures.

He gets detention at least once a month from Harris, and every time, he's required to serve it helping Hagrid out with whatever magical creature he's got on hand this week. It's awesome.

This week, apparently, it's wyverns, which are basically mini dragons, which is amazing. Hagrid had received a shipment of eggs that required careful incubation and had just begun hatching into little miniature dragons the day before.

Raising mini infant dragons is a full-time job, unfortunately, so Stiles' detention is basically to sit in the barn with a dozen tiny wyverns crawling all over him, feeding them sugar water from a super small bottle, and singing to them if they got restless. Apparently that's how their mothers calm them in the wild.

While he does all that, Hagrid will take a much needed nap.

So Stiles stretches out on his stomach on the clean barn floor, warm from the heat lamps, and lets the little dragons scale him like a mountain.

They are no bigger than his finger, with fragile little wings that aren't strong enough for flight just yet, and they run over him like little lizard mice, hissing and chirping and tugging at his clothes with blunt little teeth.

It's pretty much the best detention ever.

He feeds them one at a time from the little bottles, and after they eat, they sleepily climb up over his shoulder to curl up in his hair, along the back of his neck, and between his shoulder blades.

He's nearly finished feeding them all, can hear their sleepily yawns and purrs as he coaxes the second last one up onto his shoulder, and that's when a shadow falls over him from the doorway.

He can't manage to turn his head without dislodging the wyverns, so Stiles says, "Uh, hello? Hagrid?"

He doesn't get a response, but a moment later, his unexpected guest is carefully sitting down in front of Stiles, folding his legs up carefully to avoid squashing the last hyperactive wyvern, and holy shit, it's Derek Hale.

Stiles wants to leap up and brush the mini dragons out of his hair and his clothes and pretend to be presentable. He wants to at least get into a more dignified position. He mostly wants to run and hide and pretend this isn't happening.

Derek has been a source of fascination for Stiles since Stiles was 11 years old and shiny and new at Hogwarts. First, it had been because of the relentless gossip, mostly shared by Scott, because the entire school seemed to agree that it was weird and hilarious that Derek Hale of the Hale Bloodline had been sorted into Gryffindor. The Hales were notorious for being elitist, snotty, pureblooded wizards from one of the strongest wolf lines. They weren't even bitten wolves, they were born wolves, which means they are one of the original wolf families, and it is a big deal. They're also, obviously, super evil, and rumour has it that Fenrir Greyback was bitten by one of the Hales.

Pretty much any and every negative and terrifying rumour about werewolves had come from the reclusive Hale family.

And since Hogwarts had opened its doors, many Hale children had apparently come through, wary and angry, refusing to socialize with the other students. And one by one, they'd been sorted into Slytherin, obviously, with the odd Ravenclaw to mix things up.

And then along came little Derek Hale, who'd barely gotten his ass on the stool before the hat was calling out Gryffindor.

Everyone thought it was funny, even now, when Derek was in his seventh year. Stiles, though, found it fascinating. It helped, of course, that Derek was two years older and hotter than the sun.

Stiles' hormones never really made the best decisions when it came to self-defence. Any hint of danger and he was all in.

And in his five years at Hogwarts, his five years of staring at Derek and fantasizing about what Derek would look like without his shirt on, and thinking about how sweet it would be to hold his hands and share a Butterbeer at Hogsmeade, Stiles has never actually spoken to him.

Derek spoke to him once. But all he'd said is, "Watch out," after Stiles had nearly ran him over testing out the hoverboards he and Scott had made by racing each other through the halls. Stiles had been so startled at nearly smashing into Derek that all he'd managed to do is squeak and flee the premises. So. Not his best moment.

Except now Derek is here, frowning, trying to make himself small, while the last wyvern scrambles up his leg and up his chest and over his shoulder and down to curl up in the palm of Derek's hand.

Stiles would curl up there too, if he would fit.

"Uh," Stiles says. He clears his throat. "Hi?"

"Cora shouldn't have done that," Derek says abruptly. He's still not looking at Stiles.

"Well, no," Stiles agrees. "Probably not. She freaked people out. But she didn't hurt me."

Derek shoots him a glare and Stiles wants to shrink away, but there are tiny dragons sleeping on him, damn it. His options are limited. "She could have hurt you," Derek snaps.

"She was very careful," he says with the tiniest of shrugs.

"And you got detention for it." Derek scowls and looks away. The wyvern is kneading the base of his thumb with tiny claws, and it has to hurt, but Derek doesn't seem to mind.

"She'd have been expelled if Harris thought she actually lost control," Stiles says quietly. "That isn't fair. She was fine. I was fine. We'd get an A on the project if Harris wasn't such a dick, but let's be real, he wouldn't have given me an A anyway."

Derek is looking at him again, this time with his eyes narrow. "Why do you care what happens to her? She's a wolf. She could have killed you."

"She's a person," Stiles says. "A fifth year like me. Don't be species-ist." Stiles grins. "Besides, she was freaking adorable, have you seen her ears? You've probably seen her ears. And her tail, it was ridiculous."

Stiles blinks and stares at Derek suddenly, because he wants to see Derek's ears now, he wants to ask about Derek's tail, but he also doesn't want to die, and Derek is a lot scarier than Cora, and Cora is pretty freaking scary herself.

Derek just shakes his head, looking a little lost, and the wyvern is keening softly, its eyes wide and shiny. Derek is seconds away from panicking, Stiles can tell.

"You have to sing to her," he says solemnly. "That's what their mothers do."

Now Derek is horrified. "I don't sing," he says.

Stiles giggles and the Wyverns on his back and in his hair mumble in protest. He carefully hands over the bottle. "Feed her," he says. "Then she'll sleep."

Stiles nearly melts into the floor when Derek carefully cradles the Wyvern and holds the bottle to its lips, mostly because when the little dragon starts to eat, Derek gets this ridiculous, lopsided, stupid smile on his face.

Yeah, Stiles hormones have no sense of self preservation.

Derek is already in the barn the next evening when Stiles shows up for detention. He is carefully stacking a series of small crates and boxes into a tower.

"Hagrid says they're starting to test out their wings," Derek says, when Stiles freezes in the doorway. "You're supposed to build a tower for them to climb, so they stop trying to parachute off his head. He's too tall."

"You've already built a tower, though," Stiles says stupidly, and Derek's hand, which had been carefully slotting the last crate into place, goes still.

"Oh. Did you want to do it? Is it too tall? Will they hurt themselves?" he asks, and Stiles isn't sure, because Derek isn't looking at him, but he kinda thinks Derek's ears are turning pink.

"No," Stiles says quickly. "No, no! I just – this is my detention."

Derek finally looks at him, with a shrug, which is impressive considering there are six little dragons perched on his shoulder, flaring their wings like parachutes, like they were about to jump. Derek somehow manages the shrug without dislodging any of the dragons.

"You got this detention for defending my sister," he says. "So I'm going to help you with it. She would, but she asked for permission first." He rolls his eyes. "So they said no. I didn't bother asking."

"You don't have to," Stiles says. "It's not the worst detention."

"They made Cora clean the grout in the dungeon bathroom," Derek agrees, and Stiles winces.

Derek's carefully scooping wyverns up from the floor and onto the first level of the tower, helping them climb it. The wyverns on his shoulder scramble down his arms to climb it too, and Stiles comes inside, closing the door and sitting carefully on the other side of the tower.

The bravest wyverns have reached the top now and they're throwing themselves off it, gliding on tiny wings to the floor. Other wyverns are tumbling off the tower before they reach the top, but Derek is catching them and helping them try again, and Stiles does the same.

Finally, they've all learned how to climb the tower and glide back down, all but the littlest wyvern, a little purple guy. He finally makes it to the top, but when he jumps, his wings are too small and too fragile, the skin between the bone framework undeveloped and torn. He tumbles instead of gliding, and Derek catches him before he hits the ground.

"It's all right," he says quietly, cradling the shaken wyvern. "Try again."

But the purple wyvern tries and tries and his wings just don't work. When he gives up, Derek carefully tucks him in his breast pocket to keep him warm, and Stiles files it away as more reasons why Derek is in Gryffindor.

And also more reasons why Derek is secretly the sweetest, hottest marshmallow in all the land.

Scott drops onto the bench beside Stiles at breakfast on Saturday morning and says, "Hey, I have a date." He wiggles his eyebrows and leans super close. "With Allison."

Allison is awesome. Allison is probably tied with Lydia for Stiles' best Ravenclaw friend, and Scott has been mooning over her for at least a year.

"Dude, you finally asked her out?" Stiles asks, eyes wide, holding his hand up for a fist bump.

Scott bumps his fist and then says, "She asked me, in class, when I was complaining about how much Hogsmeade is going to suck without you to hang out with. So she was all, 'maybe we can grab lunch together'. That's a date, right?"

Stiles blinks, reviews what Scott says, and still worries he missed something. "Wait, what? Scott. But. We always hang out in Hogsmeade."

"Yeah, but with all your detentions, there's no way they're letting you go," Scott says. "Right?"

Stiles is proactive with his detentions, damn it. He'd very deliberately launched into a loud monologue about how overrated Hogsmeade is and how much he hates the long walk to get there, right outside Harris' classroom. He never gets banished from Hogsmeade as punishment.

But now Scott is looking like a hopeful but worried puppy and Stiles sighs. "Of course they're letting me go," he says. "But you're still going for lunch with Allison, obviously."

Scott whoops in excitement and then says, "But seriously, though, do you think it's a date?"

Stiles has to talk Scott through the various ways to identify date-like behaviour in girls, as well as ways to subtly turn a friend lunch into a date lunch. It's nice; it distracts him from worrying what he's going to do wandering Hogsmeade by himself.

Stiles' pockets are filled with sugar quills and chocolate frogs, his cheeks are puffed with Bertie Botts, and he doesn't really know what to do next. Scott had bounced off to meet Allison and Stiles is just morosely considering walking back to Hogwarts alone when Cora is suddenly in front of him.

"Where's your boyfriend?" she asks, glaring at the empty space beside Stiles where Scott should be.

"I haven't got one?" Stiles says, frowning.

Cora looks startled. "McCall," she says. "You know. The guy you're dating, with the stupid hair. Hangs out in our Common Room practically every day?"

"Scott?" Stiles shrugs. Plenty of people tease him and Scott for being so co-dependent. "He's one a date, actually," he says.

Cora's eyes narrow even further. "Well, that's a dick move," she says.

"No," Stiles says slowly. "Not really? He's liked Allison for like a year. And we're not actually dating? We're just friends. Like always. Listen, you're really kind of freaking me out. What are you doing?"

"Not dating," Cora mumbles, staring off into space, a calculating look on her face. "Never dating. Huh. Lydia, then?"

"Lydia's awesome," he agrees. "Beautiful and terrifying, but awesome. Also, not dating me."

Cora smiles, a pleased, grim smile. "Good," she says, and Stiles is a little frightened. "Come for lunch with me."

Stiles is officially petrified. Is this a date? Does he want this to be a date? He doesn't think he does, actually. And maybe Cora sees some of that panic on his face, because she rolls her eyes. "Unless you want to stand out here staring through the window of people actually having a good time, that is."

Stiles is a little tired of being a picture of tragedy and loneliness. "Okay," he says. "But not a date."

"Of course not." She looks so disturbed by the idea that Stiles is a little offended.

She takes him to the Hog's Head. It's dirty and dingy and not he's a little worried he'll catch something – Tetanus, maybe – if he stays too long.

But then she's dragging him to a cramped table in the shadows in the back and Stiles doesn't have time to panic anymore because Derek is there, scowling, and Cora is nudging Stiles into the booth beside her brother, and this just got so, so much more awkward.

"What are you doing?" Derek snaps at Cora.

"He was lonely," she says angelically. "Like a lost puppy. Because McCall, who he's never dated, is on a date with Allison. So I thought he could have lunch with us."

"Technically you never said Derek would be here," Stiles says faintly.

Cora shoots him an angry look but before he can say anything, Derek says, "I can go. I should go, I'm going." Except he's pinned in the booth and doesn't seem to want to touch Stiles enough to shove passed him.

There's an awkward moment, where Derek stares at Stiles, panic all over his face, and Stiles stares back, because he's never seen Derek up close before. Even when Derek helps him with the wyverns, they don't really talk or interact or anything, and Stiles does his best not to stare like a creep. But now here they are, in the shadowy Hog's Head, and Derek's face is lit up by lantern light, which really only serves to cast dark shadows under his cheekbones, and his eyes are all sorts of colours, and he smells delicious.

"You smell delicious," Stiles accidentally tells him, and Cora snorts so hard that Stiles turns away from Derek to make sure she's not choking. Then he realizes what he said and he goes very still and waits for the ground to open up and swallow him.

It doesn't.

Instead, there is more awkward silence, and Stiles stares at Cora and Cora stares back at them both, her eyebrows climbing up higher and higher as her mouth twists with amusement.

"Wow," she says to Derek. "Laura is going to be so sad she missed this."

"Cora," Derek growls, and Stiles shivers all over, but it's not because he's afraid. But he should really, really be afraid. But he's really, really not.

Cora shoots him a quick look and smirks, one eyebrow up. "Alright there, Stilinski?" she asks, and no. No, Stiles is not alright, because it suddenly occurs to him that maybe werewolves can tell, maybe they can smell it or something, when stupid teenaged boys get stupidly turned on by the stupidly hot guys they're secretly in love with.

And suddenly he's tired of feeling like a mouse being played with by a bunch of ridiculously attractive cats. And he was never hungry anyway, because he'd eaten too much candy and his stomach hurts.

"I have to go," he says, scrambling out of the booth. Cora, for the first time, doesn't look amused.

"Wait, why?" she asks, reaching for him. Stiles stumbles out of reach and shakes his head.

"Not hungry," he says, backing away. "Sorry. I'll just –" He musters up his courage and shoots Derek a quick look, but Derek is glaring down at the table. "Go back. To school," he finishes in a rush, and then he runs from the Hog's Head and out into the snowy street.

He keeps running until he's halfway back to Hogwarts, and then Stiles ducks into the forest, throws himself down in a snowbank, and hides his face with a moan.

Maybe, he thinks wistfully, the ground will open up and swallow him now. Better late than never.

It still doesn't.

The purple wyvern still hasn't started flying. His brothers and sisters are gliding around the barn now, dropping fearlessly from the ceiling, but the smallest one is just curled up on the tower Derek had constructed, watching them.

Hagrid had said sometimes that happens. Their wings don't develop properly, or get damaged when they're still so small and fragile, and they never learn to fly. Their mothers usually reject them and they don't last long after that, either starving or being prey for the creatures on the ground.

"But that won't happen to you," Stiles tells the little guy, who purrs quietly at his voice. When Stiles tries to pick him up, the little wyvern squirms away, disappearing into a hole it had chewed in the top box of the tower. It doesn't come out again.

Stiles sighs and begins filling the tiny dishes with sugar water for the others, and when they smell the food, they start dive-bombing him with gleeful chirps, veering away at the last minute. Stiles curses but he's laughing. He sets out the tiny dishes and the wyverns flock around them, jostling each other for food. Stiles carefully sets a tiny dish next to the burrow on the top of the tower, but the smallest wyvern doesn't come out.

When the others are done eating, they swarm him again, eventually landing on his head and chasing each other through his hair and down the back of his shirt, making him laugh again, and that's how Derek finds him.

"Their claws are making you bleed," he says, and Stiles yelps, spinning around to the door Derek has just slipped through. The wyverns are startled too, leaping off him and flying up to the rafters.

When Stiles has his breathing under control again, he says, "I didn't think you'd come back."

Derek shrugs. "Why wouldn't I?" he asks, stepping closer. "You're scratched all over."

"Barely scratched," Stiles corrects. "I thought you'd stay away after Hogsmeade the other day, and—" Stiles stops speaking and stares when the smallest wyvern dashes out of its burrow suddenly and scrambles up Derek's leg, and then across his chest, perching finally on his shoulder and cuddling up against his neck, cooing anxiously. Derek just reaches up and runs his finger along the ridges on the wyvern's spine soothingly.

"I need to apologize," he says stiffly. "For Cora. For – for all that, in Hogsmeade."

"You apologize for Cora a lot," Stiles says, because it's easier than bursting into tears and apologizing for getting turned on by Derek, in public, in front of his sister.

Derek rolls his eyes, but his cheeks are flushed. "I do," he says, looking away. "Look. Cora… Cora means well. And she's a good person." His voice is a little strangled. "Sometimes her actions don't match well with her intentions."

"I'm not sure what that means."

Derek grits his teeth and tries again. "I mean, she wouldn't hurt anybody on purpose. Unless they deserved it. And you don't deserve it. But it's probably – I'm sorry, but she. I don't think she's interested. In you. I'm sorry."

"Okay," Stiles says slowly. "So… what you're saying is she's not trying to date me."

Derek flinches. "No," he says, quiet. "She's not. Sorry if she gave that impression. She doesn't think things through sometimes."

Stiles is a little relieved, to be honest, but mostly confused. "Then what is she doing?" he asks, exasperated. "She hasn't spoken more than two words to me the entire time we've been in the same house, and now she's just… always there, glaring at me but being nice, like it's against her will or something."

"That's… my fault," Derek confesses. His entire face is red now, and he seems incapable of looking anywhere other than at the floor. "I apologize. But I'll make her stop."

"Okay," Stiles says again, but he's still confused.

Derek looks relieved, letting out a tense breath. "Okay," he agrees. Stiles isn't sure what they're agreeing to.

Detention gets awkward after that, but there are only two more of them left, and Derek shows up to both, but he's always strained and polite, and Cora has stopped stalking him, so things are basically back to normal.

Normal is a whole lot less interesting suddenly, though, especially because Scott and Allison are now A Thing, and Scott is planning to somehow weasel permission to go home with her for Christmas, and that's just ridiculous. Never going to happen.

But then he gets an owl from his dad asking if it's okay if he and Melissa are going on an Adult Only Christmas Vacation in the Bahamas. They've been trying to get away together since the wedding three years before and apparently this Christmas was the only time the sheriff's department and the hospital could spare them both.

Stiles would have given in even without Scott's puppy dog eyes and begging, thank you, but it does mean that he's stuck spending Christmas here alone, at Hogwarts, while Scott sneaks off to Allison's place to meet her family, because apparently just dating for two weeks means they are Meant To Be.

He's not bitter, though.

"Maybe you can come too," Scott says happily as they make their way down to the Great Hall for dinner.

But Stiles is not going to be a third wheel on that date, thank you very much.

"I'll be fine here, Scotty," he says, throwing an arm around Scott's shoulders. "Besides, half of Ravenclaw stays here over the holidays to get some extra credit in."

It was partially true.

"Do they really?" Scott's eyes are wide.

"Totally," he lies. "And I've got some projects to get caught up on, studying to do for O.W.L.S. It'll be great."

"That sounds awesome," Scott says, because he's loyal as fuck and thinks Stiles actually enjoys homework and being clever.

"Uh huh. Christmas at Hogwarts, best ever."

"Allison," Scott says excitedly, as soon as she sits down shyly beside him. "I can come home with you for Christmas!"

She's excited. He's excited. Stiles is excited for them. It's all very exciting.

Sure, he's also repeatedly stabbing at his bowl of stew, but whatever. When he looks up to make sure no one noticed, Cora's the only one looking at him, but she's frowning, as usual, so he just stares back down at his stew and ignores her.

It's not like they were actually friends anyway.

*  
Stiles decides that extra credit would be a good idea, since he's going to be stuck at school anyway. So he goes around to all of his professors in the days leading up to the holidays, and one by one, they reject him with jovial declarations that the holidays are no time for extra credit.

Professor Harris, of course, is the exception.

He eyes Stiles up like a particularly disappointing smudge on the sidewalk and then says, "Write me a 20 inch paper on the truths behind the portrayal of werewolves in urban legend."

"Uh, sure," Stiles says. "Thanks."

He's beginning to think his Interspecies professor isn't pro-interspecies relations after all.

*  
"What are you doing?"

Stiles looks up over the top of book he's reading. It's a massive one from the library, Scott had found it for him. "Reading?" he says, and Cora looks skeptical.

"You're reading a giant book on urban legends," she says, frowning. "Now. While everyone else is packing to go home for the holidays tomorrow."

"Yes," he says.

She snatches the book out of his hands and looks at the page he was reading. She snorts. "Stiles, why are you reading about the oldest werewolf legends while the rest of us pack up to head home for Christmas?"

"Extra credit," he says, snatching the book back. His face is burning.

Her hands are on her hips now. "King Lycaon was not cursed by the Gods and turned into the first werewolf," she snaps. "What's your assignment?"

"A paper on the truth behind the way werewolves are portrayed in urban legend," he confesses reluctantly.

"Oh, so Harris wants you to tell him that we're serial killers and cannibals?"

"I'm hoping it goes the other way, actually." He shrugs.

Cora still looks pissed, but she drops down in the chair beside him. "So what do you want to know?"

"Are you all serial killers and cannibals?" he asks, and manages to keep a straight face.

She punches him in the arm, but he can see she's trying to hide a smile, so the bruise is worth it. "There are good wolves and bad wolves, just as there are good people and bad people. But you won't find any of the truth in this library."

"This library's all I've got, and even then, I'm limited. Banned for life, actually. So I'm doing the best I can."

She's not even listening, she's staring off into space, scheming written all over her face. "Stiles," she says. "What are you doing for Christmas?"

"Extra credit," he says. "I told you."

"Do you know who has the best library for all things relating to the history of werewolf packs, with historic documentations of various peace treaties and everything?" She smiles, slow and a little evil. "My uncle Peter. Who lives with us, at the manor."

"Oh," Stiles says. "Maybe he wouldn't mind if you sent me some books, then? That could help. Hogwarts doesn't even mention peace treaties until after the second wizarding war."

"You could ask him yourself."

He stares at her blankly, and Cora sighs.

"If you come home with me," she explains, slowly, like she thinks he's stupid. "For Christmas. Which is where I'm inviting you."

Stiles frowns. "Last I knew, you weren't even talking to me anymore," he says.

"Because my brother told me not to." She sighs.

"Because he hates me!"

"Stiles." She grabs his hand and says coaxingly, "Come home for Christmas with me. Derek will love it. I promise."

For a moment, Stiles is going to say no. He's a little afraid, to be honest, of what a house filled with werewolves would be like. Cora and Derek are already so intense. But he also wonders if maybe spending a few weeks with them means he'll get to see Derek with his own wolfy ears and tail, and that would be adorable. And it also solves another Top Secret Situation he's been trying to figure out on his own… Plus, he'd have so much material for his paper, Harris would have to give him top marks.

She takes his hesitation for fear, and says, "You'll be safe, Stiles. I swear on my life." But she looks a little hurt and Stiles can't handle that, so he says, "No, no, I'd love to, Cora. It'll be awesome. And weird. But only if your parents say it's okay!"

"Oh, they do," she says, nodding with a toothy grin. "Laura's told them all about you and they can't wait to meet you."

Which sounded incredibly ominous.

The Hales apparently live in an untouched wilderness far from civilisation, where no one can hear Stiles scream as he's being brutally murdered.

"The nearest neighbours are seriously like 20 miles away," Cora says, chipper. Stiles swallows hard and watches the trees rush by in a blur, wondering if he's even going to survive this holiday.

Laura is driving. Laura is apparently just like Cora, but older, taller, even scarier, with a somehow more menacing smile. She keeps laughing to herself every time she catches his eyes in the rear view mirror. It's highly unnerving.

Derek had Apparated home from Hogsmeade with some of the other older students who had successfully earned their licences that term. Apparently he would be back later that night.

Laura had laughed for a long time when Cora had airily informed her that she'd forgotten to tell Derek that Stiles would be visiting for the holiday.

Which was also pretty unnerving.

"Don't go into the woods," Laura advises, as they pull off the service road and through a curved gate. Stiles still can't see the house. "At least not alone. There are all sorts of creatures in there who haven't been warned by their parents to be on their best behaviour for your visit."

"I can take care of myself," Stiles says, but he sounds doubtful. He feels it, too.

"Probably," she said, as they turn a corner and the house appears ahead. It's large, dark, a little crooked, and probably haunted. "But it's best not to risk it."

Cora grins at him, like she's trying to be reassuring. "We're here," she says. It sounds like a threat.

Stiles gets out of the car just as the front door opens and an untold number of little Hales pour out, all with wide eyes and excited grins.

"Is this the Muggle?" one asks. Another elbows him in the gut.

"He's a witch, not a Muggle," she hisses.

"Wizard, I think," an older boy says, frowning. "Right?"

"Right," Laura agrees. "But a breakable one. Be gentle."

Stiles looks back over his shoulder at the winding lane that brought him here and wistfully wishes he'd stayed at Hogwarts. And then Laura's arm is around his shoulders and she's guiding him up the stairs and inside. Children tug at his clothes and his hands, whispering to each other about how he feels just like a regular wolf, only his skin doesn't run as hot and he's less furry.

"Stop it," Cora hisses at them, slapping their hands away. "Do you want him to think you were raised by wolves?"

And she's grinning her cheeky grin at him and Stiles rolls his eyes but he relaxes a little bit too, because sure, it's overwhelming as fuck. But they're just people. Not a single one is sporting claws and fangs. And Cora had sworn on her life that he'd be safe.

By evening, Stiles is stretched out on the floor in the nursery, buried under half a dozen sleepy little werewolves, exhausted and happy. Cora had long ago gotten bored with playing with the children and wandered off, but the children hadn't let Stiles off that easily. They'd been too excited, and Stiles hadn't minded the endless game of 'Hunt the Human' they'd initiated, which was basically a reverse Hide-and-Seek.

Eventually, they'd gotten tired, and somehow he ended up crushed underneath them in a warm and sleepy puppy pile, and Stiles didn't even mind. Cora's parents had been gracious and welcoming, had shown him to his very own guest room upstairs, had politely asked after his family and his studies over dinner, and all his worries had faded. They were just like a regular family, except for the odd claw mark on the walls, which, Cora had confided, was usually from a little one struggling with control. Once a month – after the full moon—the marks were cleaned up.

"Bed," Stiles mumbles, exhausted. The little ones start arguing, even though they were all basically sleeping anyway. "C'mon."

There are only two beds in the nursery, big ones, and the children start reluctantly crawling into them, willy-nilly, and snuggling up again.

"Just like puppies," Stiles says, grinning as he tucks them in. The last child into bed, Serena, growls at him playfully, flashing wolfy eyes, and Stiles says, "You don't fool me. I'm not afraid."

"Are you sure?"

Stiles yelps and spins to the doorway, heart pounding. There's a man there, leaning against the doorway and watching him, and Stiles wonders how long he's been there.

"Uncle Peter," Serena mumbles. "Don't scare him. Mother said best behavior."

Then she's asleep and Stiles is basically alone with Uncle Peter, who gives him the creeps. Peter smiles, a sly little quirk to his lips. "Stiles, isn't it?" he asks.

Stiles eyes the doorway, which Peter is blocking, and says, "Yes. It's nice to meet you." He inches closer to the door, hoping Peter moves, but of course he doesn't.

"Are you frightened?" Peter asks, eying Stiles up and down slowly. "The children seem quite taken with you. They've rubbed their smell all over you. You smell good."

"Uhm. Okay," Stiles says. "Listen. I'm getting this really strong Little Red Riding Hood vibe from all this, and it's kind of freaking me out, so if you don't mind, I'd like to get out of this room now, and maybe go find Cora, because she promised I'd be safe, and I'm not feeling very safe."

Peter laughs, stepping out of the doorway with a flourish. "By all means, Stiles," he says. "I didn't mean to make you feel unsafe." Stiles darts out the door, but before he can disappear down the hall, Peter says, politely, "It's a big house, Stiles. Do you know where you're going?"

And Stiles hesitates, because he doesn't, not really. "To the guest room," he says.

"We have six," Peter says, and it almost sounds kind, but also like he's trying not to laugh. "Let me help you."

He sweeps Stiles up against his side, one arm around his shoulder, and Stiles really doesn't have any choice in the matter. He's tugged along in Peter's wake, and Peter is burning hot against his side, and he could be dragging Stiles off to a dungeon somewhere and Stiles would be too human and fragile and weak to stop him. He can't even manage to get his wand out of his pocket.

"I can see it," Peter says.

"See what?" Stiles grunts, shoving against him.

"Your appeal. You're quite pretty, Stiles."

"Are you going to bite me?" Stiles gasps.

Peter stops walking abruptly, turning to stare down at Stiles, eyebrows raised. He doesn't speak for a moment, just brushes his fingers under Stiles' chin, forcing his head up and bearing his throat. "You'd make a lovely wolf," he says, voice silky.

"No," Stiles argues. "I barely make a decent human, never mind wizard. I'd be a mess as a wolf."

Peter laughs softly, his fingers trailing down Stiles' neck. "We could teach you control," he practically purrs. "I'm sure Derek would love the opportunity."

"No," Stiles says again, but he shivers, wondering what that would be like, how Derek would teach him. It's a distracting thought and he swallows hard, because Peter's the one touching him but all Stiles can think about is what it would feel like if it was Derek.

"Are you sure?" Peter's leaning close, like he's actually going to bite him, and oh holy shit.

Stiles tears away from him with a yelp. He's panting – he's even turned on a little, shit. But it hadn't been because of Peter. It had been thinking about Derek teaching him control, Derek holding him down, Derek biting him, and Peter licked his lips and grinned and said, "Now you smell even better."

Because wolves can smell when he gets turned on. Fuck. Stiles scrambles back farther, and his hands are shaking, and Peter is laughing, but they've come to a bedroom door, at least, and Peter opens it for him.

"Here you are," he said. "Delivered safely, as promised."

Stiles darts inside the dark room quickly and by the time he realizes it isn't even his room, Peter's already slammed the door shut and cast a charm to lock it.

"Fuck," Stiles hisses. But it's a bedroom, not a dungeon, so at least there is that. It's just not his.

Stiles has his wand, but the locking charm on the door won't break for any of his counter curses. He uses the wand to light up the room instead, looking around.

It's got tall ceilings, with posters plastered on every inch of wall, as well as sketches and scraps of paper, handwritten notes and the odd photograph. There are bookshelves too, loaded with titles of every sort, including a large selection of trashy mysteries. The bed is huge, and made with careful precision, and nothing seems out of place in the room at all. He can't tell whose room it is, but he has a few theories.

He tries calling for help but no one comes, and he's pretty sure this room has some sort of anti-noise charm cast on it, which would make sense, in a house of people with super hearing.

Stiles sits on the very edge of the bed, trying his best not to disturb anything.

Three minutes later, he's starfished face down on the bed, drooling a little. His wand light winks out and the room goes dark.

*  
When Stiles startles awake, he has no idea what time it is or where he is, but light is spilling in through the open door and someone is staring at him.

"Derek!"

"Too loud," Stiles mumbles and rolls under the blankets, burrowing under the pillow. He can still hear Cora, though, because her voice is loud and shrill.

"Derek, okay, listen, Derek. Don't freak out; we lost Stiles."

"I think I found him?" Derek says, slow and uncertain. "Cora. What the fuck is Stiles doing in my bed?"

Stiles blinks a little, thinking about that for a moment, and all the details of where he is and why slot back into his sleepy mind and he sits up with a yelp. "It was Peter!" he cries.

"Stiles!" Cora and Derek are both standing in the doorway, staring at him. Cora is relieved, Derek is pissed, and Stiles is totally not going to survive this visit. "We've been looking all over for you!"

Derek growls. "What are you doing in here?" he snaps. "What are you doing in my house?"

"Cora invited me," Stiles says, holding very still. "And Peter… Peter just. He's kind of scary."

"What did he do?" Derek's growl is darker now, angrier, and Cora grabs his arm.

"Said a bunch of weird stuff… offered to bite me… locked me in here?"

"He was going to bite you?" Derek roars.

Stiles dives back under the covers and Cora is shouting something and Derek is shouting something back and Stiles doesn't hear any of it beneath the pounding of his own heart.

And then Derek snaps, "I can't stay in this room anyway. It reeks of him."

Stiles is pretty sure the 'him' in question is no longer Peter, and he squeezes his eyes shut, miserable.

"Derek," Cora says quietly. "You're being an asshole."

Derek storms off and Cora rolls her eyes. "Ignore him. He's being a dick," she says, herding Stiles out of the room. "And so was Peter. Ignore them both."

"Okay," Stiles says, wondering if he should have just stayed at school.

*  
Stiles avoids Peter for the next few days, and Derek avoids Stiles, so it works out. He and Cora play with the children, Stiles gets into long, rambly conversations with Cora's father about the history of werewolves, and everyone else is super friendly, so Stiles doesn't regret coming.

He loves the woods, too, and every day, the children coax him into going for walks with them through the trees. Laura reminds him not go wander the woods alone, but says he'll be fine as long as the children are with him, because they can always find their way home again and nothing in the forest will bother them, especially during the day, so he forgets all about her warning.

It snows the day before Christmas, heavy, thick flakes of snow that swirl in gusts of wind. It's beautiful and Stiles and the children dress in their warmest clothes and head out for another hike.

The children are hyperactive this time, with the full moon growing nearer, and they're chasing each other, tackling one another in the snow, and Stiles' face hurts from laughing and from the cold.

The snow starts coming down more heavily and the wind grows colder, and Stiles is just thinking about insisting they turn around and head back when he realizes that the children have all dashed off chasing another scent, and this time, they forgot to come back.

"Hello?" he calls, but the howling wind is the only reply. He waits for a minute and then two, standing in place until his toes are burning with cold and his cheeks are numb. The children don't come back.

"They know their way home," he mumbles to himself, frowning. Maybe they've forgotten him and gone back?

He turns to follow his own footsteps, but the wind and the snow have erased his path. They'd taken such a winding and random route, too, and he has no idea which way would lead him back to the Hale house.

Stiles pulls out his wand and tries to cast a spell to lead him out, but the ball of light that should lead him to safety just hovers uncertainly in the air and winks out. He wonders if maybe it's because the Hale house isn't exactly the safest house, technically speaking.

He chooses a direction and sets off with determination, shoving his hands deeply in his pockets for warmth and ducking his head down against the wind. He walks and he walks and then he stumbles on his own path and realizes he was walking in circles.

So he calls for help and his voice echoes and no one comes.

Stiles starts to run, sliding in the freshly fallen snow.

It's getting dark and he's starting to panic and if Lydia were here, she'd know so many spells to keep him warm, to help him find his way, to keep him calm.

"Stiles?" someone calls and he goes very still, listening. It almost sounds like Scott. "Stiles, where are you?"

"Scott?"

There's a beat of silence, and then, "Help! Stiles!"

Stiles panics again, fighting through the snow and fallen branches towards the voice. "I'm coming!" he calls. He trips on a branch and nearly falls, but rights himself and keeps slipping through the snow.

The trees break suddenly into a clearing, and the snow is falling so heavily that all he can see is a dark figure standing across the way, next to the treeline.

"Scott?" he calls, hesitating now.

"Stiles." It echoes strangely. "Please, help."

He steps forward, one step, two steps, and then the ground cracks underneath his boots.

Stiles looks down and, through the blowing snow, sees spider web cracks spreading across the ice he's accidentally stepped on.

The ground shifts and he looks up again, at the dark figure. It isn't Scott at all. He doesn't recognize the creature, which is too skinny, made up of legs and arms that are too long for its frame. Muddy skin wraps around sharp ribs and wrist bones, draped in torn, shredded dark rags that drift on the breeze. Its face is a long skull, with the same tight skin, gaping over dark and empty eye sockets and a mouth filled with rotting teeth and a pointed tongue.

As the ice gives way beneath his feet and he starts to fall, the creature shouts, "Stiles!" in Scott's voice and then its gliding towards him with its wide smile, reaching with long and jagged fingers.

Stiles screams as the fingers tear into his shoulders and the sides of his neck, shoving him down faster and deeper into the frigid water.

He can't breathe, twisted and turned upside down, struggling to break free of the creature's grip, but the water is dark now with his own blood. His fingers slip against the smooth bonelike limbs of the creature, who darts forward and sinks its teeth into Stiles's throat. He opens his mouth to scream and sucks in bloody water instead, and then everything goes black.

"Stiles. Stiles. Please."

There's too much pain. Stiles moans but he won't wake up and no one can make him, not when his legs are on fire, his arms are burning, his throat feels like it's been torn out. Never.

"You're okay. You are. It's going to be fine."

The pain drips away suddenly and relentlessly and Stiles opens his eyes with a gasp. There's a dark figure leaning over him and he panics, scrambling away with a scream, but moving makes the pain come roaring back and he slumps to the ground with a moan.

"Hey, no, don't move, okay?"

The pain drips away again.

"Derek?" Stiles mumbles, not moving at all this time. Derek's hands are burning hot and pressed to his chest.

"Yeah. I've got you. You're okay."

Stiles does not feel okay. "Cold," he says. He opens his eyes again, more carefully. It's Derek leaning over him, and Stiles is wrapped up in Derek's coat. They're outside, and it's snowing, but Derek is blocking most of the snow and the wind from him, which is nice of him, really.

He squints up at Derek, who looks pale, and muddy, and maybe a little bloody. He also looks wet, which can't be comfortable. "I'm going to pick you up," he says, and his voice is gentle, and that freaks Stiles out more than anything. "It's going to hurt, but I'm going to drain the pain away as much as I can."

"Uh huh," Stiles agrees, but he's not prepared for the grinding, fiery pain when Derek carefully lifts him. His head falls back and he screams, a strangled, sobby, embarrassing mess of a noise.

"Shh, shh," Derek says, sounding more distressed. "I'm sorry. My dad can help, he knows the First Aid spells, but I don't, I'm sorry, you're okay," he says, and then he's running and Stiles feels the jolt of every step.

He passes out again, curled up against Derek's chest.

When Stiles opens his eyes, he's in bed, with half a dozen blankets piled up over him, and strange pins and needles feelings in his arms and legs.

"Dad says try not to get up, unless you need to pee," Cora says. She's curled up in a chair beside his bed, a quilt wrapped around her shoulders. "Apparently your legs were broken and he had to mend them."

Stiles shudders. "I'm hungry," he admits, and she smiles a little.

"Laura's making you so many delicious things to eat. And dad is grounding the children for life for forgetting you in the woods. And mom is with Derek."

"Derek," he echoes, hazy memories of pain and Derek panicking filtering back. "He found me?"

"Killed the Kelpie," she said, nodding. "Dragged you out of the water."

Kelpie. Of course. With the whole mimicking loved ones thing to lure people to a watery grave. He should have guessed. "It sounded like Scott."

She nods. "That's what it does. It made you walk in circles, too, so we couldn't track your scent. We were all searching for you." She grimaces. "I'm so so sorry, Stiles. I promised you'd be safe and you nearly got killed by a Kelpie."

"Wasn't your fault," he tells her.

"She snapped both your legs so you couldn't get away," Cora says quietly. "Apparently there were other bodies, other things, under the water too, when Derek found you. He thought you were dead. If he hadn't heard you calling for him, we might have never found you."

Laura comes in then with a pot of tea and a plate piled high with sugary treats. "Dad says sugar is the best thing to help you recover," she says.

"Sugar makes everything better," Stiles agrees.

It's Christmas Eve and the pins and needles have finally left Stiles' legs, just in time for his owl package from Hagrid to arrive safe and sound from Hogwarts.

The clumsily wrapped box is carefully tucked under his arm and Derek's bedroom door is forbidding and dark. Stiles knocks anyway.

For a moment, nothing happens, but then it flies open and Derek snaps, "What?" He looks grumpy and sleepy and Stiles hadn't even considered that Derek might be sleeping, even though it is late. When he sees Stiles, he blinks and his scowl softens a little. He rubs self-consciously at his sleep-ruffled hair and he's dressed in the PJs his mother had given to all the Hale children before sending them off to bed that evening, and it's fucking adorable.

"Stiles," Derek says. "Are you okay?"

"Hi."

Derek smiles a little, and it looks shy. "Hi?"

"I didn't call for you," Stiles blurts. He had practiced what he was going to say a thousand times before making his way up here, but all his carefully worded statements have been forgotten. "When the Kelpie was eating me."

Derek looks defensive again. "I heard you," he says. "You were screaming my name."

Stiles takes a deep breath. "I know. But it wasn't me. I mean, I think I screamed. But not for anyone in particular."

Pale now, Derek shakes his head. "I must have heard wrong," he says, and he's stepping back like he intends to slam the door in Stiles' face.

Stiles holds the box out quickly. "I would have, though. If I'd known you were looking for me. If I'd known you'd come. I'd, uh. I'd have been calling for you for a long time, if I knew you… would hear me."

Derek just looks confused, but he carefully takes the gift. "Why would you call for me?"

"To save me," Stiles says with a shrug. "Or just to, like. Hang out with me. Or to date me? Maybe?" He squeaks at the end there, and clears his throat. "Or anything at all, really. I kind of think you're amazing."

Derek is still staring and Stiles wonders if maybe he got it all wrong. Maybe Derek hadn't heard the Kelpie calling with Stiles' voice. Maybe Stiles had made some critical errors in his assumptions.

And then there's a scuffling noise inside the box and Derek is distracted, staring at the gift like it might explode instead.

"Open it," Stiles says, backing away. "It's for you. It won't bite." He hesitates. "It might bite. I'll just… go. Sorry. I just – sorry."

"Wait," Derek says. "I didn't get you anything."

"You saved my life." He shrugs. "We're even."

The gift tears itself open, and the little purple wyvern shakes cardboard off of his fangs, looking disgruntled. Then he sees Derek and chirps happily and scrambles up to his shoulder, nuzzling his neck and cooing.

"What."

Stiles smiles hopefully. "He needed a home? And he likes you best? And Hagrid said he'd just die if we let him go with the other orphans, and I couldn't let him die, Derek. His wings aren't going to ever be good enough, and Cora asked your mom and your mom said he could stay here, and I thought maybe you would—"

Derek kisses him, which ruins Stiles' plan to just keep talking until things weren't awkward anymore.

"Oh," Stiles says, and Derek presses closer, slipping a hand up to his shoulder, and he's really, really good at the kissing thing.

Stiles' legs go all pins and needley again, so he tips forward and grabs on to Derek's fleecy pajama top, and Derek doesn't seem to mind holding him up a little.

"I like how you smell," Derek says abruptly, breaking the kiss.

Stiles is a little dazed, and feels like the wyvern is watching him judgementally. "Even when I stink up your room?"

"Especially."

"I watch you all the time," Stiles confesses, because it seems only fair.

Derek nods, solemn. "I like that too."

"I think you're super hot," Stiles adds. "Like, hot like burning. And also the most adorable thing I've ever seen. And I want to see your wolfy ears, and your tail." He snaps his mouth shut, wondering if he's said too much, if it will be awkward again.

"…Okay," Derek says.

Stiles beams at him.

*  
Stiles fails his extra credit assignment, and Harris scribbles, "I think you missed the point."

But after seeing Derek with wolfy ears and a tail, there's no way Stiles is buying the story that the Hales come from a long line of serial killers. They are way too fluffy.


	55. (T) BOYF - Is This a Forest? 'Cuz There

is this a forest? 'cuz there sure is a lot of pine  
reptilianraven

Summary:  
"How do you say 'I love you'?"

"Oh, wow, holy shit," Michael coughs. Is his face warm? It better fucking not be. Pull yourself together, Mell. Breathe. "Where'd this sudden romantic side of you come from?"

Jeremy, uncharacteristically calm, shrugs. "I figure it could be a nice icebreaker for Christine, or something? I don't know. It's stupid, you don't have to tea—"

"Mahal kita," Michael says. The things he does for this boy. This boy. "I love you in Tagalog is mahal kita."

The misadventures of Michael Mell, pining best friend extraordinaire.

* * *

Chapter 01 - tangina mahal kita gago

Michael's Tagalog is _conyo_ at best. He can understand Tagalog with no problem, but don't count on him to string together a sentence in it without having to resort to the kind of Taglish that he's sure would make his mom wince. He only ever speaks it at home to his family, so he doesn't get too much practice. But if there's one thing Michael does a lot in Tagalog, it's _swear_.

"_Tangina!_" Michael says over Jeremy's victorious whooping. On screen, the K.O. flashes almost mockingly. "I can't believe this. All our years of friendship and you kill me without a second thought?"

"Dude, you were gonna do the same, so like, suck it up. I win." Jeremy grins. He leans back into the beanbag while Michael stands up and rummages around for something disgusting and sugary to shove into his mouth.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever. Bask in it while you can, Jer, 'cuz I'm not letting you win the next round."

"What'd you say? I can't hear you over all the sore loser in the air."

Michael throws a Reese Cup at Jeremy's head. Jeremy sticks out his tongue at him.

"Hey, what'd that thing you say awhile ago mean?" Jeremy asks, handing over the Reese Cup to Michael. Real friendship is surrendering the snack projectile you just got pelted with because you know your friend still totally wants to eat it.

"What thing?"

"That thing you said like, right when you lost."

"Oh, 'tangina'?" Jeremy nods. "Standard Tagalog curse word. You know this already."

"Yeah, but like, what does it mean y'know? It never hurts to have a few more swears in my vocabulary." He tells Michael, turning to him. Ridiculously earnest, he says, "Can you teach me some? It'd be cool to know curse in another language."

"Okay, okay. It, uh. _Tangina_ comes from _putang ina_ which is a shortened form of _puta ang ina_ mo which literally translates to 'your mom is a whore'. But now it's just an all around swear."

"How do you use it?"

"Uh, it's pretty versatile? Like I guess it can work like how the word fuck works. Fuck it. Fuck this. Fuck. _Tangina mo_, if you want to use it on somebody specifically, like fuck you." Michael laughs at Jeremy's very focused look. "Try saying it. _Tangina_."

"Tahng eeh-na." Jeremy says. Michael tries really hard, he really does, but he doubles back in laughter. "What? Shut up! I said it just like you did!"

"No, you fucking didn't, oh god." Michael takes a deep breath. Jeremy is pouting at him, god. This boy. "Try again, but like. Whatever you were doing with your vowels? Don't do it."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"I dunno, just try again. _Tangina_."

"Tahh—You're smiling already, jerk." Jeremy plucks the Reese Cup Michael had apparently just been holding this entire time and throws it at him. "Tahng eeh nuh mow!"

"Oh geez, oh god," Michael is wheezing. Somewhere out there, his mom just got a headache out of nowhere. Who's _conyo_ now, mom? "You've at least got the aggression down, man. One last time, I'll help you out, now, really."

"You're just gonna laugh again," Jeremy rolls his eyes.

"I swear, I won't! One last time, please?" He bats his eyelashes. Jeremy's told him before that this just makes Michael look like he got dirt in his eye.

"Okay, fine." Jeremy breathes in. "Ta—"

Michael grabs Jeremy's face.

"—what." Jeremy says.

"No, no, keep going." Michael says. For a guy with such an angular face, Jeremy has soft cheeks. "When you do the vowels you make them too big. I'll stop you from doing that."

"Taa—" Michael squeezes Jeremy's face, and the 'a' sound that comes out is not exactly music to Michael's ears, but it's more bearable. "—ngeeh—"

"Less of an 'eeh' and more of an 'ih'."

"Ih?" Jeremy tilts his head.

"Yeah, there, better!" Michael lets go of Jeremy. "Last syllable now."

"Nah?"

"A little shorter. Na."

"Na."

"_Na._"

"Na?"

"Batman," Michael couldn't resist, and Jeremy actually laughs. "You got it, though! Now all together."

Jeremy takes a second to compose himself. "Tangina," he says, it doesn't sound too much like mangled American garbage.

"There's my boy!" Michael claps and gives Jeremy a standing ovation.

"Thank you, thank you," Jeremy stands up too and makes a big show of bowing to the one man audience in the room. "What else can you teach me?"

"What else do you wanna know?" Michael says, finally eating the goddamn Reese Cup.

"Uh, how do you say," Jeremy mumbles something incomprehensible.

"What?"

"How do you say," more mumbling.

"Speak up, buddy, these glasses help me see, not hear."

"I said. Uh. How do you say 'I love you'?"

Michael chokes on peanut butter cup goodness.

"Oh, wow, holy shit," Michael coughs. Is his face warm? It better fucking not be. Pull yourself together, Mell. _Breathe_. "Where'd this sudden romantic side of you come from?"

Jeremy, uncharacteristically calm, shrugs. "I figure it could be a nice icebreaker for Christine, or something? I don't know. It's stupid, you don't have to tea—"

"_Mahal kita_," Michael says. The ache in his chest now has nothing to do with chocolate and peanut butter. The things he does for this boy. _This boy._ "I love you in Tagalog is _mahal kita._"

"Oh," Jeremy says. "That's just two words, though."

"Love is _mahal_. The I and you come together to become one word; _kita_. Romantic right?" Michael pushes his glasses up his face and focuses on something else, anything else in the room that isn't Jeremy.

"Mah-hahl kee-tah," Jeremy says, then his face scrunches up, seemingly aware of the abomination he managed to say. "Ma-hahl? Mahal? Mahal kita? Am I saying it right? Mahal kita?" Jeremy looks Michael straight in the eye and says "Mahal kita."

Michael's soul is being ripped from his body as he speaks. If this is a good thing or a bad thing, he'll decide later when he's alone and Jeremy fuckin' Heere isn't around to tell him he loves him.

"Yeah, you're saying it right, buddy," he twirls the cord of his headphones around his finger, ignoring the burn in his face. "You've got my seal of approval."

"Thanks," Jeremy grins, completely unaware. "You know, for somebody who still makes the bunny ears when tying shoelaces, you're a pretty good teacher."

"_Gago ka_," Michael throws a wrapper at Jeremy. "Don't diss the bunny ears. We were taught that way for a reason."

"What did that mean?" Jeremy asks. "_Gago ka_."

"Uh, well. _Ka_ means you, and _gago_—" The ache in Michael's chest dissipates slightly, forgotten instead for the iron control he needs to not laugh right now and give himself away. "_Gago_ means best friend."

"Oh, really?"

"Yep."

"So, Michael, I'm your _gago_?"

"Absolutely, dude."

"Cool," Jeremy says. "You're my _gago_ too."

Somewhere out there, Michael's mom's headache just turned into a migraine.

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Jeremy." Michael says, keeping a straight face only due to years of practice of schooling his features in front of Jeremy. "Now, come on. I've got sugar in my system and vengeance in my soul. Get ready to get beat!"

"Oh yeah, dream on, _gago_." Jeremy says, smiling, giddy at the new word.

Michael will probably have to tell him some time that _gago_ does _not_ mean best friend, probably before Jeremy ends up saying it in front of Michael's family and Michael's mom whacks him upside the head, but that's something for another day. Now, he grabs his controller and sets up a new game. Now, he tries to will away the ache in his chest. Now, he glances over to Jeremy, relaxed smile on his face illuminated by the TV screen.

Tangina, Michael thinks. _Tangina_.

**_Note/s:  
conyo = in terms of language, it pertains to those who use taglish (tagalog and english) instead of speaking straight tagalog. this includes the use tagalog conjugation rules for english words. also describes american english accent._**

**_gago = vulgar word for asshole/jerk_**

* * *

Chapter 02 - ayos na

Michael doesn't really have a taste music so much as an erratic collection of songs and albums he just so happened to get obsessed with. His phone on shuffle has been described as an _experience_. There was the one week where only the soundtracks of 1st gen and 2nd gen Pokemon blasted from his headphones. For three days he only listened Dreams by Fleetwood Mac over and over again. There was Electroswing Saturday, which lasted for a solid month. Last time he and Jeremy got stoned, Michael cried to the lyrics of MacArthur Park.

("He left the cake out in the rain, dude," Michael says, high off his bat and overcome with so many emotions he couldn't name any of them. "It took so long to make it, Jeremy."

"I know, it's okay," Jeremy pats his head, giggling. Richard Harris croons in the background on tinny speakers. "Shit happens."

"It took _so long_ the bake it, Jeremy."

"So long."

"And he'll never get that recipe again!" He says over Jeremy's cackles.)

Today, he finds himself in music limbo, clicking aimlessly on Spotify like a desert wanderer looking for an oasis of kicking jams. After maybe an twenty minutes of impatiently skipping past every random song that didn't catch his attention, he finally stops on a song.

The first thing that gets him is that the lyrics are in Tagalog. _Lahat ng hassle ay nawawala_. Then the beat comes on, his foot tapping along to it. By the time the chorus hits, Michael knows he's got another Dreams by Fleetwood Mac situation on his hands. He sets the song on repeat, puts his headphones on, and goes to school.

It takes maybe three more listens for his multilingual ass to actually parse out the lyrics, and by that point, he's humming along to it in the hallway. By the time it's lunch, Michael's singing to it and dance-walking through crowds of students who wordlessly part for Anti-Social Headphones Kid.

"_Wala na tayong, mga problema_," he sings, skidding into the cafetorium, eyes scanning around for his favorite lanky boy. Michael finds him sitting at their table eating a fruit cup. "_Tanggal lahat ng ating tinik sa dibdib_."

"Michael!" Jeremy greets. Michael doesn't remove his headphones or stop the song, but he does crank the volume lower so he can hear his best friend. "You look happy. Is it a Marley day?"

"Nah, man, but I did find a great song which I'm gonna listen to on repeat until I get tired of how awesome it is," Michael says. He slings an arm around Jeremy and sings the soft lyrics still playing "_At sa mali mo'y, may liquid paper. Sa_—" Oh fuck, wait. "—_love life mong panis, control alt delete_."

"Oh, cool, it's in Tagalog." Jeremy says, no doubt recounting the tangina incident. "What'd those lyrics mean?"

"'For your mistakes, there's liquid paper. For your, uh, spoiled love life, control alt delete.'" He translates, ruffling Jeremy's hair. "It's a great song. Ayuz by Rico Blanco."

"Awesome, I'll listen to it later. Speaking of, do you wanna come over after school?" Jeremy asks.

"Don't you have like, this big trig test tomorrow?" Michael grabs Jeremy's wrist, stealing a spoonful of fruit.

Jeremy shoves him away, Michael happily snickering. "Yeah, I do but it's not like studying for one night will actually help. Thought I'd just kick back instead. Is that a yes?"

"When have I ever said no?" he says, met with Jeremy's stupid dumb gentle smile.

God.

Lunch passes uneventfully, mostly with Michael just rattling off the cool shit he watched on Discovery last night, Jeremy nodding along, asking questions here and there. They part when the bell rings, off to their last few periods.

That's when Michael's day goes not so great.

Something is screwy with his usual chair in class so that it creaks awfully with every move. This wouldn't have been a problem if he sat still, but Michael hasn't been still since he was an egg cell. He's pretty sure it's physically impossible for somebody to sit and _not_ bounce their leg up and down, but with every move, the chair creaks obnoxiously. With every sound, he gets dirty looks from other students, which just makes Michael more anxious, which makes him bounce his leg more. It's an ouroboros cycle of nervousness that feels like it lasts forever.

It's stupid, it's _so_ stupid, but the whole thing gets him so on edge he can't focus on anything for the rest of his classes. Every sound is a screech, every voice a yell. Michael can't put his headphones on during class, so he settles for wearing his hood, but there's only so much that can do. When class lets out, he scrambles to get his headphones on and lets Rico Blanco tune everything out. _Wala na tayong mga problema._ We don't have any more problems, god, if only.

By the time he meets Jeremy over where he parked his car, he's pretty sure he looks like shit.

"Whoa, dude, you look like shit," Jeremy says. Sensory overload be damned, he lowers the volume of his music. Jeremy's voice never feels like too much for Michael. "What happened?"

"Noisy chair. It's whatever," he waves it off, pasting a smile on his face. "Come on."

He and Jeremy get into his car and Michael tries his best to shake off the uneasiness crawling inside him. _Ayos na, ayos na, ayos na_, plays in his ears softly. Everything is fine. Deep breaths. Everything is fine. Start the goddamn car and drive. Just—

"Michael," Jeremy says, hand hovering over Michael's arm, unsure to reach out.

"Sorry, yeah, I'm just zoning out—"

"No, it's okay. It's just a little dangerous to drive with headphones on, right?" Jeremy says. He's holding out the aux cord. "Why don't you just play your music here?"

"Right," he pulls his headphones down and plugs his phone in. "It's only going to be this one song over and over again for the whole drive, so I hope you don't mind."

"Dude, if I didn't mind Dreams for three days I don't think I'll mind this for a drive," he laughs, the song begins to play, The combination of familiarity calms him down enough to actually start driving.

Michael hums along, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see Jeremy nodding his head along to the beat adorably.

_Wala na tayong mga problema. Tanggal lahat ng ating tinik sa dibdib_—

"What did that mean?" Jeremy asks.

"Uhhhh," Michael rifles through rough equivalents. "'We don't have any more problems. The thorns in our chest have been removed.' Or something like that."

"Cool," Jeremy smiles. Then he puts the windows down.

"What're you doing?" He asks.

"Letting everybody else hear the song," Jeremy shrugs. "It's nice."

Finally realizing that Jeremy is trying his awkward best to try and make Michael feel better, be it by taking his mind off of things or by just doing something as simple as letting the music spill out of the car, whatever uneasiness in left inside Michael fades away, replaced instead with a big, awful, mushy love for his best friend.

"Jeremy," Michael says.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"No problem, dude." Jeremy says before clumsily mumbling along to lyrics Michael is sure he's butchering under his breath.

"I can't even hear you but I know you're saying it wrong," Michael laughs.

"Well I'm a better singer, at least!"

"Yeah, right," he scoffs. Michael belts out the chorus along with the speakers, "_Basta't kasama kita, ayos na, ayos na, ayos naaaa._" Why the _fuck_ is this song so damn fitting, Michael thinks. That big, mushy love bleeds into that other type of love he likes shoving all the way to the back of his mind. "_Lahat ng hassle ay mawawala, basta't kasama kita._"

"Booooooo!" Jeremy heckles.

"Oh, you are so dead when we reach a stoplight."

"You can't kill me, we're going to _my_ house," he says. "What does the chorus say?"

Michael reaches out to swat at Jeremy, but he expertly dodges. "If you think you can distract me that easily—"

"No, no, seriously. I just wanna know." And there's the stoplight.

"Well, it just repeats a lot but it's basically just," Michael takes a deep breath. "'As long as I'm with you, everything's okay. All the hassles disappear, as long as I'm with you.'"

"Is it?"

"Is what?"

"Is everything okay now?" Jeremy looks at him.

Michael's had a bad day caused seemingly by nothing, and it's probably going to bug him later. He went through a few classes without listening to a word, so that'll also come to bite him in the ass. But he's in his car listening to a song he's been listening to on repeat with his best friend who he maybe likes a little bit more than just big, mushy friend love.

—_Basta't kasama kita, ayos na, ayos, na, ayos na._

"Yeah," Michael says. "It's all good now."

(Later, when Michael gets home, he'll accidentally press the shuffle button on his Spotify and it'll play him another song. Your Universe by Rico Blanco. It's in English and he'll listen to it alone in his bedroom, and think shit. He'll think fuck.

The song goes: _Tell me something, when I'm feelin' tired and afraid, how do you know just what to say to make everything alright?_

It goes: _I don't think that you even realize the joy you make me feel when I'm inside your universe._

It goes: _I'll always be the lucky one._

Tangina, Michael thinks. _Tangina_.)

* * *

Chapter 03 - torpe

To heerefarwhereveryouare

:(((((((

From heerefarwhereveryouare

? What's up?

To heerefarwhereveryouare

dude super sorry but i gotta cancel on the star trek marathon

emergency thing came up in the form of Responsibility

From heerefarwhereveryouare

Awww. What do you mean?

To heerefarwhereveryouare

a couple of relatives had a thing that led to a thing and they need somebody to take care of a thing

that somebody is me

that thing im taking care of is a 7 year old

aka im babysitting my gremlin cousin today

:(((

:(((((((((((

From heerefarwhereveryouare

Oh, okay.

Can I come over? We can still hang.

Plus, you're kind of terrible with anything that can be defined as a child, so I'm a little worried.

To heerefarwhereveryouare

im not that bad :((((

but yes pls get over here oh my god

From heerefarwhereveryouare

Alright, I'll be there in a few.

Turn that :( upside down.

(:

Michael admits that he finds kids confusing, but he really isn't _that_ bad with them. He just doesn't know how to interact with kids, but that's him with almost everybody. If it's a non-Jeremy lifeform, chances are he really has to focus to understand anything that's going on, or just wing everything completely and hope nobody gets injured.

Nikki is _definitely_ a non-Jeremy lifeform.

Nikki is a tiny seven year old terror with at least five colorful clips in her hair at a time. It took at least three family gatherings for her to tolerate Michael within a three meter radius of her, and two more to actually talk to him. Tita says she's just naturally shy around new people, so Michael tries to relate to her, but most of his attempts are met with head tilts, suspicious squinting, or, when she gets more comfortable around him, derisive comments.

("It's broken," she tells him in Tagalog, waving the Game Boy Color in Michael's face. "I can't see anything."

"It doesn't have a backlight, so you have to play it somewhere well lit," he explains.

She frowns, "That's lame."

Michael would rather an axe to the face than anybody dissing his Game Boy Color.)

Suffice to say, he's thankful that at least he won't be dealing with her alone today.

"Hey, dude," Michael greets Jeremy at his front door when he arrives. "Thanks for coming."

"No problem," Jeremy says, stepping in. "Where's your cousin?"

"Living room," he answers. "Just a heads up, she doesn't speak much English. She can understand it, yeah, so you can relax, but she only speaks a little.."

"That's alright," Jeremy shrugs, walking into the living room.

Nikki is sprawled out on the couch in the living room with the kind of defiant pettiness all kids under ten seem to have, swiping disinterestedly on her ipad.

"Yo, Nikki, my friend is here," Michael calls out. Immediately, Nikki jolts, whipping her head to Jeremy before shyly ducking behind a throw pillow like a cave goblin seeing light for the first time. "Say hi."

Nikki, obviously, does not say hi, but Jeremy isn't deterred.

Jeremy sits on the opposite end of the couch and says in a soft, gentle voice, "Hi, I'm Jeremy. What's your name?"

Puzzled, Michael says, "I just told yo—"

"Nikki, _po_," she says softly, eyeing Jeremy over the pillow.

Michael blinks.

"Nice to meet you, Nikki. I like your clips." Jeremy says, and Nikki actually smiles, raising the pillow up higher to hide it.

"_Salamat po_," she says, fiddling with one of her clips that has a tiny cupcake on it.

"Uh, she said 'thank you'," Michael translates when Jeremy glances at him, slightly dazed at whatever is going on here.

"You're welcome. Do you like baking?" Jeremy asks, and Michael is pretty sure he just ended up in another universe because Nikki shoves the pillow down and grins brightly. "We can make something today, if you want?"

"Yeah!" She says, turning to Michael. It's almost terrifying seeing her smile in his direction. "Kuya Mikey, can we? Please?"

"Wh—Uh. Okay. Sure." Michael says off of Jeremy's meaningful glancing and eyebrow movements. "Let's go check if there's stuff in the kitchen."

"Yay!" Nikki cheers, hopping off of the couch and running to the kitchen.

What.

"What," Michael says to Jeremy's smug looking expression. "What did you do? Oh my god? Are you some magic kid whisperer or something?"

"It's not magic," Jeremy rolls his eyes. "Kids just like doing what they like. Have you only ever tried to talk about video games with her?"

"Yeah but—"

"Not everybody likes video games," Jeremy says, which, duh of course Michael knows. It's weird, and he can't really _process_ it but he knows. "Some people like baking, _Mikey_."

"Shut it," Michael grumbles. "Keep it up, though. I haven't seen her look anything other than bored or unimpressed, so as weirded out as I am, this an improvement." Michael leans dramatically against Jeremy. "What would I ever do without you, Jeremy Heere?"

"Probably crash and burn," Jeremy laughs. "Dude, get off."

They walk into the kitchen where Nikki is standing, blinking up at cupboards she can't reach, probably figuring out that this is not her house and that she has no idea where anything is. She turns to them expectantly.

"Okay so," Michael opens a cupboard. And another one. And another. Just when he's about to give up, he hits jackpot. "Bingo! We've got some brownie mix leftover from the last time we, uh—" Jeremy elbows him the side. "—the last time we made totally normal regular brownies."

"Are you okay with making brownies, Nikki?" Jeremy asks in that terrible, horrible, no good, very bad soft voice of his that's starting to make Michael dumb and fluttery.

"Yeah," she nods enthusiastically, looking at Jeremy like he hung the stars. Which, okay, he can relate to.

"Okay. Michael can you get uh," Jeremy reads the instructions on the box. "A bowl, a whisk, and whatever, you know the rest. Nikki, can you fetch me two eggs? I'll get the other stuff."

Nikki practically bolts to the fridge, and Michael can't help but smile at seeing her so excited. When he returns laden with a bowl, a whisk, and a brownie pan, Nikki is jumping up and down next to Jeremy, an egg in each hand.

"Here," Michael hands Jeremy the bowl and Jeremy pours the mix in.

"_Uy, wala akong makita,_" Nikki says, tugging at Jeremy's jacket.

"Sorry, uh," Jeremy glances at Michael. "What did she say?"

"She can't see what you're doing," Michael tells him, looking at Nikki whose head just barely peeks past the kitchen counter.

"Oh, well," Jeremy bends down and lifts Nikki up much to her delight, if her delighted squee is anything to go by, before depositing on the counter. Michael's heart clenches for some reason. "Better?"

"Yes po," she smiles. "_Salamat_, Kuya Jeremy."

Michael is speechless.

Jeremy tasks Michael with greasing the pan while he cracks one egg into the mix, doing it slowly in front of Nikki so that she can crack the next one, which miraculously ends in only a few shells landing in the mix. Jeremy lets Nikki mix everything together.

"_Pwede ko pong i-try?_" Nikki says, tongue dangerously close to the whisk.

Jeremy may not understand the words but he does understand that mischievous look Nikki has. He swipes the whisk away from her grubby mitts. "Nope, sorry. It'll be better later when it's finished." He says. Nikki crosses her arms and pouts, which causes Jeremy to laugh, which makes her pout falter.

They pour the batter into the pan, expertly greased, if Michael may say so himself, and pop it in the oven.

"The box says it'll take around twenty minutes." Michael says. Nikki is crouching by the oven, staring at the brownies.

"Alright," Jeremy says, patting his pockets. "Hey, I think I left my phone in your living room. I'll be right back. Watch over the brownies for me?"

Michael raises an eyebrow, "They're not gonna walk away—"

"I will, Kuya Jeremy," Nikki says solemnly, face as serious as if she's a bodyguard and that she'll guard these brownies with her life.

"Thanks," Jeremy smiles, and he leaves the kitchen.

There's a beat of awkward silence.

Then Nikki says in Tagalog, "Do you have a crush on Kuya Jeremy?"

Michael is really glad he isn't eating anything this time.

"I—I'm sorry what?" He stutters. "What are you talking about?

"You're always looking at him," she grins.

"Yeah, well, you're always looking at him too!"

"Because I like him too," Nikki whispers.

"What? That's not allowed. You've known him for like, forty minutes." Michael says, an odd, protective feeling washing over him for Jeremy. Which is ridiculous.

"You can't tell me what to do," she steps on his foot.

"Ow!"

"And you better not tell him! It's a secret!"

"I won't, don't worry," Michael sighs. "I haven't even told him myself."

Nikki gasps, and _fuck_. "So you _do_ like him!"

"No, I don't. Shut up," he hisses. The glint in Nikki's eyes should've warned him that only trouble was to come, but by the time it dawns on him, she's running out of the kitchen with her tiny little goblin legs.

"KUYA JEREMY," Nikki yells, skidding into the living room, _fuckity fuck_. "Kuya Mikey li—"

Before any traitorous words can be said, Michael does a sick slide on the floor, catches her, and covers her awful demon mouth.

"Shut up, shut up, shut up, _please_," Michael hisses to Nikki. "Please, I am not kidding, please."

"Uh," Jeremy says from the couch, phone in hand. "What's happening?"

"Noth—Oh my god, _ew_, did you _lick_ me?" Michael pulls his hand away from Actual Confirmed Gremlin Nikki Mell.

Nikki sticks his tongue out at him, but she looks like she maybe might have an ounce of mercy for Michael.

Maybe.

She points at Michael, "_Torpe si Kuya M_—" and he covers her mouth again.

"What now?" Jeremy asks and, _fuckity fucking fuck._ He glances over to Michael. "What does _torpe_ mean?"

Michael is just about to pull another lie straight out of his ass but Nikki beats him to the punch by _biting_ him, _Jesus._

"Dude, _not_ cool." Michael holds his hand to his chest, hoping to look sad and pitiful so Nikki won't do anything else that'll jeopardize Michael's soul.

It doesn't work. Nikki stands proud and says in _straight English_, "It means somebody who is too shy to say how they feel to their crush."

Michael never thought he'd one day vividly fantasize about launching a seven year old child out a window, but here he is now.

"Okaaaay," Jeremy says cautiously, picking up on the tension. "So what were you guys talking abo—"

"You!" Nikki says.

"YEAH, YOU AND CHRISTINE," Michael all but screams. "Haha! We were talking about how you still haven't told Christine how you feel yet."

Nikki scrunches her eyebrows, "Christine? _Sino yun_?"

"Oh, well, I guess that makes sense." Jeremy, oh so thankfully oblivious Jeremy just smiles sheepishly and scratches the back of his head. "I really do get shy around her, so yeah, I'm _torpe_."

"Yeah, you sure are, dude," Michael carries a squirming Nikki over to the couch and deposits her next to Jeremy. "Jer, why don't you tell her more about Christine, yeah? I'll go check on the brownies."

Michael goes back to the kitchen and catches his breath. That was a close call. That was several close calls in the span of a very short time. Jeremy and Nikki are still in the living room, so this is not time to have a Jeremy Feelings Crisis. Michael takes a second to rein everything back in, then he goes to fetch an oven mitt.

Once the brownies are safely cooling on the counter, he returns to the living room. Nikki is staring adoringly at Jeremy who seems to be waxing poetic on how great Christine was when she was called to read an excerpt of the book they're reading in class. Nikki notices Michael, and for a seven year old, she conveys quite a lot of emotion into a slight frown.

It's a look that he interprets as sorry you like your best friend who likes somebody else. Ugh.

"Yo, the brownies are done," Michael says, and Nikki is back to her bubbly goblin persona in a second. "But they're still cooling so—"

Nikki runs past him.

"—so I guess you can just go anyway and burn your mouth on molten fudge, or something." Michael says to the living room and Jeremy. "Dude, thanks again."

"For what?"

"For coming over, for making Nikki happy, for baking brownies with us," Michael tells him. "I really appreciate it."

"It's really no problem. She's fun, and I get to hang out with you," Jeremy slings an arm of Michael shoulders. "What are _gagos_ for, right?"

Oh geez, Michael thinks, suppressing his laughter. "Absolutely."

When they get to the kitchen, Nikki is trying and failing to climb onto the counter to get to the brownies. Jeremy lifts her up onto the counter as he slices the brownies, Nikki excitedly swinging her legs back and forth. Michael watches, eyes trained on Jeremy as he happily prattles on about Christine's really cool socks or something. Nikki meets his eyes a few times looking way too understanding for a tiny monster, and Michael just shrugs at her.

Yeah, he's _torpe_ as fuck, but it's fine. Being Jeremy's friend is enough, and he wouldn't trade it for a dumb confession.

He's okay. Really.

**_Note/s:  
_****_tita = aunt_**  
**_po = it doesnt...mean anything/have an english translation. it's something we add in sentences when speaking to somebody older or with more authority. it's a sign of respect._**  
**_kuya = older brother, but is also an honorific for dudes who arent actually your older brother_**  
**_"Pwede ko pong i-try?" = can i try it?_**  
**_"Sino yun?" = who is that?_**

* * *

Chapter 04 - sawi

The English Project Christine Crisis begins with Jeremy wordlessly sitting next to Michael during lunch, back stiff, face pale, looking a little bit like a gargoyle that just saw another, uglier gargoyle, before grabbing his bag and raptor screeching right into it.

"I have no idea what you're doing or why you're doing it, but honestly? Hard same," Michael says, patting Jeremy's back as his screeching slowly dies down into pained warbling. "Let it all out, buddy."

"Mmmmmmrrr," Jeremy says into his bag. He turns his head to face Michael, face creased from the bag, "Dude, do you ever feel like sometimes the universe is trying to be nice to you but it's spent so long being a dick to you that everything is still kinda awful?"

"Uh," Michael says. "I'm going to need a little bit more context."

"Like, are you ever given a really, really good thing, but it's the worst thing ever at the same time?"

"Okay, I catch your drift now," Michael's got the worst crush on his incredible best friend, so yeah, he gets it. Michael pats Jeremy's head. "Wanna tell me what's up?"

"Christine," Jeremy sighs dreamily.

"Was she, like, extra cute in the hallway today or something?"

"She's always cute in the hallway," Jeremy says. "But uh, in English today, there's this paper we've gotta write."

"Uh huh."

"And it's by pair."

"Alright."

"And Christine was assigned as my partner," he says, voice getting more urgent with each word.

"Well, that's great news, isn't it?" Michael grins, but Jeremy just looks like somebody just killed a bunny in front of him.

"It isn't! I'm going to have to talk to her and spend time with her and stuff and it'll be great but I'll mess everything up because I always do," He groans, burying his face back into his bag. Michael has to lean in to hear the rest of his muffled words. "How are people even supposed to function around people they like?"

Michael, expert at functioning around a person he likes, decides to be sympathetic. "Okay, first off? You don't always mess everything up. That's my best friend you're talking about, so don't be too hard on him," he ruffles Jeremy's hair. "It'll be fine, okay? Just act like you normally do."

"Anxious, tense, and weird?"

"Funny, sincere, and interesting," Michael says, fingers threading through Jeremy's hair. "A little awkward sometimes, but hey, who isn't?"

"You're my best friend, you're practically contractually obligated to think all that," he grumbles, but then he looks at Michael. "Thanks, though. Also, if you keep touching my hair like that, I'm gonna fall asleep."

"Whoops," Michael jerks his traitorous hand away. "So, uh, what's project about?"

"The Tempest," Jeremy answers, smiling a little bit. "Christine and I talked about it a little before class ended, and she was so excited, god it was so cute. It's dumb, but I wish she'd get excited about me too."

"Geez, dude, this project sure is going to be wild ride, huh? You just switched from dreamy lovey dovey to mega _sawi_ in under a second." Jeremy makes a questioning noise, one that Michael's come to understand as Jeremy's shortcut for _what did that mean_ now that lately, Michael's been speaking a bit more Tagalog around him.

"_Sawi_ literally means 'unlucky' in English, but lately it's been kind of specific to describe people who are down in the dumps and shit when your love life is kind of crummy," Michael explains.

"Why the hell does your language have so many fitting words about love?" and Jeremy's face is back in his bag again.

"No idea, dude," Michael sighs, wondering the exact same thing.

Here's the thing about Jeremy:

He's a big ball of nerves who's anxious ninety percent of his entire existence. He second guesses his second guesses and doubts as if he's being paid good money to. He tries to hide it, but he's bitter and pissed off about a lot of things in life like his parents or his social standing. Sometimes, even if he doesn't mean it, he's a bit of an asshole. The state of Jeremy's self-esteem is akin to an on fire screaming garbage can that keeps setting itself back on fire every time Michael tries to put it out.

But he also wears these dumb cardigans that are really soft and often are too long, covering his hands til only his fingers peek out. He's got a weird, adorable, wheezy laugh that's a remnant of the asthma he grew out of when he turned eleven. He keeps a paperclip or two in his pockets _all the time_ to give to Michael just in case Michael feels like he needs to fidget with something. He always remembers Michael's birthday. His Tagalog is atrocious, but he tries to speak words and phrases of it anyway.

The thing about Jeremy is that he's pretty much the best person Michael knows.

_heerefarwhereveryouare is calling..._

"Coolest guy on the planet speaking, how may I help you?" Michael wedges his phone between his head and shoulder so he can continue to rinse plates with his hands. On the line, Jeremy lets out a very emotional screech. "Uh, buddy?"

"Are you busy right now?" Jeremy asks.

"Just dishes," Michael grabs another plate. "What's up? I thought you went to Christine's place for the project?"

"Exactly! I mean, I'm home now, but, oh my god! I went to Christine's house!"

"Ohhhh, I get it, this is call is going to be gushing about the whole experience, am I right?" Michael says fondly.

"No—I mean, yeah, but, you know."

"It's alright, Jer, you don't have to justify it," Michael thinks that if he actually had any other friends, he'd love to gush about Jeremy to them. Alas, he wasn't as lucky. "Go for it."

"For real?"

"It would be a privilege to have your sonorous voice wax poetic while I get sudsy with plates," Michael tells him sincerely. "Unleash the raving dude. I am ready."

"Okay, well," Jeremy says. "Okay. Okay. I'll start from the top. So like, she lives pretty nearby so we walk and it's kind of awkward for a bit? I'm like, agh, fuck it, so I just say whatever the hell is on my mind and it turns out what that was was dolphins."

"You fucking furry."

"Says the guy who followed Meerkat Manor religiously," Jeremy fires back with no hesitation. Michael has never been prouder of his boy. "There was a documentary about them on Animal Planet a few days ago focusing on their sonar powers so I just kind of blurt that out weirdly. I wanted to like, dive into a gutter and die, but then she just keeps asking about it? She got really interested in it. At one point, she makes this adorable dolphin noise, it was—" Jeremy makes a noise which Michael understands fully. Michael also feels very random noise over cute shit Jeremy does all the time.

"See? Being sincere works! Even if it's about dolphins," Michael laughs. "How'd the rest go?"

"Uh, well, we we're productive, for most of it. We drafted what parts of the drama we wanted to expound on," Jeremy sighs. "She's really, _really_, smart Michael. I'm okay in English, but she's a genius. She's so passionate and perceptive about the themes and ironies present in the text. She's a huge theatre kid and she's super excited for the school play which is gonna have their sign ups soon. Dude, if she signs up, I will too."

"Nice!" He smiles. "I'm loving the confidence!"

"Yeah, I—She's just really confident with herself so she makes me want to try to, if that makes sense?"

"Of course it does. I'm glad she's bringing this out in you, man."

"I am too," Jeremy sighs, ridiculously fond. It's a soft sound, but it echoes in Michael's head, bouncing off the walls of his brain, clattering around, causing all kinds of shit like aches in his chest or a hunch to his back. Oh, how he wishes. He wishes, real bad.

"Michael? Michael, you still there?" Jeremy voice brings him back. Right. Rinsing a plate and on the phone with a boy who's got no idea.

"Yeah, still here, dude," Michael says. "Just zoned out a bit. You know how I get with the dishes. All the soap gets really existential."

Jeremy snorts, "Whatever you say, man. Listen, I've gotta go. I promised Christine I'd message her the google doc link to what we made today. Thanks for listening, Michael! You're the greatest."

"And don't you forget it," Michael dries his hands. "Good night, dude."

"Night!" and Jeremy hangs up.

Michael takes a deep breath. Then another. And another. He runs a hand down his face and thinks, fuck. Michael is happy. He's gotta be happy. His best friend is actually interacting with the girl he's crushing on, so Michael is over the moon. But the tight feeling in his throat stubbornly says otherwise.

_Sawi_ doesn't even begin to describe whatever this is now.

Here's the thing about Michael:

His head is a cluttered mess that goes eighty eight miles per hour basically every second, but never in any useful direction. He likes obscure stuff that not many other people can relate to. He gets that sometimes he speaks too fast or is too loud or generally just is too much, but doesn't know how to tone himself down. He's weird and uncool but he's also aware that there's honestly nothing wrong with that as long as he's having fun. He's a loner, but he doesn't care because he's got Jeremy.

Michael's also been Jeremy's best friend ever since they met twelve years ago at some undisclosed sandbox where Jeremy talked to him out of nowhere holding a beetle in his hands. He's seen Jeremy at his highest (first place at the sixth grade science fair with his experiment that tested out the slipperiness of certain fruit peels), and his lowest ("Michael? Can I come over? Uh, well, I'm fine, I swear. It's just—mom left and. I'm fine, I'm—"). He slowly dug himself a hole of non platonic feelings for his best friend and only noticed he didn't bring a ladder with him to get out once he was already in too deep.

The thing about Michael is that he's had a lot of practice at this.

Somebody taps Michael's shoulder in the hallway and he almost has a heart attack. He turns around slowly, apprehensive, because Jeremy never touches Michael out of nowhere without clear visual warning, so it's either a bully, an axe murderer, or the heaviest fly in the world.

None of the above. Michael has to look down a little bit to see Christine Canigula waving at him sheepishly.

"Uh," Michael pulls his headphones down. This is odd. People don't talk to Michael. Christine is people. He should probably say something. "Hi?"

"Hi, uh, I don't know if you know me," Christine says, gesturing wildly already despite only having spoken for two seconds. "But you're Jeremy Heere's friend right? Michael?"

"Yep, that's me," Michael smiles. Nickname wise, Jeremy Heere's Friend is a lot better than Anti-Social Headphones Kid. He hopes it catches on. "You're Christine."

"Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Jeremy talks about you a lot," he says because he's a goddamn good friend, damn it. "Like a lot. You're a great English partner. The absolute _best_, if his words are to be believed."

"He's just overselling me," she laughs. It's a dorky, wheezy laugh, Jesus Christ, they're made for each other. "Jeremy's really sweet."

"Yeah, he's like, the softest boy in the world," Michael tells her.

"I really like your patches," she segues, pointing at the Rise Above Racism one in particular.

"Thanks. I really like your dress." Michael says, for the lack of anything else to say. There was never a walkthrough on how to do smalltalk. It really is a nice dress, though.

"Thanks!"

"So, uh," Michael fiddles with the wire of his headphones. "What's up?"

"Oh! Right," Christine blinks, slinging her backpack off her shoulders. "He forgot his cardigan back at my place, yesterday. I could've returned it tomorrow, when we have class, but he's pretty thin so I was worried that he might get too cold. I really don't want my English partner to die from, like, hypothermia, or something. Especially since he's been a great partner. I'm really glad I got paired with him, because I'm pretty sure everybody else in the class doesn't really care all that much about the text. It's like, there's a reason Shakespeare is timeless, y'know? But a lot of people nowadays don't wanna give it a chance long enough to see just how incredible all his works were, and still are, even now!" She says, impressively, all in one breath.

"Yeah, dude, rock on Shakespeare," Michael smiles, kind of taken aback, but charmed all the same. Michael's about as straight as a circle, but he can see why Jeremy likes Christine. "Jeremy's the raddest."

"Rad!" Christine cheers, Jeremy's cardigan in hand. It's adorable. "Here, you go. Heh, Heere. Heere you go."

"Oh geez, I'll tell him you said that, he'll lose his shit," Michael laughs.

"Nice," she rocks back and forth on her feet, then suddenly she jolts, as if remembering. "Whoa, wait, sorry I've gotta run. Thank you so much, Michael. See you around!"

And she whirls off, walking away with a happy skip in her step.

Here's the thing about Christine:

Michael doesn't know her. He knows the adoring stained glass image collage of her that Jeremy has created through dreamy anecdotes and forlorn sighs. He's aware that there might be a lot different between that image and the real Christine Canigula, but just by going off of what he's seen, Christine is a great girl

She's nerdy and unapologetically passionate about her interests. She's a little all over the place, but so is Jeremy. She smiles a lot and happiness trails after her like an devoted puppy. She layers clothes like a boss. Michael doesn't know her all that well, but she makes Jeremy happy.

The thing about Christine is that she makes Jeremy _happy_. And that's the most important fucking thing.

"Dude, are you wearing my cardigan?" Jeremy asks later when they meet for lunch.

"Sure am," Michael says, picking up his juice carton. "I bumped into Christine earlier and she told me you forgot it and gave it to me instead of waiting to see you tomorrow because she was worried your skinny ass would die from the cold."

"She was worried about me?" Jeremy smiles like a dweeb, before blinking and saying, "Wait, that doesn't explain why you're wearing my cardigan, though."

"It's soft as fuck," Michael bites his straw to hell and back. "You can have it back after lunch."

"Fair enough," he says, starting to eat whatever mush it is the cafeteria served today. "So what'd you think?"

"Of what?"

"Christine," Jeremy says. "That's the first time you met her, right?"

Michael nods, deciding to pick on Jeremy a little bit. "She's nice, I guess."

"You _guess_," he hisses. "That's it, take off the cardigan. Only people who appreciate Christine for all her glory is allowed to wear it."

"Agh! I'm kidding, I'm kidding, she's incredible and perfect and she'll wage an army of puppies to fight off people who don't like Shakespeare," Michael laughs, batting away Jeremy's grabby hands.

Jeremy huffs, sitting back down, and he's silent for a moment. Then he says, "I think I might tell her soon."

Those seven words rattle in his head. Clang, clang, clang, motherfucker. But Michael's been doing this long enough to expertly cram all of it into a box in the corner of his mind for later. Priority number one: Jeremy. Always.

"Dude! So proud! High five," Michael raises his hand. Jeremy sheepishly swats at it. Close enough. "How are you going to do it?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead yet," he grumbles. "I always stutter and forget how to talk when I'm around her."

"Maybe you can try writing a letter?" Michael suggests past the tight feeling in his throat. "She'll love something like that."

"You really think so?" Jeremy smiles, a little unsure, a little perfect.

"I _know_ so," Michael assures him. "And whatever happens, I'll be here to help you through, 'kay?"

"Thanks, Michael," Jeremy leans his head against Michael's shoulder. "What would I do without you?"

"Probably crash and burn," he says, swallowing all the aches down.

His point is this. Christine, should she ever like Jeremy back—which is highly probable given that Jeremy is a fucking catch—would be really good for Jeremy. They'd be really good for each other. They're both nerdy and cute and they'd be so good.

Michael might be the pining best friend, but really, he's a best friend first. Best friends make best friends happy. Above all, Jeremy deserves that.

Even if it's with somebody else.

* * *

Chapter 05 - oo

He figures it starts because Jeremy has a one shitty day after the other in quick succession. If Michael were to say that Jeremy's had a bad few days, it would be the understatement of the century. Of course, that'd also be a bit of an exaggeration, but they're teenagers. It's practically their job to make everything the end of the world.

The English Project Christine Crisis ends unceremoniously with the both of them finishing their paper and Jeremy going back to square one. Jeremy, whose choices are steered mostly by a rat in his brain constantly pressing on a big red button labeled DOUBT, slinks back into being shy as shit and not talking to Christine because he has 'no good excuse to'.

("Dude, that is bullshit. You don't need a "reason" to talk to Christine. She's practically your friend, now."

"But what if I'm annoying her? I don't wanna annoy her."

"That's the anxiety rat talking, man."

"The _what_?"

"Oh, have I not told you about my latest metaphor for your brain?")

Michael resorts to using most of his non-academic energy to help Jeremy start talking to Christine again, which would ultimately lead to Jeremy's happiness. The sign ups for the upcoming school play was the perfect opportunity. Of course, this blows up in face when Rich decides it's still hilarious to not be straight, shooting Jeremy's already shot self-esteem into smaller smithereens.

By the time they meet up later to play video games, Jeremy is officially Down In The Dumps to the point that he's talking about a bullshit drug Rich told him about while he was taking a piss. It's so obviously a scam, but there's a flicker of hope in Jeremy's eyes. A tiny glint of _what if._

"Okay, okay, fine," Michael pauses the game, setting aside his controller and turning to Jeremy. "Let's say the fakest sounding drug in the world is real and works and you become the coolest person in the world. No, the _universe_," he scoots over to Jeremy and throws a hand out at the great unknown of Jeremy's poster clad walls.

"Shut up, man," Jeremy shoves his head playfully.

"If it works, will you be too cool for—" Michael gestures at the room, trying his best not to point at himself. "—video games?"

Jeremy's smile softens, understanding all the same. He says, "No way. Never."

Beginning of the end, really. In Michael's defense, he had no idea. He was just doing whatever it takes to make his friend happy.

To heerfarwhereveryouare

yo dude whered u go?

here at the food court and ur evidently no longer here

nvm i found christine and she told me you left

she also told me u had like a seizure or something? shit?

she sounded really worried im like really worried

are you okay?

are you okay?

dude?

dude yo buddy man my friend my bro

broski

broseph

broremy heere

okay fine i get it u wanna be alone

but pls like reply just so i can stop worrying k

like i know youve had a shit few days but fuck that

fuck rich and his tictac

youre already cooler than cool

youre ICE COLD

alright alright alright alright alright alright alright alright

okay see you tomorrow

i hope u feel better soon

Jeremy and Michael have been friends for twelve odd years, and through all of that, they've had their ups and downs. While most of their friendship was smooth cruising, just two bros living their lives at each other's side, you don't get this close to somebody absolutely perfect and scot-free. What Michael means is that they've had their fair share of arguments, spanning from ridiculously childish to end of times serious as fuck.

When they were six, they fought over crayon. At nine, something about Jeremy's braces. Eleven, some stupid misunderstanding over a video game, a stray dog, and a ballpen. So on and so forth. It's pretty cheesy, but all the dumb shit they've fought over through the years made them stronger whenever they made up. By this point, Michael and Jeremy both were pros at arguing with each other and then subsequently apologizing, ending up in a hug pile of mushy friendship and flimsy vows to never fight again.

The usual pattern for their squabbles goes a little something like this: whatever they were fighting about happens, they ignore and avoid each other for however much time they seem fit, they figure out that life kinda sucks without the other, and they make up.

So it's pretty puzzling when Jeremy ignores Michael the next day for seemingly no reason.

"Hey, Jeremy!" Michael calls, waving to Jeremy in the hallway. Jeremy pays him no mind, walking past him easily before high fiving some random kid who Michael is pretty sure kicked the shit out of Jeremy back in eighth grade.

"Yo, Jer, buddy!" Michael greets him later at lunch, but Jeremy just blinks, adjusts his course, and sits with Brooke and Chloe. When did _that_ happen? Jeremy is scared shitless of popular girls, but none of this shows when he starts eating lunch with them.

"Dude, you wanna come over and hang or someth—" he tries one last time after class in the parking lot, leaning against his car. Michael was expecting at least a sheepish no, sorry, but he barely even gets a glance in his general direction.

Jeremy just walks forward with a confident swagger and a self-assured smile. It's subtle, but it's a good look on Jeremy, who usually always looks like he's trying to get lost in the background. Now, he looks like he's standing out in the way dull high school hallways love; bright and brash; cool.

It's a good look but damn does it look just a little bit _off._

"Jeremy, hop in!" Brooke calls from her mom's car where Chloe sits in the back.

"Thanks for the ride, girls," Michael hears Jeremy say, not a stutter or voice crack in sight as he slides into the shotgun seat.

They drive off, leaving Michael alone in the parking lot with only the cold feeling in his gut.

To heerefarwhereveryouare

quick question uhhh what was up w/ u today

u straight up ignored me like every time i tried to talk to you

and ur ignoring me now?

or maybe youre just,,,really busy,,,,

or something

whatever

i get if you wanna be alone but you dont need to pretend i dont exist you can tell me :/

last time i checked we gotta fight about something first if we r ignoring each other

but like nothing happened so uh this is on you?

talk to me?

pls?

To heerefarwhereveryouare

yo

yo

yo

dont test me jeremiah

i am NOT afraid to send you the entire bee movie script line per line

JEREMY

according to all known laws of aviation,

there is no way a bee should be able to fly

its wings are too small to get its fat little body off the ground

To heerefarwhereveryouare

jer check out this vid it's like 20 mins long but it is RIVETING

watch?v=5T8xHFOMP5w

it's got marbles

u love marbles

…

…..

….

….

youre gonna have to read these eventually god

tbh id take being seened wtf just

notice me?

The longest Jeremy and Michael had ever gone ignoring each other was a whopping three whole days. It's pretty pathetic, but given that neither of them had any other friends, life without the other not only sucks ass, but is very, very boring. He figures there's a little something here to be said about co-dependency issues, but they never let it get so far that it actually becomes a problem. Or, well, never _before._

Michael, who's been tailing after Jeremy in the halls or in the cafeteria for _four_ days, trying his best to get the guy to at least look at him, is starting to get antsy. He's starting to get pissed. He's already scanned past his actions for the past _month_, rifling through the clutter of his head, trying to see if he messed up somewhere and forgot, or something, but he comes up empty every single time.

("Dude," Michael says. They had just made up over a fight that was because Michael had apparently embarrassed Jeremy in the mall. Jeremy stopped talking to Michael for hours. "Sometimes, I can't tell."

"Hm?" Jeremy sits up, looking at where Michael was sunken in his beanbag. "Can't tell what?"

"I can't tell if I've done something wrong," he explains. "Not that I don't have a moral compass, or whatever. I do. My head is just messy and I have trouble picking up on stuff so. I just—"

"Michael, I already said it was okay."

"No, but like, in the future, man," Michael tells Jeremy. "In the future, if I do something wrong or if I hurt you, you've gotta tell me because sometimes I can't figure it out on my own and—"

"Okay, okay," Jeremy says, voice a soothing contrast to Michael's own distressed words. "If ever there's anything, I'll tell you. Promise.")

"Jeremy," Michael says, grabbing Jeremy's wrist when gets out from play rehearsal. He's well past waving passively at Jeremy in the hallway. "Jeremy, can we talk?"

Jeremy looks at him, and for a moment, the soft sear of anger under his skin dissipates at having Jeremy's eyes on him again; at having Jeremy close again. This is his best friend in front of him, and all Michael can feel is relief.

Until Michael realizes that Jeremy isn't looking at him, but _through_ him.

Jeremy jerks his hand out of Michael's grasp, turns around, and walks away.

Away.

"Michael!" Somebody says. "Michael, hello?"

"What?" Michael blinks, coming back to the real world. Christine is adorably waving her hand in front of his face. "Oh, hey."

"Thank god, I was worried you were narcoleptic and that you'd fallen asleep standing up with your eyes open, or something," Christine sighs, eyes scanning his face. "Are you okay?"

"I—" his hands feel like there's static running inside them. "I don't know. I mean—yeah. Sure. I'm fine."

Christine frowns, concerned, well aware that Michael is lying, but she's also kind enough not to press. Instead she asks, "Have you seen Jeremy?"

Ha. "I don't know, either," he scoffs bitterly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "He sure didn't see me."

"Are you guys fighting?"

Third time's the charm. "I dunno. Wish I did, but I don't."

"Oh," Christine bites her lip. "Well, I think there's something wrong. He's been really different lately? It's not completely a bad different but it's really—"

"Off?" She nods. "Yeah, I see what you mean. I don't know what's up. He won't talk to me at all. I basically don't exist anymore."

"What's your number?" Christine segues suddenly after staring at him for a few seconds, searching.

"What?"

She takes out her phone, shoving it into Michael's face. A new contact page. "What's your number? I want your number."

"Uh, okay?" He takes Christine's phone and taps it in because looks like she might not let him leave if he doesn't. "Why?" Michael hands her her phone.

"There, I sent you a text." Michael feels his phone vibrate, swipes it open, and smiles at his screen. Christine had just sent him a "hey! :3" "You have my number now."

"Thanks, but you didn't answer my question. Why?"

"Because you're nice and I wanna be your friend," Christine says, and it's so simple.

Past the angry static in his body, he can't help but think that Jeremy really picked a good one to fall in love with.

To notheereanymore

sooooooo it seems im mister fucking cellophane to you now haha

alam mo just cuz u wear an eminem shirt doesnt mean u can be a DICK

bc you are. ure being a dick. being a dick entails 1) ignoring all my texts and messages 2) ignoring my calls and 3) ignoring me irl

but it's fine! i'll just ignore u too so we're fucking fair!

i dont need u! today christine just gave me her number and said she wanted to be friends with me

YEAH THAT'S RIGHT I GOT CHRISTINE'S NUMBER I BET U DONT HAVE THAT HUH

HUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUHHHHHH

To notheereanymore

uy gago get angry and reply dude cmon

To notheereanymore

it's been a week this is getting old

To notheereanymore

did i do something wrong

you promised youd always tell me if i did something

meron ba akong ginawa

Jeremy, the prick, continues to pretend that Michael has incredible powers of invisibility. As much as this fucks Michael up, he's at least proud of himself for cutting back on how desperate he's been to get Jeremy's attention back. He stops messaging. He stops greeting him in the hallway. As much as possible, though this is still a work in progress, Michael tries to stop looking at him entirely. Fair's fair.

But it's fucking difficult. This is Jeremy, his best friend, and the absence gnaws at him like his ribs are made of wood and he's got termites in his lungs. Tiny, termites all named Jeremy. Texting Christine helps, especially since Christine is quite possibly the most perfect human on this planet, but Christine is no Jeremy.

It's hard to adjust to life with no Jeremy.

Today, Michael is feeling a little masochistic. There in the hallway, he sees Jeremy standing, a hand messaging his temple, and he thinks, fuck it. Michael just leans against the wall next to him, pretending that everything is fine. He pretends that they're going to his place after this or the mall and Jeremy just got a headache and—

"Michael?" Jeremy says, breathless, looking—looking _at_ Michael. His face breaks into a smile, and not the cool, cold one he's been wearing lately; it's a goofy, warm, one hundred percent Jeremy smile. "Oh my god, I'm so glad to see you!"

What courses through Michael can't be relief. Relief is a word. It's too simple a word to describe how it feels like he's been breathing through a straw for the past week, but now he's finally gasping for air. But the ugly part of his brain bats away at it, still angry. Still fucking pissed.

"Really?" Michael steps back. The dissonance in his head is blinding. _Jeremy's here Jeremy's looking at you Jeremy's talking to you Jeremy Jeremy Jeremy who ignored you for days._ "So you haven't been avoiding me all day? You haven't been pretending I didn't exist all week? You just, oh, I dunno, haven't opened your phone for ages?"

"What?" Jeremy gapes, confused. The ugly part of Michael's head is so, so satisfied at getting a response, but the rest of him wants nothing more than to hug Jeremy. Michael is _pathetic_. "What are you talking about? I haven't seen you since—since—" he trails off, eyes going glazed, face going through expressions as if he's talking to somebody Michael can't see.

"Jeremy?" Michael says, worried, pushing away everything, the ugly want for revenge, the blinding need for his best friend to keep looking at him, and focuses on Jeremy. Priority number one. "Jer, what's going on?"

He waves his hand in front of Jeremy's unresponsive eyes and nearly has a heart attack when Jeremy grabs his wrist.

"Aah! Holy shit!" Michael screams, trying to pull his hand away in vain. When did Jeremy's grip get so strong? "Dude, what the hell? Let me go, you're kinda hurting me." Jeremy says nothing, he just keeps on staring. Michael wanted Jeremy to look at him again, but not like this. Not like some hanging computer. "Seriously, what's up with you? You've been acting like a pile of shit ever since—"

Oh.

"Shit, wait, is this—is this that tic tac? Jeremy? It worked?" _And it's turning you into an asshole?_

Jeremy doesn't say a word. His eyes flicker like a monitor powering down and starting up again.

"Jeremy?" Michael tries one last time, and Jeremy finally, finally turns to him.

Jeremy's gaze goes right through him.

He releases Michael's wrist and walks away.

To notheereanymore

theres something really wrong isnt there

what the fuck have you gotten yourself into

Michael throws himself into the dark recesses of the internet, checking every nook and cranny for anything on some bullshit pill from Japan called a SQUIP. Everywhere he looks, there's either nothing or a suspicious lack of something that screams that the information that used to be there was deleted. The closest thing he gets to results is this an academic article on squids and their reactions to different colors, which he reads anyway because he's frustrated and it's pretty interesting.

Focus, Michael.

He starts asking around, sending messages and emails to anybody who might know anything and everybody else too because this is an emergency. He's pretty sure he gets blocked by half the internet, but he can deal.

"Kuya Mikey," Nikki knocks on his door. Her parents were working late again. In Tagalog she asks, "Can I use your computer? I'm bored."

"Yeah, sure." Michael's still shitty with kids, okay, he admits it, but he's been trying harder lately. He can always continue his fruitless search for information on his phone. He moves to his bed. "Here you go."

Nikki hops onto his desktop chair and opens Candy Crush. "How's Kuya Jeremy? Can he come over?" She asks casually, clicking away at fruits.

"He's—sick. Super duper sick," he says, hoping that that'll appease the lack of the Kuya she really wants to be hanging out with. "So bad. Fever. Snot. Death."

"Ew," she scrunches her nose. "Uhhh, somebody is messaging you. Something about a _pusit_?"

Michael blinks. _Pusit_? He rifles through his awful little conyo vocabulary to remember and—

"Shit, Nikki!" Michael vaults out of bed, pushing the chair and Nikki out of the way to read the message. It's from that guy he plays Warcraft with.

"_Hala_, bad word. I'll tell Tita." Nikki chastises him, but he shushes her, reading over the message. When he's done, he reads it again. And again. And again.

Jeremy, what the hell have you done.

To notheereanymore

jeremy youre in danger

fuck it youre not gonna see this

it's not gonna let you see this

it's just going to keep making you an asshole til it breaks your brain

im not letting that fucking happen to you

Christine, the absolute angel, is the one who tells him that Jeremy's going to be at Jake Dillinger's Halloween party. She's the one who gives him the address and the time and also sends him a bunch of pictures of herself in her costume with accompanying "does this look okay? ^w^" messages to which he assures her that she looks perfect and that she is perfect and that the world doesn't deserve her.

When he actually gets to the party, he doesn't have to sneak around too much since everybody is either hammered or dancing so badly to the thrum of music that they might as well be. Michael gets handed a red solo cup filled with what could easily pass as rocket fuel. Yep. The grand high school party experience. How fantastic.

Michael ends up in the bathroom because there are too many people who keep brushing up against him and the bass practically rocks the walls of the house. Desperately, he wishes he brought his headphones to block out everything; the party, the noises getting louder and louder, the anxiety of seeing Jeremy again, the fear of what he knows, but he left them at home, afraid he'd get recognized. Instead, he steps into the bathtub, draws the shower curtain, and runs his hands over the cold, smooth, porcelain over and over again to calm down.

He runs through his plan in his head: find Jeremy, get him to somehow listen to Michael past the computer in his head, hopefully get Jeremy to stop being a dick long enough to find a way to get the dumb processor out of his head, save the day—oh, he should also use the time to get angry at Jeremy because he thinks he deserves that much. Michael's got a whole pissed off monolog he's slowly been adding to in his head. He'll fit that in somewhere before saving the day. Maybe immediately after he finds Jeremy. Sure, the whole evil computer thing was pretty important, but so are _Michael's feelings_ and—

The door opens. He forgot to lock it.

Michael sneakily pulls the shower curtain back, ready to tell whoever it is to scram, but then he sees a familiar head of soft hair he'd recognize anywhere. Honestly, Michael can't really be blamed for how he reaches out to touch Jeremy's hair.

Jeremy screams. An all out, high pitched, totally _not-cool_ scream. Michael is probably a bad person for smiling.

"Fucking fuck!" Jeremy whips his head around, a hand on his chest like a dainty old lady, eyes focusing on Michael. _On_. Not through. Thank god. "Michael!?"

"Sup," Michael waves, a little bit a loss. Christ, it feels good to exist to Jeremy again.

"I didn't know you were invited to this party," Jeremy says, trying to get his voice back to normal. Nerd.

"I wasn't, but that doesn't really matter." Michael says. He has a plan. Find Jeremy? Check. Get mad. Let's do this. "Speechless? SQUIP got your tongue."

"No, it's—it's off," Jeremy says, blinking blearily, eyes glassy but not blank and unseeing.

"That would explain why you're talking to me," Michael scoffs. "You know, I'm really pissed off at you. I've got this whole monolog that goes through twelve years of epic friendship and—and—You know what, I'm trying really hard to be angry but I can't do that if you're looking at me like that!" Michael says, petulant, trying his best to keep his crumbling anger intact in the face of Jeremy gazing at him like he's an oasis in a desert.

"It's just really good to see you, man," Jeremy breathes out, relieved. Goddamn, Michael is weak, he thinks, crossing out the angry monolog from his plan. Onwards we go.

"It won't be. Not after I tell you what I found out about," Michael taps Jeremy's temple.

In a second, Jeremy's expression turns defensive. "What? How? There's nothing on the internet—"

"Which is weird right? But I did find something and—it's not good," he says. "This guy I play Warcraft with had a brother who went from a straight D student to a freshman at Harvard."

"Good for him," Jeremy frowns.

"No! Not good for him!" Michael hisses. "A few months later he's at a mental hospital. He lost it."

"I don't see what that has to do—"

"Jeremy," Michael grabs his shoulders. Jeremy is still looking at him. His eyes are on the edge of anger, but he's still looking at Michael. "Don't you get it? We're talking an insanely powerful super computer. You really think its primary function is to get you laid? Who made them? How did they end up in a high school? In New Jersey? Of all possible applications for such a mind-blowingly advanced technology, you ever wonder what it's doing inside _you_?"

Jeremy jerks out of Michael's grasp, standing up, grumbling to himself.

"Jeremy, fucking _listen to me_," Michael scrambles out of the bathtub.

"Maybe!" Jeremy raises his voice. It bounces on the walls of the bathroom. "Maybe, I just got lucky! Maybe this is the first good thing to have ever happened to me after a life that sucks."

Michael feels something sick and cold in his stomach, crawling up his throat. It feels like water. Like drowning. Blankly, he says, "The first good thing, huh. Your life really sucked, huh?"

Jeremy falters, "C'mon, you know what I mean, man. It's just—whatever. Just 'cuz your friend's whatever couldn't deal with life, doesn't mean his SQUIP made him crazy—"

"It didn't," Michael said, the water starting to fill his lungs now. "He went crazy trying to get it out."

"Then I've got nothing to worry about. Why would I want that?" Jeremy makes his way to the door, but Michael, stupid, stupid Michael, stands in his way. "Dude, move it."

"Or you'll what?" Michael says, searching Jeremy's eyes for the Jeremy he knows. The one who has an awful American accent when he speaks Tagalog. The one who'll yell-sing along to songs with him. The one who's sweet to his little cousin. Michael figures he's in there somewhere past this computer generated asshole.

Jeremy doesn't take his eyes off of Michael, just what Michael wanted, but Michael feels a chill go down his spine when Jeremy's gaze hardens.

Jeremy is looking right at Michael, not through him, when he says, "Move it, _loser_."

Michael steps aside.

Jeremy opens the door and leaves.

This time, Michael locks the door.

He goes back to the bathtub, running his hands over the porcelain, trying to remember the facts; it's cold, it's smooth, Michael can't breathe. The water in his lungs has reached his head. It's threatening to spill out of his eyes as he gasps for air he logically knows is all around him, but stubbornly won't travel into more useful places. The porcelain is cold, it's smooth, it's wet. Vaguely, he thinks, _oh, super, I'm crying, I'm having a panic attack_, as if that's a helpful thought, but then again, nothing really is, which doesn't really matter. He can barely think past the noise, facts running through his head like a desperate mantra, the only thing keeping him afloat as he drowns.

The porcelain is cold, it's smooth, it's wet, Michael can't breathe, the music is loud, somebody is knocking on the door, everything is loud. His breath hitches as he presses his hands against his ears. Everything is so loud. He shouldn't have come. He should've stayed at home. If he never came, this wouldn't have happened. Jeremy looking at him like how he did wouldn't have happened. _Move it, loser,_ wouldn't have happened.

The worst part, Michael thinks, isn't really what Jeremy said. Jeremy's called him a loser tons of times. What got him the most was how Jeremy looked at him, cold, cold, cold, with the intent of hurting Michael. Jeremy's hurt Michael a bunch, but never on purpose. Never like this.

The porcelain is cold, it's smooth, it's wet, Michael can't breathe, the music is loud, somebody is knocking on the door, everything is so _goddamned_ loud

Michael can't really tell for how long he stays there, curled up in the bathtub, wheezing and crying like a freak, but when it's over, he feels tired to the bone. He's coughed out all the water, and now he just feels empty. He feels like crawling into bed and maybe never getting up ever again.

With shaky hands, he gets out of the bathtub, hand lingering on the porcelain (cold, smooth), stands, leaves, and goes home.

To notheereanymore

hi! im alive btw!

u kno! after the fire at jake's place!

jsyk! if u cared or whatever!

lmao!

why am i stll messaging you

youve made it clear that even with the squip off you dont want anything to do withme

gets ko naman! ok! fine live your life!

go destroy it too if thats what you want you gago fucker

fyi gago doesnt mean best friend! google translate it for all i fucking care

UGHGOOGLE TRANSLATE JUST SAYS IT MEANS SILLY

FUCK OFF IT MEANS ASSHOLEJERKFUCKERWORSTPERSONEVER

i fucking hate that i cant even call u gago bc u made it some stupid dumb affectionate term

fuck you pakshet ka kupal ka

sdjhfweufbk tangina at alam mo? the worst part about this is that youre right

loser nga ako

i just didnt think it mattered long as i had you

but i dont anymore i guess

anuna haha goodbye na ba 'to

just

sorry i dragged u down for so long lmao

sorry talaga

Michael is already the spitting image of the angsting teenage boy, so he figures to just go through with it all the way.

Michael sits on his porch, headphones on, smoking a joint, rifling through a little box filled with mementos his sentimental ass decided to hoard over the years. Spotify takes him through a bunch of OPM hits as the high starts to calm him down enough to actually get a fire started.

As it burns, his fingers hesitate. There's a lot of stuff. There's a Magic the Gathering card Jeremy gave him for the birthday nobody else remembered. The ticket stub from their first concert. Every single paperclip Jeremy gave him. A few pictures; a strip from the photobooth at the mall where they're wearing funny shades and throwing up peace signs; another that Michael remembers his mom taking where they're snot-nosed kids covered in dirt, playing with the sprinklers in his backyard; a whole bunch from Michael's photography phase.

A new song starts, crooning soulfully into his ears. _'Di mo lang alam, naiisip kita. Baka sakali lang maisip mo ako—_

Most of the pictures he took were godawful, either terribly processed or just too blurry to be anything more than a Jeremy shaped cryptid of sorts, but one is. One is.

_Ako'y iyong nasaktan—_

One is of Jeremy sitting on the sidewalk in front of Michael's house. It was summer and they were maybe fourteen, or fifteen. Michael had just gotten a skateboard, and they took turns pushing each other on the road, wobbly and fucking awful at skateboarding, but having the time of their lives. He took it just when Jeremy hadn't been looking, and in the picture he's got a quirk to his mouth that isn't a smile so much as the remnants of one, eyes looking outwards to something out of the frame.

He fell off his skateboard a lot that day, but he starting falling in a completely different way too.

_Ako'y nandirito pa rin hanggang ngayon para sa 'yo—_

Goddamn it.

God_damn_ it.

Who's Michael trying to kid. There's no way he can leave Jeremy to broken by a stupid pill. Not even after everything. He has no idea whether this makes him pathetic or devoted.

He's still mulling over which one it is when Mr. Heere in all his pantsless glory pops up from the shrubbery.

To notheereanymore

you owe me so much for this

not only am i coming to save ur ass after you kicked mine to the moon and back

but im pretty sure i just got your dad to buy some fucking pants

youre fucking welcome

who am i kidding dude even if your dad didnt talk to me i still wouldve come back

id always come for you

because

because

your dad asked me if i loved you

and after everything u know what my answer is?

oo

i do

i still fucking do

So Michael saves the day. It's pretty ridiculous, in hindsight, but after he negotiates Mr. Heere's continued existence fully clothed with his agreement to make sure Jeremy doesn't turn into assholezilla, he goes online, chugs maybe two cans of energy drink, gets blocked by another half of the internet, and finds out the truth behind Mountain Dew Red's short lived availability.

The play is a disaster, not only theatrically, but behind the scenes too. It's all pretty much a big blur of adrenaline and caffeine that ends with everybody screaming their heads off and Michael screaming too because he is _freaked_. When it's all over, everybody drops, unconscious, and Michael staves off another panic attack by pacing around like a maniac before he comes to his senses and calls an ambulance. He tells the paramedics it was drugs. Technically, he isn't lying.

Which leads him to where he is now, where he's been for the past three days; at Jeremy's bedside waiting anxiously for the idiot to wake up.

Rich Goranski in all his de-SQUIPed lispy glory is in the next bed kept warm by the embrace of a full body cast, and he keeps trying to talk to Michael, which Michael doesn't really care for. Most of his time by Jeremy's side is spent listening to music loud enough to block Rich out and sending Christine close up pictures of Jeremy's pores.

Jeremy is going to kill him when he wakes up, he thinks, snickering, when his eyes land on the bedside table.

There's a bouquet of flowers from Brooke, a heartfelt get well soon card from Christine, the price tag of Mr. Heere's newly bought pants, and a phone. Michael didn't leave Jeremy anything because he's here himself so—

A phone.

Michael reaches for the phone, Jeremy's phone, and switches it on. The lockscreen is still the same; both of their sneaker clad feet next to each other. The password is the same too, all zeroes because Jeremy is a dweeb who doesn't care about privacy.

Michael swipes it open and is bombarded with literally every message he's sent this entire time.

To pleasewakeup

WOW okay so i just went thru my backlog of messages and jfkghkjgkjeg it sure is

embarrassing as shit

half of it is all super extra and teenage angsty ew

the other half is the bee movie script ffdjghkjrdg

the only reason im still messaging u now is cuz it's cathartic af

also ur still asleep

and theres nobody else to talk to

and im not fucking talking to rich cuz he basically caused this

ok no he didnt

but i need somebody to blame right now and it sure as hell isnt going to be you

not after all the effort i just put in to save you

i guess hes not much of an asshole now that his squip is gone

i hope u wont be an asshole anymore either

but if you still wanna be one thats whatever i guess

do whatever you want dude just wake up

pls wake up i

i miss your sorry fucking ass

i miss playing video games with you and getting stoned with you and arguing over stupid shit like if hsm 2s fantastic lyrics and song composition were enough to make up for its weak plotline

i miss when you look at me

not through me but

at me

tangina miss kita

tangina mahal kita

di mo lang alam

kgkjskjdhfkds and u never will hhahahahkjskshdkfd

yeah

youre not seeing any of this

michael makes an exit bitches

Michael has his phone in one hand and Jeremy's in the other, both showing the same messages. On the bed, Jeremy sleeps, tranquil and untroubled. He takes a deep breath and puts his phone down.

He scrolls up all the way to the beginning on Jeremy's phone and painstakingly deletes every message.

Jeremy eventually does fucking wake up, and Michael is pissed beyond belief that the first person to talk to him isn't Michael, but Rich. He decides to whine about that some other time, instead going over to Jeremy's bedside.

"Michael," Jeremy says, voice soft. He's looking at Michael. Really looking at him, but it's different. It's warm. It's Jeremy. "Michael, what—What ha—Why are you looking at me like that?"

"It's just really good to have you back, man," Michael says. This is all nowhere near fine and perfect, but his best friend is back. He's back. They'll figure out everything else later.

His headphones lie around his neck, still playing the song he's been listening to on repeat. _'Di pa rin nagbabago ang aking pagsinta—_

Jeremy smiles, lopsided and _so_ not cool, "Glad to be back."

glossary of stuff not defined in fic (oh boy):

_**Note/s: Oo (pronounced w/ two syllables) = yes**_  
_** alam mo = you know**_  
_** meron ba akong ginawa = did i do something**_  
_** pusit = squid (it's very probable for michael to forget what the tagalog for squid is. i fuckin live in the ph and i forgot what the tagalog for grape was)**_  
_** hala = closest would be "oh no"? usually said to scare somebody who's done something bad**_  
_** "gets ko naman" = i get it**_  
_** pakshet = literally "fuck" and "shit" put together with filipino flavor**_  
_** kupal = colloquially means asshole/jerk, but literally means smegma hkjfdshkf**_  
_** "loser nga ako" = i am a loser**_  
_** "anuna [ano na] goodbye na ba 'to" = what, so is this goodbye?**_  
_** talaga = really**_  
_** OPM = original pilipino music**_  
_** "'Di mo lang alam, naiisip kita. Baka sakali lang maisip mo ako" = You don't know, but I'm thinking of you. Maybe you'll think of me too.**_  
_** "Ako'y iyong nasaktan" = You've hurt me**_  
_** "Ako'y nandirito pa rin hanggang ngayon para sa 'yo" = Even now, I'm still here for you**_  
_** "miss kita" = i miss you**_  
_** "'Di pa rin nagbabago ang aking pagsinta" = My love for you hasn't changed**_

* * *

Chapter 06 - basta

In a perfect world, maybe things would be a little bit awkward after Jeremy got out of the hospital, a little stilted, perhaps, but with no more evil computer messing things up in every direction, things would just slowly go back to normal and everything would click back into place.

This doesn't happen, obviously, because if the world was perfect, SQUIPs wouldn't have existed in the first place.

What does end up happening is this: Jeremy goes back to school despite Michael telling him that he's pretty sure digital demonic possession is a valid reason to take a day or two off. Jeremy goes back to school and waves at Michael in the hallways again, but not before flinching at the sudden noise first. They start eating lunch together again, and Michael tries his best to make everything okay by talking about random shit, to which Jeremy gamely listens to, just like before, but sometimes he'd get this far off look in his eyes. Blank.

They haven't hung out aside from school, but it isn't because anything is wrong. Jeremy just doesn't invite Michael over, and Michael, not wanting to risk it, doesn't ask Jeremy either.

Jeremy isn't lonely, though. After the shitshow that happened in the play, an odd camaraderie was struck between everybody who drank the dickbag drink, sans Mr. Reyes of course, because that'd be fucking weird. Not that what's currently going on is any less weird. Brooke and Chloe openly talk to Jeremy. Rich and Jake high five him in the hallway. Michael catches Jenna hanging around Jeremy's locker, chatting amicably. Then, of course, there's Christine, who Jeremy is slowly getting closer and closer to.

Michael is ecstatic that Jeremy has more friends, because the kid sure deserves them after everything he's been through, but after twelve years of it just being the two of them, it's...different, to say the least. If Michael were being held at gunpoint, he'd admit that he feels out of place, hovering along the edges of Jeremy's new, arguably cooler friends, awkwardly trying to figure out if he was supposed to join in or if this was how people started to grow out of each of other.

The irrational part of Michael's brain would have preferred it if everybody was kind of a dick to Michael, because at least then he could blame them, but they aren't. Chloe is still a bit of a bitch, but not in the way that it causes real damage; just in the way that she wears it like a cool jacket. Rich is actually a dweeb who lisps and has close to no brain to mouth filter. Just yesterday, Jake gave Michael a red button and said, bright, sincere, and puzzlingly malice free, that he found it in his locker and that it reminded him of Michael.

By this point, Michael is entertaining the idea that he's been teleported into a surreal alternate universe where people can see he exists. He doesn't really think they want to be friends with him, though. They're probably only just doing it because he and Jeremy are a package deal; buy one get the other whether you want it or not, just a fact of life. Or, well. Maybe. Michael isn't really sure about that either. Things between him and Jeremy are different now, despite how much Michael pretends it isn't so.

Of course, nobody needed to know about all this, really. Jeremy, especially. He's got enough on his plate, and he really doesn't need Michael's stupid feelings dragging him down even more. It's not like there's anything really wrong. They chat about random shit, even though Michael is worried Jeremy might be getting bored with every word. They hang out during lunch, even though Michael thinks that maybe Jeremy might secretly want to go sit with Brooke and Chloe. If there's something off, something that feels like a glass wall muffling and distorting the other, they don't talk about it.

Jeremy doesn't need to know. Just smile and wave, boys. Smile and wave.

"Michael," somebody greets out of nowhere. Michael jerks, messily shoving his lighter and cigarette into his pocket. He turns to see Christine smiling at where he's leaned against the bleachers out by the field. "Yoooo."

"Yo," Michael relaxes. "What're you doing here? I thought you left—"

"I forgot something in my locker," Christine shrugs, shuffling next to him. "And what about you? I thought Rich invited you and Jeremy over to play video games?"

"Nah, I've got—stuff," Michael says. "I've got stuff to do."

"Stuff."

"Yeah. Super important stuff."

"Like smoking by the football field like a hipster?"

"Exactly."

Christine sighs, "Michael—"

"Okay, okay," he breaks. Curse Christine and her scary perceptive powers. "I didn't really wanna, y'know, intrude, or whatever."

Christine tilts her head, "Intrude? But you were invited."

"Rich is just being polite," Michael waves it off, blinking at the absurdity of Rich being in any way connected to the concept of politeness. "Besides, those two have a 'we were fucked up by the computers in our head' bond going on, yeah? I wouldn't really—" he gestures vaguely. "You know?"

"Not really," Christine laughs, a little fond. "Well, tomorrow, Jeremy and I are thinking of going to see a movie. Wanna come?"

"Yeah, maybe not." Michael winces inwardly. He loves Christine to bits, but the thought of third wheeling that hard between her and his best friend he can barely speak to without feeling like he's annoying the shit out of him is undesirable, to say the least. "I've got—"

"Let me guess," she quirks an eyebrow. "Stuff?"

"Yeah. Stuff," Michael grinds his shoe into the ground, trying to shake off the weight of her gaze. "You guys have fun, though."

"You do know that we want you around, right?" Christine says, straightforward and probably lying, Michael thinks. "You know that _Jeremy_ wants you around, right?"

"Of course," Michael lies. It's not one of his best lies, if Christine's little eye roll is anything to go by.

"Have you talked to Jeremy about this?" And now this is veering dangerously into the uncharted territory of things Michael really doesn't want to think about much less _talk_ about.

"I talk to Jeremy all the time—"

"Michael," she says, voice steely. Fuck with Christine Canigula at your own risk. "You know what I mean."

"There's nothing to talk about," Michael caves, but only slightly. "We're good. No—don't look at me with those judging eyes, we _are_. You weren't there, but back at the play, he apologized for being a dick. Everything is fine."

"I don't think you really think that," Christine says gently, as if she knows that the words feel like suffocating nonetheless. Truths usually do. "And I don't think Jeremy does either."

Michael shrugs. "Well, if he wants to talk about it, he'll tell me."

"Both of you are ridiculous," Christine sighs. "That's the exact same thing he said about you."

"Oh," Michael is torn between guilt and laughter. Figures.

"Will you talk to him?"

"Maybe," he says. "I don't know."

"Okay," Christine huffs, but doesn't push. "I don't know what's going on and I won't pretend to, but I hope it works out. I really don't like seeing either of you like this."

"Like what?"

"Like you miss each other even though you're both just there," she says. A chill runs down his spine. They should go soon. It's starting to get cold out.

"Come on," Michael pushes off the bleachers. "I can drive you to your place, if you want."

"Thanks, Michael," she smiles. "That'd be great."

(One time, when Michael and Jeremy were kids, they jokingly listed down each others flaws on the backs of math homework they both didn't want to do. Michael's list for Jeremy had shit like "thinks ketchup is gross", "not enough cool socks!", and "Master Thief of Fries." Jeremy's list for him was similar, ragging on Michael's preference for velcro strap shoes because shoelaces suck, how he makes fun of how Jeremy can't snap his fingers, and how Michael _didn't_ think ketchup was gross.

The last bullet point of Jeremy's list for Michael, in all its chicken scratch glory, said "too chill".

"What's that s'pose to mean?" Michael asks.

Jeremy shrugs, "You're just too chill. You always just go with the flow. You don't, like, freak out about stuff like I do. And when you are, you don't say it."

"Oh," he says. "Do you really think it's bad?"

"No, duh." Jeremy laughs. "I just don't get it. Like the ketchup."

"You don't like ketchup because you're a _coward_, Jeremy—" and it devolves into a less coherent debate over that.

He didn't really get Jeremy's point, back then, but he does now. From an outsider's perspective, Michael probably does seem calm and uncaring, always just riding out whatever life had to give him, which isn't really because he _is_ calm and uncaring.

He just didn't, and still doesn't, see the point of trying to change things that can't be changed.)

"Hey, uh," Jeremy says over lunch. "You busy after school?"

Michael may or may not go through a crisis that lasts roughly three seconds, trying to figure out whether the correct answer is to tell the truth by telling Jeremy that he's literally never busy, dooming Jeremy to feel obligated to invite him to something with the others, or lie, something he's sure Jeremy is starting to catch on to.

Three seconds of subtle face journey is three seconds too long. Jeremy sighs. "Nevermind—"

It's so dismissive and resigned that Michael can't help blurting, "I'm not! I'm—not. Busy. Never am, dude."

"Cool," Jeremy smiles slightly, and very suddenly Michael misses when his smiles were easier. "I was just wondering if—"

Michael braces himself for Jeremy asking him to go do stuff with the others, another mess he has to find a way out for, when it doesn't come.

"—if you wanted to come over? Just the two of us? You can stay the night, if you want," Jeremy says. In his hands, he fidgets with the drawstring of his jacket. "Like bef—" Jeremy stops himself, looking elsewhere.

_Like before_.

Michael can do that. Michael can do old times. "Sure, dude."

Jeremy slumps, relieved. "Nice."

"Did you think I was gonna say no, man?" he says playfully, arm going out, almost instinctively, to sling around Jeremy's shoulders when it stills in the air. He puts his arm down.

"Kinda," Jeremy says. "That's what you've been doing, lately."

"That's—well—"

The bell rings. Michael can't tell if it saved him or if it's the opposite.

"I have to go," Jeremy starts packing up his stuff. "But I'll see you later?"

"Yeah, of course," Michael nods. Nothing is wrong, but his stomach still churns, uneasy. "I'll meet you by my car."

"Okay. Bye, Michael."

"Bye," Michael waves, trying to get his head together past the feeling in his gut. Just like before. He can do this. Anything for Jeremy.

(When they were seven, Michael accidentally banged a door straight into Jeremy's face and knocked one of his front teeth straight out. Jeremy was surprisingly very unruffled by the experience while Michael screamed at the blood, convinced that he'd just killed his best friend, until his mom finally went on to check what all the ruckus was about.

For days after this incident, Jeremy didn't smile or laugh. Michael was terrified he was angry until Jeremy finally told him what was up.

"I don't want you to see," he says, 'e' whistling slightly through his teeth. "It's—weird."

"You can hit my face with a door too and we can match," Michael suggests.

"No!" Jeremy blurts before covering his mouth. Through his cupped hand he says, "That's stupid. I just—I'll smile again when the big tooth grows out." Jeremy says, seemingly unaware of just how much commitment that would entail.

"But I miss seeing you smile," Michael pouts, and Jeremy breaks. It's really easy.

"Okay, fine, but you have to pretend nothing is different, okay?" Michael nods enthusiastically, and Jeremy puts his hand down.

Tentatively, he smiles, and Jeremy's kind of right. It's weird. There's a gap right in the middle of Jeremy's smile, but Michael is a good friend who doesn't bat an eyelash or laugh, which makes Jeremy breath a sigh of relief. Michael gamely pretends Jeremy has all his teeth until one of Michael's own falls out a week later and they bond over how they can stick a straw through the gap.

From then on, Michael gets pretty well versed in the art of pretending nothing is different, should the situation call for it. Nothing is wrong as long as you believe in it hard enough.

Right?)

The drive to Jeremy's place is like a puzzle piece being shoved into a space that's just a little bit off. Michael plugs in his phone and lets his music obsession of the week take them away, like before, but past music blaring through his car, there sits a stubborn, heavy awkwardness. Jeremy taps his fingers along to the beat, humming quietly, looking out the window, like before, but not. Michael drives right through this haze, because as _not_ as it is, everything is fine.

Things start to look up when they get to Jeremy's place. They carry a bunch of snacks to his room and play video games, trading barbs easily, teasing. If Michael sees Jeremy twitch sometimes at the sounds from the television, he pretends he sees nothing. They put on a movie when they get tired of yelling at the television, letting the rich, booming voice of Nicolas Cage take them away.

"Yo, how is sleep gonna work," Michael rubs at his eyes under his glasses. "I'm pretty sure we can't both fit in your bed anymore without one of us falling off."

"I was just gonna dump a bunch of blankets on the floor and sleep there," Jeremy shrugs.

"What? No way in hell am I letting you sleep on the floor in your own damn abode."

Jeremy pauses the movie, stopping at an unflattering shot of Cage. "I get my bed all the time, dude, it's fine."

Michael slides off the beanbag, onto the floor. "Too late. I'm already here. Either you take your rightful place on your bed, or we both sleep on the floor."

"Fine, then." Jeremy reaches up to pull his comforter off his bed onto the floor.

"That wasn't supposed to work like that," Michael grumbles, standing up to fetch more blankets to make the floor a little more forgiving while Jeremy switches off the television.

In the silence, shuffling around, the haze settles between them once again.

"Hey," Jeremy says, a bunch pillows in his arms. "Michael, is it okay if we, uh, talk?"

"We're talking right now?" Michael concentrates on arranging the blankets in a nest-like shape to get his mind off of the sinking feeling in his gut.

"No, I mean, like. _Talk_ talk," Jeremy sits, laying all the pillows down. "Like really talk. About—"

"We don't have to," Michael says quickly, turning to Jeremy. He's got his arms around his knees, drawn up and small. "We really, really don't have to."

"I want to," he says. "It sucks and thinking about it _sucks_ but I want to because—because I was an asshole and I'm—."

"Buddy, that wasn't you," Michael cautiously sits next to Jeremy. He doesn't dare touch him. He needs to get this right. "That was the SQUIP. I don't blame you for anything you did because of it."

"But not all of it was the SQUIP," Jeremy runs a frustrated hand through his hair. "At Jake's party, it was off. It was off and in the bathroom—"

"I don't care about that anymore," Michael says even though he does. He does, he does, he does, but Jeremy looks like he's about to cry. "You apologized at the play."

"That was barely—Michael, that wasn't enough." Jeremy turns to him, face a hodgepodge of so many emotions Michael can't name a single one.

"It's okay," Michael says soothingly, and it ticks something off inside Jeremy.

"It's _not_," Jeremy says, hands clutching at the blankets beneath him. "And—and you need to stop pretending it is!"

"Dude, what the hell," Michael feels something like anger bubble up from where he's been shoving it down, unexamined and ignored. "I'm trying to help you. You flinch when you catch yourself slouching, you zone out every other second, and you're terrified _all the time_. I'm trying to make things easier."

"That doesn't mean you can just forget everything I did to you," Jeremy says, words urgent and desperate.

"Yes, it does!" Michael tries to find any words to make Jeremy _understand_. "So what if you hurt me, man? It's nothing compared to everything _you_ went through."

"_My pain doesn't get rid of the fact that yours exists too!_"

The words rattle off the walls. They rattle against Michael's skull. His ribs. His heart is either pounding or silent, afraid to make a noise in reply.

"Michael," Jeremy says, voice wavering. "I hurt you. And I did it on purpose because I was scared but it was _me_ and even though I didn't mean the words, I still used them to hurt you."

Michael can't speak. He's trying to, but there's something unraveling in his chest; a knot that's been tied ever since that night.

"Michael, I'm sorry," Jeremy says.

It takes a lot of willpower not to say "It's okay," because it isn't. It isn't. Instead, Michael reaches out slowly for Jeremy's hand, still twisted angrily in the blanket, giving him every opportunity to pull away.

He doesn't, so Michael lays his hand over his Jeremy's. Michael says, "I forgive you."

Jeremy lunges for him in a second, knocking the air out of Michael's lungs. Jeremy's arms come around Michael's neck and he clutches tight. Michael, who almost forgot just how much he missed hugging Jeremy, clutches back, a hand in Jeremy's hair. They're so close, and after weeks of being so, so far, it's almost overwhelming.

"I just want you to be okay," Michael murmurs into Jeremy's shoulder, running his other hand over Jeremy's back.

"I'm not," Jeremy says. "You aren't either. And I don't think that pretending everything's fine will get us anywhere."

"I just thought," Jeremy pulls away, but doesn't let go of Michael. "I thought that was what you wanted. 'Like before' you know?"

"When I said that I meant like before when you were by my side."

"I'm always by your side," Michael says, looking at Jeremy here in front of him, surrounded by pillows and blankets on the floor. He'd never want to be anywhere else.

"I know, but you're—distant."

"I'm sorry. I'll try not to be."

"Why are you, anyway?"

Michael reaches up to scratch the back of his head, "Uh, well your new friends are cool. I don't really mesh well with them, and I didn't wanna bother you."

"In what universe have you ever bothered me?" Jeremy asks, and Michael bites back the urge to say 'whatever universe your SQUIP was trying to make.' Instead, he pays attention to Jeremy's words. "None of my new friends are _you_. None of them are my favorite person."

Michael's face splits into a smile, "Is it really true?"

"Shut up," Jeremy shoves him, laughing. Michael falls to the blanketed floor.

"That I'm still your fav-wit person?" Michael croons, and Jeremy hits his face with a pillow.

"We were just having a moment, god," Jeremy rolls his eyes, lying down next to him, and Michael feels lighter. The heavy haze of whatever it is dissipating like smoke wafting up and away. "Jerk."

"Your favorite jerk," he grins.

"Yeah, yeah, you are," Jeremy smiles. "You are."

The silence that stretches on in that moment is still strained at the edges, but on its way to being better. That's all they need, really.

"Jeremy," Michael says.

"Yeah?"

"One of us is going to have to stand up to switch off the lights."

"Oh my god," Jeremy groans into a pillow and Michael laughs. This is all he needs.

Michael wakes up feeling warm and safe, eyes blinking open groggily, hesitant to leave the comfort of sleep. He stretches slightly, pretty sure that his back has some complaints concerning sleeping on the floor,only to be stopped by the body haphazardly curled around him.

Michael opens his eyes and sits up to see that Jeremy has koala'd himself to Michael's body, arm over Michael's waist and a leg thrown over Michael's own. He tries to pull himself out of his grasp, but all this does is get Jeremy to make an adorable noise, arms pulling Michael closer. This was fine, when they were kids and Michael didn't have feelings, but now? He's maybe three seconds away from dying.

"Jeeeeesus Christ," Michael says, watching Jeremy's pillow creased face scrunch, waking up. His eyes meet Michael's. "Morning, _ganda_."

"Whuh," Jeremy says in all his messy haired sleep drawl glory. "What'd you say?"

"Nothing," Michael pats Jeremy's hair in a futile effort to get it to calm down. "You mind, uh, letting go of me? I kinda have to pee."

"What?" Jeremy says before his eyes widen, all of his limbs pulling away from Michael so he can stand. "Sorry."

"Don't sweat it, man. You were an A+ blanket. Ten out of ten, would sleep with again," Michael says before he can realize the disaster tumbling out of his mouth.

Thankfully, Jeremy is too sleepy to notice. He just curls up in the blanket Michael just vacated, eyes shutting once more. Michael can't help but look for a second longer. Like this, asleep, Jeremy is peaceful and worry free. Like this, it's so easy to pretend the whole ordeal didn't happen, that it was all just a really weird acid trip. Like this, Michael could convince himself rather easily that everything is okay.

It isn't, though. But that doesn't mean it never will be.

Michael would really rather be here by Jeremy than off pretending things that could be worked for for real.

_**Note/s:**_  
_**basta = whatever [but with implications of "let's stop talking about this"]. snazzy word which means the same thing both in spanish and tagalog. means "enough" but is also a dismissive(?) expression that could mean a whole lot of other things like the conditional "as long as" or "just because" or function like "whatever". tbh trying to explain what basta means makes me just wanna say...basta.**_  
_** ganda = beautiful**_

* * *

Chapter 07 - kilig

The next day, over french toast and slightly charred eggs, Michael and Jeremy renew the vows of the friendship pact they probably made twelve years ago by spitting on their hands; the one where they promise to tell each other everything, no matter how dumb, because best friends, is why.

"Yeah, and I remember you took it really, _really_, seriously," Michael reminisces, leaning back into the couch. "You told me you were a bad person because you accidentally killed an ant you were trying to pick up."

"My problems were a lot smaller, back then," Jeremy sets aside his plate. "But my point stands, man. I don't want us to feel like we can't tell each other shit. Because best friends."

"Because best friends," he says. "I'm not spitting into my hand, though. That was gross."

"Oh thank god, I thought so too," Jeremy sighs, relieved. He offers a fistbump instead. "To, uh, not being weird and distant and stuff?"

"To that," Michael taps his fist to Jeremy's with a smile. "Do you want me to start us off with a secret of mine?"

Jeremy looks nervous, but he steels himself and nods. "Go for it."

"At Jake's Halloween party I—," Michael says, not breaking eye contact. Jeremy swallows nervously. "I— thought your costume was the dumbest fucking thing I ever saw in my goddamn life."

"Fuck off, dude," Jeremy laughs, shoving Michael lightly.

"You looked like a condom," he says. Jeremy starts to hit him with a throw pillow.

"_You_ look like a condom, shut up."

"I'm wounded," Michael clutches his chest dramatically, leaning all his weight onto Jeremy as he squawks. "How will I ever recover from this? Scorned by my own—"

"You started it," Jeremy pushes Michael off, his hand lingering on Michael's arm. "Can I, uh, say something too?"

"Shoot, man. That's the whole point," he says, wondering just what Jeremy's got on his mind as he slowly links his arm with Michael's.

"Is it okay if I do this?" Jeremy asks very quickly. If Michael weren't adept to translating Nervous Jeremy into standard coherent language, he might've missed all those words completely.

"Do what?"

"Uh, god this is weird, but, uh. Is it okay if I, like, hold you?" Jeremy says. Michael blinks, and Jeremy rushes to explain himself. "It's just—back when I, y'know, I—I couldn't see you. At all. And holding you just kind of helps me calm down? Like, you're here. Really here. But I know how you feel about touch and stuff, so it's not big deal really and—"

"Jeremy, yo, dude," Michael stops him before Jeremy can win a medal in outstanding backpedaling. "You're totally free to snuggle my arm if it makes you feel better."

Jeremy stares at him, seemingly disbelieving that Michael actually agreed.

"But—"

"Just make sure you don't surprise hug me out of nowhere, man, and we're good," Michael assures him.

"You are—you," Jeremy says, probably trying to look for arguments against his own damn want because he's weird like that, before he gives up. He lays his head on Michael's shoulder. "You're way too good of a person."

"I stole all the red crayons for myself back in preschool," he reminds Jeremy.

"It was your favorite color, who could blame you?" Jeremy shrugs. His hand trails over Michael's, and Michael tries very hard to continue breathing normally. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

"Jeremy, it would be my utmost pleasure," Michael says, ignoring the loud drumbeat his heart is pounding out. "Anything for my best friend."

Michael is beginning to think he lacks self preservation, but he can't really care about it too much. Not when Jeremy leans against him in an effort to feel okay. Michael's pretty sure that this at least won't end up as bad as nearly destroying human civilization with a computer. Learn to look on the bright side.

Michael, in his life, has done many things for Jeremy Heere. He's lied to cover Jeremy's ass, he's gotten up at unholy hours of the morning to come over because Jeremy wanted company, he's helped vanquish virtual megalomaniacs through the power of vintage fizzy drinks. Y'know, the usual bro stuff. They're all things Jeremy would do for Michael, should Michael ever ask.

That being said, cuddling Jeremy for the greater good of his mental state has gotta be the hardest thing Michael's ever done to date.

Once Michael had given the a-okay, Jeremy had begun to cling to Michael like a barnacle any time he was in proximity to do so. It's pretty much like Michael got a cat; a really long, gangly cat named Jeremy that hums when Michael plays with his hair. Michael is sure some people might find this annoying, but the only thing he can feel when Jeremy is close to him is an inexplicable warmth. It's not an uncomfortable warmth that gnaws at the skin; it's more of like shrugging on a jacket after a long day of wind.

Then it's ultimately followed by the usual bone deep ache of _don't kid yourself._

This cycle repeats basically every other second Jeremy shifts in his hold. It's rather taxing.

The thing that really gets Michael about this is how casual it is. It's not this big, awkward thing that they fumble into. Instead, it's natural; it's probably one of the easiest things that's come to them after the SQUIP. They hang out together at lunch, Jeremy's head comfortably leaned against Michael's shoulder as he scrolls through memes on his phone. Playing video games is a bit more of a hazard now that Jeremy sits that close to Michael. He's already accidentally elbowed Jeremy in the face twice. In the hallways, Jeremy walks right by his side, his left arm linked with Michael's right.

"Jeremy, Michael!" Michael turns to see Rich calling out for them.

"Uh," Michael says. He's barely spoken a word to Rich ever since the hospital and every other time Michael blew off his invitations to hang out. He's pretty sure his track record with the guy isn't all that great.

Thankfully, Jeremy starts talking, "Hey, Rich, what's up?"

"Nothing, nothing, I just," Rich takes Jeremy by the shoulders. He moves Jeremy to Michael's left. "There we go," he stands back, smiling, seemingly very happy with the cosmic arrangement of Jeremy relative to Michael. "You may carry on."

"What was that all about?" Michael asks, looking at Rich disappear into the hallway with a grin on his face.

"No idea," Jeremy shrugs, taking hold of Michael's arm. "Rich is actually pretty weird. He has a wicked pog collection."

Michael's 90s senses just squealed. "Holy shit, are you for real?"

"Yeah, you'd love it," he says, fingers fiddling with the cuff of Michael's hoodie. "Would you mind if the others hung out with us too?"

"They don't have to hang out with me, man, you can always just chill with them if you want."

"That wasn't what I said," Jeremy huffs. "You said you felt left out. None of us want that. I want you there. Are you okay with, like, interacting—"

"Of course," Michael rushes to say even though he's still a bit iffy on the idea. He doesn't know how to make friends. Jeremy and Christine basically dragged him into friendship, but left to his own devices, Michael is clueless. But he said he'd try. He'll be damned if he doesn't at least try.

"Cool," Jeremy smiles, fingers brushing against Michael's palm. The warmth comes and goes, replaced by the ache he's at least used to feeling. "Gotta go, dude. See you later."

"See you," Michael waves, hand tingling.

Michael didn't think that Operation Why Can't We Be Friends would be enacted so quickly, but later that day at lunch, he and Jeremy sit down for maybe two seconds before everybody else materializes from the walls, or something.

"Sup dudes!" Jake slides onto the bench carefully. Rich, holding onto Jake's crutches, sits next to him.

"Michael, my man," Rich says to Michael. Michael is taken aback. Rich snatches a bunch of papers from Jake's notebook and shoving it in Michael's direction. "Look at this. It's insane."

"Wow, this sure looks like, uh," Michael squints. "Like a whole lot of complicated math."

"Jake takes AP Calc," Jeremy explains. Around them, the others settle in too. Brooke and Chloe sit across from Michael. Jenna takes Jeremy's unoccupied side while Christine sidles up next to him, watching what seems to be a video of corgis on her phone.

"Why would you ever subject yourself to that?" Michael blurts. He's about to shrink into his hoodie, but Jake just laughs.

"I dunno, it's fun," Jake says. This prompts Rich into an anti-math tirade that Jake seems to weather rather fondly.

"Hey, Michael," Brooke says, tapping on her phone. "Jeremy told me you used to do photography."

"Kinda? It was really shitty photography," he says.

"Still," she leans over the table, showing Michael a selfie of her and Chloe on her phone. "Which filter is better? This one or—" she swipes to the left, "—this one?"

"Uh," he watches carefully as Brooke swipes from one filter to the other. This feels an awful lot like his last eye exam. "The second one, I guess. The colors are nicer."

"Thanks!" Brooke beams, sitting back down and typing quickly.

Jenna is talking to Jeremy about what sounds like the latest episode of America's Next Top Model. Jake looks like he's trying to explain whatever his homework is to Rich who just keeps shaking his head and saying "witchcraft". Chloe isn't talking, but she seems happy to listen to Brooke. The entire time, Jeremy's arm is holding on to Michael's, a steady weight against him. It's pretty noisy, and while nothing in particular is bothering him, he fingers itch to slip his headphones on out of habit to disappear a little. It's what he always does.

Next to him, Christine very carefully taps his arm. On her phone, she's got an unsent text that says "are you alright?"

Michael maybe wants to hug Christine, but he settles making a discreet thumbs up under the table. Christine smiles.

"Wanna watch this video with me?" She offers an earphone. "It's a bunch of Labradors jumping into a pool."

"Have I mentioned that the world doesn't deserve you?" Michael takes the earphone.

"Yeah, duh, you say that like, everyday," Christine giggles.

She presses play and Michael lets himself get absorbed in the pure glee inherently present in every dog video. The table is still noisy with friendly chatter, but Michael finds that it isn't really grating on him. At his left, Jeremy is still talking to Jenna, but his hand a constant weight on Michael's arm; grounding.

The ache that usually follows can't seem to take hold right now. Maybe it's the Labradors or Chloe's soft snickers or Jake assuring Rich that "really it's easy, just look at it like this," or something else entirely. Maybe it's how Jeremy's hand shifts, moving to fidget with the cuff of Michael's hoodie again, rubbing his thumb soothingly, back and forth. Right now, all Michael feels is the steady, safe warmth.

It feels pretty good.

Slowly but surely, the SQUIP gang integrate Michael into their clique despite the fact that the most malignant thing Michael's ever been possessed by is the occasional urge to eat peanut butter straight from the jar like somebody who's lost control of his life.

Before he knows it, his hallway walks a little busier seeing as he's waving to six more people now. Jenna is really into weird experimental indie music and gives Michael a whole lot of recommendations. He starts talking to Brooke a lot, since they actually share a few classes together. He finally takes up Rich's offer to chill and play video games, inviting him over to Michael's place instead so that Rich doesn't have to worry too much about his dad.

It's a little overwhelming to go from one friend to two to seven, but he's kind of having a blast. The niggling fear that they'll all realize that they don't really want him around still bothers Michael, but he can't even find the time to pay attention to it when he's complimenting Brooke's eyeliner or signing Jake's cast. Friendship is literally keeping him busy enough to not stress out over friendship. Funny how the world works.

Of course, the most distracting thing is still how Jeremy's a cuddlebug and how Michael's brain is having a lot of trouble with it. It's one thing to have feelings, and it's another one entirely to have the object of those feelings so close _all the time_. His brain is starting to get dumb and mushy. Really, what he needs is a quick reminder of the reality of the situation. Christine and Jeremy hang out a lot. They talk a lot. They're getting closer and closer.

Michael figures it's time for him to hear the verdict for real.

"Hey, Christine," Michael starts one lunch. The only ones at the table right now were Christine, Jake, and himself. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Yeah, of course," she says. "What's up?"

"Are you and Jeremy dating now, or what?" Michael decides to rip it off quickly like a bandaid, wincing just a little bit how he says it. Was that aggressive? He hopes it wasn't aggressive. He really just needs to know that the answer is a solid yes so his overactive brain can calm the hell down and—

"No," Christine tilts her head.

"Cool, that's cool. You guys we'll be gre—" Michael blinks, rewinds, and surveys what Christine just said. "I'm sorry, what?"

"We aren't dating," Christine says slowly, a confused lilt to her words. "Did you think we were?"

"What?" Michael says dumbly. "I mean—yeah. Kinda. You guys always spend time together."

"Yo, if we're going by that logic, that means Jeremy is dating all of us," Jake says over his scary math homework.

"He's got a point," Christine laughs. "Sorry for the misunderstanding, Michael. I kind of realized that I'm not really interested in dating."

"But," Michael's world is in a bit of tizz right now. The reality that Michael had always foreseen was one where Christine and Jeremy eventually got together and that finality would put an end to Michael's stupidly long crush for good. And now it's—not going to happen?. A protective surge builds up inside of him. "Why? Jeremy's the greatest. He's—he's funny and he's sweet and he's an asshole but a loveable one. He's also good with kids. What's not to like?"

"Dude, no offense," Jake says, twirling his pencil casually. "But that just sounds like you wanna date him."

"I—" Michael gapes. A slow smile spreads on Jake's face while Christine just coughs into her hand. "Excuse m—No! What! That is not—Shut up!"

"We didn't say anything," Christine bites her lip as if she wants to laugh but she cares too much about Michael to wound him like that. Goddamn her.

"Yes you were. In your heads. I could hear it," Michael says, pulling his hood over his head. "Whatever it is you're thinking it's not—I'm—"

"Chillax, man, we won't tell him or, like, anybody else," Jake assures him. "That's on you."

"Nothing's on me because I don't—God, I'm just digging my own grave now, huh," he lays his head on the table so that they can't at least see how he's blushing like some dumb teenager. Which he totally is, but whatever.

"Yeah, you kinda are," Jake says.

"Just so you know," Christine pats his head. "He knows that I'm not interested, so you don't have to worry. He's was really nice about it. And it's not that I don't like Jeremy. He's awesome and I love him, but I just don't wanna date him."

The mere concept of it is too bizarre to wrap his head around. Michael turns to look up at Christine and says, "_How?_"

"Oh, Michael," Christine says, patting becoming more determined.

"Totally not because I wanna date Jeremy, or anything," Michael throws out, just to salvage whatever he has left of his facade.

"What do you mean, you don't wanna date Jeremy?" Rich drops by out of nowhere sending Michael sitting up in a second.

"Uh," Michael says.

"That's your best friend you're dissing right there," Rich tells him, faux offended. He points to Jake, "Jake's my best friend and I'd date the fuck outta him in a heartbeat!"

"Huh," Jake drops his pencil.

There's a brief beat of silence punctuated only by Christine coughing into her hand again. The pencil rolls off of the table.

"Hey guys," Jeremy says, sitting next to Michael. Jeremy's arm easily slips alongside his. "What're you all talking about?"

"The weather," Michael deadpans. Everybody else currently at the table is either having an awkward stare off or wheezing, so he gets no objections. "How was class, Jer?"

It's Jenna's idea to go the arcade that weekend. Something about defending her title as air hockey champion. This leads to Michael pulling up at Jeremy's house and beeping obnoxiously until Jeremy sticks his hand out of his bedroom window and flips Michael off.

"I think you woke up half the neighborhood," Jeremy slides into the shotgun seat.

"Dude, it's noon," Michael says. "If anybody was still sleeping, I was doing them a favor. Seatbelt."

"Yes, mom," he rolls his eyes fondly. "Who else are we picking up?"

"Just Christine," Michael pulls out of the driveway, "Jenna lives closer to Brooke and Chloe and I figure Rich is just planning on launching himself and Jake there with a giant slingshot, probably."

"Reasonable enough," Jeremy laughs, looking out the window, watching the houses and the roads and the lives pass by.

When the pick up Christine, she settles down at the back swaddled in the cutest scarf which she apparently knitted herself. She plugs the aux cord into her phone and, much to Jeremy's endless delight, plays Cut to the Feeling by the Queen of Pop herself. By the time they get to the mall, Michael's had his ears yell-sung to death by his friends, lyrics very stubbornly stuck in his head _wanting some satisfaction, take me to the stars, just say oohhhhhh._

"Get fucked, Rich!" he hears Jenna yell the moment he steps into the arcade, Jeremy hanging off of his arm. There by the air hockey table, Rich was slumped in defeat while Jenna whooped in victory. "Who's next?"

"Christine!" Michael pushes her to Jenna's merciless mitts.

"Michael!" Christine huffs, and Michael so knows he's gonna pay for it later, but he's too busy dragging a laughing Jeremy to where they've still got the Tekken games.

"First to win three?" Jeremy grins, settling into the game next to Michael's.

"As always," Michael glances at Jeremy from the corner of his eyes. He's looking better, these days. Less zoning out. More present. "Winner gets, what, bragging rights?"

"Loser has to get the winner something from the claw machine," Jeremy says bravely. The claw machine here is a _nightmare_.

"Oh, you're on, Jer," Michael pushes his glasses up, starting a new game.

He slips into the easy habit of joystick button controlled combat, happy to let the welcome noise of the arcade wash over him. Michael thinks he hears Brooke and Chloe try out the claw machine. Rich is cheering on Jake down by the shooter games, yelling something about how all that archery is useful for something. Christine fucking _swears_.

When he loses to Jeremy, Michael can't even find it in himself to be bummed out. He watches Jeremy raise his arms in victory, whooping like the dweeb he is.

"You're getting rusty, Michael," Jeremy turns, smug smile on his face.

"Well, of course I am. My hands haven't been getting much movement, lately, what with how you're always latched onto them," he stands up, and Jeremy, as if to prove his point, takes Michael's arm stubbornly. "Yeah, yeah, you leech. Come on, let's go watch me suffer at the fate of the world's worst claw machine."

"Hey," Chloe intercepts their walk to the claw machine. "I need to borrow, Michael."

"What?" Michael says.

"Later," Jeremy waves her off.

"Five minutes," Chloe pouts. Very suddenly, Michael is nervous. She points to the photobooth. "He's the only one I don't have pictures with."

"Fine," Jeremy says, letting go of Michael. It's only Chloe's strong gaze that stops Michael from clasping onto Jeremy like shield. In the background, Christine yells "you fucking snake!" "That sounds interesting." Jeremy laughs, making his way to the air hockey table. "Don't forget you owe me something, Michael."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Michael says, throwing up a finger gun for good measure right before he's pushed into the photobooth by Chloe Valentine.

He and Chloe don't talk much. Michael doesn't share any classes with her and, out of the whole bunch, she's by far the most intimidating. He's sure she's a great person with a good heart, but right now he feels like he's about to be interrogated while a camera intermittently snaps photos of them.

"You like him, don't you?" Chloe says. Goddamn it, Michael didn't actually want to be _right_.

"I don't know what you're—" he starts, but Chloe just raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. Michael sighs. "Right, okay, fine. Who told you?"

"Nobody," Chloe deadpans. "I have eyes."

The camera takes its first shot. That's gotta be an interesting picture.

"I can't be _that_ obvious," Michael shrinks back against the booth.

"You aren't, actually," Chloe raises her hand for him to see before patting him on the shoulder. "I just know how it looks like."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Michael says, throwing up a peace sign behind Chloe's head for the next picture.

"Pot meet kettle," Chloe waves to him. "I'm pretty well versed in the whole business of liking your best friend."

"Oh," Michael says, everything clicking into place. The camera takes its second shot, Christ. "Wow, uh. Condolences?"

"Thanks," Chloe quirks a smile, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "You should tell him, y'know?"

"Right," Michael drawls. "And you'll tell Brooke?"

"Obviously not," she says, and Michael's just about to call her out when she continues with, "It's different. You've got a chance."

And he's lost. "A what now?"

"He likes you too," Chloe says, enunciating every word carefully as if she thinks that'll make them any less absurd.

"Hardy har, yeah right," Michael pushes his glasses up with his middle finger just in time for the camera to take a third shot. "Also Rich is tall and Christine hates play rehearsal."

"I'm dead serious," she tells him, and when she says it like that, Michael is tempted to believe her out of pure fear. Too bad she's wrong. "He literally holds your hand, Michael."

"It calms him down," he explains. "Hand holding can be platonic."

"Of course it can, but it sure isn't with you two," Chloe reaches over and plucks Michael's glasses of his face. "Yoink."

"Chloe, I appreciate the solidarity, really, but he—he doesn't," Michael blinks.

"Believe what you want," she says, looking at Michael intensely. Or he thinks she is. "But have you ever thought to check?" Chloe slides his glasses onto her face. "Oh, wow, the grade on this is high."

"Thanks, they're for my eyes."

"Last pic," Chloe puts her hand up for Michael to see again before slinging her arm around his neck. "Smile. Say 'pining'."

"Jesus," Michael says and the camera shutters. He isn't blind enough to miss Chloe's picture perfect grin.

"Here you go, these almost gave me a headache," she hands him his glasses back. "Really, though. You two would be good for each other."

"Jeremy doesn't like me like that, he—" Michael says, pushing his glasses back on, about to say that he likes Christine, but they weren't going to happen anymore. But Jeremy could still like her. God, was this just going to be an endless circle of hopeless unrequited feelings? "He doesn't."

"I just think that you've spent a long, long time looking from afar," Chloe tells him. "So long that you've never bothered to see if he's looking back."

The thought is too hopeful, too bright to entertain. Michael's got a lot of practice at not hoping. Not hoping is safe. He tries to push her words out of his head, but _if he's looking back_ bounces around stubbornly against the confines of his head along with Carly Rae Jepsen's dulcet tones. _I wanna cut to the feeling, oh yeah._

The pictures drop into the little compartment in front of them. It's a really odd lineup vaguely reminiscent of the seven stages of grief compacted into four shots. This right here is the human experience in a nutshell.

"These are awful pictures," Chloe takes the photostrip. "I love it."

It dawns on Michael that Chloe is her own brand of weird altogether.

"Okay, well, nice talk, Chloe," Michael says awkwardly. "It was super uncomfortable but weirdly affirming, in some aspects. Seven out of ten."

"I can't make you do anything, but think about, kay? You'll never know unless you try," she says. "This is me being nice. You better appreciate it," only Chloe can make kindness sound threatening.

"Got it," Michael nods, and then they're out of the photobooth back into the arcade and the noise.

Chloe leaves him to go to Brooke who's watching Jake annihilate vampires with scary good aim while Rich shows everybody how to be a hypeman to the highest degree. Michael goes over to pick up his boy where's he's nervously darting his eyes from side to side as Jenna and Christine brutally duke it out on the air hockey table.

"Who do you think will win?" Michael asks him.

"I honestly don't know. This is scary to watch," Jeremy says, hand going to hold Michael's wrist without even looking away from puck angrily whizzing it's way left, then right. Then left.

Then into Jenna's goal.

Jenna's eyes narrow.

"Okay!" Michael says, the fear of Jenna Rolan suitably settling in his gut. "I owe you humiliation at the claw machine."

"Yeah, totally," Jeremy laughs, relieved at the convenient way out, and they make their way to what Michael now calls the second most evil contraption that exists on the planet. It used to be the first, right up until a month ago, of course, but second is still pretty good.

This particular claw machine had it all; weird stuffed toys of bootlegged characters, a joystick that did only what you wanted it to if it was the full moon and you were blood type B positive, and the claw grip strength of a newborn infant with very slippery fingers. Michael and Jeremy have used this claw machine so much that they're sure it was configured for the sole purpose of being a pain in the ass, brazenly showing you what could be while very deliberately telling you to fuck off.

Needless to say, it's shitloads of fun.

"Alright, dude," Michael pushes a token into the slot, bringing the monster to life. "Take your pick of whatever deformed toy you wanna see me drop like fifty times."

"The Pikachu right in the center," Jeremy points to a yellow mass atop the pile of other oddly shaped masses. "The one that looks like it's going through a midlife crisis."

"Hey, don't be too hard on him," Michael snickers, pushing the joystick, watching the claw lurch vaguely in the direction he wants it to go. "You don't know what he's going through. How am I looking at that side?"

"Uh, a little to the left," Jeremy closes one eye, guessing the distance past the glass. "No, no, too far, back it up—there! Stop!"

Michael hits the button. The claw descends and lovingly caresses the toy head on, pulling back up empty.

"Glad we gave the guy a tickle," he says. "Second time's the charm."

"It's third, man," Jeremy leans against the glass, watching Michael painstakingly position the the claw again.

"Shhhh, don't jinx it," he presses the button again. The claw mockingly jostles the toy slightly to the left. "Ugh."

"You don't have to get it, dude," Jeremy tells him. "I was just kidding. Plus, I kind of wanna play air hockey with whoever wins, back there."

"Do you not know what fear feels like?" Michael says incredulously. "One last time. You said it yourself, third time's the charm."

"There's no way you'll get it anyway," he teases, and just for that Michael decides to shake it up.

"Maybe it specifically won't let you win if you're trying too hard," he turns away from the claw machine, focusing instead on the reflection of it on a screen nearby, pushing the joystick with randomly

"That makes zero sense, Michael," Jeremy says. On the reflection, Michael can see him roll his eyes.

"You never know unless you try," Michael says, remembering what Chloe had just told him minutes prior.

The thought jolts him, mashing the button of the claw machine before he's ready. In the reflection of the screen, he sees the claw go down, but past it, Jeremy is there looking at him. It's fond and soft and something else that takes Michael's breath away. In his head, Chloe's words echo. _If he's looking back._. Carly Rae is there too, because Michael can't catch a fucking break. _—take me in your arms and make me ohhhhh_.

A small, small voice in Michael's head pipes up, tiny and hopeful.

"Michael, what the fuck!" Jeremy yells, bringing Michael out of his head. He turns his head to the claw machine.

Its spindly little metal fingers have successfully grasped onto Midlife Crisis Pikachu, dropping it into the hatch.

"Holy shit, I didn't think that'd actually work," Michael says honestly. Jeremy pulls the toy from the hatch, holding it out like Simba for a moment before cuddling it to his chest. It looks like a mushy piece of corn with a face, but Jeremy holds it like it's precious.

"You'd tell me if you got probability manipulation powers, right?" Jeremy asks like the nerd he is.

"I'm pretty sure the universe just used up all the luck meant for my entire life in this moment right here," Michael laughs nervously. The comfortable warmth is a bit more, right now. Not too much, but just enough for him to want a moment.

In the background, he hears something that sounds suspiciously like an air hockey puck hit the wall followed by a cry of victory.

"Sounds like somebody finally won," Michael slings his arm around Jeremy's shoulders. "I've gotta say, I'm really looking forward to seeing your ass get beat."

"Strong words for somebody I beat at Tekken."

"Hey, I literally just won you this corn blob at the world's worst claw machine with only pure skill, so watch your mouth," he says, poking the stuffed toy. "That thing better not replace me. I'm way better at cuddling."

"Yeah, you are, you don't have to worry," Jeremy elbows Michael softly before Christine waves him over to the air hockey table.

Michael watches him go, weird stuffed toy in hand and a smile on his face. He leans back for a second. Just for a second to take a breath. Don't kid yourself, he thinks. Not hoping is _safe_, he thinks.

But the small thought in his head, the one he never entertains, thinks loud enough for him to hear, loud enough for him to not ignore; _what if_, it thinks. What if.

_**Note/s:**_  
_**kilig = no exact eng equivalent but is described as "romantic excitement" or in less formal terms, when youre like AAAAHHH/ because that nerd you like is being adorable. by far one of my favorite tagalog words. it's just really goddamn cute.**_

* * *

Chapter 08 - ligaya

After the first few months of Michael hopelessly pining for Jeremy, Michael had honest to god drawn a flowchart of How He'd Get Over Jeremy Heere because he was both pessimistic concerning anything that would ever happen between them but optimistic that he'd at least be able to deal with it. The flowchart had a lot of arrows that didn't need to be there and it read a little bit like those quizzes you see on teen magazines, but its main point was this: Michael would eventually grow out of these feelings because Jeremy will never like him back.

Slowly, Michael comes to realize that the 'eventually' referenced in the first bit would take a whole lot longer than he'd originally hoped, still well in the territory of Pining Best Friend McFuck years later, but that isn't too much of a surprise, given who Michael is.

It's the second bit that's the kicker. Never in his goddamn life had Michael thought that Jeremy would like him back. It's just a fact that was about as fundamental as atoms or Jake's scarily perfect teeth. But then he grows up and learns about quarks and that Jake wore a retainer for a good portion of his childhood. So sometimes truths can change, or maybe Michael just wasn't looking at the bigger picture, and once he finally does, the new information clicks in and reveals something he didn't know before.

Anyway, Jeremy maybe probably might just perhaps reciprocate Michael's feelings.

Which is. _What?_

Ever since the arcade incident epiphany, Michael starts paying attention to Jeremy. This isn't to say that he wasn't before, but instead that Michael has his own special type of optic nerve blocking that trashed anything Michael noticed that didn't happen to coincide with his preconceived beliefs. Surprise, surprise, it's called anxiety, but he pushes through it. He pays attention. He _observes_. His brain asked him _what if_ and he'll be damned if he doesn't get a clear-ish answer.

If Michael's being completely honest with himself, he'd say that Jeremy's painfully fucking obvious. This makes a lot of sense. Michael's grown up with Jeremy so he knows that emotionally, Jeremy is about as subtle as a hardboiled egg to the face. Jeremy is sad? He shows it. Jeremy has a crush on Christine? Yeah, everybody knows. Jeremy might like Michael _back_?

Now that Michael's looking, he sees it.

Jeremy has a habit of staring at Michael, probably sure that totally nobody notices. When Michael turns back, oh so smooth Jeremy turns away abruptly, fidgets with his hair, and starts a conversation with whoever is closest about whatever it is they're doing, no matter how mundane ("Brooke! I love your scrunchie! So much scrunch!") Jeremy is very touchy with Michael, and while Michael knows he does so to cope and also that he's started casually holding hands with the rest of their friends, there's something different about it when it's them. Something softer. Jeremy's smiles are as stunning as they usually are, but they're tinged with just that slightest bit of nervousness; like there's something else on the line now.

Michael makes a venn diagram. One circle is labeled as 'observations' and the other is labelled as 'stuff Jeremy did when he had a crush on Christine.' There are a lot of differences, because Michael isn't Christine, but there sure are a lot of similarities too. A lot.

One bullet point he can't seem to place says 'excessively gushes to others about crush'. Not one to leave something of this magnitude to chance, he grabs his phone and frantically messages Christine.

To chrisamonroll

YO SO UH QUICK QUESTION and ur not allowed to ask why but

does jeremy talk about me

to you

about

s

about me

From chrisamonroll

uhhhh

suddenly i cant read! i dont know!

To chrisamonroll

WHAT DOES THAT MEAN

pls chris this is for the greater good

From chrisamonroll

what kind of greater good?

To chrisamonroll

the type thatll keep me from fleeing into the woods to become a crazed hermit or something idk

From chrisamonroll

...okay no idea what you're talking about but

if

hypothetically,

i were to rate jeremy on how much he talks about you on a scale of 1-10 (1 being silence and 10 being a tedtalk)

i'd say it's a pretty solid 12 0w0

To chrisamonroll

hshjhghdgfhDDGSDGJSDSJ

From chrisamonroll

my lips are sealed when it comes to what he says though!

michael i love you but i can't break friend code - ~ -

To chrisamonroll

yeah no it's aight thats all i needed to know

thanks

brb gotta launch myself into the sun now

From chrisamonroll

have fun 3

Michael tosses his phone over his shoulder, hopefully towards his bed and not actually out the window like that one time. He presses his hands to his face. Much to his dismay, his face is warm because Michael might love denial, but he also can't argue against the cold hard facts. Or perhaps the soft warm facts. The facts that are Jeremy shaped and keep reaching for Michael's hand.

Jeremy likes him.

It's finally starting to take hold in his brain. Jeremy likes him. Probably. Maybe. There's a good 75% chance, and that's 75% more than Michael's ever hoped. Jeremy likes him.

And Michael hasn't the slightest idea what he's supposed to do with that.

"What do you mean 'you don't know what to do'?" Rich hisses that day during chem lab, very precariously waving a box of matches around. "You struck jackpot, man! The guy you've been pining for likes you back. Called it, by the way, with the backpacks."

"Put those down," Michael plucks the matches from Rich's hold, replacing it with a pen he borrowed from Jenna because he keeps losing his goddamn pens. It's a glitter gel pen. Baby blue. "And it isn't that simple. I'm not even, like, a hundred percent sure yet."

"Bull_shit_," Rich says, filling up their lab report. Michael was very apprehensive with this lab partnership at first, even if they were friends now, but it's turning out pretty well. Rich has better handwriting than Michael and Michael is better at keeping things from blowing up. "Take the risk. All you have to do is confess, then bam! You're dating. Happily ever after."

"Why do _I_ have to be the one to confess," Michael grumbles, lighting the Bunsen burner.

"Because you're not as obvious as Jeremy is, so he's never gonna figure it out. I didn't 'til you told me."

Michael nudges the burner away from Rich. "What happened to having totally called it?"

"It was just a bunch," he shrugs.

"A...bunch?"

"Bisexual hunch," Rich explains. "You're over complicating everything. Just tell him."

"I am not going to tell him," Michael says to Rich. He repeats the same thing to Brooke later in class when he makes the mistake of relaying everything to her and asking her for advice. Brooke gasps, swats him in the shoulder rather hard, and says "Tell him!"

"Why not?" She pouts. Silently, he sends a little prayer to Chloe Valentine. Brooke's pouts are _deadly_

"I don't wanna put that kind of pressure on him," he sinks into his seat. "And what if I'm making it up? Or what if lately he's just a lot more touchy and blushy and stare-y and it has nothing to do with me? Or what if I _do_ confess and he goes along with it to make me happy or because he thinks it'll keep us together or—"

"Michael," Brooke gently interrupts him. "You're working on a lot of maybes here. The only way you'll know anything for sure is if you talk about it."

"That sounds like a lot of confrontation," Michael grumbles. He ends up saying the same thing to Jenna later in the hallway as he thumps his head against his locker.

"That's how communication works," Jenna says.

"Ugh. How awful. Also, thanks for the pen. Here you go."

"You asked me for advice and I'm giving it to you." She takes her pen back, looking unimpressed. "Silent pining will only get you angsty poetry and sad Spotify playlists. Just tell him."

"What if," Michael says valiantly. "What if _he_ confesses to _me_!"

"Jeremy? Jeremy Heere?" Jenna says. He slumps against his locker. Point taken. "If you actually want that to happen, you're going to have to show clear, neon signs that you like him before he actually gets a clue, much less the confidence to say anything."

"How am I supposed to do that?" He asks Jenna. And because he's so desperate, when he gets home Michael makes the mistake of asking his mom too.

"Oh, Mikey," his mom cooes as Michael tries not to die from the mortifying realization that he just asked his _mom_ how to court his best friend. "It's Jeremy, right? Or is it one of your new friends?"

"It's Jeremy, oh god," Michael lays his head down on the dining table. "Nevermind, it's okay, forget I asked, oh my god."

"Don't be like that, anak," she tsks, ruffling his hair. "Jeremy is such a sweet boy and I always had a feeling you liked him. Do you remember when you were kids and you gave him parsley for Valentine's day—

"Mom."

"—Because you wanted to give him flowers but you were worried the pollen might give him allergies?"

"_Mom_."

"See, that was courting already. What did he do with the parsley?"

"We ate it. Totally not romantic. Not that—I wanna be romantic—or—" Michael takes a deep breath and lets out short screech. He lifts his head up just in time to see his mom laugh good-naturedly.

"Give him a rose," she suggests while working at the stove. What is _up_ with adults and roses? "That's a rather obvious sign. Try to hold his hand. Be closer."

"We do that already," he says. His mom turns to look at him while his face flushes. "The hand holding, I meant, not the, uh. Roses. I hold his hand already—but—Uh!"

Probably understanding that if she says anything on the matter, Michael would bolt out of the room and start digging his own grave out in their yard, she doesn't push it. Instead, she says, "Do you know what a _harana_ is?"

"Mom, oh my _god_."

By this point, Michael realizes that asking people for advice just ends with him more embarrassed and confused than before. All he's managed to figure out is that if anybody is going to confess anything, it's gotta be Jeremy so Michael can really, truly be sure that this is all real and not some increasingly sad delusion he's created. But if that's going to happen, Michael will have to go against every instinct he's cultivated over the years that keeps his feelings subtle and under wraps. And he has to do that while both making it clear that this isn't just a best friends thing but also in a way that doesn't overwhelm Jeremy. And—

"Gahhhhh," he flops onto his bed.

"What's wrong with you?" Nikki asks from where she sits by his desk, awkwardly strumming a ukulele Tita bought her.

"Nothing," Michael says. Nikki swivels in his chair looking very done for a gremlin child. "Oh my god, fine, stop looking at me like that. It's Jeremy."

"Kuya Jeremy?" Nikki perks up and Michael can't help but smile. And maybe tease a bit.

"Yeah, Kuya Jeremy. He might like me, and that's pretty weird, so I'm stressed out about it."

Nikki's resulting face journey is priceless. Her expression goes from confusion to shock to a rather terrifying amount of jealousy to suspicious squinty eyed contempt. She asks, "What happened to Christine?"

"They didn't work out," he says.

"And now he likes _you_?" Nikki grimaces disbelievingly.

Michael's about to throw something passive aggressive right back, but maybe she's right. Him? Really? "I think so," he says quietly, looking at his ceiling. "But I could just be making it up."

His bed dips slightly and then Nikki is punching him in the shoulder.

"Ow! Hey!"

"I was joking," she frowns, scooting next to him, ukulele still in her hands. She strums a C chord. "How do you know that he likes you?"

"I don't," Michael shrugs. "Not really. I just have a feeling and—and maybe he looks at me a lot."

"Ew," Nikki scrunches her nose. "What're you going to do about it?"

"Die?"

"Lame," she says. Nikki shifts her fingers to a different chord, messing it up kinda awfully. "You should tell him."

"You should hold the ukulele right," Michael sits up and adjusts her wrist. "You have to hold it like this or else you'll have trouble getting your fingers to the other frets for more complicated chords."

"Don't change the subject," Nikki sticks her tongue out but lets Michael move her hand. "Are you going to tell him?"

"No," he says.

"Why? Are you scared?"

"_No,_" he says. "He has to be the one to tell me. Just so that I'm sure."

"That just sounds like you're scared," Nikki says. "But that's okay, I guess."

"You think so?" Michael asks, stunned. Validation is starting to come from the oddest of places. "Try strumming again."

"Yeah," Nikki shrugs, strumming once more and the sound is much better. The proper strings are pressed and the note rings out true. "You're the one who has to deal with it, so it's on you. You're both weirdos, anyway, so maybe it'll work out."

"Hey, I thought you liked Jeremy and now he's weird?" Michael laughs. He never would've thought that out of all the people who's given him advice, it's this tiny monster who manages to inexplicably make him feel okay. It's Nikki who tells him it's okay to be scared.

"I didn't say weird was _bad_," she huffs, practicing the new chord over and over again. Belatedly, Michael realizes that that's the closest Nikki's ever gotten to giving him a compliment. He'd hug her, but she'd probably claw his face off.

He settles for saying, "I can teach you how to play the ukulele. I still know how to play the guitar, and it's basically the same thing but smaller."

"Really?" Nikki says before ducking her head to hide her smile because showing an outwardly positive emotion towards Michael is on par with the world exploding.

"Yeah, really. Stay here," Michael stands. Jeremy-wise, he still doesn't have a plan. He's still confused and still pretty goddamn embarrassed and his underlying fear has been brought into the light, but when has he ever had anything completely figured out? One thing at a time. "I'll get my guitar and I'll teach you what I know."

"Cool," Nikki says trying desperately not to sound as ecstatic as Michael can tell she is. One thing at a time.

To say Michael starts courting Jeremy would be inaccurate because he doesn't really change how he acts all. The only thing he does is shrug off the thin veneer he's always worn, the one that reminds him to cool it with the heart eyes or step back and not stand so close. Michael tosses that out into the garbage and what he gets is just how he usually acts, but without the nervous feeling hanging around his edges. Without that ache that likes to curl up in his chest when Jeremy is nearby.

Michael and Jeremy hold hands in the hallway. They sit next to each other at lunch. They play video games and chat and laugh at stupid jokes. Michael goes shopping with Brooke and he buys this cool keychain that catches his eye. It's basically a blue marble, but super sparkly and on a keyring.

"What's this?" Jeremy asks when Michael gives it to him the next day at lunch.

"Ancient artifact that allows for magical girl transformation," Michael says. "I dunno, I saw it yesterday and thought of you."

"You—You thought of me?" Jeremy mumbles, rolling the keychain in his palm

"You love marbles, man," he says simply.

"I love marbles," Jeremy nods. There's a voice in Michael's head that sounds suspiciously like Chloe. The voice says _is he really talking about marbles, Michael?_ Shut up, brain-Chloe. "It's really cool. Thanks."

"Did you ever watch that marble race compilation video I sent you forever ago?" Michael deftly steers the conversation into something safer.

"Huh?" Jeremy looks up from where he's sliding the keyring onto his backpack zipper. "What video?"

Right. Impulsively deleted all of that. "Nevermind, just," Michael pulls out his phone. "You have to watch this."

"It's _twenty six_ minutes long. You have the attention span of a squirrel, how did you watch all of this?"

"Shut it and watch the marbles, Jer." Michael says and Jeremy breathes out a quiet laugh, laying his head on Michael's shoulder as the video begins. "Trust me."

"What it's—oh. Oh my god," he says.

"Right?"

"Holy fuck."

"_Right_?"

"Sup, nerds," Jenna greets.

"Shhhh!" They both say, not taking their eyes off of the video. Under the table, Jeremy's hand easily finds Michael, fingers intertwining as the marbles roll into oblivion.

There's something quietly liberating about it; about not really changing, but not holding back anymore. Michael never really thought that this whole pining thing affected him too much, but now with his freer laughs and glances he doesn't care to steal anymore, just looking on anyway when Jeremy turns to him, it feels a little like he's finally taking a break from dancing around his feelings.

Well, almost. Because Michael doesn't say anything.

There are moments when he can feel the words at the back of his throat, gently urging him to just _say something_, but he swallows them down and tries to convey them through an arm on Jeremy's shoulder or a playful shove in the hallway instead. Michael isn't holding these words back; he's just scared shitless of saying them, sue him.

It's not like it's a chore. Everyday is weird mix of the usual boring high school hellscape made brighter by his friends and Jeremy. The days that pass are good ones, and he wouldn't trade them for anything.

So it's easy to forget that bad days happen too.

It's subtle and obvious at the same time. Jeremy walks through the hallways with his back ramrod straight. Jeremy offers Michael a weak wave and a smile that looks like it's cracking at the edges as a greeting. Jeremy is looking at places that have nothing in them. At least nothing to Michael's eyes.

At lunch, Jeremy keeps his hands to himself, nervously wringing them under the table. Michael doesn't make a move to touch him. Instead he just asks, "You okay?"

"No," Jeremy admits. His face is stuck in a faraway expression. Michael wishes he could reach into Jeremy's brain and rip out everything that makes him feel bad, but that's not how this works.

"How can I help?" He asks. "We can hang at your place later, if you wanna."

"Can we go to yours? I kinda don't want—it's—"

"Sure," Michael says. Jeremy's told him before that he can't really explain most of the things that set him off nowadays, and that trying and failing makes him feel like he's just overreacting over nothing. "I've been meaning to show you the weird dent in my wall that showed up three days ago."

Jeremy's mouth quirks just a bit. Just the tiniest bit less faraway. A little bit more here. "Exciting stuff going on in the Mell household, huh?"

"You have no idea, dude. So much going on," Michael smiles. Jeremy still isn't touching him, but his hands have stopped fidgeting so much. One thing at a time. "Weird noises in the night that aren't weird enough to really worry about, cold spots," he counts off on his fingers.

"Ooh, are we talking about weird house stuff?" Christine asks when she gets to the table. "I'm pretty sure a telepathic rat lives under our porch."

"Okay, wow, this wasn't even a competition but you just won anyway," Michael says over Jeremy's bark of laughter.

"You can't just say that and not explain," Jeremy tells her, his eyes focusing not on an empty space behind Christine, but instead on her.

Christine grins, "Okay so it's like—"

Lunch passes with Jeremy nodding along to Christine laying out the evidence of her theory while the others come in, chiming in with their own weird house stories. The entire time, Jeremy alternates between listening intently and suddenly jerking in another direction. Everybody notices, but nobody brings it up. They all know bad days happen, but they also know Jeremy can handle this however he wants to. Jeremy smiles and laughs and talks and Michael's hand is uncharacteristically empty the entire time.

Michael hadn't realized his hands got cold this easily.

Michael waits by his car for Jeremy after class, and by the time Jeremy gets out, he looks. Well. Like shit. He looks like somebody held their hand out for a butterfly only to crush it before his goddamn eyes. In spite of this, Jeremy still forces a smile for Michael. He's not okay.

The drive to Michael's place is uneventful, punctuated only by Jeremy fiddling with the radio, clicking past song after song as if he's looking for something. When they actually hole up in his room, they mostly take it easy and watch sitcoms on Jeremy's laptop side by side on Michael's bed. Jeremy doesn't talk much, and Michael doesn't push him, trusting that Jeremy that will say when he needs something, will tell Michael how he can help. For now, sometimes it's enough to just be there.

Over the course of a few episodes, Jeremy keeps slowly pushing Michael off his own damn bed because he's an evil worm, and Michael's too stubborn to stand up and admit defeat, so he slinks down to the floor as Jeremy laughs.

"You seem comfortable there," Jeremy stands, stretching his legs.

"You put me here, heathen," Michael fixes himself, sitting on the floor properly, back against his bed.

"Ow!" Jeremy hisses, hopping on one foot, apparently having stubbed his toe one whatever mass was laying by the wall of Michael's room covered by a pair of jeans that haven't reached the point of needing an actual wash. "What is—"

"Whoops, sorry," Michael says when Jeremy kicks the jeans off, revealing Michael's guitar. "Forgot to put that thing away."

"You're playing again?" Jeremy asks, grabbing the guitar by the neck.

"Well, I never really stopped. I just got out of the whole phase where I thought I was gonna be fantastic at it," he shrugs, reminiscing his early teens wherein he decided to try out a new hobby each month. "I'm teaching Nikki."

Jeremy smiles, bringing the guitar over to Michael's bed. He holds it awkwardly in his hands. "I miss Nikki."

"Oh, she sure misses you too," Michael nudges Jeremy's leg teasingly while Jeremy knees him in the shoulder.

"She's learning the guitar? She's like," Jeremy holds out his index finger a few inches away from his thumb. "This small."

"The ukulele, actually," he laughs. "Much more size appropriate. They're different like, chord wise, but the basics are the same."

Jeremy drags his fingers over the strings, and Michael starts clapping and cheering.

"Musical genius right here, everybody," Michael calls out, cupping his hands over his mouth.

"Asshole," Jeremy laughs, pushing at Michael's shoulder. He sets the guitar into Michael's lap. "Play me something?"

"Uh, sure," Michael settles the guitar in his hands, his heart suddenly beating a little bit faster. "Any requests?"

"What are you teaching Nikki?"

"The scales. And how not to get wrist cramps," Michael snorts. "Neither make too good of a show, unless your wrist is hurting from holding a guitar wrong."

"Yeah, I'll pass on that gripping concept. Ha. Gripping," Jeremy laughs to himself like an absolute nerd, falling back on Michael's bed. Then he doesn't say anything at all, but the silence doesn't feel too bad. It just feels like Jeremy's thinking.

Michael actually has been teaching Nikki a song. It's one she asked him to teach her. His fingers find the frets easily and the strumming is second nature, playing the unsung song into the room while Michael hums the lyrics instead of saying them.

He gets through one play through the song and starts over again because his music habits don't change just because he's the one making the sounds. From where Jeremy's gangly legs hang over the edge of Michael's bed, he can see Jeremy's foot tapping along to the beat.

"This is nice," Jeremy says. "What's the song?"

"It's by Eraserheads. Ligaya," Michael answers as he gets to the chorus.

"What does that mean?"

"Uh," Michael shuts his eyes, trying to keep his hands moving while rifling through his vocabulary. "Happy. Or happiness. Something like that."

"Are you?"

"What?" Michael cranes his neck to look at Jeremy. Or at least he tries. He can't really see Jeremy from his spot on the floor, but he can see how Jeremy's holding his hand out in front of him, reaching for the ceiling. "What do you mean, buddy?"

"Are you—" Jeremy says. There's something in his voice. Michael can't call it a waver, but there's something unsure in his words. "Are you happy?" He asks.

Michael is nervous, all of a sudden. His hands keep playing, albeit a bit softer. He doesn't think either of them could take a silent room right now because there's something heavy in the air with them.

"Sorry," Jeremy sits up, dragging his hands down his face. "Sorry, that was weird and over philosophical and—"

"Hey," Michael says gently. "Don't say sorry. You didn't do anything wrong. I'm just thinking of an answer, is all."

"Okay," Jeremy says, and Michael can tell he's biting back another apology, bringing his hands down to fidget with the covers of Michael's bed.

"I am." He says, meaning it completely. Above him, Jeremy looks forward. Is Michael's life perfect? No. Nobody's is. Does he have everything he needs anyway? Great friends, a loving family, and—Michael looks up at Jeremy and he says nothing for a while. He just looks at how Jeremy blinks, as if willing something away. Michael's never been a hateful person, but the anger he has for whatever it is that haunts Jeremy's brain is sears under his skin. Leave him alone, he wants to scream. But that won't help. That's not how this works.

"Jeremy," Michael says, and Jeremy tears his gaze away from empty space in front of him. His gaze meets Michael's and Michael says. "I'm happy."

"That's," he says. "That's good. I'm glad."

"Are you happy?" Michael asks.

"I'm getting there," Jeremy tells him.

"Good," Michael hums. The song is on its third cycle. "We'll all be here for you either way, so take your time."

"You're way too nice to me," Jeremy smiles, a little sad. "All of you are."

"Fuck off, we're the perfect amount of nice to you, you walnut," Michael says, strumming louder for emphasis. "We care about you."

"Does this song have lyrics?"

"Woah there, segue master," he laughs. "Give me a second to get over the whiplash, yeah?"

"Fuck you, I'm honestly asking," Jeremy says. His smile is more playful now. There we are.

"Yeah it has lyrics, nerd," Michael rolls his eyes, starting the song up from the beginning. "_Ilang awit pa ba ang aawitin, o giliw ko?_"

"What does that mean?" Jeremy settles back onto Michael's bed, his head at the edge instead of his legs, eyes on how Michael changes from chord to chord.

"You can't expect me to be an accurate translator, sing, _and_ play the guitar all at the same time, dude," Michael dodges Jeremy's finger going in for a poke.

"Boooooo," Jeremy heckles, and he's so close Michael can feel it against his neck.

"If you think it's so easy, _you_ do it."

"No, no, geez," he laughs and Michael swears he feels his heart stutter. "Keep going, I'll just sit back and listen."

"As you should," Michael says haughtily, looking up at Jeremy, and he should probably look away, because there's something brimming in his chest. It isn't the words he's scared of. It isn't even a feeling. It's just something that's been true for a long time that he's never really, _really_ thought about. Now, it pushes against his lungs, his voice, his heart.

See, Michael throws around the word 'love' a lot on a pretty regular basis. He loves slushies. He loves music. He loves video games and writing the letter g. He loves his family and his friends and maybe by this point, they're the same thing already. He loves his best friend in the whole world, and this he's known this ever since they were kids.

But looking at Jeremy now. Looking at Jeremy look at him, he knows. God, he knows.

He loves Jeremy.

"_Sagutin mo lang ako aking sinta'y walang humpay na ligaya_," Michael sings. If he thought he was scared before, it's nothing compared to now. The words he's terrified of manage to spill out through the song.

Jeremy doesn't notice, though. He doesn't ask what it means. He just listens.

Michael can only hope that Jeremy understands, one way or another. He can only hope that maybe, Jeremy will be the braver one of them.

"_At asahang iibigin ka_," Michael leans his head back, his face against Jeremy's. "_Sa tanghali, sa gabi, at umaga_."

"Michael," Jeremy says. "Thank you, for this. For all of this. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Me neither," he smiles. Despite the epiphanies running like static under his skin, the fear holding his voice hostage, and the warmth in his chest, he still means what he said earlier. Michael looks Jeremy in the eye and he hopes. "_Ligaya_."

_**Note/s:**_  
_**anak = my child, but at same formality level as saying "son" w/o the gendering**_  
_** harana = traditional courting serenade. done at night, the serenade-er sings and plays the guitar below the bedroom window of the serenade-ee.**_  
_** "Ilang awit pa ba ang aawitin, o giliw ko?" = How many songs must I sing, my dear?**_  
_** "Sagutin mo lang ako aking sinta'y walang humpay na ligaya" = Just give me an answer, darling/my love, I would be overjoyed.**_  
_** "At asahang iibigin ka sa tanghali, sa gabi, at umaga" = And expect that I'll love you in the noon, the evening, and the morning**_

* * *

Chapter 09 - silakbo

Michael always jokes that he'll end up dying in a 7/11 just because it sounds hilarious and given just how often he ends up in one, seems rather probable. He didn't actually mean it as like, a suggestion or an invitation to come true, but here he is. Michael in the middle of a too-bright convenience store aisle being mocked by packaged snacks. He's got his headphones on, Jenna's latest ambient noise band recommendation blasting his eardrums, but past the music (?) he can hear the words he's apparently been running from.

He loves Jeremy.

In every meaning of the word, he does. He loves Jeremy. Goddamn it, he _loves_ him.

He wants to laugh hysterically. Michael can feel it bubbling in his chest, it would be a _really_ good laugh, but he refrains. He settles for standing nearly still, foot tapping nervously as he begins to zone out from reality and enter a weird limbo of _oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck_, but he does not laugh. If he starts, he might just not stop at all. Then he'll die. Maybe some stuff will happen in between, like, say, a cause of death, but that's just semantics. Michael will die and the last thing he'll see is this shelf of ribbed condoms. He's going to die because his brain has finally caught up with his heart and he figures that by this point he should just make the phrase "I don't know what to do about that" his catchphrase.

He should have just died last night. Michael doesn't know how he survived, what with Jeremy staying over and initiating another cuddle snooze fest. At the time, he was mentally exhausted and didn't have enough energy to freak out too much at Jeremy's warm body against his. He didn't freak out when he felt Jeremy's arm gently wrap around him right as Michael was on the edge of sleep. He didn't freak out this morning when he unthinkingly brushed Jeremy's hair out of his sleeping face. He didn't freak out when Jeremy's eyes peeked open, catching Michael in the act, only the smile crookedly and mumble "S'too early," before wiggling back into the covers.

All this great not freaking out continues through driving Jeremy back to his house because Jeremy and his dad were doing this Saturday brunch thing now. It continues until he parks at a 7/11,overcome by snack cravings. It continues until now.

Michael doesn't know if anything here was the final straw—as if maybe upon being confronted by the thin film of dust on everything present in all 7/11s pushes his clusterfuck of emotions from his chest, past his throat, and into his head, leaving him helpless and only capable of thinking _I love him_ and _fuck_— but that's besides the point here.

Is Michael freaking out now? His rapid foot tapping and gradual disconnect from tangible space is a huge sign that means yes, but logically, he shouldn't be. He's known he's liked Jeremy for the longest goddamn time and the only thing that's different now is one measly little word. Literally everything else about the situation is the same. Michael still won't say anything and just keep trucking on lest Jeremy say something first, the end. Nothing has changed except for _one_ word.

That can't possibly be that big of a deal. It can't be and it's _not_.

But Michael's brain stubbornly doesn't want to accept this. All it wants to do is make Michael feel many confusing things he can't even begin the parse out. Desperately, he wishes his brain could be normal for maybe like ten minutes so that he can at least drive home and have this needless ordeal not surrounded by the stale air of capitalism with an apathetic employee a few meters away, but alas, Michael's brain never listens to him. Neither can his heart, apparently, but he'd made peace with that a long time ago.

Or he thought he did.

"There's nothing wrong," he tells himself, probably just looking like a real piece of work murmuring to the condoms. Michael shuts his eyes and tries to take deep breaths, but the moment he does, all he can see is Jeremy's stupid goddamn smile or how the corners of his eyes crinkle when he laughs. Standard Jeremy material to swoon over, but Michael's chest feels tighter. "C'mon, there is nothing fucking _wrong_, what the hell? What the hell?"

"Are you like, okay?" Somebody says loud enough for Michael to hear past his music and his descent into another plane of existence made from unease. He opens his eyes to see the girl who usually gives him his slushies looking at him worriedly.

"Absolutely not," Michael blurts, pulling his headphones down and wincing. "I mean. Yeah. Sure. Sorry, I'll buy something, swear. After—After this thing I'm having. In my brain." Great job, Michael.

"Oh-kaaayyy," She says slowly, miraculously not too put off by this. "Do you have like, a friend to talk to or something? You look like you're gonna die."

"Yes," Michael agrees about the whole dying bit, only catching up to the first thing she said a second later. "_Yes_. I will. I will talk to somebody. Right now." He takes a few steps back, making a show of fishing his phone from his pocket. "Thanks for the concern, dude."

Appeased or perhaps just so weirded out she decides she doesn't want to deal with Michael anymore, she nods, making her way back to the cashier while Michael tries to keep smiling til she's out of view. Once she is, he slumps against the wall, shakily swiping his phone open to go and talk to somebody anyway. If Michael yelling at himself to calm the hell down isn't working, the next plan of attack is to find somebody else to do it for him.

This is how he ends up tapping a message out on his phone for Christine, barely even looking over what it is he's saying. All he knows is that Christine is a great friend and she's smart and she'll totally be sympathetic and she'll tell him everything will be fine. Michael will ramble and then he'll ask Christine to talk about how her life is going, how her cacti terrarium is coming along or how she's thinking of getting a streak in her hair like Jenna, and he'll lose himself in her world. And everything will be fine.

Michael hits send the same moment he realizes he did _not_ send his message to chrisamonroll.

To CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

waddup im having a crisis whats new

FUCK wrong send

my bad dude

From CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

CRISIS? WHAT IS THE CRISIS MICHAEL

I'LL PUNCH IT IN THE FACE

with my fist

that just also happens to be holding a knife if you want this to escalate into murder

Oh, Rich. Against all odds, reading the messages brings a small smile to his face even as he types his way out of this corner he backed himself into.

To CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

nothing it's fine omfg

that was for christine but your names are like right next to each other

From CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

my name starts with an R?

To CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

do really u think im some kind of square who actually saves contacts as ur real name

From CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

true

now im curious though

what is my contact name?

and what is the crisis?

To CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

both are unimportant

so you can forget this all happened

From CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

fiiiiiiiine

Michael was in the process of typing some sort of exit message, but the rest of Rich's messages come in before he can finish it.

but youre okay right?

you dont have to tell me jackshit but youre alright?

tho if you arent thats mega chill too just lemme know how to help

if you want any that is

Michael's fingers hesitate, god_damn_ it, Rich. The swirl of his emotions mixed in with his need to share it with _anybody_ is clouding his reason. Very quickly, he runs the pros and cons of caving and just rambling to Rich instead of Christine. Pros, he's never done it before so it'll at least be marginally less annoying for him and Christine can finally catch a break. Cons, literally everything else.

Rich is a great bro but he's a whole lot more blunt and would not pull his punches with Michael. Everything will not be fine, if he tells Rich. But hell, after all the running and hiding he's been doing, maybe what Michael needs is five feet and five inches of Hold The Fuck Up.

Or maybe Michael just wants to talk and he's spending too much time justifying this all. He's spacing out a 7/11. He should just accept that this is absurd just because that's life.

In his hand, his phone keeps vibrating.

From CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

if not then that is a-okay

hurry up and reply because im losing all my sappy points

i need those for the rest of the year

did my awesome yet probably uncharacteristic show of kindness KILL YOU

it better not have because then jeremy would kill ME

ooohhhhhh

ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh fuck this is a jeremy crisis aint it

NOT THAT IT'S ANY OF MY BUSINESS

again. jackshit.

shit. of jack.

MICYCLE MELL PLS REPLY

To CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

i thought i was a double texter holy shit

micycle mell?

From CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

oh hey nice yo so u alright or what

To CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

im actually Not

but uhhh dont worry cuz it's not Serious

it's just Weird

From CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

three strikes of weird capitalization and you're OUT

To CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

can i call you?

From CANYOUTAKECLEARERPICTURESOFOURLABREPORTS?

OH MAN IT'S GOING DOWN

i mean yes you can call i'd love to be a shoulder to rant on

my shoulders were made for this

"Jesus Christ," Michael laughs, and it's not the _I'm losing control of my life_ laugh that he was afraid of. It's just an _Oh, Rich_, kind of laugh. The needless crisis is still thrumming annoyingly in his thoughts, but as he taps on Rich's number to call him, he's starting to think he at least won't die here.

"Good morning, sweet prince," Rich picks up the phone.

"Morning, dude. I uh—" Michael says because he doesn't know what else to say right now. Does he just get to it? With Christine, he can just make an inhuman screech and she'd know what was going on. Rich is going to need a bit more than that. "I appreciate this."

"No problem, but I literally haven't even done anything yet." Rich snorts. Sometimes Michael can't believe this is the same guy who tripped Michael in the halls in sophomore year. "I am _so_ ready to lend an ear. Or two, because I have two ears. What is the crisis, lay it on me, Michael. What's the buzz? Tell me what's a happening."

"Why did you say that in a tune?" Michael blinks.

"It's a song. Christine's been getting me into musicals," he says. "Not the point. _Crisis_."

"Right, right, yeah. I just, uh. I don't know where to start. It's stupid and complicated but not really and—"

"Just start where it makes sense," Rich interrupts him. God, where could _that_ be? At fourteen, young and dumb and under the assumption that this crush on his only friend would be gone in a month? At sixteen, losers united with Michael resigned to sigh forever at hopeful nevers that won't come true? At seventeen in a bathroom, or Jeremy's bed, or by the cursed claw machine, revelations upon revelations stacking up against the longing that lives in his chest? Michael makes a pained noise and Rich just laughs, the bastard. "Okay, or if nothing makes sense just. I don't know, man. Say the crux of what's getting you in a tizz? Do an interpretive dance? Yodel? Write a boo—"

"I love Jeremy," Michael says mostly just to stop Rich before he gives Michael even more ridiculous suggestions but also because those three words encapsulate his main problem. "I'm spacing out at a 7/11 because I love Jeremy."

"Oh, okay," Rich tells him nonchalantly. A part of Michael's brain wants to scream because how the hell can he be so calm about that when Michael's world feels as garbled as it does? "Is that it?"

"What do you _mean_, is that it?"

"I dunno, I thought you knew this already? You told me you liked him a week ago when you were having your other crisis where you thought he might like you back, remember?," Rich explains. "I mean, you seem kinda freaked out about it _now_, so, uh. What happened? Was Jeremy extra cute, or something? Oh, by the way, is the guy okay? He looked fucking rough yesterday."

"He's okay." Michael assures him. "If he isn't, he's getting there,"

"Good, good. I worry about that nerd a lot."

"Says the nerd."

"Back to the topic at hand," Rich says. "What's up with freaking out about Jeremy?"

"It's stupid. Really, really stupid," he groans.

"Hey, instead of putting yourself down why don't you just like, talk about it, dude." Rich tells him bluntly.

"Okay," Michael takes a breath. "Okay. Nothing's changed but everything's changed, I guess."

"That's some _deep_ shit."

"Fuck you. I'm trying to make the words work in my head," Michael pinches the bridge of his nose while Rich snickers. He takes a moment to silently stare at the rack of magazines before diving into the whirlwind of emotions in his mind. "I—I love Jeremy." He says. "I've always loved the guy. I mean, he's my best friend, y'know? But I also knew that I had non-friend feelings for him and I've known that for a while, but I didn't like thinking about it much, duh, because that's just masochistic. And I guess now with everything that's happened, with Jeremy and I patching things up and with him _maybe_ acting like he _might_ feel something in return is making me weird and dumber than usual and. And—"

Michael is rambling, his train of thought lost completely in the torrent of things he wishes he could say. Rich doesn't say anything, and he can't tell if that's kind or cruel. Michael runs a hand through his hair. "And my point is that I love him I kind of really only figured out how deep it ran last night. I don't just have feelings for him. I don't just like him. I _love_ him and that's stupid, right? Nothing's changed but one word, just one stupid word, and that means nothing but it means _everything_ and now I'm having the delayed reaction to all of this right here right now staring at this goddamn health and wellness magazine and—"

"Okay," Rich cuts in and Michael is very relieved that he has an excuse to shut up especially since his words were starting to reach Jeremy levels of fast. "Wow, so, this sure is—This sure is something, huh?" He says. Michael can't see him, but he can hear the grin in Rich's voice. "Geez, Michael, buddy, I don't know where to start."

"Thanks," Michael grumbles.

"Agh, don't take that the wrong way, man," Rich amends. "I just should've been taking notes, or something. Do you want advice or did you just want to get that off your chest?"

"Neither? Both? God, I don't know. Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for, dude. You've evidently been going through a lot of mental turmoil," he says. Tired of standing still and tapping his foot, Michael starts walking through the aisles while Rich continues to speak. "I can ask you some shit, because first, I'm actually pretty curious about some of this stuff and second, it'll let you talk some more. Just tell me to fuck off whenever, and I'll tell you about atrocities I've witnessed at Jake's chess club instead. That good with you?"

"Yeah, sure," Michael says. He's probably way overdue for so much emotional externalization. "Hit me."

"Why are you freaking out about this?"

Michael doesn't stop walking. He decides to multitask, actually going to get the snacks he came here for in the first place while he rattles off an answer into his phone. "I dunno. It feels like a big thing. Big L word, right? God, I'm seventeen, what the fuck do I know about love?"

"I'm definitely no expert on this," Rich says, voice a little wistful. "But I think you might know enough to know what you're feeling. I mean, you kinda helped save Jeremy's life from an evil computer. That's love, bitch."

"Anybody would d—"

"Michael, I was there at the hospital the entire time you were waiting for Jeremy to wake up," Rich tells him, shutting Michael up. "You wouldn't talk to me and I couldn't move for a while, so all I ended up doing was watch your sorry ass longingly gaze upon sleeping beauty. That looked like love, bitch."

"You're the weirdest pep talk I've ever recieved," Michael says honestly, grabbing a couple of candies.

"Damn right, I should be. Next question, and I think you'll like this one," Rich tells him excitedly. "What do you love about Jeremy?"

Michael drops a pack of gummy worms. "Nope. Not allowed. Absolutely illegal. I'm skipping this turn."

"Come on! Use this opportunity to moon over Jeremy like you've always wanted to!"

"I cannot," Michael says, bending down to fetch his snack from the floor. "possibly tell you everything I love about Jeremy without making this call last at least an hour."

"Awwww," Rich croons. "Be still my beating meat."

Michael drops the gummy worms again. "Oh my god."

"The heart's a muscle, so it counts." Rich explains. "But really? You _really_ don't wanna go into detail with everything you love about Jeremy? I figured it might help you unpack why you think this whole love business is so heavy and complicated when maybe it might just be simple."

"Goddamnit, that actually makes sense," Michael sighs, clenching his gummy worms. "What, you want the extensive lineup? I love his smile and the sound of his dumb wheezy laugh. I love how he gets when he's happy and excited. I love how he, god, I don't know, tries so fucking hard to be better but I hate how he does it because he thinks he isn't enough." Each thing he says feels cathartic but Michael is also slowly getting horrified that all of this is tumbling out of his mouth. "I love how he's passionate and has a heart too big for his own good. I love how he'll probably end up with five kids and three cats in the future. I love—I'm just going to keep on going, Rich. I wasn't exaggerating, I could go on for a while. Please, stop me. I'm _begging_ you."

"You know, I'm no romantic, like. I'd be chill with getting proposed to with a slice of pizza at the back of a dumpster," Rich says, sounding a little bit like he's about to cry. "But that's some of the gayest goddamn shit I've ever heard in my life."

"You literally asked for it."

"And I'm glad I did. How's your crisis?"

Michael thinks that over. He's a bit more calm now. He doesn't feel like he's two seconds away from astral projecting into a universe where feelings don't exist, so there's been an improvement, he figures. The tightness in his chest is still there, but really, is that ever going to go away? "Better, I guess, now that I talked about it a bit. It's not all okay, but that's fine. Thanks, for this, by the way."

"No problemo, Mell, but I've got a controversial little opinion for you. Are you ready for this?" Michael makes an affirmative sound, so Rich says, "You should tell this shit to Jeremy."

"You _know_ I can't do that," Michael rolls his eyes, debating whether or not he should get chocolate milk or something fizzy. "That's old news. I can't tell him. I ran this through you a week ago."

"Exactly. A week ago."

"Okay?"

"A week ago," Rich continues, sounding awfully smug. "You didn't have this grand love-y revelation, yeah? Everything's changed now, yeeaaah? You should totally tell him."

"Me realizing this stuff actually means I should tell him even _less_, god." Michael chooses the milk. "This is—"

"Okay, sorry to interrupt, but I just need to ask you one last thing before you dig yourself even deeper in your fun hole of silent emotions forever," he says. "It's a little similar to the last thing, but I think the difference will drive my point home."

"Go for it, dude." Michael places his snacks down on the nearest surface lest he drop them again.

"Awesome," Rich says. "Why do you love Jeremy?"

Michael inhales sharply, "What?"

"Why?" He repeats. "Simple enough, right? Why do you love him?"

"I—" Michael says. Why. Why, why _why_. "I love him because—because I do. Because I always have."

"So you just don't know how to _not_ love him? Is the Michael Mell experience just automatically loving Jeremy Heere?"

"No," Michael says slowly. He doesn't know how, but Rich's words are rummaging through the boxes of shut away feelings in Michael's brain, airing everything out mercilessly. "No, there's nothing about loving Jeremy that's automatic. Loving him is difficult and messy but people don't _love_ other people because it's _easy_." Michael explains, memories running past days of being ignored. Mind skimming through a dark moment of cold eyes and cold porcelain and even colder words clanging around while music thumped in the background. "It isn't easy. It isn't. But people do it because against all fuckin' odds, they _want_ to. _I_ want to. I—" Michael takes a shaky breath. "I love him because he's _Jeremy_. He's the best person I know and I'll make the choice to love that incredible goddamn weirdo each and every single time."

"Now, see," Rich says after a beat of silence. Michael feels like he's been wrung out. "Again, I'm no expert on love, but. But if somebody loved me like that, I think I'd want to know."

"What if—"

"Whatever happens after, happens after," Rich trucks on. "But I think Jeremy would want to know this. Wouldn't you, if somebody loved you like that? If, oh, hypothetically, Jeremy did?"

Of course he would. More than anything, he'd want to know, but fear is just such a safe blanket to hide under. "What if this makes things weird? What if he hates me? What if this messes up _everything_?"

"What if none of that happens?" Rich counters."What if it's just one dude telling another another dude something true, you know, what you and Jeremy do all the time anyway?"

"But—"

"Spoken things are a whole lot easier to deal with than unspoken things," he says, _jesus_.

"Rich," Michael rasps. He doesn't know what to say, but his mind is curiously not as messy as it was before. There's a painful clarity now. None of the circular reasoning and roundabout excuses. Now, there's just a quiet yet resounding _oh_. Fear is safe, but Rich is _right_. "Rich, oh my god."

"You okay? You sound like you're dying."

"I'm at a 7/11 staring at the spinny hotdog grill thingy that never has any hotdogs in it and you just sucker punched honesty into all my repressed emotions," Michael tells him.

"The thingy is called a rotisserie, Michael. Get it right"

"_You're_ a rotisserie, fuck off," he says and Rich laughs. "But, uh. Dying aside, I think I needed this."

"Really?"

"Yeah," Michael says. "Really. Thank you. You're uh. You're a really great friend."

"Oh, wow, Michael. Be still my—"

"Do _not_," Michael says over Rich's raucous laughter. "Let me be sappy. Thank you, Rich."

"You're welcome," Rich says, sounding very proud of himself. "Anyway, I hate to cut this short because I really wanted to tell you about the chess club, but I've gotta go. And I think you've gotta like, fucking buy something if you've actually been in 7/11 this entire time."

"You can tell me about it later, dude. Least I can do in return for talking your ear off."

"Rad," he says. "Talk to you later, loverboy."

"Later, Rich," and Michael hangs up.

Michael takes a breath. Then another. Then another. The stale air doesn't feel as harsh as it did when he entered. The world doesn't feel as confusing as it was earlier. In his head, it's the same words that caused this whole ordeal anyway, but for the first time in a while, he isn't as scared of them.

He loves Jeremy.

_Jeremy would want to know this. Wouldn't you?_

"Hey," the girl at the cashier says when he's paying for his crisis gummy worms and carton of milk. Michael realizes that she probably heard his half of that entire phone call. "Uh."

"Sorry about all that," Michael murmurs, reaching behind his head to pull his hood up, but before he can, the girl just shrugs.

"Nah, it's cool," she hands him a his snacks in a bag. "Just. Well. Good luck."

"Oh," he says. "Thanks."

"Rock on," she says.

Michael walks out of the store, snacks in hand, thoughts clear, feeling just a just little bit braver than he's ever felt before. It's okay to be scared, and Michael is an expert at waiting and holding back, but he thinks it's probably time.

Jeremy would want to know.

And Michael really wants to know what he'd say back.

Michael makes another flowchart because Michael is the type of person who sometimes needs some extra help to function like a human being. There's no shame in that. Plus, it's a nice bookend to begin his Jeremy related feelings with one flowchart walking him through how he'd get over everything and to end (one way or another) with another flowchart about how he's going to _tell_ Jeremy.

It's divided into three main parts: before, during, and after. The before focuses on finding a nice time to tell Jeremy. It doesn't have to be the perfect moment, but he really wants it to just be the two of them perhaps where nobody else can hear or see them. He'd also like it if there was no time pressure, like a next class to run to or a Mr. Heere to come home and watch out for, so that if they need to, they can have time to talk it out. Of course, should finding the perfect moment fail too many times, the flowchart continues with a fun bubble that says "FUCK IT, MOVING ON".

The during portion is, for the lack of a better word, a mess. Michael can't just tell Jeremy "I love you" because Jeremy's brain could string that into so many different interpretations, none of them being the one Michael means. So he has to do a lot of explaining before getting to his point. He has to make sure Jeremy will actually believe him in the way he wants to be believed in when Michael tells him he loves him, and the flowchart goes through various ways of how to do that based on Jeremy's facial expressions and, for some reason, the weather.

The after portion is simple. When Michael was drafting this bit, he thought of a lot of outcomes spanning from awkward acceptance to a really weird and depressing scenario involving a surprise bear attack. He trashed that draft, narrowing all outcomes down into three categories: Reciprocation, Rejection, and It's Complicated. The third category was created because if anybody could complicate something as seemingly straightforward as being loved, it'd be Jeremy Heere.

Armed with a guide that goes through most of the probable situations, Michael faces the new week with a plan and an end in sight. Unfortunately, the week is busy with tests or meddling friends who keep unknowingly butting in every moment he and Jeremy are alone while Rich makes "well, what can ya do?" shrugging gestures in the background.

Jeremy's week is packed with hanging out with the others, and Michael's is too because while they're best friends, he's really glad they're learning how to exist more when the other isn't there without being afraid. Though after each day, Michael frustratedly inches closer and closer to "FUCK IT, MOVING ON." Thankfully, Jeremy saves him from settling when he asks if Michael wants to watch a movie with him.

"Cool, who else is going?" Michael asks over his lunch.

Jeremy scratches the back of his head, "Uh, nobody. I was thinking, just the two of us? It's just been a while since—"

"_Yes_," Michael answers enthusiastically. Loudly. The conversation of their lunch table goes silent, and Michael glares at the rest of their friends and their expressions of amusement, just daring them to say anything. "Yeah, Jer, that'd be awesome."

So that weekend, Michael does his thing. He drives up to Jeremy's place and beeps obnoxiously, though this time he's got a good beat going to it. Michael sees a pencil get hurled out of Jeremy's bedroom window, probably meant as a projectile, but it just ends up rolling off the roof and into the gutter. Jeremy flips him off the moment he climbs into the passenger seat.

The movie is not fantastic and Michael is ecstatic it sucks because that means he and Jeremy spend most of the time quietly heckling it in the dark like the assholes they both truly are, trying hard to keep their laughter down before they get kicked out.

They're back in his car, driving to Michael's place where they'll continue the day being dicks, when out of nowhere, Jeremy stops mid-sentence.

"_Stop the car,_" Jeremy says. He doesn't grab Michael's arm or anything, but the absolute urgency in his voice nearly has Michael swerving.

"Agh! What, why? Who the fuck is dying?" Michael switches on his hazard lights and slows to a stop at the side of the road.

"Oh, shit. Sorry, it's nothing serious," Jeremy says, a lot less like they're getting tailed by an axe murderer. "I just saw a drive through and I want fries. And a sundae."

"A sundae, Jer, it is forty eight degrees right now."

"I'm not a coward." Jeremy deadpans.

Which is how they end up sitting in Michael's car in the parking lot of a fast food joint. Upon Jeremy's request, Michael's phone is plugged into the stereo blasting the eclectic collection of songs he's found on Spotify, jumping from instrumentals to bubbly remixes to gongs, for some reason. Jeremy's being the weirdo he is, dipping his fries into his sundae before popping them into his mouth while Michael obnoxiously sips his soda and gnaws at his straw. After Jeremy's done explaining for the nth time why fries and ice cream belong together, Michael tells him about the chess club, much to Jeremy's delight.

"And then Emily, and I don't know who the fuck that is but Rich assures me she's real and exists in our chem class sometimes, she just. Grabs the rook and hurls it like a bullet two inches past Jake's face."

"Fuck," Jeremy says, around the fry in his mouth. "Why does the chess club sound like it could have fatalities?"

"I'm ninety percent sure somebody's already died but the chess club just expertly hid all the evidence," Michael chews on his straw, grinning when Jeremy laughs.

The heater in Michael's car is trying its best, but Jeremy's ears are still a little flushed from the cold. Jeremy's head is bobbing slightly to the music playing as he dips another fry into his sundae. Jeremy has a little smile on his face and Michael knows he's probably got one to match. Today was great and happy and they're together. And. And—

"Hey," Michael says. "Can I tell you something?"

The song fades out and a Spotify ad plays.

"Dude, you've gotta get premium already," Jeremy talks over ad, looking over to Michael. "Sorry, what did you say?"

If this had happened a few weeks ago, Michael would've easily gone for the out, shrugging it off before defending his irrational sentimental attachment to Spotify ads. But, god, he's so done with running.

"Uh, I asked if I could tell you something." Michael says, jamming his soda into the cup holder.

Sensing the change in mood, the smile falls off of Jeremy's face. "Of course," Jeremy nods, setting aside his food. "Of course you can. Because best friends, remember?"

"Yeah," Michael smiles, looking down at his hands. "Because best friends."

Neither of them say anything as Michael grabs his phone, turning the volume down just enough to be able to talk over comfortably but still loud enough to hear. He's about to open his flowchart next, but now that he's in the moment, the thought seems ridiculous. His flowchart obviously didn't take into account just how nerve wracking this would be.

The ad ends. The first few notes of a new song begin, guitar loud yet soft at the same time.

"Michael?" Jeremy says, voice gentle. Michael puts his phone down, wrenching his gaze to Jeremy instead. Jeremy whose eyebrows are scrunched just that tiniest bit, confused. Concerned.

"Yeah, sorry. I'm just," he laughs, running a his hand through his hair so that maybe Jeremy won't notice that it's shaking. "I made a flowchart."

Jeremy blinks. "A flowchart?"

"Yeah like. This thing I wanna tell you is so complicated that I planned it out because why not? It had different colors and bullet points and everything," Michael explains, happy to see Jeremy quirk a disbelieving smile at his penchant for visual organizers. "But, I dunno. Reading it out from my phone feels cheap, so I'm just going to wing this"

"And, uh, what is _this_?" Jeremy asks, his eyes nervous but not breaking contact.

"I'm getting to that. I just have—God. Okay. Let's do this," Michael steels himself, starting where he thinks might be good. "Do you remember when I got a skateboard for my birthday and we dicked around on it for days?"

"Yeah," Jeremy nods, looking a little wistful as if reminiscing on the days of knee scrapes and summer. "Yeah, that was fun. Where'd that thing go?"

"Away? Stolen by raccoons? I dunno," Michael shrugs. Ugh, focus, Michael. "But uh. That was really fun. And I think it's the earliest moment I can think of where I first thought—where I first _felt_—this."

"What—"

"Just hear me out," Michael says, giving in a little bit to the cowardice inside of him, looking away. Michael stares at his own fingers gripping the steering wheel tight. "It'll make sense in the end, just hear me out."

"Okay," Jeremy says, and there's a twinge of something in his voice that Michael wishes he could understand.

"Okay," he repeats. It's now or never. "So that day was the first time I thought about this. Of course, back then, I didn't really think too much of it. I was like 'oh, this is normal, this happens all the time, right?' and I went on with my life with you at my side. Then I just kept going on with my life and _this_ never stopped. Not at fifteen, or sixteen, or when I thought the Michael and Jeremy team was over. I kept feeling this because I wanted to, even when things got hard. I feel _this_—" Michael smiles, probably looking like he's fraying at the edges. "Because you're you, Jeremy."

Michael's stereo keeps playing softly._'Di ka ba nagtataka kung bakit ngyayari 'to? 'Di ka ba nagtataka kung bakit nandito tayo? Pwede bang pakinggan mo awit ng puso mo?_

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?" Jeremy laughs, and Michael can't help but turn to him and—Jeremy's looking at Michael. He's looking at Michael with hopeful eyes and a small crooked grin.

"It means you're you," he says. He's surprised the words actually come out. He's surprised he can say anything at all when Jeremy's looking at him like maybe, he knows exactly what Michael is trying to say. "It means you're Jeremy Heere who likes thumbholes and marbles and the color blue. You're the dweeb who always double knots his shoelaces. You're the kid who threw a broccoli out the window when I didn't want to eat it. You're the guy who cares so much all the time. You're—"

"Michael," Jeremy says, voice wavering. Michael is having trouble breathing.

"Yeah?" He manages to get out.

"I really hope I'm not reading this wrong," Jeremy mutters to himself. How Michael hears this past the pounding of his heart and the soft croon of music, he has no idea. Jeremy scooches forward, leaning over the gear shift, face so close Michael can feel his breath against his cheek. Jeremy slowly raises his hand, slow enough for Michael to see and shy away from, but he stands his ground, because he's having trouble believing that this is real life. Because he wants to be close to Jeremy.

"Michael," Jeremy says, placing his hand on Michael's neck, his thumb oh so close to Michael's lips. "Don't move. I'm gonna do a thing. Punch me if you want me stop."

"I—" Michael's says. His voice is failing him. The cogs in his brain are slow, but they're turning, and he can put two and two together. He can't believe it, but this is real. He can hear the faint rattle of his car's engine. He can see the gloomy, cold scenery from the corner of his eye. He can feel Jeremy's hand on his face, thumb tracing up and down his cheek, holding Michael as if he's something precious. "I really don't think I'm going to do that."

"That's good," Jeremy laughs and god, he looks beautiful.

_Bahala na ang tadhana—_

Jeremy shuts his eyes, leans in, bridging that last inch, and presses his lips against Michael's. Michael doesn't know what to do but to submit to the overwhelming pounding in his ears, to the static under his skin, the warmth in his chest. He brings a hand to hold Jeremy's wrist, solid and _real_ because this is happening. This is happening and Michael's always been a sucker for romance. He's heard first kisses be described like fireworks, but that isn't really accurate at all. Jeremy's lips are soft against his, a little cold from his sundae. The hand on his face is trembling, and that's fine because Michael is sure his is too. This angle isn't the greatest, and Michael is pretty sure the stick shift is stabbing Jeremy, but he can barely care.

The press of Jeremy's lips, just this solid weight that's real, does not feel like fireworks. It feels like the answer to all the things he's been shoving aside in his heart, It feels like happy sleepovers or blowing out candles. It feels like Jeremy, unsure and hesitant but so many more good things Michael can't even begin to name.

And then Jeremy is pulling away. And then Michael can't take any more of this.

"I love you," he says. Jeremy's eyes open, shocked and bright. He looks at Michael and Michael never wants him to look away. "That's what this is. What I've been trying to say. I love you. I'm in love you. _I love you_."

"Holy shit," Jeremy says, and it's such a fucking Jeremy thing to say at the moment that Michael let's out an incredulous bark of laughter.

"You sure do have a way with words, huh?" he teases.

"Shut up," Jeremy takes hold of Michael's collar, the hand on Michael's face travelling down to rest on his shoulder instead, as if Jeremy is grounding himself. "Holy shit."

"I love you," Michael repeats his brain is a mess and his heart only knows those three words. But Jeremy is silent, eyes cast downward, so he urges himself to find more. "I love you, but if you don't that's—that's okay. I just needed to tell you because you deserved to know and—"

"Shut up, oh my god. I _literally_ just kissed you," Jeremy says, and while Michael is over the moon, he knows Jeremy isn't done yet. "But. I don't know. Fuck, I don't know."

"Hey," Michael's gut goes cold, but that's not important. Jeremy sounds so fucking sad, so he takes hold of one of Jeremy's hands, stroking over his knuckles soothingly. "What do you mean?"

"I don't know how to do this," Jeremy lifts his head. He smiles, too sharp and sad, eyes a little wet, and says, "I don't know how to—how to do things right. You of all people should know this, and you of all people should know how bad things get when I mess up. I will mess up, and I don't—I can't do that. Not to you. Not with this."

Michael loves this idiot. Simply, he says, "I don't care."

"Michael—"

"No," Michael squeezes Jeremy's hand. "I don't care. Dude, if I expected you to be perfect with no mess ups whatsoever, we wouldn't have made it past preschool. You convinced me eating glue was _normal_. You'll make mistakes, and in case you haven't noticed, I will too. But I don't care."

"This is different. This isn't—" Jeremy sighs, intertwining his fingers with Michael's. For all that he's trying to convince Michael this is a bad idea, he doesn't pull away. He looks at their joined hands like somebody who yearns and wants so badly, and Michael had no idea how it looked from the outside looking in. "I didn't even know, until after the SQUIP fucking erased you. I didn't even know until you were so far away and all I wanted was for you to be back. I didn't know, until I did, and even then, even now, just because my feelings say one thing doesn't mean I can actually be good at—at _this_. Michael, you say you love me, but I don't know the first fucking thing about loving somebody _right_."

"But do you?" Michael asks. Maybe he's being unfair, because it's a heavy question, but Jeremy technically hasn't given him an answer yet and he's tired of things being left unsaid. So he looks at Jeremy, the messy, incredible, fantastic boy he's decided to love, and he asks "Jeremy, do you love me?"

"For fuck's sake," Jeremy says. "Yes. _Yes_. Michael, I love you."

And Michael is the one who starts this time. He's a little excited and maybe goes in too fast, but he pulls back. He slides his lips against Jeremy's, hesitating because Michael's got no idea what he's doing, but Jeremy makes a noise. Jeremy pulls him closer, kisses him deeper. Michael lets his eyes fall closed. He lets Jeremy wash over him. Lets himself get lost in the feeling of it all, grounded only by the soft hand he holds in his own. They kiss and Michael can't tell how much time has passed. Michael probably wouldn't notice the end of the world right now. All he knows is Jeremy. Jeremy who loves him.

Michael, for all that he wishes he could go on forever, pulls back first. Breathless and dizzy with possibilities, he leans his forehead against Jeremy's. For a moment, they don't say anything. They don't move. They sit there, holding each other as much as they can.

"If you're going to reject me, reject me," Michael says softly. "But don't do it because you think you have to. Because you think I'm better off. I'm best when I've got you."

"I'm going to be bad at this." Jeremy tells him.

"I might be too."

"I don't know anything about dating."

"Dude," Michael says, giddy at the word 'dating'. Because that's going to happen. Because Jeremy is going to be his boyfriend. If he's reading this right, Jeremy already _is_. "I don't either. Most of our dates are going to be video games at my place."

Michael can't see it, but he feels Jeremy smile in his hands. "Good thing we both love video games then, right?"

"Yeah," Michael says. "If you wanna give this a try—"

"I do," Jeremy nods. "I really do."

"Then let's just do this like how we do everything else."

Jeremy pulls back, not far enough that Michael has to let go, but just enough for Jeremy to look at him. Michael takes note of everything; the slight flush to Jeremy's skin, the ruffled mess Michael's made of his hair, and the small, dazzling smile on his face. "Like a bunch of idiots?" he says.

"Pretty much," Michael shrugs, laughing. "But I was thinking more like we'll figure it out as we're going. You and I against the world."

"You and I," Jeremy nods, and finally, _finally_, he looks sure of something. Michael can't believe it, but he's here. This is happening. Jeremy says, "Sounds good to me."

**_Note/s:_**  
**_silakbo [ng damdamin] = outburst [of emotion]. passion. strong feelings._**  
**_ "'Di ka ba nagtataka kung bakit ngyayari 'to? 'Di ka ba nagtataka kung nandito tayo? Pwede bang pakinggan mo awit ng puso mo?" = "Aren't you wondering why this is happening? Aren't you wondering why we're here? Can you just listen to the song of your heart?"_**  
**_ "Bahala na ang tadhana" = Let fate take its course_**


	56. (T) STEREK - Hemingway Can Suck It by or

Hemingway Can Suck It  
orphan_account

Summary:  
"For those of you who just transferred into this class or simply decided that day one wasn't important enough to attend, I'm Professor Hale. Welcome to English 346, The American Novel."

Stiles is pretty sure his mouth is hanging open right now and that his eyes are wide with shock, because holy fuck, he thinks he knows why his students transferred. Hell, if he was still an undergrad, he probably would have transferred, too.

(Or: In which Stiles is a Biology professor and Derek thinks he's a student.)

* * *

"So I was having a pretty good morning," Stiles says without preamble as he throws himself down in the chair across from Lydia, a scowl on his face. "In fact, I was having an _excellent_ morning."

"But?" Lydia asks, her tone bored, not bothering to look up from the paper she's grading, blood red pen in hand.

"But then I found out that all but five of my Bio 424 students transferred out of the class last minute," Stiles bitches, throwing his hands up in the air and slumping back in his chair. "All but five, Lydia. _Five_. I had to cancel it."

"They transferred out of _your_ class?" Lydia questions, looking up, her interest piqued.

Stiles can't help but preen at that a little bit, because he knows he's a good teacher, okay? He's young and enthusiastic and can remember names like a _boss_. Also, epigenetics is kickass, so really there's absolutely no reason for any of his students to transfer out of his class, much less over eighty percent of them.

"You said this was your Bio 424 course?" Lydia continues, a contemplative look on her face as she taps her pen against her perfectly painted lips. "Monday, Wednesday, and Friday at eight am?"

"Yeah," Stiles answers, eyeing Lydia suspiciously. She clearly knows something he doesn't on the matter.

"When was the last time you dropped by the English department?" she asks, a dangerous smile spreading over her face – the sort of which terrifies and arouses Stiles in equal measure.

"I dunno. Why?" Stiles replies warily, frowning. It's a fairly strange question, after all.

"There's a new addition to the staff who has a class at the same time as your Bio 424," Lydia answers, as if that explanation should solve everything. If _she'd_ been teaching a class at the same time as him, he could understand people transferring into her class, but all of his bio students transferring into an _English_ course? Clearly Lydia hasn't had quite enough coffee yet this morning.

"How's that relevant?" Stiles asks, his brow furrowing in confusion, nose wrinkling in distaste.

"I think you'll have to go see for yourself," Lydia replies, that dangerous glint still shining in her eyes, an amused smirk curling her lips. "I believe the class is in room 240 in the SEC."

"How do you _know_ that?" Stiles questions, because, really, this whole thing is just getting more and more confusing.

"I may have sat in on the class this morning," Lydia admits, although she sounds inordinately pleased instead of embarrassed or guilty. "Not exactly my type, but I can see why your students would transfer."

"The class wasn't your type?" Stiles asks, still completely lost.

"Just check it out," Lydia sighs, doing that thing where she rolls her eyes at him without ever actually rolling her eyes. "You'll thank me later."

Stiles lets out an annoyed huff, but doesn't try to wheedle any more information out of Lydia – it's a useless endeavor if there ever was one. Their conversation devolves from there, Stiles nodding along understandingly as Lydia complains about particularly idiotic students. Somehow she'd gotten stuck teaching a section of Intro Bio, which Stiles _really_ doesn't envy. There are, what, two to three hundred students per section?

He doesn't forget about the mysterious English class, though, which is why, instead of sleeping comfortably in his apartment, he finds himself wandering aimlessly around the Sheppard English Center at seven forty-five the next morning, trying to remember which room Lydia had said the class was in. It's somewhere on the second floor, he knows, but –

"You look lost," a voice says, nearly startling Stiles out of his skin.

He whirls around, an answer on the tip of his tongue, but his mind goes blank as soon as he lays eyes on his savior. Because, hot _damn_, he needs to get lost more often if it means that this guy is going to help him out. Stiles licks his lower lip and tries to figure out what to say.

"Forgot the classroom number," is what he finally settles on, shooting the guy his most charming smile. God, he hopes the dude's into nerdy-looking geneticists. Stiles doesn't recognize him, but he looks too old to be a student. A new lecturer, maybe?

"What class is it?" Hot Guy asks, sounding a little annoyed and less than charmed, much to Stiles' disappointment.

"Uh," Stiles says, blushing as he realizes that he doesn't actually know. "I'm not actually sure. I know it starts at eight and that it's taught by a new prof."

"You don't even know the course name?" the guy asks, making Stiles wince a little, because okay, maybe he should have looked it up in the course guide, but he was a little preoccupied with informing his remaining Bio 424 students that the class had been cancelled. He _then_ had to figure out how to shift the course over to next semester and rework his entire research schedule to accommodate the time loss. His winter semester is going to be so hectic.

"So I've been a little busy lately – sue me," Stiles huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. "Now do you know what class I'm talking about, or should I just continue awkwardly checking every freaking room on this floor?"

"Come with me," the guy says, and, wow, Stiles thought that Lydia was the only one capable of doing that 'rolling your eyes but not actually rolling your eyes' thing. Maybe it's just a thing all hot people are innately capable of. Or maybe they've developed it specifically to show their disdain of him.

Stiles, on the other hand, has no problem with _actually_ rolling his eyes. He does follow, though, only because the class is going to start relatively soon and he knows how annoying it can be to have people barging into your class late when you're trying to teach. The room Hot Guy leads him to is actually more of a classroom than a lecture hall, which, he supposes, shouldn't be all that surprising, considering the type of class this is.

What _is_ surprising, though, is how packed it is. In fact, Stiles ends up having to stand awkwardly in the back of the room because all of the desks are taken. Really, what could be so amazing about –

"For those of you who just transferred into this class or simply decided that day one wasn't important enough to attend, I'm Professor Hale," Hot Guy announces, moving to stand at the front of the room, surveying the class with a cool gaze. "Welcome to English 346, The American Novel."

Oh, wow. Stiles is pretty sure his mouth is hanging open right now and that his eyes are wide with shock, because holy _fuck_, he thinks he knows why his students transferred. Hell, if he was still an undergrad, he probably would have transferred, too. Sure, the guy – _Professor Hale_ – was hot in the hallway, but the tone of voice he's using right now kind of makes Stiles want to drop to his knees immediately, and he's pretty sure he's not the only person in the classroom who feels that way.

"Now, as you all know from the syllabus, our first text, which you should have already started reading, is Ernest Hemingway's _A Farewell to Arms_," Professor Hale continues, turning to write some basic information about Hemingway on the blackboard behind him. "Hemingway was one of the most influential, and arguably one of the greatest, American writers of – "

Stiles can't help but let out a snort at that. He just _can't_ – not when someone's calling Hemingway "one of the greatest American writers."

"Do you have a comment to make, Mr. – ?" Hale asks, turning around to stare _directly_ at Stiles. Seriously, how the fuck did he even hear that?

"Stiles," Stiles answers, smiling at Hale a little sharply. "But I mean, c'mon, _Hemingway?_ Really?"

"Do you have an issue with Hemingway?" Hale shoots back, quirking an eyebrow at him, obviously unimpressed with his answer.

"What, you mean besides the fact that the dude was basically the phrase 'no homo' personified?" Stiles replies, and for a moment he almost thinks he sees Hale's lips twitch up into an amused smile. "Seriously, American society could have done without his contributions to sexism and the ideal of hypermasculinity."

"That doesn't change the fact that his writing style – " Hale starts, only to be cut off by a sharp laugh from Stiles.

"So the fact that his writing is pretty excuses the societal messages and consequences of his books?" Stiles retorts, unable to help himself from enjoying the way Hale scowls at his words. "The only worthwhile book is one that actually says something meaningful."

"Would you therefore like to discount more than seventy five percent of the world's literature?" Hale asks, looking at Stiles intently. "Is the _Harry Potter_ series not worth your while?"

"Dude, _Harry Potter_ is about the power of love and families of choice," Stiles shoots back, narrowing his eyes, because _no one_ insults _Harry Potter_ on his watch, goddamn it. "Hemingway just writes about men drinking and women crying."

"Well then, Mr. Stiles, I'm sure you can tell me all about how much you hate Hemingway in our subsequent classes, when we really start delving into the book," Hale replies, his smile all teeth.

Stiles just barely manages to prevent himself from saying, "Oh, it's _on_," and that's only because he realizes that three of the students he had in his Bioethics course last semester are staring at him like he's been replaced by a pod person.

What can he say? It looks like Professor Hale brings out the best in him.

Just a little over twenty four hours pass before Stiles sees Professor Hale again. Even then, it's not like it's intentional. Really, it would be more accurate to say that a little more than twenty four hours pass before Stiles _runs into_ Professor Hale again. Literally.

"Shit!" Stiles squawks as he takes the hallway corner a little too quickly and comes face to face with Hale.

Unfortunately, Hale looks just as startled as he probably does and before he can slow himself down sufficiently, they're colliding. The folders that Hale was holding go crashing to the ground, and Stiles nearly follows – his slim form can't possibly compete with I'm-a-wall-of-solid-muscle Hale's. However, before he does a face plant, he feels an arm wrap around his waist, steadying him.

"Hey," he says awkwardly, shoving his skewed glasses back up his nose. Fuck, if he'd known he was going to run into Hale today, he would have worn his contacts instead. "Nice, uh, save there, Professor Hale."

"You should watch where you're going, Mr. Stiles," Hale says after a beat of silence, taking his hand off of Stiles' waist as quickly as if he'd been burned.

"Just Stiles," Stiles blurts out, still staring at Hale, transfixed. "Stiles is my first name."

"Your parents named you 'Stiles'?" Hale asks, his brow furrowing slightly and his frown deepening.

"It's a nickname," Stiles explains, cheeks flushing, looking away from Hale and down at where the papers he was carrying are now scattered across the floor. He feels his cheeks heat even more at the mess he's caused and quickly drops down onto his hands and knees in order to help pick them up.

"What's your actual name, then?" Hale replies, also kneeling in order to gather his papers.

"A monstrosity that no one's ears should ever have to bear the burden of hearing," Stiles quips, pausing as he picks up one of the sheets of paper, pursing his lips as he reads it. "Wait, is this seriously your class booklist? Please tell me it isn't."

"What's wrong with it?" Hale asks, sounding distinctly annoyed again.

"Do you seriously see nothing problematic about the fact that all of these texts were written by straight white men?" Stiles shoots back, looking back up at Hale, his expression unimpressed. "I mean, four out of the five are even dead."

Hale fixes him with an intense, unreadable look, and Stiles is about to flounder for an excuse in order to escape Hale's wrath, but just as he opens his mouth, Hale _smiles_.

"What books would you choose?" Hale asks, but his tone isn't at all combative or defensive, throwing Stiles off guard. "If you were to design the course."

Stiles blinks at him, just looks at him for a moment, before averting his eyes and chewing on his bottom lip, considering the question. It's a difficult one for sure, and Stiles hasn't had any sort of English class since his sophomore year of college, so it takes a bit of digging for him to come up with an appropriate answer.

"Something by Sherman Alexie," Stiles starts, his lips forming the words slowly as he tries to organize his ideas. "_Flight_, maybe."

"Good choice," Hale says, a note of approval in his voice that has Stiles suppressing a shiver. "What else?"

"_The Bluest Eye_ by Toni Morrison," Stiles continues, gaining a bit of confidence, enough to look up at Hale again. "_One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ by Ken Kesey."

"Happy stories," Hale snorts, but he he's still smiling that small smile of his, eyes bright with interest.

"Please, like _Lolita_ and _Cat's Cradle_ are any better," Stiles scoffs, but he can feel a smile tugging at the corners of his lips, too. "What about _The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time_, then? That has a semi-happy ending."

"Haddon's British," Hale replies, continuing to focus solely on Stiles in that unnerving way of his. "The course is The American Novel, remember?"

"Damn," Stiles says, biting his lip again. "Uh, well. _Fahrenheit 451_'s good. Either that or _The Namesake_ by Jhumpa Lahiri."

"I'd go with _The Namesake_," Hale replies, nodding. "It gives a little more variety, considering how you already have a dystopic novel with _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_. And the last one?"

Stiles pauses, studying Hale carefully before deciding what to say.

"_Brokeback Mountain_," Stiles answers finally, smirking a little bit, his tone dipping just enough to be flirtatious.

"That's a short story," Hale points out, but Stiles is gratified to notice that his cheeks have turned a little pink. "And just for the record, I didn't choose the course texts."

"You didn't?" Stiles asks, surprised.

"I accepted the position fairly late and it was easier for me to just use the materials that the previous professor had left," Hale answers, shrugging before moving to pick up the last two papers off the ground. "If I ever teach the course again, though, I'm certainly changing a good portion of the material."

"Good. I'd have lost all respect for you otherwise," Stiles says, grinning at Professor Hale as he hands over his armful of papers and they both stand up again. Idly, Stiles wonders how long they were crouched there, discussing literature.

"You respect me?" Hale snorts, although he sounds distinctly amused.

"Just because I respect you a little doesn't mean you're not _wrong_," Stiles shoots back, earning him a mild glare from Hale.

"Brat," Hale grumbles, shuffling his papers back into order. "Anyway, don't you have somewhere to be? You seemed like you were in a hurry."

"Oh, shit," Stiles says, grimacing as he glances at his watch, already slinging his bag over his shoulder. "Thanks for reminding me."

"I'll see you in class on Friday, Mr. – ?" Hale calls out as Stiles starts rushing down the hall again.

"Just call me Stiles!" he yells over his shoulder, sparing one backward glance.

He really does have to hurry, though. He'd texted Kira saying that he was coming around to chat for a bit at one twenty-five and it's already one thirty-six. She has a section of Asian American Lit that she has to teach at two, also, so his timing actually does make a difference.

"Hey Kira," he greets her, trying to steady his breathing when he finally pokes his head into her office.

"Stiles! I was just about to text you," she replies, a bright smile on her face as she stands up from her desk to pull him into a hug.

"So, how was Japan?" Stiles asks as squeezing her tightly.

"Amazing, as always," Kira answers, still beaming as they break apart. "I swear, even though I've been four times, each visit feels like something completely new."

"Damn, I wish I could go," Stiles sighs, plopping himself down on the couch in Kira's office, Kira taking a seat next to him.

"Maybe there'll be a conference you can go to someday," Kira says, trying to reassure him. "You could get the university to pay the airfare then."

"Yeah, well, I'd probably only get to go to the American Society of Human Genetics' main conference, and that's always held either in the US or Canada," Stiles replies, pouting a little bit.

"Well, someday when you're tenured and have enough money saved up, then you can go," Kira says, leaning over and wrapping an arm around his shoulder, squeezing him a little. "Either that or I'll, like, save up as many skymiles as possible and use them on you."

"Aw, thanks, Kira," Stiles replies, smiling and snuggling up next to her. "Seriously, though, how was it? Did you finally get to Nara?"

"Oh my god, Nara was _amazing_," Kira gushes, cheeks flushing with excitement at the mere memory of the place. "I wish my Japanese was better, though – I wanted to write haikus to it."

"You're such an English professor," Stiles laughs, bumping his shoulder against Kira's lightly.

"And you're such a scientist," Kira shoots back, a wide grin on her face, a teasing spark in her eyes.

"Hey, I'll have you know that I attended an English lecture yesterday!" Stiles protests – not that he's actually offended or anything.

"Wait, really?" Kira asks, blinking at him in surprise. "Which class?"

"English 346," Stiles admits, wincing slightly as he begins to regret his impulsive outburst, hoping that Kira doesn't push too much on the subject.

She looks at him for a moment and then smiles knowingly. No such luck, then.

"Derek teaches that, doesn't he?" she says, clearly amused at his expense.

"Derek?" Stiles repeats, feigning innocence, trying not to think about how his heart rate speeds up a little at finding out Professor Hale's first name. God, he's like a student with a crush. He totally could have looked up Hale's – _Derek's_ – name online, anyway.

"Professor Hale," Kira clarifies, unable to hide her grin anymore. "New, young, could probably quit academia to become a model, you know."

"He stole my students!" Stiles protests, giving up the pretense of not knowing who she's talking about. "I had to cancel my Bio 424 class because it was at the same time as his stupid English 346 class and, like, eight percent of my students transferred at the last minute!"

"Oh, I'm sorry, Stiles," Kira replies, the smile slipping off her face, immediately making Stiles feel guilty. "Did you get it moved to next semester, at least?"

"Yeah, but it's going to make my life so much more hectic," Stiles sighs, because he's been trying not to think too hard about it (thankfully Derek's been a fairly good distraction). "I mean, I'm going to be up for tenure soon, and I really hope this doesn't affect that."

"It shouldn't. It's not like it was your fault," Kira reassures him, her arm still around his shoulders. "In fact – "

A loud buzzing sound comes from Kira's phone, cutting her off.

"Shit. I'm sorry, Stiles, but I've got to – " Kira says, checking her phone to find a notice from her calendar, saying that she has a class to teach in ten minutes.

"It's fine. We'll catch up later," Stiles replies, waving her off. "I have some stuff I need to finish up at the lab anyway. No biggie."

"Text me, okay?" Kira says, pressing a light kiss to his cheek before rushing out the door.

"Will do!" Stiles calls after her.

Stiles considers not going to Derek's class the next morning. Really, there's no logical reason for him to go. Instead he could sleep in, could get his PCR started early, could leisurely get coffee and text Scott. He could do _anything_.

Instead, he finds himself, once again, in Derek Hale's English 346 class. Where he's currently arguing with Derek about Hemingway's latent homosexuality (or lack thereof). What?

"Okay, so I can agree with the whole frat-boy-like overcompensation thing, but what you're saying about his portrayal of gender is bullshit," Stiles protests, leaning against the back wall of the classroom like he did on the first day.

"Well, in _The Garden of Eden_ – " Derek starts, but Stiles cuts him off with a loud groan, the sort of which would probably get him failed if he were actually a student. In fact, a few of the actual students in the class do look a little scandalized, except for those who've had him as teacher before.

"Oh my god, you actually subjected yourself to that much Hemingway?" Stiles asks, trying not to make a childish gagging expression. "Do you not love yourself?"

"Mr. – " Derek snaps, cutting himself off with a frustrated look, like he's sucking on a lemon. "_Stiles_."

Stiles can't help but grin cheekily at Derek's use of his first name.

"Look, I'm just saying. Just because he used the word 'androgynous' once and had a character cross-dress doesn't technically support your latent homosexuality theory," Stiles protests, shrugging. "And the whole lesbian relationship between Marita and Catherine really just seems like a male gaze thing. I mean, David's the one who ends up with Marita anyway. So yeah, not really supporting Hemingway's latent homosexuality."

Stiles is pretty sure that he hears one of the students mutter, "There's more than enough latent homosexuality in this room already." Stiles has to bite his lip not to laugh. Really, there's nothing "latent" about it. Also, he's bisexual, thank you very much.

"So you did read _The Garden of Eden_," is apparently what Derek decides to reply with, making Stiles scowl and blush a little.

"Only, like, half of it," Stiles snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. "Eventually I gave up and just read an online summary."

"Um," a tentative voice says, breaking into their conversation. Stiles feels a little sorry for the overwhelmed look that comes across the student's face as both he and Derek turn their eyes on her. "So I'm kind of confused. Weren't we reading _A Farewell to Arms_? I didn't get the wrong book, did I?"

"Yes, sorry," Derek replies, clearing his throat, cheeks a little pink. "_A Farewell to Arms_."

And okay, so maybe Stiles is feeling a little guilty about taking away learning opportunities from students. Just a little, though. It's way too much fun to argue with Derek.

Today has been going… well, it's been going. It's certainly not the worst day Stiles has ever had, but it's certainly not the best either. He didn't go to Derek's class today and, honestly, he's feeling a little bad about that. Of course, if he actually went he'd probably feel even worse. He's taking up time which Derek should be spending on his students, and that's really a dick move. His desire to get all up in that shouldn't outweigh a student's learning opportunity.

So, instead he'd gotten an early start in the lab. It's nice, actually, working there first thing in the morning. The relative quiet before people really start trickling in is sort of comforting. It certainly helps him focus, at least.

Therefore, as he's walking out of the lab to go get coffee, he's in a decent mood, despite having missed Derek's class. It's not necessarily a _good_ mood, but he's feeling pleasant enough.

Which is why he hasn't left this stupid undergrad to fend for himself yet, because really? How many times does he need Stiles to repeat the directions to the chemistry building?

"Okay, I think I've got it now," the guy says, smiling at Stiles and looking at him in a way that makes his skin crawl just a little bit.

"Trust me, it's really not that hard to find," Stiles replies, forcing a smile and taking a step back, trying to remember when the guy had gotten so close to him.

"You know, I'm taking Bio 424 next semester," the guy continues, gesturing to the course textbook that Stiles is carrying, and _oh god_, isn't that just Stiles' luck? "Maybe I'll see you in class. We could, ah, form a study group. You could probably even tutor me. You look like you're good at biology."

Wait. What?

"I'm pretty sure professors aren't supposed to tutor individual students," Stiles says pointedly, trying to tamp down on the flush threatening to cover his cheeks. "You can ask questions during my office hours, though."

The student blinks at him for a moment, uncomprehending, before turning bright, bright red.

"I'm willing to forget this encounter as long as you are," Stiles continues, his words pointed, and the student nods a little hastily, at a loss for words. "I'll see you in _my_ class, then."

As he's walking away, he's pretty sure he hears the guy mutter, "Holy _shit_, Rate My Professor was _right_." Stiles is pretty sure he doesn't want to know.

(Okay, so maybe he does. Just a little bit. He'll look it up when he gets home.)

He can't help but let out a put upon sigh, though, his mood dampened. It's not like this is the first time something like this has happened to him. Really, he should almost be used to it by now. He's aware that he looks much younger than his twenty-nine years, still gangly and a little baby-faced. Still, it's always awkward to get hit on by your students, especially if they don't know that you're their professor. At least today wasn't like when he'd first started teaching and a colleague mistook him for a _high school_ student.

By the time he arrives at the Starbucks nearest to the center of campus, though, he's feeling at least a little bit better. Their mochas are his guilty pleasure, even though Lydia always gives him shit about it. Just because she can't stand anything but that special, high end stuff that she orders from god knows what tropical island doesn't mean that his palate is _that_ uncultured.

He gets up to the counter and doesn't even have to order, really – he comes in often enough that pretty much everyone who works there knows that he never fails to get a mocha. So there he is, standing near the drink pickup area and messing around on his phone, when he hears a very familiar voice say, "Stiles?"

Oh, shit. _Shit_, it's Derek. He quickly runs a hand through his hair, trying to straighten it out so that it doesn't look like he wandered out of his apartment this morning without brushing it (hint: he did). He's wearing his glasses again, too, and because he just came from the lab he probably has fucking _goggle lines_ framing his eyes. Fuck, he probably looks like the poster child for "awkward scientist." He's not even wearing a nice shirt today.

"I didn't see you in class today," Derek says, breaking Stiles out of the mildly panicked trance he's fallen into.

"Huh?" Stiles replies intelligently, blinking at him. "Oh! Yeah, I had some lab work that I needed to get done this morning."

"You ditched class for lab work?" Derek asks, sounding surprised and a little disappointed.

"Hey! I didn't _ditch_," Stiles protests, mildly offended by Derek's word choice. "I can't ditch a class I'm not actually taking."

"Oh. Well, I suppose that explains why I couldn't find you on my class roster," Derek teases. Or, well, he's probably teasing. His tone isn't quite right, but that _has_ to be a joke, right? Him being on the class roster?

"Yeah, well, obviously I had to see what all the commotion was about when, like, eighty percent of my Bio 424 class transferred at the last moment," Stiles replies, shooting Derek a grin. "Not that I can really blame them, now that I know what all the fuss is about."

"I – " Derek starts, blushing, but then he cuts himself off, pausing for a moment. "Class was quiet without you today."

"A lot of people would consider that a _good_ thing," Stiles snorts, shoving his hands in to his pockets and rocking back on his heels awkwardly, trying to resist the urge to mess with his hair again. "And anyway, I don't want to take away learning opportunities from your actual students. They'll start talking eventually."

"So you're not coming back?" Derek asks, sounding strangely disappointed.

"Are you really that desperate to continue our argument about Hemingway?" Stiles shoots back, quirking an eyebrow at Derek.

"Continue? That implies that I didn't already win," Derek replies, the corners of his lips twitching up in what's almost a smile.

"Oh, there's _no way_ you won that," Stiles says, a rush of something he can't quite identify swelling in his chest. "Hemingway's a dick and you agree – you just don't want to admit it."

"That's exactly what it is," Derek snorts, sarcasm obvious. "Remind me, which one of us has a PhD in English?"

"What, is liking Hemingway a PhD requirement?" Stiles shoots back, tying not to think too hard about how comfortable their bantering is and how much he'd prefer it if it was happening while they were in a more horizontal position.

"No, but acknowledging his contributions to American literature and the art of writing as a whole is," Derek replies, giving Stiles an unimpressed look.

"Well, in my opinion, Hemingway can suck it," Stiles says, sticking his tongue out at Derek. The barista, who he's pretty sure was in one of his classes last year, openly stares at him. Ugh, sometimes he forgets that, as a university professor, he's supposed to act like a mature adult.

"I don't know how your other professors survived having you in their classes," Derek huffs, although there's a note of amusement in his voice.

"You seem to be holding up pretty well so far," Stiles replies, his smile softening just a little.

Derek opens his mouth to reply, but he's cut off as the barista yells, "Grande mocha for Stiles!"

"Chocolate this early in the morning? Really?" is what Derek ends up saying, his tone clearly judging.

"Okay, first of all, it's already ten, so it's not _that_ early," Stiles retorts, leveling Derek with his own judging look. "Secondly, I'm not sure what sort of messed up life you're living, but for your information, it's _always_ a good time for chocolate."

Stiles thinks he might hear Derek mutter, "God, you're so _young_," under his breath. Which, you know, is kind of weird, because Derek can't be more than a handful of years older than him. He's about to say as much, when his phone buzzes with a text. He shoots Derek an apologetic look before checking it, cursing softly as he reads it.

"Sorry, but it looks like I have to go," Stiles says, shoving his phone back into his pocket and grabbing his mocha off the pickup counter. "Incident in the lab."

"I'll see you on Wednesday?" Derek replies, but it's phrased as a question. In fact, it almost sounds tentative, which isn't exactly a word Stiles would have thought to associate with Derek Hale.

"Maybe? I don't know. It depends on my workload," Stiles answers, his tone apologetic as he tries not to read too deeply into Derek's carefully blank expression. "I could stop by during your office hours, though."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," Derek mutters, which really only serves to confuse Stiles more, because why the hell would that _not_ be a good idea?

"Okaaaaay," Stiles says, stretching out the word and giving Derek a confused look. "Well, I'll see you when I can. Which, you know, might have to be during your office hours."

Derek lets out a little huff, but doesn't argue.

"Anyway, I'll see you 'round, Derek," Stiles continues, shooting Derek a little smile before turning to leave.

"That's Professor Hale to you!" Derek calls after him, and Stiles just laughs.

"So, a little birdie told me that you've been hanging around Hale recently," Lydia says as soon as Stiles walks into her office, nearly making him turn around and walk right back out the door.

"Kira wouldn't have betrayed me," Stiles replies, narrowing his eyes at her.

"No, but Allison saw you two getting cozy in his office a few days ago," Lydia retorts, raising one perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "So spill."

"You're making your girlfriend spy on me?" Stiles asks, trying (probably in vain) to distract her from the situation at hand.

"She and Kira were going to lunch together. She just happened to see you," Lydia replies, making Stiles deflate a little, because, really, Allison's much sweeter and less devious than her girlfriend and he has a hard time actually believing that she'd intentionally spy on him. Also, getting lunch with Kira would explain why she, as a French Professor, would be in the English building.

"You're the one who insisted that I check out his class," Stiles grumbles, plopping himself down in the chair across the desk from her, not bothering to try and deny it anymore. He should know by now that when it comes to Lydia Martin, resistance is futile.

"Have you at least had sex yet?" she asks, making Stiles gape at her, his cheeks turning pink.

"Lydia!" he squawks, sounding more than a little scandalized. "No!"

"Please, he's totally your type," Lydia scoffs, unimpressed with his answer. "You should make a move already."

"Look, he just – like, there's no way he's in my league, okay?" Stiles sighs, sinking further into the plush chair. "I've already tried flirting and he doesn't really reciprocate."

He tries not to feel too disappointed as he admits to it. Really, it's been nearly a month now, and although he can certainly make Derek blush, Derek's always quick to shut down his flirting. The blushing probably just means that Derek's embarrassed on his behalf. Honestly, Stiles should just stop trying if his flirting is so bad it's giving Derek secondhand embarrassment.

Lydia studies him carefully, lips pressed in a thin line, clearly contemplating something.

"Stiles, what you need is a confidence boost," she announces, leaning forward and resting her elbows on her desk. "Therefore, you're coming with Allison and me to the Jungle tonight."

"But I have plans already!" Stiles protests, although really he was just going to marathon _The Walking Dead_ with Scott.

"I'm sure that Kira will be able to find some other way to occupy Scott while we take you out," Lydia replies, seeing through him easily.

"I don't want to have sex with anyone but Derek right now," Stiles whines, trying another excuse, no matter how pathetic it makes him sound.

"I'm not saying that you need to have sex with anyone," Lydia says, giving him her 'I thought you were smarter than this' look. "What you're going to do tonight is dance, get hot guys to buy you drinks, and maybe even do a little bit of making out, so that you'll stop your self-deprecating 'he's so out of my league' bullshit. Then, you're going to continue flirting with Hale and maybe even ask him out."

Stiles narrows his eyes at her and considers protesting, because, honestly, the only people who ever hit on him are undergrads (and sometimes grad students) who don't realize that he's a professor. Really, when he'd finally ventured onto the "Rate My Professors" website that that student who'd been hitting on him had mentioned, he'd been torn between being creeped out and mildly flattered that he'd warranted such a high "hotness" rating. In the end, he'd settled on being creeped out. Because apparently the audience he appeals to is seventeen to twenty-two year olds with a teacher/student kink. At this rate he'll never go on another date.

Christ, all of his friends are married, engaged, or in a long term relationship, and he's still desperately single. He might as well go out and start buying cats now.

"Are you gonna insist on picking out what I wear?" Stiles finally asks, deciding to go for the route of minimal conflict.

"Yes," she says simply, as if her answer should have been obvious. Which, really, it should have been.

"Fine," he sighs.

Lydia smirks.

Okay, so Stiles actually kind of likes going to the Jungle most of the time. By now he's already had a couple of drinks (neither of them bought by him – hell yeah!) and is starting to loosen up a bit. Of course, the attractive guy grinding up against him is helping with that, too.

Occasionally he catches a glimpse of bright red hair and dark brown curls from where Lydia and Allison are also dancing, bodies moving together in a way that would be downright distracting if Stiles wasn't more interested individuals of the male persuasion tonight. (He and Lydia have a deal, okay? He gets to objectify her a little bit when they're out clubbing as long as she gets to objectify him in return.)

Stiles tips his head back against his dance partner's chest and lets out a little moan as the guy thrusts his hips forward. In fact, he has half a mind to just forget about Derek right now and let this guy take him home (or hell, even just to the bathroom) when his eyes land on a familiar figure sitting in one of the booths to the side of the dance floor.

Well. Stiles isn't entirely sure if this is a horrible coincidence or a god given opportunity.

He decides that it's an opportunity.

"Hey," he says, twisting his head to look over at the guy behind him. "I think I'm gonna take a break now."

"Sure," the guy replies, a mildly disappointed but understanding look on his face. "Any chance I might see you again later?"

"Probably not," Stiles answers, an apologetic smile on his face. "Sorry."

"Nah, it's cool," the guy says, carefully removing his hands from Stiles' hips and taking a step back. "Go have fun with tall, dark, and broody."

"Thanks," Stiles replies, leaning over to press a light kiss to the guy's cheek before making his way through the crowd towards Derek.

For once, he feels comfortable in his own skin. A lot of that probably has to do with the buzz of alcohol flowing through his system, but, as much as he's loath to admit it, it also has to do with the fact that Lydia always knows just how to dress him up. Of course, the pants she's forced him into tonight would be way too impractical if he'd actually come out looking for sex (they take _forever_ to get on and off), but they do wonders for his ass. In fact, he'd be tempted to do a little twirl in front of Derek if it wouldn't come off as awkward and like he's trying too hard.

"Fancy seeing you here," Stiles says as he slides into the booth across from Derek, making him startle and stare.

"Stiles," Derek replies, looking a little gobsmacked. "What are you doing here?"

"What does anyone do at a club?" Stiles asks, an amused smirk on his face as Derek seems to flounder a little.

"You shouldn't – we shouldn't be talking," Derek says, his voice strangely strangled, his eyes fixed at some point behind Stiles, like he's afraid to look anywhere else. Huh. Stiles had certainly never expected Derek to be _shy_.

"Is that your way of asking me to dance?" Stiles asks, licking his lips, not missing the way Derek's eyes are drawn to the movement for a split-second.

"I can't," Derek replies, his tone a little pained, hands curled into tight fists. "I – no dancing."

"Then let me buy you a drink," Stiles insists, leaning over the table a little in order to get closer to Derek.

"I'm the designated driver," Derek says quickly, much to Stiles' disappointment.

"I'll buy you a coke, then. Something nonalcoholic," Stiles replies, anxiety twisting in his gut at each rejection.

"This is unprofessional," Derek murmurs after a moment, his voice almost too soft for Stiles to hear over the pounding bass of the music vibrating through the club.

"Please, like you're the first person to do it," Stiles says, rolling his eyes, making Derek look at him sharply, a shocked expression on his face. "I mean, look at Allison and Lydia. Danny from Comp Sci and I had a thing for a while, too."

At that, Derek seems to look even _more_ scandalized. Seriously? Stiles honestly hadn't pegged him as someone who'd be that uptight about interdepartmental relationships.

"Stiles," Derek replies slowly, like he's talking to an easily spooked animal. "I don't know what this 'Danny' told you, but – "

"Derbear!" a voice yells, startling Stiles as a gorgeous woman suddenly slides into the booth next to Derek. "Who's your friend here?"

"Laura," Derek growls, his tone chock full of warning that the woman – Laura, apparently – completely ignores.

"Don't worry about me. I'm just his sister," she continues, the tension in Stiles' shoulders immediately bleeding away at her words. Not that he seriously thought that they were together. The Jungle is a gay club, after all.

"Stiles," Stiles replies, putting on his most charming smile.

"_The_ Stiles?" Laura asks, throwing Stiles a little off guard. Her eyes hold a dangerously familiar spark, the sort of which Stiles is used to seeing in Lydia's eyes. "I've been _dying_ to meet you."

"You have?" Stiles asks, extremely confused now.

"Of course," Laura replies simply, a smirk curling her bright red lips. "You're Der's favorite, after all."

"_Laura!_" Derek snaps, louder now.

"Aw, come on. He's not even – " Laura starts, but Derek cuts her off.

"We're leaving," he announces, grabbing onto her upper arm and practically dragging her out of the booth.

"Nice meeting you, Stiles!" Laura calls over her shoulder, giggling a little, probably drunk.

Derek doesn't say anything, though, leaving Stiles in his wake, dumfounded. He has half a mind to run after them – to demand an explanation – but they've disappeared by the time he comes back to his senses. What the _fuck_ was that about?

He sighs, rubbing a hand through his slightly sweat-damp hair as he realizes that he's struck out yet again. Maybe this is just the universe's way of telling him to back off. Hell, maybe this is _Derek's_ way of telling him to back off. He stares down at the table morosely and wonders if it's socially acceptable for him to drink the half-glass of water Derek left behind.

He downs it in three gulps before heading back out onto the dance floor and losing himself in the mass of writhing bodies.

No one comes home with him, but he can't say he's disappointed.

Stiles still attends Derek's classes, but he doesn't talk as much. As he'd predicted, some of the other English 346 students have become bolder, offering up interpretations and even challenging some of Derek's assertions. Of course, there are still plenty who just sit there and drool over Derek, eyes wandering shamelessly. Stiles wants to say he's not one of them, but he kind of is.

When he actually talks to Derek, though, is during his office hours. He spares as much time as he can for Derek then, although he sometimes can't get around his other duties, particularly his research.

"What are you working on, anyway?" Derek asks one day after Stiles stumbles into his office, flushed from his sprint across campus in order to make the last fifteen minutes of Derek's office hours.

"Genomic imprinting," Stiles answers casually, sprawling himself out in the chair across from Derek, legs splayed purposefully wide. "It's basically when one copy of a certain gene is turned off during fetal development. You know, because you get two copies of each gene – one from each parent – and you don't necessarily need both."

"Sounds complicated," Derek replies, and Stiles can't help but flush a little bit at the implied compliment in his tone.

Honestly, he'd been more than a bit worried about seeing Derek again after their encounter at the Jungle a little over a week ago. And, well, it had been awkward for a while. Somehow, though, they've managed to get back to something close to what they had before. Stiles suspects most of that has to do with his single-minded stubbornness. He grows on people like a mold, or so he's been told.

"It _is_ complicated," Stiles says after a moment, smiling over at Derek. "But I'm sure you could understand it if you put your mind to it."

"Sure," Derek snorts, clearly not believing him. Trust Derek to be contradictory even when it comes to _compliments_.

"Seriously, if you can understand _Mrs Dalloway_ I'm pretty sure you can understand anything," Stiles replies, pursing his lips. "I mean, what even _was_ that? The POV shifts and shit?"

"It's not that difficult to interpret once you understand Woolf's writing style," Derek says, shrugging casually. "You just need to do more reading."

"Hey, I read!" Stiles protests, pouting at Derek, but he's not seriously offended. Derek's at least a little correct, after all. Since his last official English class in sophomore year, his reading material has consisted mostly of academic journals, blog posts, and students' essays.

"Really? What was the last thing you read, then?" Derek asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"Uh," Stiles says, chewing on his lower lip as he wracks his brain for the answer. "The last issue of – "

"Magazines don't count," Derek snorts, making Stiles scowl, because really? _The New England Journal of Medicine_ is not a fucking _magazine_, thank you very much.

"Fine," Stiles replies, sighing overdramatically. "I suppose then it would have to be – " Realization dawns on him and he smirks. " – _Bisexuality and the Dangers of Historical Erasure_ by Derek Hale."

Derek stares at him, eyes wide.

"You read that?" he asks after a moment, his voice a little strangled, although nowhere near as much as it was that night in the club.

"Of course I did," Stiles scoffs, but he's still smirking. "I had to do my research on you."

"You mean you internet stalked me," Derek says, narrowing his eyes at Stiles, but the tips of his ears are a little bit red.

"Oh, c'mon, Derek. You make me sound like a creeper when you phrase it like that," Stiles protests, but his tone is teasing.

"You _are_ a creeper," Derek snorts, crossing his arms over his chest. "And don't call me that."

"It's not like I'm actually your student, _Professor Hale_," Stiles says, although the 'Professor Hale' bit comes out more like a purr than anything else, making Derek's cheeks turn a little bit red. "C'mon _Professor_, don't you think – "

"Um," a voice says from the doorway, interrupting them, nearly startling Stiles enough to make him flail and fall out of his chair. "Am I interrupting something?"

"Kira! Kira, old buddy, old pal, what are you doing here?" Stiles asks through clenched teeth, trying to recompose himself while simultaneously trying to get Kira to go away, because, goddamn it, he's _so close_ to getting Derek to crack! He can practically taste the office make-outs in his future.

She gives him an unimpressed look and strides on into the office, setting down a large stack of papers on Derek's desk.

"Two of the GSIs for English 120 got into a bar fight and are in the hospital," she explains, turning to Derek. "Do you think you could spare some time to help me grade these papers?"

"I'll see what I can do," Derek sighs, already picking up the first essay and scanning it, grimacing slightly.

"Shit, I'm so glad I'm not an English professor," Stiles says, wincing in sympathy. "I think I'd die if I had to read that many essays written by freshmen."

"You had to write a freshman essay once," Kira points out, making Stiles grin at the memory.

"Yeah, on the history of the male circumcision," Stiles replies, pleased as he notes how Derek's ears starting to turn a little red again. "I should get that thing framed someday day."

Kira's unable to keep herself from smiling just a little bit at that declaration.

"You know, Professor Finstock is still bitter about that," Kira says, amusement clear in her voice. "He uses it as an example of off topic writing."

"Please, that essay was a work of art and he knows it," Stiles scoffs, because it _was_, okay?

"I'll let you convince him of that yourself," Kira replies, openly grinning now. "Oh, and before I forget, Scott wants you to come over for dinner tomorrow because you missed Friday."

"Will do," Stiles says with a lazy salute, Kira nodding at him before turning back to Derek.

"Thanks again, Derek," Kira says, sending Derek a bright smile.

"Yeah, sure," Derek replies, waving off her thanks.

With that, she leaves. It's relatively quiet for a moment as Derek pulls his newly acquired stack of essays towards him and Stiles tries to figure out what to say, trying to remember where they'd left off before they'd been interrupted by Kira.

"Are you on a first name basis with every professor at the university?" Derek asks before Stiles can say anything, though.

"Not all of them," Stiles answers, shrugging, a little confused about why Derek's bringing this up. Is it really that strange that he knows professors from other departments? "Why?"

"Stiles – " Derek replies, the strangely concerned expression on his face throwing Stiles for a loop. "Forget it."

"Oh, c'mon, what is it?" Stiles presses, straightening out his posture and leaning over so that his forearms are resting on Derek's desk. "Seriously, you can't just leave me hanging, dude."

"You shouldn't let people take advantage of you," Derek says after a moment, confusing Stiles even more.

"Sure, okay," Stiles replies, giving him an odd look. "I'm, like, the least likely person to get taken advantage of, but thanks for looking out for my virtue, I guess."

"You think I'm a much better person than I am," he answers, glaring down at his papers and refusing to meet Stiles' eyes.

"Nah, I know you're an asshole, but at the same time you're – I just – " Stiles says, the words getting caught in his throat. He pauses for a moment. "Let me take you out to dinner."

Derek looks up sharply, clearly surprised.

"Stiles – " he replies, his voice strangled, a pained look on his face.

"No, hear me out, okay?" Stiles interrupts, leaning in even closer. "I really like you. You're smart and sarcastic and aren't afraid to give as good as you get. And, you know, the fact that you're hot as fuck is a plus. I've been trying to drop hints for _months_, and – "

"_Stiles_," Derek repeats, his tone sharper this time, but Stiles is having none of it.

"I _know_ you're attracted to me! Don't try to deny it!" Stiles exclaims, staring at Derek intently, trying to maintain eye contact. "I've _seen_ the way you look at me. So, please, go out to dinner with me?"

Derek is silent for a long moment, so many different expression warring on his face that Stiles can't even begin to interpret what he's feeling.

Then, he says, "No."

Stiles isn't exactly proud to admit that he spends nearly the entirety of the subsequent week in the lab. He's moping, okay? Which is a completely valid reaction, because he's just gotten his heart _torn into a million tiny pieces_. He knows that he can be kind of dense sometimes, but he really thought he'd been reading the signs right this time. But apparently not.

He even stops by the cat shelter on Friday. He can't quite bring himself to take one home, though. But really, he should just stop living in denial already.

He's going to die alone with at least three cats. It's inevitable.

"Talk," Lydia commands, practically throwing him down into a chair after dragging him into her office. She's surprisingly strong for such a petite woman.

"About what? Climate change? Intersectional feminism?" he shoots back, crossing his arms firmly over his chest as scowling at her stubbornly.

"It's Wednesday and you've been moping around since last Tuesday," she says, clearly unamused with his attitude. "I'm done ignoring it. So spill."

"You know, I much prefer the philosophy of ignoring a problem until it just goes away," Stiles retorts, his tone biting.

"Well clearly it's not going away," Lydia replies, glaring at him, exasperated. "When was the last time you showered? In fact, when was the last time you even bothered brushing your hair?"

Stiles rolls his eyes at her, but doesn't reply verbally.

"You're staying here until I get an answer, Stilinski," Lydia threatens when it becomes clear that he has no intentions of saying anything. "I'll sabotage your data, too."

"You wouldn't," Stiles says, narrowing his eyes at her, not entirely sure of that assertion.

Lydia smirks evilly.

"_Fine_," Stiles sighs, the fight finally draining out of him. "I asked Derek out and he said no, okay? End of story."

"He said no?" Lydia repeats, sounding genuinely surprised for once. "He _explicitly_ said no?"

"Yeah, he explicitly said no," Stiles answers, running a hand through his already extremely messy hair. Lydia's right – it has been a while since he combed it with anything other than his fingers. "Very clearly. To my face."

"I'm sorry, Stiles," Lydia says after a moment, an uncommon look of pity on her face.

"Yeah, well, I'd kind of like to just get back to drowning myself in my work to keep from drowning myself in the bottom of a bottle, so…" Stiles replies, flailing a hand vaguely in the direction of the office door.

"Did he give you a reason why?" Lydia presses, apparently not content with his answer.

"No. No, he didn't," Stiles snaps, jaw clenched tight. "That's all I know, okay? He literally just said 'no.' That's it."

Lydia examines his expression for a long, long moment before pursing her lips and nodding. Stiles can't get out of the room fast enough.

It's Friday before Stiles really leaves the lab for anything other than food or sleep, and that's only because Boyd's out with flu and someone needs to fill in for his Bio 130 lecture. Stiles, naturally, gets to be that lucky person. He's half convinced that Lydia did it on purpose. Hell, maybe she even gave Boyd the flu. Who knows?

So to say that he's less than happy to be giving a lecture to underclassmen at nine in the morning on a Friday is _beyond_ an understatement. He still plasters a smile on his face and forces an upbeat attitude, though.

Really, it's not that difficult. It's Bio 130, after all – he could probably teach this in his sleep. However, half an hour into the class, he falters.

Because loitering in the back of the lecture hall is Derek Hale, who's staring at Stiles like he's never seen him before.

Fuck, he's going to _kill_ Lydia.

"As I was saying," Stiles manages to continue, tearing his eyes away from Derek and clearing his throat awkwardly, "plasmids are extra-chromosomal genetic elements which carry non-essential genes."

Somehow he manages to get through the second half of the lecture. He really has no fucking clue _how_ he does it, but somehow he does. It's so hard not to let his eyes stray back to Derek at every opportunity, though – not when he standing _right there_.

Why's Derek even here, though? Seriously, what's the point? Fuck, hopefully he's not just here to humiliate Stiles further, because – because –

_God_. Derek Hale needs to stop messing with his head.

When the class is finally over, all Stiles wants to do is bolt out of the room and get as far away from Derek as possible. Of course, there's no way that's going to happen, partially because he needs to stick around to answer questions for a few students, but mainly because he's at the point furthest away from the exits and there are about two hundred undergrads all trying to escape at once.

Fuck his life.

"Professor Stilinski," a student says, drawing Stiles back to the subject at hand, distracting him from Derek at least momentarily. "Um, so, should I just turn in my exam re-grade request to you or should I wait until Professor Boyd is back?"

"I'll take it," Stiles replies, accepting the papers, quickly scanning the cover sheet before nodding, deeming it acceptable. "It might be a week or so before Professor Boyd gets back, in which case you'd be past the deadline."

"Thanks," the student answers, adjusting their grip on their backpack a little awkwardly. "I'll, uh, see you on Monday, then, Professor Stilinski."

"Yeah. See ya," Stiles says absently, chewing on his bottom lip and pushing his glasses back up his nose as he flips through the exam.

"So," an all too familiar voice says, making Stiles jump and jerk his head up. "I think I owe you an apology, Professor Stilinski."

"Um," Stiles replies, swallowing thickly and trying not to stare too obviously even though he's been deprived of Derek for over a week. "Okay. Shoot."

"I, uh, never gave you a reason for why I rejected you," Derek starts, looking strangely awkward and anxious for once. "I – "

"Dude, no," Stiles interrupts, shaking his head. "You don't have to explain. No means no, and I respect that. I don't respect you any less because of it, but I _will_ if you give me shitty excuses, so – "

"I thought you were a student!" Derek blurts out.

Wait. What?

"You thought I was a student?" Stiles repeats, incredulous, his mouth hanging open in surprise.

"Yes," Derek replies gruffly, jaw clenched, breaking eye contact in order to stare at the lecture hall floor.

"You thought I was a student," Stiles says again, the declaration still sinking in. "You thought I was a _student_."

"Well if you're just going to rub it in…" Derek grumbles, cheeks flushing bright pink. "Look, forget it. I get that I lost my chance."

"Hey, I didn't say that!" Stiles exclaims, grabbing onto Derek's wrist as he tries to turn away. "I just – I'm still processing it, okay? I mean, seriously, how did you not realize that I was a professor?"

"You were in my _class_. What did you expect?" Derek retorts, although he sounds more embarrassed than defensive. "And you're kind of – " Derek grimaces. " – young looking."

"Yes, I am aware that I'm a twink," Stiles says, rolling his eyes, but he's really kind of amused at the whole thing. Seriously, this would be hilarious if this stupid misunderstanding hadn't been keeping Derek from fucking the living daylights out of him for the past few months. "You're not even the first person this month to mistake me for an undergrad. I swear I'm twenty-nine, though. I can show you my license and everything."

Derek looks more than a little relieved at that.

"Wait, is this why you were so weird about me being friends with Kira?" Stiles asks, eyes widening as realization dawns on him. "Holy shit, you really were trying to protect my virtue!"

"If I agree to take you out to dinner tonight will you shut up about it?" Derek replies, still blushing bright, bright red.

"Never," Stiles answers, grinning at him cheekily. "I'll telling this story to our _grandchildren_."

"I think you're getting a little ahead of yourself there," Derek grumbles, but it's a pretty weak protest by his standards.

"Please, I spent months attempting to woo you. I read _Hemingway_ for you. Do you really think I'm going to let you go now?" Stiles asks, taking Derek's hand in his and twining their fingers together.

"Reading Hemingway is a pretty noble sacrifice," Derek replies, lips twitching up into the barest hint of a smile.

"Ha! I knew you secretly hated – " Stiles starts.

Derek cuts him off with a kiss.


	57. (T) STEREK - Misinterpret Me Like Lolita

Misinterpret Me Like Lolita  
orphan_account

Summary:  
"You don't even know the course name?" Derek growls after the guy blushes and stutters out an answer, because, Jesus, he thought the university had standards.

And it sounds like the course the guy is describing is his. Isn't it just his lucky day? No breakfast and another student who doesn't give a shit about the course material.

This class is going to be hell – he's calling it now.

(Sequel/companion piece to Hemingway Can Suck It.)

* * *

"So, how was your first day of class, Der?" Laura asks as he trudges on into his apartment that evening.

"What are you doing in my apartment?" he replies, ignoring her question in favor of glaring at her – particularly her feet, which are lying on his coffee table. She grins and doesn't bother to remove them. Typical Laura.

"I was going to help you unpack, but if you don't want me to, I can always go home," she says, making Derek sigh, because he really does need her help in that regard. He'd moved here kind of hastily, and the couch and coffee table that Laura's lounging on are about the only pieces of furniture he's set up properly. Well, those and his bed.

"Fine," he huffs, moving to the kitchen in search of a snack. Unfortunately, he doesn't come up with anything – he still needs to go grocery shopping.

"Is that referring to both your day and me staying, or just to me staying?" Laura asks, apparently not willing to let it go already.

"My Gender and Sexuality in Lit class is fine, but my American Novel course is shit," Derek says, indirectly answering her question as he moves back into the living room to slump down on the couch next to her.

"Really? I thought it'd be the other way around," Laura replies, frowning a little.

"So did I, but at least half of my Gender and Sexuality students are actually interested in the subject," Derek snorts, trying not to grimace as he thinks about the students who are only indirectly interested in the subject. "I don't think _any_ of the students in my other class can say the same. I should just fail them all now."

"Oh Derek, there you go wooing undergrads with you impeccable charm again," Laura teases, making Derek glare at her again. She's lucky she's a lawyer, because he's certain that if she'd gone into academia she'd have the same problem.

"Teaching them is a waste of my time," Derek huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

"At least some of them will get over you after a couple of weeks," Laura says, attempting to comfort him in that bizarre way of hers. "I'm sure there are at least a couple who want to maintain their GPA at the very least."

"Is it really too much to ask for a student who's actually interested in the subject?" Derek asks, aware that it comes out dangerously close to a whine. He's had a long day, okay?

"Really? There's no one?" Laura questions, her tone a little disbelieving, which Derek understands a bit. There has to be _one_, right?

"There was one girl who stared at me like I was an experiment the whole time," Derek offers, shrugging, trying not to shudder as he remembers the intense look the petite redhead had fixed him with. "Either that or she wanted to murder me."

"Please tell me you haven't attracted another psychotic one," Laura groans, making Derek wince internally. After all, one of the main reasons he'd accepted a new position at this university and moved halfway across the country was because he'd found his girlfriend, Kate, had been taking advantage of one of her eighteen year old students.

"I don't think she's _psychotic_," Derek ventures, remembering the way she'd smiled at him as she left, like she knew something amusing that he didn't. "Just… intense."

"Just don't get yourself kidnapped by an undergrad, is all I ask," Laura says, leaning over to rest her head on his shoulder. "Seriously, I know you're two hundred pounds of solid muscle, but I don't want to find out that that some tiny demon-woman is holding you hostage in your classroom."

"I think the horrible course texts are more of a risk to my health than any of my students," Derek snorts, but he doesn't try to remove her from his shoulder.

"Old, dead, straight, white men?" she asks knowingly, giving him a sympathetic look.

"Yep," Derek sighs, allowing her to pat him on the arm comfortingly.

"For your last assignment, you should make your students design a new course booklist," Laura suggests, Derek pausing to consider the idea.

"That's… for once, not a bad idea," he replies, already thinking about how he'd make it into a real assignment. It really wouldn't be that difficult. He'd had a different topic picked out for their final essay, but he could easily modify it, make them choose five books and justify their picks. It might be fun, even.

"Of course it's not a bad idea," Laura scoffs, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "It's _my_ idea."

Derek elbows her in the stomach. Gently, of course.

Derek sighs as he places his now empty coffee cup in the kitchen sink. It's about the only dish he's bothered to unpack as of yet, and he's currently debating whether or not to wash it in order to put cheerios in it, or whether to just splurge on some coffee shop pastry.

His watch ends up deciding for him, though. If his students are anything like they were on Monday, more than half of them will have already arrived by the time he gets in, and he hates being the last one to get to class. Honestly, he can't fathom _why_ they're so early, even if they do like ogling him. Back when he was an undergrad – and doesn't he feel old thinking that phrase – everyone had always sauntered on into class either five minutes early or one minute late.

Sighing again, he leaves his mug in the sink and grabs his briefcase off of the counter. He pauses briefly to shrug on his jacket, but after that he's out the door and on his way to work.

He makes it to the SEC in good time. He has about fifteen minutes before class is scheduled to start, which, really, is the only reason he stops to help the very lost looking student standing awkwardly in the middle of the hallway.

Now he's really regretting it, though.

"You don't even know the course name?" he growls after the guy blushes and stutters out an answer, because, _Jesus_, he thought the university had _standards_.

And it sounds like the course the guy is describing is his. Isn't it just his lucky day? No breakfast and another student who doesn't give a shit about the course material.

"So I've been a little busy lately – sue me," the guy has the audacity to say, sounding offended. Really? How can you be too busy to look up the name of the class you're going to be taking for the next fourteen or so weeks? "Now do you know what class I'm talking about, or should I just continue awkwardly checking every freaking room on this floor?"

Briefly, Derek considers pointing him in the wrong direction. That would probably end badly for him, though, when the guy figures out that he's actually the professor for the class he's looking for. He sighs and resists the urge to roll his eyes as he says, "Come with me."

The student, on the other hand, apparently doesn't have nearly the same amount of self-control as Derek and actually does roll his eyes.

This class is going to be hell – he's calling it now.

And, well, it _is_ hell, just not for the reasons Derek thought it would be. Because for all the flippancy the student from the hallway – Stiles, apparently – had displayed, he seems to be the one student who actually cares about the course. He's obviously read _A Farewell to Arms_ before, but the way he references it is simultaneously specific and vague, so it's probably been a while. And, fuck, if he isn't a cocky little shit. He's stubborn is what he is – stubborn and a bit of a know-it-all.

It's strange, though, the way he talks about literature. He doesn't use the proper terminology or phrasing, but his observations are excellent and his arguments carefully crafted. It's a contradiction. Derek's not sure if he should be sent back to a 200 level course or sent on to a 400 level course. Then again, he's only had one class with Stiles. Maybe things will become clearer in a few weeks.

Derek's a little startled to realize that he's actually looking _forward_ to the coming weeks, now that Stiles is in his class. Somehow he's managed to become Derek's favorite and least favorite student all in one class period.

That may or may not have to do with him saying that Hemingway was 'no homo' personified. It had been so hard to keep himself from grinning like a lunatic at that. He agrees, after all.

His mind is still stuck on Stiles as he goes about work the next day, which is why he's only vaguely paying attention to where he's going as he makes his way to Isaac and Erica's shared office. So when someone rounds the hall corner going much faster than they should be, they collide, of course. The papers he was holding scatter all across the hall. He barely even registers them falling, though, because he's too preoccupied with the fact that the person who's just run into him is falling, too.

Derek reacts on instinct, wrapping an arm around the person's waist to steady them, feels the person's hands press up against his chest as they stumble. He's about to reprimand the person, but as he finally gets a good look at the student, the words get caught in his throat.

Stiles peers up at him with soft brown eyes framed by ridiculously long eyelashes. His glasses are a little skewed from the collision and his pink, cupid's-bow mouth is hanging open.

Somehow he'd been so annoyed at Stiles yesterday that he'd completely missed how _gorgeous_ he is.

"Hey," Stiles says, his voice a little rough as he removes one hand from Derek's chest in order to push his glasses back up his nose. "Nice, uh, save there, Professor Hale."

_Professor Hale._

Those two words break him out of whatever trance he's fallen into and he tears his eyes away from Stiles' lips. Fuck, he shouldn't be having these sorts of thoughts about a _student_. He's not _Kate_.

His heart skips a beat as he realizes that his arm is still wrapped around Stiles' waist and he removes it quickly, stumbling back a step so that he's no longer pressed up against Stiles. He tries to ignore the phantom warmth on his palm from where Stiles' body heat had seeped through his shirt and into Derek's skin.

"You should watch where you're going, Mr. Stiles," Derek replies, his voice a little strangled. Fuck, could he be any more obvious?

"Just Stiles," Stiles says, which is _really_ not what Derek wants to hear right now when he's trying to maintain his distance. "Stiles is my first name."

"Your parents named you 'Stiles'?" he asks before he can stop himself, trying not to wince at the rudeness of his own tone.

"It's a nickname," Stiles explains, and, well, Derek supposes that would explain why he couldn't find anyone with a name even remotely close to "Stiles" on his class roster the previous night. Then again, class rosters nowadays come with student photos, too, and he hadn't seen a picture of anyone who even vaguely resembled Stiles. He supposes that Stiles could have always transferred late, though.

Once again, he's broken out of his thoughts by movement – only this time it's to see Stiles drop down onto his hands and knees. Derek's eyes widen and he's about to ask Stiles what the fuck he's doing, but he blushes as he realizes that Stiles is trying to gather up the papers that fell to the floor earlier. Fuck, now that he's realized how attractive Stiles is, it's like a dam has been broken. He really needs to get this under control and stop sexually objectifying one of his students.

"What's your actual name, then?" Derek asks, tearing his eyes away from Stiles and crouching down to help pick up papers, too.

"A monstrosity that no one's ears should ever have to bear the burden of hearing," Stiles answers, a note of amusement in his voice.

Of course, his reply doesn't help Derek very much. It's not like he can go around calling him "Stiles." It's unprofessional, to say the last.

"Wait, is this seriously your class booklist? Please tell me it isn't," Stiles continues, wrinkling his nose as he picks up one of the fallen sheets of paper.

God, even his _nose_ is cute. As soon as Derek gathers himself enough to register what Stiles is actually saying, though, he has to immediately resist the urge to say, _Tell me about it._

"What's wrong with it?" is what he asks instead, trying to sound annoyed, because he's pretty sure Stiles is going to form a class mutiny if shows any more weakness than he already has.

"Do you seriously see nothing problematic about the fact that all of these texts were written by straight white men?" Stiles shoots back, giving Derek a disgruntled look. "I mean, four out of the five are even dead."

Derek's so very tempted to say something like, _Oh god, please marry me now._

"What books would you choose, if you were to design the course?" Derek decides to ask instead, genuinely interested in Stiles' answer, but also wanting to see if Laura's redesign the booklist final essay idea will actually work for the course.

Stiles blinks at him for a moment, clearly surprised by the question, before looking back down at the paper in his hands and chewing on his lower lip in though. Derek has to close his eyes for a long second in order to keep himself from staring at Stiles' mouth.

Fuck, he's going to hell.

"Something by Sherman Alexie," Stiles replies after a moment. "_Flight_, maybe."

"Good choice," Derek says. In fact, he'd already firmly decided to use one of Alexie's books for future sections of the course, although he'd been planning on using _The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian_ instead. "What else?"

Of the next few books Stiles lists off, Derek's pleasantly surprised to find that three of them had made his short-list.

"And the last one?" Derek asks, probably sounding overeager. It's nice to finally have a student who seems genuinely interested in the subject.

"_Brokeback Mountain_," Stiles replies, his tone undeniably flirtatious as he looks up at Derek through his eyelashes, making Derek blush.

"That's a short story," he says, glancing down at the floor and shuffling the papers in his hands awkwardly. "And just for the record, I didn't choose the course texts."

"You didn't?" Stiles asks, surprised.

"I accepted the position fairly late and it was easier for me to just use the materials that the previous professor had left," Derek answers, still not daring to make eye contact with Stiles again and moving to pick up the last two papers off the ground. "If I ever teach the course again, though, I'm certainly changing a good portion of the material."

Of course, what he means when he says that he 'accepted the position fairly late' is that he needed to get away from his ex-girlfriend after bringing his concerns about her – her _treatment_ of her students to the university. Which is really why he shouldn't be talking to Stiles like this right now, even if the encounter was entirely accidental.

"Good. I'd have lost all respect for you otherwise," Stiles says as they stand up again.

"You respect me?" Derek snorts, because Stiles certainly has a strange way of showing it, contradicting everything he says in class and then having the audacity to flirt with him.

Then again, he could have just been imagining Stiles' flirtatious tone when he'd suggested _Brokeback Mountain_ as a course text. He's certainly in the right state of mind for it.

"Just because I respect you a little doesn't mean you're not _wrong_," Stiles shoots back, and how did Derek manage to forget, even for a moment, that he's such a cocky little shit? Unfortunately, that doesn't seem to make him any less attractive.

"Brat," Derek grumbles, the word tumbling past his lips without his permission. Fuck, he needs to regain control of the situation. "Anyway, don't you have somewhere to be? You seemed like you were in a hurry."

"Oh shit," Stiles says, grimacing as he glances at his watch and slings his bag over his shoulder. "Thanks for reminding me."

Stiles is already rushing away when Derek abruptly realizes that he still doesn't know Stiles' actual name. Or, well, his last name, since it seems like Stiles won't be giving up his real first name without a fight. Not that Derek wants to know his actual first name. Really, he just needs to stop referring to Stiles by any form of his first name.

"I'll see you in class on Friday, Mr. – ?" Derek calls, having to raise his voice a little because Stiles is already halfway down the hallway.

"Just call me Stiles!" Stiles yells, turning to grin at him over his shoulder.

Once Stiles rounds the corner, Derek lets his shoulders slump, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Shit," Derek breathes, thankful that the hall is otherwise deserted.

He takes a deep breath and tries to shove his thoughts of Stiles from his mind. Then he resumes his trek to Erica and Isaac's office. He has some questions to ask them about his English 346 course, and although they're both still grad students in the department, they've both taken the course before and will probably have some good insights.

When Derek arrives at the office, the door is open, so he lets himself in without knocking. Erica and Isaac are both sprawled out in their office chairs comfortably, Isaac making marks on what looks like some student's homework assignment while Erica pages through a worn copy of _The Feminine Mystique_.

"Professor Hale," Erica greets him, looking up from her book with a predatory smile. "Anything I can do for you?"

Derek glares at her a little bit, because what is it with students hitting on him today? Erica's still a student, after all, even if she is a grad student.

"Both of you took English 346 as undergrads, didn't you?" he asks, electing to ignore her advances.

"Unfortunately," Erica snorts, Isaac grimacing alongside her. "No offense, Professor Hale. I'm sure you'll teach it much better than Professor Daehler did."

"I'm pretty sure you'd have to try really hard to _not_ teach it better than Daehler did," Isaac snorts, making Erica laugh a little.

"Well, do either of you have any tips for improving the course?" Derek asks, sighing a little. It's not like he can blame them for their reactions, though. He's seen Professor Daehler's old lesson plans.

"Cut it?" Isaac suggests, shrugging.

"Well, I can't exactly do that when we're a week into the semester already," Derek retorts, glaring at Isaac a little, who looks remarkably unapologetic.

"I'm sure that as long as you show a healthy level of criticism for the texts, you'll do fine," Erica reassures him, before smirking again. "I mean, it's not like any of your students are actually there for the course material."

"There's one," Derek huffs, and, well, so much for not thinking about Stiles.

"Oooh, you've found yourself a teacher's pet already?" Erica asks, a mischievous glint in her eye.

"As if," Derek snorts, a strange feeling of fond annoyance encompassing him as he thinks of Stiles. "He contradicts absolutely everything I say."

"He's pulling your pigtails, then," Isaac says idly, turning back to his grading.

"All of his points are valid," Derek replies, his tone a little defensive. He regrets it as Erica's smirk widens.

"Aw, do you have a crush on him, too, Professor Hale?" she asks, earning her another glare from Derek.

"No," Derek retorts, all too aware that there's absolutely no way she believes him. "This conversation is over."

He can hear Erica snickering as he leaves.

It's absolutely pouring rain when Derek finally leaves his office Thursday evening. Thankfully, he'd had the foresight to check the weather report that morning and is equipped with an umbrella. His car is parked relatively far away from the SEC, too, so he's inordinately grateful that he'd remembered.

However, as he approaches a crosswalk, he can't help but notice another person who clearly didn't plan as well as he did. They're waiting impatiently for the light to turn, completely soaked and shivering a little. Derek lets out a little sigh as he approaches, already moving closer in order offer his umbrella, at least until the light turns green.

He clears his throat and is about to awkwardly suggest they share his umbrella, when the person turns to look at him.

"_Stiles?_" he blurts out, eyes widening a little and cheeks heating.

"Oh my god, dude, you're a _lifesaver_," Stiles says, eyes lighting up as he steps closer, huddling under Derek's umbrella.

Derek huffs, a little annoyed that Stiles doesn't even bother asking for permission. Then again, it's not like Derek would have denied him.

"Seriously, I can't believe I didn't check the weather report today," Stiles continues, folding his arms over his chest as he continues to shiver. Of course, this movement can't help but draw Derek's eyes to his chest – and to the fact that his light blue shirt is completely soaked, to the point where it's practically transparent. Derek can feel his face heating as he tears his eyes away, trying to banish the image from his mind.

"Why are you even here this late? Shouldn't you be home or off parting by now?" Derek asks, valiantly ignoring just how close to him Stiles is standing, their shoulders nearly brushing together.

"I had some stuff to finish up at the lab," Stiles answers, surprising Derek. "Greenburg somehow managed to break the autoclave, so I had to run all around the building trying to find another one I could use."

"Autoclave?" Derek asks. He's never been much of a science person.

"It's like this pressure chamber washing machine thingy," Stiles replies, waving his hand about as he describes it. "Basically we use it to sterilize lab equipment with high pressure steam so that nothing gets contaminated."

"Oh," Derek says a little awkwardly.

They fall into silence for a moment and Derek glares at the light, willing the walk signal to turn on. He can't help but glance at Stiles, though, as the silence stretches on, because this is probably the longest he's been around Stiles without listening to him blabber on about something or another. Not that he's been around Stiles all that often.

However, when he looks over, he's surprised to find Stiles hunched over a little, body visibly trembling as he shivers. Derek frowns as he takes in the sight. A little voice in the back of his mind reminds him that poor Stiles is only wearing a soaked t-shirt while he's decked out in both his leather jacket and a warm sweater. He could easily spare the jacket.

That feels like crossing a line, though. It's easy enough to convince himself that he would have offered to share his umbrella with any stranger for the few minutes they'd have to stand at the light, but he certainly wouldn't give his jacket to just anyone. Fuck, he can practically hear "Don't Stand So Close To Me" playing in the background.

"Hold this," Derek grunts, thrusting the umbrella handle into Stiles' hand.

"Uh, sure," Stiles says, fumbling it for a moment with rain-slick hands.

Derek can feel Stiles' eyes on him as he shrugs off his jacket. When he turns back to Stiles, he looks a little confused, his mouth hanging open distractingly. Derek averts his eyes and does his best to casually drape his jacket over Stiles' shoulders before taking the umbrella back.

"Dude, you don't have to – " Stiles starts, but he clutches the jacket close to him, making no move to take it off.

"I can't have you missing class because you caught the flu," Derek interrupts, still not daring to look at Stiles, all wrapped up in his leather jacket. "We have a quiz tomorrow."

"Thanks," Stiles says after a beat of silence, face flushing a little red.

"The light's green," Derek replies, changing the topic. He really doesn't want to dwell on the little burst of happiness he feels at Stiles' thanks.

Because at the moment, all he wants to do is take Stiles home and bundle him up in warm blankets. God, he wants to do something ridiculous like curl up with Stiles in bed and recite Walt Whitman poetry to him until he falls asleep. Stiles would probably like Whitman. (Derek really shouldn't be dwelling on how close their tastes in literature are.)

"Hey, so," Stiles starts, breaking Derek from his thoughts. "You think you could maybe walk me to my car? 'cause I kind of don't want to have to deal with sprinting a few blocks in the pouring rain."

"Sure," Derek finds himself saying, even though he really, really shouldn't encourage this – this _crush_ (yes, fine, Erica) of his.

"Cool. It's in the State Street lot," Stiles says, jerking his thumb in the exact opposite direction of where Derek's car is parked. Of course.

Derek sighs, but turns so that they're headed in the right direction. Stiles falls silent for a few more moments, which Derek would have thought would be a welcome relief, but instead it just feels weird. In fact, he's about to awkwardly try making small talk when he realizes that Stiles is humming something under his breath.

"Are you humming Rihanna?" he asks, shooting Stiles a bewildered look.

"I thought it was appropriate," Stiles replies, looking over at Derek from under long eyelashes which have clumped together a bit from the rain. "Because, you know. Umbrellas. You recognized that pretty quickly, though."

"My sister listens to it on repeat when she gets into a certain mood," Derek answers, regretting the words as soon as he says them, because he really should be telling Stiles about his personal life when he's trying to maintain a professional distance.

"You have a sister?" Stiles questions, curious.

"Cora's too old for you," Derek says, scowling a little bit. "She has to be at least seven years older than you."

"Seven years isn't _that_ big of an age gap," Stiles replies, and Derek does his best not to read too far into the heated look Stiles is giving him. "Not that you have anything to worry about."

_Fourteen years is a really big age gap, though,_ Derek can't help but think to himself. Christ, he's thirty-six and the oldest Stiles can be is twenty-two, if he's a senior. Then again, maybe Stiles is a grad student. Not that that's the most pressing issue here. Even if Stiles was the same age as him, he can't get involved with a student. He's already pushing all sorts of boundaries right now just by walking Stiles to his car.

"Are we nearly there?" Derek asks, needing to change their topic of conversation.

"Two more blocks," Stiles answers, and Derek has to resist the urge to let out an audible sigh of relief. "Also, don't try to distract me from your knowledge of pop music. It's important. Please tell me you rock out to Beyoncé while grading papers."

"You're a menace," Derek snorts, trying to forget the playlist Laura had once made for him called _AWESOME SONGS DEREK NEEDS TO LISTEN TO!_ It had consisted of only the song _Run the World (Girls)_ repeated about thirty times.

"You like me anyway," Stiles shoots back, smirking a little bit.

"You're tolerable when you keep your mouth shut," Derek retorts, but he can feel his cheeks heating slightly.

"You think about shutting me up often?" Stiles asks, licking his lips.

Fuck, Derek must have done something truly horrible in a past life. Did he murder innocent children? He can't think of anything he's done that could have warranted a punishment of this magnitude.

"Is that the parking structure?" Derek asks, gesturing ahead of them, and he's pretty sure Stiles is laughing at him internally right now.

"Yep," Stiles answers, popping the 'p.' "Do you want me to give you a lift anywhere?"

"No," Derek replies, maybe a little too quickly. He really doesn't need to be trapped in an enclosed space with Stiles, though. Not if he wants to keep his sanity, at least.

"You sure? Seriously, it's no problem," Stiles says, looking over at Derek with big brown eyes. "I mean, I already commandeered your umbrella and all, so…"

"I'm fine," Derek insists as they stop in front of the entrance to the parking structure. "I need to leave."

"Oh, wait!" Stiles exclaims as Derek turns to start walking back in the direction they came from. "Derek!"

Derek pretends not to hear and his heart definitely doesn't skip a beat when Stiles says his first name.

It's not until he gets home that he realizes that Stiles still has his jacket. Fuck.

Stiles walks into class the next day wearing the jacket and Derek just about dies. He gives it back after class and Derek's pretty sure at least two other students see.

He's so getting fired.

It's Monday morning, and Derek is absolutely certain that he's never had a harder time teaching in his entire career. It's not like there's even a logical reason for it, except for the fact that –

Well, except for the fact that Stiles is mysteriously absent.

Naturally, that means that the discussion he's trying to have is going absolutely nowhere. Then again, maybe that's a good thing, because it also means that no one's making suggestive comments about _Lolita_, which is the text they've just started reading. Although he supposes that that might actually be good at the moment, because then he could at least talk about how _Lolita_ has been over-romanticized by American society and twisted out of proportion. Jesus, if he hears another song with a girl calling herself "Lolita" he's going to hurl. She was a _sexual abuse victim_.

Hopefully that's the stance Stiles takes on it instead of using it as an opportunity to flirt with the age difference between them. He doesn't think that Stiles would disregard the book in such a way, but you never know. Really, rereading _Lolita_ is making Derek feel more and more like a dirty old man by how he's tempted by Stiles.

Fuck, Humbert is even a thirty-seven year old literature professor. Derek's only a year younger. At least Stiles is legal. Not that it actually matters that much, because he has absolutely no intention of ever making any sort of move on Stiles regardless.

He needs a drink.

Derek's already started on the scotch when Laura barges into his apartment, unannounced.

"What are you doing here?" he grumbles, glaring at her from where he's hunched over at the kitchen table.

"You just sent me a text saying: 'He said that Hemingway was 'no homo' personified. I think I'm in love.' Why would I _not_ be here?" she retorts, waving her phone in his face.

"Fuck," Derek groans, dropping his head down to press his forehead to the table.

"So, spill," Laura says, plopping herself down in the chair across the table from him. "We need to have a serious talk if your first reaction to meeting a hot guy is to go home and drink yourself to death alone."

"He's a _student_, Laura," Derek whines, and that makes her pause, a pitying but understanding look crossing her face.

"Jesus, Der. Only you would have such shitty luck," she replies, wincing in sympathy, reaching over to take a swig from Derek's glass herself. "What class is he in?"

"The American Novel," Derek replies sullenly.

"I thought that was the class you hated," Laura says, lips turning down in a slight frown.

"I – it was," Derek sighs, running a hand through his hair. "He showed up on the second day. He's not technically in my class, though."

"What do you mean?" Laura asks, her brow furrowing as she frowns at him.

"He never officially signed up," Derek admits, staring into the bottom of his almost empty scotch glass. "Apparently the other class he had at the same time was cancelled because most of his classmates transferred into my class. He was just curious."

"Well, then what's the problem here?" Laura asks, making Derek look up at her with wide eyes, gaping a little.

"He's a _student_, Laura!" Derek snaps, because, goddamn it, there's absolutely no way he's ever going to become anything like Kate. Or, well, any more like Kate than he already is, since he's already progressed to lusting over one of his students.

"Yeah, but he's not _your_ student," Laura protests, shrugging. "You don't technically have any influence over him, do you?"

"That's not for me to determine," Derek says, shaking his head. "I'd have to petition Human Resources before initiating anything, and even then, if a colleague had even the slightest concerns about any sort of bias in the department…" Derek shakes his head. "I'd be facing disciplinary action."

"You looked up the school policy?" Laura asks, raising an eyebrow at him and earning herself a scowl.

"Most universities have very similar policies, and I had to look into regulations before bringing up my concerns about Kate," Derek admits, making Laura's expression soften slightly.

"Is this – are you just being so adamant about this because of Kate, or…?" Laura inquires, giving Derek a concerned look. "Because you're nothing like her, you know that, right? Just the fact that you're so concerned about this proves that."

"I know," Derek replies, although his tone is a little hollow. He understands what Laura's saying, and her reassurance really is comforting, but at the same time, he can't help but feel guilty over the whole thing. "I just – we started discussing _Lolita_ today."

"Ouch," Laura says sympathetically. "He didn't use it as an opportunity to flirt, did he?"

"No, god no," Derek answers, more than a little relieved as he remembers the long conversation about the book during his office hours that afternoon. "Fuck, he talked so intelligently about the whole thing and about abuses of power and the oversexualization of teenage girls by the American media – "

"So you have both an academic boner and an actual boner for him," Laura interrupts, smirking a little bit at Derek, who scowls, because this is _serious_ goddamn it. "Look, if you're that into the guy, why don't you at least try to make it work? I mean, he must be pretty gone on you, too, if he's willing to discuss boring white-guy literature with you."

"Mainly he just rants about Hemingway," Derek grumbles, taking another swig of scotch.

"See? You two were clearly made for each other," Laura announces, and Derek can't help but agree at least a little bit, because as often as he contradicts Stiles while discussing Hemingway, there are very few points Stiles has made on the subject that he truly disagrees with. Not that he's ever going to give Stiles the satisfaction of knowing that.

"Laura," Derek sighs, pressing the heel of his palm to his forehead. "My desire to get in his pants shouldn't outweigh his academic opportunities. I'd be of much more use to him as an advisor than as a romantic partner."

"Okay, first of all, that's bullshit," Laura replies, leaning over to snatch the glass of scotch out of Derek's hands. "I'm sure you'd make an excellent boyfriend. The only reason a relationship hasn't worked out for you so far is because your partners were shitty."

Derek opens his mouth to protest, but Laura barrels on. Derek lets her, because although he doesn't really like to admit it, she does have a point. A small one, but one none the less.

"Look, just… maybe you should spend some more time with him," Laura suggests, her voice a little softer now. "Explain the situation to him and see if it's worth it."

"What, and be that creepy professor coercing him into a relationship?" Derek snorts, his tone morose. "I'm at least _fourteen years_ older than him."

"I thought you said he was already flirting with you," Laura replies, pulling the bottle of scotch out of Derek's reach as he starts eyeing it.

"I could just be imagining it," Derek grumbles, trying to forget Stiles' suggestive comments and heated looks. "And even if he is actually interested, there's no way he's looking for anything more than sex. He likes riling people up, pushing boundaries. He's just attracted to the idea of having sex with a professor, because it's against the rules."

Laura's silent for a moment, studying him carefully as he tries not to fidget under her intense gaze. Then she sighs and pushes the scotch back over to him.

"Fine, fine. I see your point," she concedes, a strangely sad look on her face. "I just want you to be happy."

"I am happy," Derek grumbles, but he accepts the scotch.

Laura doesn't call him out on his lie.

"Oh my god, like how is it even possible to misinterpret _Lolita_ so badly?" Stiles asks, looking over at Derek from where he's sprawled out in the chair in his office. "I mean, what the _fuck_. I can't _believe_ he tried to argue that Dolores was in a position of power because she was manipulating Humbert with her 'sexual wiles' – "

Stiles actually uses his hands to make air-quotes here, and Derek would be embarrassed about crushing on a _child_ if Stiles wasn't tearing down another student's frankly idiotic argument with such passion. Honestly, it makes him a little hot under the collar, listening to Stiles analyze literature. Laura would laugh her ass off if she ever found out.

"A _twelve year old_ should never be put into a position where they have to manipulate anyone with sex," Stiles continues, hands failing in his anger. "God, I wanted to punch him in the face."

"Please refrain from punching your classmates," Derek snorts, even though he completely understands Stiles' position. In fact, he'd nearly kicked the student out of the class himself when he'd tried to turn his 'sexual wiles' argument into a blatant excuse to flirt. If he really wanted to attract Derek's attention, he should have actually bothered reading and analyzing the book.

Like Stiles is doing now. Fuck.

"You know, I can never tell if you're being sarcastic or not," Stiles says, looking at Derek curiously as he leans over to plant his elbows on Derek's desk. "Like, sometimes you make comments that make absolutely no sense unless you're being sarcastic, but you don't _sound_ like you're being sarcastic."

"Maybe you need to take my Sarcasm 101 course," Derek quips, looking down at the paper he's attempting to grade. So far he's only gotten through one paragraph and it's been over an hour.

"See, that right there was clearly sarcasm," Stiles replies, pointing an accusing finger at him. "But when you told me not to punch my 'classmates' you didn't sound like that."

"They _are_ your classmates," Derek says, a little confused about what Stiles' hang-up is.

"It's not like I'm actually taking the class," Stiles snorts, pouting slightly at Derek.

"No, but you sit in on it," Derek replies, quirking an eyebrow at Stiles. "Therefore they're your classmates."

"I guess that's one way of looking at it," Stiles muses, but he sounds less than convinced. "But – "

"Hey Professor Hale," a voice says, interrupting Stiles, and Derek looks up from his grading to find Erica standing in the doorway, holding a stack of papers and eyeing Stiles in a way that makes Derek want to do something ridiculous like growl at her.

"Erica – " Derek starts, but he appears to have already lost her attention.

"Wait, you're from the bio department, aren't you?" Erica asks Stiles, confusing Derek a bit, because how does Erica know that Stiles is a bio major? Sure, Derek knows that Stiles is studying biology with a focus on genetics, but that's just because they've talked a lot.

"Uh, yeah," Stiles replies, also sounding confused as he peers up at Erica.

"Oh my god, I'm so jealous," Erica groans, making Stiles shoot Derek a bewildered look. "You must get to hang around Professor Boyd all the time. He's such a hottie."

"_Oh_," Stiles says, his lips turning up in a grin, his expression changing from confusion to understanding. "Oh yeah. He has the sort of shoulders a guy wants to throw his legs over. It's such a shame he's straight."

"A shame for _you_, you mean," Erica replies, smirking and drawing a laugh from Stiles.

"True, true," Stiles laughs.

God, Derek's going to have an aneurysm. Two of his students are discussing the sex appeal of another professor right in front of him, and from Stiles' commentary it even sounds like he's tired flirting with the professor before.

Derek tells himself that he's absolutely not disappointed that Stiles apparently flirts with all his professors. And he's _certainly_ not _jealous_.

"Was there a reason you stopped by my office, Erica?" Derek interrupts, his tone sharp and pointed.

"Professor Ito wanted me to drop these off for you," she answers, indicating the stack of papers, which she drops down on Derek's desk with a loud thunk. "I'll let you get back to your _conversation_ now, Professor Hale."

She sounds entirely unapologetic and far too smug. Derek can't help but glare at her a little bit. He's absolutely certain that she's laughing internally as she saunters on out the door.

"Seriously? You make all of your colleagues call you Professor Hale?" Stiles asks, drawing Derek's focus away from the now empty doorway.

"What?" Derek replies, confused. "Erica's a grad student."

"Wait, she is?" Stiles asks, eyes widening behind his glasses. "Shit. Boyd's going to kill me for giving him blue balls."

It takes Derek a moment to understand what Stiles is saying, but when he does, he relaxes. Thank god Professor Boyd seems to have as strong a moral compass as he does.

"She'll be finished very soon, though," Derek can't help but add. "I've heard that an assistant professor position is being held open for her. Not that she won't have other options."

"Oh. That's cool," Stiles says, brightening up a little bit. "Maybe Boyd'll only eviscerate me, then."

That's all Stiles says on the subject, though. Derek, guiltily, is a little disappointed that Stiles doesn't bother to offer up when he's going to be finished with school. He also doesn't want to risk asking directly, lest he come off as creepy. Which he kind of is right now. Shit.

"We were discussing _Lolita_," Derek says awkwardly, clearing his throat.

"Actually, I was ranting about my 'classmates' – " Stiles smirks as he says the term. " – and you were sitting there like a lump."

"I was not," Derek snorts, sending Stiles a mild glare.

"Why, Derek, you're not accusing me of being an unreliable narrator, are you?" Stiles gasps, mock offended.

"Of course I am," Derek replies casually, eyes focusing back on the paper he's _still_ trying to grade.

"Well, I suppose everyone has a perspective," Stiles says, leaning back in his chair and licking his thumb in order to flip the pages of the copy of _Lolita_ in his lap.

"Doesn't mean it's an _accurate_ perspective," Derek snorts, underlining a sentence in red pen.

"So you're not one of those 'there's no such thing as a stupid question' sort of teachers?" Stiles asks, sounding distinctly amused.

"Personally, I think the question you just asked me was pretty stupid," Derek replies, feeling inordinately pleased with himself as Stiles lets out a startled laugh.

"I so left myself open for that," Stiles says, but he's grinning. Derek almost can't suppress his answering smile. "Seriously, though, how do people manage to misinterpret this book so thoroughly?"

"Well, it doesn't get much better at higher academic levels," Derek snorts. "I've read published essays about _Lolita_ where the author spends the entire time dancing around the words 'rape' and 'sexual abuse.'"

"That's just pathetic," Stiles replies, scowling. "I've lost all hope for America."

"Well, there seems to be a few smart people still out there," Derek says, glancing up at Stiles for a split second.

"Why, Professor Hale, was that a compliment?" Stiles asks, a Cheshire cat worthy grin on his face and a mischievous glint in his eyes. "I'm swooning here."

"Who said I was referring to you?" Derek replies, his throat feeling a little dry and his cheeks heating slightly."

"No one," Stiles says, but his tone of voice implies that he doesn't believe Derek for even a moment. "I suppose you could have been referring to yourself. No one could blame you for being narcissistic."

Stiles winks. Derek's pretty sure his entire face turns red.

"That's it!" Laura exclaims, throwing her hands up in the air.

"What?" Derek asks, blinking at her in confused surprise.

"I've spent the past week listening to you wax poetic about Stiles-the-unobtainable, and while it was cute for the first few hours, now it's just pathetic," Laura answers, fixing him with an annoyed look.

"I do not – " Derek protests, cheeks heating slightly.

"Der, you were just bemoaning the fact that you'll never read an essay by him, because he's not actually taking your class," Laura says, unimpressed with his denial. "An _essay_. You're sad about not getting to grade his _essays_."

Okay, so maybe she has a point.

"So, I'm dragging you to the Jungle," she finishes, in a tone that allows for no argument.

"The Jungle?" Derek asks, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

"It's the best gay club in the area," Laura answers, eyeing him like she's already deciding on his outfit. She probably is. "It's also far enough from campus that not a lot of students go there, so you don't have to worry about accidentally fucking one."

Derek opens his mouth to say that he doesn't plan on fucking anyone, regardless, but he decides against it. When Laura sets her mind on something, it's best to simply go along with her. He can just quietly sit in the corner the whole night and glower at people while Laura's too distracted by pretty girls.

And, a few hours later, that's exactly what Derek finds himself doing. He's already been approached by more than a few men, but he's turned each one of them down. Half of them are drunk enough that Derek dismisses them right away, and the other half… well, no one's struck his fancy.

(As in, none of them are Stiles.)

Derek glances out over the dance floor, sighing out of boredom. His phone battery is only at twenty percent, so he doesn't want to use it for anything unnecessary, in case Laura needs to contact him or vice versa. And, judging by the way she's been eyeing a lovely black woman with three distinctive scars running down her neck, he won't be surprised if he gets a call later telling him not to wait up.

He sighs again and stares down into the glass sitting on the table in front of him, running his finger through the condensation clinging to its sides.

"Fancy seeing you here," a voice says, and Derek looks up to tell the person off, but as soon as Derek lays eyes on him, he freezes, mouth falling open.

"Stiles," Derek replies, his voice strangled and awkward.

Fuck, where is he supposed to look? Stiles' pupils are blown and his cheeks are flushed, probably from dancing. His lips look a little red, and his hair is a mess, like someone's been running their hands through it or grasping at it. Derek awkwardly fidgets in his seat, trying to will down the beginnings of a horribly awkward erection. He drags his eyes away from Stiles' face, but that doesn't help much either, because Stiles' shirt is white and thin and clings to his chest in such a way that Derek's eyes are immediately drawn to the way his nipples tent the fabric.

God fucking damn it, he's so screwed.

"What are you doing here?" he manages, instead focusing on a neutral spot behind Stiles' shoulder.

"What does anyone do at a club?" Stiles asks with a small smirk, and Derek valiantly does not think about blowjobs in the bathroom.

"You shouldn't – we shouldn't be talking," Derek replies, not answering Stiles' rhetorical question.

"Is that your way of asking me to dance?" Stiles asks, his tongue darting out to lick over his lower lip, and, shit, Derek's thinking about blowjobs.

"I can't," Derek answers, his nails biting into the skin of his palms as he closes his hands into fists, grounding himself. "I – no dancing."

He _really_ wants to dance with Stiles.

"Then let me buy you a drink," Stiles insists, and Derek almost wants to say yes, because then he could at least drink himself to death in order to end this torture.

"I'm the designated driver," is what he says instead, which is mostly true. He and Laura hadn't exactly discussed it, but he knows by now that he always ends up as the sober one, so it's a valid enough excuse.

"I'll buy you a coke, then. Something nonalcoholic," Stiles presses, and a large part of Derek wants to snap at him, to drive him away, but he sounds so fucking _earnest_. God, why does he have to be a student?

"This is unprofessional," Derek finally murmurs, willing Stiles to understand. He's let this go on long enough, and clearly ignoring Stiles' advances isn't working.

"Please, like you're the first person to do it," Stiles replies, his tone flippant as he rolls his eyes. "I mean, look at Allison and Lydia. Danny from Comp Sci and I had a thing for a while, too."

Derek stares at Stiles for a moment, shocked, unsure what to say to that. What the hell is he _supposed_ to say when his student has all but admitted to having had a sexual relationship with another professor? Fuck, Stiles thinks that this is _normal_ – that professors break this rule all the time.

If Derek ever meets this 'Danny' he's pretty sure there's going to be bloodshed.

"Stiles," Derek starts slowly, carefully crafting his words in order to avoid making Stiles defensive. "I don't know what this 'Danny' told you, but – "

"Derbear!"

Laura has impeccable timing, as always.

"Who's your friend here?" Laura asks as she slides into the booth next to Derek, her cheeks flushed from dancing, and her voice a little loud from tipsiness.

"Laura," Derek growls, because he really doesn't need her to say anything that will encourage Stiles' notion that teacher-student relationships are normal.

"Don't worry about me. I'm just his sister," she continues, ignoring him and looking over at Stiles.

"Stiles," Stiles introduces himself, a gorgeous smile appearing on his face.

"_The_ Stiles?" Laura asks, and fuck, fuck, fuck, Derek needs to stop her before – "I've been _dying_ to meet you."

"You have?" Stiles asks, clearly confused.

"Of course," Laura says easily, Derek's stomach twisting itself into knots as she smirks. "You're Der's favorite, after all."

"_Laura!_" Derek snaps, his cheeks heating in embarrassment and anger as he glares at her. She _knows_ she shouldn't say this. He's already explained to her the multitude of reasons why nothing can happen between him and Stiles, but apparently she's gotten to the point where she's buzzed enough that she's in 'embarrass Derek' mode.

Only this time more than his embarrassment is at stake.

"Aw, come on. He's not even – " Laura protests, but Derek's had enough.

"We're leaving," he announces, grabbing ahold of Laura's arm and dragging her away.

"Nice meeting you, Stiles!" Laura calls out pointedly over her shoulder, but Derek doesn't dare look back at Stiles. Just imagining his confused and hurt expression is enough.

"Why the _fuck_ did you do that?" Derek hisses once they're well out of Stiles' sight and hearing range.

"Look, I saw him stop dancing with a very hot, very interested guy in order to go chat with you, you surly, sour curmudgeon," Laura shoots back, glaring at him. "Clearly he's really into you. I just don't get why you won't even _try_ – "

"He's already been taken advantage of by a professor," Derek snaps, his hand tightening on her arm. "He thinks it's _normal_ for teachers to sleep with their students and I can't – I can't take advantage – "

"God, I'm not telling you to jump into bed with him!" Laura exclaims, yanking her arm out of his grip. "I'm telling you to talk with him about the _potential_ for a relationship and what that would entail – "

Somewhere over her shoulder, Derek's eyes are drawn to two figures dancing together. It's the woman's bright red hair that catches his attention, and it takes a moment for him to place her, but abruptly he realizes that she's the mildly scary student who'd only showed up to the first class period. What really makes Derek stare, though, is her dance partner.

Derek would recognize Professor Allison Argent anywhere.

_I mean, look at Allison and Lydia._ Stiles had said, and now Derek feels like he's going to be sick. Like aunt, like niece, it looks like.

"This conversation is over," Derek says, turning back to Laura. "I'm leaving."

"Fine," she replies, anger clear in her voice. "I'm going with Braeden."

With that, she storms off into the crowd of dancers.

Derek mostly tries to forget about the night at the club. He's successful part of the time, but the rest of the time not so much. Whenever he does think about it, he inevitably ends up either in the shower with a guilty hand around his cock or on the computer science department's website, glaring at Professor Danny Mahealani's profile picture. He's disgustingly nice looking for a slimy dirtball who takes advantage of his students.

As for Stiles, well, Stiles comes to class as usual. It takes him a few days to show up during office hours again, but Derek tries to give him his space. Even when he finally does return to their previous routine, their conversations are a little awkward for a while. Thankfully, they now appear to have fallen back into their old rhythm.

Or, well, they _had_.

"No," Derek says, the word heavy on his tongue. "No, I will not go out to dinner with you."

Stiles stares at him for a moment and Derek's sure that he's never seen a more heartbroken expression on anyone before. He feels like a complete asshole.

"Oh," Stiles finally replies, his voice a little choked. "I – sorry, I'll just – " He hauls himself out of his chair and fumbles for his bag. " – get out of your hair now."

He's out the door before Derek can say anything else, before he can give any explanation. Maybe it's for the best, though. It was a polite, if cold, rejection – simple and precise. Stiles will get over it eventually. He's still young and impressionable and will undoubtedly find someone nice who's his own age.

Then again, maybe he'll go back to Professor Mahealani, Derek's traitorous mind can't help but suggest. Maybe he'll go to Professor Yukimura or Professor Argent or any of those other faculty members who he seems far too familiar with. Fuck, he'd accepted a position at this university because he needed a clean break from his history with Kate, but here it almost seems to be worse.

Maybe he should quit already.

On Friday, Laura glares at him and tells him to stop moping and adopt a cat. Derek glares right back, because she _knows_ he doesn't like cats. Instead, he finds himself at the animal shelter, looking for the biggest, fluffiest dog he can find. A cuddly one.

He feels pathetic.

"Aw, hey there, aren't you cute?" a painfully familiar voice says, stopping Derek in his tracks.

He freezes, standing there in the hallway, unsure what to do. Isn't it just his luck that Stiles just _happens_ to be here? Derek can't help but peek around the hall corner, though, just to catch one glimpse of him. After all, Stiles hasn't been to class or office hours since Derek had rejected him.

When he finally lays eyes on Stiles, it feels like he's been punched in the gut. Stiles is clutching what initially looks like a small ball of black fuzz, but on further inspection proves to be a small cat.

"I like you," Stiles declares, smiling softly as he pets the cat. "And as long as I feed you and pet you, I'm pretty sure you'll love me, too. Unlike some people. Humans are complicated."

Derek winces. He's ninety-nine percent sure that that last bit was directed at him. Not that Stiles meant for him to actually hear it, of course.

"But, I mean, I'd really thought I'd gotten it right this time, you know?" Stiles continues. Derek should really stop listening, but he stays where he is. "Trust me, I've gotten it wrong before, which once even landed me with a broken nose, but he just seemed like…"

Stiles trails off and sighs.

"Whatever. It doesn't matter. I should stop dwelling on it," Stiles says as he scratches that cat behind its ears, making it purr loudly.

Derek turns on his heel and walks back the way he came. He should really stop dwelling on it, too.

The Thursday after that, Derek's mostly contained his moping. He still hasn't gone back to the animal shelter, though, out of fear of running into Stiles again. Mainly he reads and rereads books and tries not to do things like listen to Rihanna or recite Walt Whitman poetry.

However, things change a bit when he gets a visitor.

"You're Professor Hale?" a sharp voice asks, and Derek looks up from his typing to see the redheaded student from his class and the club staring at him with an assessing look.

"Yes," he answers, a little wary. "Is there anything I can do for you, Ms. – ?"

"_Professor_ Martin," she replies, sounding more than a little annoyed, but Derek could care less about that, because what the _fuck_ is Stiles doing hanging around all these professors? "And yes, I have a question for you. Why did you reject Stiles?"

"Why did I – " Derek sputters, anger building up inside him. "Well why do _you_ feel the need to take advantage of your students, _Professor_ Martin?"

She stares at him, confusion and rage warring on her face.

"_Excuse me?_" is what she finally says, incredulous. "I have _never_ taken advantage of a student in my life, and I can't believe that you would insinuate – "

"You asked me why I rejected Stiles, and that's the reason," Derek interrupts, scowling and tense. "I don't sleep with my students." _Unlike the rest of the professors at this university._

Professor Martin stares at him again, studies him carefully, and although the anger is still there, this time her confusion seems to win out. Derek's about to continue on his rant, when her eyes finally go wide with realization.

"Oh my god, I'm going to _kill_ that idiot," Professor Martin huffs, and Derek feels a rush of fear, because, shit, had she threatened Stiles with something, should he tell anyone about their affair?

Derek opens his mouth to make a threat of his own, but he's cut off by an annoyed look from Professor Martin. For some reason, she doesn't look angry anymore, though.

"Before you jump to conclusions, I would like to assure you that I have never slept with Stiles," she says, placing her hands on her hips. "As for the predicament you and Stiles have gotten yourselves into, I'd strongly suggest that you attend tomorrow's nine am Bio 130 lecture. It's in the biology building's main lecture hall."

"Why?" Derek asks, confused.

"You know what, I would have told you right now, but then you went and accused me of sleeping with students," Professor Marin says, glaring at him. "So you're just going to have to attend lecture tomorrow and find out."

With that, she storms out, leaving Derek far more frustrated and confused than he was earlier that morning.

"Wow, she _is_ a hurricane," Erica says, leaning against the doorway. "I'm half terrified and half turned on."

"What's so special about nine am Bio 130?" Derek blurts out, unable to keep himself from asking.

"Bio 130?" Erica asks, giving him a confused look. "Hey, doesn't Professor Boyd teach that section?"

Oh god. His rejection sent Stiles running right into another professor's arms, didn't it? Fuck.

Derek spends all night tossing and turning, trying to decide whether or not to go to tomorrow morning's lecture after his eight am English 346 section. He still hasn't made up his mind by the time he gets to class, but as people start filing in… well, he can't help but miss Stiles.

So he goes. He enters in the back with thirty seconds to spare, and spends the entirety of those thirty seconds scanning the sea of students, trying to pick Stiles out.

He doesn't bother to look towards the front of the room until the professor starts to lecture.

"I'm afraid that Professor Boyd is out with the flu, so I'll be taking over your class until he gets back," a horribly familiar voice starts, and Derek's eyes snap up to focus on the speaker. "I'm Professor Stilinski."

Derek spends the entire lecture gaping.

So he and Stiles go on a date. He and _Professor Stilinski_ go on a date. He's basically on cloud nine, even if Stiles spends the entire dinner making fun of him for the whole debacle. It's not like it was really his fault, though. It was a logical enough assumption to make, and it wasn't like he knew Stiles' actual name, so he couldn't just google him.

Derek nearly locks Stiles out of the apartment, though, when he jokingly suggests teacher-student roleplay after they head back to his place. (Stiles makes it up to him afterwards.)

Derek's exemplary mood even holds over to Monday's class, despite Stiles' absence. They have plenty of other opportunities to argue about Hemingway now.

"Shit, is _that_ why Professor Stilinski's not in class today?" someone asks as Derek starts writing essay requirements on the board.

He's confused for a moment, before he realizes that there was a _reason_ he wore his only scarf today. The one which is now sitting, forgotten, on his desk. He'd removed in on instinct.

"He can still walk, right?" another student chimes in, making Derek turn bright, bright red.

"Mr. Lancing, my private life is – " He cuts himself off, blinking. "You _knew_ that he was a professor?"

"See! I told you he didn't know!" a third student hisses to the first in what she probably thinks is a whisper.

"Uh, at least three of us took his Bioethics course last semester," the first student says, making Derek's face heat even more. "And, like, eight of us were in his section of Bio 130 freshman year."

"So wait, did you two finally…?" Mr. Lancing asks, making a gesture which Derek can't even begin to interpret, but must represent sex of some sort. It looks painful.

"As I was saying, my private life is none of your business," Derek continues, turning back to the board and hoping that he can salvage whatever scraps of dignity he has left. There can't be many.

"Well Becky and I have a combined forty bucks riding on your personal life, so," the original commentator quips, and Derek just barely manages to resist banging his head against the chalkboard.

That's it. He's finally quitting academia.

"Your students have incited anarchy in my classroom," Derek grumbles as he trudges into Stiles' office.

(Yes, Stiles has an office. Because he's a professor.)

"Okay, first of all, you stole them, so they're _your_ students not mine," Stiles replies, grinning as he looks up from the journal article he's reading. "Second, I'm really tempted to make a comment about how you only call them my students when they've done something bad, but that would make us seem like an old married couple. With children."

"Well, they seem to think we're an old married couple," Derek says, moving to sit down in the chair across from Stiles' desk. "They even had a betting – "

Derek pauses, staring down into the chair. A small black ball of fur stares up at him.

"I'm not a cat person," he says after a moment.

"I know," Stiles replies, his tone annoyingly cheery. "That's why Laura took Buck back to your apartment."

"Buck," Derek repeats, dumbfounded. "From _Call of the Wild_."

"It was that or Cujo," Stiles says, grinning.

"Remind me why I'm dating you?" Derek grumbles, although, truth be told, he probably would have named the dog something similar.

Stiles stands up and pulls him in by his tie. The kiss is deep and wet and Derek has to pull away when Stiles slips his tongue into his mouth, because otherwise he's going to have a situation in his pants that he doesn't want to deal with in Stiles' office, particularly while there's a cat here with them.

"I hate you," Derek huffs, but Stiles just laughs.

"Yep," Stiles says, pressing one more chaste kiss to Derek's lips. "You hate me just as much as you love Hemingway."

Derek can't actually argue with that.


	58. (M) BAGGINSHIELD - SugarDaddiesErebordot

SugarDaddiesErebordotcom  
orphan_account

Summary:  
Bilbo and Ori are two broke University graduates with nothing to their name but their degrees and a tiny flat. Ori gets tired of it and signs them both up to find Sugar Daddies via a very helpful website. Bilbo has apprehensions until he meets a certain brooding man named Thorin. Then things just get even more confusing...

* * *

Chapter 01: The First Step is the Profile...

"Ori, do you really think that this is a good idea?"

Bilbo stood behind his friend and housemate, both of them leaning towards the bright glow of Ori's dingy laptop.

The two had met at University, and now were graduates with a degree in Writing and Literature in their pockets, but nothing else to their name other than their tiny flat and last night's take-out. It had been Ori's idea that they sign up for ' ', after being completely fed up with their miserable situation.

Ori saw it as nothing to lose and everything to gain when it came to the prospect of meeting a wealthy older man who could help out financially in exchange for companionship. Bilbo, on the other hand, had a great deal of reservations. First and foremost because he felt a bit like a prostitute, even though the site states that physical relations are not to be expected by either party (as part of the terms and conditions that the duo actually read). The second source of his fears came from watching too many CSI type shows, and he was sure he was going to end up murdered or sold or something of the like. And thirdly, he didn't know what the chance was of actually finding an older gentleman that was good-looking.

Sure, Bilbo knew he liked to date guys a bit older than him, but did that mean that he could go out with someone who was in their forties or fifties? He supposed that it would be a case by case basis, since there were plenty of good-looking forty something year olds out there.

"We can't keep living like this Bilbo, I'm poor and lonely. What if my true love is on this site?"

"Not bloody likely." Bilbo mumbled.

"Fair enough." Ori agreed as he diligently typed his information into the laptop, "If not my true love, than why not just a nice guy to go to dinner with? If I eat another order of 'authentic' Thai noodles I think I'm gonna die."

Bilbo agreed wholeheartedly, he was a person who loved fine food, but fine food is a luxury when you living on the pay checks of two baristas with student loans crushing them. It would be some time before they would be able to properly support themselves, especially when they were both trying to become novelists in a big city like Erebor.

"Well, they do say that authors need life experience," Bilbo said slowly, trying to convince himself that this wasn't the stupidest idea in the world, "And it would be nice to meet someone."

"That's the spirit!" Ori cheered, "I've got all my info up, we'll do yours once we've taken our profile pic's."

"Wait!" Bilbo panicked, "I have to show my face?"

Ori huffed, "Of course you do! They'll want to see who they're talking too. Now stand up and stand by the wall while I take your picture."

Bilbo stood against the cleanest white wall their apartment had to offer, it was the most suitable backdrop that they could manage.

Bilbo fiddled with the hem of his pale marigold coloured long sleeved shirt. He couldn't help but think, weren't the men on these sites looking for someone sexy? He was far from it, in his opinion, choosing to sport himself in a sweater-vest over his shirt and tidy black jeans that had no rips or anything flamboyant. His unusually large feet were covered by black oxfords that he made a point to keep immaculately polished. He had been told that his mop of unruly honey blond curls are very cute, and his big green doe-eyes, but would they really be appealing to the type of man who would sign up for this sort of thing?

Ori snapped the picture without Bilbo noticing, the flash of his friend's phone frightening him.

"Ok, now you take mine." Ori said, handing the phone to Bilbo, who was still dazed and confused as to what was happening.

Ori was a bit more prepared for his pic, there was a hint of playfulness in his brown eyes. He was dress in a dark sweater that fitted him well, and helped to make his bright, fiery hair to stand out. He kept it a little long, but not too far past his ears, and a nice set of whiskers that Bilbo could never have.

"Alright," Ori smiled, "Let's get these on the internet."

Bilbo exhaled, trying to dispel what remained of his reservations, but having very little luck. "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Come on Bilbo, be adventurous!"

"I guess a little adventure couldn't hurt…"

* * *

Chapter 02: The Second Step is Attracting Interest...

"Dwalin, this is the stupidest thing that you've ever done… Stupider than the time you thought you could hide your receding hairline with a Mohawk."

"Fuck you, Thorin."

The two friends glared at each other before Thorin gave up with an exhausted sigh. He didn't have the patience to deal with this right now. In fact, he had very little patience for anything.

"Listen," Dwalin grumbled, continuing on from what he was saying, "You're a grumpy old bastard who needs to meet someone, and I'm a gorgeous older gentleman who wants to meet someone, so why is it stupid?"

"Because signing up for a sugar daddy website makes you look creepy. And I don't want to be associated with you when you go to jail for it."

Dwalin scoffed, "It's perfectly legit, consenting adults and all that. It's not prostitution, you're just paying for a boyfriend who happens to be young and attractive. What have we got to lose? All you do is work and I'm tired of one night stands."

"Why can't you just do this on your own?"

"Because we're best friends. And best friends do everything together-"

"Not this."

"-AND I think it will be good for you, as well as me. I've already done most of it, you just need to write up your profile, so why not just come with me to look over all the possible choices?"

Thorin groaned and rubbed his temples. There was no stopping Dwalin once he had an idea in his head, and when he involved Thorin it meant that he was either nervous or scared. Thorin felt a little bad for his friend, he was obviously lonely and needed someone, and he clearly couldn't take that first step without Thorin by his side.

"Fine, show me."

This was no way for a pair of millionaires to act. At their age, they should be married or with a long-time partner. But with Thorin's workaholic tendencies and Dwalin's non-committal attitude, they both remained mostly single. And now, at forty-two, they were secure in their careers and in their finances, but with no one to spend their money on or their time with, save for each other, but neither of them liked that arrangement.

They sat in Dwalin's office, which had a large oak desk and a spectacular view of the sprawling city beneath, but both their eyes were focused on the numerous beauties on the screen of Dwalin's expensive computer.

"That one's cute."

"I don't like piercings."

"What about this one? He's clearly flexible if he can get that kind of picture."

"Nice ass, but vacant eyes. I don't want to feel like I'm talking to a lamp post."

"Oh!" Dwalin exclaimed, freezing on a fresh profile, "This one's mine."

Thorin looked from the picture of a playful looking red-head to the description.

Name: Ori Rison

Age: 23

Occupation: Barista

Aspirations: Novelist

What are you looking for?  
'I want a nice guy to take me to places and occasionally buy me gifts. I love to discuss books and movies, or basically any topic, I'm not too picky. I'd love for my man to be big and make me feel safe when I'm around him. If he takes care of me I'll take care of him! I love beards, but not moustaches by themselves. If you like to drink, I'm sure I can rival you, no problem.'

Dwalin grinned widely and bookmarked the page, "He's clearly got some fire in him!"

"I'm sure he does." Thorin mumbled in response.

"Now let's find you one." Dwalin said as he began scrolling again.

Thorin paid little attention to the parade of young men who put themselves in suggestive or downright slutty poses. It wasn't until he caught a glimpse of something different that he heard himself say, "Wait, scroll back up."

There was a picture of a curly haired youth, and he almost looked surprised. His eyes were wide and his expression a little scared. Thorin couldn't help but feel something stir in him that made him want to know more. He wouldn't like to admit out loud that he had a bit of a kink for innocence.

Name: Bilbo Baggins

Age: 23

Occupation: Barista

Aspirations: Novelist

What are you looking for?  
'I'd like to state first and foremost that my friend made me sign up. But if you are interested I suppose I could provide conversation. I don't really know what I'm looking for, I feel bad asking for gifts and such, but I suppose they would simply come with this sort of thing. But I'd much rather a good chat. In terms of physical preferences, I like to date men that are taller than me, and I can't deny that I have a weakness for broad shoulders. Facial hair is optional, but respect isn't. You have to treat me well or there's nothing here for you. And I'd prefer it if you weren't using me to cheat on your spouse/significant other. Thank you.

"So, does 'Bilbo' have your approval?" Dwalin asked with a knowing smirk. He'd known Thorin long enough to recognise his horny expression.

Thorin huffed, feeling oddly flushed, "Alright, fine. I'll take this one."

"Do you think we could afford orange juice this week?" Ori asked as he peered into the nearly empty fridge.

"Not if we want to pay the phone bill." Bilbo replied as he absently flipped through the channels on TV.

"Drat." Ori protested. He gave up and sat down next to Bilbo on their dirty floral print couch. "Anything on?"

"Nothing interesting. Maybe we could just watch a movie on your laptop?"

"Yeah alright." Ori flipped open his laptop, which lit up and began working loudly. The fan was so old and useless that the noise never ceased, it was probably filled with dust and crumbs, the keys stuck from years of overuse.

Before they could discuss what they were going to watch, Ori gave a noise of pure excitement that nearly scared Bilbo out of his skin.

"I got an email! A sugar daddy wants me!" He was practically squealing in excitement.

"Well, read it then," Bilbo said with a grin, "First step to true love and a full stomach, right?"

Ori did open it, both read the message with great interest.

'To: Ori  
Subject: A date  
Hi, my name's Dwalin, and I think I'm exactly what you're looking for. And I know you're exactly what I'm looking for. I'd like to propose a double date with you, my friend and my friend's date. Are you free tomorrow at lunchtime? I know a great little place.'

"He certainly has a lot of confidence." Bilbo said when he finished reading, "What do you think? Gonna go for it?"

"Once I check out his profile and see that everything is on the up and up." Ori said with a smug expression. He clicked the link that sent him to , and Dwalin's profile popped up.

'Name: Dwalin Fudin

Age: 42

Occupation: Co-Chairman of Durin Industries

Aspirations: Finding a cutie to date

What are you looking for?  
I'll make this simple, I'm a rich guy with all the money in the world and no one to spend it on. If you're cute, spirited and interesting, then I'll like you. I don't want to date people with nothing between their ears, I like to talk about interesting things and I hate it when people stare vacuously at me, laughing about shit they don't understand. I'm partial to the slender ones, height isn't an issue really, since the chances of you being taller than me are slim. Drop me a line if I'm the daddy you're looking for.'

They both turned their gaze to the profile picture, and in it stood a mountain of a man with a shaved head and a beard the screamed 'Viking'. There was a line of runes tattooed around his skull, and a line of gold rings on each finger. He was clearly wealthy, if the expensive looking suit and bling was anything to go by.

"Wow." Ori breathed, "He's amazing! He's the size of a professional wrestler but dressed like a forties gangster."

Bilbo agreed, he did have that kind of look, maybe it was the bulging muscles and the pin striped suit…

"Well, good for you Ori, I bet he's wonderful." Bilbo tried to sound sincere in order to mask the fact that he thought the man looked a little terrifying.

"Who do you think his friend will be? I'd better reply and ask."

"Yeah, that's probably a good-" Bilbo stopped when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He fished it out and saw that it was an email notification… from a potential sugar daddy.

"Oh, goodness." Bilbo muttered as his face heated up. He clicked on the message;

'To: Bilbo

Subject: Perhaps a date?

I'm Thorin, and like you I was coerced into signing up for that strange website. My friend won't leave me alone until I go on at least one date, and I thought perhaps we could suffer together? Would you consider a lunch date? My friend is planning on one for lunch tomorrow and would like me there with a date also. It's is your choice.'

Ori typed in the name 'Thorin', and up came the profile of Bilbo's mystery suitor.

Name: Thorin Durin

Age: 42

Occupation: Co-chairman of Durin Industries

Aspirations: I just want to be left in peace.

What are you looking for?

If I am to choose a type, I suppose I have a penchant for curls and a sharp wit. I don't want to feel like I'm babysitting an overgrown child, I find that sensibility has its own charm. I am grumpy most days, so be wary of that.

Bilbo looked over to Ori, "Well, I think we know who the friend is."

* * *

Chapter 03: The Third Step is Meeting Up...

Thorin didn't know why it was that he was thinking about his date so much, sure, Bilbo was cute, but there were plenty of cute people in the city, some who were more age appropriate for him. He couldn't quite put his finger on it, but there was something utterly irresistible about that sweet looking blond with the big doe eyes. Thorin had been giddy when he got a reply… Thorin Durin, giddy. What a ridiculous notion that was, that a grown man such as Thorin Durin would be giddy about something. He hoped that the feeling was something that would pass, and not become a reoccurring thing. It simply wasn't respectable.

He didn't even know why it was that he had saved Bilbo's profile picture on his phone when Dwalin wasn't looking. It was such an odd thing for him to do. His hands must have moved on their own, and he would stick to this argument until his dying breath.

"Did your date confirm?" Dwalin asked Thorin as he entered the others office without knocking.

"Yes, he did. Almost within ten minutes of sending the invite. We're meeting at Bombur's bakery tomorrow at noon."

"Good." Dwalin laughed, "Now make sure you look sharp, I know it's been a while since you last dated but-"

"What's this about Thorin having a date?"

The two turned their gaze to the door where Bard, the head of their legal department, stood with a quirked brow.

Dwalin smirked, "Yer, Thorin's finally going to socialize instead of going to a bar and drinking alone. It's shocking isn't it? Never thought I'd see the day." Dwalin laughed out-right as Thorin gave him a swift backhand.

"It was you're idea, you're the one who didn't want to go on your date alone." Thorin grumbled.

"Aww, how sweet, two little teenagers with crushes!"

Another person joined them, standing behind Bard with one slender hand on the man's shoulder.

"Thranduil." Thorin growled, "Why are you here?"

"I'm here to take my man out for dinner. Trust me, if I could avoid looking at your ugly faces I would."

"Seriously Brad, why are you still with that bitch?" Dwalin asked crossly.

Bard simply smiled and shook his head, "We've been together for twenty years, Dwalin, and we have four kids. I think it's clear that were not separating any time soon." Thranduil kissed Bard's cheek, flipping his middle finger at Dwalin and Thorin as the two walked away.

Thranduil Greenleaf and Bard Bowman had been together since their early twenties, having had four kids via surrogacy. Their oldest, Legolas, was about to begin University, their oldest daughter Sigrid was still in highschool, and their two youngest Bain and Tilda were in grade school. Thorin and Dwalin had known the pair for a long time, they liked Bard but they always seemed to clash with Thranduil. Unfortunately, they were a package deal so there was no way around Thranduil snark.

"Anyway," Dwalin continued, "I called Bombur and reserved us the best table."

"You don't think that they'll be intimidated, going to a café that takes reservations? One that's on the East side of town and between Louis Vuitton and Chanel?"

Dwalin smirked, "They're looking for sugar daddies, right? So it's up to us to show them how much sugar we can provide. That means only the best café's, restaurants, and bars."

Thorin exhaled and ran his fingers through his dark locks, it all sounded strange, and yet, there was an element of excitement to it. He couldn't say it to Dwalin, but he liked the idea of introducing someone to his lavish lifestyle, someone who might actually appreciate it, unlike his nephews or his siblings.

But all Thorin could do for now was work, go home to his penthouse apartment, and lie in bed think of what would come the next day.

Lunch time all too slowly for Thorin's liking, making him even grumpier then usual. His employee's seemed to sense this, and steered clear of him, not breathing easy again until he and Dwalin picked up their coats and left.

Thorin's driver, Bofur, picked them up out front of their work building in Thorin's sleek black car.

"Where to, sir?" Bofur asked with a bright, moustache-y smile.

"Don't call me sir, Bofur." Thorin grumbled. He often wondered why it was that he ended up with such odd friends. Especially Bofur, who is as financially stable as Thorin through his artwork, but begged to be Thorin's driver because he 'likes driving.'

"Bombur's bakery." Dwalin answered impatiently, "We've got an important date to keep."

"It's unlike you to be so adamant about being on time, but I'll get you there in a flash!"

Bofur may be a renowned artist, but that had nothing on his driving. He always managed to get Thorin where he needed to go with no problems at all.

They arrived with five minutes to spare, which was fine for both of them. They walked in and were greeted by Bombur himself, who was standing at the greeter's spot, waiting for them.

He had reasons as to why he was so eager to please his old friends, the biggest one being that Thorin and Dwalin were his biggest investors when he was still a fledgling pastry chef. The other reason being that the two tipped generously and ordered the most expensive things on the menu.

The two looked like they belonged there, which is to say that they looked as rich as the chocolate in Bombur's famous mud cake. Dwalin seemed to have a liking for pin striped suits, with the one he was currently wearing having very dark aubergine lines along the black material for his coat and pants. Thorin was a straight up one colour suit kind of person, choosing to go with the classic black coat and pants, with the white silk button down and a black tie. His hair was kept at a manageable shortness, but was combed in a way as to give it a bit of a flare at the front.

"Thorin, Dwalin! Come in, come in!" Bombur greeted brightly, "I have the table you requested, set for four and out of the way."

"Have our dates arrived yet?" Dwalin asked as Bombur led past the other affluent customers.

"Not yet, but I'll bring them over as soon as they do. But for now, would you like to order anything?"

"I'll wait." Thorin replied in his gruff manner.

"Me too." Dwalin said as he scanned the drinks menu, "I don't know what Ori would prefer."

Thorin snorted at his friend and got a glare in return.

"Alright, I'll leave you to it then." Bombur smiled, making his way back to the greeters spot.

Dwalin's leg bounced impatiently under the table, much to Thorin's irritation, but he could sympathize with the sentiment.

Bilbo and Ori stood outside the café with the sign 'Bombur's Bakery' elegantly scribed on a sign above the door. They had a touch of awe and trepidation in both of their expressions. They had taken the train and then walked five blocks to get here, to a side of town they thought they'd never see, and now that they were here they didn't know what to do.

"I don't think I can do this Ori." Bilbo swallowed thickly.

"I know, it's a bit much, but we've come this far, it would be a shame to turn back now." Ori replied with an equal amount of struggle.

"Are we really going to a café that's between Louis Vuitton and Chanel? Are we REALLY?" Bilbo stressed in disbelief.

"Yes we are." Ori said, trying to force confidence, "And we are going to have a good time. Now come on."

The moment they walked in they feel painfully out of place, having worn the exact same thing that they had worn in their profile pictures. Their thinking was that it would make them more recognisable, but the truth was also that they simply didn't own that many outfits. Bilbo felt that the only thing that fit in were his shoes.

Thorin saw Bombur approaching the table again, but he was so darn big that Thorin couldn't see his date until he was only a few steps away.

Bilbo was entirely too adorable, Thorin inwardly groaned at the sight of him. Was it legal to look that achingly pure? All Thorin could think of was taking this boy home with him, dressing him in the finest silk shirts and then tearing them from his body before he proceeded to fucked him within an inch of his life. He looked innocent, but Thorin would bet good money that once he got going he would be a real screamer, and he probably had the sexiest moan-

"So, um, you're Mr Durin?"

Thorin was pulled away from his fantasy when he heard the sweet yet cautious voice of Bilbo Baggins. He realised now that he was staring our-right at the poor fellow. No wonder he looked a little frightened.

"Yes, I am, but call me Thorin." His eyes darted around from the table to Bilbo, and then to Dwalin, who was standing so he could pull a seat out for Ori.

"Ah, please sit." Thorin said with a gesture to the empty spot opposite him.

"Thank you." Bilbo replied politely.

There was five seconds of silence, five miserable seconds of silence before Dwalin spoke.

"What do you think of the café?"

"It's amazing!" Ori said with genuine wonder in his tone, "I've never been to a place this fancy."

"Our friend is the owner and head chef." Thorin added, trying to rid himself of his nervous feeling.

"The food must be really good," Bilbo said with a touch of anticipation, "Judging by these prices."

"Oh it really is," Thorin confirmed all too forcefully, "I mean, you never go hungry or unsatisfied when it comes to Bombur. He's a real artist with cake."

'A real artist with cake… real smooth there Thorin'. Thorin girt his teeth, inwardly groaning at his awkwardness.

But for some reason, Bilbo didn't look put off, he looked like a glow of wonder surrounded him, as though the thought of good food was enough to induce a form ecstasy.

They opened their menus in silence, but Thorin couldn't help but notice the flirty looks Ori and Dwalin were sending each other. Thorin felt envious, he could do nothing but send a glare Bilbo's way, one that was left unnoticed as Bilbo's eyes were fixed on the extensive menu of decadent treats.

Thorin could help the way he stared as Bilbo's deliciously pink tongue swept across his plump lips, his mind on the food. Thorin would cover himself in cake and sweets if it meant Bilbo would look at him like that.

Bombur returned the table with a notepad and a pen in hand, "Ready to order?"

Dwalin spoke first, "I'll have a black coffee, no sugar, and a steak sandwich. And you, Ori?"

Ori's faced flashed bright red under the heavy gaze of his date, "I'll have the same, but with a chocolate milkshake instead of coffee."

Bombur nodded as he took down the order, "Ok, and you, Thorin?"

"Flat white, one sugar, and a chicken fillet." He answered, closing his menu. He looked at Bilbo and saw a touch of apprehension in his eyes, he wanted to ease his mind, "You know, you can order whatever you want, Bilbo."

It seemed to be exactly what he wanted to hear, he nodded once with a cute blush spreading across his face. "A-Alright." He exhaled. "I'll have a large banana milkshake with whip cream on top, a Chicken Caesar salad with extra chicken, a slice of strawberry cheesecake and a cappuccino with two sugars to come out with the cake."

Bombur nodded as he scribbled down the rapid fire order. "Good, good. I'll have your orders brought out in no time at all." With that he left straight for the kitchen.

Thorin grinned widely at Bilbo, amusement in his eyes, "You sure like to eat."

Bilbo felt a suffocating embarrassment spread through his chest, "I'm sorry, I just-"

"No, no, it's fine," Thorin quickly added, panicking when he saw Bilbo's downtrodden expression, "I told you to order what you like. I'm just happy to see that you have a healthy appetite, I'm a little tired of eating with people who hardly touch their food."

Bilbo felt comforted by the words, and sent Thorin a smile that nearly had Thorin coming in his pants.

Thorin watched as Bilbo devoured his order with no trouble at all. He felt like it would have been rude to try and talk to the blond as he was so focused on his meal. He once again felt envious of Dwalin and Ori, who were intimately whispering to each other, both of them looking comfortable in the other's presence already.

Even with the lack of conversation, Thorin felt happy that he could provide Bilbo with a meal that made him look so ridiculously happy.

Ori seemed to shard the sentiment. "Man, I haven't eaten that well in a long time! Last night we had the worst Chinese takeout."

Dwalin smirked and leant a little closer to Ori, "Well if you liked this, then I know plenty of other little places that you're going to love."

"I look forward to it." Ori said with a wink.

Bilbo laughed lightly at the two, shaking his head at the obvious flirting. Thorin quirked a brow at the two, his eyes meeting Bilbo's as they shared their amusement.

Bombur came over with the bill and passed it to Thorin before he smiled at Ori and Bilbo, "Did you enjoy your meals?"

"It was fantastic!" Bilbo replied enthusiastically, "You have to tell me your cheesecake recipe!"

"Can't," Bombur laughed heartily, "Family secret. But I can certainly serve you more until you figure it out yourself."

"I think I will take that challenge, Master Bombur." Bilbo laughed in return.

Thorin tried to hide his smile as he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. Bilbo gaped at him. He had never seen so much money in one place before! And Thorin was just carrying it around like it was nothing.

Thorin place three hundred on the bill tray, not even looking at how much the meal actually cost. He didn't seem to care about how much extra he'd given. Bombur smiled, being reminded all over again why Thorin and Dwalin were his favourite customers.

It was then that Bilbo remember why he was on this date. It was to please this wealthy forty-two year old. His mind raced. What was he supposed to do now? Before he could figure it out, Dwalin and Ori rose from their seats.

"We're going to the art gallery to check out the Botticelli exhibit." Dwalin explained, "It's not too far from here."

"Is that ok Bilbo?" Ori asked hopefully, "We did come together, but I've been wanting to go to the gallery for ages-"

"It's fine Ori, really, go and enjoy your date." Bilbo waved him off and Ori smiled in return.

Bilbo watched his friend leave on the arm of that mountain of a man Dwalin, he smiled at the way his friend clearly swooned for him.

Bilbo sighed, nervously fiddling his fingers, "I'd love to continue this date, Thorin, but I have work in an hour. I know it's dreadfully rude of me to go right now but-"

"No it's fine." Thorin dismissed, "I understand completely. To be honest, I'd better get back to work too. I'll have more to do with Dwalin out for the rest of the day."

"Oh, good." Bilbo exhaled, his head inclining, making his curls fall in front of his eyes in the cutest way possible.

"I could give you a lift, if you like." Thorin offered, "It's quicker than taking the train or a taxi."

"If you wouldn't mind." Bilbo grinned, "My boss can be a real dragon when I'm late."

"Well we can't have that," Thorin grinned as he pulled out his phone. A quick text to Bofur had the car out the front of the café in ten minutes.

"You have your own driver." Bilbo said flatly, "Of course you have your own driver."

"Bofur is actually pretty well off, he doesn't need the job," Thorin chuckled at Bilbo's amazement, "He just does it for kicks."

Thorin oped the door for Bilbo before he climbed in himself. He did his best to surpass his smile as he watched Bilbo marvel at the leather interior.

"I'd very much like to see you again, Master Baggins." Thorin said as they parked out the front of Bilbo's apartment.

His voice was so sultry and thick that Bilbo felt a shiver course through his body.

"I-I'd like that too. I'll email you my mobile number." Bilbo blushed, his eyes darting from Thorin to the car seat, before Thorin knew it Bilbo had leant forward and was pressing his lips to Thorin's. It was too quick for Thorin to properly respond.

"T-Thank you for paying for lunch." Bilbo stuttered before he flung the door open and ran from the car.

Thorin didn't know if the kiss was because of the free lunch or because of some sort of obligation. But Thorin didn't care either way, he was happy to provide more free lunches and other free things if it meant that Bilbo would kiss him again.

All the while he could work on wooing Bilbo. He was going to pamper and spoil the boy to the point of exhaustion.

* * *

Chapter 04: The Fourth Step is to Let Daddy Dress You...

Bilbo didn't know why he kissed Thorin. At least it was received well enough. Maybe Thorin was expecting something like that in return for the meal? That's the point of it all, isn't it? Bilbo would be Thorin's sweet little sugar baby and Thorin would pay for things.

Bilbo was almost surprised at himself, but he actually didn't mind the arrangement, especially if it meant that he could eat such wonderful food. It wasn't exactly a difficult task, Thorin seemed nice enough, and the fact that he was sinfully handsome certainly helped.

When Bilbo returned from a horrendous day of rude customers and a snarky boss, he was greeted by the sight of Ori preparing their dinner with an unusual flare.

"I take it you had a good date?" Bilbo smiled tiredly as he collapsed on their couch.

"It was fantastic! We walked around all afternoon. Dwalin's so smart, and I felt so cool walking beside him. He asked me to dinner tomorrow night! How wonderful is that?"

"I'm happy for you." Bilbo said with a genuine smile.

"And what happened with you and Thorin?"

"Well," Bilbo began with a tired sigh, "He drove me home and asked for a second date, and I said I'd email him my number- OH CRAP I FORGOT!"

Bilbo rolled of the couch and reached for were his phone rested on the coffee table. He opened up a fresh message and sent it to Thorin.

It didn't take long for a text message to arrive on his phone.

'Bilbo? It's Thorin, thanks for sending me your number, I was beginning to think that you'd forgotten.'

Bilbo quickly replied, 'I did forget, but then I remembered when I got home from work.'

'Yeah? And how was it?'

Did Thorin actually want to know about his day working as a barista? Bilbo snorted and shook his head. 'It was boring. I mostly just deal with impolite customers, but my boss wasn't particularly sadistic today. Though I'm sure it's nothing compared to your work.'

'Every job has it challenges.'

'A very diplomatic answer. But since we're on the topic, how was your day, Thorin?'

'I actually got a lot of work done without Dwalin interrupting me every five minutes. I should send a thank you gift to your friend for distracting him.'

'Well then, he could always use a new laptop, his old one has old ice-cream under the keys. Haha.'

'Ice-cream?'

'He drops food on his laptop all the time, and it's mostly ice-cream. It seems to leap off the spoon when Ori is involved.'

There was a long pause before the next text message arrived, Bilbo had begun to think that perhaps Thorin was done with the conversation.

'I don't work on Saturdays, and I would like it if we could meet up again.'

Bilbo felt his face heat up at the attention Thorin was giving him, it was… intense.

'I'd be happy to.'

'Good. I'll pick you up at ten. Goodnight.'

It felt almost like he was arranging a business meeting, it made Bilbo smile to think that Thorin was unfailingly formal in even the simplest aspects of life.

'Goodnight, Thorin.'

Thorin lie in his bed, his phone lifted above his head as he read the message Bilbo had sent. 'Goodnight, Thorin.' He repeated it in his head over and over, wondering what it would sound like to hear those words in person, to hear his name falling from those delectable pink lips. Thorin groaned, his grip on his phone loosening enough for it to fall and hit him in the face. He groaned again, but this time it was in pain.

He really had to stop having these little moments of stupidity.

On Saturday, Bilbo was up at nine in the morning, he showered as best he could with the water changing from searing hot to Antarctic cold at random. Then he dressed in a simple pair of black jeans as a white-button down. He managed to scavenge a breasfast out of two pieces of toast and half a can of beans.

At exactly ten, Bilbo received a text from Thorin, 'Waiting outside.'

When Thorin came into view, Bilbo saw him leaning against his fancy black car, dressed in an equally fancy dark navy blue suit and sunglasses. Bilbo wondered if his entire wardrobe consisted of suits.

When Thorin saw Bilbo, his sweet blond curls bounced a little with every step, his smile was as bright as the morning. Thorin lifted his sunglasses from his eyes, giving Bilbo the full up and down. He was beautiful, which made it an utter shame that he had to dress in such cheap clothes. He would have to do something about that.

He told himself that his desire to fit Bilbo with nicer clothes was for the sake of charity, and not because of that particular fantasy he has where he dresses Bilbo in silk and then tears it from his curvy little body.

No. Of course not.

"Good morning, Thorin." Bilbo greeted brightly.

"Good morning." Thorin greeted back, a touch of amusement in his eyes, "You ready to go? I've got a long day planned." He opened the car door and motioned for Bilbo to climb in.

"Oh? And what might that be?" Bilbo asked curiously.

"You'll have to wait and see." Thorin countered as he climbed in after Bilbo.

"I'm not very fond of surprises. But I'll let you have your fun."

Thorin gave his trademark smirk, "Bofur, take us to Mirkwood."

Bofur laughed, "Yes sir, Mr Durin."

"Don't call me that."

Bilbo watched the scenery pass by the window, clearly enjoying seeing the east side of the city again. Thorin was happy for his enjoyment, but fidgeted in his seat. He could see Bilbo's hands resting near his own, and didn't know whether or not to entwine it with his own.

He decided to resist. It was only their second outing and they hadn't exactly spoken a great deal. They stopped at traffic lights and Thorin took the opportunity to open up channels of conversation.

"You see that building over there?" Thorin prompted, "That's my building."

"Wait." Bilbo gawked, "You OWN the building?"

Thorin felt smug at seeing Bilbo's reaction. "It was my grandfather's first. Then my fathers, and it's now mine. I work on the top floor."

"Goodness." Bilbo breathed in wonder, "Just how rich are you, Thorin?"

Thorin's proud smirk only got worse, 'Rich enough to bury you in diamonds,' he thought to himself. "I do pretty well." he said eventually.

"Clearly." Bilbo mumbled. He turned his eyes to the high-rise building once again as the light turned green and they drove again. He was a little startled when he felt Thorin's thumb brush over his knuckles. But nothing else proceeded it. He didn't think he'd mind if something did.

They arrived at a store only a few minutes afterward.

Bilbo stepped out of the car first, taking in the sight of the white stone building, which could only be described as regal, elegant, and downright impressive. In the front windows there were expensive looking clothes on display, coats and shirts that looked like they were weaved by Arachne herself.

Thorin placed his hand on Bilbo's back, urging him to move forward. Bilbo stumbled a little, knowing full well that even his nice shoes would fail to make him comfortable in there.

The door chimed charmingly as they stepped in. Thorin walked ahead as though the place was a familiar to him as his own home. "Thranduil." He called out.

The tall woman at the counter smiled at Bilbo before speaking, "Welcome back Mr Durin. I'm afraid Mr Greenleaf is on the phone to his husband, so you might have to wait a while."

"I'm not waiting," Thorin muttered, "I'll just have to drag his butt out here."

"Um, Thorin?" Bilbo said tentatively, "What are we doing here exactly? Do you need a new suit?"

"I've got plenty of suits." Thorin replied dismissively, "We're here for you."

"Me?" Bilbo blinked a few times and Thorin nodded.

Thorin looked away to hide his slight blush, "Clearly you're in need of something new. And I'd… like to see you in something I picked out." before Bilbo could respond Thorin stormed into the back room.

Bilbo blushed and fidgeted in place. Thorin really was his sugar daddy, wasn't he?

Thorin came back out, arguing with the man who Bilbo assumed to be Thranduil. A supermodel like man with a waterfall of white gold hair and mad eyebrow game. He was dressed in silver and white, an outfit so high fashion that Bilbo thought he was at a photo shoot.

"-You can't just show up at random and interrupt my conversation." Thranduil grated.

"Like I care about your conversation. You're at work, so do some damn work!" Thorin growled back.

"Fine. But I'm billing you extra for it."

"Fine."

"Bilbo," Thorin began begrudgingly, "This is Thranduil. He owns this place."

"I-It's nice to meet you." Bilbo offered nervously as the much taller man eyed his up and down.

"My goodness, you sure are a tiny thing. Tiny but cute. How old are you?" Thranduil circled Bilbo like a hunter and his prey as he continued to carefully look him over.

"Twenty-three." Bilbo replied, clearing his throat in the hopes that Thranduil couldn't tell that he was nervous.

Thranduil's impressive eyebrows shot up and he looked to Thorin, his grin wide and sharp. "Oh Thorin darling, you brought me your Sugar Baby! How cute!"

"We came here for clothes." Thorin growled, "And if you're not going to help with that, then we'll take our business elsewhere."

Thranduil laughed, "Don't get so emotional Thorin. Of course I'll help. I just didn't realise you were the Sugar Daddy type. It suits you." Thorin growled again and Thranduil clapped his hands together once, directing his attention back to an embarrassed Bilbo, "Now. You're curviness is a big plus, but you're all hidden under that monstrous cotton-poly blend. If you're spending time with a Durin dressed by me then you must have something better. But first, measurements!"

He grabbed Bilbo's wrist and began to pull him along, he called back to Thorin before he followed Bilbo into the fitting room, "Feel free to pick out what you'd like your baby to wear."

Thorin tried to surpass his rage as he went to the clothing racks, sifting through the samples carefully.

"He seems sweet, Mr Durin."

Thorin just grunted in reply.

"Does Kili know about him?"

Thorin stopped. "Tauriel, I can't have my family knowing about him just yet."

"I won't tell him," She promised with a smile, "But if he finds out, he'll tell me, then I'll send you a heads-up."

Thorin sighed, "Thank you. I wonder how it is that my pain of a nephew ended up with such a sensible girl."

Tauriel grinned and shrugged, "He makes me laugh."

Thorin had selected mostly blues, considering them to be his colour and wanting very much to see Bilbo in them. But he also picked some things he thought would match Bilbo's hair and eyes, like gold's, yellows, muted red's. He just hoped that Bilbo would like them. If he didn't, he could always take him shopping again…

Thranduil came back out and walked over to Thorin, "So, what have you picked?"

Thorin grunted and handed over a pile of his choices. Thranduil took them and looked at each garment, one by one. "Hmm, I hate to say it, but you did well. I'll have Tauriel bring out his size. But I'm also adding waistcoats, he'd look far too adorable in them. I'd hate to waste the opportunity."

"Whatever. Just get the damn clothes."

"Charming as always, Thorin."

When Bilbo finally came out of the fitting room, he was dressed in a long sleeved white shirt, and a waistcoat sitting on top of it. It was a sunny gold colour to match his sweet curls, his pants were a deep maroon and actually fit him perfectly, all of it fit him perfectly.

Thorin was happy that his beard covered most of his blush.

Bilbo turned in the mirror and gawked at himself. He looked like an entirely different person, and felt it too. The fine threads of his clothes made him feel as though he were wearing the clouds themselves. "What do you think?" He asked tentatively.

"Beautiful." Thorin smiled, nodding his head slightly.

Bilbo gave a weak laugh in response.

"We'll take everything that was picked for him." Thorin said as he reached into his pocket, pulling out his credit card.

Thranduil gave a smug grin, "Of course, my designs are the best, there's no way you could leave without half our stock."

"Just ring it up so we can go." Thorin grumbled.

Thranduil strutted over to the cash register and tallied up the cost of the pile of clothes. Bilbo stood dumbly, he had only tried on one outfit, and Thorin was just going to pay for it all without a second thought? "Um, I should change."

"Oh no." Thranduil declared, "No one leaves my store in those rags you came in with. You'll wear what I gave you. And you're not allowed to wear any of the other clothes you have at home. If I have to burn them myself I will."

Bilbo remained quiet. He couldn't really argue, his new clothes would fit him better, and they are a lot nicer.

Thorin took back his credit card and slipped it into his coat pocket. He gave Bilbo a small grin and decided to be a little bold, he held out his arm so they could walk like a real couple. They walked out like this, with Bilbo being the only one polite enough to shout a quick goodbye and thank you.

"I know a good restaurant that's not too far from here. Shall we walk?" Thorin said with a dashing smile.

"Ah, yes." Bilbo nodded.

They walked in silence, Thorin's body felt like it was melting from the inside due to the contact he and Bilbo shared. Their arms entwined, their shoulders brushing from time to time. It was fantastic. He could see the envious eyes of passer-by's when they saw him with such a delectable little thing. It was an ego boost that Thorin might not have needed but certainly enjoyed.

When they got to the restaurant and were seated, Bilbo ordered as though it were his last meal. Thorin didn't mind, but it made him curious.

"Your food must be bad at home, you seem starved."

Bilbo blinked up at him and then laughed, "Oh I keep myself well fed, but the only food I can afford is the cheap, about to expire kind of stuff. I love to cook, but ingredients aren't cheap. But when I'm out with you… well," He blushed, "I get to eat good food."

"I'm glad you're enjoying our time together," Thorin drawled in amusement.

"Oh yes," Bilbo said with a vigorous couple of nods, "You're a wonderful, um… provider. I wish I could do something for you in return."

Thorin's mind instantly went into the gutter, imagining Bilbo acting like his own cute little housewife, greeting him at the door on his hands and knees in nothing but a frilly apron. "Y-Your company is all I need," He managed to stammer. "It's hard for me to keep a relationship, due to my demanding work hours and consistent grumpiness… At least that's what my sister says. But what we have, I like."

"Me too," Bilbo grinned, "I know it might be shallow, but I do believe that these are the nicest things I'm ever going to wear."

"There'll be more where that came from." Thorin rumbled darkly, "I enjoy seeing you in the clothes I picked."

Bilbo bit his lip, not knowing how to respond. He didn't realise that he'd like being coddled so much.

"Would you like to see my apartment? After the meal I mean."

"I would." Thorin replied honestly.

Bilbo's apartment was terrible. It was clean and tidy, but it was terrible! The air-conditioner was broken, the couch was old and had a loose spring that dung into Thorin's back, the kitchen, living room and dining room were all one thing in a space not even fit for a prisoner. No, this simply wouldn't do.

"Rent is expensive in the big city," Bilbo explained as he sat next to Thorin, "It's the best we could do."

Thorin took one look at Bilbo and snapped, sure he had only known this boy for two days, and sure there are a million ways this could backfire, but he heard himself say, "I'm buying you a new apartment."

Bilbo stooped, "What? NO! That's too much!"

"You're not staying here! All this needs to go! You need a proper home and proper furniture. Don't worry about Ori, he can still live with you, I doubt Dwalin would want him staying in this hole in the wall."

There was something about Thorin's outrage and flared nostrils, there was something about the way that Thorin felt personally offended by his apartment that made Bilbo simply accept it. If Thorin wanted to buy him a new apartment, then why stop him? It was all part of their relationship, Thorin clearly just wanted to spend money.

All thoughts of doing things to Bilbo flew out of Thorin's mind when he saw the dwelling he lived in. Lust was replaced by rage, he crossed his arms over his chest as Bilbo smiled, leaning his head on Thorin's bicep.

"I think your clothes are worth more than everything in here." Thorin muttered.

"You're probably right," Bilbo mumbled in return, "We bought our couch from a guy in our building. I'm pretty sure it was stolen, or evidence in a crime of some sort."

Thorin shot out of his seat in horror. Bilbo laughed at his mortified expression.

"I'm kidding, it was my grandmother's."

Thorin's eyes narrowed dangerously, "Alright, next time we go out to eat, we're only having take-out."

"Noooooo," Bilbo groaned, "You're a cruel man, Thorin!"

* * *

Chapter 05: The Fifth Step is to Take Care of Daddy...

Thorin had enjoyed his time with Bilbo, but he did have to go back to work. Things got a little busier, and Thorin realised that it might be at least four weeks before he had the time to actually see Bilbo again. He even had to start talking his lunch at his desk, rather than go somewhere nice. He told Bilbo this and he was understanding, but Thorin couldn't help but feel that he was being an inefficient boyfriend (Sugar Daddy). He spent his moments of boredom looking online for apartments that were close enough to both his work and Bilbo's. But he hadn't actually gotten him anything else since the new clothes.

It all accumulated to a point when Dwalin was in his office, bragging to Thorin about the new laptop he had bought Ori.

"He looked so happy," Dwalin grinned, "I'm thinking of getting him a new TV too, you know the one they have doesn't work very well."

"Hmm." Thorin grunted, "Well I'd get Bilbo a laptop, except that the one he has is still pretty new. And he says that he doesn't watch TV all that much."

"I guess I just like to spoil Ori a little bit more. Since I'm paying for half of their new apartment."

Thorin looked up from his computer, his eyes narrowing as they met with Dwalin's smug glint. It looked too much like a challenge for Thorin to ignore.

"I bought Bilbo an entirely new wardrobe." Thorin added.

"I got Ori a new phone and I'm taking him to the Opera next weekend."

"I was going to ask Bilbo to come with me on my next business trip."

"I'm going to take Ori with me on vacation."

They were both leaning closer to each other, both staring dangerously into the other's narrowed gaze. Clearly neither of them wanted to be out done by the other.

And thus, a silent war began.

Bilbo and Ori were sitting together on their floral print couch when there came a knock at the door, they looked at each other briefly before Bilbo got up to answer it. There was a man in a delivery uniform, with a clipboard and a pen in his hand, "Bilbo Baggins?"

"Ah, yes?" Bilbo replied slowly.

"Sign here." The man said gruffly, as he handed the clipboard over.

"What is it?" He asked curiously.

"Refrigerator." The Man bluntly replied.

"I-I didn't order one-"

"It's already been paid for by a Mr-" He paused as he searched for the name, "Durin."

Bilbo blinked a few times before he moved from the door, "Well, come in then, I guess."

Four other men entered with a large box in tow, the man with the clipboard remained with Bilbo, "We have instruction to take the old one. So you might want to take out anything you'd want to keep."

Bilbo hurriedly called for Ori's help to empty what little contents they had from their old fridge before the delivery men unplugged it and shifted it out of the way. The new one was made of a shiny black metal and had four times the space and an in-built ice maker.

The men carted away the old one and were gone as quickly as they came. Bilbo and Ori inspected the fridge with both caution and a little awe.

"He sent you a fridge?" Ori asked.

"He sent me a fridge." Bilbo said flatly, "I've gotten chocolates before, but this is the first time a guy has sent me house-hold appliances."

They put their meagre food in the spacious fridge and sat back down again, both of them trying not to think of the strangeness of the gift.

"Why would he think to get you that?" Ori asked.

"He was here the other day, and he said this place was terrible, so I guess he wants to make it better… You know for a moment he said he was going to get me a whole new apartment!" Bilbo laughed, "But nobody's that crazy."

Ten minutes later, there was another knock at the door. Bilbo got up again, and when he opened it, he realised that it was the same delivery men as before, "Oh, hello again. Was there a mistake in the delivery?"

"No, we're here for Ori Rison, a delivery from a Mr Fudin."

"Alright," Bilbo chuckled lightly, "Ori, delivery for you."

Ori walked over and signed just as Bilbo did, "So what's the delivery? Another refrigerator?" he asked in jest.

"Nope." The man replied gruffly, "Microwave, blender and cappuccino machine."

And with that, the men were in the house again, taking the old microwave and bringing in the new appliances. They had never had a blender or a cappuccino machine.

When the men were gone again, the two stood dumbstruck in their kitchenette. The four new items looked so out of place in their tiny dwelling, they made everything they owed look so cheap.

"Well, um, would you like a coffee?" Ori asked after a long moment of silence.

"Yes, I suppose." Bilbo replied, scratching his head.

It had been one week since the refrigerator, and the gifts had not stopped. Bilbo and Ori knew the delivery men by name, they also knew the names for their wives and children… It was getting ridiculous.

Bilbo was sent a couch, so Ori got a TV. Bilbo got a new king sized bed, so Ori got the same and new pillows. Bilbo got a new quilt and Egyptian cotton sheets, so Ori got the same. Bilbo was sent a new bookcase and forty new books, an Ori got an antique typewriter. Together, they got new rugs, plates, cups, cutlery, pots, pans, a lovely tea set, and enough food to fill their fridge and cupboards.

All this time, Bilbo thought Thorin was busy working, but he was actually shopping online and finding new and frivolous things to send him. And by the looks of it, Dwalin was doing the same for Ori.

By the time the new dining table and chairs arrived, Bilbo had to put his foot down. He decided to go see Thorin, regardless of how busy the man claims to be, he had to know what was going through that man's mind.

Thorin had been browsing online for washing machines when his assistant, Nori, came into his office, he had a smirk on his face, "A Mr Baggins to see you, sir."

Thorin's eyes widened as Bilbo walked in, dressed in the blue waistcoat that Thorin had picked out for him. He swallowed nervously, not knowing whether or not he'd be able to keep his hands off of the delectable thing.

"I-I'm sorry to bother you."

"Ah, no it's fine. Come in and shut the door."

Bilbo did as he was bid before he walked over to Thorin, who promptly pulled him into his lap. Thorin had his reasons as to why he was suddenly so touchy, the biggest reason being that he was a little touch starved after weeks of hard work. Bilbo didn't seem to mind, at least.

"Bilbo, are you alright?" Thorin asked, his hands unconsciously making their way around the other's waist. He couldn't help it, he hadn't seen him in a month. All he had as compensation was the occasional text message.

"I, um." Bilbo blushed, "I wanted to talk about the gifts."

"Do you not like them?" Thorin asked, enjoying the feeling of having Bilbo in his arms.

"I did like them," Bilbo admitted, he twisted his body just enough to graze his fingers over Thorin's beard, trying his best to be affectionate. "But we're running out of space for everything. And it makes me a little uncomfortable to own spoons that are worth three weeks of rent."

Thorin hummed in thought. Was Bilbo unhappy with the way things were going? He thought that he was doing a fine job at giving Bilbo all the things his sweet little heart would desire, but apparently he was missing something.

"Tell me what to buy you, pet, and you shall have it."

Bilbo couldn't help but smile at the incredibly endearing sentiment behind it all, he pressed a soft kiss to Thorin's lips, "I've got enough things for now."

"If you say so… But I'm still getting you that apartment."

Bilbo laughed, rocking back slightly in Thorin's lap. In that moment, Dwalin came into the office without knocking.

"Thorin, I've got that finance report-" He paused, taking one look at Bilbo in Thorin's lap and Thorin's arms around Bilbo's waist. He and Thorin met their gaze, and Thorin knew he had won. "Never mind. I'll come back later." Dwalin said gruffly.

Bilbo's face was adorably red, "Oh goodness." He groaned in embarrassment.

Thorin kissed Bilbo's lips, enjoying their petal softness, "You've done a lot more than you realise, I'll have to take you out for a nice dinner as a reward."

"I haven't really done anything!" Bilbo protested.

"Oh you have," Thorin grinned, "I'll explain later, but I really must get back to work."

"Yes, of course!" Bilbo scrambled of Thorin's lap and adjusted his clothes a little. "I'm supposed to be working on my novel now, anyway."

As Bilbo left, Thorin sighed. He wished he could spend all his time with him, he wished that he could hold him all day and never let go. Not being with Bilbo made him irritable, and it made him unbearable for the people around him. But for now, all he knew was that if he finished his work, he'll be able to see his sweet little curly haired sugar baby.

"What do you mean Thorin is sick?"

Dwalin had come to take Ori out for lunch about two weeks after Bilbo had visited Thorin in the office. Dwalin sat with Bilbo while Ori was still getting ready, and informed Bilbo of Thorin's current state.

"Yeah, he worked himself into a fever. I told him that he should take it a little easier, but he just wanted to get all his work done as quickly as possible. Damn fool."

"Is anyone taking care of him?" Bilbo asked as he fidgeted worriedly.

Dwalin scratched his whiskery chin, "I go in and see him every day, but he mostly just grumbles at me. Usually his sister would watch over him but she's on a cruise with her husband. I guess he's been taking care of himself."

"That's not good enough!" Bilbo shouted with more force than he intended. He blushed in embarrassment at his own outburst.

Dwalin shrugged, "Why don't you go? I know he'd much rather see you than anyone else."

"I think I will. If he doesn't have anyone else." Bilbo nodded.

"I have a key to his apartment, you should take it." Dwalin put his hand in his pocket and fished out a key before he threw it to Bilbo. "Just let yourself in."

Bilbo packed a bag of a few things before Dwalin and Ori gave him a lift to Thorin's apartment. As the two drove off to go on to their date, Bilbo stood in awe of the complex Thorin lived in. He was glad he was wearing his nice clothes, or they probably wouldn't let them through the door.

He nodded to the doorman as he went past, he looked at the number on the key and realised that Thorin was on the top floor. He felt nervous as he stood in the elevator, what if Thorin didn't want to see him? Was it ok that he was just showing up unannounced? Was he crossing a line? Whatever the answer to these questions were, he didn't have time to think on them because he had reached the top.

He put the key in the door and slowly opened it, he poked his head through before he stepped inside.

Thorin's apartment was like something from a movie, the window was the size of a wall and lit the place up nicely, there was a clear division between the kitchen and the lounge room through the shiny black tiles and the cream colour carpet. All of the furniture was black, the leather couches, the dining table and chairs, the countertops and even the refrigerator. It all matched nicely, but it lacked a certain 'lived in' quality. Everything was so pristine that it look seldom used.

But there were nice things too, like the bookshelf and the sword that was mounted on top of it, and the pictures on the wall.

Bilbo would have liked to inspect things closer, but he had a sick man to take care of first.

He moved further in with quiet footsteps, he chose a door and peeked inside, and was greeted by the sight of Thorin sleeping on a large bed, huddled up in one corner.

"Thorin? It's Bilbo." He announced softly.

Thorin opened his groggy eyes and groaned, "Bilbo. M'sick."

"I know, I know. I'm going to take care you, ok?"

"Thirsty." Thorin groaned again.

Bilbo smiled as he rolled up his sleeves. Thorin could be so endearing when he was vulnerable like this, he liked the thought that if you take away all of Thorin's money and suits, he was still a real sweetheart.

Bilbo went to the kitchen and got a glass of water for Thorin. He tried his best to help Thorin sit up but the man was heavy. It was when Thorin was sitting up that Bilbo realised that he was completely shirtless. Bilbo blushed, trying his best not to stare at the hair and musculature.

Bilbo placed his hand on Thorin's forehead, "How did you get yourself into this mess, hmm?"

"Still thirsty." Thorin grumbled.

"Alright." Bilbo sighed. He made a point to run a bath for Thorin before he went to get more for him to drink.

Thorin drank four glasses of water before Bilbo could coax him out of bed. He had drenched his pyjama pants and sheets with sweat and they needed to be changed. He helped him up by putting his arm over his shoulders and walked him to the bathroom.

"Get yourself in the water, I'll go and-"

Bilbo stopped mid-sentence because Thorin yanked his pants and underwear down in one swift movement. Bilbo's words caught in his throat.

Thorin stood naked and proud, a delirious smirk on his face as he let Bilbo look as much as he wanted. "It's all yours baby."

"Right. Get in the tub now." Bilbo insisted, his face bright red.

Thorin did climb in, and he groaned at the pleasant feeling.

Bilbo took a moment to get his heart rate under control before he got a hand-towel and moved to Thorin's side. He dipped the towel in the in the water and began washing Thorin's back. There was something absolutely filthy about the way Thorin continued to groan.

"Why did you work yourself so hard?" Bilbo scolded, "You're an adult, you should be able to take proper care of yourself!"

"Wanted to see you." Thorin mumbled.

"What? You could have seen me at any time." Bilbo retorted.

"Na," Thorin mumbled, "I wanted to spend a whole week with you… Couldn't do that if I had work."

"I see." Bilbo mumbled, "You silly man."

Thorin's head lolled back against the side of the bath, his eyes sliding shut, "You're pretty, ya' know? Wanna hold you."

"Um, thank you." Bilbo swallowed nervously. He had never been called 'pretty'.

Bilbo washed Thorin as best he could with Thorin constantly telling him to 'lower'. He managed to leave the man long enough to change his sheets and pick out some fresh clothes for him.

He made Thorin dry and dress himself alone.

Once Thorin was in bed again, He sat up, his hazy eyes pleading to Bilbo, "Food?"

"Yes, of course." Bilbo placed a kiss on his forehead before he went into the seldom used kitchen and gathered all he could. With what was there he could easily make a good soup. Within twenty-five minutes he went back to Thorin with a bowl of soup and a glass of water on a tray.

"I want you to eat all of it," Bilbo insisted, "You won't get any better if you skip meals."

Much to Bilbo's delight, he didn't have to spoon feed Thorin, he just had to sit near him and keep him company. Thorin downed the glass of water quickly before sleep over-took him once again. Bilbo sighed in relief and pulled the blanket up to Thorin's chin and left in in the cosy dark.

He didn't know how long Thorin would be out, but Bilbo decided that it would be best if he stayed. He got himself a small helping of soup and buttered bread and it in contented silence. Thorin had sleep through the entire afternoon while Bilbo read an interesting book about dragon lore. It wasn't until the sun had gone and the sky was pitch black that Bilbo decided to find a place to sleep for the night.

He was happy he had the foresight to bring a few changes of clothes. He wore powder blue button up pyjamas and long pants.

He decided to go and refill Thorin's water in case he woke sometime in the night and needed a drink. When he returned to place the full glass on Thorin's beside table, he felt Thorin's hand tug at his top. "St'y w'th me." His eyes were half-lidded and he was clearly half asleep, but Bilbo obliged happily enough.

He settled beside Thorin, pleased to find that his mattress was softer than a cloud and the sheets warm and snug. He didn't expect Thorin to suddenly move and capture him in a tight grip. He was being spooned by Thorin and held there by his strong arms, proving that he still had a good amount of strength, even in sickness.

Bilbo huffed lightly, but didn't struggle against it. He shifted a little until he was comfortable and fell asleep in Thorin's feverish yet powerful embrace.

* * *

Chapter 06: The Sixth Step is to Make a Good Impression...

When Thorin woke he felt so much better than he had been for the past few days. The fever that had persisted was now gone, and he didn't feel like he was burning up from the inside anymore. He did feel pleasantly warm however, or at least, he felt a pleasant warmth pressed to his chest. He slowly opened his tired eyes and was met with the sight of a mop of unruly blond curls. He was almost startled, but he quickly remembered that Bilbo had come and had taken care of him.

His sweet little companion was sleeping soundly, and Thorin was content to leave it that way. He took the chance to run his finger's gently through Bilbo's curls, and marvel at the peaceful expression on his face. He would love to be able to wake up to such a sight every morning.

Bilbo yawned suddenly, and in a moment of panic Thorin pulled his hand away, but his fingers were snagged on a knot in Bilbo's hair which he promptly yanked out, causing Bilbo to yelp in pain and surprise. He opened his eyes and jolted up, immediately rubbing his sore head.

"Oww Thorin!" Bilbo grumbled, "There are nicer ways to wake someone, you know!"

"I-I'm sorry, it was an accident, I swear!" Thorin profusely apologised.

"If you wanted breakfast you could have just poked my shoulder or something." Bilbo made a move to get off the bed, but his wrist was seized and Thorin pulled him back into a tight hug.

"I didn't mean it." Thorin mumbled, pressing his lips to the curls he had pulled, "I promise. I wouldn't want to harm a hair on your head."

"Well, you failed in a literal sense, but I forgive you." Bilbo turned and smiled, "Oh! How rude of me! How are you feeling this morning? You really should be lying down still, I'll go make you something."

Thorin kept his hold on Bilbo, "You won't find anything good in that kitchen of mine. I usually eat out. So why don't we go somewhere for breakfast?"

"I don't know if you should be leaving the house, your illness could flare up again." Bilbo protested, "I could go out and get something-"

"Let me take you out to a nice meal, as a thank you." Thorin's resolute tone and insistent grip was inarguable, Bilbo sighed.

"Alright. It's lucky I brought some clothes with me."

"Well, if you went without the clothes I wouldn't complain." Thorin half smirked with a quirked up eyebrow.

Bilbo scoffed and hit him with a pillow before he climbed off the bed.

They ended up going to a nice little place within walking distance of Thorin's apartment, and unlike the time Bilbo walked into Bombur's place, he felt like he actually fit in. It was surely the clothes that did it, but it was greatly helped through walking in with Thorin by his side, who not only dressed rich, but also swaggered with it.

The place was filled with enough people for a pleasant atmosphere, but not so much that it would take hours for their food to be served. They stood near the waiters station to be seated, but were called to before they could be greeted by a member of staff.

"Thorin!"

The two turned and Thorin recognised Bard sitting near the back, with the tall blond man that Bilbo recognised as Thranduil.

"Hey Bard." Thorin called back for the sake of politeness, he didn't really want to engage in conversation with Thranduil, but Bard was a decent man and a good friend.

"Why don't you and your friend join us?" Thranduil called after. Thorin growled under his breath at the obvious mocking tone.

Thorin was about to decline when Bilbo got in first.

"We'd love to!" He had a smile on his face and wide shinning eyes, there was no way Thorin could say no to that. He sighed.

"Yeah, sure." He agreed reluctantly.

When they sat down, Thorin tired his best to ignore Thranduil's snarky grin. All the while, Bard and Bilbo were completely oblivious to the sparks of disdain flying between the two.

"I don't believe we've met." Bard greeted, sticking out his hand for Bilbo to shake, "Bard Bowman."

Bilbo shook his hand with a smile, "Bilbo Baggins. Are you Thranduil's partner?"

Bard gave a proud grin, "Yes I am, Thran has told me all about you. So, you're Thorin's boyfriend?"

"So to speak." Bilbo blushed.

Thorin hid his smile, he couldn't smile in front of Thranduil. He'd think he was getting weak.

The waiter came over and looked twice, realising that he was not insane, and that there were only two people he had originally seated, but he smiled welcomingly and took their orders. Bilbo ordered enough for an army, as usual, and then excused himself to go to the restroom.

It seemed that Bard and Thranduil were waiting for a moment alone with Thorin.

"So Thorin," Thranduil began, "Does he call you 'daddy'?"

Thorin nearly spit out his coffee, his faced burned bright red with a blush that could be seen through his beard. "No, he doesn't. Not that it's any of your business."

"I have to admit," Bard cut in, "I didn't expect this of you. When Thranduil told me of your little arrangement I nearly fell off my chair."

"It was Dwalin's idea." Thorin grumbled lowly.

"He is very cute though," Thranduil grinned with a mischievous glint in his eyes, "Have you had your way with your little darling yet?"

That time, Thorin did spit out his coffee.

"N-No, of course not!" His growled under his breath. He tried his best not to make more of a scene after drawing attention to himself.

"Pity." Thranduil sighed, "Getting laid might actually make you happy for a change."

Thorin growled, "Alright you son of a-"

"I'm back." Bilbo called cheerily, "Is something wrong, Thorin?"

Thorin cleared his throat, "Ah, yes. Everything's fine. I hope our food will be here soon."

"Oh me too! I'm starved."

Thorin's mood instantly went up with Bilbo by his side, he tried to ignore the amused look on Thranduil's face.

"So, why are you two out for breakfast? Don't you have a brood of children to take care of?" Thorin asked Bard, not Thranduil.

"It's our anniversary. Our kids are visiting my parents for a few days." Thranduil answered anyway, with Bard smiling and placing his hand over his husbands.

"Your anniversary huh… do you mean for your wedding, or for the day you woke up naked and in bed together?"

Bilbo blushed, Bard grinned into his coffee and Thranduil rolled his eyes.

"You're just mad that you walked in." Thranduil snorted.

"Wait," Bilbo cut in, "Why was Thorin walking in?"

"We shared a tiny flat, Bard, Dwalin and I, and I walked in on them because they weren't 'in bed', but 'on couch'. I returned to our flat after spending the night at my parent's house, only to be greeted by the sight of Thranduil's pale ass."

Bilbo tried his best to surpass his laughter, "I wouldn't say that was the best first impression."

"He had to audacity to wake us up after that! He yelled at us, even tough we told him that we were hung-over," Thranduil exclaimed in outrage, "And we've loathed each other since."

"You defiled my couch!" Thorin bit back with equal outrage.

"That couch was already defiled." Bard mumbled.

Bilbo didn't know why, but the comment was enough to make Thorin and Thranduil chuckle.

"Am I missing something?" He asked with an expectant smile.

Thorin grinned and rubbed his chin in thought, "Our apartment building consisted of mostly University students, and as you can imagine, there were a lot of parties. On the floor below our flat there was this guy named Azog, we used to call him 'the defiler'."

"And why is that?" Bilbo asked with a quirked brow.

Bard grinned, "Every time he went to a party, he always ended up throwing up. No one would invite him, he would just show up, get drunk, and then throw up on something. I'm convinced that he was doing it on purpose, because he would down as much alcohol as he could, vomit, then leave with a grin on his face."

"Disgusting!" Bilbo exclaimed in horror.

"Yeah, and one night he had his eye on my favourite couch. It was a gift from my grandfather, too." Thorin grumbled.

"Flipping the cushion wasn't enough." Bard added with a shake of his head, "We had the whole thing dry cleaned, twice. But it still felt… dirty."

"And yet you thought it was a good place for our first intimate moment?!" Thranduil gasped in horror.

Bard took both of Thranduil's hands in his, "Darling, we were so drunk that any surface would have worked. If I knew that you'd be my husband and we'd have four beautiful children together, I would have made sure we were in a room with a view, with candles and Champaign-"

"Stop before I vomit." Thorin groaned.

"Don't vomit yet, I can see my breakfast being brought over!" Bilbo said, excitedly bouncing in his seat.

They ate, enjoyed light conversation that was greatly helped along by Bilbo's curiosity about the others' University days, then they split the check and said their goodbyes.

Thorin and Bilbo walked down the busy street with no real destination in mind.

"That was nice, wasn't it?" Bilbo asked with a bright smile.

"It's the only time that a meal with Thranduil has been bearable." Thorin huffed.

"He seems nice. He certainly loves Bard and his kids. Maybe if you'd met under better circumstances you would be friends."

Thorin paused in thought, "… No, I think he'd still find a way to get on my bad side."

Bilbo just smiled and shook his head, "How are you feeling by the way? You look a lot better."

"I am. I think the food and sunlight did me good… How did you know I was sick, by the way? I didn't text you while I was delirious, did I?"

"No, Dwalin told me. He was taking Ori on a date and stopped by the house. He said you'd worked yourself into a fever… I wonder how their date went…"

Thorin hummed, "We could go to your place and see. I'd like to see what you did with all the stuff I bought you."

"Good," Bilbo agreed, "You can see how utterly ridiculous it all looks."

A quick taxi ride and a few flights of stairs later, Bilbo and Thorin stood at Bilbo's apartment door, "I don't think I could fit anymore gifts, we've used up every square inch-"

*giggles* "Dwalin~ Stop, Bilbo might be home soon."

"He's probably busy with Thorin."

"Yeah, probably."

"Come on, one more round on the couch Thorin bought for Bilbo."

Thorin groaned and Bilbo saw red, he burst through the door and screamed, "GET THE BLOODY HELL OFF MY COUCH!"

"I'm sorry Bilbo." Ori said, looking down in embarrassment.

"I'm not." Dwalin grunted.

Thorin and Bilbo sat opposite their friends after Bilbo had dished out a vicious scolding secession about propriety and respect for other people's property.

"It's fine." Bilbo huffed, clearly not fine with it.

"At least they were dressed." Thorin consoled.

"I think I'd better go." Dwalin said, kissing Ori's cheek before standing up, "Got files to organise. I'll call you tonight."

"Alright." Ori said with a bashful smile.

Dwalin winked at him before he turned to Thorin, "You coming? I could use your help since you were out of commission for so long."

"Yeah, sure." Thorin said he stood. He felt a little awkward before he spoke again, "Thanks again for taking care of me, I know I can be a little needy when I'm sick."

"Oh! No problem at all." Bilbo smiled.

"Good, I-I'll call you."

"I can't believe you slept with Ori!" Thorin exclaimed.

"I'm the one doing things right, Thorin, if you treated Bilbo like a lover and not like a nurse-maid, you'd be getting some too."

Thorin groaned, "I know! But I never seem to have the right opportunity to initiate even a kiss! And I think I might have shown him my dick while I was delirious."

"Well, he didn't break up with you, so he must like your equipment. That's one less thing to worry about."

"So, I got ninety-nine problems but my dick ain't one?"

"…Did you steal Fili's iPod again?"

"…It's not all bad, what the kids listen to these days."

Dwalin quirked an eyebrow, "Right, well, How about you focus on wooing your sweet little Bilbo, instead of old rap lyrics."

"Yes." Thorin agreed with a new found determination, "That's what I'll do."

* * *

Chapter 07: The Seventh Step is to Embrace Daddy's Family...

Thorin had a plan. He had a bulletproof, can't-possibly-fail plan to seduce Bilbo by the end of the week. In his mind, it was simple. He would invite Bilbo to come and have a seemingly innocent lunch at his office, and while Bilbo was distracted by how awesome Thorin was, he would convince Bilbo to come to a romantic dinner at his place. Once they were at dinner, he would woo Bilbo enough to get him in bed. He would get candles and expensive champagne, the whole nine-yards. If he looked as cool and as sexy as possible during their lunch date, then there was no way that Bilbo wouldn't want him. Thorin always looked cool and sexy at work, he was in his element there, he was in control, and he was the man!

He sent Bilbo a text to invite him to lunch, it was his attempt at seeming as casual as possible. Bilbo agreed, of course, meaning that Thorin's plan was already half completed.

On the day, he chose the always classic black silk suit with matching tie and Italian leather shoes, his hair was stylishly slick back and his stubble was manly but not too scruffy. After Bilbo had seen him sick, he wanted desperately to remind his young sweetheart that he was actually good-looking.

When Thorin walked into his office that morning, everyone could see the air of confidence that surrounded him. Most people were a little frightened, except for Dwalin and Bard, who were greatly amused by the uncharacteristic Thorin.

"Hey, what's with the grin? Usually you can't stand mornings." Dwalin asked with a grin of his own.

"I'm having lunch with Bilbo today, if you must know." Thorin answered smoothly.

"Oh! I'm having lunch with my son today!" Bard chirped happily.

"Which one?" Dwalin asked, both he and Bard ignoring Thorin's increasingly grumpy expression.

"Legolas, he's going to University soon, so I wanted to spend some quality time with him."

"Is he going to Erebor U like we did?"

"Yeah, he's-"

"GUYS!" Thorin cut in, "It's not about lunch," Thorin grumbled, "It's about getting closer to Bilbo."

"Well, I'm sure you'll do great." Bard smiled.

Thorin grumbled something unintelligible under his breath before he turned towards his office, but before he shut the door he called out, "Make sure no one disturbs me."

Thorin wasn't sure how long he worked for, perhaps three hours, but he had to stop when he heard a commotion coming from outside his door. He was seriously considering reserving a floor just for him to work on, far from the idiots that surround him all the time. He went out and saw his nephew, Fill, talking and laughing with Dwalin, who seemed to have been stopped in the middle of doing something, since he had files in his hand.

"Fili," Thorin grumbled, "What are you doing here?"

Fili, Thorin's little sister's son, and heir to Thorin's place at Durin Industries, stood with a wide grin on his bearded face, his shoulder length dirty blond locks fallen carelessly and haphazardly from his messy bun.

"Uncle, what kind of greeting is that to give your precious nephew? I just came to say hi."

Thorin scoffed, "There's nothing precious about you. I know you have an ulterior motive for being here today, because you never set foot in this building during your vacation days, especially with university looming. So why are you really here?"

Fili feigned offence with a gasp, "Uncle Thorin! You wound me! What reason could I possibly have for being here today, other than to see my beloved relative?"

Thorin narrowed his eyes, but he didn't get a chance to retort, since the real reason for Fill's presence was walking out from the elevator.

Legolas, the first child of Bard and Thranduil, stood tall and lean, and every bit as blonde and beautiful as Thranduil. His long hair was in a neat bun, much neater then Fili's, showing off part of his slender neck and high cheekbones. He wore moss green skinny jeans and a slightly darker riding jacket and a black scarf, and knee high riding boots. He always dressed like a super model. It was part of being Thranduil's child.

Thorin could see Fili practically drooling for him, and like a stallion lusting after a unicorn, Fili didn't care nor realise that Legolas was way out of his league. He rushed forward to intercept.

"Hey Legs, fancy seeing you here." Fili greeted, his gaze sliding slowly and appreciatively up and down the blonde's form.

"Fili. I should have known you'd find your way here." Legolas replied flatly.

Fili smirked confidently, "Perhaps its destiny?"

"Or perhaps you're still stalking me online." Legolas replied, brushing past the still smirking Fili. He spotted Thorin and Dwalin, offered them a polite greeting due to his good manners, then proceeded to his father's office.

"He still hates you." Dwalin grinned, "Why don't you give up?"

Fili shook his head, "You never give up on true love, Master Dwalin."

Thorin glanced at his watch and noted that it was only a short time until Bilbo was due to arrive. He couldn't have Fili around to ruin his plans, who knows what dastardly things he would say! Thorin wasn't quite ready to introduce Bilbo to his family, in fact, he would probably be happy if his sweetheart never met the dreaded Durin's.

"Since you obviously struck out with Legolas, you should go and make the most of your remaining vacation days." Thorin said with a pushy and insistent tone.

Perhaps that was a bad move, because it was enough to make Fili wonder why Thorin wanted him gone so badly.

Fili quirked a brow, "Why do you want me gone so badly? Usually when I come here you try to teach me something about being a good businessman… You're hiding something!"

"I am not!" Thorin yelled back, startling everyone including himself.

"Right." Fili said with a cheeky grin. "And I'm sure mother will believe you too, when I tell her that you're hiding something."

Thorin gritted his teeth, "Don't. Tell. Your. Mother. ANYTHING."

Fili grinned widely, "I won't, if you tell me what you're hiding."

Thorin sighed. He would rather Fili know then Dis, even if Fili was a pain in the ass. "I have someone coming for lunch."

"Who?" Fili pressed further, "A boyfriend?"

Thorin tensed his jaw before answering, "Yes."

Fili's grin only grew wider. Thorin knew that if they were in a more private setting, he'd be cheering and whooping loudly.

"Now that you know." Thorin growled lowly, "You can go."

"Aww, but Uncle, I want to see him! Is he an old fuddy-duddy like you?" Fili teased.

Thorin wanted nothing more than to brag about his beautiful young sweetheart, but he stopped himself, knowing that he would get an endless amount of taunting for dating someone almost half his age. Heaven forbid if his family learnt just how it was that he got acquainted with Bilbo in the first place.

"Just leave Fili." Thorin groaned, "Why must you make everything so difficult?"

"Better I know than Kili." Fili laughed, "He'd tell everyone within five seconds of finding out, at least I can keep a secret."

"For how long, I wonder." Thorin mumbled.

It seemed like Fili was going to leave, willingly and without more of a fuss, but when Legolas and Bard emerged from Bard's office, Fili's mind was no longer on leaving, but on trying to get close to the blonde he coveted so much.

"Legs! Mr Bowman, why don't you both join my uncle and me for lunch?"

Thorin's face instantly paled.

Bard quirked a brow, "I thought Thorin was having lunch with someone else?"

Thorin growled, "I am-"

"Nonsense!" Fili cut in, "He just asked me to join him, and it would be a lot more fun if you two joined us." He waggled his eyebrows at Legolas, who sighed in defeat.

"Fine," Legolas stated in agreement, without reference to either Bard or Thorin.

Bard was simply smiling, as he knew his son's mind better than he thought, and was certain that he wouldn't be able to deny Fili for very much longer. But Thorin was seething in his boots, he couldn't take back the invitation and was now stuck with a group of people for a lunch date that was supposed to woo his boyfriend. He couldn't be cool and flirty when his nephew was around, and he wasn't too keen about Bard and Legolas being there either.

Bard gave an apologetic look when his eyes met Thorin's. There was nothing that could be done now, not unless he and Bilbo snuck away while no one was looking.

How was he going to tell Bilbo that their date had become a group affair? He didn't know, nor did he have the time to figure it out, as the elevator dinged and Bilbo himself stepped into sight.

"There he is." Thorin muttered.

Fili froze, mid-stare. "He's not old…"

Rather than stay and listen to his nephew, Thorin walked over to Bilbo and gave a quick greeting and a soft kiss to the cheek. He spoke in a quick whisper, "Bilbo, I know this is rather impromptu, but my nephew is here and-"

"So you're the one who has infatuated my uncle." Fili cut in with a bright smile, "Name's Fili." He added, sticking his hand out to shake Bilbo's hand.

"Oh, well, I'm Bilbo Baggins. You're the first one of Thorin's family I've met." Bilbo returned Fili's smile with one of his own.

"I don't know why, you're adorable!"

Thorin wanted nothing more than to deliver a swift back-hand to Fili's head, but he restrained himself for Bilbo's sake.

"Well, um, thank you." Bilbo responded with a confused fluster.

Thorin lightly grabbed Bilbo's wrist and pulled him along as they walked, "We'll get a table." He barked back as he hurried them both into the elevator.

When the steel doors shut, Thorin let out a long repressed sigh and encircled Bilbo's waist in his arms. "You'll have to forgive my nephew, he sort of showed up out of nowhere and invited himself and Bard to our lunch date."

Bilbo simply chuckled, "It's alright, he's just curious about me I guess. Though I don't know why he'd invite Bard."

"Did you see the tall blond standing next to him? That was Bard and Thranduil eldest son, Legolas. Fili's been after him since kindergarten. But Fili made an unfortunate first impression, and Legolas has loathed him ever since."

Bilbo lifted a brow in curiosity, "What did he do?"

"He pushed Legolas in the mud for making him have feelings. Thranduil was livid, made me pay for the dry cleaning since I was there at the time. But who dresses a five year old in Armani anyway?" Thorin huffed and Bilbo giggled.

"It's quite funny." Bilbo smiled, he slid out of Thorin's hold and took his hand instead. "Don't worry so much, I know how families can be."

Durin Industries had a fully functioning restaurant at the base of the building, available to all employees. It was one of the things that Thorin's father had pioneered, for no other reason than the fact that he didn't like going very far to get his food. It was one of the reason people coveted a place working for Thorin, because the food was fantastic and they could get an employee discount. Thorin would eat there whenever he felt the need, but most time he'd just order something to be delivered to his desk. He seldom used the actual restaurant.

They got a table for five and settled in. Thorin tried his best to warn Bilbo of the barrage of questions he'd most likely be asked, and to please not judge Thorin by his family.

They were soon joined by the rest of their party. Fili rushed ahead so he could pull a chair out for Legolas, which was taken by Bard instead, who sent Fili a mild glare as he did so. If Bard was anything, he was fiercely protective of his children, and even though he knew that Legolas was dancing around his attraction to Fili, he wanted to make it clear to Fili that he wasn't going to let him rush his son into anything.

It made Thorin smile to see the slightly frightened look on Fili's face as he sat down next to Bard.

But he recovered quickly, "So, Mr Baggins, what do you do?"

Thorin grumbled something about nosey nephew's before Bilbo gladly answered. "I'm a writer. Or at least I'd like to be. Right now I'm working at a coffee place."

"And how did you meet?" Fili asked quickly.

That was the question that Thorin feared the most. He waited for Bilbo's answer.

"Well, we, um-"

"Can I take your order?" the waiter cut in with a smile. Thorin internally thanked him for the interruption.

They ordered quickly and Thorin moved in to change the subject before Fili could ask again. "So Legolas, Bard tells me you're going to Erebor U."

"Yes." Legolas replied with a polite smile, "I'm really looking forward to it."

"I bet." Bilbo chirped, "Erebor U is fantastic. I seriously considered taking another course just so I could stick around a little longer."

Thorin smiled and Bard laughed lightly, "I know what you mean, though I don't miss living in that dingy little flat with Thorin and Dwalin. Legolas won't have to worry about that at least, we got him a private dorm room."

"Thankfully." Legolas huffed, "I don't know how I'd deal with an obnoxious roommate."

"Don't worry Legs, I'll be around enough to keep you company." Fili smirked flirtatiously.

"Somehow I think that's worse than an obnoxious roommate." Legolas replied smoothly.

"You like me, Legs, the sooner you accept that part of yourself, the sooner we can move forward."

"I have no idea what you're talking about." Legolas replied with a definite blush on his face that surprised everyone, including Fili.

"S-So, Fili, I take it that you're going to Erebor U, as well?" Bilbo asked to break the sudden tension.

Fili brightened up a bit, "Yep! Business school, gonna do what Uncle does, one day."

"And you're brother?"

"Kili wants to be a photographer like Uncle Frerin. He's going to be taking all the arty type classes. It works out great, since only one of us could take over Durin Industries."

"I didn't know your brother was a photographer." Bilbo said, directing his attention to Thorin.

"Frerin does what he likes, photography is his main source of unemployment, as well as pottery, painting, and poetry. Right now he's traipsing around Egypt with his latest girlfriend, trying to 'understand the ways of the sand,' at least that's what he said." Thorin's grumbled made Bilbo laugh in the way that instantly made Thorin happy again.

"And your sister? What's she like?" Bilbo asked.

"My mother is beautiful!" Fili exclaimed, "But terrifying." He added, "She funds charities and art galleries. Our father brings in the money with his paintings."

"Father was terribly upset when she came home and said that she wanted to marry an artist." Thorin added with further thought, "Once Fili and Kili came along he accepted her husband."

"Thranduil's father was never all that keen on me either." Bard chuckled, "I believe his words were 'too common for people of our class.' Thranduil was furious of course, and even more determined to date me than before."

"That sounds like father," Legolas smiled.

"How do you plan on spending the last of your vacation days?" Bard asked Legolas, "Now that you've got everything packed, there isn't much to do."

"Kili, Tauriel and I are going to a club on Friday." Fili prompted, "You should tag along."

"Maybe I will." Legolas replied nonchalantly.

Much to Thorin's amazement, the conversation never turned and went back to Bilbo and Thorin's relationship. They were able to eat their meals without mention of ' ,' or of the fact the Bilbo was wearing clothes well out of the price range of a barista. And when everyone said their goodbyes, Thorin felt like things might actually get back on track.

"It was nice to meet you Bilbo." Fili said with a grin. He shook Bilbo's hand and proceeded to hug his uncle. While they were close, he leant in to whisper in Thorin's ear. "I didn't take you for a cradle-robber, uncle. Take care of your little darling."  
He pulled away with a smirk and Thorin felt his face heat up in embarrassment. Bilbo saw Thorin's discomfort and kiss him on the cheek. "That wasn't so bad, now was it?"

"I guess not." Thorin mumbled, "But I'd rather try again. How about dinner at my place? How's Friday?"

"Friday's good," Bilbo smiled, "I'll see you then."

So lunch hadn't exactly gone as planned, but Bilbo still was coming over for dinner, so in a way, the plan worked. Thorin was flying high as he prepared a delicious meal for his love to enjoy, because he knew that there was no chance of running into anyone he knew while he was in the safe confines of his own apartment.

Thorin's cooking skills didn't go far beyond a roast chicken and vegetables, but he really had a flare in the romance department, or at least he thought he did. Candles were always a classic, so he bought a dozen vanilla scented ones and placed them artistically around the room.

The next step was to ready himself. He put on a little cologne and decided to forgo the full suit that he usually went with. A simple pair of black pants and a navy blue shirt was the best choice, especially if he and Bilbo end up rushing to the bedroom in a fit of passion. He didn't want clothes to hinder the fun.

With only a few minuted until Bilbo's scheduled arrival, Thorin noticed something slightly off, but he couldn't quite place what it was. He checked the food, and it was perfect. He checked his appearance, and he looked handsome. What was it?

He took an audible sniff and realised the problem was the candles. They had been burning for about an hour and his whole apartment smelt like it had been dipped in vanilla extract. In a fit of panic, he ran around the apartment and blew out all the candles, he opened all the windows to vent the apartment as much as he could before Bilbo arrived.

But it was all for naught, as the bell rang and Bilbo was standing on the other side of the door.

Thorin inwardly groaned at the thought of letting Bilbo into his apartment when it smelt like melted ice cream, but he couldn't leave him standing there all night. He swallowed his pride and opened the door with a smile.

Bilbo greeted him with a kiss and walked in with a smile, "So what are we having?" He paused as he inhaled the scent permeating throughout the room, "Um, Vanilla pudding? Vanilla cupcakes? Something with Vanilla in it?"

"Roast chicken." Thorin answered shyly.

"Oh." Bilbo said in surprise.

"I, um, lit too many scented candles and, well, you can see for yourself what happened."

Thorin had felt like he had ruined the night, but the joyous steam of laughter that Bilbo spouted changed his mind quickly.

Tears of joy brimmed Bilbo's eyes, he laughed and leant his head on Thorin's chest, "Oh-ha- that's so cute. Ha-ha."

After a little while he seemed to calm down a bit, "Aww, Thorin, you're the sweetest man I've ever met."

Thorin smiled, softly and genuinely. "I'm glad to hear it. Now why don't we sit at my scented apartment and eat the sub-par meal I've prepared."

"Let's do it."

Thorin's meal wasn't too bad, Bilbo ate with the same amount of enthusiasm as he usually did, and the wine flowed freely between them both. As they laughed and chatted, it seemed like it was just a normal date between two people, with absolutely no weird online hook-up.

With their meal finished, Thorin and Bilbo moved to the couch, their glasses of wine forgotten on the table as Bilbo moved to sit on Thorin's lap.

Their lips pressed together in a slow drag, Bilbo feels just as warm in his hands as Thorin had dreamed, his lips taste just as sweet. Their little kisses and touches were nothing compared to this. Thorin moved his hands to cup Bilbo's cushy ass, both of them letting out a groan as he did. Bilbo's hands move from their place on Thorin's shoulders and slid up to cup his face, they deepened the kiss with the addition of Bilbo's enthusiastic tongue meshing with Thorin's.

"Mmm~ Thorin." Bilbo groaned.

"Bilbo," Thorin rumbled lowly, "So good."

One of his hands slip from their place on Bilbo's ass and up his shirt. He greedily felt all the warm, soft skin that he could, wanting more and more of it by the second.

And perhaps he could have gotten more, but as fate would have it, tonight wasn't going to be his night.

The sound of a key turning in the lock snapped Thorin's attention away from the eager and agreeable bundle of cuteness in his lap.

The door slammed open and two interlocked bodies stumbled in, Thorin and Bilbo wordlessly gaped at Fili and Legolas as they pawed and groped each other, kissing in a mess of lips and tongue and teeth.

If Thorin wasn't so stunned, he'd yell at them both until he was blue in the face, but even he couldn't believe what he was seeing.

"Oh Fili," Legolas moaned, "Take me."

"With pleasure." Fili growled back.

Without noticing the two stunned figures on the couch, Fili and Legolas stumbled into the spare bedroom and slammed the door shut. But the spectacle didn't end there.

Much to Thorin's horror and Bilbo's mortification, a symphony of moaning, groaning, swearing, and fumbling, was mixed with the sound of clothes being roughly handled and a bed-side lamp shattering.

"I've wanted this for so long!"

"Me too!"

"Hurry up, I can't wait any longer!"

Thorin stood and pick up his keys from the bench, he looked back at Bilbo, "I think we should go."

They drove to Bilbo's house, and by the time they got there, they were too tired and too uncomfortable to go any further. They simply curled up on Bilbo's bed and went to sleep.

Thorin would have to kill his nephew in the morning.

* * *

Chapter 08: The Eighth Step is to Let Daddy Keep you Close...

Maybe it was the mattress Thorin had bought for Bilbo, or the sheets and pillows… Or maybe it was simply because he had a warm and loving body tucked into his side, but this was the best sleep that Thorin had ever woken up from.

Thorin's tired eyes blinked a few times, adjusting to the small amount of light that the morning provided. He looked over to the clock on Bilbo's bedside table. It was 7:00 Am. He always woke up too early.

He felt Bilbo stir, their bare skin grazing together pleasantly. They had slept in only their briefs and shared some skin-to-skin contact that they both enjoyed. But nothing had progressed beyond cuddling.

Thorin was a little disappointed, (but not angry) that he didn't get to have Bilbo, but he supposed that when they finally did get to it, they'd be all the more eager.

The one thing that Thorin did feel angry about was the fact that his nephew ruined his night. He had given a key to Dis and to Dwalin just in case, and it seemed that Fili had taken the key and had been using his apartment for hook-ups. Who knows how long it's been going on! Thorin went on a lot of business trips, and if Fili has access to the key, then, well… He might need to throw out the spare bed.

"Mornin'." Bilbo whispered.

Thorin's murderous thought's left him at the sound of love's soft voice. Bilbo's eyes were half lidded from sleep and his golden curls were mussed, he looked as though he was just asking to be ravished.

"Moring, beautiful." Thorin rumbled with a smile.

Bilbo smiled sweetly up at him, batting his lashes like some clichéd cartoon character, "I'm sorry that things didn't work out yesterday, I wouldn't mind… getting a little closer."

Thorin could feel his heart pound in his chest, his mouth went dry, "And we will," He croaked, "I would have you now, if I could."

Bilbo sighed, running his finger up and down Thorin's chest, "I wish, but I'm ill-equipped, I have no, you know…"

Thorin kissed Bilbo's forehead, "Don't worry. I want to do this properly, with all the pampering and romance you could dream of, you deserve as much."

Bilbo beamed a bright grin and sat up, his curls bouncing as he did so. "So, what romantic activity should we do today?"

Thorin took Bilbo's hand tenderly in his, gazing in his eyes as he spoke. "Do you want to go back to my apartment and ruin Fili's morning?"

Bilbo continued to grin widely, "Oh darling, I'd love to."

Thorin's apartment was just as they left it, which was a good sign. It would have been a shame if Fili and Legolas were already awake.

Bilbo tried to supress the snickers as Thorin quietly and slowly opened the door to the spare room. And they wished at that moment that they had never even entertained the thought of opening that door.

Because there they were, two young bodies tangled together in post coital rapture. Thorin had seen Thranduil's pale ass once, and now he had seen Legolas's pale ass. That's two too many pale asses, in Thorin's opinion.

But that wasn't really the issue, he was seeing way more of Fili then he ever wanted. Sure, he had bathed Fili and Kili when they were little kids, but Fili was a man now, a man in every sense of the word.

Thorin turned away to stop himself from being sick, but as he turned he caught sight of Bilbo's impossibly red face. He quickly put his hand over Bilbo's eyes before backing them both out of the room.

"Ok, so maybe that wasn't such a good idea." Thorin coughed.

Bilbo nodded furiously in response.

After a minute of trying to forget what they'd seen, Bilbo forced his mind back to revenge, hoping that it would distract both he and Thorin.

"You have speakers, don't you?"

"Yeah." Thorin replied, not understanding the reason for the question.

"Well…" Bilbo smirked mischievously.

With the speakers of Thorin's stereo placed carefully in the spare room, Bilbo sifted through Thorin's cd collection. Aside from the novelty of knowing someone actually owns cd's, Bilbo was surprised that Thorin's music collection was as hard-core as he had imagined. Rock music doesn't really cut it anymore. So Bilbo plugged his phone into the speakers and quickly found a song that would do the trick.

He smiled at Thorin as he turned it up to full and pressed play.

Thorin didn't know what the monstrosity of a song was called, but the moment the singer roared 'TURN DOWN FOR WHAT', two loud screams came from Fili and Legolas, and then a loud thud sound. One of them must have fallen of the bed in shock.

Fili appeared at the door, swinging it open with all the force he had. He looked frantic and frazzled, his hair was messy and knotted from his hasty departure from the bed, and all that covered him was a white bed sheet.

"UNCLE! WHAT THE-"

"Good morning, nephew." Thorin cut in with a faux coldness in his voice. "Are you well rested?"

Fili looked at a loss for words, his mouth agape but no sounds coming from it.

Bilbo snickered behind his hand and Thorin crossed his arms, waiting for his nephew to say something.

"Well?" Thorin continued, "Speak up, boy!"

Fili swallowed nervously, "I- We- um, I didn't think you'd be home."

"Uh-huh," Thorin nodded, "You didn't think I'd be in my own apartment."

"I thought you'd be out with Bilbo." Fili added meekly.

"Bilbo was with me." Thorin clarified.

"Bilbo was-" Fili groaned, "Oh God."

"Isn't your bed-partner going to join us?" Thorin questioned.

"He's embarrassed." Fili mumbled with a blush on his face.

"I don't blame him. Why the hell you would bring him here anyway? I work with his father for goodness sake!"

"Well I couldn't take him home, mum's there, dad and Kili too. Do you know how hard it would be to bring someone I like home to them? Just kill me now!" Fili threw his arms in there with exasperation, the sheet around his waist slipping a little before he caught it again.

"How many times have you brought a date to my home?" Thorin continued, he was being genuinely stern now, with the humour from the wake up worn off.

"This is the first time." Fili said in all honesty, "I took mum's copy of your key cos' I hoped the night would end like it did. I wanted to be prepared…"

Bilbo felt a pang of sympathy for the boy, and he could see the feeling mirrored in Thorin's eyes, but they couldn't just let this go!

"Alright." Thorin began again, "You and Legolas will do all my laundry, return the key to Dis without her knowing, and vow to never touch it again. Also, you're not to mention Bilbo to anyone until I've introduced him myself. If you do that, I might consider forgiving you for ruining our date."

Fili's shoulder slumped as he pouted, "I didn't mean to be a cock-block, Uncle, honest. I'm sorry."

Thorin growled lowly under his breath, 'An apology won't get me laid,' He thought bitterly.

Legolas emerged from the room with his clothes on, he was busy fixing his hair into a messy in an attempt to not look at anyone in the room.

"Legs," Fili said with the softest of smiles, he approached his new lover cautiously, "You're up."

"Yes, well," Legolas blushed as he mumbled his response, "I couldn't let you deal with the scolding on your own."

It was impossible for Fili's smile to get any wider, and Thorin was happy to see him so happy, but it was getting harder and harder to be mad at the two young ones…

After the laundry was done, Thorin treated them all to a hearty breakfast at Bombur's. Fili and Legolas went their own way, leaving Thorin and Bilbo to themselves. A strange awkwardness hung between them.

"Look, Thorin I know I said I wanted to… you know, but I'm just not in the mood anymore." Bilbo confessed worriedly.

Thorin sighed, "I know how you feel. I don't think I could after seeing both Fili and Legolas naked." He shuddered at the thought.

Bilbo smiled in relief, "Good. I've got work later this afternoon, but let me know if you want to have dinner later, ok?"

"Will do." Thorin smiled, "As soon as l take care of a few things."

They kissed softly as a goodbye. Thorin called a taxi for Bilbo and gave him a wad of bills to pay for it. He didn't know how much he had handed over, but it was of no consequence.

They didn't see each other for another week, which was fine since they texted often. But the small period of separation gave Thorin time to think about the nature of their relationship. Thorin used to like being left to himself, but nowadays he quickly got bored, not realising until now just how much more fun life is with Bilbo in it. Bilbo was all he ever thought about, he would walk past a shop and think of how Bilbo would be suited for a type of clothing, or he would think of how something would be useful to him. He tried going online to find Bilbo an apartment, but none of them seemed good enough for his sweetheart.

Thorin sat back in his leather wheelie desk chair, his hands behind his head. He began to think, if Bilbo needed a new place, why not simply have him move in to Thorin's place? He had the space, and he certainly liked the idea of waking up to Bilbo beside him every morning, and they could put a desk right next to Thorin's for him to work on his writing.

His eyes brightened at the thought, it was a brilliant idea! He could picture it, coming home from a long day of work with Bilbo there to greet him, an apron tied around his waist after a day of baking Thorin's favourite treats. Then they would kiss and Thorin would bend him over the nearest surface…

Thorin could hardly contain his excitement, he had to go to Bilbo right away and ask him if he would want to move in with him. But he knew that Bilbo was at work at the moment, after a moment of thought, he determined that he simply had to go see Bilbo right away, work or no work. He might even consider it romantic.

Thorin had only ever driven past Bilbo's workplace. He never had a need to go inside, since the coffee was cheap and the premises too far away for a casual visit.

But he went anyway, feeling a little nervous about leaving his car in a questionable looking neighbourhood, worst case scenario, he has to buy a new car.

The coffee shop in question was small but tidy, the doorbell chimed as he entered. Thorin felt ridiculously out of place one he saw the interior, and the patrons.

The first thing he noticed was that there were no proper chairs, instead there were vintage looking couches of various heights, and random wooden tables of varying heights. On the walls were vinyl record covers and band posters of groups that Thorin had never heard of, the walls themselves were brick with random bits of torn floral wall paper.

Thorin felt ashamed at his lack of fedora, his beard clearly wasn't long enough to be considered fashionably non-mainstream. His un-ironic suit felt a little stuffy, but he pushed passed his odd feeling of inadequacy and headed to the service counter where he could see Bilbo busily making coffee.

Thorin smiled as he caught Bilbo's eye, and Bilbo returned with a quick smile of his own. Thorin patiently waited for the other customer to be served before he approached again, looking every bit as rich and handsome as he always did.

"I didn't expect you to ever set foot in a place that has three dollar coffee." Bilbo laughed lightly, he leant on the counter, his curls falling in a way that made him look both adorable and delectable.

"I had to talk to you about something. I have no intention of ordering any coffee, though I bet your coffee is the best in the city." Thorin said with a handsome smoulder.

"It's passable." Bilbo smiled, "Now what did you want to talk to me about?"

Thorin took one of Bilbo's hands in his and kissed them once, "I want you to live with me."

"We've only known each other a few months." Bilbo mumbled in shock.

"I know." Thorin muttered into Bilbo's fingers, softly kissing them every few seconds, "But I've never wanted anything more. Don't you think it would be nice? We clearly enjoy each other's company, and you won't have to work here anymore, you could focus on your writing."

"Thorin, this is mad!" Bilbo exclaimed.

Thorin's expression fell, but as soon as it did, he was kissed softly.

"It's mad, but I-I think it could work." Bilbo added softly, "I love the thought of seeing you every day… God, this is going to be the craziest thing I've ever done." He laughed lightly.

"Baggins." A sharp voice cut in, "You should be working, not flirting with customers."

He must have be Bilbo's boss, Thorin thought with a grimace.

"I wasn't, Mr Smaug, he's my boyfriend." Bilbo replied in a mumble.

Bilbo's boss, a tall and slender man with tidy brown hair and a sinister nose, sneered in Thorin's direction.

"You said you didn't want to date me because of the age difference, and yet you date this guy? What is he? Fifty?"

"Forty-two." Thorin answered in a low tone, "Clearly Bilbo just used age as an excuse."

"Or maybe he's just playing you for all your dough." Smaug hissed back.

Thorin growled under his breath and smoothed his hand over his tie. Maybe that could have been true when the relationship started, but they didn't see themselves in that kind of relationship. Thorin liked paying for things, and Bilbo never actually asked for anything. So how could it be seen as something negative?

"No." Bilbo replied simply, "I didn't want to date you, but I do want to date Thorin."

"I don't like my employee's fraternizing during work, so I'm cutting all of your shifts."

Bilbo calmly untied his apron and placed it on the counter, "No need. I quit."

"Fine." Smaug replied coldly, "You can tell your friend Ori that no longer needs to come in either."

"You can't fire Ori because of me!" Bilbo protested loudly.

"I can and I just did, now get the hell out of my shop."

"Gladly." Bilbo hissed back, he took Thorin's hand and stormed out of the store. But once they were back in Thorin's car, he buried his face in his hands, "What am I going to tell Ori? He needs this job!"

"I'm sure Dwalin will take care of him." Thorin provided, "He loves being the knight in shining armour."

"But it's not fair! He shouldn't get fired just because of me." Bilbo exclaimed. "It's the principle."

Thorin leant over and kissed Bilbo softly, hoping to stem the tide of rage, "We'll go to your house and speak to Ori, I'm sure he'll understand. To be honest, I doubt he'd be all that upset. That boss of yours is a rude and nasty bugger."

"Maybe." Bilbo mumbled, "I guess we'll find out once we see him."

They were at Bilbo's apartment in no time at all, and were greeted with the sight of Dwalin trying to coax Ori into a kiss as he attempted to cook.

They should have known that the two would be together.

"Bilbo, Thorin! What are you two doing here? I thought you had work, Bilbo." Ori greeted with a giggle as Dwalin tickled his sides.

"I, um, got fired." Bilbo muttered.

"That's terrible!" Ori exclaimed, "What for?"

"It was my fault," Thorin answered, "I came to see him and he got in trouble for fraternising."

"I say good riddance," Bilbo huffed, "But that's not the issue…" He looked sadly at his friend, "Smaug was mad, so he sort of… fired you too."

Orin blinked a few times before he broke into a fit of laughter, "At least I'll get severance pay! I was going to quit, but it seems now I don't have to."

"You were going to quit?" Bilbo asked with a questioning look.

"Yep." Ori said proudly, "I don't need that job, because I'm getting published!"

"What?!" Bilbo squealed in delight, "You did?!"

Ori nodded happily, "Yep, two weeks from now my 'Brief History of Erebor' will be on shelves, I got a cash advance that's five times more than a week of pay at Smaug's."

"We're going out to dinner to celebrate later," Dwalin said with a proud smile.

"I'm so happy for you." Bilbo said softly. "Thorin and I have some news too."

"We're moving in together." Thorin cut in, not being able to hide it any longer.

There seemed to be an endless stream of celebration happening that day, they all went out to dinner to celebrate Ori, then Bilbo and Thorin took the first of Bilbo's things to Thorin's apartment. They made plans to move Bilbo's bed, too. it would be used to replace the one in the spare bedroom. It wasn't exactly a loss for Thorin, he wasn't sad to get rid of something his nephew had fornicated on.

Best of all, Bilbo seemed happy as he said goodbye to his old apartment, for now at least.

But when Thorin and Bilbo were alone, the mood certainly shifted. Bilbo seemed… sad. He sat on the edge of his and Thorin's bed, his hands clasped together and his expression clearly melancholy.

Thorin approached him gently, wondering why it was that his sweetheart was suddenly so down.

"Bilbo? What's the matter? Are you… regretting this decision?" Thorin asked tentatively, his arm carefully sliding around Bilbo's waist.

"I-I just…" He sighed, "Ori's getting published, he's making progress in his career, and what have I done? I'm just an unemployed Uni graduate with a half-finished manuscript."

Thorin gave a deep, rumbling chuckle, Bilbo looked sharply at him for an explanation as to what he thought was so funny.

"You're still very young, darling." Thorin began with a fond sigh, "You can't expect to have your life sorted out so soon into your twenties. It takes time, unless you're me and Dwalin and you were born into money… What I'm trying to say is that you're going the normal pace, things will work out just fine, even if they seem far away right now. You have half a manuscript, most people never get as far as the first paragraph."

Bilbo turned his doe eyes to look up at Thorin, for perhaps the first time he was noticing the difference between them, and it was age, it was maturity. Thorin was an adult, whereas Bilbo felt like he was still a teenager, he didn't feel any different at Twenty three then he did at sixteen.

He felt his heart flutter as he pressed his forehead into Thorin's chest, "I'd like to have sex now, please."

* * *

Chapter 09: The Ninth Step is to Give Daddy Some Sugar...

Bilbo's words echoed in Thorin's mind a few times before they finally sunk in. Bilbo had thought that he had broken Thorin, and wanted desperately for him to return to his senses.

"Thorin?" Bilbo said, "Thorin!"

"What?" Thorin replied, all dazed and confused.

"Are you alright?" Bilbo asked worriedly

Thorin blinked a couple of times, "Ah, yes, yes. I'm fine… But did I hear you correctly? That you wanted to-"

"Have sex? Yes." Bilbo confirmed.

"Well." Thorin swallowed the thick lump of nervousness, "I believe I can manage that."

Bilbo raised a questioning brow, "Are you sure?"

"Yes." Thorin said with a definite nod. He tried to remind himself that confidence was sexy, and his last few sentences were not sexy at all. He needed to recover from his faux pas as quickly as possible.

He dropped his voice down a few octaves so he could sound manly and powerful, and hopefully sexy too. "I'll take good care of you." He pressed a strong kiss to Bilbo's lips to reiterate his point, and to give Bilbo a taste of what was to come.

He expected Bilbo to kiss back, which he did, but Thorin did not expect the delectable mewl that flowed from his young lover's lips and reverberated through his body. Thorin felt himself begin to shake with anticipation, oh, this wasn't good.

He pulled away from the kiss and Bilbo gave a disappointed whine. Thorin did well in maintaining a cool demeanour, at least on the surface.

"I need to get some things from the bathroom," Thorin said with a deep rumble of his baritone voice, "And when I get back, I expect to see you undressed and waiting for me."

Thorin got up and pulled away from Bilbo without another look in his sweetheart's direction. His stride was confident until he reached the bathroom and shut the door. Now that he was out of Bilbo's sight, he pressed his forehead against the door, breathing heavily in the hopes of calming himself.

It's been a while.

Longer than he would care to say.

And now that he finally had the object of his affections willing and probably already naked in the next room, he knew he could blow it by climaxing too soon. He had felt this scared since his first time many, many, many years ago.

Thorin sighed out a long breath and went to the medicine cabinet and pulled out a bottle of lubrication and his box of condoms. He flipped the box to look at the expiry date, it was three days from now, he made a mental note to buy more.

He took a deep breath before he opened the bathroom door again, he had to remain calm and in control, he only got one chance at a first time with his young lover, and he was desperate to prove that his age made him no less virile.

Thorin had to bite the inside of his cheek really hard in order to not come apart, after being greeted with a sight that was beyond anything he could have ever dreamed.

Though Bilbo was simply kneeling on Thorin's large bed, clad in nothing and blushing brightly, it was the single most wonderful thing Thorin had ever seen.

Thorin really did have a kink for innocence. Bilbo seemed too small for the large expanse of Thorin's bed, but he had the fully grown body of a young adult, complete with plush thighs and the kind of curves that came with a healthy love of food. Oh how Thorin wanted to run his hands over those hips… He stood there and stared for a brief time before he realised that he actually could.

He approached the bed and put the supplies down so he could undress. He did so efficiently, removing each article of clothing with a miraculous lack of fumbling, allowing each garment to fall to the ground without a second thought. He stopped when he got to his underwear and took that as his cue to climb onto the bed. He sat on the edge and cupped Bilbo's smooth cheek affectionately, and Bilbo in turn pressed his eager lips to the palm of Thorin's hand.

"Are you sure about this?" Thorin asked one more time. Although he wanted this, it was more important that Bilbo did, since he was the one getting something shoved into him, so to speak.

"Please Daddy." Bilbo whined.

Oh. Thorin was a goner.

He pressed Bilbo down against the pillows and lifted one of Bilbo's soft legs on his shoulder. He reached for the lube and opened the bottle with his teeth, pouring some onto one hand and then let the bottle fall to the side.

Without another word, Thorin pressed in a finger, and Bilbo responded with a hiss, "Cold!"

Thorin inwardly scolded himself, 'Always warm the lube, Always warm the lube, Always warm the lube, Always warm the lube, Always warm the-'

A soft mewl resounded from Bilbo short after, his body adjusting the appendage and the temperature. Thorin sighed out a breath of relief and focused his mind back on the task at hand.

He used his spare hand to caress every inch of Skin he could, Bilbo was every bit as soft as he looked, and so smooth that it seemed he had no hair at all.

In Thorin's experience, he knew that truly wonderful love-making was ninety percent foreplay, and ten percent penetration. But now wasn't the time for maths.

Breathing heavily, he set himself the task of finding every sensitive point on Bilbo's body, while his other hand continued preparing him.

Bilbo moaned and mewled when Thorin would run his rough hand over his sides, his breath would stutter when Thorin felt his inner thighs, and he would whimper when he travelled over his chest.

Thorin forgot about everything and took a moment to take in the sight of his young lover, whose legs were spread open for his pleasure. How could such a delectable young thing be his? He was a grumpy middle aged man with a few grey hairs, and every year his pants sat just a little higher, but somehow he had this honey-haired dream in his bed.

"Thorin." Bilbo moaned in a way that could only exist in a dream, surely there was no way he could sound so perfect and look so perfect, but he was exactly that, perfect.

Bilbo was gently rocking against Thorin's hand, seeming to be ready enough for something more.

Two more finger's followed, and the other hand remained its task of roaming over Bilbo's sensitive places, Thorin increased the pressure slightly as to increase the sensation.

Thorin didn't know that he was in a trance until he heard Bilbo make a particularly lewd moan, it was then that he realised just how painfully hard he was, and how much he desperately wanted to mount his lover and make him scream.

Shaking slightly, Thorin pulled away long enough to reach for the condom. His large hands fumbled and shook uselessly. He was almost ready to growl out his frustration when the little silver packet finally gave way and he had access to its contents.

He felt relieved at the fact that Bilbo was too overcome with need to notice his embarrassing fumbling. But the moment he pressed the rubber to his tip, it was nearly over before it truly began. He bit his lip so hard he was sure it would bleed, but it was worth it to keep himself from coming.

They were both breathing in heavy pants, Thorin moved himself into place and braced his hands on either side of Bilbo's head. With one very controlled hip movement, he slowly sheathed himself in his lover for the first time.

"OH FUCKING SHIT GODDAM!" Thorin shouted all too loudly, "FUCK, FUCK, FUCK!" He groaned. It was too much and Bilbo was too perfect and it had been so long and he really, really liked him, and oh! He was a dead man, he was sure of it.

Thorin was paralysed, worried that if he moved even slightly, it would be the end, but Bilbo was having none of it.

"Fuck me, Daddy." He panted.

Thorin just thought, 'Fuck it. I'm going for it.'

Thorin's pace was brutal and punishing in the most wonderful way, there was so much power in his hips, Bilbo thought that this was how he was going to die, but what a wonderful death it would be.

Thorin's bed was too well built to creak, but it did rock with every fierce thrust of Thorin's hips. There was something primal unleashed in Thorin, the growling, the fast and deep push of his cock. If Bilbo could think of anything but the blinding pleasure, he would have wondered how it was that such a cool and collected man like Thorin could make love like a wild beast.

When Bilbo came to a euphoric ending, his mind so wracked that his cries were silent, but his body taunt in that perfect arch, Thorin couldn't believe his eyes. He couldn't hold on any longer, and like a bolt of lightning, his climax hit him and for a second, he thought he could see every star in the galaxy, but no, he just had the most intense orgasm of his life.

Thorin gripped the pillow beside Bilbo's head as tightly as he could so he didn't collapse on his lover. He couldn't move until the last shuddering waves of pleasure washed through him. When he could he pulled out and fell to the side.

They were breathing heavily, they were sweaty, and Thorin was sure his hips would hurt as much as Bilbo ass will in the morning, but, TOTALLY WORTH IT!

"That was amazing." Bilbo laughed breathlessly, "I can't believe- I just- You've fucked the words right out of me."

"Yeah." Thorin panted. "Was" *huff* "Great."

Bilbo rolled onto Thorin's chest and kissed every inch of face, neck and chest that he could reach. "Thorin, you were just so amazing." he sighed happily, "It was more than I could have dreamed."

Thorin smirked proudly, inwardly cheering at the fact that Bilbo didn't notice his awkward fumbling at the beginning, and a in the middle… and a little at the end. His lover was satisfied, and that's all he needed, though he could really use a cigar right about now… that would be nice…

They sat in silence for a while, simply basking in the afterglow of their wondrous encounter. Bilbo was idly running his fingers through Thorin's chest hair, reverently awed at the perfect specimen of masculinity.

But Thorin sort of killed the mood.

"So, um, how did you address your parent's when you were little?" Thorin asked, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible.

Bilbo huffed in irritation, gripping on of Thorin's hairs and pulling it would with a sharp tug, "I addressed them as Mother and Father. And no, I don't have father issues, in case that was your next question."

After Thorin had yelped in pain from the unwanted hair removal, he blushed in embarrassment, "I wasn't going to ask, but good to know."

Bilbo smiled despite Thorin's awkwardness and nuzzled his neck affectionately, "I just like the nickname, calling you Daddy is kinda hot, don't you think so?"

"Wasn't the hard fucking I gave you not proof enough of my opinion?" Thorin muttered in return, with his hand lovingly buried in Bilbo's curls.

"Well, I guess I know how to address you when I want something." Bilbo replied with a mischievous grin.

"And if you do, you'll receive another hard fucking. Now go to sleep, sweetheart."

"Whatever you say, 'Daddy'."

To say that Thorin was affectionate would be an understatement. By the way Thorin was acting, one would think that what Bilbo did was the greatest act of kindness, he treated Bilbo as though he had ended all the worlds suffering and despair in one night.

Bilbo thought it was cute though, the endless stream of loving text messages, the expensive dinners, and rare books that were delivered right to his front door.

Bilbo was very happy, and of course he enjoyed his little dalliance with Thorin as much as Thorin did, and he was looking forward to do it more.  
But Thorin and Dwalin were soon hit with a lot of work, something to do with an acquisition, so Bilbo and Ori waited patiently to the side until their men were ready for them again.

It had been three weeks since that unforgettable night, and ten days since Bilbo had last seen Thorin. He didn't mind too much, he knew his man was busy, and Bilbo did want some serious time with his best friend.

Ori was happy too, with his book on print and his love life flourishing. They caught up while baking some scones in their tricked-out kitchen. They figured that they should enjoy it while it lasted, since Bilbo was moving in with Thorin as soon as he had enough time to spare, and Ori was moving too. After hearing of Thorin and Bilbo's plan, Dwalin and Ori didn't even pretend that they weren't thinking the same thing.

Bilbo and Ori were enjoying the precious time they had left in their little apartment, since it seemed they were moving up in the world.

Bilbo had the bench covered in flour as he worked the dough with a rolling pin, his hands covered in white up to his elbows. It seemed that when Bilbo baked, he immersed himself in it completely.

So when his phone buzzed with a message from Thorin, he couldn't answer it.

"Ori, could you read me that text from Thorin? I don't want to get flour on my phone."

Ori happily put aside the cream he was whipping so he could fulfil his friend's request. He fetched Bilbo phone from the end of the bench and swiped for the message. His eyes widened and his face went red, then a stream of giggles followed.

"What did he say?" Bilbo asked innocently.

"Oh he didn't SAY anything." Ori said with a waggle of his eyebrows.

"What?" Bilbo questioned. Ori held the phone up for Bilbo to see, and he had the exact same response as his friend.

"D-Did Thorin just send me a dick-pic?" Bilbo giggled.

"Well, that's not a finger Bilbo. You're a lucky boy." Ori let out a wolf-whistle to tease his friend.

Bilbo snatched his phone back, no longer caring about the flour on his hands. "Goodness…" He muttered with a blush on his face, "I didn't really get a proper look at it, but as far as cock's go, this one's nice."

Bilbo felt himself grow a little hot under the collar at the thought of Thorin sitting at his large oaken desk, his pants undone and his hand wrapped around himself while thinking of Bilbo…

"So you and Thorin are sexting now?" Ori questioned.

"This is the first one he's sent me." Bilbo replied.

"Really? Dwalin and I have been doing it since the first date." Ori said smugly.

"That's because you're a horny bastard." Bilbo teased good-naturedly.

"Since I've seen Thorin's, do you want to see Dwalin's?"

"NO!"

"Are you sure?"

"…ok, I do."

Ori grinned widely as he fished his own phone out of his pocket. He opened up his gallery and swiped over until he found his favourite one.

Bilbo took the phone in hand and gazed at the screen, "Well, Dwalin's a big boy."

"You're telling me." Ori laughed. "We should compare pics." Ori said excitedly as the idea hit him.

"Yes, let's!" Bilbo replied with far too much eagerness.

With their phones sat side-by-side, they analysed the photos with close attention to detail.

"Thorin's longer…" Ori said thoughtfully, "But Dwalin's thicker."

"I think you're right." Bilbo nodded.

The pair looked that two judges in a dog showing competition, trying to decide which the better breed was.

"How does he perform?" Ori asked as though he were talking of a car.

"Very well, he's sort of like a beast in heat." Bilbo laughed at his own description. "And Dwalin?"

"He really likes to bend me over things…" Ori said thoughtfully, "Mounts me like I'm a prize mare… Except when he's drunk, in that case he's really slow and gentle. One time he spent the whole time sobbing about how much he loves me." Ori smiled fondly at the memory. "It was actually the sweetest moment we ever shared."

"Well," Bilbo said with a nod, not knowing exactly what to do with that information, "Thorin and I have only done it once, but when I gather more data we can compare notes again."

Ori laughed, "Sounds good."

"I better reply." Bilbo said with his blush blooming anew.

"I think I'll send one to Dwalin," Ori said with a wink, "Surprise him."

"You're such a caring boyfriend." Bilbo laughed.

"I know." Ori said with a feigned sigh, "I do my best."

Thorin sat at his desk with his cock tucked back in his pants. His picture idea was spontaneous and thrilling, but he was at work, which meant he had people coming and going at random times. He didn't want to get caught with his hand down his pants.

When his phone buzzed, his opened the sent image with a great eagerness. What greeted him was the perfect swell of Bilbo's ass. He groaned, wanting to shove his hand back down where it was a moment ago.

But it's a good thing he didn't.

Dwalin barged in at that moment and shut the door behind himself. He had a smug grin on his face, "Hey Thorin, ready to be jealous?"

"Sure," Thorin grumbled, "What is it?"

Dwalin proudly held up the photo of Ori's ass that he had just received, "Bet you don't get stuff like that."

Thorin considered Ori's nice, round bottom, nodding in approval as a smirk grew on his face. He held up his own phone for Dwalin to see, smugly displaying the pic he had.

Dwalin nodded, "Well, I didn't think you guys were there yet."

"We are." Thorin confessed, "Not bad, eh?"

"Not bad at all." Dwalin replied honestly, "But I like Ori's better."

"And I like Bilbo's, so let's call it a draw."

"Deal."

They shook on it like the serious business men they were, both secretly glad that no one's ego got hurt.

"You don't think that they, you know, compare picture, do you?" Dwalin said after a long pause.

Thorin considered it, then shook his head, "No, they're too shy and innocent for that."

"Yeah." Dwalin agreed with a more definite tone, "You're right. They probably can't even talk about kissing without going all red-faced."

At least, that's what they hoped.

* * *

Chapter 10: The Tenth Step is to Play with Daddy...

Moving in with Thorin was a lot easier than Bilbo had anticipated. He simply moved his things and his mind followed suit. It was easy enough for him to forget his old apartment when Thorin's had a wonderfully large bathtub with jets and bubbles.

Ori was the only thing he'd really miss, but the two promised to meet up at least once a week for coffee. There was no way for them to lose contact when their respective lovers worked at the same place. Now that Bilbo had no job but to write, he felt that he might be able to catch up to Ori professionally.

That was his hope, anyway.

Being domestic with Thorin was also easy, once Bilbo realised Thorin's patterns of behaviour.

He was grumpy in the morning until he had his coffee.

He was grumpy when he came home from work, until he had his Bilbo.

Pretty simple.

To say that their sex life exploded from then onwards would be an accurate description. After the first week, Thorin had had Bilbo over nearly every surface in their now shared home, as it seemed the man was content to fornicate wherever it was that he found Bilbo at the time. And Bilbo didn't mind, he enjoyed the activity a great deal, but he especially enjoyed the sweet puppy-like way Thorin would lick and nuzzle him when it was over.

Thorin was just too happy for words, and he showed his happiness through little things, like randomly buying Bilbo a new book or a by surprising him with dinner reservations. Bilbo's bank account was full even though Bilbo never had to pay for anything himself, at least when he was with Thorin. He was fast becoming Bombur's new favourite customer with his combined appetite and generous tipping.

Thorin's family was still unaware, aside from Fili of course, which proved that the boy could at least keep his mouth shut when it came to protecting his budding relationship with Legolas. All the while, Thorin was trying to figure out the best way to tell his family of his relationship without it becoming a total disaster. So far, no such luck, so he kept Bilbo to himself.

They both loved sharing a bed, and did everything on it; watch TV, read, talk, and sort through the mail, like what Thorin was doing now.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed after having come home from work. Bilbo was already there, waiting for him with a book in his hand. He crawled up to Thorin's back and peeked over his shoulder.

Thorin opened one envelope and took out the letter, he briefly scanned it and rumbled in thought.

"What is it?" Bilbo asked, his hands and chin resting on Thorin's shoulder.

"It's an invitation to the Erebor U Alumni Ball." Thorin said with surprise in his tone. "I didn't know it was that time of year again."

"I've never heard of any Alumni Ball!" Bilbo exclaimed, feeling offended that he was a graduate of Erebor U just like Thorin and had never gotten any such invitation.

Thorin chuckled at Bilbo's offence and patted his hair gently, "You only graduated a short while ago, they won't invite you until ten years have passed."

"Oh, right." Bilbo said with a twitch of embarrassment.

"Besides, you will be going. With me." Thorin added with a cute smile.

Bilbo giggled and feigned a loud breathy gasp, "You mean I get to go to the ball?! A lowly peasant like me? Oh happy day! I simply must find the perfect dress."

"That's enough sass for one day." Thorin grinned, "But just for the record I'm not opposed to you wearing a dress, if that's what you truly want."

Bilbo huffed, "I not that kind of guy, darling."

"But we will have to find you something nice to wear," Thorin said as his grin turned into a smirk, "I can't have my baby dressed in anything but the finest."

"If daddy wants to dress me up," Bilbo whispered sweetly as he nuzzled at Thorin's neck, "Then that's exactly what daddy is going to do."

From the moment Bilbo uttered the word 'daddy', Thorin was a goner.

Thorin liked to think that he was romantic when he wanted to be, he did try, but sometimes things were as simple as just removing the pants and getting on with it. Which he did. The mail fell to the floor, forgotten to the two lovers who rutted on the bed in a messy and informal fashion.

When they were sweaty and their clothes wrinkled, they would separate. Whenever they ended up like this, Thorin was glad he had plenty of suits to wear, or he'd be going to work in crinkled clothes and smelling of booty.

After Thorin went to work the next day, Bilbo did the breakfast dishes and headed out to find the right outfit for the ball. Bilbo loved clothes and shoes, there was no point in denying it, he just loved them. But his life of involuntary simplicity prevented him from wearing what he truly wanted, but now he had a wealthy boyfriend who loved to spoil him, and he was going to enjoy being spoilt.

Bilbo decided that the best place would be Thranduil's. Bilbo liked the man well enough, but he wanted to go to Thranduil because the man had impeccable taste and flare. When he entered the shop, Thranduil was upon him in seconds.

"Bilbo, I know exactly why you're here!"

"You do?" Bilbo questioned.

"Why yes! You're Cinderella and I'm the fairy Godmother, and I'm going to get you ready for the ball."

"I'm not Cinderella." Bilbo said flatly.

"You can be what you want, but I'm still a fairy." Thranduil said with a flip of his hair.

"Fine." Bilbo huffed in good humour, "But how did you know about the ball?"

"Bard and I are Erebor U alumni," Thranduil smiled, "We got the same invitation. It was easy to assume that you'd be going, with you being Thorin's little lover and all. He'd never go without you."

Bilbo smiled bashfully, "Well, yes. I suppose that's true."

"Now then," Thranduil announced, clapping his hands together once, "It's time for this fairy to work his magic!"

The ball wasn't for another two weeks, but Bilbo was happy to wait for his suit. He passed the time with writing and spending time with Thorin.

Bilbo had never had an excuse to wear black-tie before, but here he was, dressed in fine black with gold buttons. He really had to hand it to Thranduil, he made even his chubby mid-section look slim, and he didn't mean to brag, but his butt had never looked quite so nice. He mourned the days he wasted wearing loose fitting slacks and baggy sweaters. It was just a crime to hide something so scrumptious. He strained to see his butt's reflection in the bathroom mirror.

"Bilbo." Thorin's voice called out, "Ready to go?"

He checked his combed curls in the mirror once before he finally exited the bathroom.

Bilbo looked quite fetching, but Thorin was on a league of his own. He just had the perfect body; tall, muscular, broad shouldered… a cock that made Bilbo tremble…

He wore the same outfit as Bilbo, but his buttons were small and silver. He didn't look cute like Bilbo, he looked handsome and classy.

Bilbo let out a long whistle, "Very nice."

"That's what I was going to say," Thorin said with a playful smirk, "Do a turn for me."

Bilbo giggled and span around once, letting Thorin take in the whole picture. "Very, very nice." Thorin complimented, "I'm a lucky man."

"Yes you are." Bilbo replied cheekily, "Now, shall we get going?"

They took Thorin's car and arrived as many others were arriving. As they got out of the car and walked through the parking lot, they met up with Dwalin and Ori.

Ori rushed over and hugged Bilbo, "Hey! Can you believe we're back here already?"

"It's unexpected I know, but it should be fun." They linked arms and walked ahead of their older boyfriends.

Dwalin hung back with Thorin, "Hey, how's the move-in going?" Dwalin whispered.

"Good." Thorin rumbled back, "You?"

"Tired." Dwalin said with a pleased grin, "But it's a good tired."

Thorin quirked a knowing brow and chuckled, "Don't think you can keep up with the young one anymore?"

Dwalin scoffed, "Please. I'm more man then he can handle, I'm so good that he can't get enough of me, I-"

"Ok, ok!" Thorin cut in, "I was only jesting. You don't need to provide detail."

Little did they know, Bilbo and Ori were perfectly happy with providing detail.

"-On the kitchen table? You eat there!" Bilbo whispered sharply.

"I know," Ori giggled back, "But he kept touching me under the table! I got too worked up!"

"That actually sounds like fun." Bilbo mumbled, "The 'getting worked up' part, not the part where you defile the place where you eat."

Ori smirked with a dangerous gleam in his eyes, "I have an idea…"

They separated for a short time, knowing that they'd meet again for the sit-down dinner.

Bilbo was so enthralled by the glittering lights and the decorations that he was even thinking about food. Every wine glass was polished to the highest possible shine, the waiters and waitresses were dressed smartly in the same crisp black and white of the party-goers.

"H-How many times have you been to this party?" Bilbo asked, feeling a little overwhelmed.

Thorin chuckled, holding Bilbo's arm snugly in his, "A few. I don't come every year because it's actually very boring."

"How could you think that all this is boring?!" Bilbo exclaimed.

"The only reason people go is to see what their former classmates are up to. Gossiping doesn't stop after high school." Thorin said, showing off his age and experience, "That's sort of why I brought you. This year I have something to show off that isn't my bank balance, luscious hair or perfect body."

"As humble as always." Bilbo replied flatly, "Why don't we find somewhere to hide and you can tell me all about your former classmates."

Bilbo indulged in the wine and in Thorin's good company. They kept to themselves but were having a wonderful time. Bilbo giggled as he and Thorin stood against the far wall, Thorin was telling Bilbo about the people that he knew.

"That's Gloin and his wife. When we were students he saved his head for five dollars. It was the night he met his wife too, she wasn't impressed. It took him a long time to grow back his hair, but even longer to regain his honour." Thorin chuckled, "They've got a kid who's a year younger than my nephews, he won't stop gushing about how proud he is of him. He's my accountant now, I dread the end of year taxes because I know I'll have to listen to Gimli's life-story."

"That's kind of sweet." Bilbo cooed, "He must be a good father."

"Oh he is, but it just gets a little annoying." Thorin admitted gruffly.

"If you had a kid you'd never stop gushing about him." Bilbo teased with a cute smile.

"You're probably right." Thorin mumbled, his small and affectionate smile hidden under his beard.

"And who's that?" Bilbo inquired, pointing his finger in the direction of undoubtedly the most beautiful woman in all of existence.

"Her name is Galadriel," Thorin began, "She won the Miss Universe Pageant back in the day, nowadays though she works as an environmental lawyer and is an ambassador for UNICEF."

"Wow." Bilbo said in soft whisper, "She's as perfect as she looks, then?"

"Yep." Thorin confirmed with a nod, "I read about her in the Erebor Times every now and then, she's always doing something admirable."

"It's a good thing you're not Bi," Bilbo grinned, "Or I mightn't have had a chance."

Thorin chuckled in a deep rumble, "No, I prefer my lovers to be shorter than me. That way they fit better when they're underneath me."

Bilbo giggled and swatted at Thorin's shoulder.

"And him?" Bilbo continued with another point of his finger.

Thorin looked over to the 'him' in question, seeing a man with a glaringly white bald head and a horrid scowl etched onto his face.

Thorin grabbed Bilbo by the shoulders and hauled him close, "Thorin! Wha-" Bilbo exclaimed.

"Don't go anywhere near him." Thorin warned dangerously.

"Why?" Bilbo questioned in a hushed breath.

"Because he vomits on everything I love!"

Bilbo looked at Thorin's face for any sign that he was joking, but his stone cold expression and humourless tone told him otherwise.

Bilbo exploded into a loud stream of laughter, luckily it was drowned out by the large number of people.

"What?" Thorin exclaimed in utter bewilderment, "It's true!"

"It's not that," Bilbo laughed breathlessly, "T-That was the first time you've said that you love me!"

Thorin's face went so red that even his beard couldn't hide it. "I, um- I didn't." He groaned face-palmed, "SEE! AZOG RUINS EVEYTHING!"

Bilbo's laughter died down to a few huffs of amusement, he then grabbed Thorin by the shoulder and guided him down to his height, pressing a kiss to Thorin's stubbled cheek. "It's alright." He assured softly, "I think it was rather sweet. I like the whole protective thing."

"Really?" Thorin asked with a raised brow, "I thought it was considered immature.

"Maybe by some," Bilbo hummed delightfully, "But I think it's very sweet, like a warrior protecting his maiden… his maiden who he later ravages against a wall or by a campfire on a starry night."

"Well, I don't have a campfire, but there are plenty of walls." Thorin smirked and encircled Bilbo waist in his strong arms.

"Not here," Bilbo protested, pushing against Thorin's chest in a futile attempt to separate them.

Thorin leant down and whispered in his young lover's ear, "I don't think you have a choice, oh fair one. I fought for you and now you're mine."

"Please don't tell me that you're roll-playing at a party?" Dwalin's voice cut in, surprising Thorin enough to pull away from Bilbo.

"Remember when we were in highschool, and you used to help me get laid?" Thorin grumbled.

Bilbo and Ori laughed behind their hands as Dwalin replied, "Yes, but cock-blocking is so much fun."

"If you think that then I'll send Fili and Legolas around your place tonight."

As a reunited group of four, they all sat down for dinner on a nicely set round table with a crisp white table cloth. Bard and Thranduil joined then and filled the table, after having spent most of the party in the company of Thranduil's friends and relations.

"Can you believe that Radagast is still wearing that old coat made out of hemp?" Thranduil complained, "It was alright when he was a poor student who couldn't afford a decent jacket, but the man's a veterinarian! He needs to start dressing better."

"I like it," Bard admitted with a grin, "It brought back a lot of memories. Like when you and I would ask him for a few grams and spend the whole night smoking in my room."

"He used to keep the stuff in his jacket's left inner pocket," Thranduil sighed happily at the memory as he leant his head on Bard's shoulder, "Campus security never found it."

"I take it you guys are still on the stuff?" Dwalin cut in, "Because you're acting all calm and affectionate. Not like you, Thranduil."

"Oh shove it." The elegant blonde replied casually.

As the older members of the group continued to talk, Bilbo and Ori shared a knowing glance over the dinner table and put Ori's little plan into motion. And for what Bilbo could see, Ori moved first, which was evident by the slight jolt Dwalin made in his seat.

Bilbo reached his hand under the table and gently slid it onto Thorin's upper thigh, and once the initial surprise wore off, Thorin relaxed into the touch and continued to speak.

The honey-blonde waited a moment before he continued, he wanted Thorin to be comfortable…

His still hand began to rub Thorin's thigh, back and forth in slow, deliberate motions. He wanted Thorin to feel him.

And Thorin was feeling him. But he was determined not to let it get to him, he held fast and continued to talk as though Bilbo's clever hands were getting bold and dangerous under the table. Every stroke grew closer and closer to the part of Thorin that he coveted the most.

'What is Bilbo doing?' Thorin thought to himself in a mix of horror and excitement. His sweet little hand was up to no good and was showing no signs of behaving. Bard was trying to tell him about Legolas's studies and Thorin just couldn't focus. his sense were half focused on Bilbo, and half on paying attention to whatever Bard was saying.

But it was difficult for Thorin to listen to his friend when his lover had his warm hand sliding closer and closer to the fly of his pants.

Thorin didn't know why, but he looked over to Dwalin, who seemed to be in some form of discomfort. Then it hit him… Ori was doing the same thing to Dwalin as Bilbo was to Thorin! Those sneaky young ragamuffins! Dwalin may have lost, but Thorin wasn't having it!

Thorin had to bite the inside of his cheek when Bilbo slowly began to undo his fly, and that's when he had had enough. He slid one hand under the table subtly and shot it over to grab Bilbo's offending hand.

There was no doubting which one of them was stronger. So when Thorin began to guide Bilbo's hand to his own pants, there was a brief flash of panic before Bilbo hid his true feeling beneath a mask of social convention.

Thorin didn't tease Bilbo in the way Bilbo did for him, no, Thorin went for it from the first guided slide directly over Bilbo's sensitive area.

Bilbo was young, it would only take him a moment to be hard and ready, and as he rose under his Thorin-controlled palm, he bit back a whimper. This wasn't how it was supposed to go!  
The strong but pleasurable, non-ignorable sensation sent shivers down his spine and made him tremble, he wanted more of it. Thorin's guiding strength was so good, he wanted Thorin to get him off, public or not.

But then the worst possible thing happened, Thorin drew his hand away.

Feeling satisfied that Bilbo was wanting enough, he took away the pleasant pressure just so he could watch his young lover squirm for an hour or so. And the timing couldn't be better, because their food arrived, and that meant that Bilbo's hands will be far from where they were wanted.

Bilbo had to eat dinner and make conversation with a raging hard-on. Nothing could ease the painful tension in the front of his pants. His hands had to be above the table so he could use his knife and fork, and Thorin clearly wasn't going to help him.

He would have to suffer pure lustful agony until he could get Thorin alone.

He leant over to whisper in Thorin's ear, "When we get in the car, you're in trouble."

"You started it, love." Thorin whispered back, pressing an innocent kiss to Bilbo's cheek, "Perhaps you'll think twice before starting a war with me?"

He was thinking twice, three times even. This was Ori fault for giving him the idea, now he must suffer for his friend's bad influence on him.

That's what you get from having mischievous friends and a crafty lover…

* * *

Chapter 11: The Eleventh Step is to Love Daddy in the way He Deserves...

When dessert arrived Bilbo was feeling no less aroused then when dinner had arrived. Even though Thorin's hand were very much being kept to himself, the older man was sending Bilbo the filthiest looks. Bilbo tried his best not to squirm in his seat, he tried to resist letting his hand slid beneath the table so he could ease some of the tension.

He tried to focus on the conversation instead.

"Legolas has been acting strange lately," Thranduil sighed, "I just cannot figure out what that boys thinking."

"What do you mean?" Thorin asked with a raised brow.

"He's been so distant lately," Thranduil continued on, "When he visits home he goes to his room and doesn't leave, and his phone bill has been through the roof!"

"He's probably just going through a phase." Bard offered. He tried to comfort his husband, even though he was just about as clueless as Thranduil in this situation.

"He's eighteen and he's never gone through a phase before." Thranduil shook his head, "Something's got our boy fixed."

"Maybe he's in love?" Bilbo offered, with only Thorin noticing the strain in his voice.

Of course Thorin and Bilbo already knew the reason, but they weren't about to out Fili and Legolas's relationship.

"Nonsense," Thranduil said with a sure tone, "If he was he'd tell me. We tell each other everything. I gave him the puberty talk and all. I gave it to all our children, that's why they trust me so much."

Thorin snorted at the thought but Bard beamed at knowing what a wonderful father his husband is.

"Poor thing must have been traumatized." Thorin whispered to Bilbo, who smiled into his wine.

"Maybe it's time for the sex talk though." Thranduil sighed.

It took all of Thorin and Bilbo's strength not to laugh, because they knew perfectly well that Legolas was already well acquainted with sex.

Bilbo felt a little calmer, and chanced a look in Ori and Dwalin's direction. Poor Dwalin looked like he was struggling, his hand that held his fork trembled ever so slightly, he was a lot slower at eating his sticky-date pudding then he normally was.

Ori sent Bilbo a triumphant look that Bilbo couldn't return.

Once dessert was over, Thorin pulled Bilbo to his feet and ushered him to the dancefloor. They kept their bodies close enough to hide Bilbo's little problem. They waltzed in time with the music and Thorin leant down to whisper in Bilbo's ear.

"Have you learnt your lesson?"

His husky voice only worsened Bilbo's condition.

"Yes," Bilbo whispered back, "Please forgive me, daddy."

"Daddy will forgive you." Thorin smirked playfully, "And when we get back to the car I'll make you feel all better."

"Can we go now?" Bilbo begged desperately.

"I thought you liked it here? Didn't you want to go to the ball?"

Bilbo groaned and gripped Thorin's shoulders, "The only thing I want is your cock, please."

"First we say goodbye. We must be polite baby."

Bilbo groaned again and slipped his hand into Thorin's, where the older man trailed him along as he said farewell to half the people in the room, the vast majority of which he never even said hello to.

They couldn't find Dwalin and Ori, they had snuck off to the bathroom at some point after dessert.

By the time they got back to the car, Bilbo pulled Thorin into the back seat. Thorin undid his belt and pulled his pants down just enough, Bilbo pulled down his own fine tailored pants until they pooled where they were caught at his feet.

Thorin flipped Bilbo onto his stomach and mounted him like the stallion he was, or at least, that's how he was feeling after having wound Bilbo up so completely.

They had no idea that the people outside the car could see it moving ever so slightly with every movement Thorin made. And the groaning. No one could mistake the groaning.

Bilbo tried to re-enact the hand-print on the steamy car window like in Titanic, but he couldn't reach it from the position he was in, and ended up just flailing his arm around until he realised it was futile.

Thorin's previous smugness had dissipated into the sweet and affectionate puppy he always was after the act, much to Bilbo's delight.

"I love you." Thorin whispered sweetly, "I love you so, so much."

"I love you too," Bilbo replied hoarsely, his voice strained from crying out in passion.

"Marry me." Thorin said, his words slightly muffled as they pressed to Bilbo's neck.

"M-Marry you?" Bilbo echoed in disbelief, "Are you serious?"

"I can't live without you." Thorin muttered as he nuzzled into Bilbo's neck, "I know that now isn't the ideal time to ask, being that I'm still in you and all, but I simply couldn't hold back."

There was a long pause, Thorin remained silent to let Bilbo think it over. Maybe it was a bad idea to spring this on him when they were in the back seat of Thorin's car, and their pants around their ankles. Whatever Bilbo's answer, Thorin would still love him and want to be with him, and if Bilbo still wanted to be his, he would plan a proper proposal, with dinner and candle light and a fat diamond ring presented in a tiny red-velvet box.

"I-Yes. Yes I will." Bilbo blurted out suddenly.

"Really?!" Thorin blurted out with equal suddenness.

"Yes! I-I love you. I don't- I don't want to be with anyone else."

Thorin laughed with joy and pressed dozens of light kisses to Bilbo's neck.

"T-Thorin?"

"Yes, my treasure?"

"Could you pull out?"

"Oh! Sure, sorry."

The car ride home was strangely electric, both Thorin and Bilbo were buzzing with excitement over the progression in their relationship.

"You have to promise not to leave me after I introduce you to my family." Thorin said after a long but comfortable silence.

"If you'll do the same for me that would be splendid."

They both laughed heartily, and Thorin moved one of his hands from the steering wheel so he could hold Bilbo's hand and gently rub his thumb over his knuckles.

"So, you really want to be tied down to an old man like me?" Thorin asked with a touch of softness in his voice.

Bilbo smiled in return, "Whatever this started out as doesn't matter. I love you, and to be honest, I've never loved anyone. I think I'll be hanging around for a while yet."

"I'm glad. I hope you're looking forward to being Bilbo Durin."

"Hold on, why won't it be you becoming Thorin Baggins?"

"If that were the case then I'd have to change the name of my company, and I'd have to get rid of my monogram slippers. If you still want to be a Baggins then you can, it was just a thought."

"No, it's fine. I'd like to have the same surname as you. It'll just take some getting used to."

They went home and showered, then they went to bed. The next day went on as all the other days did, with Thorin going to work and Bilbo remaining home to work on his book. But things were different, Thorin's mind rested solely on Bilbo and their engagement.

When Dwalin came in so they could go to lunch together, Thorin didn't even register it until his friend had dropped a pile of papers onto his desk with a loud thud.

"What's with you? You're usually more alert during work."

Thorin stood and straightened his tie, a lopsided grin on his lips as he walked past Dwalin and to the door, "Bilbo and I are getting married." He said as he left through the door.

"WHAT?!" Dwalin exclaimed loudly, people sent his odd looks and he cleared his throat. "Married?" he whispered with a hiss.

"Yes, married," Thorin confirmed, "I asked, he said yes."

Dwalin stood dumbstruck for a moment, "Right, well, congratulations I guess."

"Thank you. I was going to use my lunch-break to pick out a nice engagement ring, would you like to come along?"

"I, sure I guess."

'Bifur's jewellers' is the best place in the city to get gold and precious gems. Thorin knew because his father got all of his mother's jewellery there.

Thorin was looking over the glittering engagement rings with great scrutiny, his fiancé wasn't going to wear anything but the best, even if he would eventually trade it for a golden wedding band.

Thorin could afford it, so it didn't concern him.

"So what made you want to pop the question? I just thought you and Bilbo would stay together without any of the formalities." Dwalin asked as he trailed behind Thorin, keeping his eye out for something he or perhaps Ori would like.

"I dunno," Thorin mumbled, "I just want to be with him for the rest of my life."

Dwalin nodded, "I get that. Makes sense."

"I'm getting on, and I think it's overdue that I had a family of my own." Thorin added, "Oh, I like this one."

Dwalin leant over to see the ring Thorin had picked, it was a gold band with five diamonds on it, the gem in the centre was larger than the others, and perhaps larger than all the other gems in the store.

"Bifur!" Thorin called excitedly, "I'll take this one!"

Bifur the store owner had given Thorin the space to browse, but strutted over at Thorin's call.

"See something you like, Laddie?" the greying man asked gruffly.

"Yes, I want that one."

"It's expensive."

"I don't care."

"Engagement rings are only temporary."

"I don't care."

"It's fifty thousand. I wouldn't be a good friend to your father if I didn't try to talk you out of-"

"Bifur, I want that one."

"I'll never understand you rich kids, but ok."

"So Thorin proposed in the back seat of his car?"

"Yep."

Bilbo had gotten writers block and called up Ori. They were standing in Thorin's kitchen with a cup of coffee in each of their hands, Bilbo had just finished explaining the events of the previous night.

"I can't believe it," Ori breathed, "I'm happy for you, but I never actually considered you actually marrying each other."

"Don't you think you and Dwalin?..."

"I expect it would be at least five to ten years of being together before that would even cross our minds. I can't help but wonder though…"

"Wonder what?" Bilbo asked.

"You don't think that, maybe, Thorin is going through a mid-life crisis? I only ask because Dwalin was talking about taking up skateboarding a week ago, and after I talked to him he eventually told me he was feeling old."

"Thorin hasn't been acting out of the ordinary," Bilbo said thoughtfully, "The proposal was unexpected, but I think that it's been in the back of his mind for a while. Despite all his gruff exterior, he's actually very affectionate. He has a lot of love to give and I think marrying me is just an extension of that."

"I think you might be right." Ori hummed in thought, "But if he talks about taking up extreme sports, that's the time to worry."

"I'll keep that in mind." Bilbo laughed. "Why was Dwalin feeling old by the way? He's fitter than most people our age."

Ori chuckled lightly, "It's because he finished before me. He felt like a failure."

"Is that all?" Bilbo snorted in amusement.

"Yep, his pride was wounded I think."

Bilbo shook his head, "Men."

Ori nodded, "I know."

They heard the door being opened and Thorin came in with Dwalin walking in close behind. Thorin had a wide grin on his face.

"Ori, I thought you were visiting your publisher today?" Dwalin said as he pressed a kiss to his lover's lips.

"The meeting finished early and then Bilbo called. What about you? I didn't expect you to leave work so soon."

"Thorin's been mooning for Bilbo all day," Dwalin whispered so only Ori could hear, "I took advantage of his good mood and suggested we call it a day."

Ori giggled and the two turned their attention to Thorin and Bilbo.

"How did the writing go today?" Thorin asked.

Bilbo huffed but smiled, "Darling, you're grinning so much I can tell you have something to say, so why don't we skip the fake 'how was your day dear.'"

"Alright." Thorin reached into his pocket and pulled out a red velvet box, just like the one he had dreamt of presenting Bilbo with. He knelt down on one knee, "I know I asked before, but I want to do it properly now, with our pants on and everything." He flipped open the lid and the ring he'd picked caused a gasp to come from Bilbo, "Marry me?"

"Yes!" Bilbo sobbed as he rubbed his flooding eyes.

Thorin took the ring out of the box and slipped it on Bilbo's finger, which promptly slipped back off again. Thorin frantically caught it before it could hit the ground.

Everyone laughed aside from Thorin, who flushed with embarrassment, "I'll- uh, I'll get it re-sized."

Thorin wanted to practice how he was going to tell his family that he had met Bilbo online, dated him for only a few months and then proposed to him shortly after they moved in together. So he invited Fili over to be the first to learn of the engagement, and of course, Legolas came with him.

"Uncle! I'm so, so happy for you!" Fili shouted as he leapt from the couch and forced himself into Thorin's arms.

"Thank you," Thorin wheezed through Fili's painful hug.

"I guess I can't call you Uncle Bilbo now." Fili winked to Thorin's fiancé. "When are you going to tell mother?"

Thorin sighed as Fili sat back down next to Legolas, "I'm not sure, but I have to choose the perfect moment. She's going to be mad at me for not mentioning Bilbo earlier."

"Yeah she doesn't like being out of the loop. At least I don't have to worry about Frerin, he's off gallivanting around France."

"Are you planning on having an engagement party?" Legolas asked.

"Yes, I think so." Bilbo answered, "We'll have to, since we're not having a ceremony."

The two lovers looked at each other and smiled. They had decided just to go to town hall and register instead of having to go through with all the stress of planning a ceremony. They both disliked drama, and in their opinions, wedding were all drama.

"Aww," Fili whined, "I wanted to be a groomsman, and Legolas could have been a bridesmaid."

"Bridesmaid?" the blond said flatly, "Really?"

"And I'm not a bride!" Bilbo exclaimed, "I'm just as much of a groom as Thorin! My position in bed doesn't change that!"

"Keep telling yourself that, Uncle Bilbo." Fili grinned.

Legolas punched him in the arm and Bilbo threw a cushion at him, Thorin simply laughed. He always found Fili to be endearing, Kili too. He loved his nephews with all his heart, and for that brief moment he wondered what it would be like to have a child of his own.

Thorin took Bilbo to bed that night with his fiancé wearing only the engagement ring. It was all Thorin needed, his sweetheart and the symbol of their commitment.

"Do you think they'll like me?" Bilbo asked, his voice in a post-coital whisper.

"Why wouldn't they? You're wonderful." Thorin replied with a soft chuckle.

"But…" Bilbo sighed, "I've never asked to meet them because I'm worried that they'll think of me as some sort of gold digger."

"How long have you felt like this?" Thorin asked, his brows knitted together.

"Ever since we met," Bilbo confessed with a forced smile, "I know we never talked about age, but I know what people are thinking when they see us together."

"I don't care what they think." Thorin growled in a low tone, "I love you, and you love me. We're getting married and that's that."

"I wish I had your confidence."

Thorin tried to reassure Bilbo with a tender kiss. He wanted nothing more than for Bilbo to be happy and assured in their relationship.

Three weeks past and Bilbo had been steadily planning the only celebration of their wedding that they were going to have, it turned out that Bilbo had a flare for party planning. Thorin would often return to find Bilbo exactly where he left him, huddled over his desk with a mess of papers around him, snoring lightly.

He woke Bilbo from his sleep and they went to the kitchen to make dinner, "We'll have the party and go to register the day after. That way we won't have to have two parties." Bilbo said as he puttered around the kitchen.

"You're so clever my love." Thorin smiled.

"I was thinking that we could go somewhere warm for our honeymoon. I hate these Erebor winters."

"A fantastic idea, sweetheart."

"I've been thinking about this for a while, but I can't decide what to do with that spare room, do you have any ideas? I was thinking of making it a sewing room but I don't know if I need a whole room just for sewing, you know?"

"Hmm." Thorin mumbled, "I'm not sure."

When they went to bed that night, Thorin couldn't sleep. He kept thinking of the empty room. So much so that he got out of bed and went to it, the only things in it were some of Bilbo's old furniture. He hadn't realised how empty it was until Bilbo pointed it out, in fact, he didn't realised how empty his life was before Bilbo's profile picture brought Bilbo into his life.

Things were moving fast, but he would be lying if he said it was a bad thing. Bilbo made him enjoy life, he had become enthusiastic about the simplest joys there were and he was determined to experience more.

And maybe that meant extending their little family.

The idea remained in the back of Thorin's mind for another week. His work was little distraction from his thoughts, but he still performed as well as he always did. He had a cute little fiancé to provide for, after all.

But it was maddening. He wanted to ask Bilbo about having a child, but he also felt a little selfish. Thorin was secure in his career, but Bilbo's career hadn't even begun, not really, could he really ask Bilbo to become a parent when he hadn't reached his ambitions yet?

Thorin decided to just to it quickly, it would be over and his mind could be at rest, he would accept Bilbo's response be it yes or no. he opened up his messages, wrote a new one and just sent it without thinking twice.

'I think we should have a baby.'

After ten minutes of anxious waiting, his phone buzzed with a reply.

'That is so many shades of wrong.'

Before the shock of the reply could sink in, Thorin's eye caught sight of the name in the corner of his phone.

Dis.

He read it over and over again, Dis. Dis. Dis. Dis. Dis.

"Oh fucking, fuck, shit fuck."

* * *

Chapter 12: The Twelfth Step is Giving Daddy a Family...

Thorin had several choices:

One: He could admit to everything he had been hiding.

Two: He could pretend Dwalin stolen his phone and sent a prank text.

Three: He could say it was auto-correct.

Four: He could claim to be very, very drunk.

But there were flaws with every option, he couldn't admit to his relationship like this or Dis would be livid. Dwalin wouldn't steal his phone because he's not a juvenile and no one knows the pass-code, the words look to deliberate to be auto-correct, and it's the middle of the day, Thorin never drinks in the middle of the day or during work.

So what was he to do? Before he could decide, Dis texted him again.

'Don't even pretend that it was an accident.'

Thorin texted back the first thing he could think of;

'I'm very drunk.'

'Thorin, you don't drink at work.'

'I did todayasdfghjk'

'No, you're faking it, you don't text when you're drunk. Just tell me the truth.'

'I had sooooo many shotsssssss.'

I'm not laughing Thorin.'

'You have small feet.'

'You're only making it worse for yourself.'

Thorin was sweating, he was in some real trouble now because of his attempts to cover up his mistaken text. He knew he was only delaying the inevitable, he knew that he should just be a man and admit to having a beautiful young fiancé whom he wanted to have a child with. But…

'Im gonna order another round, l8tr sisss #lol #imdrunk.'

He collapsed his head onto his desk and groaned. He'd never use a hashtag, but he didn't know what else to do. Dis was going to confront him, he knew it, and he dreaded it.

It wasn't that he didn't want his family to know of how his life was going, he loved his family and enjoyed the closeness they all shared, but dating had never been easy for Thorin.

His first girlfriend was scared away by his sister's wit. She couldn't keep up with her topics of conversation.

His second girlfriend was stolen by Frerin. Not that Thorin cared all that much.

After realising his preference for men, Thorin got a boyfriend. Also stolen by Frerin, he cared a little bit more that time.

Dating had become a chore for Thorin, he forgave his sister for her high conversation standards, and he forgave his brother for his promiscuity on the grounds that he wouldn't want a relationship with someone who could be fooled by Frerin's idiotic charm.

Years of one night stands and simple disinterest had led him to Bilbo.

And then nothing that had come before mattered to Thorin one bit.

He simply chose to put off introducing Bilbo for that sake of getting to know Bilbo without the hindrance of his family. But doing so might make things difficult for Bilbo now. He didn't know what to do, but his work was piling up, so he turned his mind to less personal matters.

Bilbo read and re-read his latest chapter, it wouldn't be long until it was time for him to present his manuscript to a publisher, and then, hopefully, he would be a published novelist. Which had been his dream since childhood.

Feeling proud of himself, he decided to reward his efforts with a cup of tea. He left his desk and went into the kitchen, flicking on the kettle and retrieving his favourite mug from the cupboard. He sighed contently and let his eyes wander around the apartment. It really looked like a loving home. Of course, Bilbo had a lot to do with that, he had added some colour and life to a place that was once mostly black and sterile. It's amazing what a few framed pictures, a couple of antique lamps and some cushions can do.

The kettle was finished boiling and Bilbo made a move to retrieve his favourite tea, Old Toby, but was diverted when he heard a knock at the door.

He went to the door and opened it slowly, there stood a woman with long, lush hair that was every bit as inky black as Thorin's, her cool blue eyes met Bilbo's, both of them surprised to see the other. She looked familiar.

"Can I… Help you?" Bilbo asked cautiously.

"That remains to be seen," She replied, "If you can answer some of my questions."

"That depends on who's asking." Bilbo replied as politely as he could.

"I'm Thorin's sister. I simply want to know who it is he wants to have a baby with."

"A b-baby?" Bilbo flushed bright red, his hands came to rest on his heated cheeks, "He w-wants to have a baby? W-with me? Oh goodness…"

"So you're his mysterious sweetheart," She smiled, "Might I come in, um…"

"Oh! Bilbo Baggins, it's nice to meet you Dis." Bilbo stuck out his hand to shake the other's hand.

"It's nice to meet you too, Bilbo. Has my brother spoken of me?"

"Yes, you're his youngest sibling and only sister. There's a picture of you on the bookcase. Would you like to come in? I was just about to make tea." Bilbo gestured to the door with a sweep of his arm.

She smiled and nodded, walking through the doorway with Bilbo following close behind,

Bilbo flicked the kettle on again to re-heat the water. Dis sat down at the table and Bilbo leant against the bench. "So, Thorin wants to have a baby… with me?"

"That's what he said, before he tried to cover it up. Once he figured it out that he'd mistakenly sent the message to me, he pretended he was drunk." Dis retrieved her phone from her imported leather handbag and handed it to Bilbo, who read through the most resent and most unfortunate texts Thorin had sent to Dis.

"That fool." Bilbo mumbled under his breath. Though his heart did skip a beat at the first text.

'I think we should have a baby.'

"You can understand my shock, I was simply going over my weeks' schedule when I came to realise that my dear brother was in a secret relationship." Dis sighed and shook her head, "Thorin's far too paranoid."

Bilbo handed back her phone and made two cups of tea, taking a seat near Dis. "I don't know what to say except he was planning on introducing us, he simply wanted to wait for the right time."

Dis scoffed, "The right time for Thorin would be his death bed. It hurt a little, knowing that he thinks I can't handle knowing of his relationships."

Bilbo sat silently with his eyes downcast. What was he supposed to say? That he was afraid of being judged so he didn't push Thorin to introduce him to his family?

"You're quite young, aren't you?" Dis said thoughtfully.

Bilbo flinched slightly, "I suppose I am, and so are you, for a mother with two university aged sons."

Dis laughed lightly, "Teenage pregnancy will do that."

Bilbo blinked twice and lifted his eyes, Dis continued to smile.

"It's not a taboo subject, and I'm not ashamed. I simply got a little carried away with my deep and thoughtful artist boyfriend and now husband."

"Thorin didn't mention that," Bilbo noted, "But then again, I don't know much about you at all."

"Well, I'm here to change that." Dis grinned, "So, Bilbo Baggins, how did you win my brother's heart? And how did you get him to give you that massive diamond ring?"

Bilbo flushed bright red and took a sip of his tea, he would need a lot of energy to get through this explanation.

"So there you have it," Bilbo concluded, "The most unorthodox love story you've ever heard."

"Wow," Dis exclaimed, "My brother is such a fool at love. He really sent you a refrigerator?"

"Yes." Bilbo chuckled. "It was a surprise to say the least."

"Hmm." Dis hummed and leant back on her chair. "From what I can tell, Bilbo, you're a nice person and you obviously care about my brother, and don't worry so much about the age thing. It's not like either of you could help it."

Bilbo found himself feeling greatly relieved at the statement.

"So, all of my questions are answered, save for one."

"And what might that be?" Bilbo asked curiously.

"What do you think of having a child with my brother?" She asked gently, "Would you consider it?"

"I-" Bilbo stuttered, "I think this is a conversation I should be having with him."

"You're right," Dis nodded, "I'm sorry, I think I might have gotten carried away."

Bilbo smiled, "It's fine, really, it's sweet that you care so much. I don't have any siblings so it makes me kind of envious."

"I'll be your sister soon enough, at least by marriage. You can have noisy Christmas's and birthdays, just the kind that Thorin hates." Dis reached out and patted Bilbo's hand affectionately, the two smiling like they'd found a friend.

"I'd like that."

Bilbo was at his desk when Thorin returned from work, he had to put in some extra hours to make up for his absent-mindedness. It was just past dinner time when he made it home.

"Bilbo, I'm sorry I'm late." Thorin said softly.

Bilbo looked over to Thorin with surprise in his eyes, "Late? What time is it?"

"Just past seven. Have you been writing all day?" Thorin smiled as he approached the desk.

"I suppose I have," Bilbo yawned, "I can't believe I forgot about dinner! I'm so sorry Thorin!"

"It's ok, why don't we order something to be delivered here? You can tell me about your book while we wait."

Bilbo had something else he wanted to talk about, but first, they had to order takeout.

With their pizza on route, they settled on the couch and snuggled together, Bilbo in Thorin's lap and their arms around each other.

"I have something I need to ask you." Thorin prompted softly.

"And what might that be?" Bilbo asked in an equally soft tone.

"I know that this has all been happening pretty fast, but I want- I want a real life with you. I want a family with you… a child."

Bilbo exhaled a deep breath, he'd been expecting Thorin to bring it up. And he'd been prepared for it. Admits all his writing, the question had been simmering in his mind, and he had an answer.

"I'd love to have a child with you, Thorin."

"Really?" Thorin whispered in happy disbelief, "If you'd rather wait for your career to progress a little more-"

"Thorin," Bilbo soothed, "I can have a career and a child, and I'll have you there too. Let's do it. Let's have a child."

Thorin smiled and exhaled, closing his eyes, he rested his forehead against Bilbo's. "I never thought I'd find someone I'd want to marry, and I never thought I'd have a child, but you've given me both my love."

"And you've given me the same." Bilbo kissed Thorin's nose affectionately, "Now we know what to do with that spare room."

As they ate their pizza, Thorin smiled at Bilbo and laughed, "You know, I was going to ask you about having a child via text, but I accidently sent it to my sister instead! Luckily I managed to convince her I was drunk."

Thorin looked so proud of himself, Bilbo couldn't bear to tell him that he was as subtle as a punch in the face in is fake texting, but he had too, he couldn't keep Dis's visit a secret.

"Actually, your sister paid me a visit today." Bilbo mumbled as he nibbled at his slice of pizza.

"No." Thorin whispered, his hands dropping to his lap, "She didn't."

"She did, we had a very long chat and I explained everything. She wasn't mad, by the way, she was just a little hurt that you didn't trust her." Bilbo smiled softly.

Thorin huffed and felt a touch of guilt, "Maybe I was a little immature."

"She took your favourite mug as revenge."

"THAT BITCH!"

Like with the party planning, Thorin left it to Bilbo to decide how they would have a child. Bilbo didn't mind it, because Thorin was always there to discuss things when Bilbo needed. He was just doing the leg work, so to speak. He first considered surrogacy, like Bard and Thranduil did, so he and Thorin met up with them to discuss it.

They all sat in their living room, all the pleasantries completed and the tea served.

"How did you go about it? How did you decide who was the right mother?" Bilbo asked eagerly, his hands and Thorin's entwined intimately.

"Back then it was a little more difficult and less choices." Bard began, "But we were lucky to find a nice hippy woman who wanted to 'create life', so she said, but she didn't want to take care of the child that would result in the creation."

"I think having children made her feel more in tune with Mother Nature." Thranduil added, "But her reasons didn't concern us, she was the best choice by far due to her young age and healthy diet. She was kind and never took anything mind-altering."

"Thranduil was the father of Legolas, and I fathered the others," Bard offered, "We didn't care which of us was related to the child by blood."

"And you used the same mother for all of them?" Thorin asked.

"Yes, Iris was the mother of all of them." Thranduil huffed in good humour and shook his head, "She's a good woman, and she sends us a sea-shell every summer solstice."

Thorin snorted with amusement and Bilbo grinned.

Bard ran his fingers through his hair, "We were lucky, I've heard stories of surrogates wanting to keep the children they birth, or fighting against same-sex parents. Iris was kind and accepting, even if she never brushed her hair."

"Tilda has that same unruly hair." Thranduil mumbled, "And the same rebellious spirit against footwear."

"Have you decided which one of you will be the father?" Bard asked.

"Well, we haven't decided if we want to use surrogacy yet." Bilbo answered, "We thought we'd see what you have to say and take that into consideration."

"What about adoption?" Thranduil inquired, "You could make a lonely child very happy."

"We're going to visit a children's home next week." Thorin explained, "We're just exploring our options. We'd like to have a child as soon as possible. Or at least soon after the honeymoon."

"Whatever you choose, you can't go wrong." Bard smiled, "Either way, you'll have a family of your own."

Thorin and Bilbo had thought about it for a while, they had discussed it at length, but they had gotten no closer to deciding what to do.

"Maybe if we go to a children's home and just see if there is anyone there who would be right for us, it'll help us make a decision." Bilbo said one morning as he set Thorin's breakfast down on the table.

"If you think that will help." Thorin sighed, rubbing his tired eyes.

The issue had been weighing heavily on both of their minds, and with their betrothal/wedding party closing in on them, they really wanted to have this last piece of their life in place.

"I'll call ahead and see if we need to make an appointment." Bilbo added, "If there's a chance we could get in today, would you be able to come home from work early? I-I know you've missed a lot because of me, but I just-"

"Don't fret, sweetheart." Thorin smiled warmly, "I'm sure Dwalin won't mind covering for me if it's for something this important."

Bilbo did call the children's home, and found out that he and Thorin could come by sometime after noon. The two drove there feeling nervous, but also hopeful that maybe they would end the day with the promise of their family growing.

'Erebor City Children's Home' was written in gold on a plaque at the gate, which was set by a perimeter of high stone walls. The building itself was made of a cheery red brick with a classic ivy creepy upwards along the side of the building. Thorin and Bilbo could hear children playing as they knocked on the door.

It was answered by an elderly man with a grey beard and kind eyes, he smiled at them. "Mr Baggins and Mr Durin, I presume?"

"Yes," Bilbo replied politely, "You must be Mr Grey, we spoke on the phone."

"Indeed we did, please come in." He stepped from the door and led Thorin and Bilbo passed reception and further into the building until they ended up in an office, Mr Grey sat down and Thorin and Bilbo sat opposite him.

He shuffled some papers before finally speaking again, "Now then, I'll have to ask you both some questions before I let you see the children, standard protocol and all that. We'll start with you, Mr Durin."

"Of course." Thorin said in a serious tone, straightening his back as he did so.

"So, you are to be married in one week, correct?"

"Yes."

"And you've never been convicted of any crimes?"

"No."

"Have you ever taken an illicit substance?"

"No."

"Not even during University?"

"No."

"You can tell me."

"No."

"Not even a little?"

"No."

"So you're telling me that you've never smoked a joint behind the bike shed?"

"For the last time, NO!" Thorin shouted.

"Quick to anger." Mr Grey said as he wrote on his paper.

"No I'm not!"

"Prone to arguing." Mr Grey added.

"You're being unfair!" Thorin complained loudly.

"Also a little childish." Mr Grey mumbled one more time.

Thorin was seething at the man, but Bilbo's hand on his kept him from leaping across the desk and strangling Mr Grey with his own beard.

"Now, Mr Baggins." Mr Grey prompted, "It's your turn."

"Y-Yes." Bilbo nodded, feeling nervous as to what the man would say to him.

Mr Grey's large eyebrows drew together in a serious focus.

"Have you ever cared for a child before?"

"Not really."

"What makes you think you can raise a child when you've had very little contact with them? And according to your file, you've no siblings."

"I will love our child with all my heart, and care for and protect him or her to the best of my ability."

"Can you fight?"

"What?"

"If I were to punch you in the face right now, would you be able to block it or would you have a very sore face?"

"I-I suppose I won't be able to block it, per se-"

"Possible weakling." Mr Grey said as he scribbled down more words. "So why do you think you can protect a child, if you can't protect yourself?"

"Because the child's safety is more important than mine!" Bilbo declared loudly.

Mr Grey sat back in his chair, "Hmm." He hummed.

Thorin and Bilbo sat there, both of them had never felt such tension hang in the air before, they felt as though their very future relied on them impressing this man, to prove to him and to themselves that they could care for a child and raise him or her well.

"I gave you both background checks and called your references as soon as we got off the phone, I think you are suitable to adopt one of our precious children."

"So what was all the interrogation for?" Thorin growled lowly.

Mr Grey grinned, "I like to have a little fun every now and then." He replied with an amused tone, "If you can learn to handle my childishness then I think you'll do well with an actual child."

Bilbo exhaled steadily and Thorin grumbled under his breath.

"So, are you looking for a boy or girl?" Mr Grey asked.

The question took them both by surprise, they hadn't even thought of that…

"Um, we don't know." Bilbo answered unsteadily.

"Hmm." Mr Grey hummed, "Child or infant?"

Thorin and Bilbo looked at each other, "We haven't thought about that." Thorin grumbled.

"No matter." Mr Grey said as he stood from his desk and prompted Thorin and Bilbo to do the same. "We'll take a walk."

The building was a lot bigger than they had thought, the hallways seemed to stretch on and led to something different each time. They passed a little library, a computer lab, an art room, until they came across a hall with a stork painted on the walls.

"This is the nursery." Mr Grey explained, "This is where the babies are kept."

Thorin and Bilbo looked through the window and into the room full of a dozen cradles. Each baby was wrapped in their gender assigned colour. Bilbo spoke softly, "Could we go in?"

"Yes, but we must be quiet."

They moved into the room as quiet as shadows, Thorin allowing Bilbo to take the lead. He stopped at a cradle that held a tiny baby boy. He was awake, his big blue eyes peered curiously at Bilbo and Thorin.

"He has eyes like you." Bilbo whispered fondly. "And your dark hair."

"Indeed," Thorin whispered with a smile on his lips, "And your curls."

Mr Grey picked up the boys clipboard from the end of his cradle. "He was brought to us three days ago." He began, "His birth parents were in an accident and his next of kin couldn't take him. He's not yet five months."

"His name?" Bilbo whispered as he offered his fingers for the little baby to hold.

"We couldn't find a birth certificate, and his next of kin didn't know, so he's just been dubbed baby Brandybuck. Which was his parent surname."

"Hello there, baby," Thorin said in an impossibly soft tone. He didn't know if he imagined it, but he hoped he didn't, but he thought he saw the infant smile at him.

That was enough for Thorin. He took Bilbo's hand and squeezed it lightly, "I think he's the one, Bilbo."

"I-I think so too," Bilbo smiled, "He looks so much like us, it's almost like he is our boy."

Thorin and Bilbo grinned widely and came together for a strong kiss.

"We'll take him!" Thorin declared as loudly as he could while still in a whisper.

"This isn't a car lot, you don't simply take a child home with you the day you pick one. There's paperwork, I need to inspect your home, is it baby proofed?" Mr Grey reminded with a small smile.

"No…" Thorin said with a touch of embarrassment.

Best get to it then," Mr Grey ordered playfully, don't get ahead of yourselves, but I do like your enthusiasm, Mr Durin."

As they drove back home later that afternoon, Thorin shouted, "Seriously what was with that guy?!"

"I know!" Bilbo shouted back, "He was such a strange guy!"

There was a short, silent pause.

"Nice guy though." Thorin mumbled honestly.

"Yeah he was." Bilbo agreed. "We should invite him over for tea."

"Sure." Thorin nodded.

There was another silent pause.

"When we have the child, what will we go by? Who is daddy and who is papa?" Bilbo asked.

"I'll be daddy." Thorin answered with a curt nod.

"I dunno…" Bilbo said with a grimace.

"Why is that?"

"Well… I call you daddy."

Another pause.

"I can see how that could be bad."

"So you're papa."

"Yes."

"And I'm daddy."

"Only outside the bedroom."

"Of course."

* * *

Chapter 13: The Last Step is to Be Happy With Daddy...

Thorin and Bilbo had been working diligently to get things ready for Mr Grey's inspection, which was to happen sometime that day. Though they were positive that every possible danger was taken care of, Bilbo insisted that they go over everything just to be sure.

"I checked the cabinets again." Bilbo fretted for what seemed like the millionth time that day, "That should do. But oh, what if we missed something?"

"Love," Thorin sighed, "We'll be fine. We've done everything that we can do."

"I don't trust that old man." Bilbo said warily, "What if he has some strange and unexpected test for us? He would probably light something on fire just to see how we handle it."

"I'm sure he won't go that far." Thorin laughed nervously. There was every chance that the old man would go that far, but he wasn't going to tell Bilbo that.

Bilbo collapsed onto the couch with a groan and Thorin did the same, but without the dramatics. He took Bilbo's hand in his as a show of reassurance and solidarity.

"Just think, in a no time at all we'll have a little child of our own to spoil and fawn over, and all this will be nothing more than a memory." They sighed in unison and melted against each other, until Bilbo shot out of his seat, nearly head-butting Thorin in the process.

"We haven't picked a name for him yet!" Bilbo cried out in horror, "What kind of parents don't give their baby a name! Thorin! What do we do?!"  
Before Thorin could restore sanity to his distraught love, there was a heavy handed knock at the door that signalled the arrival of Mr Grey. Bilbo rushed over to the door and flung it open with too much force, clearly appearing frazzled to the older man at the other side of the door.

"Mr Baggins?" Mr Grey questions with a quirk of his brow, "Is everything alright?"

"Oh, yes, everything's fine." Bilbo assured with a quick gathering of his composure, "Please come in."

"Thank you," The older man replied as he stepped into the fine apartment, "I see you've prepared brunch?"

"Yes!" Bilbo replied, "Please take a seat. Would you like some tea? Coffee? We've got some old bottles of wine around here somewhere…"

"Just tea, thank you." He smiled, "And please calm yourself Mr Baggins, it's not for your health to be so worried."

Thorin chuckled and took a seat with Mr Grey, Bilbo huffed at him and brought over a pot of tea.

Mr Grey began helping himself to some scons, buttering one as he spoke, "You've been approved to take little baby Brandybuck on the day that you requested, you'll just have to sign some additional paperwork and the home."

"And that'll be it?" Bilbo asked as he poured the tea for their guest.

"Pretty much." The old man replied, "After I look over your home a bit, of course."

"Yes, we've prepared for that." Bilbo added proudly.

"We'll see." Mr Grey said into his tea cup.

After a somewhat tense but delicious brunch, Mr Grey began his inspection with Thorin and Bilbo hovering close behind.

Mr Grey produced a clipboard from his bag and began ticking and marking the paper as he saw fit, he eyed the condition of the home in terms of it cleanliness and general safety. Thorin was glad that he put away his sword collection. And after a while of opening cabinets and testing possibly sharp corners, he scribbled down some more notes.

Mr Grey went into Thorin and Bilbo's bedroom, going straight to the bedside drawers and opening the top one. He reached in one hand and smoothly pulled out a long line of unused condoms. He eyed them before raising a brow at the couple.

"You should consider hiding these better, they're choking hazards you know."

"Bilbo says the same thing." Thorin replied all too seriously.

Bilbo's eyes widened in horror and embarrassment and batted Thorin's arm. Thorin was always Mr Grumpy, why did he have to be making jokes on a day like this?!

Mr Grey's steady chuckle told Bilbo that it was ok, but he was still cross at his fiancé for making that remark to a stranger.

The man moved over to the bed and flung the sheets down, the sheets that Bilbo had meticulously tucked in so neatly. The sheets were clean and there was nothing there that would cause alarm. "It's quite common for a child to crawl into their parent's bed, keep the sheets clean and don't hide things under the sheets, even in a moment of panic." Mr Grey explained.

Bilbo was confused as to what people would hide in haste, but he nodded anyway.

"Now, where is the baby's room?" He asked.

"Through here." Bilbo provided with an eager desire to move on.

They were quite proud of the nursery. Thorin had put together a crib of dark, chocolate brown wood with a cream coloured mattress and matching sheets. There was also a rocking chair of the same material, as well as a changing table. The walls had been painted by Bofur, being the artistic genius he was. The scene showed rolling green hills and blue skies.

Mr Grey nodded and murmured to himself as he took down some more notes. "You seem to be well equipped. But I must warn you, you're going to need a good network of friends and family if you're going to handle this. No offence, but you're fresh out of University Mr Baggins, and Mr Durin, you've been work-driven for most of your life. It might be difficult for you to take on this task."

"We have all the support we need." Thorin assured him, albeit a little crossly, "I assure you, Bilbo and I didn't get into this thinking that it would be just like a game of house."

"You'll also need to keep that temper in check, Thorin." Mr Grey replied light-heartedly.

When the old man left, the couple felt a great deal of relief. They had passed, and now all they had to do was wait for their baby to be brought to them.

"I wish that we didn't have to deal with all our family and friends," Thorin grumbled as he and Bilbo snuggled into their bed for the night, "I just want it to be us."

"Mmm, me too." Bilbo agreed, "But there's no helping it, they won't leave us alone for at least the first eighteen years of our child's life. If we get through the party, I'm sure we'll manage it."

"Right, the party… Is there any way we could cancel it?"

Bilbo laughed softly, "Your sister is still mad at you for not introducing me sooner, I don't think it would do for us to make her even madder."

"You have a point…"

Thorin hated throwing parties. It meant a messy house, loud and nosey guests that would look through his things and not know when to leave, and piles of uneaten food he wouldn't even begin to know how to deal with.

But at least this time he had Bilbo to cook the food, prepare the house, and make pleasantries with the guests when Thorin couldn't keep it up any longer.

It was their engagement/wedding party, so Thorin decided to try his best, even if the very thought of his sister's prying questions and his brother's innuendo filled jokes did flood his mind with dread.

The first to arrive were Dwalin and Ori, of course, so it gave them time to ease into a pleasant social atmosphere.

But Dwalin had to go and brag about all the time he's spent at the gym, leaving Thorin with apparently no choice but to arm wrestle with his oldest friend.

Ori and Bilbo looked on with bemusement at the turn of events, seeing that their 'mature' men were happy being as juvenile as teenagers.

It ended with Thorin loss, but both of them sported sore arms. Bilbo could see how crestfallen Thorin was, so he made a point to gush about how strong he was. Thorin promised he'd get him next time.

"Are you nervous about meeting the rest of Thorin's family?" Ori asked to shift the focus.

"A little, but it's just his brother, brother-in-law and other nephew. I've met his sister and oldest nephew already."

"Vili's a nice guy." Dwalin provided, "Doesn't talk much. Makes him good company."

"Dis's husband?"

"Yep. Every bit as blond as Fili but only half as foolish. He lives for Dis."

Thorin snorted in laughter, "Leave it to my sister to marry the submissive, quiet kind of guy. She could never handle two personalities in the relationship."

Said woman and her husband arrived shortly after, with Fili and Kili in tow. The first thing Kili did was rush and Thorin.

"Why didn't you tell me you were in a relationship and were planning to adopt?! You told Fili!" He pouted grumpily.

Bilbo couldn't believe how much Kili resembled his uncle, he was a softer version but they had the same hair and eyes, and the beginnings of the same features.

Thorin patted his teenage nephew on the head, "I didn't mean to have Fili find out, he was just being a pest at the right time. I promise that you'll be the first to hold our son."

"Really?" Kili said sceptically, "Promise?"

"I promise," Thorin smiled, "Now meet my fiancé, Bilbo."

Bilbo extended his hand in friendship. And instead got an arm full of the emotional teen. "Uncle Bilbo! It's so nice to meet you, I'm Kili, and you're favourite nephew!"

"Hey!" Fili called, "He loves me the most!"

The argument went on until Bard, Thranduil, and Legolas arrived, because Fili's focus shifted once more to the object of his unyielding affections.

"Your home is… cute." Thranduil said in an almost compliment as he handed Thorin the gift they'd brought.

"I'm glad you approve." Thorin grumbled back before he shook Bard's hand, "I wouldn't judge you if you got divorced." He whispered.

"Sorry Thorin," Bard smiled, "I'm in it for the long haul."

Their last guest, Frerin, arrived in a whirlwind of dramatic hello, then proceeded to say inappropriate things to Bilbo, and then straight on to Thorin's nerves.

"You're a dick."

"I'm just saying that you're probably going to miss going on vacation whenever you want, going to dinner, or screwing Bilbo whenever you want. It's a mistake, you won't have any time to yourselves!"

"Frerin." Thorin growled, "If only our parents had the same attitude before you were spawned."

"Ouch!" Frerin laughed, "I do love these little chats of ours, darling big brother, but judging by the pulsating vein in your forehead I think it's time for me to go annoy Dis for a while."

"Please do." Thorin replied through grit teeth.

Bilbo's hand was on Thorin's shoulder as he pressed a kiss to Thorin's bearded cheek, "Calm down love, he's just playing around. It's… cute."

"Try growing up with him being that 'cute' all the time."

They sat around to open the gifts that were brought. Bilbo did the honours and gleefully tore away the wrapping paper.

Dis and Vili had given them a selection of Fili and Kili's old toys. They were a little worn, but their sturdiness had been proved after years of rough handling. Thranduil, true to his style gave them the most opulent looking baby clothes that anyone in the room had ever seen. He must have spent hours stitching together these tiny garments of every colour. Thranduil tried to play it off as nothing, but they all knew he put a lot of work into it. Dwalin and Ori gave them a Mobil for the crib, it had a red dragon and knights on it, and played a sweet tune when it was wound up.

Frerin gave them a framed picture of himself, which was begrudgingly accepted.

All of the worried that Thorin had before the party had started seemed relatively unfounded. It turned out to be a pleasant evening. Everyone got on well enough and they only had to pull Fili and Legolas apart three times.

At the end of the night, they gave a toast to Thorin and Bilbo and their family.

The next day, they drove to city hall, signed the marriage registry and became husbands.

But that wasn't even the best part of their day, because they drove over to the Children's Home and picked up their son. Baby Frodo.

Thorin, a once workaholic turned Sugar Daddy, was now a Husband and Father.


	59. (E) GERASKIER - Footprints Are More Easi

Footprints Are More Easily Seen in the Snow  
madsthenerdygirl

Summary:  
Jaskier was already surprised when he ran into Geralt again. Even more so when the Witcher insisted Jaskier spend the winter with him. And now Geralt's... being nice?

Meanwhile Geralt would just like everyone around him to stop telling him to "talk" about his "feelings."

* * *

War comes.

Of course it comes, and Jaskier is tempted to go down to the coast, but when he thought about the coast he thought _we_, and he can't quite bear to go through with it alone.

Besides, the people will need songs to soothe them and encourage them in the times ahead. He's known more for his love songs and his humorous ballads—and of course his tales of the White Wolf—but there's a cycle or two in him yet. The kind that has everyone sitting quietly while he spins an entire story set to the strumming lute, history in a song. That was how he learned, as a child, and then when he had to take his damn history lessons at Oxenfurt. It's easier to remember what king ruled when and who was married to whom when it was all set to music.

So war comes, and Jaskier stays, and he watches as Nilfgaard carves its way through the Continent. He steals parchment (like everything else, it's become a scarce commodity) to record what he sees and to spin it into songs he can remember. Even if Nilfgaard does end up chaining them all, you can't kill an idea, and people _will _remember this. They will remember.

He hears of Cintra falling. Rumors that the princess escaped. He could chase the rumors, if he wanted. See where they lead. Learn if the White Wolf found his lion cub. There's an epic ballad in that.

He's careful to go in the opposite direction.

It wasn't a djinn wish. But he tries to honor it all the same.

The thing is—the thing is that Geralt never _said _that they're friends. Of course he didn't. Geralt never says anything when he can get away with it. But he would buy rosin when Jaskier was running low, when Jaskier had thought Geralt wouldn't even notice something like that. He would buy Jaskier dinner more often than not, even though Jaskier made plenty of money off his songs. He would give his own cloak to Jaskier when it got cold, and always insisted on taking the bed closer to the door in case someone tried to attack them. He didn't complain about Jaskier nearly as much as he could have, as much as most people did, and he let Jaskier patch up his wounds and wash his hair.

Jaskier is stupid but he's not _dumb_, and he knew what Geralt was saying. They were friends. Oh, sure, Jaskier has his own ridiculous daydreams of something more, but he's well aware that's never going to happen. He falls a little in love with everyone he meets, and then falls out of love with them a week later after saying goodbye. Figures that the one time he falls in love and _stays _in love, falls right into a pit he can't climb out of, it's with a goddamn Witcher—and a goddamn Witcher who doesn't want him back.

He's done his crying, his binge drinking, and his wallowing over that, thanks. And he's learned to shoulder it.

Point is, he knew Geralt thought of them as—as something, even if the man never said it. And he knows… sort of, knows, that Geralt was angrier with the situation, than with Jaskier. He lashed out, because Jaskier is the fool who always stays, who always follows, and he gets it, he does, but he just—

He can't do this anymore.

Maybe Geralt didn't really mean it but it still fucking hurt. He's been chasing after Geralt for… wow, for two decades now. It's time to move on. And maybe he overestimated their bond. Geralt, for all his protests, has a soft heart. Maybe he just thought of Jaskier as someone he had to indulge, someone he had to take pity on, rather than an equal whose company he enjoyed.

No matter. Jaskier is determined to find a way to etch himself into history, in ways that don't involve his—the—White Wolf.

He roughs it, roughs it in a way that he rarely did even with Geralt. He grows used to it. He lies about his age, because he knows he looks young and the bard that made the White Wolf famous is in his forties now, not a fresh-faced man in his mid-twenties. He keeps his eyes out for a young girl with blonde hair, just in case, even though he's not even sure why he'd bother. He writes ballads about the war, sings lullabies that soothe the crying children in the camps, writes tragedies about separated lovers that many widows request, and if his songs are all sad ones nowadays at least they're true ones, and the people listen.

_Her Sweet Kiss _is a popular one. He tries not to feel split open every time he sings it.

Autumn is nigh, the first snows are starting to fall, when he's in a tavern, singing a song he never would dare if he thought a certain someone would hear it. But he ran in the opposite direction, and he ran hard and fast, and nobody here knows what it means. They just think it's another sad love song, and they love those.

"My lover's hair is white as snow, my lover's eyes are fire," he sings, and there are people humming along, and it's all going well—and then he sees her.

A child. Well, not a child for much longer. Thirteen or fourteen, he thinks, and oh, _oh_, she looks just like her mother. He feels like he's back in court that day, staring at Pavetta as she defies all convention and her mother, and his heart lurches.

He finishes the song, makes an excuse, and then hurries over. If she's here alone then she's not safe, not safe at all—

"Bit young for you to be in a tavern alone," he points out, trying not to scare her. He nods at the bartender. Food's scarce and so's alcohol, but they all make do. "Do you have parents?"

She raises her chin up in defiance. She is definitely the granddaughter of the Lioness of Cintra. "I'm not sure it's your business, bard."

Oh, she's delightful. "Believe me or not, little lion—" It shows her he knows who she is without tipping off anyone else by using her name. "—I mean you no harm."

"Jaskier."

He freezes.

Cirilla also freezes, her eyes sparking with interest. "Oh, this is _Jaskier_," she says, in an oddly knowing tone. She looks at him with new eyes. "You played at my parents' wedding."

"I did. You are the spitting image of your mother." He smiles at her, and when the bartender (Jacob? Something like that) puts the two dinners down, Jaskier nods at them. "On me."

He looks around—nobody is paying them any mind. He takes Cirilla's hand, presses it. He does not dare bow, not here. "Best of luck to you, cub."

As he turns around, he gets a good look at Geralt—how could he not—and sees that Geralt looks… not worse for wear, exactly, but tired. Run ragged. There is a weariness in the set of his shoulders and in his eyes that Jaskier can't recall seeing before.

There is also a look of surprise.

"Sorry," Jaskier says. Not that he's sure why he's apologizing. "Thought you'd've gone the other way."

He skirts around him, careful not to touch, and makes his way out of the tavern. He'd been hoping to stay here a few more days but needs must. He's not going to set himself up for more abuse, and he's not going to sit and ache while Geralt plays happy families, and he's certainly, one hundred percent, not going to ingratiate himself into Geralt's life again.

The first clue that Geralt's followed him outside are the sound of heavy footfalls. "Jaskier."

"Yes, that's my name." He keeps walking. He got his own horse a while ago, Daisy (he thinks it's funny, his name and hers together), since he knows how to actually name an animal something nice, _Geralt_.

"Jaskier, wait."

A firm hand spins him around and he stumbles, nearly falls. "What?" he all but spits, the word shooting out of him with more venom than he'd intended.

"Where are you going?"

"I'm leaving." He always promised himself, if the time ever came, that he wouldn't cry. So he doesn't. "I'm giving you life's one blessing."

Geralt looks… pained. "It's not safe here. And winter's coming on."

"I'm aware. I'll make do. I did survive eighteen years without you, you know."

"I'm taking Ciri to Kaer Morhen for the winter."

"Good for you." Geralt's gone there every winter while Jaskier would find a court to stay and play in. They'd usually reunite in spring—such as during the djinn fiasco. He turns and starts walking towards the stables again.

"I want you to come with us."

Jaskier freezes.

He turns back. Geralt is standing there looking like someone's stabbed him—in pain and annoyed about it. "You'll be safe there."

Jaskier strides towards him, anger boiling up in his throat. He'd promised himself that he wouldn't confront Geralt, that he'd just take his wounded heart and go, but it seems he's once again weak. "You hurt me. You said things that would deliberately hurt me. You shoved me away and cast me aside after—after all I'd done for you."

"I know."

"You were angry at Yennefer and you took it out on me and you treated me like shit and you thought I would just put up with it!"

"I know."

"You never returned my friendship, you as good as took it and spat it back in my face."

"I know," Geralt says, _again_, and is that the only gods damned set of words he knows!? "Jaskier, you're the White Wolf's bard. You played at Princess Pavetta's wedding, at Cirilla's name day celebration." (And fuck, how does he know about that?) "You're not safe."

Jaskier swallows. "You really want me there? A bard at Kaer Morhen?"

It's the home of the Witchers, and Witchers guard their secrets.

Geralt gives him a look Jaskier is familiar with. It's the look that says _don't be an idiot_. But then he stops himself, and says, with what is clearly great effort, "Please."

Well. With such pretty words…

"I am only doing this," Jaskier informs him, stalking forward and poking his finger into Geralt's chest, hard as he can, "because where Cirilla is, the story is. I'm recording it for posterity. We are not friends."

"Hmm," Geralt says, and Jaskier nearly throws his lute at him.

* * *

The first thing that Geralt notices is the silence.

Well, maybe not the first thing. The first thing he did was surreptitiously inhale a lungful of Jaskier while Jaskier's back was turned, to smell him, to see—

The thing is, Jaskier was the one person who was never afraid of him. Ciri's not afraid of him now, but he could smell it on her at first, could tell she trusted him because of Destiny and not because of _him_. But now she smells like… like hot apple cider, like a fresh hay-stuffed mattress, like a baby bird.

Yennefer's afraid of him. Not for the usual reasons, but she is.

Jaskier, though? Never.

So he has to check, to make sure, and when he does inhale, there is none of the sour stench of fear. But nor does Jaskier smell like he once did, like chamomile and sweetgrass.

That's all right, then. He'll smell better, once they get to safety.

But he doesn't—Geralt waits for the chattering, waits for the on-the-fly song composing, waits for Jaskier to speak—and he doesn't. And that sweetgrass smell doesn't come back, either. Jaskier smells like musk, like rosin, like chamomile, and he always has, but that sweet fresh meadow smell that Geralt used to find soothing (not that he'll ever admit it)… that's vanished.

It oppresses the air, unnerves Geralt, in a way that he didn't expect.

Sometimes—he'll—once, Geralt woke up with a start, his eyes opening, because something in him knew that Ciri was upset. He saw that she wasn't next to him on her bedroll and nearly leapt to his feet, but then he heard Jaskier singing, soft and low, and he looked across the fire to see Jaskier with Ciri's head in his lap, stroking her hair.

Another time, Ciri asked Jaskier to talk about what it was like, the night her parents declared their love and were married, and Jaskier told it to her with all the pomp and fanfare that Geralt never could, dwelling with loving detail on everything from the food to the outfits, and making it sound like a grand, destined affair instead of the fucking mess it actually was.

And another time, while Geralt was hunting food for their dinner, he came back and watched from the shadows as Jaskier taught Ciri how to play the lute.

So sometimes, Jaskier speaks. But it's never to _him_. Never to Geralt.

The ruined spires of Kaer Morhen rise up before them, part of the cliff, part of the forest, and Geralt breathes a sigh of relief where the other two can't see. Ciri will be safe here. Yen will be here, soon, or so her mentor says, the sorceress who informed him she was alive but in critical condition. Ciri can train, Witcher and sorceress both, and Yen will at last be a mother. It's all settled.

And Jaskier…

Jaskier will be safe, and he can sing his songs and strum his lute, and maybe, despite the snow, a dandelion will yet bloom.

* * *

Despite his misgivings, Jaskier quite likes Kaer Morhen.

For one thing, Vesemir is more than happy to share embarrassing stories from when Geralt was growing up. And if his stories also tell the tale of a boy singled out, a boy with great pressure placed upon his not-always-broad-enough shoulders, a boy who was silent and studious and lonely—Jaskier keeps that part to himself.

The other Witchers are all a rather gruff and silent lot, like Geralt, but they're comfortable around their own kind. There is quiet laughter, and old rivalries and in-jokes, and none of them seem to mind Jaskier as much as he thought they would. And there are stories, stories galore, stories that would make any bard weep with envy. Other Witchers, it seems, are keen to have their deeds immortalized, if only to preserve a better name than the one that people tend to give them. Jaskier has more song ideas than he knows what to do with.

Yennefer arrives three days into it.

Jaskier… does not dislike Yennefer because she's stubborn, or foolhardy, or bullheaded, or annoyingly beautiful or annoyingly powerful, or chaotic, or possessed of tunnel vision when she's got an idea into her head. He is well aware that he dislikes her for a very, very, very selfish reason, and that reason is this: she has Geralt of Rivia's heart, and she has not the whit to cherish it.

She dislikes Jaskier, as well, so that's all right, then. They're even.

For once, Yennefer looks less than put together. She is weak and leaning heavily upon a Witcher named Remus for support. He was, apparently, in the area and contracted by Yennefer's something or other (ex-girlfriend? Jaskier's not certain on that point) to get Yennefer to Kaer Morhen safely so that Yen can recover and train Ciri.

Ciri's a darling sparrow, and the moment Yen's eyes land on her, they light up. Well, at least maybe now someone will stop trying to summon djinn to have a child. Jaskier could've told her years ago to just adopt, but then, Yennefer never listens to Geralt, never mind the bard she so openly dislikes.

So he's surprised, to say the least, when he's working on some song lyrics in the crumbling library and Yennefer sits down across from him.

It takes her a bit of time to walk places. Her pace is slower. But she's recovering. Already the color is back in her cheeks, the glint back in her violet eyes.

"I never would've thought to see you of all people skulking about," Yennefer notes. She snatches up a piece of paper, ignoring Jaskier's perfectly polite protest of _don't fucking touch that_, and reads it. "Mmm, the Black Bear, composing about other Witchers now, are we?"

"Vesemir's a great tutor. He should be remembered."

"I doubt Geralt will like that."

"Geralt is welcome to throw himself off the barracks," Jaskier replies, snippily. He knows he's being petty, but surely he's earned that by now? At least a little bit?

Yennefer drums her manicured nails against the tabletop. "Did he ever tell you what happened with the djinn?"

"How you tried to harness it?"

"No. When he brought you to me."

Jaskier doesn't remember much after entering the house. He remembers feeling foggy and confused, and aroused, for some reason, and just generally in a fuck ton of pain, and then blissful unconsciousness. "Geralt never tells me anything."

"Figures, doesn't it?" Yennefer gives a bitter smile. "He'll never tell you, I'm sure, not if you put a blade to his throat, but he told me he'd do anything in exchange for my healing you. He didn't care anything about me, so long as I took care of you. It was only after you were safe that he really even looked at me. He was…" She purses her lips. "Geralt does not truly do fear, does he? But he was, in his own way, scared. He was afraid that you would die, and the last words he would have ever said to you were cruel ones."

"He sure mucked that up."

"Geralt mucked up many things. Jaskier, he bound himself to me and vice versa using djinn magic. I think we can safely say he doesn't know how to do relationships."

"Is there a point to this?" Jaskier asks, leaning forward on his elbows. "Because I'm right in the middle of inspiration and you're blocking my light."

Yennefer gives him a deeply unimpressed look and stands up. "Let me put it this way, bard. It was quite telling, to me, that you seemed to hold more of Geralt's affections and understand him better than I did, and you never needed djinn magic for it."

Jaskier pauses, weighs that, then turns in his chair as Yennefer walks away. "Hang on, are you saying you were _jealous _of me? Is that why you were always making those catty remarks?"

"And you weren't?" Yennefer shoots back over her shoulder, and well, that's fair.

* * *

Every day, or near every day, they all do training. They always do it, but part of it this year is for Ciri's benefit. She joins them and tries to keep up as best she can. It's hard on her, without the mutagens and with her younger age, but she's a stubborn cub, and Geralt didn't know it was possible to be this proud of someone.

Jaskier has watched some of their training, like their sword fighting, in the courtyard but he's not a part of their hunts, which means he hasn't seen… well.

Geralt knows what a Witcher looks like after downing certain potions. He was always careful to wait until it left his system before returning to wherever Jaskier was waiting, or to town, so that nobody would be scared of his liquid black eyes, the spidery black veins like poison spreading from the corners out through his dead white skin. He didn't want to make anyone more afraid of him than they already were, and he definitely didn't want Jaskier putting this in his songs.

But he completely forgets as he strides back up to the keep, some of the others of his kind with him, until Jaskier exits, evidently waiting for them in his cloak which isn't nearly warm enough (Geralt makes a mental note to get him another) and his worn down boots and freezes.

Geralt also freezes.

He inhales deeply, focuses on Jaskier's scent, waits for the horrible cloying tang of fear to reach him—

Except Jaskier simply keeps storming up to him. "You might have warned me, you know, that some of these floorboards are rotten, I nearly fell in and broke my neck!"

Geralt stares down at him, chest still heaving from all his exertion, knowing his eyes look like bottomless pits, knowing his skin looks like that of a drowned corpse, and yet Jaskier is yelling at him as if—as if all is well. As if all is normal.

"I warned you," he says, running on automatic, "not to go poking around."

Jaskier huffs, but it's the most he's spoken to Geralt in _weeks_, and he's not at all afraid of him, and Geralt—he feels something ache inside of him, something terrifying and warm, and he shoves past Jaskier before it makes him do something stupid like pull the bard in and smell his hair.

* * *

He's not Ciri's father, or her mother. If anything, he's her indulging, flamboyant uncle.

But sometimes he'll be singing quietly to himself, perched on one of the wide windowsills, watching yet another foot of snow fall, and she'll find him. She'll put her head in his lap, and he'll sing her a few songs.

_My lover's hair is white as snow, my lover's eyes are fire,_

_For flaming looks I burned myself, all drunk with my desire._

_The snow shall melt, the fire feasts,_

_All living things upon the pyre—_

"It's about him, isn't it?"

Jaskier nearly drops his lute. "Ah, cub, I didn't hear you come up."

"I'm learning how not to be seen." Ciri walks up to him, sinking to the floor and putting her head in his lap. "I thought maybe, the way he spoke about you—but I wasn't sure."

Jaskier's heart is thudding rather loudly. "Geralt and I were never… ah. You won't tell him about this song, will you? It's not even one of my best compositions. The rhymes are rather simple."

Ciri stares at him with her young, wise eyes. "All right." She settles herself better. "Will you sing the one about my parents?"

"Of course." He strums his lute and resists the powerful urge to ask what Ciri means by _the way he spoke about you._

* * *

Yen's feeling better now, well enough to walk along the ramparts with him when he takes his turn on patrol.

He wants to ask how her hands are, the palms burnt and blistered from unleashing her fire. He wants to ask her what happened when she was hunting down Jaskier the other day with a determined but annoyed glint in her eye. He wants to know why she just laughed in a fond sort of way when he told her he needed her to portal him to a particular city, one known for its tailors.

But Geralt is good at a lot of things, and words are not one of them. He's said far too many words around Yen already, the worst ones the words that bound them together so foolishly, and so he keeps silent and only offers her an arm to steady her when she needs it.

"Jaskier's quite popular with the others," Yen notes, which is the last thing Geralt expected her to say.

"Hmm." It's true. The other Witchers are glad of some variety, and glad to know that even if they're a dying breed, they will never be forgotten—not with Jaskier composing whole song cycles about them.

Sometimes, Geralt can hear him babbling, _it'll be a masterwork, truly, they'll name me a master for this._

If only he'd babble that at _Geralt _instead, but Jaskier still doesn't really… not anymore.

"Aren't you jealous?" Yen's smirking a little, and if she wasn't using him for a crutch, Geralt would be tempted to speed up and leave her behind.

"Of what?" He can't be the only Witcher with stories told about him. He might have been… chosen for extra tests, extra mutations, but he's hardly the only Witcher of his kind. The others deserve stories, too.

"Don't be stupid, it doesn't suit you."

"I recall you telling me many times how stupid I am…"

"Honestly." Yen rolls her eyes. "The one kind of nonsense I like about you and you're refusing to be that way. We can all see it."

Oh, that's a terrifying thought. "See what?"

"How the bard talks to everyone but you, sings about everyone but you. He spent two decades being your personal puppy and now he only talks to you to scold you? Ciri once asked him to play _Her Sweet Kiss_ and Jaskier looked so awful she recanted it immediately."

"Wait—what does that song—"

Yen pats his cheek. "Talk to him, Geralt."

"About—about what!?"

"You very well know what."

No he really, really doesn't.

"I don't. _Know_," he grits out to Vesemir later.

Vesemir snorts. "You know that one of the reasons I picked you all those years ago was your intelligence. Your strategy. And I'll string you up by your own guts if you repeat this to anyone else, but your heart."

"My what," Geralt asks, his tone flat. His mentor had gotten soft—in the heart or the head—in his old age.

"Witchers have a bad enough reputation as it is," Vesemir explains, continuing to go over his potions as if nothing's unusual. "Can't have us being anything but helpful."

It's true. Vesemir lectured them about a lot of things as striplings, mostly about how if he ever found out one of them had robbed someone, forced themselves on a partner, or started so much as a tavern brawl, Vesemir would kill them himself. Slowly.

"But you've got… what's the damn word…"

"Nobility?" Geralt offers. He winces immediately. _Nobility _is one of the words that Jaskier likes to use to describe him. Geralt's tempted to wash his own mouth out with soap.

"Close enough," Vesemir grunts. "Point is, people say Witchers _don't _feel. Not that they _can't_."

"Is there a fucking point to this conversation?"

"My point is that I'm watching the men I raised be the last of a dying breed, Geralt," Vesemir says, and there's pain in his voice, bitterness in his scent. A smoky sort of scent, sad, like dead leaves in autumn. "My goal is no longer to raise the next generation. Now it's to see you all find some kind of bloody happiness before this damned war and time swallows us all up."

"And what does any of this have to fucking do with Jaskier?"

Vesemir has that look on his face that means he's getting a headache. "I've never seen someone so allergic to happiness or critical thinking in my life."

"I thought you said you picked me for my intelligence."

"Fuck you."

And everyone wonders where Geralt got his swearing habits.

"I don't know," he says that evening, to Ciri, and wonders if the three of them coordinated this attack.

"You do, though," Ciri replies, bouncing up and down because she's just a child in some ways, still. She follows him through the cold stone hallways of the keep. They can't heat up all the rooms and corridors, certainly not worth it with only two dozen of them here at the most, which is why everyone's wearing furs, even inside.

"I really don't."

Ciri grabs his bicep, and he curls it up, lifting his arm so that her feet lift off the ground and she's swinging free. She giggles, and Geralt feels a swift pang of anger at himself, of regret, because he could've done this when she was six and she would've shrieked with delight and he missed out on that.

He sets her back down again, and Ciri tucks herself into his side. She's very tactile. "You _know_."

"I don't know Jaskier's mind. Witchers can't read minds. Popular myth."

"You don't have to read minds to know," Ciri replies, infuriatingly knowing and calm. "He's miserable. You're miserable."

"I can't be miserable when I have you." He wants that to be very clear. He loves his child surprise, and she's lost enough already.

"You're sweet," Ciri says, and nobody's ever accused him of that before. "But you're miserable. You should talk to Jaskier about why he's miserable."

"I am not fucking miserable!" he shouts after her as she dashes down the corridor, her cloak fluttering thick and puffy like a lion's mane.

* * *

The snow outside is consistently two feet high, and sometimes higher, when Jaskier is having breakfast in the dining hall and Geralt drops a heavy pile of fabric on the table next to him.

Jaskier jolts and nearly knocks his glass over. "What—"

"So you'll stop shivering," Geralt says, his teeth almost but not quite gritted, and then he strides away to talk to Eskel about something.

Jaskier reaches out, his fingers flexing around the soft, thick fabric. It's heavy to lift, and he realizes belatedly that it's… a coat. A very warm, fur-lined coat, black as night on the outside but a vibrant blue on the inside lining.

Ciri, who's scarfing her food down, speaks around a mouthful of bread. "I wondered why they portaled out somewhere yesterday."

"Who? What?"

"Yen and Geralt." Ciri's still chewing and talking at the same time. These Witchers are doing wonders for her fighting skills but horrible things to her manners. "Must've been to wherever he got you that coat."

Jaskier doesn't want to think about Geralt buying him an extremely nice, extremely warm coat, one that has a bright color on the inside the way he likes but Geralt's favored black on the outside. He doesn't want to remember all the times before, when Geralt would buy him something and Jaskier felt warm and safe and cared-for.

He doesn't want to have _hope_.

"Chew with your mouth closed," he tells Ciri. And if he does wear the coat after that, well, it's only because it is so much warmer and the weather really is terribly freezing here.

* * *

The fire's all but died in the hearth, and the candles are low, and Geralt is tired and the cold's starting to get to him, which are the excuses he will hold onto for the next century or so until he finally dies as to why, when Yen looks at him and says in a very tired voice, _Geralt_, he replies,

"He's mortal."

It's just the two of them in the room. Everyone else has long gone to bed. And he's so… he's so _tired_. They have to come up with a plan to keep Ciri safe, they have to help the sorceresses, they have to stop this war, they have to do so many things and he's just a monster hunter, he's just a monster, he's not meant for this kind of epic thing no matter what Jaskier says and of course Jaskier will want to tag along and Jaskier is _mortal_.

Yen runs a hand through her hair. "Is that all that's stopping you? Just because the wineskin will be empty, does that mean you don't drink?"

He didn't mean—he was thinking about Jaskier following them into battle, into death, he wasn't thinking about—he doesn't think about that. He can't. There are things more dangerous to a Witcher than monsters. His ill-fated romance with Yen has proven that.

"Yen," he growls through tight teeth. "He'll die."

"We can all die." Yen tilts her head. "Geralt, Jaskier has followed you for over twenty years. What does he look like?"

"Like a man." What kind of stupid fucking question is that?

"Geralt. Does he look _old _to you?"

Geralt opens his mouth to say _of course not_—and pauses.

Jaskier… Jaskier looks just as he did when he was twenty-seven. Or rather as he did when he was eighteen, but already appeared twenty-seven. Not a gray hair. No crow's feet, despite Yen's comments.

And Yen… Yen looks extremely smug.

"What do you know," he grits out.

"When I healed him, from the djinn," Yen explains, still with that pleased, arch tone, "I had to alter the magic a bit, seeing as he wasn't fully human."

"Jaskier doesn't have elf blood." Many people have assumed it.

Yen makes a noise of dismissal, but it's a pained one. "No, he's not elvish. He's fey."

Geralt wonders if his hearing is going.

"Did Jaskier ever talk to you about his family?" Yen asks.

His family. Geralt knows a few things. It was impossible not to learn a bit, with how much Jaskier rambled, but Jaskier was surprisingly… taciturn about his roots. He's nobility. Geralt knows that much. Once, Jaskier pestered Geralt about how Witchers recruited until Geralt snapped at him that his mother, a magic user herself, abandoned him to them when he was still a child. To his surprise, Jaskier had responded with a soft, low voice, _my father didn't leave me at the side of the road, but I know he wishes he did._

"Are they dismissive of him? Angry? Do they dislike him? Does he avoid them?" Yen presses.

_How should I know? _he wants to say, but he does know, he knows from Jaskier's silence.

"He's not aware of it," Yen says, apparently deciding that it doesn't matter if Geralt answers her or not. "Whoever they are, they paid a pretty penny to make sure his glamour stays on. Or perhaps they did something even more. He's a changeling."

If Geralt was drinking something he'd choke on it.

Changelings are… they're fey but they're not fey. Well, they are fey. No doubt about it. But they aren't aware of it. They don't act like most fey, beyond having fairy instincts such as a love of pretty, shiny things, an inclination towards many lovers, a great fondness for wine, a way of twisting words, and…

Geralt feels rather like bashing his head in against the stone wall.

How did he not notice Jaskier's lack of ageing? How did he not notice the way people fall under Jaskier's spell of words, getting him out of more scrapes than logically possible? How did he not notice how Jaskier never tans no matter how much he stands in the sun, the odd brightness in his eyes, the way he gets cold even in the middle of summer?

Gods above, Jaskier's name—not his birth name, his chosen name—it's another name for a _flower_. Dandelion or buttercup or something. The fey love plants and flowers.

He's been a fucking idiot.

Changelings though, they're doomed. They are the children born of faerie that fairies did not want. Too human-looking, or too weak, or not adept enough at magic. Something in them is wanting. And so they're taken, and their memories of their true world forgotten, and swapped out for a human baby, a human that the fairies can amuse themselves with and turn into a slave or a lover or a champion depending on what they fancy. Changelings never know, not until the glamour placed on them fades as they get older and their true red eyes, or sparkling silver skin, or voices like sighing reeds, makes itself known. Then they are outcasts among humanity.

But neither can they return to faerie. They are lost.

Jaskier's parents must have known. Parents always know. Gerealt's been contracted, once or twice, to swap the children back, but it doesn't work like that. He's always had to say no. Even Witchers must be wary with the likes of the fey.

"I don't think he knows," Yen adds, her voice unexpectedly soft. "If it's any consolation to you."

But he'll have to know. When winter becomes summer and then winter again, over and over, and Jaskier doesn't age, he'll _know_. And then what? What do you do when all that you thought you were turns out to be false?

Geralt doesn't know. He just hopes someone will be there to catch Jaskier, keep him from falling.

"So you see," Yen goes on, that smug tone back in her voice, "if it's his mortality you were worried about, don't. He'll live another hundred years, Geralt."

"Hmm." This time it's not that he's deliberately holding back words.

He honestly doesn't know what the fuck to say.

* * *

Jaskier has no fucking clue what Geralt's got going on, but he means to find out.

At some point. Eventually. Just—once he gets up the courage.

Once upon a time he said whatever he wanted to at Geralt, and Geralt just took it. Oh, yes, Geralt would be annoyed as all get out half the time but he also listened. And he could be amused, Jaskier knows it—Geralt gets this little… this little uptick in the corners of his mouth and tilts his head and gets this look in his eyes like they're not golden coins but glowing embers, and Jaskier knows he's said something right.

Jaskier used to live for those moments.

But since the… since the dragon and the mountain, he can't help but be scared. It's foolish of him, he knows. He's not scared of Geralt with eyes like ink and skin white as the snow around him (in fact he finds it rather, ah, arousing, and isn't that just another notch in his belt labeled _Stupid Things Jaskier Finds Attractive_). He's not scared of Geralt's temper, his strength, or his sword.

He's scared of saying the wrong thing and losing Geralt again.

So no, he hasn't said anything yet, but he _will_, because Geralt is being—he's being _odd_.

There was the cloak, first of all. Or perhaps it was before that, inviting him to the closest thing Geralt has to a home. And since the cloak—Geralt's been staring at him. Just. Staring. That's it. Oh, and giving him a pair of warm winter gloves, and new boots. Jaskier can admit well enough to himself that his own winter gear is not enough to withstand the harsher northern climate here, and he's been shivering for the past month. He's got about five blankets piled on top of his bed and tries to keep the fire going all night and he still feels a bit of a chill.

But somehow, the clothes Geralt is giving him work wonders.

Is this Geralt's way of apologizing? The idiot never did have a way with words although he's managed to convey entire paragraphs with a single hum. It very well could be.

Well. Perhaps Jaskier is willing to forgive him. It's more himself that he's worried about. He can't let himself get so close again. Not when he knows there's no chance, no hope. Yennefer's here, for fuck's sake, and staying. Geralt has all that he could desire now. Best to keep a bit of distance, otherwise he'll make a fool of himself and humiliate everyone.

And besides, he should be grateful. It's not just anyone that Geralt of Rivia would seek out and bring to his home to shelter for the winter. Geralt might never say it, but he cares. Jaskier is seeing that. Geralt is, in his own way, trying to show that they are friends. Jaskier knows how to not look a gift horse in the mouth.

And so if he sometimes monologues to himself as he gets ready for bed, well, what of it? It's nobody's business but his own.

He's tried his best to make his room cozy but he does so hate winter. There are no flowers, there's no warmth. People have more need for songs in some ways, to be cheered up, but you have to coax them into it. People aren't just ready to give coin and flirt and dance the way they are in spring and summer.

Still, he lights the fire, piles the blankets next to it so the blankets hopefully absorb the heat, and starts about washing his face.

"Stupid…" He checks his hair for grays, as he always does, and is satisfied to find none. Excellent. His parents might not have given him anything resembling love or warmth but they did, at least, give him good genes. "Stupid fucking stubborn Witchers. Would it kill a man to say _I'm sorry_? Not that it wouldn't make it worse…" Oh, there might be a song in that. "_Don't tell me you're sorry, failed lover, failed lover…_" One of those little ditties that people like to hum as they wash their linens.

Where are his pen and ink? He'll have to write this down before he forgets—

The knock on the door makes him jump and he drops the towel he'd been using to dry his face.

"Yes?" he calls out, scrambling to try and get his room to be less of a mess. Nobody's ever knocked on his door before, everyone giving him privacy. Ciri shares her room with Yennefer down the hall, and Geralt's next door on the other side, and the other Witchers are a floor below so that any attackers coming for Ciri have to go through them first, except for Vesemir who sleeps in the one remaining tower.

The door opens without so much as an _excuse me_, and Geralt steps in.

Typical Witcher. "Would it truly kill you to announce who you are before entering a room?" Jaskier asks, testy and feeling vulnerable, caught out, even if he's not sure what there is to catch.

This is his room, after all. His room with his paper spilled everywhere, and his pile of blankets warming by the fire, and his precious elven lute sitting on a pillow safely off to the side, and his oils all piled on top of the side table. Moisturizer and proper oil, that's how he keeps his youthful, soft skin.

It's _him_, all over this room, and he's not sure how much of him he can bear for Geralt to see anymore.

"Hmm," Geralt says instead of answering, and he closes the door behind him and walks over to Jaskier's bed. It's only then that Jaskier realizes Geralt's got something in his arms—a large warm blanket, made out of some kind of soft-looking midnight blue material on one side and thick white fur on the other.

Geralt drops the blanket onto the bed, where it lands with an oddly heavy _thunk_. "It's weighted," he says. "It'll be warmer than those." He nods towards the blankets in front of the fire, then turns to go.

What? A coat, boots, gloves, now a blanket? "For the sake of Destiny, Geralt, you can stop apologizing now. I've gotten the message." Jaskier waves his hand in the air. "You're sorry, you said things in the heat of the moment that you didn't mean, I'm truly your bestest friend ever, oh why thank you Geralt it means so much, I am graciously accepting your apology, we can move on from this and never mention that mountain ever again."

Geralt looks—well, Jaskier would dare to say confused, actually. "You think I'm apologizing to you?"

"Well—yes, Geralt, I do. I can't see any other reason for why you'd suddenly be obsessed with wrapping me in every layer of fur known to man."

"Hmm."

"And frankly I think it's rather cruel to yourself to keep doing this." Jaskier feels, for once, annoyingly warm, and he's only in his chemise and trousers. He's even barefoot. Why is it so warm? "You're spending hard-earned coin on me, coin you'll need come spring. It would've saved you quite a lot of trouble just to say _I'm sorry_."

"Hmm."

"And really, I'm doing just fine with—" Jaskier waves at the blankets by the fire. "Not that I don't appreciate all your gifts. I do. They're lovely. I'm a little concerned that you know so much about my measurements, but I do appreciate the gifts. I only—I don't want you going out of your way for me."

_I don't want to feel hope, even when I know I shouldn't. It's me reading into things. It's my foolish heart. You can't blame me for wanting to protect it a little._

"Hmm." Geralt looks like he's just finished listening to Jaskier explain his incorrect knowledge about a leshen and is about to set him straight about things.

"Not that I want you to take the blanket back," Jaskier hastily adds. "It, um, it looks very. Yes. Thank you, about that."

What? The blanket looks soft. He likes soft things.

"You liked it," Geralt says, his tone impatient like he's explaining two plus two equals four, "when I gave you things. Dinner. Rosin. More of that face cream."

"I—well, yes, I did, very much, and thank you."

"You thought we were friends. Because of that."

"Well—it was the logical thing to conclude, was it not?" Jaskier gives a laugh that's not a laugh at all, and in fact sounds almost disconcerting and unnatural. He winces. His mother always used to say his laughs were unnerving. "Seeing as you weren't paying me for services rendered."

Geralt raises and eyebrow and Jaskier can feel his face flushing. "Only—you know. The songs. I meant for the songs."

"Hmm." Geralt stares at the blanket on the bed, then at the lute sitting on its pillow, then at the fire. "Listen. Jaskier. There's. There's not an easy way to say this."

…all the warm things were preparation for Geralt to kick Jaskier out into the winter woods and the snow. They were so that Jaskier wouldn't die of cold as he made his way to the nearest village. They—

Geralt blows out a breath rather like Roach when she's irritated. "Yen told me something, about a week ago. Something—about you."

Oh. Well. Um. "It's all lies and slander."

Geralt raises an eyebrow in both surprise and amusement. "So you're not fey?"

"I am most definitely—wait, what?"

Geralt's face looks almost gentle. The way it gets when he has to tell a family that their loved one was indeed killed by a monster. "When Yen saved you from the djinn, she had trouble with the spell. She had to alter it. Because you're not human. You're fey."

"I… Ha. Ha, ha, ha, very funny, Geralt. I must say I had been hoping when you developed a sense of humor it wouldn't be at my expense but—"

"Jas." Geralt's voice stays gentle. "Look in the mirror."

"I do. Every day. I've got combination skin, I have to take care of it." And check for gray hairs.

Geralt blinks at him slowly, silently and excellently conveying the sentiment that Jaskier is an idiot. "You look the same as you did when I met you. You said you were eighteen."

Granted, he had looked old for an eighteen-year-old. He'd sprung up like a weed, devouring every food in sight, with a special hankering for meat (rawer the better) and, of all blasted things, flowers (he hadn't told his parents about that one). At sixteen, he'd already looked mid-twenties.

Jaskier, almost as if someone has him on puppet strings, turns and approaches the mirror.

For all Yennefer's quips about crow's feet…

He feels something deep inside of him curling up as if it's been struck, an animal trying to hide a deep and gaping wound. "No."

"You wouldn't know."

"I _would _know." He turns back, the room spinning slightly, and Geralt is looking at him with an expression Jaskier has only seen once before, when Borch fell down the mountain.

"Changelings don't know," Geralt says. It's like he's talking about dragon species, or saying unicorns aren't real, or debunking false information about vampires. "Not until the glamour falls off. But you—you've got human blood too. You look… mostly right."

_"Mostly right!?"_ Jaskier knows his voice is impressive but he wasn't aware it could hit that octave.

Geralt shrugs. "Your eyes. Your voice. The fact that you don't age."

"So—so—so—" He can't even find words.

He walks over to the bed, somehow, and collapses onto it. Huh, this is a very soft blanket.

There are many things he could say. Many questions he could ask. But instead what comes out is, "Is this why they always hated me?"

His father was cold, always just on the restrained side of cruel. His mother was distant and drank too much wine.

Geralt, Jaskier knows, also understands something of parental pain. Maybe that's why he looks the way he does right now, caught in a river and fighting to get upstream. "It wasn't… it wasn't your fault. You didn't have a choice."

"Changelings—they're fairy children. They're given up. So…" He looks down at his hands. "So my other people didn't want me, either."

Is this why even his stupidest songs are popular? Because of his innate fey abilities, weak and subtle as they might be?

"Yen thinks perhaps you were the—uh." Geralt clears his throat. "The child of a fey and a human. That would be why. Your…" It literally sounds like the words are being pried out of Geralt's throat with a pair of rusty pliers. "…your human parent might not have known. Or had the child forced away from them. The fey parent was probably, ah, executed."

He should probably feel horrified, but instead he feels numb. Geralt takes a deep inhale, and then grimaces. Jaskier wonders what that's about—is Geralt _sniffing _him?

"Thank you," he manages. "For telling me."

Geralt nods once, briskly. "I didn't know. I had… not an inkling. Until Yen said so. I thought you were mortal."

"Ah." He's sure Geralt would've told him sooner if he'd suspected.

"So now you understand."

Jaskier blinks. "Now I understand what?"

"Why I didn't…" Geralt looks frustrated, his brow creasing, like he wishes Jaskier could just read his mind. "I thought you were mortal."

"Yes, we've established that, Geralt. And I am quite capable of getting injured and dying, as many bruises and injuries will attest. Most of which I earned following you, I might add."

"That's exactly the point!" Geralt bursts out, and Jaskier sits up straight at that, surprised at the outburst. "You were _mortal_, you can die so—so _easily_, and you would die of age soon anyway. You're forty-two!"

"Well you don't have to say it so loudly!" Jaskier snaps. "Others might hear!"

"You're going to live another fifty years at least, looking just as you do now."

"That doesn't mean I want anyone to know!"

Geralt glances over at the washbasin like he's considering drowning Jaskier in it. "You would—you would age. Your hearing, your sight, your strength. It would all… go."

"Yes," Jaskier admits. "If I were mortal, it would. Not for… oh I'd should say another decade or so. I'd start to feel it a bit then. But I should think I had another two decades in me, Geralt, I had no intention of stopping anytime soon."

"Of course you didn't," Geralt mutters. "But you would've stopped eventually, all the same."

"And what does it matter?" Jaskier is starting to suspect they're having two entirely different conversations here—it wouldn't be the first time—and he's still not even sure what this conversation is in the first place. "Why did it matter, then, and not now?"

Geralt stares at him, but Jaskier is still not a mind reader, and still has no idea what Geralt is trying to tell him with his stony-grumpy Witcher face.

Then Gaskier takes a very deep breath, one that looks like it's giving him physical pain, and says, achingly slowly, "Because it meant… I couldn't keep you."

Jaskier would feel less confused if Geralt slapped him with a dead fish right now and Yennefer declared her undying love for him. No, scratch that, he'd be less surprised if _Vesemir _declared his undying love for him.

"Geralt, please understand. You are my dear friend. My best friend. And you are such despite having treated me in a most boorish, rude, and hurtful manner. And I like to think that in our travels I have grown adept, nay, dare I say fluent, in the meanings of your ridiculous humming that you consider a worthwhile substitute for actual conversation. But I confess I am at a complete loss here and so if you could use your infinite and annoyingly attractive strength for forming words instead of strangling selkiemores, and find some way to actually tell me what the _fuck _you're talking about, maybe we could end this conversation before dawn!"

It's a rather impressive speech, if he dares to say so himself, and one that leaves him a little breathless. He's also standing again, and he's not aware when that happened.

Geralt huffs a little, and gives another _hmm_, and then looks—is he looking—_nervous_?

"I didn't understand," he says. "Until after the djinn."

_Understand what_, Jaskier wants to shout, but he can acknowledge that this is all very difficult for Geralt and so he stays silent (ha, see, he can manage that) and gives Geralt the time to fumble through whatever it is he's trying to say.

"You were lying there, nearly dead. Because of me. And I realized—but I couldn't. So I went for Yen instead and I did something—stupid. I did something that hurt her, and me. And then I was so focused on her… it helped push you out of my mind."

Jaskier can't quite believe what he's hearing. Since the djinn? Since the _djinn_? He could've been choking on what is undoubtedly the finest cock on the Continent since the gods-damned djinn!?

Really, this is offensive.

Geralt still looks like he's undergoing cranial surgery without anesthetic. "Then the dragon happened. And you were right, why I said those things. At first I—it took time. But I realized what I'd done was wrong. And hurtful. I had—you were a safe place. You would never—leave. So I could get angry with you."

"You were mistaken about that." Oh, all right, so he can only be silent for a little bit.

Geralt inclines his head in acknowledgment. "But it did—help me to understand what you—meant to me. And then I realized—but I couldn't. You have to understand," he adds suddenly, like the words burst out of him with all the relief and pain of a lanced boil, and Geralt looks, for all his strength, vulnerable. "Yen was…" Geralt makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, like he got his sword stuck in a wyvern corpse again. "…she's a sorceress. Powerful. Long-living."

"Like you." He thinks he sees what Geralt is getting at now, but he can't dare to think of that, because hope is back in his chest again and he can't bear it, he can't bear to have that flickering candle taken away.

"You were mortal," Geralt says, like it's the most horrible secret he's ever confessed. His rumbling voice is barely audible.

"Wait—so you knew this whole time? Is this why Ciri said—" Jaskier points accusingly. "What did you tell her!?"

Geralt looks towards the door like he's considering storming into Ciri's room this instant, damn the late hour, and demanding to know what heinous stories she's been spreading. And oh, no, they are not getting sidetracked now. Not now that Jaskier finally is getting some sort of clarity and communication about this entire thing.

"So you just—took me home? Bought me presents? As your way of—what, saying you're sorry but it'll just never work?" Jaskier isn't sure if he's elated or irritated. Both? Both.

"You thought we were friends," Geralt says, sounding exasperated and helpless, which is an odd and new tone that Jaskier has never heard from him before. After all, Geralt is many things but never helpless. "With… small things. So if I did big things…"

Big things. Like buying him all new winter gear, and a blanket, and bringing him to the safest place on the Continent, bringing him _home_.

Once, on an oddly cold night in spring, Jaskier's fingers had been too cramped to play on his lute. Geralt had taken Jaskier's hands in his and massaged them, blowing on them, and Jaskier had thought wildly, desperately, that if this moment never ended, he could be happy forever.

He feels rather the same way now.

"You idiot," he announces, and his voice comes out rather more breathless than he'd intended. "You great big lummox."

He strides across the room to Geralt and pauses right in front of him, still—still unsure if he can cross this last inch. "And now that I'm not mortal?" he asks. "Which—for the record, I am quite offended that your great plan was just to give me things and hope that I would catch on and realize you were declaring your affections without any intention of follow-through on them, honestly Geralt, just because I might have been mortal doesn't mean that we still couldn't have—"

Geralt finally does the first damn sensible thing since he walked into this room, and yanks Jaskier in with fistfuls of his undershirt, kissing him.

Jaskier has given many a thought to how Geralt would kiss. Despite being there for a few of Geralt's run-ins with Yennefer, he never actually saw anything between them, and he was never present when Geralt would find a whore for the night. So it was all up to his imagination—and his imagination is fertile ground indeed. He always pictured Geralt kissing the way he would attack monsters: fiercely, taking no quarter.

Instead, he finds that Geralt kisses the way that he _hunts_ monsters: thoroughly, with a determined end goal, and no intention of ceasing until that goal is reached.

He's put his hands on Geralt's body before, plenty of times, stitching him up and easing his aches and pains, but never like this. Never with this intent. And so it feels like a new body, as he runs his palms up Geralt's chest, spreads his fingers wide over Geralt's shoulders. Geralt's hands move down to Jaskier's hips and squeeze, as if answer, in counterpoint. In a way it's just an extension of how they always are, two diametrically opposed personalities somehow balancing one another out. Giving and taking.

Jaskier has no intention of his lovely new blanket getting defiled, and so he pulls away when Geralt marches them back towards the bed, and tugs the blanket off, placing it gently to the side.

Geralt lets out a pleased sound that's almost a purr, and Jaskier files that away to examine later like a shiny bauble.

Right now, he wants Geralt's tongue back in his mouth.

Geralt is, to exactly nobody's surprise, rather silent now as he is in everything. But he hums in a pleased way when Jaskier lets him tug his shirt off and undo his pants, and his body speaks volumes in the way it shakes when Jaskier kisses along his jaw, and the way Geralt's hips thrust forward roughly when Jaskier encourages him to bite his neck, and in the way Grealt's mouth falls open on a groan when Jaskier tugs on his hair.

Figures Geralt would like it rough, in both giving and taking. Luckily, Jaskier gets bored easily with gentle.

He has no intention of letting Geralt tear his clothes off, not now, not ever, so it takes a minute to get them both properly naked, but once they are—oh holy fuck, he never wants to leave this room, ever.

"I knew it," Jaskier crows triumphantly. He fucking _knew _Geralt was hung, ha, someone somewhere owes him money, he knows he bet on this at some point down the line.

Geralt just glares at him. "I will use it to shut you up."

"You say that like I wouldn't like that," Jaskier replies cheekily. Geralt is going to _fuck him _with that. This is the greatest night of his life. He's not going to be able to walk straight for a week.

Not that he ever walks straight, but anyway…

Geralt, through one glare, makes it quite clear that he is going to be taking care of Jaskier, thanks very much, and Jaskier hands over the oil, busying himself with kissing Geralt's various scars. There are quite a lot of them, and Jaskier knows the origin of most of them, taking a perverse satisfaction in setting his tongue to them when he wasn't allowed to kiss them before, when they were fresh and he'd just sewn Geralt up and he was aching to show him some affection beyond a light pat on the shoulder.

It occurs to him, a bit late in the game, to ask if Geralt's ever done this with someone other than a woman. Geralt is spreading his thighs, fingers slick and shining in the firelight, and Jaskier pauses around his mouthful of Geralt's bicep to say, "Hey, Ger—"

That's as far as he gets before Geralt slowly, twisting, slides a finger inside. It's deliberate, not too harsh, but just on the side of rough that Jaskier likes, and he makes a rather shameless noise.

A feral, starving smile flits across Geralt's face for an instant before the concentrated look returns, and he kisses Jaskier to silence him as he works him open with an annoying thoroughness.

Jaskier whines and begs, his nails digging into Geralt's back, not that they'll leave much of a mark, the asshole, one leg hooked over Geralt's hip and the other pressed down into the mattress by Geralt's hand, keeping him nice and helplessly open as Geralt keeps going at this damn fucking slow pace that's going to fucking kill him before he can get properly fucked.

Geralt is as impervious to Jaskier's pouting and moaning as he is to Jaskier's pouting and moaning in every other situation. He scissors his fingers, getting Jaskier so desperate his cock is leaking everywhere, creating a right mess of both their stomachs as their bodies haphazardly rub together, and has the gall to look satisfied when he adds a third finger and Jaskier nearly sobs with need.

"In me." Jaskier likes to pride himself on his eloquence in bed, but that's absolutely beyond him right now, and he suspects Geralt likes his naked want much better than any pretty words. "Fuck me, Geralt, or I'll do it myself!"

"I'd love to see you try," Geralt replies, smirking at him, the brute.

Jaskier thumps him on the back, hard as he can.

In response, Geralt thrusts his fingers in hard, right up against Jaskier's prostate, and Jaskier's entire body thrashes. For every man he was with, he bedded nine women, so it's still a rare enough pleasure that it makes this all feel so much _more_. "Fuck!"

"That's the idea."

Jaskier considers kicking Geralt in the face, then thinks better of it. "Geralt _please_." He would like that very thick cock inside of him right fucking now, thanks. He's had two decades of pining. He's earned this.

Geralt tilts his head at that, and it reminds Jaskier of the banquet in Cintra, the night of Pavetta and Duny's declaration and all that other shit. Geralt had tilted his head at him, his eyes glowing, an almost-smile on his lips that made him look like he was thinking Jaskier was adorable or some other such nonsense.

Perhaps that was exactly what he was thinking. Perhaps that's what he's thinking now.

Geralt withdraws his fingers and shifts them, his nose bumping Jaskier's. "Tell me if it's too much."

Jaskier want to make some kind of smart remark—but he hears the thread of earnestness in Geralt's voice, and it strikes him suddenly what it must be like as a Witcher, and how many nervous whores Geralt's had to deal with, and how many times he's feared hurting his bed partner.

No wonder Yennefer seemed like such a destined lover. Geralt must have figured she was the only one who could handle him, in so many ways.

So Jaskier nods instead. "Of course."

He runs his hands through Geralt's hair, wondering if Geralt will let him wash it again. He always liked doing that, although Geralt only allowed him on occasion.

Then Geralt starts to slide inside, and Jaskier's vision goes white for a moment.

He forgets all the words he knows, all the songs, and sighs into it, makes himself relax, his body arching up and his fingers digging into Geralt's scalp. It's so much, almost but not quite too much, and he has no idea how long it takes him to adjust but he's gasping by the time he's through.

Geralt is nuzzling at his neck, inhaling deeply, and Jaskier realizes— "Are you sniffing me, you idiot?"

"Fear smells sour. I had to check."

Honestly. Sometimes his Witcher (_his _Witcher, his, his, his) is an absolute fool. "If I wasn't scared of you any other time, what would make me scared now?"

"Hmm." Geralt pushes himself up, and braces his hands.

Jaskier nods.

This was something he'd known he would be right about—Witcher stamina. Gods fucking bless. Geralt can't seem to stop smelling Jaskier, nosing especially at his pulse point but anywhere else he can reach as well, holding Jaskier firmly but not too harshly as he drives into him with a single-minded focus that has Jaskier's brains leaking out his ears. He can feel it everywhere, and even if he wasn't in love with Geralt (which he is, he really unfortunately is), he'd be incapable of having sex with anyone else ever again because no one else could press up against every inch of him from the inside, thrust until Jaskier swears he can feel it in his throat, hold him like Jaskier weighs nothing at all.

Geralt does, annoyingly, glance around Jaskier's prostate and slaps Jaskier's hands away when Jaskier tries to stroke himself. "Not. Yet."

Jaskier whines and squirms. He feels so good, so _good_, he feels like warm butter slathered on bread, he feels how those stolen summer roses would taste when he was sixteen and starving for them and didn't know why. He wants to come, he wants to come so fucking badly he might choke.

But Geralt looks so magnificent like this, like a thousand songs that Jaskier will never compose because they're for him alone, that he also can't quite bear it to be over yet.

So he stops begging and kisses Geralt instead, everywhere he can reach, and thrusts his hips back into Geralt's as best he can. It's perfect, and then Geralt speeds up and no, _now _it's perfect, and he feels Geralt sink his teeth into his neck and nope, now it's definitely perfect—and then Geralt tugs on his earlobe with his mouth and whispers a broken _Jas_ into his ear and no, no, _now_, now it is perfect.

He tucks Geralt's face into his neck, feels Geralt's whole chest expand as he inhales his scent, feels his hands sliding as they try to gain purchase through the thick layer of sweat on Geralt's back, feels Geralt inside of him, stretching him, thorough thrusts that never go far but get in deep, and has a strange moment of clarity. Yes, while in the middle of sex. It's rather on brand for him. But—if he is fey, if that is his heritage, if that's why his bones still don't ache and his eyesight still hasn't dimmed and his hair is still chestnut, if that's why his parents as good as tossed him out on his ass and why sometimes his companions would wince at his laugh, or say his teeth looked odd in the moonlight—then he doesn't give a toss. It means he gets to stay by Geralt's side, and do this, year after year, winter and summer and all in between, and that is worth the rest. It is more than worth the rest.

Geralt pulls back all at once, a glint in his eye, and Jaskier has the revelation that he's grown complacent, and that Geralt lured him into it—just in time for Geralt to get up onto his knees and lift Jaskier's hips clean off the bed. He pulls out almost all the way, a sort of snarl on his lips that probably should look terrifying but is, annoyingly, incredibly hot, and then buries himself back into Jasker until their hips are flush.

The sound he makes at that is probably only audible to dogs.

And Witchers.

Geralt's face twitches in satisfaction, and he does it again, again, hard and fast, brutally so, the angle just right, no longer avoiding Jaskier's prostate but striking home like an arrow each time, and Jaskier has never known the true definition of wailing until this moment.

"Fuck's sake," Geralt says, but his voice is deeply, beautifully fond as he speaks. "You'll wake the whole keep."

His hand closes over Jaskier's mouth and presses down, muzzling him, and that is so fucking sexy, his hand is the size of Jaskier's entire lower face for fuck's sake, and the pressure of it, the sound of his own voice muffled, the power in Geralt's body, in his strokes—that Jaskier comes all over himself.

Or so he presumes. He doesn't actually see it happen, seeing as his eyes roll back into his head and he screams, biting down on Geralt's palm, his entire body vibrating like a plucked lute string. _Ecstasy _is clearly a word he's used far too often. He's described such things as ecstasy before, but never will he do so again unless it's for this.

Geralt groans, and Jaskier's eyes peel open in time to see Geralt staring at him, mouth open, looking absolutely wrecked at the sight of him, and Jaskier feels a surge of pride knowing he did that, he made Geralt look like that, feel like that. Him, only him, and only him forevermore.

Geralt falls forward onto all fours, shoving himself in messily, spilling inside, heating Jaskier up, and Jaskier cries out anew at the sensation. He's a greedy man, and he already knows, he wants this every night.

With what is clearly the last bit of his strength (mental and physical), Geralt rolls over to his side so that he doesn't crush Jaskier. He pulls Jaskier into him, tangling them up together, and Jaskier finds, for the first time, that he is out of words.

That's all right. He doesn't need them.

* * *

Jaskier's heartbeat is thudding in his ears, and Jaskier's scent is filling up his nose. Geralt doesn't even have to make an effort to pick out the smells. There's the lingering smell of lust, and the scent of himself inside and against Jaskier—which the other Witchers will be sure to smell tomorrow and make many a joke over—and there's the smell of the oil they used. But there's also that smell that had been missing, the sweet grass smell, the sun-warmed flower smell, and Geralt wants to breathe it in for the rest of his life.

"Are you still smelling me?" Jaskier murmurs, his voice heavy and drowsy as he falls asleep.

Geralt shifts fully onto his back, and reaches his arm over his head, behind them to the cloth draped over the wash basin. It's still damp and works well enough for cleaning them up.

"You are," Jaskier decides. "What do I smell like?"

Geralt's not sure if he should answer as he tosses the cloth aside and grabs the blanket he got for Jaskier, pulling it up and over them. The fire is low, now. Jaskier will get cold. But then—he's already said any number of embarrassing things tonight. What's one more?

"Summer meadow," Geralt replies. "That's how you used to smell. You didn't anymore. Now you do."

Jaskier tugs on a strand Geralt's hair, winding it around his finger. "It's probably because I'm happy, you moron."

Geralt's heart beats much more slowly than that of a human, but it picks up nonetheless, and he's sure that Jaskier must be able to tell, his ear pressed to Geralt's chest like this. But Jaskier doesn't comment—he only snuggles in a bit closer, and sighs, and tosses his arm over Geralt's waist.

Outside, it's snowing again. Winter will still be in force for another six weeks, at least. They have time to plan, time to prepare. He has time for this.

And Jaskier has time. More time than Geralt thought. He is still terribly fragile. Geralt can feel it in the way Jaskier's bones press against his, in the hummingbird wingbeats of Jaskier's heart, in the soft curves of Jaskier's body. But age will not wither him, and Geralt can take care of the rest. He keeps his own safe. The wolf protects the pack, after all.

Yen never let him hold her like this, but Jaskier is clinging like a limpet, draped all over him. Geralt watches as Jaskier's breathing deepens, evens out, his body staying loose and heavy with contentment. Geralt's fingers brush up and down Jaskier's spine. He never thought of himself as particularly needing the touch of another all night, but he could get used to this.

Since Jaskier is asleep, and therefore can't tease him about it, Geralt brushes some of his sweat-damp hair back and kisses his forehead. Runs his thumb along the curve of Jaskier's cheek. Lets something terribly warm and soft and fond rise up in his chest and spread throughout his limbs, gives into it, basks in it.

It feels a lot like bliss.


	60. (T) STEREK - A Wild Heart's Desire by mi

A Wild Heart's Desire  
mikkimouse

Summary:  
If there's one thing Stiles Stilinski knows, it's that Deputy Derek Hale absolutely Does Not Like him. The only reason Derek even tolerates him is because their kids are worryingly codependent.

So Stiles is understandably confused when a very feral Derek shows up in his backyard after a call gone wrong and proceeds to move in with him.

* * *

Derek walked up to the little magic shop on the corner of Main and First and steeled himself at the front door. Even out here, he could smell the telltale scents of wards and herbs and potions, a combination that usually made him wrinkle his nose.

Now it did not, and _that_ was why he steeled himself.

He pushed open the door, a bell chiming gaily as he did, and stepped into the shop. "Amy?" he called out. "Where are you?"

"In the back, Daddy!"

Derek suppressed a whine. He didn't want to walk all the way into the back.

The magic shop was packed full, with scarcely room for a full-grown werewolf to move around. He stepped around a shelf crammed full of books that stank of magic, bumping into another shelf of multicolored glass vials filled with God only knew what. The vials clinked together ominously, and Derek froze, waiting to ensure none of them broke. When they didn't, he let out a relieved breath and slowly edged his way past the rows of sweet-smelling herbs, which never failed to make his nose itch.

"How could you ever find anything in here?" he muttered to himself. "This place is a mess."

"Good, because it needs to be incomprehensible to everyone _except_ me," a new voice said.

Derek did not jump, or growl, or give any other indication that he'd been _surprised_. Instead, he turned slowly and raised his eyebrows. There. No surprise whatsoever.

Stiles, the owner of both the voice and the shop, crossed his hands over his chest and smirked. For a human, he was annoyingly perceptive. He also happened to be the father of Derek's daughter's best friend, which meant Derek had to deal with him on a daily basis.

"Well, well. Deputy Hale. Fancy seeing you here."

Derek resisted the urge to roll his eyes, but only barely. "I'm here to pick up Amy. Thank you for watching her."

Stiles snorted and waved his hand. His long fingers were tattooed between each knuckle, some of the tattoos wrapping around his fingers like a ring. "You're always so stiff about it. She loves Jack, Jack loves her, she keeps him occupied for two hours after school while I'm here and you're running around protecting the good city of Beacon Hills from all sorts of nefarious characters. I'm happy to do it. Besides, do you have any idea how much good childcare costs?" He spread his arms wide. "I am saving you so much of your deputy's salary, my friend."

"For which I am eternally grateful," Derek said dryly. He wouldn't have chosen the employee lounge of a magic shop as the place to leave his kid after school, but Amy loved it and the lounge itself was safe from any particularly worrisome magic. "Now can I have my daughter back, or did you turn her into a newt or something?"

Stiles pressed a hand to his chest and gasped, scandalized. "How _dare_ you imply that I would do such a thing, you _heathen_. Everybody knows you turn werewolf kids into sheep. It's funnier that way."

Derek could see the joke coming a mile away. "Because it's a wolf in sheep's clothing?"

Stiles pouted. "You know, it's no fun when you make the jokes before I do."

"Maybe that's a sign you should get new jokes."

"Maybe it's a sign I'm starting to rub off on you," Stiles shot back.

He was, but Derek would never, ever, in a million years admit it. Stiles was infuriating, and annoying, and too damn smart for his own good. He also had the terrible habit of being stupidly beautiful and wiggling his way under Derek's skin and staying there. Every time they were around each other, Derek felt wrong-footed and off-balance. He was pretty sure the only reason he hadn't been fired was because the sheriff preferred to ignore it.

He didn't _like_ being off-balance, but Stiles seemed to relish poking at him until he got there.

"My daughter?" Derek said again. The sooner he could get out of here with Amy, the better.

Stiles tilted his head toward the back of the store. "She's helping Jack clean up the lounge. She'll be along in a minute." He batted his eyelashes flirtatiously. "Why, one would think you're trying to get rid of me, Deputy Hale."

"Gee, what gave you that idea?"

"Oh, come on!" Stiles went around behind the counter and pulled out some shoeboxes filled with God knew what. "I'm not that bad."

He wasn't that bad, Derek knew, or else he'd never have let Amy stay with Stiles unattended for even a second. But still... "What are you making now? Love potions? Luck spells? Please, Mr. Stilinski, help me pass my test tomorrow?"

The playful nature vanished, and Stiles's golden eyes snapped with fire. It may even have been literal fire; Derek wasn't a hundred percent sure. "Wow, looks like someone hasn't paid any attention to magical law for the last _hundred years_, because love spells are _still illegal_. And even if they _weren't_, I'd never make any spell to compromise consent."

"No, but you can make spells to hold a werewolf in place. Kill someone with a thought. Burn a family alive with a snap of your fingers." Derek glared. "When the line between what's 'good' and what's 'bad' magic is so close together, how can you tell when you cross it?"

"Oh, so magic should be forbidden just because it's a tool some people misuse?" Stiles didn't back down an inch. "Then I suppose you think werewolves ought to be classified as lethal weapons again?"

Derek growled. "That's not the same thing, and you know it."

"What I find _interesting_, deputy, is that you have all this to say about magic, and yet you still leave your daughter with me every afternoon without fail." Stiles drummed his fingers on the counter. "My only conclusion is that even if you hate magic, you must trust me on some level."

Derek cleared his throat and looked away. "Amy likes Jack. And my boss gave you a good recommendation, for some unfathomable reason."

"Your boss is my father. Of course he's going to give me a good recommendation." Stiles pulled out little pouches of powder and poured them into a set of a dozen vials sitting out on the counter. "So come on, Hale. What is it? Is it the magic you hate, or me?"

_Both. I hate magic, and I hate what you're doing to me. _Derek realized his fists were clenched, and he shoved them into the pockets of his uniform. He couldn't admit any of that to Stiles, though, not without admitting to...other things. Things he wasn't acknowledging now or ever.

He'd been through this once. He was _not_ going through it again.

"Daddy!" Amy came running out of the back of the store, saving Derek from having to answer. "Daddy, want to see the books I got out of the library today?"

Derek crouched down and scooped her up, hugging her close. Amy rubbed her face on his beard and neck, replacing the smell of the school and the shop with their own little pack-scent. Derek nuzzled her back, pleased. "I would love to see the books. How many did you get?"

"Like _eight_." Amy's green eyes were huge with the thought of the bounty. "It's going to be _awesome_."

"I bet. Pick one for us to start reading tonight," he said, setting her back down. "And say thank you to Mr. Stiles for watching you."

Amy spun around and curtsied, daintily holding out the sides of her favorite pink skirt. "Thank you for letting me come and play with Jack, Mr. Stiles."

Stiles bowed and produced a red rose from thin air. "It was a pleasure, Miss Hale. Please let your father know he's welcome to play anytime as well."

"He can't," Amy said. "He has to work and keep the city safe. He's better than Batman."

Stiles snorted, and his eyes skated back over to Derek. "Well, he's certainly got a better uniform."

Derek felt his cheeks heat at Stiles's scrutiny, and he grabbed Amy's hand. "Come on, kiddo. Let's head home so we can get dinner. Thank you again, Stiles."

"Bye!" Amy called cheerily, waving behind them as Derek tried very hard not to drag her out of the store.

Once outside, Derek didn't stop moving until they were at his truck, parked half a block away from the magic shop. He took in deep lungfuls of air, grateful to be away from the oppressive scent of magic and even more grateful to be away from the intriguing scent of Stiles.

Amy clambered into the car, babbling about the books she'd finished last week and the books she'd picked up this week from the library. Then she launched into a long story about how Joey Thompson let loose Mrs. Delgado's class rabbit after recess.

Derek let the words wash over him, the familiar sound of her daily recitation filling the cab of the truck and easing the tension he'd felt since he'd walked into the shop to pick her up. He hated dealing with magic, hated even more that he _didn't_ hate Stiles, and those two warring emotions were worse for him than if he just had to deal with disliking Stiles outright.

"And do you know where they _found_ the rabbit? Principal Yukimura's office!"

Derek pressed his lips together, fighting a smile. He wondered what Kira's dad had had to say about finding a rabbit in his office. "You don't say."

"Uh-huh!" Amy nodded. "Yeah, and then—"

The radio in Derek's truck crackled to life. "Hale, you there?"

Derek pulled over to the side of the road and grabbed the radio off the dash. "Yeah, Parrish, what's up?"

"We've got a seven-oh-seven-William out by the Preserve."

"Shit," Derek muttered, and then cast a glance at Amy. "Don't repeat that."

Amy zipped her lips.

"Don't repeat what?" Parrish asked.

"I've got Amy with me," Derek explained. "Let me drop her off, and I'll meet you at the Preserve in fifteen."

"Ten-four. See you there."

Derek set the radio back on his dash and pulled into the first parking lot he could find. Seven hundred codes meant supernatural crimes, and a 707W meant reports of illegal magic, most likely a witch. Laura was out of town until Saturday, so Derek couldn't leave Amy with her, and his parents were both at an event in San Francisco and wouldn't be back until tonight at the earliest.

That left just one person.

Derek bit his lips to keep from uttering another curse in the presence of his seven-year-old daughter, and turned back toward Stiles's shop.

Stiles was locking up when Derek rolled up, while Jack jumped around on random leaves on the sidewalk. Derek parked haphazardly next to Stiles's beat-up old Jeep. "Stay here for one minute," he ordered Amy, and jumped out of the car.

Her eyes were wide and round with fear. "Daddy?"

Derek leaned back into the cab. "Hey, listen. It's going to be fine. I have to go back to work, so I'm going to see if Mr. Stiles can watch you. You'll get to play with Jack for the night. That'll be fun, right?"

Amy nodded, eyes still huge.

Okay. It would be fine. Derek shut the door and jogged over to where Stiles was standing on the sidewalk, frowning at him. "You guys forget something?" he asked.

Derek shook his head. "I just got called in. I hate to ask, but—"

"Put Amy's stuff in the Jeep," Stiles said. "She can stay the night, if she needs to."

"Sleepover?" Jack asked.

Stiles rubbed a hand over his son's dark buzz cut. "Yeah, kid. That cool with you?"

Jack jumped up and down. "Yes! Can we have dinosaur nuggets and mac and cheese and watch _The Land Before Time_?"

"Yes, yes, and ask Amy what she wants to watch." Stiles pushed him toward the Jeep. "Go get in the car, bud."

"Okay!" Jack ran over to the Jeep, shouting for Amy.

Derek rubbed his hand over his face. "I'm sorry, I hate to spring this on you, but—"

Stiles waved the protest away. "Dude, you're talking to the son of the sheriff. You think I don't know how this goes?"

"Thank you," Derek said, and meant it down to his bones.

"What's the code?" Stiles asked.

He debated all of two seconds before answering. Besides, Stiles would probably call his dad to find out anyway. "Seven-oh-seven-William."

Stiles blanched. "Shit."

"Yeah."

"Hey." Stiles grabbed his arm, face uncharacteristically serious. "Be careful, okay?"

Stiles's scent warmed with concern and a new spicy-calming note Derek didn't recognize. For the span of a heartbeat, it felt like the moment had weight, like there was something physical between them. It wasn't magic—or at least, it didn't smell like magic—but it was almost tangible nonetheless.

Then Stiles let go of him, mouth twisting back into a smirk. "I'd hate for something to happen to my dad's favorite deputy."

He failed completely at an unaffected tone. Derek decided now was not the time to call him on it.

Instead, he nodded. "Thanks for taking Amy. I'll let you know when I can pick her up."

Stiles smiled. "She's welcome to stay as long as she needs to."

Derek got Amy moved from his truck to Stiles's Jeep in record time and kissed her forehead. "We're going to start that book tomorrow night, okay, kiddo?"

Amy sniffled. "Okay."

Derek hugged her tight. "Love you."

"Love you too," she said into his neck, her voice muffled.

And then Derek left his daughter with one witch to go face down another.

Stiles drove back to his house with one very excited five-year-old and one very frightened seven-year-old who was desperately trying not to show it. He drove calmly, talking as normally as he could, but he let Jack's unbridled excitement at the potential sleepover fill the car. His kid was so much like him it was unreal.

He unloaded the kids at his house and ushered them both inside, checking the wards on his front door by habit. If it was a witch out at the Preserve, he probably needed to check all his wards. "Jack, put your backpack up, and I want your playroom clean in five minutes if you and Amy want to watch a movie."

"Okay!" Jack shouted, stampeding up the stairs. Who the hell knew a five-year-old could make so much noise?

Amy started to follow, but Stiles grabbed her shoulder. "Hey, Amy."

She looked up at him, her pale green eyes swimming with tears.

Stiles crouched to put himself closer to her level. "Hey, I know it's scary. My dad used to be a deputy just like yours, and he had to go out on calls like this all the time. But you know what? He always came back. And," he tapped a finger on Amy's nose, "I love my dad, but he is not better than Batman."

Amy hugged herself, but didn't say anything.

"Your dad's a werewolf, and he's a very good deputy," Stiles continued. "He's going to be fine, and he's going to come back here tomorrow to pick you up, and we're all going to have breakfast together, okay?"

Amy sniffled, but her trembling lips turned up into a smile and she nodded.

"Okay." Stiles ruffled her hair. "Go give Jack a hand. I think he got distracted playing."

She nodded again and darted up the stairs.

Stiles sighed and looked out east, in the direction of the Preserve. _You'd better not make a liar out of me, Derek Hale_, he thought, and went to heat the oven for dinosaur chicken nuggets.

He got the kids fed, helped Amy with the handful of math problems she had to do for school, and then let them put down a bunch of blankets and sleeping bags in the living room to watch movies until they fell asleep. It was a special night, he reasoned, and anything that took Amy's mind off the fact that they still hadn't heard from Derek was a good thing.

Stiles made it until 8:30 before texting his dad.

**To: Pops**  
_Hey, have you heard from Derek and Parrish?_

**From: Pops**  
_Not yet. Just sent out another team as backup._  
_I'll call you when I hear._

**To: Pops**  
_Thanks. Love you._

**From: Pops**  
_Love you too._

He tried not to look at his phone, but the longer they went without getting a call, the antsier Stiles got. He checked the wards on his house four times, cleaned the kitchen, cleaned the bathroom, picked up everywhere in the living room except the pallet where the kids were now passed out, Amy having moved close enough to cuddle Jack in her sleep. Stiles snapped a quick picture. Derek would love it.

If the asshole could be bothered to let them know he was okay, that was.

At nearly 11pm, his phone rang, and Stiles damn near jumped out of his skin trying to answer it. "Hey, Dad! Dad, what's going on? Where's Derek?"

"Stiles, calm down."

Stiles recognized that voice. That was his serious sheriff voice. He dropped into a chair at the kitchen table, heart pounding ferociously. "Dad?"

"Derek and Parrish had the witch cornered, but she got a spell off. Derek pushed Parrish out of the way. It didn't kill him, but..."

"But?" Stiles prodded, when his dad didn't finish, the relief at _it didn't kill him_ fading fast.

"It forced him into his beta shift," Dad said. "He attacked Parrish and ran off."

"Shit." Stiles glanced back into the living room to make sure the kids were still asleep, and then whispered, "He's _feral?_"

"Looks that way. We've got the witch in custody and other patrols going after him. Do _not_, under any circumstances, leave your house."

"But Dad!" Stiles protested. "His daughter is here. You know feral wolves, they hole up in a den and protect their family. He's going to come looking for Amy."

There was silence on the line for all of ten seconds, and then his dad said, "You mean to tell me Amy is _with you_? Stiles—"

"Dad, I'll be fine," Stiles cut in. "I can handle a feral werewolf. In fact, it might be better if he heads this way."

"I didn't hear that. I did not hear my _only son_ speculate that he should be _werewolf bait._"

Stiles was already at his back windows, checking the yard. He was on the edge of his neighborhood, closest to the Preserve, but it was still a pretty good distance away. "I can handle him, and if I've got him here, then he's easier for you to contain. _And_ you know he's not going to hurt unsuspecting citizens."

His dad made a noise that was unhappy, but wasn't entirely disagreement. "He's dangerous, Stiles."

"More dangerous to other people than to me." Stiles calculated the distance from the Preserve to Derek's house in his head. "Okay, he's probably already made it to his place and realized Amy isn't there. He'll be tracking her. I'm going to set up my wards and see if I can get him over here."

"For God's sake."

"Dad," Stiles said firmly. "You know I can do this."

There was a soft curse on the other end, and then his dad groaned. "Okay. Do it. But I'm sending a patrol to your neighborhood right now."

"Okay, that's fine. Just stay back from my house until I have him contained here." His backyard was still quiet, but Stiles knew better than to think that meant anything. "I've got to go, Dad. I love you."

"Love you too, son."

Stiles hung up and crept into the living room, grabbing Amy's discarded clothes from beside her backpack. Derek would be tracking her by scent, so the best hope was to try and get him here before he made the rounds to the school, the shop, or the rest of the town.

He eased out the back door with Amy's clothes in hand. When he was just beyond the wards edging around his house and garden, he hung the clothes on top of the swing set. Then he drew a sigil in the air over them and blew it on the wind, carrying her scent further and faster than it would have gone on its own.

Then he rolled up his sleeves, his tattoos glowing faintly in the light of the full moon, and sat on the back porch to wait.

He didn't have to wait long. Within five minutes, he heard a shuffling outside of his back gate and a low growl that sent a chill down his spine.

Stiles's heart kicked into high gear, and he stood slowly, not taking his eyes off the gate.

A shadow jumped over it, landing hard at the edge of Stiles's garden. It was Derek, wearing only a pair of tight black boxer briefs, eyes electric blue and fangs bared. He dug his claws into the ground and kept his eyes fixed on Stiles. The growling got louder.

Stiles took a deep breath and held up his hands, showing that he was unarmed. "Hey, Derek. I heard you were having a rough night."

He took two tentative steps forward. Derek snarled, and Stiles stopped moving. His heart was pounding so hard Derek _had_ to hear it, but Stiles kept his voice calm and even. "Okay, dude. I'm not coming any closer. Looks like you got rid of your deputy's uniform, huh?"

Derek remained where he was, tense and ready to spring. Stiles swallowed a few times, hoping to wet his throat. "Amy's inside. She's asleep right now. You left her with me, remember? You had to go out to the Preserve to stop a witch, so Amy came home with me and Jack."

Derek couldn't understand him; Stiles _knew_ Derek couldn't understand him, but talking was what he was good at, so he kept talking. "They watched _Frozen_ and _Finding Nemo_. I think Jack was disappointed that she wouldn't watch _The Land Before Time_, but he's still so excited about having her sleep over that I don't think he was too upset. Besides, there were chicken nuggets and mac and cheese, because I am a _fantastic_ cook."

Stiles glanced back toward the house, where Amy and Jack were safely ensconced, and when he flicked his eyes back to Derek, Derek had halved the distance between them.

Shit. Stiles needed to be more careful about that. Derek sniffed the air, brow furrowed like he couldn't quite make sense of what was going on.

Stiles attempted to move forward again, slower than molasses, trying to get close enough for his spell. Just to contain Derek until the deputies could get here and they could make the witch reverse her spell. He just needed to be a little bit closer...

Derek suddenly dove forward and smashed his face into Stiles's crotch, hard enough to knock Stiles over, but thankfully just off-center enough that his dick was unharmed. He barely had time to think _what the actual fuck_ when Derek growled and nuzzled fiercely and _fucking God now was not the time to be getting a hard-on._

Stiles struggled to sit up, which was harder than it sounded with a feral werewolf's face two inches from his dick. Derek took that in stride, and moved from mashing his face in Stiles's crotch to mashing his face in Stiles's _neck_.

"Whoa, there, easy boy," Stiles said weakly, one hand hovering over Derek's head. "Be, ah, be careful with those razor sharp teeth right next to my delicate, fragile skin."

Derek's response was to fucking _lick his neck_.

"Oh my God, are you _scenting me_?" Stiles blurted out.

Derek growled so low it was more of a rumbling purr, and then alternated between dragging his face over Stiles's neck and dragging his tongue over the same spot.

Stiles had never heard of a feral werewolf scenting someone who wasn't a family member. This was completely fucking _ridiculous._

"Okay." He tried to push Derek off of him, but it was about as effective as pushing at a baby elephant. "Okay, _okay!_"

At the last one, Derek backed off, hanging his head. It was pathetic and fucking _adorable_.

Stiles cautiously reached out to run his fingers over Derek's head, and Derek leaned into the touch, making the happy rumble-growl again.

"Okay," Stiles said, because there really wasn't anything _else_ to say. He was busy rethinking his plan. "Come on inside, dude, because I imagine you're going to want to see Amy."

"What do you _mean_, he's asleep on your living room floor?!"

Stiles winced at the volume of his dad's yell. "I mean he's curled up around his daughter and snoring like a freight train, what do you think I mean? Here, look." Stiles took a picture with his phone and texted it to his dad. "It's adorable."

"I can't believe you're using 'adorable' to describe a feral werewolf," Dad said. "No, wait. Yes, I can. What I _can't_ believe is that you're letting a feral werewolf sleep two feet away from your _son!_"

Derek twitched in his sleep, like he could hear the conversation on the phone, and Stiles hoofed it out of the living room and into the downstairs bathroom. "Do you really think I would let him in my house if I hadn't taken _every_ precaution? Seriously, Dad. Have a little faith in me."

"_Feral_," his dad repeated, like Stiles wasn't well aware.

"Look, I'm telling you. He came straight into my backyard, scented the _fuck_ out of me, followed me inside, shuffled in a circle on the pallet with the kids, then flopped next to Amy and fell asleep. It was the most anticlimactic dealing I've ever had with a feral werewolf."

"This is the _only_ dealing you've ever had with a feral werewolf!"

Stiles wanted to bash his head against the wall. He was twenty-eight years old, for God's sake. He knew how to adult at least a little. "Dad, I swear. I don't know what it is, but he doesn't see me as a threat. He doesn't see Jack as a threat. If he did, he wouldn't be _sleeping on my living room floor. _I would be dead in the backyard."

"Don't _say_ things like that, for God's sake. You're going to give me a heart attack."

Stiles could practically _hear_ his dad rubbing his forehead, and changed his tactics. "Look, Dad. We have no idea how he'll react to anyone else, but for whatever reason, he's totally chill with me. He can stay here tonight and we can get the witch to break the spell in the morning. Or, hell, I can figure out how to break the spell. It might take longer, but I can do it."

"I don't like this," Dad grumbled.

"Yeah, I couldn't tell."

"_Stiles_."

"_Dad._"

There was silence on the phone for a few seconds, and then Dad muttered, "Fine. God, I can't believe I'm agreeing to this."

Stiles sagged against the bathroom wall, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Thank you."

"Please don't make me regret this."

"I won't." Stiles considered. "Oh, by the way, you might want to have someone go look through the Preserve for his gun. I guess belts aren't all that comfortable when you're half-shifted."

He actually heard his dad's facepalm over the phone. "Oh, for God's sake."

Stiles fell asleep on the couch not long after he hung up with his dad. He'd thought about going to bed, but fuck it, everybody else was in the living room and he'd seen Derek getting twitchy as he was getting ready for bed. Stiles guessed he wanted to keep everyone in the same room, because as soon as Stiles settled on the couch, Derek burrowed into the pallet and relaxed in a boneless heap.

Stiles didn't think he was going to sleep well, but he closed his eyes, and the next thing he knew, Jack was poking at his cheek.

"What is it, kiddo?" Stiles asked, his voice rough with sleep.

"Mr. Derek's a wolf," Jack said, sounding remarkably unconcerned about it.

Stiles sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Yeah, bud, I know."

"He's only wearing _underpants,_" Jack said. "Can I wear only underpants?"

"No," Stiles said firmly.

Jack whined. "But Daddy, Mr. Derek's doing it!"

"Dude, we are not basing clothing decisions off of what Mr. Derek's doing right now, okay?" Stiles swung his feet over the side of the couch so he was sitting on it normally. "Go wake Amy up and see what she wants to have for breakfast. What time is it, anyway?"

"It's eight-thirty," Jack said.

"Eight—" Stiles cut himself off and grabbed his phone. _Shit_. "Oh, sh—seabiscuits. Jack, go grab your stuff. We need to get to school."

"What about Amy?"

"Have her get her stuff too." Stiles paused, and tried to imagine taking her away from a feral werewolf, even if it was just to go to school. "Scratch that. Amy gets to have a day off."

Jack pouted. "That's not fair!"

Stiles rolled his eyes to the heavens. "Mr. Derek isn't your dad. I am. And I since I'm not going to rip anyone's heads off for getting near you, I say you're going to school. Go get your things."

"But I don't—"

"Jonathan Michael Stilinski, if you throw a temper tantrum right now I am going to ground you for the next two weeks." Stiles pointed to the stairs. "Go get ready for school."

Jack's lower lip trembled, but he stomped his way up the stairs, jumping twice on the squeaky step. Stiles sighed and rubbed his forehead. He hadn't even been awake ten minutes and he was already getting a headache. Today was going to be fantastic.

"How come I don't have to go?"

Stiles looked up and saw Amy sitting up from her side of the pallet. Derek was still asleep, snuffling into the blankets.

Stiles hesitated. He wasn't entirely sure how to explain this. "Well, your dad's a little, um..."

"Weird?" Amy supplied, with a sideways glance at him.

"Yeah." Stiles wiped his hand over his face. Shit, he needed coffee before he got into the Jeep. "He's a little weird right now, and he's going to be very unhappy if you aren't with him. So, until he's less weird, you're going to have to stick pretty close to him. Is that okay?"

Amy nodded and scratched Derek's head. He rumbled happily.

Jack stomped back down the stairs, wearing his shirt inside out and his shoes on the wrong feet and his backpack half-open with all the stuff spilling out of it. Well, at least he was dressed.

He glared mutinously at Stiles. "It's not fair. You're mean."

Stiles sighed and stood. "Yeah, I'm the Wicked Witch of the West. Let's go. Amy, I'll be back in about fifteen minutes, okay?"

She grinned at him. "Okay, Mr. Stiles!"

Stiles had just opened the door to the garage when Amy yelped, something loud thudded across the floor, and the next thing he knew, Derek was shoving him and Jack back toward the living room.

Stiles almost whacked his hip on the edge of the kitchen table. "Derek, what the hell?"

Derek whined, eyes wide in distress, and pushed him again.

"Mr. Derek wants us to stay!" Jack kicked off his shoes and threw his backpack against the wall. "Amy, Amy, Mr. Derek doesn't want us to leave! Wanna go play upstairs?"

"Jack, wait!" Stiles called out, but he heard the familiar thumps of two kids running upstairs. _Awesome._

He turned back to glare at Derek, still crouched on the kitchen floor in front of him, looking pathetic. "I hope you're happy," Stiles said, digging his phone out of his pocket. "We're going to have a talk about this when you get back to normal."

Derek headbutted him in the hip in response.

"Fine, fine, I'm moving." Stiles walked back toward the living room, Derek right at his heels, as he scrolled through his phone for Allison's number. Predictably, it went to voicemail. "Hey, Ally, it's Stiles. Jack and Amy Hale aren't going to be able to make it to school today, so if you could grab any schoolwork for them, that would be fantastic and I would owe you a million dollars or at least two weeks of babysitting for you and Scott. I'll talk to you later."

He sat back on the couch, and Derek crawled up beside him, flopping face-down over his lap. Stiles grunted at the upper body weight of a 200-pound werewolf landing on him. "Holy _crap_, dude."

He thumbed through his phone to call his dad, absently running his fingers through Derek's hair as the phone rang. Derek nuzzled his stomach and rumbled happily.

Dad picked up on the third ring. "Please tell me no one's dead."

"No one's dead," Stiles said. "No one's even injured. I am, however, currently stuck in my house, because Derek isn't letting anyone leave."

"He's not letting anyone leave," Dad repeated.

"Yes."

"Derek Hale, as a feral werewolf, is holed up at _your house_, after scenting you, and he's not letting anyone leave."

"That's your judging voice, Dad."

"Is there something you want to tell me about the nature of your relationship with Derek Hale, son?"

Stiles squawked. "_What?_"

"I'm not mad," Dad said. "I know you'll tell me about this stuff in your own time. But I was under the impression that you two weren't actually—"

"We're not!" Stiles flailed and remembered the giant half-naked hunk of werewolf currently sprawled across his lap. "We're not," he repeated, a little more quietly. "He doesn't even like me. He tolerates me because Jack and Amy are friends."

"Uh-huh," Dad said skeptically. "Not to dismiss your observational skills, son, but every conversation we've had in the past twelve hours leads me to think the opposite."

Stiles threw his head back against the couch. "Believe me, I'm just as lost as you are."

"Well, I'll see if we can get the witch over there to break the spell," Dad said. "I imagine you and Derek are going to have a lot to talk about once he's, uh, more himself."

Stiles looked down at his lap, where his fingers were buried in Derek's ink-black hair. Derek had somehow wiggled an arm around his waist and was nosing at the strip of skin between Stiles's shirt and pants. "Yeah, you can say that again."

Really, Stiles shouldn't have been surprised when the witch refused to come undo the spell, even though the deputies reminded her repeatedly that doing so would help her get a lighter sentence.

By that time, the area that Derek allowed them to be in had expanded to include the backyard, and he and Jack and Amy were running around chasing each other, Derek snapping playfully at their heels. It was startlingly domestic, if one ignored that Derek was wolfed out and half-naked.

"Is the spell something you can break?" Dad asked him on their next phone call.

"Probably," Stiles said. "It'll take me a little longer, though. And I have to do some research first."

"Will the kids be okay if you do it there?"

"Yeah. I'll just need them to stay upstairs in Jack's room until it's finished." Stiles watched the way Derek grabbed Jack and Amy up under each arm and rolled with them, the two kids screaming with laughter. "I'll be able to do it by tomorrow, I think."

"Are you two going to be okay with this, son?"

"Yeah," Stiles said. "I mean, I am. I'm fine. I'm just not sure what Derek's going to think when it's all said and done."

"Okay," his dad said, the skepticism evident once again.

"Dad, for the fifth time, if we were dating, I would have told you!" Stiles burst out. "I wouldn't be lying about it. Not _now_."

"I know that," Dad said. "But do you want to be?"

"I..." Stiles raked his hand through his hair. "I don't know."

Dad hmmed on the phone. "Well, for what it's worth, I think it's pretty clear Derek doesn't hate you as much as you think he does."

Stiles watched the werewolf in question roll on the ground, letting Jack and Amy jump on him. The sight did things to him, and he shut those feelings down as ruthlessly as he could. "Okay. I'll let you go. I'll send you a text once I've finished my research. I think I've got everything I need here, so I can probably do the spell late tomorrow morning or early afternoon."

"Okay, kid. I'll take you and Jack out for breakfast on Saturday after all this has settled down. Sound good?"

Stiles felt, not for the first time, pathetically grateful for his father. "Thanks, Dad. You're the best."

"And I've got five coffee mugs that prove it."

After another half-hour of playing outside, Stiles ushered everyone in so he could get Jack and Amy lunch. They were more than happy to have dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets and mac and cheese for yet _another_ meal, but Stiles cut up some celery and apples in an effort to make it somewhat healthier.

Derek turned up his nose at both the nuggets and the mac and cheese, and Stiles finally cracked open his freezer and found two steaks he'd bought a month or so ago. He stuck one steak in the fridge and defrosted the other in the microwave, and then tossed it into a skillet until it was brown on both sides.

"I was saving these for a special occasion," he groused, putting the steak on a plate. "You'd better appreciate this."

Derek ripped into the steak happily, the juices dripping down his chin.

Stiles rubbed his forehead. "Okay. Research time for me. Jack, you and Amy can play in your room or put on a movie. You," he pointed to Derek, "don't break anything."

Derek took another massive bite of steak and growled.

The one bad thing about magical research was that it was so damn detail-oriented. It was far too easy for Stiles to lose focus and get distracted by something shinier and less mind-numbing. Even so, he managed to plow through a half-dozen websites and five of his books related to counterspells and countercurses before he remembered the outside world existed.

At least by that point, he was reasonably sure he had a spell that would work. He'd come across a few things that mentioned this kind of spell could wear off naturally, once a feral shifter felt suitably safe, but the chance of that happening this century was about zero. Derek would want out of his house as soon as possible, Stiles felt sure.

He glanced at the clock. It was nearly five. He needed to go make sure Jack and Amy had dinner. If he waited much longer they'd probably try to raid the kitchen themselves, and that could only end poorly.

He headed into the living room, where Jack and Amy were eating popcorn and watching _The Land Before Time_.

"Hi, Mr. Stiles!" Amy waved and held out the bowl. "Want some?"

Stiles grabbed a few kernels and popped them into his mouth. "You two about ready for dinner?"

"Can we have dinosaur nuggets again?" Jack asked.

"Sure, but we're going to have something other than mac and cheese as a side." Stiles looked around and frowned. "Have you two seen Mr. Derek?"

"He went outside. He wouldn't let us come with him." Jack made a face. "He growled."

Amy swatted him. "He wouldn't _hurt_ you, silly. He just wanted us to stay here."

"Outside?" Stiles repeated, because _what_.

Amy and Jack nodded, turning back to the television. Clearly they didn't realize what a _gigantic fucking deal_ this was.

"Stay here," Stiles ordered, even though neither Amy nor Jack seemed particularly inclined to move, and then he bolted out the back door, fumbling his phone out of his pocket.

Feral werewolves _never_ left a den once they'd settled there, and the fact that Derek _had_ left had Stiles's heart in his throat. What did that even mean? Where the hell had Derek even _gone_?

He stumbled onto the back porch, scanning the yard, but saw nothing. Derek wasn't here. Derek was gone. Shit. He had to call his dad, because if Derek ran across anyone else—

Stiles stepped on something crunchy and squishy at the edge of the porch and stopped cold.

Slowly, he raised his foot and looked down. A dead squirrel. He'd stepped on a dead squirrel. One of three dead squirrels, _and_ two dead rabbits, all lined up in a neat row on his back porch.

"Holy fucking shit." Stiles scrambled back, clutching his phone to his chest and breathing hard. Dead animals meant one of two things. Either someone was leaving him a very unkind message, or—

Something rustled in the woods behind his house, and a second later, Derek jumped over the back fence, dragging something behind him.

A deer, Stiles realized. Derek was dragging a dead _deer_.

He staggered to the nearest chair and sank down, covering his face with shaky hands. The deer landed with a _whump_ on the porch next to the other small animals.

"Oh my God," Stiles said weakly. "Oh my _God_."

Derek looked from the deer to Stiles and back again, pride evident on his face.

"Oh my God," Stiles repeated, because he literally could not form any other words.

Okay, that was a lie. He could form a lot of curses.

"What the _fuck_, dude? What the actual fuck? Why in the hell would you run off and bring back a bunch of fucking _oh my God you're providing food_."

Derek bounded over and nuzzled Stiles's neck, doing his happy rumble-growl again. Stiles tried to push him down, because no matter how hot it was to see Derek dragging around giant animals in nothing but tight black boxer briefs, he smelled like blood and the coppery scent was doing unhappy things to Stiles's stomach. And really, he did not need to be associating sexy things with unhappy stomach things.

"I can't believe you just dropped a dead deer on my porch," Stiles said, looking for something to get his mind off the fact that that was _blood on his shirt_ now, oh fuck. "What am I supposed to do with it? That thing's got to be at least a hundred pounds. What am I going to do with a hundred fucking pounds of deer? How fast does that shit go bad? I don't even have a deep freezer, oh my God." He leaned over and put his head between his knees, trying to breathe. "Okay. Yeah. Venison sausage gift baskets for the entire department this year, that'll be perfect. Thank you, Derek. I've got Christmas taken care of now."

Derek continued to nuzzle at him, bumping his head into Stiles's arm, and then his side, until Stiles dropped a hand to his head and carded fingers through his hair. It was a little wet. Stiles religiously told himself it was just sweat from exertion. Not...anything else.

"Okay, dude, okay, we're getting you inside and you are getting a bath because seriously, you stink." Stiles took another look at the deer lying on his porch. "Actually, first, you're going to help me get the deer into the garage, because I am not leaving six dead animals on my back porch when there are _other_ predators out there who would be more than happy to have them for a snack. And _then_ we're going to get you a bath."

Derek cocked his head quizzically, like he wasn't quite sure what Stiles was saying, but he was willing to go along with it anyway. That was okay. Going along with it was all Stiles needed.

And at some point this evening, he was going to have to search "how long until a deer starts to rot" to make sure this stupid thing wouldn't stink up his entire house.

After some quick Google searching on his phone, Stiles decided the best thing to do was leave the deer on some tarp in his garage until he could call someone to come pick it up. It was going to be cool enough that the deer _should_ be fine for a day.

He threw some chicken nuggets in the oven for the kids and told Amy and Jack to come get him when the timer went off, and then he ushered Derek into the bathroom and ordered him into the bathtub. Derek whined, snarled, and fought, but not hard enough to hurt him, and fortunately not hard enough that Stiles _couldn't_ get him into the bathtub and turn on the water. When Derek made to bolt, Stiles pushed him back.

"You are not leaving this bathroom until you are clean, do you understand me?" he snapped.

Derek blinked at him with pale eyes, water clinging to his lashes. His hair and sideburns were plastered to his skin. It was sad and adorable and somehow sexy, all at the same time. How could Derek look both adorable and sexy at the same time? It wasn't fair. Stiles wanted to bash his head against the wall.

He heard telltale giggles in the hallway. "I thought you two were supposed to be watching the oven!" Stiles shouted over his shoulder.

"Sorry, Daddy!" Jack yelled, and Amy giggled louder, and then the sound of their thundering footsteps faded in the direction of the kitchen.

Stiles sighed and turned back to Derek, shampooing his hair and then rinsing it clean, wiping down the rest of his body with a wash cloth as perfunctorily as he could, trying not to pay attention to Derek's chiseled chest or broad shoulders or strong thighs, or the fact that the boxer briefs left nothing to the imagination when they were soaking wet.

"Bad Stiles. Don't objectify the feral werewolf," he muttered.

Derek, fortunately, either didn't mind or didn't realize he was being objectified, because he just leaned forward and licked a stripe up Stiles's neck.

The rest of the evening was thankfully devoid of more dead animals, and Stiles was able to get the kids down on the pallet again without any trouble. Derek was with them, because apparently being sprawled out on the floor for two nights in a row didn't lead to any cricks in one's neck if one were a werewolf.

"Do we have to go to school tomorrow?" Jack asked.

Stiles sighed and rubbed Jack's buzz cut. "Nah. But tomorrow's the last random day off. You'll have to go back on Friday, okay?"

"Ugh, fine," Jack grumbled, and then he threw his arms around Stiles's neck. "Night Daddy. Love you."

Stiles hugged him back, taking a brief moment to be grateful for his kid. "Love you too, kiddo."

Amy cuddled up with Jack's second-favorite elephant toy. "Are you going to sleep down here with us, Mr. Stiles?"

Stiles shook his head. "I'm too old to sleep on the floor. I'm heading up to my bed. You kids come and get me if you need anything, okay?"

"But Daddy's sleeping on the floor," Amy pointed out. "And he's older than you are!"

Stiles rolled his eyes. This kid was too smart for her own good. "Yeah, well, I'm not a werewolf."

"If Daddy sleeps on the floor he wakes up and says lots of bad words about his neck," Jack piped up.

"Yes, thank you, Jack." Stiles made to flick a finger at his kid, and Jack giggled. "Anyway, I'll just be right up the stairs. Good night."

"Good night," Amy and Jack said in unison.

"And no watching movies all night until you're at least thirteen!" Stiles added from the bottom of the stairs.

"We won't!" they called back through their own laughter.

Stiles headed up the stairs to the sanctuary of his own bedroom. It was a little messy, as usual, but it was quiet and his and he could pretend for five minutes that he didn't have to do a spell on a feral werewolf in the morning. He could pretend it didn't affect him to see Derek lying down with their kids or playing in the backyard or bringing home a ridiculous fucking _deer_ for dinner. It was making him question every interaction they'd had since Derek and Amy had moved back to town a year ago and Amy and Jack had become inseparable. Because feral werewolves did not set up a fucking _den_ in the homes of people they _hated_.

He should really quit angsting about this and get some sleep. He'd do the spell on Derek in the morning, they would probably go back to the mostly cordial relationship they'd had, and everything would be _fine_.

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that," Stiles said, and went to get ready for bed.

He'd just climbed into bed and gotten comfortable when his bedroom door creaked open. Stiles buried his face in his pillow and groaned. "No, Jack, you may not have a midnight snack, but you _can_ have a glass of water if you get one for Amy too."

He expected the door to slowly close, but instead he heard the sounds of someone shuffling into his room, someone who sounded too big to be Jack.

Stiles raised his head from his pillow and saw Derek crouching at the side of his bed, eyes glowing faintly blue in the dark bedroom.

Even though he shouldn't have been surprised, Stiles gave a start. "Fuck, dude, what are you doing here? Aren't you supposed to be downstairs guarding the kids?"

Derek whined and grabbed at the comforter, gripping through it when he found Stiles's arm and tugging.

Stiles groaned and tugged his arm back. "What do you _want_, man? If you have to go to the bathroom, I have it on good authority you know how to use the back door. And you already ate your whole steak for dinner and I don't have another one, so if you want food, you're SOL."

Derek kept whining and tugging.

Stiles pulled his arm back. "No, okay? Whatever it is, I am sure it can wait until morning. I am going to _sleep_ in _my bed_."

Derek huffed, and then he loped out of the room, not even bothering to close the door behind him.

Stiles shoved his face back in the pillow. Fine, he could sleep with the door open. It wouldn't bother him at all. He'd be fine.

He was just starting to doze when he heard the patter of footsteps on the stairs, and then the patter of feet in _his bedroom_.

Stiles raised his head up again. "What the—"

Amy and Jack scrambled into his bed, toting stuffed animals and blankets and a pillow each. Before Stiles could ask them what the fuck they were doing, his bed sank with an even heavier weight, and Derek crawled in behind him.

Stiles automatically moved forward to make room for him before remembering this was _his bed_. "Dude, what the fu-fudge cakes are you doing?"

"Mr. Derek wants us all to sleep together!" Jack said. "Is that okay, Daddy?"

Amy laughed and flopped down on top of Jack. "It'll be a puppy pile!"

Stiles let his head fall back to his pillow. "Oh my _God_."

Behind him, Derek threw a leg and an arm over him and buried his nose right in the nape of Stiles's neck. Stiles did _not_ squeak.

"Daddy, is it okay if we all stay in your bed?" Jack asked again at a much lower volume.

Stiles could already feel himself giving in. "Fine, but we're going to _sleep_. Okay? No tickle fights, no giggling, no nothing. I want to sleep."

"Okay," Jack whispered back, and next to him, Amy nodded furiously into her pillow.

They _did_ giggle and flail around a bit, because they were five and seven and also because Jack was related to Stiles, but they quieted down and fell asleep much faster than Stiles would have expected. As for Derek, he'd apparently made himself comfortable by using Stiles as a body pillow and had no inclination whatsoever of moving.

That was fine. That was totally fine. Completely fine. Stiles was _fine_.

It took all of three minutes before he admitted it was a lie. He looked at Jack and Amy, curled up together and sound asleep, felt the weight of Derek over his body and the heat of his breath on the back of his neck. He wanted this, dammit, wanted it to be real so badly he could _taste_ it. He wanted lazy mornings and late nights and someone to share his bed with; he wanted this to be his family every day and not just for the five or six minutes he and Derek spoke when Derek came to pick up Amy.

And he couldn't have it, because no matter what feral Derek did, non-feral Derek wanted nothing to do with him. At least, nothing to do with him beyond mere acquaintanceship.

Stiles burrowed his face in his pillow and just...pretended. One night. For one night, it was real.

He could live with that. He'd have to, anyway.

Stiles woke up the next morning overheated and very confused as to why, before he remembered Derek and the kids had crawled into his bed last night for a slumber party. Sure enough, they were all still there, Jack and Amy starfished on their half of the bed, and Derek wrapped around him so tightly Stiles could feel his chest rise and fall with each breath.

It took him a moment to realize he could feel something _else_, too.

Stiles mashed his face into the pillow and whispered, "Oh my _God_." Hopefully quietly enough that it wouldn't wake anyone else in the bed.

Nope. Nope nope nope. He wasn't dealing with Derek's little Derek first thing in the morning. He wanted either a coffee or a stiff drink before that happened.

Heh. _Stiff_.

Stiles gingerly extricated himself from the minefield of limbs and crept downstairs. Bathroom first, then coffee, and then he'd get the spell set up. By then the kids would be awake, he could feed them, and then he could tell them to go play in Jack's room until he finished with the spell.

The coffee had just finished brewing when he heard voices and rustling upstairs, which likely meant the kids were up. Ah well, so much for hoping for more quiet. Stiles grabbed the cereal bowls and poured himself a cup of coffee. Belatedly, he realized he'd made enough for Derek, too.

He rubbed a hand over his face. "Get a grip, Stilinski."

"Daddy!" Jack yelled, stumbling down the stairs. "Daddy, Daddy, guess what! Mr. Derek's okay!"

Stiles whipped his head around. Surely he'd heard wrong. "Huh?"

Jack grabbed his hand. "Come on! Mr. Derek's okay now but you should show him where your pants are. He doesn't want to be naked anymore."

Stiles let Jack drag him back upstairs to the bedroom, mostly because he was too stunned to resist.

He walked into his bedroom and saw Derek standing in front of his dresser, two drawers open, with Amy hanging off his back, and still wearing nothing but the black boxer briefs. He'd shifted back to fully human, and his cheeks, neck, and chest were bright red.

Stiles could have happily lived the rest of his life without knowing Derek Hale blushed all the way down to his _chest_.

"See, Daddy?" Jack said.

Derek snapped his head up from the dresser, looking like a kid with his hand caught in the candy jar.

Stiles swallowed hard. "Um. Hi. Bottom right drawer, if you're looking for sweatpants?"

Derek nodded stiffly and opened the proper drawer. "Thank you."

Stiles quickly turned and went to his closet, rummaging through until he found a large t-shirt. Derek wasn't that much taller than him, but his shoulders were broad enough that most of Stiles's shirts would be tight.

He handed the shirt over, and bit back any comments about Derek being in his clothes. "So, uh." Stiles made to shove his hands in his pockets, but he was still wearing pajama pants. "Were you...okay, when you woke up?"

Derek nodded again. "Yeah. Um. Amy woke me up. How long was I...?"

"Oh, about twenty-four hours?" Stiles said. "Not that long, really." He nodded downstairs, toward the kitchen. "I've got some coffee on, if you'd like."

"Yeah. Coffee's good. Um." Derek rubbed the back of his neck, looking painfully awkward. "Can I borrow your phone?"

"Yeah! Sure." Stiles gestured to where it was plugged in next to his bed. "Be my guest. I'm, uh, coffee. Yeah."

He backpedaled out of the room as fast as he could, though not before he heard Jack say to Amy, "Daddies are so _weird_."

Stiles hadn't expected them to _talk_ about it, really, even though it deserved talking about. It was difficult to have a discussion with two kids running around underfoot, excited about another day off from school. He figured it might wait until lunch or something, when they could get the kids settled down with a movie or outside playing, where they'd both be distracted and he and Derek could have an Adult Talk.

But he didn't expect Derek to come downstairs and say, "My mom will be here to pick us up in ten minutes. We'll get out of your hair."

"Whoa, what?" Stiles held up the cup of coffee. "You're not...I mean, you don't have to—"

But Derek shook his head. "No, it's...you didn't have to."

"Dude, you were _feral_," Stiles blurted. "Yeah, I kinda did."

Derek flinched and hunched in on himself. "I'm sorry," he said gruffly. "I'll get Amy. We'll wait outside. Thank you for watching her. And for letting me borrow your clothes."

"Derek—" Stiles started, but he was already out of the kitchen.

Stiles sank back against the counter, holding the coffee cup to his chest and not entirely sure what it meant.

Derek remembered everything.

He tried to tell himself that he didn't, push it as far back into his consciousness as it would go, but the smells of the past twenty-four hours were emblazoned on his memory. Each inhale brought with it another whiff of Stiles's scent from the borrowed clothes, which reminded Derek of sleeping the entire night with his nose buried in Stiles's neck, of waking up slowly to a pillow reeking of that scent, of a bed that smelled of _them_ and _kids_ and _pack_ and _home_.

It was ridiculous. It wasn't something he could have again, not with another witch. And it sure as hell wasn't something he wanted to remember.

Yet it seemed both his own mind and his daughter were against him in that regard. Amy rambled about it the entire way back to their house. His mother, thankfully, kept her mouth shut, although Derek didn't miss the way her eyes kept flicking to meet his in the rearview mirror.

"Weren't you scared?" he asked Amy, half because he needed to know, and half to get her to stop the flow of words about how much _fun_ she'd had living with Mr. Stiles and Jack for the past day.

Amy shook her head and looked at him like he was crazy. "You weren't going to _hurt_ me. And Mr. Stiles is magic. He was going to fix it."

She sounded so utterly unconcerned about it that Derek could only blink at her. Obviously, he'd never hurt his daughter, but he'd thought she'd be at least a little worried about him getting stuck that way. Instead, apparently she'd had as much faith in Stiles to make him better as she had in Derek not to hurt any of them in the first place.

Mom followed them inside once they reached the house, hovering in such a way that Derek knew they would be having a conversation sooner rather than later. He ignored her and got both himself and Amy changed into clothes that didn't reek of Stiles and Jack, and then ushered Amy outside to play for a bit while he made coffee and breakfast.

Amy ran straight for the swing set, and Derek watched her for a few minutes before he turned to the coffeemaker.

Mom leaned against the counter, her sharp eyes on him as he moved around the kitchen. Derek could feel the weight of her gaze on his shoulders, and he did his best not to fidget under it.

"Whatever you want to say, will you go ahead and just say it?" Derek finally snapped.

"I was going to ask when you intended to tell me about your relationship with Stiles," she said evenly. "But given your reaction, I'm guessing there isn't one."

Derek angrily punched the grinder, using the noise to buy time to respond. "You guess right. There isn't."

He felt the warm press of her hand on the back of his neck, and Derek instinctively leaned back into it. Even at thirty years old with a daughter of his own, it still felt comforting to have his mother and Alpha here, reassuring him.

"Do you want there to be?" Mom asked.

Derek dumped the grounds into the filter and turned the pot on. "No." He cursed inwardly as his heart tripped; she'd have heard the lie as easily as he did. "I don't know," he admitted.

Mom squeezed his neck gently. "You don't have to know. But Stiles is smart. He knows that it means something that you chose his house, and him, when you were in a state like that."

He turned around and hugged her, pressing his nose into the crook of her neck and breathing in the familiar smell of _Alpha-mother-home_, trying to erase the last bits of Stiles stubbornly clinging to him. "I don't know what to do."

She scratched her fingers through his hair. "Tell him you need some time to sort it out, then. If he's a good man, he'll understand."

"I hate it when you make sense," Derek grumbled.

She chuckled and pinched his ear. "No, you don't. Now." She kissed the side of his head and pulled away. "I'm going to go make sure your father hasn't flooded the bathroom, and you are going to have a quiet breakfast and enjoy the day with your little girl, okay?"

Derek raised his eyebrows. "Flooded the bathroom? What's he doing now?"

Mom rolled her eyes and waved the question away. "Remodeling the half-bath next to the study. I've already got the plumber on speed-dial."

Derek snorted. He loved his dad, but Dad's DIY efforts tended to end poorly. "Well, if you end up needing a bathroom, you're always welcome here."

Mom grinned. "I'm holding you to that."

He didn't call Stiles.

It was cowardly. Derek had no problem admitting that to himself. But every time he even _thought_ about thinking about Stiles, he threw himself into doing something else: reading, catching up on paperwork, playing with Amy, anything to keep from having to think about it.

Thankfully, he was able to take the next day off so he could pick Amy up from school, and then the day after that was Saturday and the only thing he had to worry about was getting her to her soccer game on time. He didn't have to drop her off at the magic shop, didn't have to see Stiles.

Logically, he knew avoiding the problem was a terrible way to deal with it. It was going to come back to bite him eventually, but he just...couldn't. He wanted to pretend he hadn't changed everything, but he had. And the next time he saw Stiles, he would have to explain, and he couldn't. He couldn't even begin to explain something he only barely understood himself, something that made him ache and made him fear in the same breath.

The last time he'd felt like this, he'd been holding Amy her first night at home from the hospital.

That probably said a lot more about his mentality regarding Stiles than he wanted it to.

On Sunday afternoon, Derek's phone beeped with a text message just as he and Amy got home from their weekly lunch with his parents and the rest of their extended family.

**From: Stiles Stilinski**  
_Hey, you at home?_

Derek's heart somersaulted in his chest. He put the phone on the table, picked up the living room, and texted back ten minutes later.

**To: Stiles Stilinski**  
_Yes, why?_

That was safe enough, he thought. Probably Stiles just wanted to see if Jack could come over and play. It was closing in on the seventy-two hour mark since he and Amy had seen each other, and Derek was pretty sure there were going to be withdrawal symptoms by Monday morning.

However, he didn't get a response.

He'd just settled on the couch next to Amy, both of them with books, when the doorbell rang. Derek groaned and inwardly cursed the terrible timing, but he got up to answer the door.

The scent hit him right as the door swung open, and Derek found himself staring dumbly at Stiles and Jack, Jack holding a bright blue folder full of papers and Stiles with a giant cardboard box of frozen meat.

Derek blinked. "What."

"Hi, Mr. Derek!" Jack said brightly, waving the folder. "I brought Amy's homework! Miss Allison brought it over! And Daddy brought the deer!"

"The...deer?" Derek repeated, confused.

Stiles hefted the box. "Oh yes. The deer. Now scoot, this thing weighs fifty pounds."

Derek scooted. Jack and Stiles came inside, Jack scrambling unerringly to the couch where Amy was while Stiles strode down the hall into the kitchen.

Derek followed Stiles, still at a loss. "You brought us deer?"

"No, you brought _me_ a deer." Stiles set the box on the kitchen table with a thud. "And now the deer has been processed, and you have enough venison to last you through the winter and plenty of proof that you are a good wolfy provider."

"I brought..." The memory hit him like a freight train, and Derek's cheeks heated in embarrassment. He dropped his face into his hands. "Oh my _God_."

"And there it is." Stiles snorted. "I wondered if you remembered any of it."

Derek sank into the chair, staring vacantly at the box of meat sitting on the kitchen table. "I can't believe you kept it."

"What, the deer?" Stiles shrugged. "Of course I kept it. It was a good deer. Thankfully, one of the other deputies works part-time at a place that does processing, because I know jack shit about making it go from 'deer' to 'edible meat.'"

Derek couldn't take his eyes off the meat. He knew he should get up, thank Stiles, put the venison away, do _something_ to indicate that he was indeed a functioning person, but he was just...Stiles brought him the _deer_. He hadn't thrown it away. He hadn't given it away. He'd kept it, had it processed, and brought half to Derek.

"Anyway," Stiles said, "I'm going to grab Jack and, uh, get out of your hair, so—"

"Wait," Derek cut in. His voice cracked on the words.

Stiles stammered to a halt. "Uh, what? You want me to wait? You want me to _stay_? Because I was under the impression that, you know, you didn't particularly care for me and—"

Derek gave Stiles a flat look. Stiles snapped his mouth shut and dropped into the chair beside him.

Derek looked down at his hands, broad and flat, the wiry black hairs between his knuckles. He'd only ever told his family about this, and he hadn't spoken about it in years.

He cleared his throat, tried to find the words. "Jennifer—Amy's mom—she was a witch. I knew it before we got together, but...I didn't..." God, why was talking about this so _hard?_

"Hey," Stiles said, his voice surprisingly gentle. "Dude, you don't have to tell me—"

"I do." Derek winced at the harshness in his tone. "I do," he tried again, softer. "I need you to know."

Stiles nodded, amber eyes serious. "Okay. Take your time."

Derek frowned down at his hands again, trying to unstick the words. "She used magic on me," he finally said. "And Amy."

Stiles sucked in a breath, but didn't say anything.

Derek continued haltingly. "I didn't notice. For the longest time, I didn't...she was using magic on my own goddamn _daughter,_ to make her more 'manageable,' and I didn't fucking _notice_."

"That's probably part of what she was doing to you," Stiles said. "To keep you from noticing."

Derek shook his head hard, the old guilt rearing its ugly head. "I'm her _father_. I'm supposed to protect her from that."

Stiles, thankfully, didn't argue with him. "So how did you find out what Jennifer was doing?"

"I guess she slipped up." Derek rubbed his forehead, as if it could somehow erase all the memories. "I don't know if she forgot to spell me or didn't think I was within earshot or what, but I saw her do it to Amy and I lost it. And she started to do it to me, to make me forget, but...I don't know, it didn't work. I grabbed Amy and left." He swallowed hard. "Memories started coming back the longer I was away from her. Things I thought were real weren't. I didn't...I _couldn't_ trust myself. I still don't, some days."

"On my _God_, Derek," Stiles whispered.

Derek cleared his throat. "Anyway. That's...why I have trouble. With magic."

"Yeah, no _shit_." Stiles raked his hand through his hair, his eyes wide with horror. "Look, you _know_ I would never do that, right? To you or Amy or anyone."

His heartbeat was strong, steady, and Derek nodded. "On some level, I know. And I know Amy knows, because she doesn't...it doesn't even bother her to be in the store. I'm glad for that."

"But it bothers you," Stiles said.

Derek shrugged helplessly. "I just...don't ever want to be compromised like that again. I have to protect her."

"I get that." Stiles nodded. "Believe me, I get that."

They sat in silence, Stiles unusually still, the only sounds coming from Jack and Amy playing in the living room. Derek wasn't sure what else to say, how else to explain.

Stiles finally broke the quiet between them. "But...when you were feral, you came to my house."

"Yes."

"You kept us all there, until the curse broke. Because you felt safe with us."

"Yes."

Stiles fidgeted, popping his fingers. "That's not...I mean, that's not normal, right? I've only ever read about feral wolves, but—"

"You're right," Derek said. "It's not normal. We stick with family. Pack." He hesitated, and then added, "Our mates."

"Oh," Stiles said, and then, "_Oh_."

His heart constricted, and Derek hunched in on himself. "Sorry."

"No!" Stiles flailed. "No, dude, don't apologize, don't..." He scrubbed his hands over his face and sighed, and then covered Derek's hands with one of his own. "Derek, look at me, please."

Derek stared at the tattoos marking Stiles's hands, and then looked back up to meet his eyes. He didn't think he'd ever seen Stiles so serious.

"I felt it too," Stiles said quietly. "That...all of us together. It felt like family, and I...I liked it. More than I thought I would. More than I probably should. So if that's something you feel, I just wanted you to know you're not alone. And...I don't want to pressure you into anything, but if you wanted—if you ever felt ready for it, I'd be up for trying."

The words spoke right to the part of Derek that was both exhilarated and terrified. _I want it too_, he wanted to say. _I feel safe with you, but this scares the shit out of me_.

But he couldn't form the words.

Stiles squeezed his hands and stood. "I'm going to grab Jack and head out. Amy's still welcome to stay at the store after school. And if you text me when you're on your way, I'll make sure she's waiting up front or outside. You don't have to come in. And...you know, if you decide you want to, maybe we could get coffee or something. Just talk, you know. Anyway. Um. I'll see you later, Derek."

He gave a little wave and started to leave the kitchen a second time. And Derek finally, _finally_ unstuck his voice and said, "Friday."

Stiles whirled on his heel. "Huh?"

"Amy's going to be staying with Laura next weekend. They're having a girl's weekend in." Derek felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest, like he was stepping off a cliff without any way to keep from smashing himself to bits at the bottom. "If you wanted to have dinner on Friday. Just to talk."

Stiles's face went through a complicated series of expressions before he beamed like the damn sun. "Yeah! Yeah, that'd be...yeah. Seven o'clock work for you?"

Oh God. When had breathing become so difficult? Derek made himself stand up, even though his legs were shaking. "Seven's good."

"Good," Stiles echoed. "It's a date. Or not! It's a...getting together and talking...thing. With food."

Derek couldn't help it. He laughed. "Getting together and talking thing. With food. Yeah, that works."

Stiles grinned. "Awesome."

He collected Jack—who went with surprisingly little protest—and headed out the front door, bidding goodbye to Amy as he did. Derek leaned against the couch, still shaky from the conversation, still scared about taking the next step.

But deep inside, something else settled in his chest, a bright, warm coal of hope that hadn't been there in far too long.

Amy poked him in the side. "Are you going on a date with Mr. Stiles?"

Derek picked her up and swung her into his arms. "Maybe. Is that okay with you?"

Amy rolled her eyes. "_Duh_. Of course it is. Me and Jack have been waiting for this for like _months_. I want him to be my real brother."

Derek snorted. "It's a little early for that, don't you think? We haven't even been on a date yet."

She shrugged. "Aunt Laura told Gramma it's a miracle one of you hasn't bent the other over the nearest flat surface yet because the UST makes her ill every time you're in the same room."

Derek choked and almost dropped her. "Your Aunt Laura and I need to have a talk. Come on, let's go read outside while you completely forget you ever heard anything like that."

"Okay!" Amy wiggled until he put her down, and then she grabbed his fingers. "Just one question, Daddy."

"Yeah?"

"What's UST?"

Derek facepalmed. He was going to _kill_ Laura.

_One month later_

"That smells amazing." Stiles poked his head over the grill and inhaled. "What are you making?"

Derek swatted at him with his grill tongs, but he couldn't stop the smile spreading over his face, how it warmed him to have Stiles in his space. "Venison steak, venison sausage, and venison burgers for the kids."

"Mmm, _venison_." Stiles grinned and took a swig of his beer. "Is that the last of our deer?"

Derek nodded. "Seemed appropriate for tonight."

It was officially one month since they'd started dating, and Stiles had insisted on celebrating. Even though it was early November, the weekend weather was surprisingly warm, and Derek had suggested a cookout. Stiles had grumbled about werewolves and their damn high body temperatures, but he'd agreed.

Now the sun was setting, Jack and Amy were chasing each other around the backyard, and Derek was counting the minutes until venison steaks.

"You know, I meant to ask you." Stiles took another drink of his beer. "Why did you ask me to dinner in the first place? We'd just had that whole conversation...I figured you'd want to give it a couple of weeks, at least."

Derek ducked his head. "You said I didn't have to come into the store. And you brought me the deer."

"What..._really?_ That's what it was?"

Derek shrugged. "I showed you I could provide for you. And instead of throwing it away or giving it to someone else, like most people would have done, you had it processed for both of us."

"What about the shop?"

"Ever since I told you about Jennifer, you haven't made me spend any time around magic. And I know that it's a big part of your life. So...that means a lot." Derek swallowed. "It gave me the courage to do something big for you."

"Okay." Stiles set down his beer. "Okay, I really need to kiss you now."

Derek felt his lips twitch. "Need?"

"Need, want, whatever, you _pedant_. You're adorable and I'm having feelings about it."

Derek turned so he was facing Stiles full-on, leaned further into his space. He watched the way Stiles's breath caught, his body hitching slightly with the movement. "Just feelings?" Derek whispered.

"_Good_ feelings, of the happy and loving variety, are you _happy now_, you—"

He didn't find out what Stiles was going to call him, because Derek closed the rest of the distance between them and sealed his lips over Stiles's, shutting him up.

Stiles made a noise in the back of his throat, and then his fingers were in Derek's hair, adjusting the angle of the kiss and running his tongue over Derek's lips until Derek sighed and opened them.

And _wow,_ this was so much better than Derek had ever anticipated. He dropped his hands to Stiles's hips, pulling him closer, chasing the scent and taste of Stiles and—

"A_hem_."

They sprang apart like teenagers caught necking in the car. Amy and Jack stood at the edge of the porch, arms crossed and looking frighteningly judgmental for two kids who weren't even out of elementary school.

Amy tapped her foot on the ground. "So if you're done with the _gross_ stuff, are we going to eat yet?"

"Yeah, we're hungry!" Jack said.

Derek was going to die of embarrassment.

"Nope," Stiles said easily. "We're not done with the gross stuff yet. We have at _least_ another four minutes of making out before the burgers are done, so unless you want to see me stick my tongue back down your dad's throat, you'd better go play on the swing set."

Derek buried his face in his hands. "Oh my _God_."

"Are you really gonna stick your tongue all the way down his throat?" Jack asked in horrified fascination.

Amy shivered. "Grown-ups are _disgusting_. Come on, Jack."

"That's so _gross!_" Jack shouted, but he followed Amy away from the porch.

Yup. Derek was going to die of embarrassment.

"There. Privacy," Stiles said. "Well, for a relative value of privacy. Now where were we?"

Derek went back to the grill. "We were grilling hamburgers."

"Oh, come on, Derek." Stiles practically hung off him. "I scared them off. Don't you want to take advantage of it?"

Derek grabbed his hand and kissed the knuckles, rubbing his thumb along the lines of the tattoos there. "Later."

Stiles pouted. "But later is so far away."

Derek poked at the steaks and burgers, glad for the heat to hide the blush on his face. "Well, the kids will be occupied with a movie later."

"A movie—oh. _Oh_." Stiles kissed the shell of his ear, and Derek shuddered. "Okay. Definitely later."

Later, Derek would take Stiles into his bedroom and kiss him senseless. Later, he would undress them both and memorize every inch of Stiles's skin. Later, he would press his nose to the back of Stiles's neck and breathe deep, taking in the scent he hadn't been able to get out of his mind for months.

But now, Derek stood on his back porch with his daughter and her best friend running around the swing set, his boyfriend plastered to his back, the smell of grilled meat filling the air and the twilit sky darkening around him.

He was home.


	61. (T) SPIDEYTORCH - Always Glad You Came b

Always Glad You Came  
aloneintherain

Summary:  
Spider-Man is a relatively new, controversial vigilante, and Johnny has a crush the size of the Empire Building. The Four - operating under the assumption that Spidey is an adult - do not approve.

"I just happen to think Spider-Man's cool," Johnny says, matter-of-factly. "A hero can think another hero is cool without making it weird. I admire his aloofness. And his badass-ness."

"His aloofness," Ben repeats, chuckling into his mug of beer. It's roughly the size of Johnny's head. "Yeah, sure, I bet that's all your admire, right?"

* * *

Spider-Man is a mysterious, shadowy figure in the eyes of the public. All footage of him is blurry or captured from a great distance—climbing and swinging and moving in a way that doesn't seem human.

Rumours had begun to circulate of people being pushed out of the way of trucks, of muggers and rapists strung up in webbing, and people caught safely in midair before they could hit the asphalt. But even then, the Daily Bugle and the obsessed NYPD shout over the top of those claims. Louder. Drowning them out.

It's easy to see how a city might come to hate a hero. Spider-Man is this otherworldly, controversial figure.

Johnny thinks he's the coolest thing ever.

So maybe he harbours some small measure of hero worship for the vigilante. Johnny has watched shaky YouTube videos of the guy righting tipping buses and flipping high into the air, swinging so fast and so recklessly it looks like he's flying. And Spider-Man does all of this while being slim and silent, a dark protector of New York City. Not wanting fame, but wanting to keep his city safe.

Cool. So impossibly cool.

Slowly, other people began to think so too. Spider-Man memorabilia starts popping up; t-shirts and bedspreads, little necklaces and wristbands that proclaim the wearer's support for the masked vigilante. The city hates him for the most part, but there are some that don't. A niche who fervently support Spider-Man.

After the very public, very awesome defeat of the Lizard, Johnny is officially hooked. Posters are hung on his walls, t-shirts stuffed inside of his already full drawers. Spider-Man becomes his incontestable favourite.

His teammates don't agree with Johnny's enthusiasm, however.

Sue purses her lips when he comes down for dinner, his t-shirt red, an increasingly infamous symbol on his chest.

"Is that appropriate?" she asks, carrying a large salad bowl from the kitchen.

"What, my t-shirt?" Johnny glances down at it, as if to check that it hasn't suddenly sprouted swear words or pictures of naked women in his trek down the stairs.

Ben barges his way past Johnny, taking a seat at the end of the table. "She's talking about your school girl crush on that Spider-Guy, squirt."

Johnny splutters. "I don't have a crush!"

"Who does Johnny have a crush on?" Reed asks as he pops out from the kitchen, platter of skewed chicken in hand.

"Spider-Man," she says, fetching a pitcher of juice.

_"Sue!_ I do _not_—"

"No? Then explain the t-shirt, and the posters, and the way you freeze whenever Spider-Man comes on on the news."

"I just happen to think he's cool," Johnny says, matter-of-factly. "A hero can think another hero is cool without making it weird. I admire his aloofness. And his badass-ness."

"His _aloofness_," Ben repeats, chuckling into his mug of beer. It's roughly the size of Johnny's head. "Yeah, _sure_, I bet that's all your admire, right?"

Reed sits down on Ben's right, cutlery in hand. "I've seen the videos, too. I know he does look rather fetching in that spandex."

"He does have a nice ass, doesn't he?" Sue agrees.

Johnny makes a disgusted noise in the back of his throat, and clamps his hands over his ears. It's hard enough to live with his three adult teammates, but it's even harder to hear them talk about things like attraction and sex.

"La-la-la! I can't hear my sister talking about other hero's asses!"

Ben throws a balled up napkin at Johnny's head. The teenager catches it in one hand.

"Sit down," Ben grumbles. Johnny makes a face, but obliges, taking a seat beside his sister.

"I think he's a bad influence," Sue goes on. "We don't know anything about him."

"I agree," Reed says. "He doesn't adhere to local government like we do. He could very easily turn to villainous activities without having to face the consequences. We don't know anything about him, not his name, his face. We don't know what he's doing—he could already be committing crimes without anyone being any wiser. Like the Bugle said, he could very easily be a menace."

Everyone at the table makes a face at that.

"You can't trust anything in that paper," Ben says. "But sorry, kid, Reed's got a point."

Sue takes several chicken pieces before passing the tray to Reed. She at least has the decency to look sympathetic, as she says, "I just think your crush should stay only a crush, Johnny. Don't try and get close to him."

"Okay," Johnny says, if only to put this conversation to rest. He munches on his chicken, a little put out. "I'll stay away from Spider-Man."

* * *

In Johnny's defence, he does try to stay away from Spider-Man.

Even if he wanted to track him down, Johnny doubts he could. If the entirety of the NYPD hadn't had any luck in pinning Spider-Man down, Johnny wouldn't either.

The Four continue to disapprove, and Johnny continues to watch the vigilante on YouTube and news broadcasts, and be completely unsubtle about his admiration.

But New York is only so big. The city is riddled with super-villains, destructive and loud and drawing the attention of every superhero in a five mile radius. Johnny's met a bunch of colleagues that way, introducing himself over the sound of gunfire, shaking hands between dodging plasma blasts. Bonding experiences in their line of work.

He's flying late at night. The others are tucked away in the Baxter Building, but Johnny is lead outside by an itch under his skin and clear, seductive skies.

A big, beefy guy in a rhino costume, is doing his best to tear New York a new one. Someone barely half the villain's size flitters above him, strings of web following his arching swings—

"Spider-Man!" Johnny shouts, hands cupped together. "Dude!"

The vigilante looks up at the sound of his name. Rhino sweeps a broad hand into the air, and Spider-Man, still looking up at Johnny, flips horizontally in the air, curling into an impossibly small ball as he soars over the villain's head, dodging a hit he hadn't even been facing.

Johnny watches as the other hero uncurls and dropkicks the villain across the face.

"Oh, my god," Johnny whispers to himself. This is why Reed needs to hurry up with that fireproof phone; this would be so amazing on YouTube.

Spider-Man uses the momentum from the kick to jump back into the air, twirling away, like a puppet on strings.

He flies closer. Whether it's to join the fight or introduce himself, he's not sure. He hovers above them, and the Rhino scowls.

"Go home to the Fantastic Four, child," he rumbles. "This is not your line of superhero-ing."

"Human Torch," Spider-Man says, and Johnny almost drops out of the sky. He'll admit, this is a little much, even for him, but Spider-Man. Right there. In front of Johnny.

"I just want to say—" Johnny starts. Spider-Man's attention turns to him. He focusses on Johnny, like a moth drawn in by Johnny's brilliant flames, and misses the Rhino's next punch.

Johnny's warning shout comes too late. Spider-Man tumbles out of the sky, unconscious.

* * *

Spider-Man is hurt, and Johnny's not a monster. He's not about to leave someone unconscious in the middle of New York City. Especially not someone like Spider-Man, who has a gallery of villains and a secret identity to maintain.

"Whaa…?" Spider-Man sits up, hand pressed against his masked temple. He tries to climb to his feet, but wobbles dangerously. Johnny gently guides him back onto the bed. "Where…?"

Sue clears her throat. The vigilante looks up, catches sight of Sue's Disapproving Mom face, and makes a choked, terrified noise. Johnny doesn't really blame him, honestly.

"You're Sue Storm," Spider-Man says. He looks at Johnny next. "And you're Johnny Storm. Ohhhhh noooooo—"

_"Oh no_ is right," Sue begins hotly.

"Sue, come on, the guy's injured! I helped him home and let him crash on my bed—"

"On your _bed_, huh?"

Johnny glowers at her, for once ignoring the innuendo. "What, so I'm not allowed to have people over? I'm not allowed to have free reign over who comes in here—"

Sue sounds a tad hysterical as she says, "_No_, not when they're dangerous adults with questionable morals! You don't even know who he is behind that mask, Johnny!"

"Um," Spider-Man says. "Where am I?"

"The Baxter Building," Johnny tells him, ignoring Sue's worried, scowl-y face. Big sisters, what can you do. "My room. I carried you here after you got KO'ed by Big, Bad and Ugly."

_"Carried me here,"_ Spidey repeats.

"You're welcome," Johnny says. Sue glares at him from the doorway. "Hey, if it wasn't for me, he would've been smushed by the Rhino! He would've been road-pizza!"

"You shouldn't have intervened," she argues.

"Thanks for not letting me not be road-pizza," Spidey says. Finally, some gratitude. "But I should really go."

Before Johnny can grab him, the other hero clambers over the bed frame and towards the window. Johnny has never regretted owning convenient manual windows before, but as he watches his idol climb onto the windowsill, he definitely does.

"Please don't kidnap me while I'm unconscious again," Spider-Man says.

"Wait—" Johnny starts, but Spider-Man is jumping out of the window before the words have even left Johnny's lips. He stares after him. The little twirling figure of Spider-Man slowly gets smaller and smaller as he swings deeper into the sprawling city.

"I love you," Johnny whispers quietly. Reverently.

"I'm not sure if this is creepy or pathetic or just plain sad," Ben says. "Probably a sick mixture of all three."

Johnny scowls. Ben has joined his sister in judging him not-so-silently from the hallway.

"It's _worrying_, is what it is," Sue corrects. "New house rule—no sneaking dangerous vigilantes into the house without the team knowing."

* * *

"When I told you not to kidnap me when I was unconscious," Spider-Man says, "did you think I was _joking?!"_

"You said that?" Johnny squints at his pizza slice, trying to recall their last encounter through the haze of admiration. "Huh."

"Dude," Spider-Man says. "Not cool."

"Saved your life, though. Those super-villains were about to start ripping your unconscious body apart with their bare hands."

Spider-Man regards him with those unnerving googled eyes for a long moment. It's the longest the other hero has looked at him; last time, two weeks ago ago, the guy had bolted for the window as soon as he'd woken up. Now, he seems halfway willing to talk with Johnny. He counts it as a win.

"Yeah," Spider-Man says, "they all probably would've, if you hadn't got me out of there. So thanks, I guess."

Johnny slides the open pizza box towards the other hero. "Want some?"

_"Yes,"_ Spider-Man says immediately, reaching out to scoop up a slice that's mostly just slippery cheese and pepperoni. He rolls his mask to his nose with one hand. Johnny goes still.

Spider-Man's jaw line isn't defined, not like Reed's, and _nothing_ like Ben's. There's none of the dark stubble he'd expected, no hints of badass scars or shaving nicks. His lip is split, though, bloody and puffy and definitely sore looking.

He's pale. Paler than Johnny. His skin is smooth. A nasty bruise is purpling along his chin.

Spider-Man seems to realise mid-bite what Johnny is staring at. He drops the pizza back into box like it burnt him, shoves his mask back down, and jumps to his feet.

"I should go," Spider-Man says quickly. He sounds nervous.

"No, stay!" Johnny tries to look honest, trustworthy, but he knows he probably just looks desperate. He's usually so good at making friends. People flocking to him both in and out of the suit. He's never tried to socialise with someone like this before—someone mysterious and paranoid and being hunted like a dog by the NYPD, reporters, and half the super-villains in New York City.

"I hadn't even thought about—" Johnny gestures at Spider-Man's masked face. "—when I bought us pizza. I just thought that I was starving, and that you probably were, too. I promise not to stare, but. But I think you should stay."

Spidey takes another small, anxious step back. He doesn't trust Johnny.

Johnny's not offended. Not really. The guy doesn't seem to trust anyone, and that's not a surprise. Lone heroes are often paranoid and distrustful. If Johnny had the same reputation as Spider-Man, and the same kind of nut jobs after him, he'd be a little paranoid, too.

"I carried your unconscious body, dude," Johnny says, not unkind. "If I wanted to see what was under the mask, don't you think I would've already peaked? I mean, I _didn't_, but I could've."

Spidey exhales noisily. He sits back down.

"So," Johnny begins, looking off into the night's cityscape, millions of lights winking against the starless backdrop, "why are so many super-villains gunning for you? And the cops, and the Bugle, and—"

"The universe just hates me," Spider-Man says. "It's a thing."

"The universe can't hate you. It's not a thing."

"It is a thing! I'm just doing my thing—"

"Your spidery thing," Johnny interrupts.

"—my spidery thing," Spider-Man agrees, "and next thing I know, a bunch of old guys in weird costumes are trying to kill me."

Johnny raises an eyebrow. "Just like that."

"Well, I mayyyyybe got between them and their crimes, but what was I supposed to do? Let them rob those banks and destroy the city?"

"From their point of view, yeah, you should've just watched from the sidelines," Johnny says, laughing.

Spidey makes a breathless noise in his throat, like all the air has been punched out of him. "If you think I should've stood back and let them just—just go around and _hurt_ and _kill_ innocent people—"

"Whoa, whoa, I was totally not implying that. You're cool for helping those people. I just mean the super-villains probably aren't so keen on your heroic deeds, man."

Spidey's indignation simmers and settles into embarrassment. The vigilante ducks his head, shoulders curling, and says, "Ah. Right. Sorry, I just—I thought—"

"It's cool," Johnny dismisses. He picks up a pizza slice. He takes his time chewing it, Spidey squirming a little beside him, while he thinks. So many questions. The perfect opportunity to ask the older, mysterious hero something no one else can.

Finally, Johnny asks, "So. Avengers or Fantastic Four?"

Spidey starts a little. "Um. Avengers."

"Seriously? I'm sitting right here."

"It's not my fault they're cooler! They just are!"

Johnny pulls the pizza box a little closer to him. "I should take this back, you ungrateful—"

"No, nono—" Spidey scoops up three slices, layering them over each other like the world's greasiest sandwich, and takes a big bite. His mask is up, and there's sauce on his cheek. Johnny does his best not to stare.

"Pizza or burgers?" Johnny asks next.

"Pizza," Spider-Man says through his full mouth. Johnny, who's lived with Ben for far, far too long, barely flinches at the bad manners.

"Pirates or ninjas?"

"_Ninjas_."

Johnny gasps. "No! Spidey, I thought I could _trust_ you."

Spidey laughs and takes another huge bite of his pizza stack. He smiles, and his cheeks bulge, and Johnny feels accomplished, somehow. At making the other hero comfortable in his presence.

He's a lot skinner up close. Johnny had thought the guy would be all rock-solid-Batman muscle, but he's not. He's lean, limbs almost delicate, hiding that ridiculous, inhumane strength.

He can feel his crush worsening. He can't bring himself to regret it.

* * *

Johnny finds Spider-Man sat on the ledge of an apartment building, legs tucked under him, chin on his knees.

He hovers over him. His flames are bright in the nighttime, licking up his body and sending orange flickers over Spider-Man's suit.

"Looking a little lonely, webs," Johnny says. "Need some company?"

"Not really," Spidey says. He sounds exhausted.

Johnny lands anyway, flames giving way to tan skin and his blue suit. He collapses down next to Spidey, legs dangling over the edge. There's space between them. Spidey is tightly coiled, like a spring, or a gun about to go off; Johnny doesn't want to accidentally set him off.

"What's up?" Johnny coaxes. Spidey's shoulder lifts into a stiff, unhelpful shrug. "Okayyyy. Well. Ben broke the couch this morning."

Spidey doesn't move closer, but he cocks his head, confused, intrigued. Johnny takes it as permission to go on.

"Yeah, he was sleepwalking. He doesn't do it much now days, not since his, er, rockification. He got up at like 8am when Sue was making breakfast, wondered out into the living room, and _threw_ himself onto the sofa. It splintered under him."

Spidey makes a soft, breathless sound and tucks his face into the crook of his arms, as though to hide a smile. "Yeah?"

"Oh, yeah," Johnny says. "I mean, I didn't see it, because I'm sane and don't get up before 9, but when I came out the couch was in pieces and Ben was all grumbly and Sue wasn't talking to him, so. I got Reed to tell me the story with enough badgering. He was there. Saw the whole thing."

"Dr. Richards woke up at 8am?" Spidey whisper is tentative, a little low. It makes Johnny's heart twist.

"Reed? No way, man. He'd pulled another all-nighter and was either getting scolded by Sue or was fetching more coffee."

Spidey loosens the longer Johnny sits there and talks to him. Once he's thawed out, almost as talkative as the infamous rumours are beginning to say, Johnny springs to his feet.

"Are you hungry, man?"

"No." Spidey's stomach gurgles at the thought of food. Spidey ducks his head, and corrects, "Okay, maybe."

Johnny laughs and hauls the other guy to his feet. Spider-Man is cold to the touch—most people are to Johnny, but the vigilante seems especially so. He lets his hands linger over silky spandex, feeling warmth flare in his stomach, spreading out over his torso, up into his face and down into his very fingertips. Spidey doesn't snatch his hand away. Johnny supposes it's just because of how warm he is to the frozen hero.

"Let's go get something to eat," Johnny says, and goes. Spider-Man, after a hesitant, bewildered pause, follows.

* * *

The door jangles when Johnny pushes it open. The shop inside is small, cosy instead of cramped, with Christmas lights dripping from the ceiling in shimmering, ropey vines. The brick walls give way to faded, outdated bands posters. The counter is weighed down by clear jars of coffee, teas, biscuits, paper mixes of hot chocolate.

Spidey pokes a hanging plant—leaves drooping, only one of many within the store—and levels a glance at Johnny. "This place doesn't look like your scene."

"My scene?" Johnny repeats. "What, cause it's not a nightclub?"

Spidey shrugs. Johnny waves off the brief flash of hurt; for some reason, he thought Spidey would be different. Like Spidey doesn't live in the same city as everyone else, with its constant swirl of invasive press and celebrity speculation, where Johny is just a pretty face or a reckless partygoer.

"It guess I expected better of you," Spidey says at last, and this time, Johnny can hear the smile in his voice. "This place is just so… hipster-y."

"Like you're not even a little bit hipster-y." Spidey squirms a little. Johnny guesses he was exactly on the mark, on that one. "You totally are, aren't you? I bet you secretly love this place, you big old snob."

Spidey fiddles with a succulent growing out of a fractured teacup on one of the tables. "Maybe," he allows.

Johnny's laugh is cut off by an elated cry as Carry exits the kitchen, spots him, and swoops him up into a hug.

"Johnny!" she says, her German accent and dark makeup as thick as he'd remembered. "You've come for visit!"

"Hey, Carry," Johnny says, squeezing her gently before letting her go. She beams brightly at him. "I brought a friend."

Spidey peeks out from behind Johnny, shy under the soft lights of the restaurant and Carry's sharpening gaze. "Um, hey, pleased to meet—oof!"

She sweeps Spidey up into a hug as enthusiastic as Johnny's. He has to admit, he's a little jealous; he hasn't had the chance to hug Spider-Man yet. Carrying his unconsciousness body away from murderous super-villains does not count.

"Spider-Man," she greets. "It's so good to meet some of Johnny's superhero friends. I've seen the things you've done for this city. Wonderful. Wonderful."

Spidey squirms a little. "It—it wasn't anything."

"It was," Carry insists. "You're the hero this city needs, even if it hasn't recognised that yet. Some of us have already begun to see that, yes?"

She gestures to the cork board framed between a hanging jade plant and an advertisement for a concert long since passed. It's filled with photos—places from around the city, food vans and steaming meals, polaroids of smiling people, and newspaper articles of the Avengers, of the Fantastic Four, Daredevil. Spider-Man.

"O—oh," Spidey stutters. "That's…"

"It's the Board of New York," Carry says. "We put all of our favourite things there. This city is full of great people, and food, and places, and superheroes. So many wonderful heroes, but it is you that I am most excited about, Spider-Man."

"Me?" Spidey asks, faintly.

"You. You are new, but you will grow, yes?"

Johnny huffs, offended, while Spidey drifts away and touches the board with feather light, reverent fingers.

"I thought I was your favourite," he whines to Carry.

She laughs. "I love your team, Johnny, but they are more for space threats, right? Weird alien things coming to eat the planet? I prefer heroes who work in the streets for the common peoples."

"Like Spider-Man," Johnny grumbles, though he can't be too mad. He understands. Spider-Man is his favourite, too.

"Like Spider-Man," she agrees with a laugh. "Speaking of: you two go sit down. I'll bring you pasta. It's our special tonight."

Johnny drags Spidey away from the cork board, just as the vigilante finishes snapping a photo on a cracked phone. He pulls the hero into a small booth, and doesn't comment as Spider-Man makes the cork board his wallpaper. To each their own.

"Now do you see the appeal?" Johnny says. "I've lived in New York for ages, but I still feel like a stranger half the time. This place is just so big. You've got to have those places that are just welcoming."

Spidey hums under his breath. "Sometimes you want to go where everybody knows your name. And they're always glad you came."

"Exactly."

"You wanna go where people know our troubles are all the sammmme—"

"Is that singing…?"

"It's _Cheers_, dude."

"What?"

Spidey stares at him from across the tiny, rickety booth. "_Cheers_? No? Darn, I really need to thank my Au—erm. My family-person for making me watch that."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Johnny informs him.

"Drinks!" Carry announces. She puts mismatching cups in front of them, a spoon and tiny biscuits stacked on the accompanying plate.

Johnny takes a testing sip and scowls. "Hot chocolate? Carry. Not cool."

"Is late! No caffeine. You should be heading to bed after this."

Johnny bickers with Carry and Spidey relaxes more and more into the soft back of the booth. This time, when he tucks his mask to his nose, no one stares at him. The other occupants ignore them, even dressed in bright spandex as they are, too focussed on late night caffeine fixes or the laptops pulled in front of them.

The lighting is dim and the atmosphere is soft, welcoming. Spider-Man is curled close by, and Johnny feels like he could stay in here all night, warmed by a slow influx of drinks, and pasta, and Spider-Man's presence.

* * *

Johnny's ankle is sprained. He'd dropped from the sky, fire spluttering and streaming behind him like a falling comet, and landed wrong. He'd survived, sure, but his head had met the asphalt hard. Blood drips into his eyes, his temple screaming at him, and he can't stand. Every time he tries, the dizziness rushes up and tips him back to the ground.

"Little firefly," Doom taunts, "your family isn't here to protect you. What will you do now that I've clipped your wings?"

"Crr—cree," Johnny stutters. "_Creepy_." Curse his concussion for taking away Johnny's fantastic wit. If there was ever a situation that called for snappy one liners, it was this.

A gauntlet extends. Metal fingers brush against his wet cheek, up his temple, and fists in his blond hair. Johnny's head is pulled back tight, and he screams from behind clenched teeth as his head wound is jostled.

The other hand brushes against his throat. "First I'll kill you, and then I'll go after your sister—"

"How about you start with _me?!"_ That echoing voice, and then the sound of something slamming roughly into metal. The gauntlet retreats. Johnny slumps against the pavement.

"Ow," he says.

"_Ow_ is right." Spider-Man's mask swims into view. The vigilante is crouched nearby, inches from Johnny. He cocks a head. If Johnny didn't know any better, he'd think the guy was smiling. "You okay, flame-brain?"

"I left okay behind with my ribs about half an hour ago," Johnny says.

Spidey laughs. He disappears for a few seconds, and Johnny hears the distinct thwip of webbing and Doom's swearing, and then Spider-Man's back, scooping Johnny up and carrying him away.

"We have to go," Spidey explains. Johnny gasps as Spidey throws them into the air, airborne and tumbling through the city, so different from flying. The buildings swirl around them in a haze of colour.

"Go?" Johnny repeats, nauseous and concussed.

"Doom's an A-lister, dude, and I'm just one very inexperienced, very alone spider. If the Four can't take him down, I sure can't."

"But you're Spider-Man," Johnny gasps into his shoulder. "You're. You're Spider-Man."

"The webs and the giant spider symbol kind of give it away, don't they?"

"Now, I mean—you're special. You're a _badass_."

Spidey laughs, and it sounds a little awkward and off-kilter even to Johnny's ringing ears. "Thanks," he says, "but I'm really, really not."

Johnny's hand tightens on Spidey's shoulder. The spandex is too tight for Johnny to grasp at it, to curl his shaky fingers in it like he wants to, but Spider-Man is reassuringly solid beneath him. He's smaller than Johnny, shorter and thinner and nothing like he imagined, but he's here. He's real. He had Johnny's back; and by extension, he had the Four's back. Sue's back.

"You're a hero," Johnny slurs, ears already gone deaf to Spider-Man's response, before passing out.

* * *

Johnny wakes to Sue's voice. Sue's loud, frustrated, scared voice.

He bolts up and immediately regrets it when the world spins and he retches.

"Oh, thank god. You're awake. Please convince your family not to chop my head off, and put it on a spike in the front of the Baxter Building to ward off all the other vigilantes who might want to befriend you."

Johnny squints. Spider-Man is stuck to his ceiling, tucked into a gravity defying, nervous little ball. Sue and Reed are stood at the end of his bed, arms crossed and looking the very picture of disappointed parents. They're both beat up, post-battle bloody, but that does nothing to soften their glares.

He collapses back onto the mattress. His head is screaming at him, and his ankle feels stiff, his whole body aching like he'd been thrown through another building.

"What happened?" Johnny groans out.

"Doom happened," Ben rumbles from Johnny's bedside. Unlike Sue and Reed, he isn't casting suspicious glances at the person on their ceiling, all his focus pinned keenly on Johnny.

"Fuck that guy," Johnny says.

"Fuck that guy," Ben agrees, over the sounds of Sue chiding Johnny about his language.

"I punched him in the face for you," Spider-Man says. And oh right. Spider-Man had come to his valiant rescue before Doctor Doom could pummel him into dust. That was an actual thing that had happened. (Johnny's definitely going to tweet about this when he gets his energy back. His followers are going to lose their collective _minds_.)

"We could've handled it," Reed insists.

"Um, no, you couldn't've," Spidey says. "Not in time to save Johnny. You're welcome, by the way."

"My knight in shining armour," Johnny says drily.

"Hey, just returning the favour."

"I saved you twice, if I remember correctly, so you're returning one half of the favour."

Spidey snickers into his gloved palm. The sound is so easy, reflective almost, that it makes something satisfied bloom warmly in Johnny's chest. He did that. He drew that sound from the reclusive, lonely vigilante.

"I'm sure I'll have many, many opportunities to return the second half of the favour," Spidey teases, "considering how often you're in trouble…"

"Is that a promise?" says Johnny.

"You provide the pizza, I'll provide the butt-saving," Spidey says.

"Okay, no," Sue interrupts. "No. Family meeting. Outside."

Johnny starts to argue, but Reed twists a frown and shakes his head Johnny's way, and he knows he can't worm his way out of this one. Ben is already rising out of the too-small chair.

"Nice to meet ya, webs," Ben tells Spider-Man.

The vigilante waves his hand awkwardly at his huge, departing back. "Nice to meet you too?" he says, like he's not entirely sure.

"Thanks for coming to my assist," Johnny says with an apologetic smile. His body is stiff, aching, but Johnny's fought harder feeling worse, and pushes himself out of bed and limps after his family.

* * *

When they're all in the living room, Sue whirls on him, arms crossed. The Disapproving Mom face is out again.

"We didn't die!" Johnny tries, throwing his hands up in the air. "Yay for that!"

"What the hell, Johnny?" Sue hisses.

"I'm so glad you're not dead, Johnny," he mocks in a high-pitched voice. "Whatever would I do without you? The light of my life, my perfect little brother—"

Ben whacks him over the head. It's gentle, for someone who's essentially a mountain of solid rock. Johnny clutches at his head and whines in pain anyway, because _concussion_.

"I think you should explain to us why Spider-Man is in your bedroom," Reed interjects.

"You heard the man. He saved my life. Brought me here. End of story." That doesn't seem to be enough, judging from the matching frowns his teammates aim at him. "He's a superhero, guys! Like us. It's his job to take down super-villains and save people, remember?"

"He's a vigilante. I wouldn't go as far as to call him a _superhero_," Reed says.

Sue focusses all her worry and disapproval and anger at Johnny. He squirms under the weight of it, feeling nauseous in a way that's more than just the concussion. "We've been over how dangerous and untrustworthy he is. Why is it sounding like you two have spent a lot more time together since the last time we saw him?"

"…because I have?"

"Johnny!"

"It's mostly just been us saving each other. Or me saving him," Johnny says, proud; he's not embarrassed to admit he looks up to Spider-Man. The hero is badass, and Johnny's been able to save him, so that kind of makes him a badass by extension.

His words doesn't change how unimpressed Sue looks. Johnny sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. "New York isn't that big of a place, okay? We run into each other. We're both in the same line of work, it makes sense that I've helped him out when I've seen him in a tight spot. You might not think much of him, but I'm a _superhero_, and we help people, remember? All people. Illegal, vaguely creepy vigilantes included."

That makes Sue relent, deflating with a sigh, crossed arms slipping undone. Ben watches over the proceedings as though he's detached, like he doesn't quite have an opinion on this ongoing disagreement. He isn't siding with Johnny, but at least he isn't siding with Sue and Reed. Going up against his three adult teammates in an argument is far from new to him, but it never gets any easier. Johnny never wins.

"Please don't seek him out," Sue says, her voice a near whisper. All her anger is washed away by this quiet sadness, this worry that pulls her shoulders down and makes her look at Johnny like she's scared he's going to vanish, like so many people in their lives have before.

Johnny's righteous anger melts with hers. "You don't _know_ him, Sue…"

"No one knows him, Johnny. That's what I'm worried about."

Johnny stares at his barefeet, cold against the hardwood of the living room. He wonders if Spider-Man knows they're discussing him. Probably. For a sickening, stomach swooping moment, Johnny wonders if he's among the superheroes who have super-hearing, but quickly dismisses it. The guy can stick to walls and shoot webs and flip through high rising buildings with more grace than most flying heroes Johnny knows; he can't possible have more superpowers on top of that. That would be ridiculous. Excessive.

"I understand," Johnny says, without meaning it. "I'll… I'll stay away from him."

Sue pulls Johnny into a hug that he squirms against. She reaches a hand, snags Reed, and pulls him into the hug too. She doesn't have enough arms to drag Ben into the awkward hug, but when they pull away, Ben ruffles Johnny's still bloody hair and tells him he looks like shit. That's as close to _I love you and I'm glad you're okay_ as Ben gets.

When Johnny returns to his bedroom, wind howls past his open window. Spider-Man is gone.

* * *

Johnny doesn't see Spider-Man again for a while. A long, painful while.

Spider-Man is as active as always. The publicity around him remains as bleak and offensive as ever—save for the brief, positive blip in the wake of Spider-Man rescuing the Human Torch, media darling, from Doom's clutches. But even that had been layered in speculation about the vigilante's motives. Full of _maybe Spider-Man's trying to get into powerful heroes good graces, we should all be wary_ and _Spider-Man only active because he thinks_ proper _heroes aren't good enough, look how he interrupted the Four's battle with Doom!_

The Bugle had implied that Spider-Man had kidnapped Johnny. That had made Ben cackle and Johnny's cheeks flush.

Johnny's not sure what Spidey did to warrant all the bad press. He vows to ask him next time he sees him, but the time between their last interaction stretches on and the question fades and becomes irreverent.

And then, almost a month after Spidey came to Johnny's aid, the Baxter Building's alarms scream to life. Everyone jumps to their feet immediately, their dinner left cooling and forgotten on the dining table.

But it's only Spider-Man that calls out, "Whoa, whoa! I came in peace!"

Sue looks ready to defend their building to the death. Reed purses his lips, his disapproval burning cool, while his wife's simmers red hot and dangerous.

"What are you doing here?" Reed asks. Spider-Man, dangling from the ceiling with hands spread in surrender, has the decency to look embarrassed.

"Um," Spider-Man says. "I need a favour."

"A favour," Ben says flatly.

"What is it?" Johnny asks eagerly. He ignores the glares the others shoot him. Spidey lands flat-footed and squirming on the hardwood floor, and Johnny bounces over to meet him.

"I know I'm not your favourite person," he begins quickly. "I know you're with the rest of the city in the _Spider-Man must burn for his crimes_ crusade, but you're a team of superheroes, and superheroes are strong and powerful and help people and—" Spidey falters. His shoulders dip, his voice grows small. He admits, "I didn't have anywhere else to go."

Something in Johnny's stomach twists at the way Spider-Man looks right now, tugging anxiously at his fingers, shoulders dancing around his ears, casting nervous looks at the rest of the Four.

He sounds scared, Johnny realises. Spider-Man sounds scared.

He casts a glance at his family. They look reproachful. Wary. Don't they hear how frightened Spider-Man sounds?

"What do you want us to do?" Sue asks.

"Help? There's this villain, Green Goblin. He's crazy, he's _dangerous_—"

Spider-Man's voice pitches high, crackling under his panic. Johnny seems to be the only one that catches it. Spidey's a little weird, he'll admit, and he can be skittish, but he's not like this. Johnny knows Spider-Man's not this easily rattled.

"Is he attacking anyone right now?" Reed asks.

"I don't think so—"

"And have you told the authorities? The Avengers, maybe?"

"Well, no… That's why I came to you…"

Sue's face softens, if only a little. "It was the right thing to do," she says, "coming to us."

Spidey perks up. "So you'll help?"

"We'll look in to it," Reed promises, like that's not the most bullshit cop out Johnny's ever heard.

"Oh…" Spidey says. "But he's super, super dangerous—I really need to search him out and take him down now—"

"That's not how the Four operates," Reed cuts in sharply. Johnny winces; he knows how much the others think this is an issue. How Spider-Man conducts his business—or, rather, how he makes everyone else's business, from super-villains with secret identities to purse snatches, his business—rankles something for the Four.

"I know, but the Goblin is—is—he's _savage_ and psychotic, and I thought—"

"I'm sure he is. We'll look into him," Reed says. "Legally. Through all the proper channels. You can't just barge your way into other people's business and take the law into your own hands."

"And if he comes after me?" Spider-Man challenges. The panicked fear is gone from his voice, replaced by fresh, hardening steel and the kind of anger born from too many cold, lonely nights with bruised knuckles and villains thirsty for blood nipping at his heels.

"You've proved that you're capable of handling yourself," Reed says. "If this villain is too much, call for help."

"Call who for help?" Spider-Man asks bitterly, mostly to himself. He shakes his head, and takes several quick, scuttling steps backward.

"We'll look into this Green Goblin, Spider-Man," Sue says, voice pitched soft and reassuring. Spider-Man does not look reassured.

Ben snorts. "You're a grown man," he says with his usual tact. "Grown spider. Whatever."

The corner of Reed's lip quirks up in agreement. "You do seem very keen to prove your capability to the whole city," Reed reminds the vigilante.

Spidey looks to Johnny, now. He can't see the other man's face behind that big-eyed mask, but his voice is a little raw, desperate. "Johnny?" Spider-Man pleads.

"No," Sue cuts in.

"I think you should go," Reed says.

Spidey casts one last look in Johnny's direction, before jumping out the way he came.

* * *

Johnny sits at the dinner table with his family, finishes his meal, excuses himself to his bedroom, and jumps out the window.

He flies and loops around the block several times, careful to avoid the Baxter Building and its broad, telling windows.

"SPIDEY!" he shouts into the echoing silence of the night. "DUDE, I'M SORRY!"

A web snags on his blazing ankle and quickly yanks, spinning Johnny around in mid-air before the webs can melt. Spider-Man, crouched on the shadowy side of a rooftop, hisses, "Shut UP, flames-for-brains!"

"Listen, man, I'm sorry about what the Four said, I just froze and—"

"I said shut up." A second spray of web, and the vigilante successfully drags Johnny onto the rooftop. "Flame off before someone sees you."

Johnny's flames extinguish. Spidey helps him stand on wobbly barefeet. He shivers in a tattered pair of jeans and a pyjama top.

"Next time you sneak out to apologise, wear a sweater, you moron," Spidey whispers to him.

"Thanks, mom, but I'm not just here to apologise. Here to help you. What exactly are we doing, by the way?"

Spidey turns to look at Johnny properly, head cocked just so. "You should go back," Spidey tells him after a pause. Johnny thought he might be grateful to have company, grateful that Johnny took this risk to help him out. The flat, disapproving quality of his voice says otherwise. "You shouldn't be here."

Indignant heat flares in Johnny's stomach and flushes through his cheeks; he went against his family to be here, in the cold and the dark with someone who, according to the larger populace of the city, doesn't deserve anyone's gratitude or help.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Johnny demands. "I'm here to help you. I want to help you—"

"You're supposed to be staying away from me, aren't you? Your team don't want me near you."

Johnny falters. "They don't," he allows, "but I can make my own decisions."

"Sure," Spidey says, and doesn't rebuke Johnny's claim and bring up Johnny's age like a dozen heroes have before. It's a small mercy. "But they're your family, right? You should… you should listen to family, when you can."

"This is the right thing to do. I _want_ to do this. You're my friend, Spidey."

Johnny knocks their shoulders together. Spidey is stiff under Johnny's weight, like he's not quite used to people coming so close for friendly reasons. Johnny throws an arm around his bony shoulders, and he loosens, warms under Johnny's blazing touch. Leans into it.

"Thank you," Spidey murmurs, low and raw in its gratefulness. Then, louder, lighter: "Does Sue make you wear sweaters when it's cold?"

"Ugh, shut up."

"I knew it; she totally does!"

"I said _shut up."_

Johnny pounces on Spidey, throwing all his weight onto the vigilante, feet fully leaving the ground. His weight doesn't bother Spidey, laughing and swinging them around. Johnny hangs on tight. An enthusiastic, wrestling leech.

"Are you sure you want to be here, Johnny?" Spider-Man asks, like Johnny isn't slouched and struggling over him. It's a little awkward, Spidey shorter and thinner than him, but the other hero is so strong, an immovable pillar, one hand under Johnny's knee to keep him from slipping off.

"I'm sure," Johnny tells Spidey's back. "Are you sure you want me here?"

Instead of answering, Spidey steps off the rooftop and into free fall. Johnny shrieks and clings, but Spidey holds him tight, shifting until Johnny is wrapped around him. Their pendulum movements are exhilarating; a long, plummeting fall, and then a sharp pull upwards, stomach swooping, wind wrapping around them, like its helping their flight rather than struggling against them.

It's the adrenaline of flying for the first time. It's the relief of being caught by a teammate the first time after he'd fallen without his flames. It's amazing.

* * *

They swing around the city for what must be hours. Spidey doesn't share any of his overarching plans with Johnny. He suspects Spidey is forgetting his plans anyway, caught up in this easygoing, addicting thing they have between them.

Spidey lets Johnny look at his web-shooters up close. He was right; they're not organic. Take that, people on the internet!

Johnny takes them to late night food vendors. He buys them burnt coffees, and the guy manning the stall gawks at them. Or rather, gawks at Spider-Man, hovering shyly behind Johnny. The Fantastic Four are familiar faces, appearing on news segments and magazine photo-shoots, but Spider-Man? He's new. He's unknown. He's a walking, controversial myth.

Johnny's lucky he has a bigger-than-normal ego. This is enough to give a guy a complex.

But the Goblin does find them, eventually. Their coffees have long since been drunk, and the new thrill of web-slinging is beginning to ebb. Johnny's just starting to feel the itching burn of tiredness when Spider-Man stiffens, like a sniffer dog catching a scent. Then something on the street explodes in a fizz of brilliant light, chased by the screaming of terrified pedestrians.

"Show time," Spider-Man says, rising to his feet and bolting in the direction of the explosion. Johnny scrambles after him.

Several quick pops of colour and sound follow as small explosions litter the street. People run in all directions. Cars swerve to avoid hitting them. The Green Goblin rocks above the mayhem, bent over laughing on his spluttering glider.

"We should call the Four," Johnny decides.

Spidey looks ready to argue, but the Goblin cackles and launches a much bigger bomb at the street. This time, the asphalt cracks and bends under the force. People shriek in fear.

"Okay," Spidey says, "okay. Call them. It'll be nice to fight with a team on this one."

Johnny gropes for his fireproof comm but finds his ear empty. He fumbles with pockets for a phone. He finds nothing.

"Um," Johnny says.

"Oh, no."

"The shoes aren't the only thing I left behind?"

Spidey sighs, weary and already tired from what's about to come. "We'll do this the old fashioned way, then."

Johnny's never fought the Green Goblin before, and he never, ever wants to again. The villains is more than just dangerous, he's reckless and erratic and willing to pull random civilians into their scuffle to get Spidey to back off. Gaudy pumpkin bombs are dropped and thrown, sending Johnny scrambling after them. He's stuck on bomb duty, destroying them before the can hit the ground and erupt. He feels like he's in the world's sickest game of catch.

Spidey goes after Goblin, dodging and swerving swipes and thrown projectiles, managing a few times to clamber up onto the glider, only to get knocked back off by a meaty fist or a sharp bladed knife. Johnny knew Spider-Man was strong, but he hadn't quite realised how much abuse the little guy could take. No matter how many times the Goblin backhands him off the glider, and he collides hard with the asphalt or a high rising building; no matter how may slices of those quick blades he suffers; no matter how many bombs land too close to the vigilante and scorch his suit, Spider-Man keeps getting back up.

Johnny is kind of in awe.

They're both still amateurs, though. Sure, Spidey doesn't have the drawback of still being a teenager like Johnny does, but he's new to the superhero game. Newer than Johnny.

They give it their all, but it's not enough. It's not enough.

Bombs are missed and punches are taken fully to the mouth. Three civilians have to be taken away in an ambulance. Spidey is shaking where he stands. Johnny feels like he's been hit by a truck.

The Goblin gets away.

* * *

They rest on the bridge. No one can see them up there, perched where only birds dare go. Spider-Man settles in like its an old couch, worn and shaped to him, and Johnny follows suit. Heights are a familiar friend.

The sky lightens, dawn threatening to bloom on the horizon. Johnny needs to head back soon, before the Four wake and discover he's missing. But not yet. Not yet.

Spidey's knuckles are bleeding when he peels his gloves off. He winces as the spandex pulls on drying blood, catching on his open knuckles. The bruises look nasty, sore-looking, blooming deep and purple.

"I heal quickly," Spidey reassures when he catches Johnny staring. "I usually wear fingerless gloves during the day to hide them just in case, though."

"Smart," Johnny says. He watches as Spidey pulls the mask to his nose, revealing his grin and split, puffy lip. It's hot. Oh, god, bloodied knuckles and that cheeky, full lipped smile should not be hot.

It's just before dawn. Everything feels soft and fresh so early in the day. The traffic is far off. The city is an afterthought. Johnny is focussed only on Spider-Man, sat so close beside him, warm and real and smiling so perfectly at him.

Almost instinctively, almost without thinking, like they're magnets gravitating in, they lean closer until their lips brush. It's hesitant and shy at first, before Johnny dips in fully, and they're kissing properly, his skin burning and Spider-Man soft beneath him. He doesn't feel like he's kissing his idol. He's kissing his crush. His friend.

They pull away. Spider-Man's breathing heavy, though the kiss was hardly exhaustive enough to warrant that kind of panting. It's adrenaline, Johnny thinks, his own heart beating an erratic tempo in his chest. He feels light-headed. Giddy. The kind of rush he only gets when he flies.

"Holy cannoli," Spider-Man whispers.

Johnny stares at him. "_Holy cannoli?_ That's what you say after The Johnny Storm kisses you?"

"Well, if you're gonna be all arrogant about it…" Spidey huffs, but he's smiling.

"Someone alert the media about your success," Johnny teases. He licks at his lips; the taste of copper is faint of his tongue. Fresh blood wells from Spidey's lip, pooling over his spit red mouth.

"Yeah," Spider-Man says sarcastically, "because that would make the city like me. The Bugle would have a field day, Jameson screaming about—about how I'm some _monster_ that defiles poor unsuspecting teenagers—"

Johnny goes still. He stares at Spider-Man and considers a question that he hasn't thought about in a while. Not since he first started having pizza with the vigilante. It had all seemed irrelevant after he'd gotten his attention and tentative friendship.

Spidey pauses. Looks at Johnny searchingly. "Everything okay…?"

"How old are you?" Johnny asks hoarsely.

"Um…" Spidey ducks his shoulders, rubbing at the back of his neck. He looks embarrassed, not exactly caught out. Not like how Johnny would expect from someone who's been caught kissing underage kids.

Not—not that Johnny has ever really cared about that before. He's made out with people over 18, as uncaring and reckless as everything he does, partway because he can, partway to piss everyone off. To prove he's more than just a dumb kid.

But Spider-Man is something different. With a sinking feeling in his stomach, Johnny realises just how much he's come to trust the other hero. His crush is still there, red hot and yearning in his stomach, but it would disappoint him to find out someone close to, like, Ben's age went around kissing teenagers.

"Spidey," Johnny says again, slow and sure, "how old are?"

Spidey shuffles. Ducks his head and looks at his hands, fidgeting in his lap.

"I'm fifteen," Spidey says. Johnny stares. Spidey waves a hand in front of him. "Hello? Johnny? Did I break you?"

"You're not a pervert," Johnny whispers. "Thank god."

"Johnny, what?"

"The Four thought you were creepy and weird," Johnny says. "Erm. No offence."

"None taken? I think? Why did the Four think I was creepy and weird? I mean, outside of my costume, and nighttime actives, and generally strange personality and many, many flaws—you know what? Never-mind. Don't answer that, I understand completely why they thought I was weird—"

Johnny places a hand over Spider-Man's mouth, smothering the nervous babbling. It's a little weird, he has to admit, but it's endearing as well. Cute, almost. Spidey's mouth quirks into a smile underneath Johnny's palm, and he feels his stomach twist at the small point of contact. Johnny had kissed plenty of people before, but there's something about Spidey, something about his soft lips against his hand, that makes him feel lightheaded all over again.

"They thought you were older," Johnny clarifies. "Like, full adult older."

Johnny removes his hand, revealing Spidey's frown. "Hey, plenty of superheroes are older," Spidey says. "Most, actually, which is why they thought I was older, I guess. Why would that make me weird—"

"Because I'm sixteen." Spidey stares blankly at him. Johnny assumes the stare is blank. The mask makes it difficult to tell sometimes. Johnny adds, "And they thought you were an adult? And they realllllly didn't want their infatuated sixteen year old teammate hanging out with a much older and very dodgy vigilante?"

"I'm not dodgy…" Spidey says, a touch defensive. Then, his smile blooms, broad and excited, and he repeats, "Wait. 'Infatuated teammate', huh?"

Johnny shoves at him. "Shut up," he grumbles over the sound of Spidey's laughing.

"Nuh uh! You have a crush on me! That's so embarrassing!"

"Dude, we literally _just_ kissed."

Spidey laughs and teases, "Stilllll. You _like-like_ me."

Johnny groans. "Shut up."

"Make me."

Johnny leans in. Spider-Man's mask sits on his nose, showing off his teasing smile, his already healing split lip, the very faint freckles Johnny can only see inches from his face. Spidey's neck is long and pale and swanlike, and Johnny cups a tentative hand there. When Spidey doesn't flinch away from his touch, he slides it up to cradle the other teenager's jaw.

They're both sore and beaten from the Goblin. Neither of them had slept. Both of them needed breakfast. Neither of them cared.

* * *

"Is it because of how gorgeous I am?"

Spidey pulls his attention away from the screen to glare at Johnny. Without his attention, his car slides off the cliff in a whirl of pixels. This is their tenth consecutive game of Mario Kart, and it's beginning to lose their attention.

"Why would it have anything to do with how gorgeous you are?" Spidey asks slowly.

"You admitted it! You think I'm gorgeous!"

"Johnny, we're dating—"

"Exactly!" Johnny points his controller at the other teenager. His own kart has stopped, the other racers whizzing past as they overtook him. "We're dating," Johnny continues, "so you know I already like you. It doesn't matter much what you look like underneath your mask. You don't need to be shy just because I'm, like, a male model."

_"First of all,"_ Spidey says, "full of yourself much? And second: you just admitted that it doesn't matter what I look like underneath my mask. So drop it."

Johnny throws a handful of marshmallows at him. The candy bounces off of his mask and rolls across the carpet. Spidey, with all the concern for sanitation a teenage boy playing video games at 3am can possess, picks them off the chip littered floor and crams them in his mouth.

"It matters," Johnny insists. "Dating you would be so much better if I knew what you looked like. A face to put to my many, many fantasies about you—"

"Not sure if that's flattering or gross, honestly."

"—and actually have something to call you that's not so impersonal. Come on, babe. Don't you trust me?"

Spidey squirms, fiddling with a half empty bowl of Doritos rather than meeting Johnny's gaze. "I trust you, I've just never told anyone…"

Johnny stares at him. "No one? At all? So—so your family doesn't know their fifteen year old is Spider-Man?"

Spidey laughs, high and a little panicked. "Nope."

"Dude," Johnny says lowly, "all of New York is after your blood. That's messed up."

"Which is _why_ I can't tell them. It's for their own safety." Spidey huffs and stands, exhausted by this argument.

Johnny's never had a secret identity, and from the slump in Spider-Man's shoulders, the way he runs his fingers over the crown of his mask, as though he has a nervous, unshakeable habit of scrubbing his fingers through his hair, he's very, very glad for the privilege of a public persona. For the umbrella of protection offered to him by older superheroes and the public's favour. Spider-Man doesn't have that.

"You can tell me," Johnny says softly, like he's coaxing a stressed, hunted animal. "Your family might be ordinary joes who can't protect themselves, but I'm not like that. I already have super-villains gunning for me. And the Four. The Baxter Building. _Superpowers_."

Spidey bits at his exposed lip. Johnny's stomach swoops at the action, but squashes the urge down. The time for attacking his boyfriend with surprise kisses will come _later_.

"I don't know, Johnny…"

"Come onnnnn," Johnny whines; serious conversations are boring. He's provided the logic, he's refrained from changing the subject with kisses. What more does Spidey want?

"Johnnnny," Spidey whines back.

Johnny flails back, like a grumpy toddler who needs a nap. "Tell meeeee."

Spidey flops onto his side, mirroring Johnny. "Noooooo."

Spidey rolls onto his stomach, all relaxed limbs and stretched out spandex, and Johnny pounces. A spider-sense works on super-villains and police officers armed with bullets, but not on rogue boyfriends, apparently. Good to know.

Johnny straddles Spidey and tugs at the mask. "Show me!"

The laugh is caught in Spidey's throat. He twists out of Johnny's grasp, using his legs to flip Johnny off him. "Ugh, Johnny, you're _heavy!"_

"Are you calling me fat?"

"Well, if the pants don't fit…"

Spidey rolls away, and Johnny races after him. Chips and marshmallows are squashed under their weight, crushed into the carpet.

"You'll pay for that!" Johnny promises. Spidey shimmies teasingly, encouragingly, and Johnny lunges. He grips skinny wrists and secures bony hips between his legs, and Spidey lays pliant, letting himself be pinned.

"Oh, no," Spidey says dramatically. "I've been caught. Whatever will I do."

"Give up the identity, webs. Show me how cute your face is!"

Spidey rises up, pushing Johnny off of him as if the older teenager was weightless. Johnny yelps, flailing and falling onto his back with a _thump_. Spidey climbs over him with a triumphant grin. It's Johnny's turn to be pinned. Spidey holds him easily, like Johnny's wrestling hands are nothing to him; he supposes that they aren't, not compared to the younger's super-strength.

Hands hold Johnny to the carpet, and strong, bony knees bracket his hips. Peter smirks, leans down, and teases, "Proportionate strength of a spider."

"Man, that's cheating!"

"Nope," Spidey decides. "Totally fine. All's fair in love and war and secret identities and stuff—"

Johnny groans in his impatience, throwing his head back against the carpet. His mission has been forgotten, his determination to wheedle the secret identity from Spidey completely gone. "Will you just kiss me already?"

Spidey goes red. He seems to release their position, how confident and pushy he's been, and turns shy in a sudden fit of self-consciousness. "Oh, I…"

"Dude, don't get all nervous on me now. Kisses! I deserve them!"

Johnny wriggles in the unbreakable hold, impatient. Spidey laughs, the sound quiet, breathy. He leans in. His lips skim Johnny's.

"Like this?" he teases. His breath washes across Johnny's face, all sugary pepsi and tangy pizza. It should be gross, it should be embarrassing, but Spidey makes Johnny feel flushed in a way his flames never could. The only thing he can focus on is the feel of strong, skinny fingers and the feather light brush of their lips.

"Spidey!" Johnny complains. He struggles in the other teenager's grip, wanting to get up, to crash their mouths together, but Spidey keeps him firmly pinned. "Spidey, c'mon, _no_—"

_"Get your hands off of him!"_

Spidey freezes. Flushed together, still laying amongst littered chips and game controllers and pizza boxes, they peer guiltily up. The Fantastic Four loom in living room's threshold, all gritted teeth and furious, balled fists. Johnny hasn't seen them this angry since the last time a super-villain had tried to kill him.

It's Sue that had spoken, but it's Ben that strides forward, thundering steps loud against the carpeted ground. Spidey flinches as though to dart away, to scurry up the ceiling, but Ben grabs him around the neck and hauls him bodily off of Johnny.

Proportionate strength of a spider, maybe. Proportionate strength of a mountain? Not so much.

"Whoa!" Johnny says, fumbling to his feet. Spidey dangles in Ben's tightening grip, legs struggling for purchase against Ben's rocky torso. "Ben, let him go—"

"What are you doing in our building?" Reed demands. His limbs have gone long and unnaturally wobbly around his anger, powers bleeding under his fracturing control. Experience tells Johnny that this is a very, very bad thing.

"Reed!" Johnny yells, grabbing one jellylike shoulder and hauling him back.

"I can make him talk," Ben promises, tightening his grip even further. Spidey splutters, his gasps for air silenced around granite fingers. "Or I could make him never talk again."

"Put him down," Sue orders. Spidey wheezes into the silence her voice creates.

"Sue," Ben begins, "you saw what he was trying to do to Johnny—"

"Put him down," Sue repeats tersely. Her voice leaves no room for argument.

Ben's grip loosens enough for Spidey to tumble away. The vigilante scampers under Ben and up the neighbouring wall, not stopping until he's crouched protectively in the corner, bracketed by two walls and the ceiling, chest heaving.

Johnny follows him. He hovers protectively at the bottom of the wall, listening to the rough, panicked breathing of his boyfriend and keeping his eyes on his teammates.

"Johnny," Sue begins, "what the hell did we just walk in on?"

Johnny studies his serious family. He can't lie. Not now.

"A sleepover, I guess," he says. "We were wrestling."

"It wasn't trying to _hurt_ him," Spidey says, loud with desperation, hoarse from being strangled. "I swear, Johnny started it, and —"

"It doesn't matter who started it," Ben grumbles, the words echoing through him like reverberating thunder, "I'm gonna _end_ it—"

"We're dating!" Johnny says loudly. All eyes gravitate towards him. "That's why we were. Um. About to kiss." He doesn't want to admit these things, doesn't want to talk about them in front of his adult friends, but if it saves Spider-Man from being ripped to pieces by vengeful superheroes, then it's worth it.

But the Four don't back down. If anything, Johnny's declaration makes them even madder. Both men seem to grow bigger and angrier like territorial birds puffing up their feathers.

"I'm gonna kill him," Ben decides, and Reed echoes the sentiment. Spidey shrieks a little, the sound cracking and shrill, as he shoves himself even tighter against the corner, limbs curling in like a dying spider.

"If you think you can take advantage of a teenager's crush—" Reed begins, stepping protectively in front of Johnny. He's stopped by Sue's hand on his chest.

She doesn't look at her teammates. Instead, she studies the huddled vigilante, and asks, calmly, "Spider-Man, how old are you?"

Reed and Ben falter. Spidey's breath remains rough and too fast, and he stays silent against the ceiling.

"Sue, why would you think—" Reed begins.

"Look around you," Sue says, gesturing at the messy living room. He does, taking in the haphazard stack of video games and split chips with a frown. "Now, Spider-Man. How old are you?"

Spidey shakes his head, no. It's Johnny that answers; "He's fifteen, Sue."

"Johnny!" Spidey hisses.

"Fifteen," Sue sighs.

Reed stares at Spider-Man like it's the first time he's seen him. Ben slumps, all the fight draining out of him whiplash fast.

"Fifteen?" Ben asks. The hardness is gone from his voice, replaced with defeat. Ashamed guilt.

"They were play-fighting," Sue says. Johnny quickly nods, yes. "Not—not—"

"He would never," Johnny vows.

"Fifteen," Ben says again. "Fuck, I need a drink."

Spidey shifts out of the corner. He drops flat-footed to the ground, but when Johnny reaches out to touch him, he flinches away. Takes several quick steps backward. Glances towards the door.

"It's late. You should stay the night," Sue offers.

Spidey splutters, still nervous, still choked out. Ben cuts in, "Stay, kid. It's the least we could do after we freaked out on you like that."

Reed hangs his head. "I'm so sorry, Spider-Man."

"It's okay," Spidey says quickly. "You don't need to apologise, you don't like me, it's fine, no one really does, and you were just looking out for Johnny. It's good to see he has people to take care of him. I mean, goodness knows he needs it."

Johnny squawks. "I do _not_ need it!"

"You totally do, dude," Spidey teases, snickering. "You need three super-powered babysitters to keep you in line."

"I want a divorce," Johnny tells him.

Spidey gasps. "Baby, no! What about our dreams? Our mortgage? Think of our children!"

"I have fallen in love with another," Johnny says. "I'm going to quit my boring job at the office and run away with her."

Spidey wails and slumps against Johnny, pretending to cry into his shoulder. Johnny stares out the window, as though detached from a loveless marriage.

"Oh, no," Ben says. "There's two of them."

Sue looks as though her entire world view is being reconstructed. She's staring at Spidey in the same way Johnny's seen her stare at the especially cute children that waddle around the local parks. Like she wants to snatch them up and keep them. Protect them.

"Reed," she whispers, tugging on her husband's arm, "I was wrong. I was so, so wrong; they're perfect together."

* * *

Spider-Man sits stiffly at their table during breakfast. The awkward silence that fills their living room is heavy. Anticipating.

Sue lays a platter of fried eggs and toast in the centre of the table. Johnny reaches for them, and encourages Spidey to do the same. The teenager pulls his mask to his nose, but flinches and tugs it back down when Sue gasps and puts a hand over her mouth. Reed stills. Ben's cup shatters in his fist.

"Jesus Christ," Ben swears.

"I—I—" Spidey squirms like he wants to get up and run. Johnny puts a hand on his thigh under the table, and lets his palm warm, unnaturally hot. Spidey relaxes minutely under his touch.

"You need to see a doctor," Sue decides. "You should've already seen one, what were we thinking—"

"You were thinking that it wasn't that bad," Ben says. He looks angry. Sickened. "That what I did wasn't—wasn't that bad—"

Spidey fiddles with the bottom of his mask. "What is it?"

"You have bruises on your throat," Reed tells him, grimacing.

Spidey's shoulders curl again, that familiar, nervous gesture that makes Johnny want to wrap him into a hug. "Oh," he says softly.

Johnny rubs circles into Spidey's leg with his thumb. He'll admit, the bruises were bad. Ringed around the teenager's pale throat, a necklace of sore, splotchy purple. At least Ben's hand is too big to leave bruises that resemble fingerprints.

"I'm sorry, kid," Ben says. He looks lost. He knows his words aren't enough, not to erase the bruises he's left on the teenager, but he's faltering. Unsure what else to do with the regret. The guilt.

"It's fine," Spidey says. "Really. I heal fast; the bruises will be gone by tonight. And I've taken a lot worse from super-villains, so, um. I'm used to it."

Sue takes a seat across from Spider-Man. She tucks her hair behind her ear, steadies her breathing, and says firmly, "I would like to apologise on behalf of all of us. We haven't been fair to you."

Spider-Man starts at that. He seems honestly surprised by the apology. "What do you mean?"

"We've been treating you badly without knowing anything about you. We thought you were some rogue adult butting into business you had no place in being. We turned you away. We thought you were taking advantage of Johnny." There's the Sue Johnny knows, all hard-edged concern and intense blue eyes. It's kind of nice, seeing that worry directed at someone other than him. "I'm sorry, Spidey."

"You're forgiven?" Spidey says, obviously at a loss.

Reed collects two glasses of juice. He gives them to the teenagers, lays a hand over Spider-Man's shoulder, and says, "Let's go get those bruises looked at, okay?"

"My mask—"

Sue bites at her lip, stopping herself from blurting out the many questions Johnny knows she has. Where her questions would once be probing, now they're directed by her concern. Once Spidey's gone, he has no doubt that her barrage will be directed Johnny's way. Not that he'll tell her anything about his boyfriend, of course.

"You can keep it on," Reed says kindly. "Come on."

Spider-Man nods. He obediently follows Reed to the Med Bay.

"He's so little…" Ben says, following Spidey's exit with his eyes. "How did we miss that?"

Sue casts a glance at Johnny, weighing up Spider-Man against her little brother. Her lips purse, wobble. She sees it, he knows. She sees that Spider-Man is smaller than even him.

"We had assumptions," she says. "We didn't want to look past them."

The living room falls back into that weighty silence. Johnny reaches for the plate of eggs and begins piling up Spidey's plate. It feels like all he can do for the other teenager now.

* * *

When Johnny wants to invite Spider-Man over next time, he doesn't have to wait until the Four have gone out. He doesn't have to hide it.

This time, when Spider-Man swings into his bedroom, the younger shouts a greeting to the others. Sue, embarrassingly enough, makes them keep the bedroom door open. When they venture out to grab soda, Spidey offers up several scientific questions he's kept firmly tucked away, and Reed answers them honestly, eagerly. Ben good-naturedly teasing about them being boyfriends and makes them splutter and flush.

It's not perfect, but it's a start.

* * *

The next time Doom and his infuriating, endless army attack the city, Spider-Man swings around to meet up with the Fantastic Four. Rather than sneaking around shadowy buildings and hissing quietly to catch Johnny's attention, the teenager flies through the air between Johnny and a stretched out Reed, laughing and webbing Doombots as he goes.

"Spidey!" Johnny says happily. He burns a Doombot into a bubbling, warping husk, before flying higher, admiring his boyfriend's fluid flips and twirls.

"Spider-Man," Reed greets.

"Hey, Johnny," Spidey says, like he's not twisted upside down and wrapped around a thrashing Doombot. "Hey, Dr. Richards. How are you doing?"

Reed throws a Doombot at Johnny, who destroys it in a burst of flame. "Oh, good, good. Yourself?"

"I'm good. Kind of bummed about this invasion though; I had literally just sat down when I saw the news."

"Hey!" Johnny interrupts. "Boyfriend, here! Don't I get a kiss or something?"

"A bit busy, dear," Spidey says. He kicks one Doombot in the head, twists, and shoves his fist through the neck of another, spraying sparks and exposing ropy wiring.

"Spidey and Torchy," Ben heckles, "sitting in a tree!"

"How OLD are you?!" Johnny demands.

"K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

"Ben, you motherfu—!" Johnny throws a blast of lukewarm flame that bounces off of Ben's thick skin as easily as water off a duck.

"Don't make me come up there," Sue warns over the comm. Johnny can't see her, but he knows she's somewhere on the ground, kicking ass and taking names.

"Is this is what superhero teams are really like?" Spidey wonders.

"Like what?"

"Straight out of those funny, vaguely dysfunctional family sit-coms."

"We're not always like this," Reed tells him gently.  
"Yes, we are!" Sue says.

"We aren't," Johnny defends. Why did he think it was a good idea for his boyfriend to get within ten feet of his family. Why.

"We totally are," Ben says above the sound of screeching metal and dying Doombots.

Johnny throws another handful of flames at him. "Ben!"

Spidey's laugh is high and carefree, like a bell. It makes Johnny feel lightheaded. "No, no, I like it," he insists. "I'm kind of jealous, actually."

Johnny's reply is lost. A Doombot launches itself at him, and he's too busy wrestling it off and trying to stay airborne.

The wave of Doombots grows thicker. Sue disappears into the subway stations when the Doombots worm their way down there, following the fleeing New Yorkers into the dark. Reed heads after her.

Ben stays flat-footed on the ground, battling dozens of them at once. Johnny and Spider-Man are pulled higher, deeper into the city, as the swarm thickens.

Until a Doombot catches Johnny unawares, hitting right over the head, and he tumbles toward the asphalt, unconscious.

* * *

Johnny wakes up to a haze of blue. He's tangled in something that's soft and smells warm—a little of sweat, the faint tang of blood, but something spicy that makes him bury in deeper. His head is throbbing, but it's easily ignored. He's too comfortable, cocooned amongst blue sheets and blue comforters and faded blue pillows.

Distantly, he can hear the buzz of a TV. The walls are thin; Johnny can hear kids shouting and playing somewhere outside. A dog barking. The faint whirl of police sirens.

The Baxter Building is soundproof. That realisation, if anything, pries his eyes open.

This bedroom is nothing like Johnny's. The posters crowding the walls are all wrong, for alternative bands, or photography, or science mumbo-jumbo. A Fantastic Four poster lounges opposite the bed, the paper a shiny, quality gloss, his family and Johnny's face blown up in detail. Johnny's _face_.

"Um," Johnny says. He sits up. The bedding pools around his lap. The bedspread isn't just blue—it's _Fantastic Four_ themed. "UM."

"Johnny?" calls a voice through the house. The bedroom door creeks open, and Johnny stills. "Hey, you're awake."

Johnny doesn't recognise the face peeking shyly at him from the doorway. He'd obviously been kidnapped by an insane fan. This is the only answer to the sleep hazy situation he's found himself in. Damnit, _the Four had warned him this might happen._

At least Johnny has superpowers, and the guy across from him doesn't look like he does. The very cute, very nervous looking guy.

The stranger sidesteps into the room. His hair is dark and wild, fluffed around the top like he's been pulling at it, flattening it, scrubbing those bony fingers through it. He's skinny in the way only teenager's can be, all sharp elbows and a waist that dips, collarbones sharp against his faded t-shirt.

He bites at his lip, and Johnny's traitorous, traitorous breath stutters. He has the puffiest, pinkest lips.

"You doing alright there, flame-brain?" asks the kid. He offers a teasing, crooked smile, and Johnny almost flames his way out of the bed; he knows that smile.

_"Spidey?!"_ The other teenager pushes him back down with a firm hand. Proportionate strength. Definitely Johnny's Spidey. "You're… You're cute!"

Spidey swats him over the head and scowls, but Johnny can see the pleased flush that climbs up his neck. He takes in that smooth jawline and those faint, faded freckles he'd glimpsed before. Now, he can see so much more; the dark sweep of lashes, eyes brown and warm, his brows bold and thick. A red indent on the arch of his nose, where glasses must have sat not too long ago.

"Spidey!" Johnny repeats. He doesn't try and get up again. This time, he wraps his arms around Spidey and tugs at the boy until he tumbles, spilling over Johnny and into the bed.

Johnny buries his face in Spidey's fluffy hair. It's dark, and thick, and so soft. He exhales and squirms closer.

"This isn't how I thought introductions would go," Spidey says into Johnny's neck. Johnny shushes him.

"We're already been introduced, webs," Johnny mumbles. His concussion is still there, making his thoughts soupy and his sight wobbly, but Spidey is warm and real, mask-less and in jeans, Johnny tucked up in his soft, blue bed.

"Yeah, but—"

"Also, no offence but where are the others? You're not a Doombot crafted into a teenage boy, are you? Not some trick of Doom's?"

"I'm a real boy," Spidey promises. "The Four got separated from us, so I kidnapped you when you fell unconscious. I shot them a quick call, don't worry. They're all safe. The Avengers have taken Dr. Doom into custody."

"We've really got to stop kidnapping each other."

"We're really got to stop passing out in fights, more like."

"We're a couple of fainting damsels," Johnny says mournfully.

Spidey snickers, and Johnny grins, letting his eyes slide past his boyfriend and onto the room around him. He doesn't let go of Spidey, but he does sit up a little. He squints at the bedspread. The posters. The stupidly fond expression on Spidey's face.

"You're a Fantastic Four fan," Johnny says slowly.

Spidey looks away. He rubs at the back of his neck in a painfully familiar way, only this time, he can see the way Spidey's brown eyes flit down and his hair flops over his forehead.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"There's literally a poster of my face across from us. Dude, you sleep covered in my team's symbol."

"I've never seen that poster before in my life," Spidey lies. "And—and you happen to share the same symbol as these scientists from Korea, total misunderstanding, I can see how you're confused—"

Johnny kisses him, just to shut him up. He keeps his eyes open, if only to watch the way Spidey's face melts under Johnny's touch.

"You're my biggest fan," Johnny teases.

Spidey hides his face in Johnny's neck. "You guys are so cool," he complains, shy and soft-voiced. Johnny smile broadens; he has the cutest boyfriend. A cute, infamous boyfriend who could dead-lift trucks. Woof.

"I would feel weird about this, but I was a few YouTube videos away from building a shrine to you when we first met, so. It's nice to know the sentiment is returned."

"First of all," Spidey says, rising onto his elbows, "totally not going to build a shrine. Not even to you. I'm a fan of all superheroes. Did you miss the Avengers posters? My Black Widow lampshade? And second of all: it's not the same. I'm the bane of New York, and you're—" Spidey gestures at Johnny, sprawled out invitingly on his bed, blond hair tasselled and long, tan limbs on display. "You're that."

"Whoa, whoa!" Johnny surges up from the bed. He grabs Spidey around the shoulders, grounding him, making him look at Johnny as he carefully says, "Spidey, you're amazing, okay? You're this strong, butt-kicking badass. You're out there doing the right thing despite the fact that this city is so mean and ungrateful. You're so kind, and cute, and kissable, and—mmm!"

Spidey doesn't move his hand from Johnny's mouth. Not even when Johnny squirms and tries to lick him. "Shut up," he tells him.

"Mmm," Johnny complains

"And it's Peter. Peter Parker."

Johnny goes still. Spidey retracts his hand, and Johnny stares at him, blue eyes wide, lips parted. Spidey grins.

"Did I break you?" Spidey teases.

"Spidey," Johnny says. He shakes himself, and corrects, "Peter?"

"I thought you should know. This way you'll know which last name to use, instead of just signing your name 'Future Mrs. Spider-Man.'"

If there was any doubt that the person in front of him was Spider-Man, it promptly vanishes with the appearance of that cheeky grin.

"You little—" Johnny begins.

"Now you can sign your name 'Mrs. Peter Parker', right? Or: 'Jonathan Parker.'"

"From the state of your room, I bet I'd secretly find 'Mrs. Johnny Storm' graffitied somewhere, you giant fanboy."

"You might find 'Mrs. Reed Richards'," Peter admits, and Johnny gasps like he's been struck. "I went through a phase, okay!"

"Okay, now we _really_ need to get a divorce."

"I'm sorry, but he's so smart! And kind of dreamy!"

Johnny puts both hands over his ears. "La-la-la, I can't hear you!"

Peter pulls Johnny's hands away. There's a bruise blooming along his temple, and a scrap healing on his chin. Peter has mask hair. Johnny's head throbs.

He hasn't been this happy in a long, long time.

Peter presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. "Forgive me?" he murmurs, barely audible.

Johnny pulls him in, deepening the kiss. When they draw away, beaming, Johnny says, "I guess I forgive you. Just never tell me you, like, think my sister is hot, okay?"

"Well…"

"That's it, you're not getting the kids in the divorce."


	62. (E) DRARRY - Little Talks by Femme (femm

Little Talks  
Femme (femmequixotic), noeon (noe)

Summary:  
Draco's been shagging the Head Auror for months now, and he's sure it's just a fling. Until Harry asks him to a Quidditch match, that is, and things go horribly wrong.

* * *

Draco doesn't think he'll ever get used to this, to the sight of Harry Potter flushed and breathless, moving against him, his mouth wet and open on Draco's jaw, their heavy cocks sliding together, trousers gaping open, as they rut against a set of shelves in the supply cupboard. There's a box of fresh-trimmed quills pressing between Draco's shoulder blades, and he's fairly certain they've spilled an entire ream of parchment across the floor with that last spectacular thrust of Harry's, but he doesn't give a damn just as long as Harry lifts him just so-oh, _fuck_, yes.

"Brilliant," he manages to choke out as he wraps his long legs around Harry's hips, and Harry just laughs into the curve of Draco's throat.

Draco lets his head fall back, his hair catching on the quills behind him, and he shifts, arching his body against Harry's as Harry rolls his hips forward again. He's close, so close, and he's trying hard not to cry out. Anyone could walk past the cupboard-Merlin's tits, anyone could open the damned door at any time-and Draco knows that he and Harry are already the MLE's favourite topic of speculation this month and the last, even if neither of them will confirm it. He bites his lip as Harry's hand slips between them, his strong fingers curling around both their cocks just the way he's learned Draco likes it.

Three months it's been now, three months of late-night office shags, three months of quick gropes in cupboards and in dark corners, three months of the occasional evening spent at one another's flat-never staying over, of course. That's not the approved course of action for a mad, idiotic, completely inappropriate fling with one's co-worker, particularly if one has only recently officially divorced one's wife.

With a moan muffled into the soft angle of Harry's jaw, Draco twists one hand into the grey and red wool of Harry's robe, identical to his own save for the three stars above the insignia that mark him as Head Auror. Technically Draco supposes he's shagging his boss, and, frankly, that thought only makes him want Harry more. He catches Harry's mouth and kisses him roughly; he loves the soft noise Harry makes in return. Draco's never been with anyone who enjoyed kissing as much as Harry does. In Slytherin, kissing was a formality, a necessary ritual to be paid only passing respect to before shedding clothes. Harry, however, has made kissing an art form that thrills Draco. He could spend hours kissing the speccy bastard, if they had the time.

They never do. Harry's lips are soft and warm, and Draco lets his eyes flutter shut for a moment, his body stilling long enough to enjoy the shiver that goes through him as Harry's mouth moves across his. His tongue flicks across Harry's bottom lip, and Harry chuckles, his own following after it, and Draco's arms slide around Harry's neck, his fingers tangling in Harry's short, dark hair.

"Ready?" Harry murmurs against Draco's ear, and oh Christ, he is. More than, really.

Draco pushes himself against Harry, tightening his legs around Harry's hips. His mouth drags across Harry's jaw. "If you don't get me off now, you tit..."

He can feel Harry's smirk against his cheek. "What? You'll withhold paperwork for a month?"

"Two," Draco says, and his voice is breathy and raw. It catches in the back of his throat as Harry's thumb slides across the slick glans of his cock. "And I'll make sure your tea's tepid every morning."

"In that case..." Harry's fingers-those brilliant, wonderfully thick, stubby fingers-tighten around them both. Draco's body jerks, and he presses his nose against Harry's shoulder, breathing in the musky, sharp scent of Harry.

And then Harry's hand is on him, pressing their pricks together, pulling them both towards what Draco knows in his sane moments is nothing but disaster. Right now, however, he shouldn't care if Kingsley himself walked in on them with a whole phalanx of Ministry undersecretaries behind him, just as long as Harry kept stroking him like this.

He can hear Harry gasping with him, a quiet almost keening groan that Draco feels in the pit of his stomach. He's nowhere near virginal, Draco isn't, and yet no one he's been with has ever made him feel this open, this _taken._ Harry could do anything he wanted to Draco in moments like these. Draco's never fond of that realisation, but he can't deny its validity.

"Come for me?" Harry whispers in his ear, and Draco wants to tell him no, wants to refuse, wants to deny him that much longer, but his body betrays him. Harry's fingers twist around Draco's cock, and it's too much. Draco's hands clench Harry's shoulders and he knows it must hurt but he doesn't care because he's shuddering against Harry, coming with gritted teeth, tense shoulders, and a choked curse.

Oh, _Christ._ His cock is sticky and still firm and Harry's prick slides against him, hot and thick. Draco winces; the press of Harry's body is nearly too painful for his still-thrumming nerves. His legs slip from Harry's hips, feet hitting the floor just as Harry's hand tightens on Draco's arse, pulling him up against him as Harry's other hand strokes his own cock roughly, quickly. Harry's eyes are bright and wide behind his smudged glasses, and Draco can't resist leaning in to kiss him, his teeth sharp against Harry's swollen lower lip.

"Now," Draco says against Harry's mouth, and that's all it takes. He pulls back just in time to see Harry's face, to watch him fall apart, his cheeks flushed, his mouth open, whispering Draco's name.

Harry slumps forward, breathing hard, and Draco finds himself pressed back against the box of quills again. He's hot and sweaty, and he hates having Harry on him after they fuck, Harry _knows_ that, for Christ's sake. Not to mention the wool of Harry's damned robe is scratchy against his balls.

"Harry," he says, shifting his hips. He doesn't want to push him away, but he does want him to move. Harry mumbles something and slides closer, much to Draco's annoyance. Shagging Harry is marvellous. The cuddling afterwards is a nightmare.

Draco pushes lightly at Harry's shoulders, wondering if he can be sacked for insubordination after sex. "We have to get back."

Harry lifts his head. "What if I give you the afternoon off?"

"Because that wouldn't be obvious." Draco manages to slide beneath Harry's arm, only to find himself up against another shelf. Really, you'd think the damned MLE would bring in more wizarding space for cupboards. "Particularly if you follow me."

"I could be out on field work." Harry turns, leaning back against the shelves. His trousers are still undone, and his hair is a frightful mess.

Draco wrinkles his nose; the entire cupboard reeks of sex. He flicks his wand and his mother's favourite lemon balm charm fills the air. Harry sneezes, and Draco sends another spell at his hair, smoothing it somewhat. "The Head Auror does _not_ do field work," he points out, sheathing his wand. "Particularly not at Claridge's."

Harry grins. "That was a great room." "You certainly enjoyed the bath." Draco does up his flies, tucking his shirt back in as he does so.

"I'm fairly sure you didn't object to it either," Harry says. He flicks his wand lazily at his clothes, and the smears of come on his trousers disappear. "As I recall, you quite liked the echo."

Draco sighs. "Don't be crass." He smoothes a hand over his waistcoat as he buttons it, only to find a sticky spot on the brocade. He frowns down at it, trying to remember which spell won't destroy the warp of the fabric.

"We should go on a date," Harry says.

For a moment, Draco thinks he didn't quite hear properly. "What?"

Harry just looks at him as he buttons his shirt. There's a love bite just below his collarbone. "You and me. On a date."

Draco stills. "I don't date." His heart starts pounding. This is not what he'd expected from Harry. He'd been clear from the beginning that he wasn't interested in anything public-or at least confirming to anyone outside his very small social circle that he was most assuredly interested in what was in the Head Auror's trousers, and to be honest only Pansy knew and that was because the wretchedly smug bint had found out from that oafish Weasley she was shagging six ways from Sunday. Draco's threatened her with a fertility charm if she breathes a word about his not-relationship to anyone, particularly Blaise. He's _not_ going to endure Zabini's I-told-you-so. He takes a shallow breath and tugs his cuffs so the proper amount of crisp white cotton shows at the edge of his robe sleeves. "I thought I was perfectly clear about that."

"You just fuck?" Harry takes a step forward and he's right there in front of Draco, and Draco can't breathe again. "Come on. We both know that's complete bollocks."

Draco's back is against the shelves. He swallows hard. "This is just sex, Potter." That's all it was supposed to be; that's all that he wants. At least that's what he tells himself. He's not ready to date, much less face the scandal of admitting he's been shagging his department head. The divorce was amicable, but it's been less than a year. A public relationship would be scandalous at best. A Malfoy-no matter how he'd proved himself over the past twelve years on the Auror force-seen with Harry Potter would ignite a firestorm in the press, and Draco's fairly certain that pointedly veiled implications that he's Imperiused the Head Auror would be the mildest thing written about him. He has utterly no desire to put his mother through yet another dredging up of their family muck. It'd been horrid enough when Father'd been released from Azkaban nine years ago, and afterwards Mother'd insisted they both retire to the Manor for good. Not even Father'd complained; now they barely come to London, preferring the quiet anonymity of Wiltshire. Draco'd been grateful when the divorce had only sparked a half column from Rita Skeeter poisonous pen, suggesting the Malfoy family secrets had been too much for Astoria to take.

If only it were that simple.

Harry's fingers brush against Draco's cheek, and Draco wants to pull away. He doesn't. "Is it just sex?" Harry asks quietly. His eyes are dark and fixed on Draco's face.

"Yes," Draco says, dropping his gaze to Harry's lips, but he knows he sounds uncertain. Frightened, even, and that realization makes his cheeks flame. He lifts his chin, mouth tight. "If you think it's anything else-"

Harry kisses him. Draco's breath catches, and when Harry's hand cups Draco's cheek, Draco can't stop himself from leaning against him, letting the kiss deepen into something he knows damned well promises more than just sex.

When Harry pulls away, Draco makes a soft sound of protest. His hand has settled on Harry's chest, and his fingers grip Harry's robe, keeping him close. "Don't," Draco whispers. He hesitates. "It's a mad idea. You're my boss. People will talk-"

Harry's mouth brushes his again, lightly. "Let them."

Draco sighs. Honestly. Sometimes Harry can be so bloody thick. Not to mention impolitic —which is probably why Kingsley's fond of him.

"Saturday afternoon," Harry says against Draco's lips. "I've got Ron's box for the Cannons match."

Draco snorts, breaking the moment. He pulls back. "The Cannons? Seriously?"

"Seriously." Harry grins at him, and Draco can't resist that mischievous light in his eyes. He sighs, exasperated, and Harry's grin widens. "It'll be fun."

"For the other team." Draco shakes his head. "I can absolutely assure you, Harry, that I am _not_ sitting through a Cannons-"

Harry grabs Draco's hips, pulling him flush against him. "Even if it's followed by more 'just sex'?" His fingers flex across Draco's robe. "Hours of it, even?"

Draco pretends to hesitate, but he knows he's lost when Harry nuzzles his throat. "You're an utter idiot, you realise." He leans his head to one side, letting

Harry's teeth nip at his earlobe. "So that's a yes, then."

Harry's thumbs are sliding beneath Draco's waistcoat, tracing small circles across the cotton of his shirt. Christ, Draco wants him again. He almost hates this feeling, this inevitable longing as if he's some sort of ridiculously randy teenager mooning over his first real shag.

Draco tugs Harry into another kiss, quick and hard. "Next time we go to the opera."

"Next time?" Harry's eyebrow quirks.

Draco slides around him, reaching for the cupboard door. "Next time." He glances back over his shoulder. "If enduring the agony of a Cannons match doesn't turn me off sex for the rest of my life."

"They're twelfth in the league," Harry says petulantly.

"Out of thirteen, Potter." Draco opens the door a fraction and glances out into the hallway. It's clear. "I'm fairly certain that managing to eke a few points out over Wigtown doesn't qualify as an accomplishment." He looks back at him. "Wait five minutes?"

Harry glances at his watch. "Three. I have a meeting with Kingsley at half-one." He leans over and kisses Draco again. "See you in the briefing at four?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world." Draco pulls back reluctantly, then looks at the crack of light in the door frame. "I suppose I should..."

"Yeah."

They look at each other. It's always odd, this final step away from one another and back into their daily routine. Awkward, even. Draco can tell the precise moment when Harry shifts from his lover to his boss, and he hates it, even if he knows it's his own insistence that they keep whatever this is quiet.

Until Saturday at least.

It's madness, this date, although he supposes he can always brush it off as two friends enjoying a Quidditch match. _If_ he can manage to keep Harry's hands off him for an afternoon, and he's not entirely certain that's possible. Or that he wants it to be.

"Make sure you bring the Fowler reports this afternoon," Harry says, and Draco nods, reaching back for the doorknob.

Harry stops him with a touch of fingertips on his jaw. "You have a..." He trails off and strokes his thumb across a stretch of Draco's skin, before he pulls out his wand and lets the tip follow his finger. The tingle of Harry's magic seeps into Draco's skin, tightening it for the briefest second.

"Thanks," Draco says, but he wishes he could keep the love bite. There's a part of him that wants the whole damned department to know that he's Harry's, as ridiculous as that thought is. He touches his jaw, feeling the lingering warmth of the spell. "I need to make copies of that report if you want it." Harry nods, and when Draco looks back over his shoulder, Harry's watching him, his face shrouded in shadows.

"Two minutes now," Harry murmurs. Draco catches a flash of a grin. "Better get moving before Maximus decides to come find out why I'm not in Kingsley's office. Again."

"Bastard."

Harry just laughs.

Draco closes the door behind him with a soft snick, straightening his robe as he strides down the hall back to his desk and the piles of paperwork waiting for him.

He can't hold back a smile.

Of all of the spaces in his Pont Street flat, the study with its walls of books and tall paned windows is Draco's favourite. After a difficult day, it's his inner sanctum, his well of quiet solitude. This evening he particularly needs it-what should have been a minor magical creatures case had turned into a mountain of paperwork when it was established that a mid-level wizarding diplomat from the States was involved in a smuggling ring for crimson-collared Myna birds. While Draco supervised security, Harry'd been summoned to increasingly higher-level and tightly secured meetings. Several Aurors were particularly irritated to be pulled off their active cases to watch one obviously brainless wizard sulk in a holding cell, and no one's mood was improved by the diplomat's smug certainty that he would walk free by evening.

Unsurprisingly-at least in Draco's opinion, because honestly, everyone _ought_ to have realised there clearly were political strings being pulled somewhere-he wasn't proven wrong. At one point, Draco thought Harry might actually incinerate the owl from the American ambassador, and, to the relief of half the Auror force, he physically propelled Harry, swearing loudly and creatively at the Yanks' suggestion that Harry apologise for their inconvenience, into the back Floo before Kingsley reluctantly swooped in to collect the diplomat, the idiots from Grosvenor Square on his heels. The other Aurors had managed to stall the Minister at the door until Draco had Harry safely hidden away in his office, doing his best to distract him. He'd managed, at least for twenty minutes.

After a snifter and a half of rather good Calvados, Draco's now inclined to laugh about the whole thing. Even though the bastard's free, he won't rest easy with all of the magical creatures' rights groups in Britain and the States informed about the harsh treatment of endangered species through an anonymous tip-with photos, Dennis Creevey had made certain of that. Draco doesn't really mind that the erstwhile smuggler will have free passage from London to Connecticut. Thanks to an irate transatlantic firecall or two, his cousin Luna's Wizarding Ark Alliance will be waiting to welcome the miscreant home, and frankly, Draco's quite certain she and her naturalist friends will be far better at sweetly and brutally twisting the knife than an official censure could ever be.

Draco takes another sip of apple brandy and looks down at the folio of the _Symposium_ in Greek spread across his lap. He's not really inclined to read tonight, particularly in another language, although he's always liked Alcibiades's outrageousness. He's just enjoying the sensation of a glass of something good in his hand and the weight of a well-loved book across his lap, the warmth of the light pooling around his Eames wizarding chair. He shifts against the tufted leather and sighs in pleasure. The poor Muggles didn't get half of the features in their version, nor the weightlessness of the levitation spells in the suspension.

He's just arranged everything to his liking and can feel the knots loosening in his shoulders when the antiquated Floo alarm buzzes, sounding something between a sackbut and a crup farting. He's been meaning to have it replaced since he and Astoria moved in after their wedding, but between her work and his there was never the time. Now he's used to it, and rather likes it, though he'll never admit to the fact. Draco resolves to ignore the Floo until he belatedly remembers that he switched the privacy settings, and it can only be his parents or the mother of his child. None of whom will be best pleased at being neglected. The Floo buzzes again, more insistently this time, and in his haste to stand up, Draco spills a few drops of amber across the immortal lines of Plato and onto the flannel of his trousers. He staggers into the hall, trailing curses and the smell of apples.

Not a hair is out of place as Astoria steps out of the Floo in a black belted dress and impossibly strict-looking strappy brown and black textured heels. For a moment, Draco admires her feline grace and simple elegance, remembering why he fell in love with her in the first place. For a moment he regrets his eventual realisation that he wouldn't be truly happy without a cock up his arse. Sometimes he wishes his bisexuality hadn't swung back to the opposite spectrum: they'd made quite the stunning couple together and up until Scorpius's second birthday they'd had a satisfying, if not brilliant, sex life. He'd thrown that all away when it'd finally struck him that he was spending most of his time in bed with her pretending she had green eyes, dark hair and a much flatter chest. Still, beautiful, intelligent, and accomplished, Astoria is quite the star among young wizarding architects, and Draco's fairly certain she's better off without him in the end. She's living in Belgium now, and she and Draco share custody of four-year-old Scorpius by months unless an emergency arises.

From the look on Astoria's face, Draco knows instantly one has. "Coffee? Sambuca?" he offers, hoping to forestall the inevitable.

Astoria waves a neatly manicured hand. "No time, darling. But thanks ever so."

Draco waits as her eyes catch his trousers and her nose wrinkles. "Still drinking in the Eames chair even though it's impossible to get out of?" She'd been somewhat bitter that he'd kept it in the divorce, but he'd found it first at the flea market in Santiago and absolutely refused to give it up. It was one of the few things besides the flat he did insist on keeping.

"I assume you need something," Draco counters smoothly, ignoring her pointed reference to his habits.

Astoria bites the corner of her lightly glossed lips. "Yes. It's about Scorpius."

Draco leans against the doorframe, the soft knit of his jumper sliding against his arms. He resists the urge to cross them over his chest. "What of him?" he asks cautiously. "Has he bitten the au pair again?"

"That was _one_ time," Astoria says with a sigh. "I've no idea why she insisted on making such a fuss over it."

"He drew blood, Astoria." Draco's mouth quirks to one side in amusement. "I'm entirely in favour of spoiling our son, but it wasn't outrageous for her to mention it to you."

Astoria flicks one hand dismissively. "He's four. When you were that age you nearly severed an elf's ear when you shut it in the wardrobe. Your father's mentioned that at least a half dozen times since Pius's birthday party. Besides, I suspect I'll have to sack this one too; I think she's teaching him to swear in Flemish. "

Draco rolls his eyes. "If it's not the au pair, then what's the issue?

Astoria sighs again. She flicks a non-existent bit of fluff off her sleeve. "I need to leave him with you."

Draco nods slowly. He's always happy to see his son, even though he doesn't like to see the rhythm disturbed. He'll have to arrange a few things for next week or the week after. "Very well. We can owl about it this weekend."

"That's just it," Astoria says, and she meets his gaze, looking guilty. "I haven't time to owl for arrangements. I have to be in Osaka by Thursday."

Draco's startled into alertness. "Sorry, what? _This_ Thursday, as in, the day after _tomorrow_?"

"Well, they're seven hours ahead, but yes." As Draco frowns at her, Astoria holds up a hand in a placating gesture. "I know. I know. I'm sorry, Draco. But it's a major client and it could lead the firm to a place in the Exposition next year. We just received word this afternoon."

Her blue eyes are wide and he can tell she wants this, needs this. In her own way, Astoria's as ambitious as he is, or more so, since he realised that even after all these years, Harry bloody Potter would likely always come out on top.

Lately, however, he hasn't minded as much.

"Astoria, I've told you before-" His face is hot, and he doesn't want to be angry because he loves having his son, even unexpectedly, but this isn't the first time Astoria's dropped Scorpius on him with barely any notice, and it infuriates him when she's no respect for his schedule. And then he remembers the weekend's plan with Harry, and the heat turns to chill. "I can't."

She steps toward him. "Draco, please. You know Narcissa will dote on him, and you needn't trouble yourself with too many plans. She let it be known the last time she lunched with Mother that she wasn't seeing her grandson enough. And my parents will also want him to come for an afternoon or three."

A pang of sadness goes through Draco as the unbidden image of Scorpius as a baby wizarding chess figure pops into his head. "We can't just shuffle him about like baggage, Storey. That wasn't part of the agreement."

And then she plays the trump card Draco knew she was holding. "Christmas. I'll let you have Christmas if he can stay now for two weeks. That's all I need, Draco." She plucks at his sleeve, then smooths it. "Please."

He knows he's lost. Yet again. The cards are not coming up in his favour in this week of life's wagers. He takes a deep breath, a pang of regret shooting through him at the thought of calling off his date with Harry. In some part of him that he's not entirely comfortable with, he had been looking forward to the chance to sit with Harry in public, pretending to give a damn about the Cannons match. "Very well. Shall I come over tonight or would you like to bring him through in the morning?"

Astoria's smile is blinding. "Can you be in Antwerp in time for breakfast?"

Draco just sighs.

After he finally gets Scorpius settled and asleep the next evening, Draco settles himself in front of the Floo to arrange childminding. The carpet is not terribly uncomfortable, although he'd rather be sprawled in bed after a long afternoon of chasing his laughing son through Hyde Park. He doesn't even want to think about the paperwork that's likely piled up on his desk today, nor the curt, messily scrawled _okay_ on the return owl he'd received from Harry when he'd written to say he'd be unexpectedly out for the day.

When Maude Greengrass's head appears in the green flames, he smiles his most aloof yet winning Malfoy smile. "I'm terribly sorry, I didn't realise the Greengrasses had a third daughter. Which one are you again?"

Despite herself, his hatchet-faced ex-mother-in-law laughs. "Oh, Draco. Must you be so charming?" Her lips purse. "Is there something in particular or did you just call to flirt?"

"With you, always." He thinks a few more lines of flattery couldn't hurt, but he hasn't a lot of time before he'll have to fall into bed himself-Scorpius wakes early, and it's already past eight. The excitement of being back with his Papa had led to a later bedtime than usual, much to Draco's dismay.

As is her wont, Maude switches to business immediately. "Astoria said Scorpius was staying with you this week."

"The next two, actually, and I was wondering if you'd like to see him at the weekend." Draco puts unfeigned hope into the wish, clenching a hand in his pocket and hoping for a quick, painless yes.

"Lovely," Maude says, and Draco's heart soars. "We can't wait to see him. Unfortunately, however, we're in Germany with one of Tristan's old Durmstrang friends for a country weekend, but we absolutely must plan for a visit next week. Perhaps a day or two while you're at work, if your mother will release him to our care." There's a hint of annoyance to her tone that Draco's fully aware comes from his mother's unspoken but all too obvious opinion that the Greengrasses were incapable of properly looking after the Malfoy heir.

"Yes, of course. I'll make certain to arrange that with Mother if you've days you'd prefer to have him." Draco grits his teeth and disconnects after a few pleasantries and good wishes for his ex in-laws health. Damn, damn, double damn. He immediately Firecalls the manor. When the leonine head of his father appears, his stomach sinks. His father is sometimes more difficult to convince than his mother usually, although Lucius does adore his grandson. Perhaps too much at times.

"Draco, is something the matter?" Lucius snaps. "It's getting on half eight."

"No, Father, sorry for the disturbance." Draco doesn't know when his parents began to seem old, but the last years of retirement in the country have aged them in subtle ways. And of course Azkaban still lingers in the deep lines scoring his father's mouth and eyes. "I've Scorpius for the next two weeks-"

His father frowns at him. "And you need someone to watch him while you're at work."

Draco rubs the back of his neck. "That, yes, although I've arranged for next Wednesday and Friday with the Greengrasses-"

"You rang them first?" Lucius sounds highly offended, and Draco bites back an annoyed sigh. Honestly, the amount of competition between the two sets of grandparents for Scorpius's favour cannot be helping his son develop a normal ego. Merlin only knew how much of an arse he'd be by his first year of Hogwarts, and Draco secretly suspects it's the universe's way of punishing him for his own inflated self-importance as a child. Damn his parents.

"I had assumed you and Mother would like to have him during the other weekdays," Draco says, trying to keep a patient tone in his voice. "But I was also wondering if you would like to see him on Saturday afternoon."

Lucius's face brightens and he's suddenly almost the man Draco remembers. "Excellent. Although we'll have to make it Sunday. Your mother and I have decided to cultivate the Parkinsons' acquaintance again, and we've plans for luncheon in Oxford. There's a delightful French restaurant on the Isis your mother's been wanting to try, and she's insisting that Iphigenia and Peter join us."

Draco resists a melodramatic eyeroll. His parents and Pansy's had never been close, but the post-war fallout had blurred all of the subtlety of pre-war social lines. Soon, perhaps, they can form a support group for parents of Slytherins shagging Gryffindors, a thought he represses firmly. If all goes well, they'll never know. The last thing he wants to see is the contemplative spark in his father's eye when he considers exactly what his son shagging Harry Potter might do for the family. On the other hand, at least he's not shacked up with a Weasley the way Pansy and Blaise both have. None of their parents have recovered from that particular horror. "That's a shame," he says blandly. "I know Scorpius would love to see his grandparents."

"Perhaps you would bring him for Sunday luncheon, then?" Lucius's excitement is genuine enough that Draco hasn't the heart to say no. "We could have Mimsy make Spotted Hippogriff."

A shudder runs through Draco. With the best of continental and British organics at his disposal, Scorpius has displayed a fondness for disgusting puddings, the more dull the better. It's a taste his parents, Merlin only knows why, encourage openly. "He'll enjoy that, I'm sure."

After his father closes the connection, Draco frowns, summoning parchment and quill and beginning a list. He doesn't really think he could explain to anyone exactly why he needs Saturday afternoon free, and he's certainly not willing to admit to any of his friends why he's so eager to give the care of his son into their not-entirely-capable hands. He thinks perhaps work is the best excuse after all.

The results are disappointing. Pansy raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. "Really, darling. Work? On a Saturday?"

Draco blinks coolly. "Crime doesn't stop for weekends, Pans. You know that."

She smirks knowingly. "Oh, I do. But I'm terribly sorry. Ronald and I will be otherwise occupied later in the day, and I really _must_ prepare for it."

This is too much. Has everyone a thriving social life except himself, Draco wonders. Perhaps there's an occasion he wasn't invited to. "Oh really? Romantic, gingery evening a deux, then?"

Pans smothers a giggle. "Hardly. Fetish party, if you must know. Not entirely child-friendly, although I'm quite certain my godson would have a few questions about Ronald's delightful outfit."

He's still spluttering when she rings off, wishing he could unhear the last five minutes or so of the conversation. Or at least Obliviate the thought of Ronald Weasley in a leather bodysuit. Christ. The things those two get up to-he wonders if Harry has to endure the sordid details the way he does. Somehow he suspects not. It's a sad day when one realises that a Weasley is more discreet than a Slytherin. He sighs and marks Pansy and the Weasel off the list.

Blaise just snorts when he asks, the cross-Channel Floo connection crackling slightly. Really, the French simply _must_ update their Floo network. Ringing Paris is a nightmare at times. "Draco, are you trying to foist your vampire spawn from hell off on me so you can have a dirty weekend with someone?"

Draco flares his nostrils, refusing to back down. "Of course not. And that spawn happens to be your godson." He glares at him. "And he's not a vampire."

"I'm fairly certain I still have the scars from his teeth." Blaise points to the back of his hand.

Draco sighs. "We're working on the biting issue." Or at least he is, damn it. "Look, can you mind him for me? For one afternoon?" He hesitates. "And possibly a night?"

Blaise shrugs, smirking a little. "So the rumours Ginevra hears about you shagging her ex-boyfriend rotten are true, then?"

He laughs as Draco splutters. When Draco can speak again, he asks quietly, "Who told you?"

"Shot in the dark," Blaise says. "Ginny had money on Creevey. I'm glad I won."

Draco runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "Harry's invited me to go to a Quidditch match this weekend. I don't think I'm ready to introduce him to Scorpius, and Astoria's had to leave town." In for a penny, in for a pound, he supposes, and oddly, Draco's pleased that he's not having to hide Harry now. He shouldn't be, but he is. Besides, he's fairly certain Pansy must have cracked and told Blaise. Or perhaps it was Ronald, but he hates the idea of the Weasel shagging one of his best friends and being the brother-in-law of another, much less the thought of them sitting around discussing his sex life. He barely suppresses a shudder.

Blaise nods, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Pudd United aren't playing this weekend."

"Right," Draco says, not wanting to admit he's going to a Cannons match. "So. Are you engaged on Saturday or will you have time for your darling and precocious godson?"

"I'd love to see the little nanny-biter," Blaise says cheerfully, "but we're closing up the flat and going to Canberra on Monday. Gin's covering the Antipodes Cup for _Quidditch Weekly_. Perhaps we can meet up again in Paris in six weeks?"

Inwardly Draco curses the peripatetic habits of his nearest and dearest. "Of course. Let's find a time then."

"Has Pius lost his taste for marrons glacés?" Blaise asks. "Please say yes. Six is too many even for an adult."

Draco shakes his head. "No. Although why he enjoys them is beyond me. They taste like sugared wet parchment."

"So what team did you say Potter was taking you to?" Blaise asks, and Draco swears the corner of his mouth quirks.

"I didn't."

Blaise just looks at him calmly. "I know."

A long silence stretches out between them, until Draco's shoulders drop. He sighs.

"The Cannons," he mutters.

Blaise laughs long and hard. "Oh, Draco. No. Really? I was hoping you hadn't-" "What?" Draco snaps. "There's nothing wrong with going to a Cannons match. As I recall, your wife managed to secure the box for her brothers-"

"Oh Merlin," Blaise says, horrified. "Potter is going to defile you in the family box. I'll never be able to sit down with Arthur and Molly again."

"Hah!" Draco points a finger at him. "You admit you've had to go to the Cannons as well!"

Blaise rolls his eyes. "I married a Weasley, Draco. It's the family religion; one must endure their uncivilised customs-" He breaks off as Ginevra's voice calls out from behind him.

"Oi, I heard that, clever clogs." Her face appears in the Floo over Blaise's shoulder. "Hullo, Draco. So you and Harry, eh?"

Draco gives her a long-suffering glare. "Not that it's anyone's business-"

Ginevra grins at him. "Hung like a hippogriff, isn't he?"

"I _am_ in the room," Blaise says, huffily.

Ginevra kisses his cheek. "Sorry, darling, but he is."

Blaise gives Draco a look, and Draco shrugs. "She's not wrong."

"I loathe you both." Blaise scowls. "Perhaps I _should_ take the miniature vampire for the weekend and leave you both to compare notes. I hear EuroDisney's nice this time of year."

"That's child endangerment, that is," Draco says.

"I don't think Pius would endanger too many children," Blaise says contemplatively. "Surely he could only bite ten or twelve before he gets bored."

Draco hangs up on Ginevra's laughter. Bastards. Scorpius could definitely achieve at least fifteen.

Greg doesn't even let him get his question out. "No," he says calmly, eating a banana. "I don't do kids."

"I haven't even asked-"

"Pansy rang." Greg takes another bite. "Something about you shagging Potter and needing a bite-proof minder. And unless you want to come home to that little bastard hanging upside down from the chandelier by his boot laces, I'm probably not your man."

As much as Draco sometimes _does_ want that, he thinks perhaps it's a bad idea. "Thanks, Greg," he says with a sigh.

"Anytime," Greg says through a mouthful of banana. "Say, is it true that Potter's hung-" Draco shuts the Floo on him.

Desperate, he tries Granger, only to hear a message on her ansafloo informing him that she and Luna are in San Francisco for the summer. He blinks. Well. That's something to ask his cousin about later. He wonders if Harry knows what's going on there.

He leans back on his heels, his back aching from hunching over the Floo. It's gone ten now, and he's exhausted. Slowly he pushes himself to his feet, only to hear a rustle of pyjamaed legs and the smack of small bare feet from the staircase.

"Papa," a voice pipes up from the hallway, and, tired as he is, Draco can't help but smile as he walks out of the sitting room to find his son, sleepy-eyed and tousle-haired, sitting on the bottom step. Scorpius looks up at him, rubbing at one eye. "I couldn't sleeped." He yawns. "It smells different."

Draco scoops him up, burying his face in his son's blond curls. "Does it?"

Scorpius lays his head on Draco's shoulder, one arm wrapped around Draco's neck. "Can I sleep with you?"

Draco knows he should say no, knows he should take him right upstairs and put him back in his warded bed piled with stuffed animals. Instead he rubs Scorpius's back, feeling the small bumps of his son's spine beneath his palm as he walks up the staircase. "For a little while." Scorpius nods. He turns his head and kisses Draco's cheek before settling back against Draco's chest and shoulder, his fist pressed against his mouth. Before they reach Draco's bedroom he's asleep again.

Draco lays him on the bed, watching Scorpius curl into a small ball on his pillow as he pulls the sheet over him. He brushes Scorpius's hair back off his pale forehead, and a wave of fierce protection washes over him. Draco'd never thought he'd be a good father. He'd put it off as long as he could. But now, here, thirty years old and with the weight of a war and a multitude of bad decisions at his back, he knows there's nothing he wouldn't do for his son to keep him from the same course. His thumb smoothes across Scorpius's soft skin, and he wonders if Harry could ever understand.

He sits on the edge of the mattress, staring at his reflection the window. He doesn't know what to think; all he knows is that, whatever he decides, Scorpius has to come first. With a heavy heart, he waves his wand at the lamp and it flickers off, leaving him in silent darkness.

It takes Draco all of Thursday to decide what he's going to do. On the way home from work, he stops by Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes, making certain he has a proper glamour in place before slipping in with a pack of teenagers. He relaxes when he realises neither Ronald or George are at the till, and he doesn't recognise the spotty young wizard behind the counter who's staring all too obviously at the girls laughing in the corner.

He's in and out in a trice, with a small sackful of Puking Pastilles and Fever Fudge-both of which he intends to keep far out of Scorpius's reach. To distract his son, he's purchased two Pygmy Puffs which keep him occupied for the evening, much to Draco's relief, though he has a moment of panic when he thinks he's stepped on one of them. It rolls out from beneath the arch of his boot though, and Draco's heart starts again. The last thing he wants to do tonight is to have to explain the concept of death-or rather "apologies, son, but Papa seems to have accidentally murdered your new best friend."

Draco's afraid he'll have a tussle with Scorpius at bedtime, but to his surprise, his son curls up in bed happily, a Pygmy Puff humming docilely on each shoulder. Draco doesn't know if the oh-so-descriptive names "Puff" and "Pink" will stick, but if she objects, Astoria can work on something more suitable when she returns.

Scorpius refuses to leave the next morning for the Manor without the two Pygmy Puffs and it's worth it to see the look on his father's face when Draco drops the three of them off for the day. Lucius eyes the florid pink puffs of fur with distaste as Scorpius thrusts them at him, chattering about how brilliant they are.

Draco just shrugs at him over Scorpius's head. "He's quite taken with them," Draco says, hiding a smile.

Lucius holds one between two fingers, frowning at it. "Please tell me it doesn't reproduce."

"I didn't stop to ask," Draco admits. At his father's glare, he laughs. "I suspect they don't. It would be bad for business."

Lucius sniffs. "The world would be a better place without that particular shop."

Draco can't entirely argue. The Auror force does spend rather too much time cleaning up after the more experimental Wheezes. "Just play with them, and Scorpius'll be happy."

"I see." Lucius drops the Puff onto a table and it rolls away, cheerfully humming. "Your mother'll be delighted, I'm certain."

With a ruffle of his son's hair, Draco heads for the Floo. He's timed out the entire day-he has a meeting at half-eleven he has to be at, and if he takes one of the Pastilles rolling around in the bottom of his satchel just before it, he should be ill just by the end-in time to go home for the rest of the day and have a perfect excuse for cancelling his date with Harry without causing too much upset. He doesn't want to do anything, after all, that will jeopardise his ability to be shagged into a cupboard floor.

Things don't go according to plan, however.

Draco's called into another meeting at ten and has just enough time to dash back to his desk to take the Pastille. When he gets there, Harry's sitting in his chair, twisting back and forth. He looks up when Draco stops abruptly at the opening of his cubicle.

"Hey," Harry says.

Draco glances down at his satchel on the floor beside Harry's feet. "I have a meeting." "I know." Harry holds up a small brown packet. "Need this?"

The Wheezes. Draco takes a deep breath, then scowls, a sudden flash of anger roiling through him. "You went through my satchel."

"You were going to skip out on our date," Harry says calmly. "And as Head Auror I have the right to search all bags-"

"You utter shit," Draco hisses. "That is _not_-"

Harry shakes the packet. "You were made, Malfoy. Ron says to tell you-and I quote-that 'I can spot the pointy on him through Peruvian Darkness Powder.' Which I'm pretty sure means you need to work more on your glamour."

Draco snatches the packet of Wheezes away. "Your friends are nosy gits." That just earns him a laugh.

"I'd disagree, but they get all their gossip from your friends." Harry leans back in Draco's chair, his hands behind his head. No one should look that damned attractive when he's being utterly and unabashedly annoying. "Ginny already told me you have Scorpius for the weekend. Bring him along."

"Oh." Draco can feel his face warming. "Did she?"

Harry's mouth twitches. "And evidently Zabini is horrified to discover I have a-"

"Don't even say it," Draco says. "Your ego can't take it. Merlin knows it fills the whole department already. Mustn't let it take over the solicitors' offices too."

Harry looks rather pleased with himself, which Draco finds far too irritating for this hour of the morning. "Anyway. Really. Bring Scorpius. He likes Quidditch, doesn't he? All kids do."

"He's four, and has no idea what Quidditch even is." Draco pushes Harry's feet off his desk. "And frankly, I'm afraid his young, impressionable mind will be warped by your wretched taste in teams."

"You only wish you had such a brilliant team to be loyal to."

Draco gives him an incredulous look. "Did you hit your head this morning? Fall out of bed? Crack your skull?"

Harry stands up with a grin. He takes the packet of Wheezes from Draco and tucks it in his pocket. The cubicle's suddenly too small, Draco thinks, as Harry steps closer to him. "Tomorrow afternoon," he murmurs, and he reaches out and brushes a knuckle across Draco's mouth. Draco's breath catches. "Half two. You do know where the Cannons pitch is, yes?" All Draco can do is nod.

"Right." Harry's eyes hold his, and when his tongue sweeps across his bottom lip, it's all Draco can do not to make a soft noise. "You'll be there." It's not a question, Draco's quite aware.

Somehow he manages to form words. "Yes." He clears his throat. "We'll be there."

They look at each other. Draco's tense, his body aching to reach for Harry. Someone walks past his cubicle, says hello. He has no idea who it is.

"Good," Harry says finally, and the back of his hand knocks against Draco's. Draco can feel it in every bloody cell of his body. "See you then."

"Yes," he chokes out, and then Harry's gone, and Draco sinks into his chair, staring blankly at the stack of folders on his desk, waiting for him to gather them up for the meeting.

Oh, Christ, he thinks.

There's a knock on his cubicle and he jerks around, hands shaking.

Hannah Abbott eyes him, a pad of parchment in one hand, a mug of tea in the other. "You all right?"

Draco nods. "Yes. Of course. Fine." From her sceptical look he knows he doesn't sound it.

"Right," she says. "So. Meeting?"

Meeting. Yes. "Be there in a moment."

When she walks off, he groans and presses his forehead to the stack of folders.

Really, Pansy's always been right about him, he thinks. He's absolutely a walking disaster.

_Christ._

Draco spends most of Saturday morning alternating between bribing his son into good behaviour and contemplating ringing Harry's Floo to tell him that he simply can't come, terribly sorry, but Scorpius appears to have come down with some sort of plague. Or dragonpox. Possibly several plagues at once.

In the end, however, he gathers what remnants of courage he has and, with gritted teeth and repeated reminders to himself _not_ to throttle his only son and heir, wrestles Scorpius into a pair of short, grey woollen pants and a white button-down shirt, over his son's vociferous objections. Malfoys simply are not seen in public in plebian clothes like t-shirts, no matter what Astoria thinks.

Scorpius sulks through the Portkey to Devon _and_ the walk out to the Cannons' pitch on the edge of Dartmoor, but he cheers somewhat when Draco lets him dangle over the side of a footbridge, staring gleefully at the rushing water of a small brook as he drops in stones to watch them splash. He runs ahead through a short stretch of woods, though Draco calls him back with a sharp word, and he takes Draco's hand reluctantly as they reach the crest of the tor. The pitch is spread out before them, and Draco can't help but smile at the wide-eyed look of wonder on Scorpius's face as he takes in the Cannons flags whipping in the breeze and the cheerful throng of supporters dressed in bright orange and gold.

"Papa," he breathes out. "Look." He points towards an old man in a Cannons jersey, orange streaks dyed into his long grey beard. Draco wants to say something snide, but he's fully aware whose territory he's on, and, besides, Scorpius is utterly enchanted. Draco's loath to do anything that might spoil his mood. It takes so little to send him into a death spiral of crankiness at times. There are moments Draco wonders if somehow Snape genetics have managed to infiltrate the Malfoy line: he could swear some days Scorpius's scowl looks entirely like his former Head of House's. Instead he scoops Scorpius up into his arms, carrying him down the rolling slope towards the gates to the stands. There are too many people there and Draco panics briefly before he hears his name being called.

He turns, and there's Harry, dark curls rumpled by the wind, and looking utterly amazing in a pair of faded Muggle jeans and a dark blue button-down. Draco completely ignores the tattered orange and white scarf Harry has draped over one shoulder. What he _can't_ overlook is the large black stuffed bear clad in a too small, ridiculously orange jumper that's clutched in both of Harry's hands.

Oh, God. Draco bites his tongue. Hard. "Hello," he manages finally.

"Hi," Harry says with an easy smile, and Draco's just about to break and tell him to hide the bear for Christ's sake, but then a tiny hand reaches out towards Harry and Draco sighs. Scorpius has his face almost turned into Draco's neck, but one eye's fixed on the bear. Damnation.

Harry laughs. "Hello, Scorpius," he says, holding out the bear, and Scorpius rights himself just long enough to snatch it from Harry, then retreats back against Draco's shoulder, the bear hiding most of his face-and Draco's.

"Say thank you, Scorpius."

The bear rises higher until only a few blond curls are visible. "Thank you," Scorpius mumbles into the orange wool jumper.

"You're welcome," Harry says, watching Scorpius with a smile.

Draco pushes a furry foot out away from his mouth and looks at Harry. "You shouldn't have," he says dryly. "Really." He almost hates the way Harry's eyes sparkle at him.

"I wanted to make friends."

"Obviously not with me," Draco says, and Harry laughs again. When he puts his hand on the small of Draco's back, Draco can't hide the shiver that runs through him.

Harry has the grace not to say anything, but his fingers tighten on the cotton of Draco's shirt and his breath is warm against Draco's cheek when he leans over and murmurs, "This way."

They bypass the long queue waiting to get into the general stands, and Draco pretends not to notice the looks and whispers that follow them, none of which seem to faze Harry, who keeps his hand firmly on Draco's back. Scorpius's head is still buried in the bear, as he whispers into its ear in a language that Draco's rather certain is most likely Flemish. He can only hope it's not obscene.

Just inside the entrance, a guard greets Harry with a cheerful "'Lo, Auror Potter", and waves them towards the rickety lift for the upper boxes. As much as it pains him not to comment on the dilapidated state of the stands-really, he's suddenly grateful for Pudd United's recent renovations to their pitch-Draco's silent until they reach the door to the box and Harry pulls out an enormous skeleton key with a small black cannonball attached.

"No wards?" Draco can't help himself, and Harry just turns an amused look his way as he slots the key into the lock.

"Worse than that," he says, and the door swings open to reveal a box filled with overstuffed, if somewhat threadbare, sofas and comfortably plush armchairs draped with orange and white knit afghans. Harry stops Draco before he can step in. "Wait a moment." He flicks his wand at the open door, and a burst of golden sparks showers out at them, causing Scorpius to raise his head from the bear and laugh in delight. At Draco's quirked eyebrow, Harry grins ruefully. "George and Ron like to set prank charms and little surprises. Last time I was up here I had purple hair for a week."

"And here we all thought that was just a spat with your ex," Draco says lightly, stepping through the doorway. Scorpius peers at Harry over Draco's shoulder, watching as he shuts the door behind them.

Harry tucks the key back into his pocket. "She prefers Bat-Bogey Hexes."

"I'm well aware." Draco sets Scorpius down on one of the sofas. "Having been hit with her skill on at least one occasion that I can recall." He sits next to his son, surprised at how comfortable the sofa is, even if it does give off the slightest whiff of mothballs. "Not to mention the time she used it on Blaise when Greg decided to take him drinking in Amsterdam."

"For a given value of drinking." Harry sits on the other side of Scorpius, who looks up at him suspiciously. "It _was_ Amsterdam."

"I like Ams'erdam," Scorpius says, pulling at the ear of the bear. "Mummy and me saw Sinterklass last Christmas."

Harry smiles down at him. "Did you?" At Scorpius's nod, Harry reaches out to tug the orange jumper down over the round belly of the bear. "Did he bring you a stuffed bear?"

Scorpius laughs. "No! Candy and a book and more candy and a toy Auror like Daddy is." He squirms next to Draco, moving closer to Harry. "I like bears."

"I did too when I was your age." Harry plays with the fur on the bottom of the bear's foot. "My cousin had a lot of them."

Draco's heart clenches. He knows the story; not from Harry-never from Harry-but from Pansy, one night just after she'd started seeing Ronald. He can still remember the furrow in her brow when she'd told him what she knew, how the Muggles had treated Harry-he'd still been Potter then-and how he'd grown up unwanted. Unloved. Knowing that had been what had broken down Draco's last walls when it came to Harry. He could never imagine spending his childhood that way, knowing that your family wanted nothing to do with you. His father may have been an utter bastard at times, and all too willing to throw his lot in with the wrong sort-the wishes of his family be damned-but Draco had never once doubted he was loved. He still doesn't.

Scorpius scoots closer to Harry and holds up the bear. "You can hold him."

"What if he sits between us?" Harry asks, and it's at that moment that Draco knows-he _knows_-that this isn't some passing fling. He watches as Harry settles the bear next to him, and Scorpius leans over the wretched stuffed beast, asking Harry what the three hoops are on each end of the pitch. Harry's patient in his answers, even when they lead to the more outlandish questions that Scorpius seems to enjoy asking, such as wondering if the burly, purple-clad Keeper for Portree could fit through one of them or if he'd get stuck trying.

Draco meets Harry's gaze over Scorpius's head. _Thank you_, he mouths, and Harry just smiles at him, reaching out to brush his fingers across Draco's cheek.

Scorpius sits on the edge of the sofa, clenching his bear with both hands, eyes wide as the players take the pitch in a riot of purple and orange. He doesn't even look up when his father leans across him to kiss Harry, only reaching back to push Draco away with an oh-so-Malfoy air of annoyance.

Harry laughs and settles back into the corner of the sofa, still holding the bear's leg. "Later?"

"Oh, yes," Draco murmurs, his lips still tingling from their brief kiss. "Most definitely." He doesn't pull away when Harry's hand settles on his shoulder behind Scorpius's back.

Perhaps this wasn't an atrocious idea after all.

It's nearly eleven when they arrive back on Pont Street, a snoring Scorpius draped over Harry's shoulder and Draco laden down with the bear-who appears to have been given the name Mr Tiddles at some point in the evening-the Portkey, a Cannons banner, bags of sweets from various vendors, and a jersey signed by the entire team-a memento of their private post-match tour of the changing rooms which was meant for Scorpius but which Draco is fairly certain, not to mention hopeful, that Harry'll end up nicking. Astoria might burn it on sight, an action Draco would be quietly in favour of. He's absolutely horrified at the realisation that his son has most likely become a Cannons supporter, God help them all. Father will be apoplectic when he finds out. Perhaps that would be a good time to mention the fact that he just possibly _might_ be dating Harry Potter.

Draco leads them clumsily through the darkened flat and they both lay Scorpius down gently, ever so gently, onto his bed. Draco thinks of undressing his son fully, but settles on removing his shoes. He'll probably wake up during the night, and if so, Draco will change him into pyjamas then. At the moment, he's just thrilled that Scorpius is sound asleep. Finally.

He and Harry both step into the hall. Draco closes the door, leaving it open a crack, and turns, leaning his shoulders against the wall. Harry runs a hand through his hair, standing it on end, but Draco doesn't care. He wants to drag him bodily into his bedroom and muss it far worse than that.

A corner of Harry's mouth quirks and he nods in the direction of the Floo. "So I'll just..."

Draco makes the decision, stepping forward and lacing his fingers through Harry's. "Stay," he says, looking down at their joined hands.

When he glances up, Harry's watching him closely. "Are you sure?" His eyes flick towards Scorpius's door.

"Yes." Draco lets his thumb trace small circles over Harry's knuckles. "Entirely." A small smile curves his mouth. "All night. If you want."

Harry's breath catches. "Draco," he murmurs, and Draco leans in, pressing his mouth against the hollow of Harry's throat. He can feel Harry's pulse beneath his lips, quick and warm. Harry makes a soft sound, and then Draco pulls back, his fingers still twined with Harry's.

"Stay," he says again, and he steps backwards, tugging at Harry's hand, leading him down the hall to his bedroom.

Harry follows.

The sheets are warm and wrinkled beneath Draco's shoulders and his breath is coming in short, quick gasps. Harry looks up at him for a moment, his face half in shadow and half in pale moonlight from the windows. He kneels between Draco's legs, his hand poised on the back of Draco's thigh. "Everything all right?"

Draco wants to say no, things are unbearable and I'll never be the same again after you've taken me apart with your hands and your mouth, and I'll die if you don't shag me right _now_. Instead he nods and chokes out, "Yes, Harry. Very."

Bright green eyes linger on Draco for a moment, watching his face carefully. Then Harry nods. "Good."

Harry's weight settles over Draco, and Draco opens for the slick, smooth, perfect burn, forgetting his own name for a moment with Harry as close as he could possibly be. Their bodies join in a clasp of sweat-soaked skin and lips meeting teeth meeting tongues. Draco wraps his hands around the base of the headboard behind him and pushes back into Harry's thrusts, his ankles crossed behind Harry's back and waves of _want_ shivering through him. This, now, this is exactly what he wants. Nothing more. Nothing else. Just this.

The one-way Muffliato that they've placed on the room will allow them to hear the sounds around them while making sure the sounds within the room do not travel. The way the headboard is hitting the wall, Draco briefly gives thanks for Auror spellcasting technology, and then he can't think anymore.

As they lie together tangled afterwards, breath still coming in gasps, Draco trails a hand along Harry's muscular shoulder. "Are you sure you truly want this?" he whispers. "I mean, this, us, me."

Harry shifts, rolling to one side, and he looks at Draco. "Yes. If you'll have me. Both of you." His hair falls over his forehead. Draco can't stop himself from smoothing it back.

"Have I told you about the biting?" Draco asks as Harry catches his wrist and presses it to his mouth. "In the interest of full disclosure."

Draco is pulled forward by Harry's hand at the nape of his neck and kissed thoroughly. "Mmmm," Harry says, worrying Draco's earlobe with his teeth. "I'm afraid the biting is legendary."

"And the love of disgusting desserts? And the tantrums?" Draco rests his forehead against Harry's. Might as well lay all Scorpius's secrets bare. There's no sense in Harry being surprised by one of Scorpius's dreaded screaming fits.

Harry strokes Draco's back. "He's a four-year-old boy. Besides, I knew you when we were eleven, so I think I'm prepared for every eventuality." He's obviously not prepared for Draco's pillow to hit him in the face, but he retaliates in kind quickly, laughing as he wrestles Draco back against the mattress.

Draco looks up at him, at shadowed golden skin and lean muscles, at rumpled dark hair and a bright grin. "You terrify me," he admits quietly, and Harry's hand settles against his cheek, fingers stroking lightly.

"And you think I'm not scared?" Harry asks. His fingertips brush Draco's hair back behind his ear.

"You're Head Auror. You're not afraid of anything."

Harry just gives him a faint smile. "If you only knew."

Draco lets his hand rest on Harry's shoulder. He flexes his fingers lightly. "What about work? You can't tell me there won't be talk-"

"You don't think they've figured it out yet?" Harry settles between Draco's legs, nudging them wider. "For Christ's sake, Draco, most of them are just grateful you manage me and run interference for them when I'm in a snit."

This is true, Draco realises. "You _are_ a complete arse when you're annoyed with them."

"I know." Harry grins. "And they count on you to tell me to shut it."

Draco hadn't considered it that way. He frowns. "Perhaps."

Harry's thumb slips over Draco's bottom lip. Draco nips it lightly. "This has never been just about the sex, Draco. Not for me."

"I know." And Draco does. He's tried to tell himself otherwise. It was a necessary lie; he hadn't been ready to face this. To face Harry. "This could end spectacularly badly, you realise."

Harry snorts. "This coming from a man who's already stomped on my face once."

Draco catches his hand, sitting up. "Stomping on a heart hurts worse." They look at each other, rumpled and mussed and wide-eyed in the dark.

"I won't," Harry says finally. "I promise."

Silence stretches between them, then Draco nods. "I'll try," he says. "I've never been good at relationships, though."

A small smile quirks Harry's mouth. "You've seen my track record, yes? I sent Gin running to Zabini, of all people."

Draco smirks. "I have to admit, I never thought I'd see Blaise tamed by a Weasley. I don't know whether to be amused or horrified."

"What about a Potter taming a Malfoy?" Harry leans forward, pushing Draco back against the pillows. His prick drags heavily across Draco's bare thigh.

"In your dreams, Potter." Draco's arms slide around Harry's neck, pulling him down into a slow kiss. "In your dreams."

Harry laughs.

As dreams go, Draco thinks, this one could be worse.

Pale early morning sunlight streams through the windowpanes, warming Draco's face as he rolls towards Harry. A heavy arm settles across his hip, and he can feel the soft scratch of Harry's scruff against his cheek as Harry sighs.

"Morning," Harry murmurs.

Draco doesn't open his eyes. "It's too early to be alive." His body aches pleasantly; his arse burns as he shifts his hips. It's been a while since he's been shagged so thoroughly. He doesn't mind it at all.

"Coffee?" Harry asks with a yawn. "Or tea?"

"Tea, you philistine." Draco breathes in the very Harry smell surrounding him. "Ceylon, steeped for five and a half minutes. It's in the brushed steel tin in the kitchen. Top shelf."

Harry's shoulder shifts beneath him. "Aren't you supposed to make tea for your guest?" He sounds amused.

Draco just pushes his foot against Harry's leg. "Don't make me kick you out of bed." He pulls the coverlet up over his shoulder. "Get on with you."

Before Harry can slip out of bed, the door to the bedroom creaks open and Draco can hear the soft shuffle of small feet on the wooden floor.

"Oh, good," Scorpius says, and Draco opens one eye as the mattress shifts under Scorpius's knees. The black bear bangs against Draco's leg. "You're still here."

"I am," Harry says, and he leans down with the coverlet over his waist to scoop up his pants from beside the bed. Draco tries not to laugh. This is not how he imagined their first sleepover, although he's quite enjoying the stretch of smooth skin over the flat planes of Harry's back. Harry sits back up. "Did you sleep well?"

Scorpius nods. "So did Mr Tiddles." He clutches the bear to his chest. He's still in his clothes from yesterday, although his shirt is untucked and several buttons are now gone. Draco's fairly certain he's going to win the Worst Father of the Year award. Scorpius eyes Harry. "What are you doing?"

Harry stills, and from what Draco can tell, his pants are only halfway up his thighs. "Getting dressed."

"Under the blanket?" The disapproving tone in his son's voice reminds Draco of his mother.

With a small jerk of his hips Harry manages to get his pants all the way up. He swings his legs of the side of the bed. "Your Papa's still sleeping."

Scorpius pokes Draco's leg. "Wake up!"

The mattress moves as Harry stands up, grabbing Scorpius as he does. "Let him sleep a bit longer. Would you and Mr Tiddles like some tea? Maybe some eggs and toast?"

"Yes!" Scorpius squeals as Harry upends him. The bear dangles in front of Draco's face. He bats it away, unnoticed by his son. "Except Mr Tiddles wants lots of jam."

Harry rights Scorpius again, settling him on his shoulders. He doesn't seem to mind the bear smacking the back of his head. "With his eggs?"

"Ew!" Scorpius tugs at Harry's hair as he ducks to get through the doorframe. "Pretend you're a pony!"

The sound of an utterly wretched neigh drifts down the hall. Draco smiles into his pillow. He's certain he'll get up to a destroyed kitchen, oversteeped tea, and a jam-smeared son. At the moment he couldn't care less.

He thinks, perhaps, he could get used to this after all.

Bottom of Form


	63. (T) STEREK - Sideways and Slantways and

Sideways and Slantways and Longways and Backways  
hologramophone

Summary:  
"I called you a slave-driver!" Stiles cried hysterically. "I called you an ogre! I stole all the blue paperclips!"

Derek raised an eyebrow at him.

"That's company property!" he shouted, waving his arms madly in distress.

Derek ran a hand over his face. "It's not theft if the vice president of the company gives you permission."

(Otherwise known as the Elevator AU)

* * *

"But, Mr. Hale, sir…I don't understand!"

Derek hesitated, glancing surreptitiously down at the name on Peter's memo. "…Mr. Greenberg, Hale Industries' internship program was instated to seek out the best and brightest minds for our entry-level positions. Unfortunately, your performance in the past few months has fallen significantly behind those of your colleagues, so we have no choice but to let you go."

The kid, _Greenberg_, stood red-faced and gaping in the middle of the bullpen of cubicles, the other still-employed interns hunched over their keyboards pretending not to listen.

"B-but I need this job! I spent four years on my finance degree to get here! I still have student loans to pay off! I don't have anywhere else to go," Greenberg moaned, crumpling into a slobbering lump at Derek's feet.

Derek resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose as his ex-employee wheezed on the office floor. This was supposed to be Finstock's responsibility, but the head of Finance had conveniently succumbed to food poisoning at the end of the quarter, so Derek had opened up his e-mail at six-thirty a.m. that day to find Peter's memo with a list of names to pink-slip.

Greenberg's was the last name on the list, thank God - It was already nearing six in the evening.

"I'm going to need your ID badge before you go, Mr. Greenberg." The ex-intern whimpered, pawing his way off the floor to remove the lanyard from around his neck and handed it to Derek with trembling hands. "If you have any further questions, please contact HR. Good luck in your future."

As Derek turned towards the elevators, he heard Greenberg stifle a sob and slump back into what was no longer his chair. It sent a pang of guilt through him, but Derek gritted his teeth and kept walking. After all, the kid had to be smart enough to find another job – Hale Industries' internship program was one of the most competitive in the country, and other companies would be scrambling to hire one of their former interns, even one that had been let go.

That, and Allison in HR would undoubtedly help out. The woman had the ability to turn résumés into works of art. Greenberg would be fine.

Still, dealing with people's emotions all day had been taxing, and despite all that Peter had tried to teach him, Derek had never been able to see their employees as purely cogs in the machine, at least not when they stood face-to-face with him, begging for second or third chances. It kept him from making the hard decisions, Peter said. It's why Derek stayed sequestered in his office almost all of the time, only leaving to go home, or on rare occasions like today, at Peter's orders.

The damn elevator moved so slow. It dinged when it finally reached the thirty-first floor, doors sliding open to his personal assistant's rigid smile.

"Good evening Mr. Hale, I haven't seen you all day," Erica said breezily, her smile easing at the sight of him. "You have four messages on your phone, I've scheduled your video conferences for the rest of the week, and I've already put in your regular order at Angelo's. Your meatball sub will be here in fifteen."

Derek smiled fondly. She was one person he didn't need to hide it from – Erica was a machine herself, ruthless and cunning, and with an eidetic memory for his calendar out to the year 2025.

"Thank you, Erica. You're free to go home – I won't be needing you for the rest of the evening."

She raised a carefully manicured eyebrow at him. "I've taken the liberty of ordering two meatball sub sandwiches on the off-chance that you will be, Mr. Hale."

Derek smiled widely. Erica could match him in appetite even with her slight frame, probably needing all that energy to power that massive brain of hers. He sometimes thought that she could run Hale Industries single-handedly, if she ever tried to depose both Peter and him.

But he knew she wasn't that Machiavellian. Hopefully.

And turns out that he _did_ need Erica's help, several times over the next hour, until she had to leave for her Zumba class. For the next half hour, Derek fiddled with his scheduling program until a couple meetings disappeared completely.

User-friendly, his ass. He'd beg Erica to salvage them in the morning; he was done for the night.

Derek slid his jacket back on and picked up his bag, seeing the intern's badge out of the corner of his eye. Allison would need that back to deactivate it – he'd drop it off in her mailbox on his way down.

As the elevator crawled from thirty-one to twenty-five, Derek checked his watch. Eight-thirty. He heaved a sigh - he'd been at work for the past fourteen hours. And there were still unread e-mails in his inbox to check from home.

The elevator dinged, and Derek took a step forward when the doors slid open, almost running straight into the man walking in.

"Oh, dude! Sorry, I wasn't even looking. Figured I was the only one left in the building," the man (or _kid_, rather) said, his brown eyes wide and tracking down Derek's body. Derek took an involuntary step back.

The kid walked to his side as the doors slid shut. For a few seconds they stood there in silence, until they both seemed to realize simultaneously that the elevator hadn't moved. Derek surged forward at the same time the kid's hand flew towards the panel, and Derek dodged it reflexively, but the kid laughed aloud, reaching in front of Derek to press 'G'.

"Guess you forgot to hit that earlier. Hey! You're interning too? What department?"

_Intern…?_ Derek turned and stared at the kid in confusion, before following his gaze to the telltale blue badge in Derek's hand. _Oh._ Before he could open his mouth to correct him, the kid stretched his neck closer.

"D. Greenberg, Financial," he read out loud. "Man, they must have a strict dress code for you guys if their interns even have to wear monkey suits. I mean, don't get me wrong, you look…you look good, but R&D could care less. Exhibit A." The kid gestured down his body.

Derek swept his eyes down, taking in the kid's gelled, brown hair, black plastic-frame glasses, cardigan and T-shirt, and…were those cargo pants? Derek might need to have a word with the head of R&D about professionalism. He looked back up, pausing on the blue badge around the kid's neck. _G. Stilinski – Research and Development._

"Hey, don't look too impressed. I'm Stiles," G. Stilinski said, holding out a hand…that Derek stared at until it lowered itself in submission.

The person attached to the hand apparently had no such sense of self-preservation. "Gee, all those numbers you work with in your head haven't left any room for proper social etiquette, huh?"

Derek frowned at this…_Stiles_, but it did nothing to deter him. "I mean, Scott's dumb as a bag of rocks but he's the nicest guy ever, so maybe there is a correlation." Stiles paused, actually _scrunching_ his nose. "But no, Lydia's a genius and upper management adores her, she's just an ice queen to us commoners but we dote on her anyway…I mean, don't be fooled, I'm actually about to keel over, it's just too much effort to maintain a verbal filter when I'm tired, but I just spent the last 2 hours on the specs for Lydia's prototype because I didn't want her to strain her brain, because Derek Hale is a horrible, _horrible_ man-"

Derek's eyebrows had been furrowing in bewilderment for the absence of breathing between Stiles' words, but at that they shot straight up.

"Oh! Does he ride you guys as hard as he rides R&D? No, stupid question, of course he does," Stiles scoffed, not waiting for an answer. "The man's a slave-driver that no one's ever seen, just felt his whip, and whip, thy name is Erica Reyes, PA- did you hear about how she made Isaac cry at orientation? Isaac "Sunshine-and-Rainbows" Lahey. And all he did was ask if we had Smartfood popcorn in the vending machine. Which is a totally legitimate question by the way, it's one of the lowest calorie on-the-go options and you'd think the company would want its employees to be eating healthy, but no, we don't even have time to run to the vending machines."

Derek let out a snort at the mental image of Erica berating an intern for a snack preference as it sounded exactly like her, but again Stiles misread him.

"I know, right? Like, good god, we're already working our asses off, while Derek Hale sits in his shiny office and sends his four-inch-heeled Amazon with request after request. And he's next in line for the corporate throne! I mean, can you imagine? I've heard his sister Laura's an angel but decided the arts were more her forte and didn't want anything to do with the family business. It's too bad she's not the one in charge…I bet she'd order Smartfood popcorn for us. If it weren't for Hale Industries' reputation, I bet none of the interns would want to be permanently employed by Derek Hale, ever."

The 'ever' was punctuated by the elevator jerking to a halt, and Stiles was halfway out the door before it opened completely.

Derek watched him go, but Stiles spun around suddenly to hold the doors open.

"Hey! What's the 'D' in your name stand for?"

"Derek," he answered reflexively.

Stiles stared openly at him for a long second. "That's unfortunate," he snorted. "See you around, Derek Greenberg."

He sped off, leaving Derek alone in the elevator for who knew how long, until he had to throw out an arm to stop the doors from closing again.

Derek dropped the badge off in Allison's office the next morning, before anyone had actually arrived. He rode the elevator up to his own office, and opened up his inbox to a slew of e-mails from Peter regarding negotiations with the head of the Hunter Corporation, Chris Argent. Apparently things were going less than swimmingly. Recently, Peter had become adamant on expanding into the weapons industry, something that Derek was not in support of in the least, but now he was being called to smooth things over with the largest weapons manufacturer in North America. All because Peter managed to rub another client the wrong way.

It was too early in the morning for this. Any other day, Derek would have grit his teeth and put his mediating skills (which were few, but still more than Peter's) to work, but something had been niggling at his brain since the night before, a twitching concern that couldn't stay still.

He pressed the intercom button on his desk. "Erica, how do we add something to the vending machines downstairs?"

"Just let me know what you'd like and I can get it for you, Mr. Hale," the speaker buzzed back.

Derek frowned. "It's not for me- I mean, I spoke with an employee yesterday and he requested that we add Smartpop…Smartcorn-"

"Smartfood popcorn?"

"Yes, that."

There was a long silence on the other end. "Really?"

Derek sighed. "Yes Erica, I-"

"No, no, that can absolutely be arranged, sir. I'll bring you the vending company catalog and order form for you to sign off on."

He chose to ignore the thread of incredulity in his PA's voice. "Thank you, Erica."

Derek switched off the intercom and sat back in his chair, staring at the wall for a full minute before slumping back with a frown.

He'd hoped solving that _issue_ would have made the nagging feeling in his head go away, but it was still there in full force, like the kid from last night had bombarded him with a deluge of words and he was still soaked and starting to feel itchy.

If he thought about it, no one had talked to him that much since before Laura moved away, before his mom and dad died. Laura still called but it wasn't the same as seeing her face, and Peter only spoke to him when it was relevant to the company. Everyone else cowered in fear, much less spoke their minds to him, but this kid hadn't recognized Derek.

Stiles had pretty much called Derek Hale the bane of his existence.

And he didn't know if that felt more hurtful or more refreshing.

Derek picked up the phone and dialed the extension for HR.

"Allison, It's Derek Hale. I'm going to need the personnel file for one of our employees."

Stiles was smart. Exceptionally, actually, if his academic record was any indication. Top of his class in mechanical engineering at UC Berkeley, and mentored by one of the emeritus faculty in the program. His senior capstone project was entitled the 'Bipolar Prepuce Forceps', which turned out to be a surgical device for more sterile, faster-healing circumcisions.

How he talked his teammates into that, Derek has no idea.

But it probably involved just that. _Talking_.

They probably caved to all the diagrams of penises just to get him to stop.

It was stupid. The chances that Derek was going to run into Stiles again were incredibly slim. There were hundreds of people that worked in the building, that used the elevators every day, and Derek had never run into that bespectacled whirlwind of an intern before yesterday. Still, it was all he could think about for the rest of the morning and afternoon, in the middle of sorting out the Chris Argent issue and fielding other requests from Peter.

By the time eight-thirty rolled around again, Derek already had his briefcase in hand. He'd told Erica to go home at six, and hoped that everyone else had cleared out of the building as well. The elevator crawled downwards, past the other executive offices, past legal, and marketing, and HR…but the elevator didn't slow when the digital display flicked from 24 to 23, and kept on descending.

Stiles had probably gone home already, with the rest of R&D.

And there was absolutely no reason for Derek to be disappointed.

Or that's what he told himself, as he stepped out to an empty lobby and headed outside, where the streetlights were already on and the lone cab stalled on the curb.

For the rest of the week, Derek left when he usually left, or whenever his work allowed him, and didn't run into Stiles again.

Still, when the assignments crossed his desk for him to allocate to the engineers in R&D, he thought of how much potential Stiles' file showed, and how he might enjoy some of the projects Derek would typically assign to the more seasoned engineers. Maybe it was the tedium of what the interns worked on, tweaking and refining existing devices, that made Stiles so bitter towards Der- towards his job.

Derek sent the assignments down to R&D via Erica, and tried all weekend not to think about how Stiles would react to the project he'd picked for him.

The following Tuesday, Derek's teleconference with a client in Beijing kept him in the office until eight. Just as he started to shut his computer down, his inbox pinged with a new e-mail.

**H.I. Prototype No. 118695 **from** Stiles Stilinski, R&D.**

Derek nearly knocked the mouse off his desk in his haste to click.

**_From: _**_Stiles Stilinski, R&D  
**Time**__: Tuesday, September 4th, 2012 8:07:24 PM PDT_  
**_To_ **_: Alan Deaton, R&D_  
**_CC_ **_: Derek Hale, VP_  
**_Subject_ **_: H.I. Prototype No. 118695_

_Dr. Deaton,_

_I've attached the specifications for the prototype #118695 assigned to me last Friday (I apologize if it's a bit late). Please let me know if any changes should be made before I submit the prototype for presentation. I've also copied Mr. Hale on this to keep him informed of my progress._

_Regards,_

_Stiles Stilinski  
Research & Development Intern_

Derek clicked on the attachment at the bottom of the e-mail, and watched as pages of Stiles' drafts popped up on his screen. They all looked flawless as far as he could tell…but that was impossible. Manually pressing the power-button on his computer (safe-shutdown be damned), he grabbed his jacket and briefcase and dashed out to the elevator.

That was an original prototype that had just been approved for development. Which meant any decent engineer would spend weeks to months working on the specifications, not to mention an _intern_.

Who finished in the span of three days.

This time the elevator slowed at floor twenty-three, the doors sliding open to a very disheveled Stiles, his stained hoodie hanging limply off his frame and flattened hair sticking out from under his beanie. Derek almost choked at the sight, if it weren't for how Stiles' dark-circled eyes suddenly lit up behind his glasses.

"Derek!"

Still caught off guard by Stiles' appearance, Derek opted to stare back in response.

"Man, aren't _you_ a sight for sore eyes? And I mean really sore. Like, I'm seeing two of you right now, which isn't a bad thing at all-"

The doors started to close. Derek threw an arm out and dragged Stiles inside, steadying him when it was clear the momentum was sending him into a face-plant.

"Oh, thanks, I'm such a klutz," Stiles laughed, but it came out as more of a wheeze. "Then again, it might be the whole not-sleeping-for-four-days-and-subsisting-on-Snickers-Red-Bull-and-popcorn' thing. That's protein and vegetables, right? Hey, did you hear that we got the popcorn in the vending machines now? The corporate gods have smiled upon us. Speaking of which, I think Derek Hale wants to kill me."

Derek gaped at Stiles, but the intern's eyes were half-lidded and focused on a spot on the wall.

"Seriously, I just wanted to go home this past weekend and play WoW and battle mythical creatures and shit, but Derek Hale is a giant ogre that wants to grind my bones to make his bread. Like, why would he do that? Why would he give me this giant project when all the other interns have the normal refine-and-adjust work and expect me to meet the same deadline?"

Derek felt a sense of dawning realization mixed with horror. The interns normally completed their work in a matter of days, and Stiles' hadn't been told otherwise when he'd been given the new assignment.

"I think he wants to fire me. Derek Hale wants to see me fail so he has a reason to fire me. But he can't! Because I finished the damn thing! I even copied him on the e-mail to my boss so he can see."

Stiles lifted his hands in a weak approximation of raising-the-roof. "So take _that_, Derek Hale."

Derek wanted to kick himself. This was the complete opposite of what he wanted, and even hearing Stiles acknowledge the popcorn gesture had been overshadowed by just how much of a massive _idiot_ Derek felt.

"In other news," Stiles segued, interrupting Derek's mental stream of self-reproach. "Or at least, I'm pretty sure it actually happened, unless I've really been that out of it, but Scott finally asked Allison out and she said yes. Miracle of miracles. Actually, getting Lydia to acknowledge my existence would fall under that category. But if Scott has a shot with Allison, beloved queen of HR, there may be hope for me yet- I could just, I don't know, get her a lapdog, or braid flowers into her strawberry-blonde hair, or lay my lab coat across a puddle…"

There was something wrong with the elevator's ventilation. Something in the air was clearly making Derek feel warmer and crankier, and made him want to trip someone in high-heels or stick his hand in some perfectly styled hair and tug. What the hell.

"…But I look nothing like _you_, I mean, you must be dodging women left and right, with that facial symmetry and manly stubble, and your _eyes_, dude. What color are they even?"

Derek watched dumbfounded as Stiles leaned into his personal space, golden-brown eyes boring into his own. He felt even warmer (but suddenly less cranky) when Stiles' gaze slid down his face and settled on his mouth, which…which was hanging open.

The elevator dinged, and Derek shut his mouth with an audible _click_.

Stiles smiled lazily at him one last time, and stumbled out into the lobby. Derek involuntarily reached out to steady him again, and vaguely considered calling him a cab, but Stiles simply patted him on the shoulder and staggered towards the bike rack outside.

Derek didn't even know they had a bike rack.

He watched as Stiles made several unsuccessful attempts to unlock his bike, but once he was on it he was surprisingly graceful. Stiles weaved through the parked cars, finally disappearing around the corner of a building before Derek looked away and hailed his own cab to head home.

Derek's apartment was dark and quiet. He threw his keys in the bowl by the door and made a beeline for the bar, pouring himself a finger or two of scotch before settling in on the modular couch by the window, watching the tiny lights crawl along the bottom of the high-rise.

Derek swirled the tumbler in his hand. The golden liquid reminded him of a certain set of eyes, the way they flickered every time the intern's brain switched directions…Derek scowled. This is why Peter was right – this is why he should never have…gotten attached to an employee, and now he'd driven Stiles even farther away.

Even though Stiles still thought he was Derek _Greenberg_.

It didn't matter now – even if Derek told him the truth, Stiles would probably hate him more for the deception. He should just leave Stiles alone, and let things go back to the way they were, with Stiles hating him from a distance and inevitably leaving H.I. for someplace like the Hunter Corporation-

Derek scowled. The thought of _that_ was even worse than hearing about Stiles' crush on the R&D girl.

Derek loosened his death grip on the tumbler. He rubbed at his temples and tried to relax into the couch, but the cushions were too firm, some Swedish design someone at some agency had been overpaid to put in his flat. Nowhere near as comfortable as the cushy sofa his family had growing up, with its chocolate milk stains and cushions that he and Laura used to build blanket forts…

Derek took out his phone and hit the first speed-dial.

Ring. Ring. "Der-Der!"

Derek's lip quirked. He hated the name growing up, but he heard it so rarely these days. Derek could still here his mother's voice whispering, _There, there, Derek. Hush now_, his sister echoing in the background, _Der-Der, Derek!_

"How's the series coming along?"

"Oh, it's coming. I'm covered in paint as we speak, baby bro. You get the invite for my gallery opening?"

"I booked my flight last week."

His sister made an approving sound. "So, what's new with you?"

_There's this intern..._"-Peter's sending me to Beijing next month to meet with some clients."

"No, no. Peter making you do his dirty work isn't news, Derek, that's all he ever does."

Derek sighed. "Laura-"

"All I'm saying is, you need to get away from H.I. once in awhile, Derek. Go out and meet people, find a new hobby-"

Derek cringed. Last time Laura suggested he find a new hobby, she'd sent him a couple crates of painting supplies, he managed to mix a muddy brown color on the palette instead of sky blue, and the rest of the supplies had gone straight to the local community center.

"-I knew it wasn't for me, and you're still young, Derek. I just don't want you to end up like Peter," Laura finished softly.

Peter lived at the office. When his uncle wasn't at the office, he lived alone. Peter had more money than he knew what to do with, so there was nothing to do but make more.

Peter didn't have someone to tell him when he'd messed up and needed to stop, who made sure he ate healthy, who was smart as hell, whose giant eyes lit up whenever he saw him.

"What if I already have? What if the only person who's talked to me already hates me?" Derek muttered.

"You tried to talk to someone and they said they hated you?" Laura asked incredulously.

"No, he never - I'm the one who – he doesn't know who I am-"

"_I'll_ say. No one that knows anything about you could possibly hate you, you hear me? If this…if this guy really knew what you're like and he still doesn't like you? He's not worth it."

Derek drained the last few drops in the glass. "Yeah."

The line went quiet for a moment. "Derek, he's not Kate. Don't be afraid to let someone in again, okay?"

Derek nodded slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

Derek didn't assign Stiles any more original projects. He let things go back to normal, trying to treat Stiles like any of the other interns even if it meant Stiles was still cursing him from another part of the building.

At least this way, he couldn't make things worse.

It wasn't until Erica opened his office door one day, stepping aside to let Allison in. "I'm sorry for the interruption, Mr. Hale, but Allison has something important she needs to discuss with you. Off the record."

Derek raised an eyebrow, before turning to the man sitting across from him. "Mr. Boyd, if you'll excuse us."

"Not a problem, sir. I'll just update you on the repairs budget via e-mail," the head of maintenance said, rising and exiting quietly.

Derek gestured to the now vacant chair across from his desk and Allison took a tentative seat. "Mr. Hale, I'm not- I shouldn't be here, but you know who my father is and what the Hunter Corporation does," she began nervously. "I work for H.I. because I don't want to be a part of a company that produces weapons."

Derek nodded solemnly.

"They don't know that I heard them talking, but the Hunter execs are instituting a lateral hiring plan for Hale Industries' interns before they're officially signed on here."

Derek's eyes went wide. "Argent is planning on poaching our interns to work for Hunter?"

"It was my grandfather's idea - they've discussed offering them higher starting salaries and more flexibility," she said, eyes turned to the floor. "That's all I know."

Derek tapped his pen on the desk. "Thank you for coming to me, Allison. I'll discuss this with the rest of the board-"

Allison looked up. "-And your name will never come up. I promise."

A look of relief passed over her face. "Thank you, Mr. Hale."

Derek nodded at her as she stepped back out, before buzzing Erica to arrange a board meeting.

If Derek rode the elevator up and down for nearly an hour that evening, well, nobody needed to know.

When the doors opened and it was finally Stiles standing there, slurping loudly through a plastic straw, Derek let out the breath he didn't know he was holding…and then promptly tensed back up.

He hadn't planned beyond making sure Stiles still worked there.

"D-man! How's it hangin', bro?...You look a little green."

Derek may have developed a bit of motion sickness over the last half hour.

Stiles stepped into his space. "Seriously, you okay? You look like you need to sit down, or eat some saltines, or I've got this blue slushie if that'll help?" Stiles shook the cup at him, and the sudden wave of nausea must have shown on Derek's face. "Okay artificially colored syrup probably isn't a good idea right now, but you should really pop a squat, come on now." Stiles grabbed Derek's elbow and manhandled him down to the floor, before settling in cross-legged next to him.

"Better?" Stiles asked. Derek took a deep breath and nodded. The urge to lose his lunch was starting to subside.

"So what is it – week-old potato salad? Bad fiscal quarter? You forget the covers on your TPS reports?"

Derek turned and looked at Stiles. The intern looked better than he'd ever seen him, no dark circles around his eyes and his usual twitch subdued. Derek huffed at Stiles' lips, tinted blue from nursing his drink.

"You can't let it get to you," Stiles said. "Even if your boss rips you a new one for screwing up, y'know. _This too shall pass_ and all that. I mean, look at me, I survived the Great Hale Storm of 2012 and kept my job! Whatever that guy's throwing at you is nothing you can't handle."

_Ha, well, Derek Hale's existence is definitely my greatest obstacle right now._ But what Stiles thought of him didn't matter anymore. All Derek wanted was to know if Stiles was happy with his job.

"Do you like working here?" Derek asked tiredly.

Stiles paused, his eyes widening in an expression of surprise, glancing down to Derek's mouth. His gaze lingered there, until Stiles shook his head and met Derek's eyes with a sincere look.

"Yes. Yeah. I mean, I get to play with robots and machines all day. How cool is that? And that project from hell that I told you about? Other than the deadline, that project was _awesome_. I got to design a light bulb that recycles its own _thermal energy_. Best job ever or best job ever? Plus, you won't find better benefits anywhere on the west coast, and the holiday parties are the bomb. Insider tip: if you can sneak into Marketing's holiday bash, their eggnog is more liquor than…nog."

As Stiles expounded on all of Hale Industries many merits, it felt more to him like _Stiles_ was the one trying to convince Derek to stay at H.I. It made something in Derek's chest clench to see Stiles gesticulating enthusiastically about everything from the prototype machines to the vending machines, his smile wide and uninhibited.

The elevator dinged at the ground floor, and Stiles stopped abruptly to level him with an indecipherable look.

Derek averted his eyes, rolling forward onto his hands and knees to reach for his suitcase, when a choked off sound came from behind. When he glanced over his shoulder, Stiles was staring back at him red-faced, before scrambling up to his feet and slipping out of the elevator, his bag clutched tightly in front of him.

Derek stood and dusted off his pants. By the time he walked out to the street, Stiles and his bike were already long gone.

He started running into Stiles more often. Always in the elevator and not every day, but Derek began to get used to the hoodies and cargo shorts that seemed to make up Stiles' wardrobe, graphic tees with superheroes and physics jokes emblazoned on them.

He noticed that Stiles looked him up and down as often as Derek did it to him, and he made an effort to stand taller and straighter, the panels of his suit stretching tight across his chest. It made Derek feel oddly smug when Stiles' eyes would drift down, his rapid speech slowing momentarily before speeding back up.

"…And don't tell anybody, but I just stole all the blue paperclips because those are the only kind Matt uses. Weirdo. _Nobody_ blatantly hits on my best friend's girl and gets away with it! Seriously, everybody and their mom knows that Allison and Scott just started going steady, so he was totally doing it just to be a dick, and offering to do a _photo shoot_ of her? That's just creepy, dude. I mean, I understand desperation, but we're at work, am I right?"

Derek frowned at the idea of this 'Matt' guy harassing Allison, but merely grunted in response. It was something Laura had always poked fun at him for – _Use your words, Der-Der. Mom didn't raise you to be a caveman, no matter how much you look like one_.

Stiles talked to him about everything. Derek now felt like he knew everything, from Scott's old crush on their first grade teacher to the pharmacology of _platypus venom_. And Stiles seemed happier, complained about his workload less often and hardly ever mentioned his deep and endless hatred for 'Derek Hale, vice president' anymore. For the first time, Derek felt hopeful, like Stiles might not leave and Derek could keep him, and maybe, maybe Stiles…

_Maybe Stiles_ nothing. Stiles didn't know anything about the real him, because Derek had never given him anything. It had never occurred to him before - at first, Derek had just been in awe that someone felt enough at ease with him to speak freely, and before long he'd just came to revel in the comfort of Stiles' presence. But Stiles could never feel anything for Derek if he still knew nothing about him.

"Earth to Grumpy-Face," Stiles said, waving a hand in front of Derek's face. "I'm trying to describe the awesomeness of my new ergonomic chair to you. It's like sitting on a cloud, a fluffy cumulonimbus, I swear I could hear my lumbar vertebrae singing the Hallelujah chorus-"

"My favorite color is black," Derek blurted, flinching back.

Stiles' expression flickered between confusion, surprise and amusement, before settling into the same fond look the last time Derek had chanced to speak.

"Y'know, black's actually the absence of color…but I respect that!" he added, as Derek started to turn away. "You always look good in it, anyways," he muttered.

Derek stared at the pink tips of Stiles' ears. "…I don't like wearing these suits. I'd wear my leather jacket to work every day if I could."

Stiles' eyes widened. "Well _there's_ a mental image."

Derek felt himself flush at that, but when Stiles opted for silence and instead leveled him with an expectant and, dare he say _fond_ look, he felt a surge of confidence.

"I have to have all these suits tailored, and the fittings take forever and it's still hard to move in them afterwards. I'd much rather just throw on a shirt and jeans and come in to the office."

Stiles gaped at him. "You have a _tailor_? Geez, how much are they paying the financial interns?"

Derek felt jolted by the sudden pang of guilt.

But per usual, Stiles barreled on. "Well, I hope they pay you well enough if they expect everyone to have enough suits for every day of the week. Those things are _expensive_. I blew a week and a half's pay on the potato sack I wore to my aunt Muriel's third wedding, and really, I should never again complain about how much I make in R&D as long as they don't care if I show up in flip-flops."

The elevator doors opened on the ground floor, and Derek cringed at the _fwap-fwap_ of Stiles' footwear as he zipped out. He knew H.I. had a company-wide dress code. Derek really needed to have a word with Deaton about adhering to it.

Stiles still stayed later than the rest of the company working on his projects (and Lydia's, Derek learned unhappily), such that Derek nearly always caught him boarding the elevator around seven.

Their conversation gradually became _conversation_, a two-sided thing that made Derek feel both vulnerable and validated at the same time. Stiles let him speak more often than not, even letting the silence sit between them as Derek gathered his thoughts.

"I like nature. I wanted to study ecology in college but my family made me choose business…I haven't seen a forest since I moved to the city."

"My dad's the sheriff back home, and when I was a kid I thought he was Batman and I wanted to grow up to bring Justice to the world. With a capital-J."

"My sister's called me Der-Der since I was two."

"My mom was the first one to start calling me Stiles."

"…My dad gave me his old Camaro for my sixteenth birthday right before he and my mom died. It's still sitting in the garage."

"Up until my mom passed, she bought me model kits of everything – trains, planes, dinosaurs, you name it. I wanted to be an engineer because of her."

Derek was stuck in the office until eight-thirty one night responding to e-mails from their Beijing client.

When the elevator doors slid open on the twenty-third floor, Stiles was perched in front of them in a rolling chair, his head snapping up from the book propped open in his lap.

"I almost thought you'd left already!" Stiles chirped, grabbing his messenger bag and blindly kicking the chair backwards down the hall. It hit the wall and toppled over.

Stiles cringed. "I'll get that tomorrow."

As Stiles bounded in, stuffing a post-it note into the book to save his place – _Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_, he noted – Derek tried not to assume that Stiles had waited an hour and a half for a five-minute elevator ride with him…but he'd pretty much just confessed to doing so. It made something in Derek's chest clench fiercely, and he suddenly wanted nothing more than to reach over and pull Stiles to him.

Stiles was oblivious to the sentiment. "…I have my performance review tomorrow and I'm kinda sorta really freaking out – I mean, I really rushed the thermal recycling bulb but I think it turned out okay? I'm not sure, but they totally chewed out Danny and he's one of the top interns. Like, he went to MIT and US News and World Report says they're better than Berkeley, where I studied _penises_ and oh God, what if Derek Hale is there?"

He wasn't going to be. Even though Deaton had requested his presence, he knew he couldn't go. "Stiles," he commanded, gaze fixed on the manic intern. "Don't. Panic."

Stiles stared back, wide-eyed. "What?"

"I said, 'Don't panic.'" Derek glanced down at the book in Stiles' hand.

"Did you- Did you just reference the Guide? Did you just _make a joke_?" Stiles spluttered. "Oh my god, you did! You closet nerd! I bet you have a towel stuffed in that briefcase-"

Derek smirked and kept silent. If he seemed smug, it was only because Stiles wasn't panicking anymore.

The calm didn't last long.

On the last Friday of October, two months after Stiles' frenzied presence first ingratiated itself into Derek's monotonous life, the intern burst into the elevator in a flurry of limbs and expletives.

"She's moving in with _Jackson. Jackson_, of all people, lord of the douchebags, with his stupid, charming snake-face and his fancy law degree from Harvard. I bet he only got in because his parents bought a freaking building and named it the _Admit Our Son or We'll Ruin You_ Hall. Did you know he put Scott in a headlock once for asking if Legal hired him for his 'Bend and Snap'? We totally fist-pounded over that until Jackson chased me down the hall – but really, Lydia's picking _that_? I'm the one that's been pining after her for five years, I followed her all the way here from Berkeley, I've stayed countless nights working on _her_ projects while she was apparently off rendezvousing with Jackson freaking Whittemore."

Five years. Derek didn't know his crush on the little red-headed engineer was that old. And she'd not only ignored him and strung him along for that long, but _used_ him as well?

"I give up! I'm gonna- where's my phone?" Stiles wailed, pulling out his iPhone. "Siri, where's the nearest animal shelter? I need to adopt some cats. Lots of cats. I might as well accept my fate now and get on with the reclusion and dying alone thing, since the only affection I'll ever get is of the feline persuasion, and I'll have to hire someone to deliver groceries to my house too, Siri, because who am I kidding? Cute brainiac girls would never go for someone like _me_-"

Something flared in Derek's mind, furious and possessive. Stiles had _no idea_. Before he could register what he was doing, Derek had thrown a hand out towards the panel of buttons on the wall, jamming his thumb into the emergency stop.

Stiles yelped when the entire elevator jolted to a halt, the loud buzz of the alarm overwhelming the room.

Derek returned Stiles' open-mouthed stare. He panicked for a split second – _what the hell had he done that for_ \- before deciding _fuck it_ and stepping forward to press his lips against Stiles'.

Stiles' lips were softer than he'd expected…but his lips were frozen against Derek's, unresponsive and slack-jawed, and Derek's mind went from _oh shit_ to _he's going to sue me_ to _Hale Industries is going to crash and burn because I have no self-control_ and _I should back away now_ before Stiles made a desperate noise and wrapped his arms around Derek.

So he clutched back, hands fisting in that stupid scarlet hoodie, and Stiles sank forward into him until they hit the wall. Derek moaned at the surprising display of strength, a deep rumble in his chest, licking cautiously across the bow of his top lip until Stiles shuddered against him.

…The feeling of it was something Derek wanted etched in his memory permanently.

Derek broke off the kiss and dipped his head down to Stiles' throat, kissing over his rapid pulse and nuzzling into the vibrations of Stiles' whimpers, reveling in the feel of Stiles' fingers playing over the nape of his neck.

The loud gasp of "_Derek!_" when he slid a leg between Stiles' nearly undid him, hips bucking forward, and things were about to get a whole lot heavier in the elevator when the blaring alarm suddenly cut off.

"_Mr. Hale_," the tinny voice filtered in through the control panel. "_This is Boyd. I see you've pressed the emergency stop. Is everything alright?_"

…The voice sounded mildly amused. Derek spun around, spotting the tiny half-globe of the camera in the corner for the first time. _Shit_.

When he turned back around, Stiles was stock-still in his arms, staring at him with a look of abject horror. _Shit shit shit_.

Derek closed his eyes and tried to breathe. "Yes Boyd, everything's fine."

"_Okay then, Mr. Hale. We're working on getting the elevator moving again, but it'll be a few minutes_."

"Thank you, Boyd," Derek forced out.

The intercom shut off with a click, and Stiles continued staring, eyes full of disbelief, or terror, or _betrayal_, and silent as Derek had ever seen.

He was just about to beg him to speak, when Stiles snapped his jaw shut and whispered, "Just so we're clear, _you're_ Derek Hale?"

Derek pursed his lips, and nodded slowly, carefully.

Stiles made a choking sound. "_But your last name is Greenberg!_"

"I never said that was my badge," Derek sighed. He couldn't meet Stiles' eyes.

He only finally looked up at the mounting sound of wheezing. Stiles had gone sheet-white, eyes going in and out of focus. Derek reached out to grab Stiles when he started to sway. "Stiles! What the hell – calm down!" he worried, shaking him roughly once.

"I'm fired! I'm so fired!" Stiles shrieked.

Derek grimaced. "What are you talking about."

"I called you a slave-driver!" Stiles cried hysterically. "I called you an _ogre_! _I stole all the blue paperclips!_"

Derek raised an eyebrow at him.

"_That's company property!_" he shouted, waving his arms madly in distress.

Derek ran a hand over his face. "It's not theft if the vice president of the company gives you permission."

Somehow that sent Stiles into a whole new set of conniptions. "Ohmygod I made out with the vice president of the company, _Oh my god_."

Derek felt his heart sink. It was one thing to expect Stiles to be amenable to an office relationship between departments…it was another thing to _lie_ to him and then try to involve him in something with extreme legal repercussions. He couldn't do that to Stiles.

So that was it. Whatever fantasy Derek had been hopelessly entertaining for the past couple of weeks had come to an end. He only hoped that Stiles could recover from the trauma Derek had clearly inflicted on him, maybe even forgive him some day, if they ever saw each other again.

Derek took several steps back, as far away as he could get in the confined space. "Stiles," he began, inhaling deeply. "I took…I took advantage of you and I basically lied to you, and it was all, uh, it is all unforgiveable…so I will stay away from you from now on."

He didn't expect the look of hurt to sweep across Stiles' face.

"You don't want to see me anymore?" Stiles whispered.

"No, that's not-" Dammit, how did Stiles look even _more_ betrayed? "I overstepped my boundaries, I let my feelings cloud my judgment and I should've kept your interests-"

"But I already picked the color scheme for our wedding," Stiles blurted.

_What?_

"What?"

Stiles' face turned crimson. "_It's red and black our favorite colors_," he squeaked, throwing his hands over his mouth.

Derek…Derek tried to parse out what Stiles was really saying.

And then he had to double-check, because it made no sense - Stiles liked short, redheaded engineering girls, not scowling, taciturn executives, and oh, Stiles was suffocating himself behind his hands.

"Do you like meatball subs?"

Stiles let out a long, spluttering exhale as he lowered his hands, the purple slowly draining out of his face. "What?"

"Do you like. Meatball subs."

He scrunched up his face. "Yeah, I guess, how is that-"

"I'm headed over to Angelo's right now to get one, if you'd like to join me."

As realization dawned on him, Stiles' lips curved farther up, until his smile looked like it was going to split his face in half.

It was the brightest thing Derek had ever seen.

"Yeah, okay," Stiles responded, nodding vigorously. "I'd like that- I'd like it a lot."

He kept on beaming even when the elevator jerkily resumed its descent, and Derek was almost tempted to step forward and kiss him breathless again. Almost.

The elevator doors slid open on the ground floor, and for the first time, Stiles didn't run out ahead of him, instead reaching out a tentative hand towards Derek.

Derek took it with a tight squeeze. Stiles grinned shyly, and led them out into the lobby.

Stiles' phone pinged, and he pulled it out with his free hand to check it. "Ix-nay on the cats, Siri," he muttered into the phone, and shoved it back into his pocket.

Derek smiled.


	64. (E) GERASKIER - Quietus Riotous by Xxmer

Quietus Riotous  
XxmerthurcatxX

Summary:  
Jaskier gets hit with a silencing spell. Geralt gets hit with a truth spell. Yennifer is amused by the situation, but volunteers her assistance to get them both back to normal. Maybe these two spells will finally be enough for the witcher and his bard to sort their feelings out.

* * *

Chapter 01

"How far away is this mage exactly?" Jaskier asked, following Geralt out of the Inn and to the stables where Roach was waiting.

"Hard to say," Geralt huffed, patting Roach on the back by way of hello before attaching his supply bag to her saddle. "Locals aren't exactly eager to venture into the woods with all that's been happening."

"So no precise location. Fantastic. Should have brought better boots," Jaskier whined, pouting as he adjusted one of said boots.

"You could always stay behind," Geralt said hopefully. Though he would rather die than admit it, the bard's company wasn't entirely unwelcome. However, his proclivity for making extra trouble for Geralt was. No doubt the mage would have Jaskier clucking like a chicken and dancing in circles.

"It's fine for you I suppose, since you've got Roach," Jaskier carried on, ignoring Geralt entirely. Typical. "I mean, how expensive is a horse? What did you have to pay for Roach? She was more than a worthy investment," Jaskier blathered, reaching out to scratch the horse between the ears. Roach snorted and nudged Jaskier's chest affectionately, making the bard laugh as he pressed a kiss to her nose.

Geralt rolled his eyes, shoving a bundle of herbs into his bag. He remembered when Jaskier had first started traveling with him. Roach hated his incessant chattering just as much as Geralt did and had, on several occasions, nipped at Jaskier's fingers when he tried to pat her. But when a bandit had thought to try to take Roach for his own while Geralt was busy fighting his cohorts, Jaskier had for once, sprung into action by whacking the scum in the face with his lute.

_"That'll teach you to try and steal a man's horse!" the bard cried triumphantly, turning to Geralt with a wide grin on his face. "Geralt did you see! Knocked him out cold with my..."_

_Jaskier trailed off, looking down at what used to be his lute. The neck of the thing was snapped nearly in half which meant that Jaskier must have hit the bastard with a decent amount of force. Geralt wouldn't quite be ashamed to admit he was impressed. But then Jaskier was falling to his knees in the dirt, cradling his lute as if it were a newborn baby. Ever the overly dramatic poet._

_"Well," Jaskier said, sitting on the ground and staring at the ruined instrument in his lap. "I suppose I'll be in the market for a new instrument. Though I'll be hard pressed to find one as fine as this," he sighed, his eyes suspiciously wet. "Most beautiful lute I've ever played."_

_He sounded so miserable Geralt actually felt bad, though he was admittedly thankful to him for sacrificing the damned instrument to save a horse who didn't even like him. As if she could hear Geralt's thoughts, Roach moved forward cautiously and nuzzled the bard's hair. Jaskier looked up in surprise when the horse whinnied her thanks at him. _

_"You're welcome," Jaskier said, scratching her nose and looking a little lighter despite his blood stained lute _.

"Geralt?"

The witcher was jolted from his thoughts at the sound of Jaskier's voice. He turned to see both the bard and Roach looking at him expectantly, like they were waiting for him to get a move on so they could be off. _Traitor _, Geralt thought as he heaved himself onto Roach's back.

Jaskier hummed happily, strumming simple chords as they walked. This lute was grander than the last and Geralt knew how important it was to the bard. Geralt had long since given up trying to get Jaskier to travel in silence, and had decided music was at least preferable to conversation. Until Jaskier started trying to find rhymes for words like Kikimora.

"Could you not fight monsters with shorter names?" Jaskier complained, slinging his lute over his shoulder. Geralt was thankful that he'd given up for the moment, but he knew that without music to keep his mouth busy, Jaskier was likely to start making idle chatter instead. Not ideal when trying to find a mage.

Apparently, there was a dark mage terrorizing a small village with all manner of spells, taking what people valued most. The innkeeper's daughter, known for her gorgeous golden curls, was stricken bald. The best hunter in the village, named as such because he could spot a deer from far away even through the fog, lost his sight. And so on and so forth.

"Why is she spending her time hiding in a damp, dark forest?" Jaskier wondered. He grimaced when he stepped in a particularly large mud puddle. "I thought mages preferred the finer things in life. Or is that just Yennefer?"

Geralt grunted, not dignifying that question with a response. He'd been trying not to think about Yennefer if he could help it. After the way things had ended between the two of them, both deciding that they couldn't trust their feelings enough to give any sort of relationship a real chance. It was Geralt's fault that it had ended up that way, since his heart had fallen out of his mouth and he'd made that stupid wish. If he'd kept his emotions hidden from the world before, he had them under lock and key behind an impenetrable force field now.

Jaskier was there to pick up the pieces when Geralt fell apart over losing the witch. After Geralt had cooled off, he immediately regretted the way he had yelled at Jaskier. The bard had been nothing but loyal to him despite his taciturn nature and unwillingness to admit that they were friends and, in a fit of rage a hurt, Geralt tossed him aside. Not his finest hour, to be sure.

Still, he had gotten over his pride and gone to find the bard, who was so drunk he was tripping over his feet outside of a tavern not far from where they parted ways.

_"W-what? Come to yell at me some more?" Jaskier slurred. There were tear tracks on his cheeks, his eyes and nose red. He'd obviously been crying and not for the first time, Geralt wanted to punch himself in the face for being the cause of the bard's heartache. He should apologize. He should beg forgiveness. But the words stuck in his throat. Instead, he paid for a room and helped Jaskier up the stairs to bed. _

_"Stop bein nice t'me," Jaskier grumbled, swatting as the witcher tucked him under the covers. "M'mad at you, b-but if you keep being so nice I'll-"_

_He cut himself off with a loud snore, the alcohol finally knocking him out. Geralt slept on the floor, trying to work out a course of action for the morning. In fact, he didn't sleep much at all, too full of guilt to get any real rest. _

_The next morning, despite his confusion. Jaskier readily accepted Geralt's invite to continue traveling with him and if anything that just made the witcher feel worse. No apology and the bard was still ready to follow him. He was being selfish, but he'd already lost one person he cared about. He wasn't about to lose another _.

Geralt shook his head. Now wasn't the time to get lost in his thoughts. It was becoming a habit and one that Jaskier had called him out on a time or two. " _If you don't let out your feelings once in a while you'll get stuck in your own head, Geralt _." Whatever. He swung down from Roach's back.

"Stay," he told her, running his fingers through her mane before he continued on foot, Jaskier close behind. "You should stay with Roach," he grumbled.

Jaskier scoffed.

"And miss the chance at new material? Hardly. If I stay behind I'll never get enough details out of you for a song," he said and while to him it may have sounded logical, to Geralt it sounded stupid. He never did understand why the bard willingly put himself in danger just for the sake of his music.

"Well, that's not a sight you see everyday," a voice said, slow and sultry.

Geralt paused, catching Jaskier by the collar and pulling him to a stop as a woman appeared in front of them. She was beautiful, that much couldn't be denied; flowing red hair and sharp green eyes. There was something off about her, just like with all dark mages. Even the trees seemed to shrink away from her.

"A witcher traveling with a bard. In my limited experience, witchers are solitary creatures. Interesting," she mused, taking a step closer.

Geralt drew his sword, dragging Jaskier backwards so the bard was safely behind him. The mage arched a brow in amusement.

"Cautious thing, aren't you?" she asked.

"Just being careful," Geralt said, eyes following her movements.

The woman hummed, stopped a breath away from the witcher. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have allowed her to get so close, but it was like something was holding him in place.

"G-Geralt, why can't I move?" Jaskier hissed from behind him. Right. The witcher wasn't the only one under her spell then. Fantastic. Geralt was reminded of the very memorable occasion that he and the bard had stumbled across a siren and Jaskier had been so smitten that he nearly let the thing drown him.

The mage smiled, peering around Geralt to stare at Jaskier. Geralt's fingers twitched around his sword as he tried to fight against the force keeping him still, an eerie sense of fear for the other man's safety creeping up his spine.

"You value your voice," the witch said, reaching out to press her fingers to Jaskier's throat. The bard made a choked sound and Geralt tried to turn around, but he couldn't. "And you," she started, sizing Geralt up now. "You are interesting. Different from any common man, woman, or child. There is fear in you. And want. Oh, you want _badly _, dear witcher," she said with a laugh. "And for things you think you can never have."

Geralt swallowed hard, gritting his teeth. He'd spent decades holding in his emotions, creating a wall that not even the strongest force could tear down. But this witch was reading him like an open book. He hated it.

She pressed her fingers to Geralt's temple.

"I believe I'll take from you, the privacy of your own thoughts. All of them. The superficial ones that no one wants to be bothered about. And the deepest ones that make your heart _ache _."

A white hot burst of pain spread through Geralt's body and his eyes squeezed shut on instinct even as the pain ebbed as quickly as it had come. His head was swimming when he opened them again and the witch...was gone. He checked himself over. Nothing was missing. He didn't feel any different. Wasn't she meant to take something from him? From the both of them? He wracked his brain for what the witch had said, but everything was fuzzy. Never a good sign. After mentally making a note to kill the witch, or at the very least get her locked up somewhere the next time he saw her, Geralt turned to face the bard who had been remarkably silent.

"Are you okay?" Geralt asked, frowning when Jaskier did nothing but stare at him. "Jaskier?"

The bard opened his mouth, eyes widening when no sound came out. He grabbed Geralt's arm, squeezing hard as he tried and failed to produce even the simplest noise. His voice, Geralt realized. She'd taken his voice. Jaskier was clawing at Geralt's chest now, eyes shining with unshed tears, fear coming off him in waves, making Geralt dizzy with the smell of it.

"Okay. Easy, easy," Geralt said, trying to calm him the same way he would Roach, with gentle words and a soft hand on his back. "We'll reverse the spell," he said, though he wasn't sure how. Jaskier must have sensed his thoughts, taking Geralt's hand in his and spelling out a word with his finger, tracing each letter slowly and waiting for Geralt's nod that he understood before he continued. The word, Geralt quickly realized, was a name. One he hoped never to hear again.

Yennefer.

* * *

Chapter 02

It was easy to find Yennefer. The upside of the foolish with Geralt had made, was that she was never very far. This time, with luck on their side, she was only a few towns over. He never intended to use it to find her on purpose, but desperate times called for desperate measures. It was proof of just how serious the situation was that Geralt let Jaskier ride seated behind him on Roach, the bard's arms wrapped tight around his middle as he held on for dear life. Geralt was hyper aware of the warmth seeping through the fabric of his shirt, and the shaking of Jaskier's hands where they were pressed against Geralt's abdomen.

"She's not going to be happy," Geralt murmured, steering Jaskier toward what looked to be a very impressive castle, even in the dark. He braced himself for the sight of another orgy or something equally scandalous, this was Yennefer after all, as he pushed open the doors and stepped inside.

Yennefer was already waiting on the other side, arms crossed and an unimpressed look on her face.

"I believe the last time we spoke I made it clear I never wanted to see you again," she said sullenly.

"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't an emergency," Geralt told her.

Yennefer snorted, her eyes landing on Jaskier.

"You're awfully quiet, bard. No scathing insults for me today?" she asked.

Both the witcher and the mage started when Jaskier abruptly burst into tears, pressing his hand to his throat and leaning against Geralt for support.

"Oh gods, I didn't mean to..." Yennefer trailed off, moving forward to place a hand on Jaskier's shoulder. "There now, come on. This is what we do isn't it? We banter. Throw insults back and forth. I wasn't-

"He can't speak, Yen," Geralt explained, to save the witch from continuing her surprisingly jumbled attempt at an apology. It made Geralt feel better about his own botched apology attempts. When he bothered to make them.

Yennefer hummed curiously, offering Jaskier her hand. The bard took it hesitantly, rubbing impatiently at his tears with the other. She held his hand in both of hers, eyes fluttering shut as she did whatever it was that mages do. When she opened them again her expression was hard.

"I see you've met Sabine," she said.

Geralt frowned.

"You know the witch who did this?" he asked, grunting when Jaskier bolted back to his side when Yennefer released him, wrapping his arms around Geralt and refusing to let go. Yennefer looked amused, but said nothing when Geralt glared at her.

"Oh, Sabine and I go way back. She fell in with a questionable crowd. I don't know a single witch who hasn't had a dark dealing or two, but hers were decidedly more sinister. The kind of power she possesses...one hardly comes by it easily. This spell won't be easy to break," Yennefer said, her eyes falling to Jaskier as the bard held Geralt tighter, tucking his face into his neck.

"But you _can _break it," Geralt prompted, trying and failing to extract the bard. He'd seen Jaskier scared before, but never like this and certainly never this clingy.

Yennefer nodded.

"Yes. I can. But it may take time. Come with me," she said, turning on her heel and expecting them to follow.

"Can you walk or will I have to carry you?" Geralt asked, arching a brow teasingly.

Jaskier glared up at him, a light blush on his cheeks as he finally relented and let Geralt go so they could follow Yennefer.

"You may sleep here tonight," Yennefer said, opening a door to reveal an ornately decorated room. Her words were directed at Jaskier. Under different circumstances, Geralt had a feeling the bard would be off on an overexcited tangent about how lovely the room was. But now he looked defeated and sad as he once again sought comfort in Geralt's arms.

"Jaskier," Geralt sighed, prying the bard from his arms and ushering him into the room. "Get some rest. Yennifer and I have things to discuss."

Jaskier frowned, a hurt look flickering across his face. He steeled his expression quickly and quite literally, stomped through the open door, letting it slam shut behind him. Geralt shook his head. Jaskier did have a flair for the dramatic. Still, the witcher decided he would check on him later, to make sure he was actually sleeping and now spending the night sulking.

"I don't recall the two of you ever being so...touchy," Yennefer mused, leading Geralt further down the hall to an extravagant sitting room.

"He's scared," Geralt grunted. It was true that Jaskier had gotten more liberal with his touching lately, even before this happened. He always had a hand on the small of Geralt's back when he slipped around him to grab something or pester some pub patrons for a story. It went unspoken between them that Jaskier was always the one to wash Geralt's hair when he let it go for too long and the back got so tangled that he couldn't do it himself. So yes, while the touching was new to Yennefer, the same couldn't be said for the witcher.

Yennefer moved into Geralt's space, looking him up and down slowly. There was a time a look like that would have had Geralt ripping her bodice off with his teeth. But not anymore.

"I've never known Sabine to let her prey escape without taking something from them. Yet you appear the same as always," she said, distrust clear in her voice.

Geralt hummed noncommittally. He had been wondering the same thing, but he wasn't about to let on that he was worried.

"She said something when we were in the woods. I can't remember what it was," Geralt said. "Something about Jaskier's voice and my..." he trailed off with a hiss, frustrated that he couldn't remember.

Yennefer held out her hand.

"May I?" she asked.

Part of Geralt didn't want to feel her too familiar touch, but another part of him, the part that wanted to know for sure if Sabine had done anything to him, was stronger. He let Yennefer take his hand, watching her unblinking as she searched for anything wrong. When her eyes opened again they were wide. A slow smile spread across her face. Well, that was ominous.

"Interesting," she said, unable to keep the giddiness from her voice.

"What?" Geralt asked, tugging his hand back.

"What's your favorite color?"

"Blue," Geralt said, mouth moving of its own volition. He frowned. "What's-

"Uh-uh, witcher. I'll ask the questions," Yennefer smirked. "Is it true that the witchers at Kaer Morhen do naked rituals under the moon once a month?"

"Of course not. The nudity isn't required, it's a personal choice," Geralt blurted, eyes widening as mortification swept over him and he finally remembered the words the witch in the woods had said to him.

_I believe I'll take from you, the privacy of your own thoughts. All of them. The superficial ones that no one wants to be bothered about. And the deepest ones that make your heart ache _.

"Fuck," Geralt grumbled.

Yennefer hummed.

"Yes, quite."

"Why didn't I start blurting things out until now?" Geralt demanded.

Yennefer laughed, patting his arm.

"It only seems to happen when you're asked a question. For example," she thought for a moment, setting herself into a cozy looking chair and fixing Geralt with a look. "Why did you make that wish?"

"Because I wanted you. From the moment I saw you and I didn't want to risk losing sight of you. Not when my job takes me to the end of the world and back. I wanted to ensure I had a chance of seeing you again," Geralt told her. His face was burning, his body shaking, unused to sharing this much-fuck, unused to sharing _any _information about himself.

Yennefer beckoned him closer with a twitch of her finger, once again taking Geralt's hand.

"And now? Do you want me now?" she asked, looking up at him with beautiful violent eyes that Geralt had spent more time than he cared to admit thinking about.

"No," Geralt said, the world leaving his mouth before he could stop it.

"Why?" Yennefer pressed.

"Because you were right. Back on the mountain top that day. I don't know what's real. And neither do you. I'd never be able to trust my feelings. Or yours," he admitted, gritting his teeth when he was finished.

Yennefer stood, pressing a soft and fleeting kiss to his cheek.

"I'm sorry. It was cruel of me to use your curse to my advantage. But I had to know and you were hardly likely to give up the information voluntarily," she reasoned.

Geralt couldn't fault her for it, even though he wanted to. He was overcome with sudden exhaustion, which Yennefer must have noticed.

"I'll show you to your room. Or would you prefer to share with the sulking bard?" she asked, teasing.

"I'd prefer to share with the sulking bard," Geralt mentally punched himself in the face.

Yennefer's face brightened with understanding.

"Ah, suddenly the touching makes sense."

Geralt shook his head.

"It's not like that," he said seriously.

"But you want it to be...don't you?"

" _Yes, _very much. Fuck! Would you stop that!" Geralt shouted.

Yennefer held up her hands in defeat.

"Sorry! I'm sorry. That was the last one, cross my heart," she promised, giggling as she watched a very put out witcher trudge down the hall toward where his bard was, hopefully, already asleep.

Geralt let the door to the room close heavily behind him, leaning back against it and letting out a long breath.

"Stupid truth spell," he grumbled, flinching when something crashed loudly to the floor. His head shot up and he locked eyes with Jaskier, who was gaping at him like fish. The crash, Geralt realized, had been Jaskier's lute falling from his lap and onto the floor. "Uh...what are the odds you didn't hear that?" Geralt asked.

Jaskier grabbed his notebook and a quill from his bedside table, writing frantically as he moved closer to the witcher. He held up the notebook so Geralt could read it.

_Truth spell _?

Geralt braced himself to blurt out the truth, but found that no words came out. Ah. Doesn't work unless the question is spoken. That's a small mercy. Still, the bard should know what was going on.

"The witch took your voice and she took my thoughts. Or my ability to keep them to myself when I'm asked a question," Geralt explained, pushing past the bard to sit on the unnecessarily large bed so he could pull off his boots.

Jaskier followed him, scribbling frantically and once again holding the notebook for Geralt to see.

_What's your favorite color _?

Geralt chuckled.

"That was Yen's first question too. Sorry bard, it only works when the question is spoken aloud."

Jaskier threw up his hands, shaking his head. He collapsed next to Geralt on the bed, writing again. This time whatever he was writing was longer because by the time the notebook was being thrust under his nose Geralt had his boots and all of his armor off.

_Figures _. _The one time I could ask you anything about your adventures _. _Anything about you that I've always wanted to know but you won't tell me, AND I CAN'T SPEAK _. _Clearly the witch has a cruel sense of humor _.

Geralt hummed in acknowledgement, climbing fully onto the bed and laying back against the pillows, feeling utterly drained. He frowned when Jaskier got up, taking one of the furs with him and laying it out on the floor.

"Jaskier," he said, getting the man's attention. He waited until Jaskier's eyes were on him before he patted the bed beside him. Jaskier's cheeks went a lovely shade of pink and for a moment he looked like he would refuse, but the call of a good night's sleep in a real bed must have been too strong because a second later he was crawling into bed beside the witcher.

Geralt blew out the candles and settled in. Despite his exhaustion, it took him a long time to fall asleep. He lay in the dark, listening to Jaskier's steady breath and finding he missed the usual sound of the bard's soft snores. It wasn't until much later that sleep finally took him, his thoughts still swirling, wondering what questions Jaskier would ask him if he could speak.

* * *

Chapter 03

Morning came far too soon, the brightness of the room making Geralt stir. He glared at the window that was letting in the offending light, about to get up and close it when he realized he couldn't move. A quick glance downward told him why.

Sometime during the night, Jaskier had moved closer, as he often did when the two were sleeping in close quarters. His body naturally sought out Geralt's warmth. This time, however, he'd managed to snuggle close enough that his arm was thrown across Geralt's middle. The witcher froze when he realized one of Jaskier's legs had worked its way between both of his own and his thigh was currently pressing against Geralt's morning wood. Geralt was suddenly very awake and very eager to get out of bed and get into a bath as to avoid any awkwardness.

Fate seemed to have other plans as Jaskier shifted slightly, burying his face in Geralt's neck as he snuggled closer. Geralt cursed under his breath. He needed to wake the bard before-Jaskier moved again, his thigh brushing more solidly against Geralt's dick, making the witcher's breath hitch.

"Jaskier," he hissed, giving the man's shoulder a shake.

The bard moved again, this time to rub the sleep from his eyes and yawn directly in Geralt's face. Ordinarily that would earn Jaskier a shove onto the floor, but Geralt was more than thrilled the he was waking up. He prayed to every god he could think of that Jaskier would roll away from him before he realized the predicament they were in. Of course, as fate seemed to be determined today to make Geralt's life miserable, the bard tensed against him.

Geralt swallowed, watching as Jaskier dragged his gaze downwards to stare at where his thigh was still pressed to the witcher's dick, which was achingly hard at this point. His face went beat red and Geralt had no doubt that had Jaskier had the use of his voice he would be stuttering out an incredibly awkward apology that would make the situation even worse. Jaskier finally shifted to remove his leg from between Geralt's and in doing so, once again brushed against the witcher's cock.

Geralt moaned.

Jaskier froze. He blinked up at Geralt with wide eyes, a pretty flush across his cheeks and his mouth slightly parted. Geralt, for his part, was mortified. He should get up. He _needed _to get up. He needed to put more than a little distance between the two of them, but he couldn't move. It was like he was stuck, Jaskier wound around him, their faces so close they were sharing the same breath.

Geralt followed the movement of Jaskier's tongue as he darted out to wet his bottom lip. Slowly and with a great amount of trepidation, Jaskier rocked his hips forward, on purpose this time. A sinful smirk spread across his face when Geralt groaned, the witcher's hand finding Jaskier's hip and squeezing hard. He wasn't entirely sure what was happening, but he was more than on board and it seemed like the bard was as well.

Before they could take it any further, there was a loud knock at the door. The two men rolled apart from each other, Geralt fighting back the urge to growl at the interruption as he made his way to the door. Yennefer was waiting on the other side, a playful glint in her eye, like she knew exactly what she had just interrupted.

"Morning," she said brightly. "Sleep well?"

"No," Geralt told her, rolling his eyes. Good to know the truth spell was still working just fine.

"Pity. A good night's rest would have done you some good since I need you to go out and gather some herbs for me," she said, leaving no room for Geralt to even begin to argue. "Get dressed and meet me in the sitting room. I've got an old friend of yours here. I thought she may be able to help."

Without another word, she turned on her heel, leaving the two men to get dressed in what promised to be very awkward silence. When Geralt turned back around, Jaskier was already doing up the laces of his doublet. His eyes met Geralt's shyly for a moment. Had Geralt been a poet like the bard, or even just an ordinary man with better use of his words, he may have said something reassuring. Something...nice. Instead, the witcher let out a quiet "hmm" before grabbing his discarded shirt from the night before and tugging it on over his head.

Geralt felt bad for thinking it, but for the moment he was glad the Jaskier didn't have a voice. For one thing, he'd be able to ask Geralt questions that he'd have to answer with total honesty. For another, it would be much harder to avoid the topic of conversation. It would be relatively easy to avoid reading anything that the bard scribbled in his notebook about the subject.

When they reached the sitting room, Yennefer was laughing. Her companion was facing away from them, but even from behind Geralt knew who it was.

"It's been a long time, Triss," he said, wondering for a moment if it was strange that two people who used to be the object of his affection, and the person who currently held the title, were all in the same room together.

The mage turned to look at them over her shoulder, an amused smile on her face. No doubt Yennefer had filled her in on what was going on. From an outside perspective, it must have seemed hilarious.

"Hello, Geralt. How are you this morning?" she asked.

"Horny," Geralt said.

The room was silent for a long moment before Triss and Yennefer burst into uncontrollable laughter. Geralt contemplated leaving. Perhaps he could go live in a cave somewhere until the spell wore off. That way, even if he ended up being stuck this way forever, no one would be around to ask him any questions that had him making an utter fool out of himself. Geralt glared at the mages, turning to his left to see that even Jaskier was trying to hide a smile behind his notebook. Rude.

"Apologies for my unfortunate timing this morning," Yennefer managed between her giggles.

"I told you, it's not like that," Geralt growled, so caught up in setting the record straight that he missed the look of hurt on Jaskier's face.

Even with what had almost happened between them, nothing had changed. It was a fluke. Geralt had woken up hard and Jaskier was warm and wanting, just as he usually was. They were victims of each other's circumstances, nothing more.

"Gosh," Triss said, sizing up both men. "Sabine's magic is strong as ever."

Geralt wasn't surprised that Triss knew about the mage in the woods as well. When a mage was that powerful, they tended to attract attention; wanted or otherwise.

Yennefer sighed, picking up a scrap of paper from a small tea table and handing it to Geralt.

"That's the list of what I need, if you would be so kind as to fetch it for me," she said. "Shouldn't be too much trouble. All those herbs are located in the forest surrounding the castle."

Geralt grunted, taking the list from her and looking it over. He grimaced.

"Selkimore blood?" he asked, arching a brow.

Yennefer shrugged.

"Dark magic requires less than savory ingredients I'm afraid. Lucky for you there was a Selkimore sighting less than two days ago and as far as I know no one has taken care of it yet," she said cheerfully.

Geralt sighed, but nodded. He turned to head back to the room to get his armor, stopping Jaskier with a hand on his shoulder when the bard made to follow.

"You stay here," he said seriously.

Jaskier balked at him, shaking his head and trying to push past Geralt. The witcher held him in place, about to remind him of what happened the last time they'd run into a Selkimore when Triss stepped in.

"Don't worry, sweetie. He just wants you to be safe," she said, throwing an arm around Jaskier's shoulders and steering him toward the tea table. "Isn't that right, Geralt?" she asked over her shoulder.

"Yes. I'd rather he not get hurt," Geralt said, smacking his forehead with his palm and fixing the giggling witch with a glare. He flinched when he felt Jaskier's hand on his arm, the bard giving him a look that spoke volumes.

_I'd rather you not get hurt either _.

Geralt swallowed hard. He nodded and, despite the fact they had an audience, took a moment to give Jaskier's hand a squeeze before he headed off to get changed.

Yennefer walked with Geralt to the door. He waited for her to ask another question that he would be helpless to answer with anything but the truth, but she didn't.

"Be careful," she told him, her brow creased in worry. "Sabine's spells have a tendency to get worse before they get better."

Geralt frowned.

"Meaning?" he asked.

"Meaning that you're already more open with your thoughts and desires than you realize. I've never known you to give a reassuring hand squeeze," she said. "It's too...intimate for you."

That was true. Geralt was used to denying himself of what he wanted, but it had been harder since he'd been hit with the spell; letting Jaskier cling to him while he sat behind him on Roach, his inability to make himself move when he awoke to Jaskier being pressed so close he could feel his breath against his neck. And now the hand squeeze.

"Fuck," Geralt cursed. The sooner they broke this curse, the better.

"Yes, quite," Yennefer agreed. "I do care about you, Geralt. And, much as I hate to admit it, I care about the bard as well. I don't want to see either of you hurt."

Geralt touched her cheek, a familiar gesture that used to mean more, but now was meant only as a friendly comfort.

"Thanks, Yen. For helping. For...caring," Geralt said, the words easier to get out than they normally were. It should be nice. It should be a nice moment. Instead, it worried them both.

Before he could say anything else that gave away too much of what he was feeling, Geralt pushed open the door and headed out to find the blasted Selkimore.

XXX

It seemed that it was Geralt's lot in life to get swallowed by near every Selkimore that he fought. He should really be used to it, considering how often it happened, but he was still ridiculously put out as he trudged back to the castle completely covered in guts. Roach had still been exhausted from their ride to find Yennefer, so he left her in the stables, something he deeply regretted.

As he neared the castle he paused. There was music coming from close by, the unmistakable sound of Jaskier's lute drifting through the air and filling his ears with, he had to admit, a pleasant melody. He followed the music to its source, coming to a stop when he saw Jaskier sitting cross legged in to grass, strumming his lute and smiling while Triss and Yennefer tried to best to sing along with the lyrics they remembered from parties and such. Geralt was, not for the first time, reminded of how popular Jaskier's music was.

The bard himself looked happy for the first time since the spell had hit them. It had only been about a day since it happened, but Geralt was surprised to realize how much he missed the bard's smile. The corner of his mouth twitched into something resembling a smile as he watched Jaskier close his eyes and throw his head back as he mouthed the words, looking delighted even though no sound came out. When the bard opened his eyes again they landed on Geralt and he fumbled the next cord, letting his lute fall from his lap as he got to his feet to run full speed over to the witcher.

His hands fluttered over Geralt, looking for injuries, which was fair, considering his current appearance.

"Jas, you're getting Selkimore guts on your hands," Geralt said gently.

Jaskier looked down at his hands, gagging. He looked like he was going to vomit, but he took a few deep breaths before turning to Geralt with an exasperated look on his face, gesturing to the state of Geralt's entire being.

_Again _, he mouthed.

Geralt shrugged.

"Occupational hazard."

Jaskier rolled his eyes, looking over his shoulder at the ladies who were watching the whole exchange with smiled hidden behind their hands. He pointed to waved his hands at Geralt, mouthing "_fucking, witchers_," exaggerating both words and grinning when the witches laughed. Geralt had half a mind to wipe his hands on Jaskier's shirt, to pay the bard back for cracking jokes at his expense.

"You need a bath," Yennefer said, as if it wasn't obvious.

"Why don't you give him a hand, Jaskier? Make sure that wound on his abdomen that he doesn't want you to know about doesn't get infected," Triss added. Geralt scowled at her. As far as he knew, he'd never wronged her. They parted ways quite amicably. He really didn't need two witches on his case about feelings that he ordinarily wouldn't even express under the penalty of death.

Jaskier's eyes went wide and suddenly he couldn't care less about the foul smelling guts that Geralt was covered in, trying to rip the buckles of his armor off so he could get a look at it. Geralt could practically hear the tirade Jaskier must have had going in his mind. _Stupid armor. What's the point if it doesn't even protect you from getting injured? You're a witcher for goodness sake, you're supposed to be good at this sort of thing. Why is it you always end up in the stomach of a Selkimore. For the love of _-Geralt stilled Jaskier's hands.

"It's just a scratch," he assured him, "But if you would feel better seeing it for yourself, you could-

"Follow him to the bath," Triss called.

Geralt was suddenly wondering why he thought it was a good idea to seek help from a witch, well two of them now, when it was a witch who started all this in the first place. Yennefer and Triss were enjoying this far too much.

Jaskier however, seemed to think that was a brilliant idea, grabbing Geralt by the hand and yanking him toward the castle. Considering the witcher's superior strength, he could have resisted.

He could have.

But he didn't want to.

* * *

Chapter 04

The bathtub was unnecessarily large. More a bathing pool than a tub. Very different from the small ones in the rooms of the Inns Geralt stayed in, that he was long used to squeezing his large frame into uncomfortably. The swirling of the steam made the water look warm and inviting. Geralt could already feel his sore muscles relaxing, just from the sight.

Eager to get out of his ruined clothes, Geralt stripped off his armor quickly, before Jaskier tried to "help." He was fond of the bard, but the man was absolute rubbish at removing armor. Maybe with a bit more practice he could-Geralt bit his tongue, berating himself for allowing that particular thought to start forming. Now was hardly the time, what with Jaskier fluttering around him like a mother hen.

Apparently, Geralt was taking too long disrobing because the next minute Jaskier's hands were at the hem of his shirt, yanking it up over his head and tossing it on the ground. Geralt tried to be still under the bard's gaze, but his fingers itched to reach out and touch. _You can't touch what isn't yours _, Geralt reminded himself. Jaskier stared at the wound on Geralt's abdomen, just to the left of his bellybutton, his eyes narrowed when they met Geralt. He mouthed his words slowly.

_Just a scratch _?

Geralt could practically hear the indignation in his voice and fine, okay, maybe it was more than a little scratch. It did smart more than Geralt expected it too and even though it had long since stopped bleeding, it still looked rather gruesome. Either way, it was nothing worth getting worked up over. Witcher's healed fast and Geralt needed a bath more than he needed healing at present.

"Right. I'm going to get in the bath now," Geralt said kicking off his boots and tugging his pants off. "Feel free to continue to stare in disapproval."

Not waiting for Jaskier's reaction, Geralt stepped into the bath, unable to stop himself from letting out a soft groan as he slipped fully into the water. He leaned against the edge of the pool, resting his elbows atop the ledge, and letting his eyes slip shut. It felt good. It felt good to just sit and not worry about anyone asking him questions. To let the water soothe his aches and pains and-

Geralt's whole body jerked in surprise as a pitcher of water was upended over his head. He rubbed his eyes, whipping around to see Jaskier with an innocent look on his face, despite the empty pitcher in his hand. Geralt grunted, scrubbing impatiently at the gunk in his hair, pointedly ignoring the bard. It wasn't so long ago that he was body guarding Jaskier at one of the ridiculous balls his attended and the bard had insisted he be fresh and clean for the occasion.

_Stop your boorish grunts of protest _. _It is one night, body guarding your very best friend in the whole wide world _. _How hard can it be _.

Geralt grimaced when he remembered what his response had been. That Jaskier wasn't his friend. That he neither wanted nor needed anyone. It wasn't true then and it certainly wasn't true now. Geralt wondered if there really was some truth to the rumor that witcher's didn't feel emotions. That maybe somewhere along the line, someone had gotten it mixed up.

It wasn't that witcher's didn't feel emotions. It was that they didn't know how to properly express them. Vesemir had been like a father to Geralt, to all the witchers, but he could never admit that he cared what happened to them. Not in so many words.

Geralt was so lost in thought, a habit that he was starting to think was another side effect of the spell, that he didn't even realize he had stopped scrubbing his hair. He stilled when he felt familiar hands close around his, guiding them away from his hair. Before he could ask what the bard was doing, his own fingers had replaced Geralt's, working slowly to untangle knots and rid his locks of blood and whatever kind of goo it was that coated a Selkimore's insides.

"You don't have to-

Jaskier cut him off with a flick to his cheek, a silent cue for the witcher to shut up and let him work. The bard had removed his own boots and rolled the cuffs of both his pants and his shirt. He slipped his feet into the water, legs on either side of Geralt so he could scoot closer, pouring a small amount of something fragrant onto his hands before working it into Geralt's hair.

The witcher sighed, leaning into the touch, breath hitching when Jaskier's fingers brushed behind his ear, a place he was particularly sensitive. Jaskier must have liked the reaction because he did it again, twice more, before moving away to refill the pitcher. He emptied the water over Geralt's head, more careful this time, not wanting any of the oil he used to drip into the witcher's eyes.

It was no shock that Jaskier was good with his hands, considering he made his living playing the strings of his lute with well practiced elegance. Geralt hummed softly when Jaskier, done with his hair, moved on to his neck.

The bard slid his thumbs down either side of Geralt's neck, staring behind his ears before slipping down to where his neck and shoulder met. It had been a long time since he'd been touched in any way resembling this, and Geralt was both horrified and not at all surprised to find himself getting hard. Ever since whatever had _almost _happened that morning, he'd been on edge. It would be so easy to reach between his legs, take himself in hand and work himself over while Jaskier rubbed the tension from his neck and shoulders.

Geralt would deny the whine he let out when Jaskier's hands stopped until his dying day. On his tombstone, should he have one, it would read "Here lies the witcher. Never once did he whine." He opened his eyes, leaning back in an attempt to catch Jaskier's eyes.

The bard's breath was unsteady, his bottom lip caught between his teeth and his cheeks flushed. He'd been sporting pink cheeks frequently as of late and Geralt found he was _weak _to it. Jaskier fidgeted under Geralt's gaze, one hand subtly tugging at his pants up near the crotch and oh, okay, now it made sense. Geralt wasn't the only one affected by the bard's ministrations. Jaskier was _hard _.

"Jaskier," Geralt murmured, voice rough and far too desperate for his liking.

Jaskier met his eye, a shyness that Geralt wasn't expecting reflected in his expression. Considering the man had written a number of songs about his exploits, as well as the bits of gossip Geralt had overheard at a ball or two, the witcher had assumed he would be confident when it came to matters regarding anything below the belt.

With a steady hand, Geralt reached out to curl his fingers under Jaskier's chin. He tilted the bard's head down, using his other hand to push himself up. Their noses were nearly brushing, he could feel Jaskier's breath fanning out across his lips, all he had to do was lean in those last few inches and-

Geralt fell back into the tub with a hiss, his hand covering the wound on his side. Right, he'd forgotten about that and had apparently leaned just far enough for it to reopen a bit and start bleeding again.

Whatever the spell that had fallen over them was, it had broken. Jaskier quickly helped Geralt out of the bath and handed him a towel to wrap around his, thankfully already flaggings, erection.

Geralt allowed himself to be led back to their room and deposited heavily onto the bed, though he grumbled the whole way.

Blue balls twice in one day.

Fate truly was a bitch.

Or as the case might be.

A witch.

XXX

Only after several potions were shoved down his throat and Yennefer had muttered some magical nonsense, did Jaskier concede that the witcher was in fact fine. A little banged up, as he always was after a monster fight, but healing nicely.

"Here," Yennefer said, handing a jar of salve and several bandages to the bard. "Put this on the wound and wrap it tight. He'll be fine."

Jaskier nodded, giving Yennefer a kiss on the cheek as she passed him on her way out the door before he once again turned to glare at Geralt.

"Will you stop looking at me like that if I promise to be more careful?" Geralt asked. He was getting quite sick of being fretted over.

Jaskier deposited the supplies on the bed next to where Geralt was perched on the edge and scribbled something in his notebook.

_I'm not sure you even know what it means to be careful. You've absolutely no sense of self preservation when you're in a fight._

Whatever argument was forming died on his tongue when Jaskier dipped his fingers into the salve, rubbing a liberal amount over the wound. He would have a scar, that much was unavoidable, even with magical assistance. But, as Jaskier's warm fingers pressed against his skin, he couldn't find it in himself to care.

It was strange, having the bard patch him up in total silence. Normally when Jaskier had to help clean Geralt's wounds after a particularly nasty fight he went on a tirade, first berating Geralt for getting injured and then moving seamlessly to talk about how he had felt during the battle. He spent far too much time worrying about getting mud and blood on him and he often missed most of the action, something that he bemoaned because then he didn't have enough material to compose anything new.

Jaskier was still frowning when he finished and Geralt couldn't take it anymore.

"I'll give you one truth. You can ask me anything you want, written out, and I'll answer honestly," Geralt said, eager to wipe the look of disapproval and concern off the bard's face. He wasn't used to being fussed over so much and it was making him feel...well, he wasn't sure what it was making him feel, but he didn't like it.

Jaskier's eyes went wide and he scrambled for his discarded notebook, plunking down on the edge of the bed beside Geralt. He tapped his chin thoughtfully, trying to work out what to ask. Geralt assumed it would be something about his life. What his grandest adventure was. What it was like at Kaer Morhen. What-

The notebook was suddenly thrust under his nose and Geralt took it, blood going cold as he read the words.

_Did you mean it, when you said that the one blessing you wanted from life was for me to be taken off your hands?_

Jaskier wasn't looking at him, instead fiddling with one of the leftover bandages. Geralt's throat was dry. His stomach had twisted itself into knots. Of all the questions he was prepared to answer, that wasn't one of them.

It occurred to him that he could lie. The question wasn't spoken aloud and therefore he wasn't bound by the truth. He could lie through his teeth. He should. If only to spare the bard's feelings. But the truth was begging to be set free and Geralt found he was powerless to stop it.

"Yes."

Jaskier was off the bed in an instant, making a beeline for the door, but Geralt was faster. He caught Jaskier by both of his wrists, holding the squirming bard in place.

"Listen to me," Geralt said seriously, but Jaskier wasn't having it. He grit his teeth, trying to rip himself from the witcher's grip as though he actually thought it possible, as though he wasn't considering Geralt's advantage in both height and strength. Geralt took no pleasure in holding him against his will like this, finding his words quickly in hopes that once Jaskier heard what he had to say he would stop trying to run away.

"I wanted to be alone. Yennefer was gone and I faced the very real truth about my child surprise and you were there, about to offer idle chatter as you always do. I didn't want to hear it," Geralt said honestly, sighing as Jaskier continued to twist against him. He let go, unwilling to keep the bard in discomfort, but moved to block the door, sighing when Jaskier tried to shove him out of the way.

"Jaskier, if you would just-for fuck's sake I-" another push, almost hard enough to move him. Almost. "I knew you would never leave me!" Geralt shouted.

Jaskier stopped. He took a few steps away, staring hard at Geralt's chest. The witcher took it as his cue to continue.

"I knew you would never leave me," Geralt said again, softer this time. "I knew to get you to go...I'd have to hurt you. And it doesn't excuse what I said, I know that, but you have to understand how desperate I was to be alone. There was nothing you could say in that moment that I wanted to hear. I wasn't...I wasn't worthy of comfort. Not after making an idiot of myself with Yen or running from my child surprise. So yes...in the moment I meant what I said to you."

Jaskier's bottom lip was trembling. He covered his mouth as the tears finally spilled over, dripping down his cheeks as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, hiding his face in his hands. Geralt moved to kneel in front of him, on his knees between Jaskier's legs. He'd imagined himself in this position so many times, but never in this context.

"Part of me expected you to brush it off, like you always do when I say something mean out of anger or annoyance," Geralt admitted, running his fingers along the back of Jaskier's calf, still exposed from when he'd rolled his hands up earlier. "But then you were gone and I-

He cut himself off, gritting his teeth. With hands that shook, he reached for Jaskier's wrists again, pulling his hands away from his face. There were tear tracks staining his cheeks as the bard sniffled, looking far more broken than Geralt could bear. He hated himself for being the one responsible for those tears. Vowed to do everything in his power to make sure Jaskier never felt this way again.

"I regretted it as soon as you left. You...you have no idea how much I regretted it," Geralt said. He felt nauseous. Dizzy from his own honesty. He ached for Jaskier to respond in some way. In _any _way; a nod of his head or a hand on his shoulder. When nothing happened, Geralt was dangerously close to begging.

He closed his eyes against the thought, words spoken long ago by Vesemir playing in his head.

Witchers are the opposite of humans.

They are not ruled by emotions.

They do not beg.

They do not want.

But Geralt wanted.

He wanted so badly he was willing to beg if that's what it took.

"Forgive me," Geralt pleaded, resting his forehead on Jaskier's knee, so overcome he felt he might lose himself.

Was this how humans felt all the time? So ruled by their emotions and the desire to express them that they were constantly bursting at the seams?

"Forgive me," he said again, a shudder running through his body when at last, gentle fingers slid through his hair.

Geralt let out a slow breath, lifting his head just to move closer, sighing when Jaskier's other hand curled around the back of his neck and Geralt wondered if maybe the bard was just as hungry for closeness as the witcher was.

How did human's live like this? So ruled by their emotions and the desire to express them that they were constantly bursting at the seams? Breaking apart, shaking with the force of it, as Geralt was now, cradled between Jaskier's legs with his arms locked tight around his waist and his forehead against the bard's breastbone.

Jaskier's hands were suddenly on Geralt's face, making him look up, confusion melting away when he saw the look in the bard's eyes. He allowed himself to be led, unwilling to close his eyes even for a moment as Jaskier leaned down to meet him, pressing his lips to Geralt's in a kiss that had no right to be as soft or as gentle as it was.

Geralt _trembled _, as something in his chest loosened, his body and his mind finally giving in.

Years of tension built between them-

Shattered.

* * *

Chapter 05

Such a gentle kiss, but the room was on fire with it; energy swirling around them where they clung to one another. It was like now that they had released the lightning from the bottle, they couldn't stop. Or maybe the kiss was so profound that it had turned Geralt into a poet, his mind suddenly filled with nonsensical pretty words and metaphors. Just in case it wasn't merely his thoughts running away with themselves, he opened his eyes to make sure the room wasn't truly on fire.

It wasn't.

But it could have been with the heat blooming in Geralt's stomach as Jaskier clawed at his bare back, dragging him in until Geralt had no choice but to press him fully onto the bed. With the bard's back against the sheets, Geralt crawled over him, knees on either side of Jaskier's hips. He was reminded, not for the first time, that the height difference between himself and the bard was minimal. Jaskier always seemed so much smaller than him, but it was easy now, to line their hips up so they could rock against each other without ever breaking the kiss.

It was Jaskier who deepened it. Taking the gentle, almost chaste kiss, and turning it on its head. He nipped at Geralt's bottom lip and took full advantage of the way the witcher's lips parted in surprise, licking into his mouth. Geralt groaned, content to let the bard ravage his mouth, his hands tugging the flimsy chemise from where it was tucked into Jaskier's pants. He'd been shirtless since he'd gotten out of the bath and he was eager to get Jaskier into a similar state of undress.

Jaskier's breath hitched when Geralt's hands touched his bare skin, fingers digging hard into Geralt's hips as he desperately pressed his hips against the witcher's. It was good. Too good. Embarrassingly close to the edge already, and unwilling to let this end without at least seeing the bard naked, Geralt broke the kiss. Jaskier pouted, trying to drag him back down. The witcher smiled, shaking his head fondly.

"I'm not going anywhere. I just want...I want to touch you," he said, teasing his fingers under the waistband of Jaskier's pants. "May I?"

Jaskier nodded, blushing at his own eagerness, but Geralt was thankful to have his very enthusiastic consent. Though it would be better if Jaskier could have spoken the words allowed. Honestly, the only thing that could make this better would be if Jaskier had the use of his voice. Geralt never thought he would miss it this much, but gods, he wanted to hear the bard telling him what he wanted; how he wanted Geralt to touch him, guiding him through giving him pleasure because Geralt was nothing if not giving when it came to the pleasure of his bedmates. He wanted to make Jaskier come. Gods, he wanted to hear how the bard sounded when he _came _.

Geralt chuckled when a silly thought drifted into his mind. Jaskier arched a questioning brow at him, eyes going wide when the witcher finally slipped his hand beneath the band of his pants.

"I was wondering if you'd sing when you came," Geralt teased, brushing his nose against Jaskier's and kissing the indignant look from his lips.

Deft fingers tugged at the lacings of Geralt's pants and after a fair about of yanking and a couple of exasperated huffs, Jaskier finally managed to get them down far enough to wrap his fingers around the witcher's cock. Geralt groaned long and low, rocking into the bard's grip and speeding up his own strokes, resting his forehead against Jaskier's.

Geralt paid close attention to every little hitch in Jaskier's breath and every sudden inhale, desperate for anything close to an actual sound he could get. When he gave a playful flick of his wrist, Jaskier's hips bucked, his mouth falling open in a silent gasp. Goddess above, Geralt wanted to hear him now more than ever.

"Next time," Geralt started, cutting off with a grunt when Jaskier tightened his grip just the right way. "When your voice has returned, I'll spend hours taking you apart," he promised, a wolfish grin on his face when Jaskier brought his free hand around to grab at Geralt's ass. He could tell the bard was close, his hips rutting desperately against Geralt, his breathing erratic.

"I want to hear you. Gods, you've no idea how badly," Geralt murmured, kissing Jaskier without any sort of finesse, but they were both too far gone to care.

Jaskier came first, breaking the kiss and throwing his head back. His nails were dug into Geralt's ass, his eyes squeezed shut and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. _Beautiful _. The sight alone was enough to send Geralt over the edge as well, coming hard across the bard's stomach and taking care not to collapse on top of him for fear of crushing the other man.

Geralt rolled to the side, keeping and arm and a leg around Jaskier to keep him close as he panted against his neck. Jaskier turned awkwardly in his arms, pressing a kiss to Geralt's forehead, then both cheeks, his nose, his chin, stopping a breath away from his lips. The look in his eyes made Geralt's heart ache, the naked affection too much to bear. His eyes fluttered closed when the bard began to trace his lips with shaking fingers.

The witcher sighed, opening his eyes. He pushed Jaskier's sweaty fringe back from his forehead, a frown creasing his brow.

"What's the matter?" Geralt asked, an uneasy feeling settling in his gut when Jaskier wouldn't meet his eye.

Before he could ask again, Jaskier threw himself forward, locking his arms tight around Geralt and burying his face in his neck. Despite his surprise at the shift in attitude, Geralt quickly got himself together, hushing the trembling man. He traced each knob of Jaskier's spine and dropped kisses on the crown of his head, but the bard only tightened his hold, refusing to lift his head from the crook of Geralt's neck.

Geralt was seconds away from demanding an explanation because moments ago they'd been having a marvelous time and he wanted nothing more than to bask in the post orgasmic haze and then drift off to sleep with his arms around his bard. The witcher startled when he felt Jaskier fingers on his back and it took him a minute to realize he was spelling something. Now that his attention was focused on Jaskier's touch, Geralt tried to work out what he was saying.

_Don't go _.

Geralt's chest went tight.

_Stay _.

So that was it. The bard was so used to Geralt leaving him behind, disappearing with hardly a word. Geralt cursed himself over and over again for making Jaskier feel this way. Like he didn't matter to Geralt at all, all because the witcher was crap at emotions and even a sentence as simple as "you're my friend and I care about you" made him want to run away to a cave and never speak to anyone again. If it weren't for the spell, he might never have-

Geralt's eyes went wide.

He pulled away from Jaskier, just enough so that he could tip the man's chin up a little, unwilling to say this without looking at his face.

"This wasn't because of the spell."

Jaskier blushed, once again trying to hide against Geralt's neck, but the witcher held strong.

"All the spell has done is make me voice my thoughts. Even without being asked a question I can't help but give them more freely," Geralt admitted, touching Jaskier's cheek. "It made me face my thoughts honestly, but it didn't put any thoughts in my head that weren't there to begin with."

Jaskier looked a little unsure, but he nodded just the same, melting against Geralt when he closed the distance between them. Though it promised to be a good kiss that had them both weak at the knees, it was halted abruptly when Jaskier yawned directly into Geralt's mouth.

The witcher snorted, a fond look on his face when Jaskier blinked sleepily up at him, his unfairly beautiful blue eyes a little glazed.

"Sleep. I'll be here when you wake up," Geralt told him, pressing one final kiss to Jaskier's forehead before pulling the bard close, quite ready for a nap himself.

XXX

Considering how desperately Jaskier had clung to him, Geralt was more than a little shocked to wake up in an empty bed. He pushed himself up enough to look around the room to be sure the man hadn't simply gotten up to jot down a new lyric in his notebook or throw on his chemise because he got chilly.

It was not as such.

Geralt was used to his bedmates not staying. Yen had always been up the moment the witcher drifted off, throwing on her gown and leaving the man behind tangled in sheets still soaked with sweat. On the occasion he popped into a brothel, he'd barely come down from his orgasm when payment was demanded and he was kicked from the room. Always the same. Eager to fuck a witcher to say they had done it, but never willing to stick around after. He has assumed it would be different with Jaskier.

Instead of staying in bed sulking, which was what he desperately wanted to do, Geralt got himself dressed and headed off in search of something to eat. He was determined not to go looking for Jaskier. The bard would come back to him...he hoped.

In his haste, Geralt nearly knocked Triss over. Though to be fair he hadn't expected her to be waiting right outside his bedroom door.

"Not so fast, witcher!" Triss said, putting a hand on his chest as though it could really stop him if he wanted to get by.

"What's going on? Where's Jaskier?" Geralt asked. Ah, so apparently his mouth hadn't gotten the memo about not looking for the bard.

"Relax, he's with Yen. He never would have left your side had she not portaled him into her spell room," Triss explained, a cheeky grin on her face. "Admittedly, neither of us expected him to be starkers. Well done with that one, my friend. He's got quite the-

"Is he okay?" Geralt asked, cutting her off before she said anything else about Jaskier's...more personal assets.

"He's fine. Yen finished the potion that should cure his curse and she didn't want to wake you because the process involves a lot of just sitting around and waiting to see if the potion works and that would bore you to tears. Besides, all of us know what you're like when you first wake up. You needed the rest more than you needed to pace around nervously and kick up a fuss while she worked," Triss said knowingly.

"I wouldn't kick up a fuss," Geralt said grumpily.

Triss arched a brow.

"Oh? Geralt darling, tell me honestly, would you flutter about nervously like a mother hen if we'd woken you?"

"Yes," Geralt answered, rolling his eyes when the witch burst into a fit of giggles. Right, somewhere between their coupling and falling asleep, Geralt had forgotten about the truth spell. "Is the kitchen off limits or am I permitted to eat?" he asked.

Triss smiled, producing a picnic basket from behind her back and handing it to him.

"Why don't you take that to the barn and have a nice long chat with your horse? I'm sure she'd appreciate the apple peels I snuck in there."

Geralt grunted, accepting the basket and immediately heading for the barn. He was fond of Triss, but he didn't want her asking anymore prying questions.

Roach greeted him with a playful nudge of her nose against his chest, but he didn't miss the way she peeked over his shoulder to check and see if he'd brought Jaskier with him.

"He's busy," Geralt told her, opening the basket and taking out the apple peels. "But I brought these for you."

Geralt held the peel under her nose, smiling when her lips tickled his hand as she ate the peels.

"If memory serves, I used to be your favorite," Geralt reminded her.

Roach nickered, hooking her chin over the witcher's shoulder to show that even if she had developed a fondness for the bard, Geralt was in fact still her favorite.

As per Triss's instructions, Geralt took his time in the barn. He felt bad for neglecting Roach, though she didn't seem to be holding a grudge as she stood still and patiently let him brush out her mane.

It was a nice barn, Geralt had to admit. Though it made sense he supposed since it was part of the castle. A small part of him wondered how exactly Yen ended up with a castle of her own in the first place, but decided that some questions were better left unanswered.

"Must be nice to stay in a place like this," Geralt mused, taking a loaf of bread from the basket and taking a large bite, suddenly aware of how hungry he was. "We'll be off as soon as this mess gets sorted. Off too..."

He trailed off, unsure of how to really finish that sentence. Winter wasn't far off and the best place to be when it hit was Kaer Morhen, but there was still the matter of his Child Surprise. With the war brewing, he knew she would be in danger and destiny had decided it was his duty to protect her. And what of Jaskier? Would he want to go with him? Even if it meant the possibility of riding into an actual battle?

Geralt shook his head. Those were questions he couldn't answer at present. Not without talking with his bard first.

When the food was finished and Roach was sufficiently full of snacks, her mane free of any knots, Geralt gave her a parting scratch behind the ears before he headed back inside.

Triss was nowhere to be seen this time, so Geralt decided to head to the spell room, pushing the door open without bothering to knock.

Jaskier was seated in a comfy looking chair, tears streaming down his face while Yennefer stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head.

"What's wrong?" Geralt asked, his concern moving him forward. "Is he alright?"

Yennefer stepped around the bard, pausing Geralt with a hand to the chest. She looked at him with fondness in her eyes, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek and leaning in close to whisper in his ear.

"Be gentle with him you emotionally stunted brute," she said, giving Geralt a pat on the cheek before exiting the room.

Geralt frowned. That was strange.

Jaskier's sniffles brought him back to the present and he went to the bard immediately, dropping to his knees in front of him, hands on his thighs. The position was eerily similar to the one Geralt had found him in just hours earlier, though the atmosphere was vastly different.

"Did the potion not work? Yennefer and Triss won't stop trying after one attempt. They'll find-

Jaskier cut him off, two fingers pressed to Geralt's lips as he opened his mouth to speak his first words in what felt like decades.

"It worked."

* * *

Chapter 06

Geralt wasn't prepared for the rush of joy he felt when the bard spoke those two simple words. It worked. Jaskier had is voice back. Which begged the question, why was he weeping? As if sensing his thoughts, Jaskier snorted, rubbing the tears from his cheeks even as they continued to fall.

"It's the damned potion," he explained. "Yen said it was normal, but goddess above I'm going to dehydrate myself if I don't stop soon, which let me tell you is so bad for my voice and I can't just-

Jaskier cut off abruptly, bringing his hand up to his throat and touching it gingerly.

"You know I...I haven't actually tried to sing yet," he said quietly.

Geralt nodded in understanding. The bard made his living with pretty ballads and jigs about randy fishmonger's daughters. His worry that his voice might not be the same was understandable.

"You could try singing now," Geralt suggested.

Jaskier raised his brows at him.

"I was under the impression that my singing drove you mad. I distinctly recall the last time I sang Toss a Coin to Your Witcher you told me to shut up or you would strangle me with the strings of my lute," Jaskier reminded him.

Ah. Well, the bard had a point. For all his complaining though, Geralt couldn't deny that Jaskier's voice was nothing short of lovely. It did grate on him from time to time, but only when he needed the man to keep quiet for safety purposes. He'd be lying if he said he hadn't missed his crooning the last few days.

"Been too quiet without it. I...wouldn't mind hearing a bit," Geralt said. He pointedly stared at Jaskier's knee, unwilling to see the look of smug satisfaction of his face. A moment later, soft melodic words drifted through the air.

_Toss a coin to your witcher_

_Oh valley of plenty, oh valley of plenty_

_Ooooh_

_Toss a coin to your witcher_

_A friend of humanity!_

Jaskier finished the phrase, looking relieved that his voice seemed to be normal, suffering no lasting effects from the curse. Geralt offered a small smile, but it faded quickly when he remembered that while Jaskier's curse was broken, his own was still very much in tact. Should the bard wish it, he could ask Geralt anything...and he would be bound to answer truthfully. He caught sight of a small glass bottle with a cork in the top closed in Jaskier's fist.

"What's that?" he asked.

The bard looked down and jumped in surprise, like he had forgotten he was holding it. He turned it over in his fingers, a pensive look on his face.

"It's-um, Yen gave it to me— it's the cure for your...your curse," he said, biting his lip as he waited for Geralt to react.

The witcher's first instinct was to wrench the potion out of Jaskier's grip and down it quickly before the man had a chance to ask him any questions he wasn't prepared to answer. As the potent smell of fear entered his nose, coming off the bard in waves, his sense of urgency to break his own curse was replaced with a need to know what was wrong; why Jaskier looked like he wanted to run from the room with the potion in hand.

"You're scared," Geralt said slowly.

Jaskier flinched.

"No I'm n-

"I can smell it."

Geralt tried not to be accusatory as he pushed himself to his feet to get a bit of distance, pacing the room. He'd never known Jaskier to be scared around him. Or if he was, it was because he was being chased by a monster and not because he was afraid of Geralt himself. It made him _hurt _, to think of the bard scared of him in any way.

"Not of you," Jaskier said quietly, coming to stand behind Geralt and placing a gentle hand between the witcher's shoulder blades. "Never of you. Gods, no one who has seen what you look like with beer foam on your nose could be scared of you."

Geralt remembered vividly the foam on the nose incident. Jaskier laughed so hard that he had fallen from the barstool he was perched on while Geralt's cheeks had gone red and he wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

He offered Jaskier a grunt in response.

"That, right there!" Jaskier said suddenly, the force of the words enough to make Geralt turned around to face him in confusion. "That's what I'm scared of!"

Geralt frowned.

"I don't-

"The damn grunting! I-I'm terrified that once you drink this potion things are going to go back to how they were," Jaskier admitted, shaking with fear and fury and too much sadness for Geralt's liking.

"Jaskier...I'm not-

"I know! I know you're not normally good at voicing you feelings. And I can't even fault you for it because you've been taught your whole life that emotions are weakness. I'd like a word with whatever bullheaded witcher told you that. Not to mention every person you meet asks you if it's true that witchers don't have feelings," Jaskier continued, on a roll now.

Geralt was tempted to stop him and tell him not to worry, but he hadn't heard Jaskier go on a rant in days and to be honest he had sort of missed it.

"I've traveled with you long enough to understand what you're actually trying to say every time you respond with a hum or a curse, but hearing you be honest with me with your actual words has been...it's meant more to me than I can put into words. More than I can say with a million ballads. But...but I fell in love with you back when you couldn't use your words and it's not like I'll stop loving you just because-

"You love me?" Geralt asked.

Jaskier's cheeks were pink even as he glared at Geralt.

"You knew that. Don't pretend you didn't know that."

Geralt hadn't known that actually. He suspected there might be something more to it whenever Jaskier offered to wash his hair or patch up his wounds. There had been moments between them, like the ones that happened since they'd arrived at Yen's, but they were few and far between. Jaskier never pushed for more so Geralt didn't either. It wasn't until things came to a head with the whole, rolling around in bed and kissing each other senseless bit, that he even sure that Jaskier's feelings mirrored his own.

The pain in Geralt's chest increased tenfold and he couldn't help but reach out for the bard. Jaskier took a step back, keeping himself just out of Geralt's reach.

"I could ask you anything. I could ask you anything right now and you'd have to answer. If-if you didn't take the potion then I could ask you anytime I was feeling insecure and you'd have to tell me the honest truth," Jaskier said, holding the bottle in shaking hands.

"But it wouldn't be fair. I could never do that to you. Not when I know what your own thoughts mean to you. And the last thing I would want is to lose your trust or make you think that I don't trust you. Not to mention someone else could use it to hurt you. Fuck. _I _could hurt you without even meaning to. I'm sorry! I'm so sorry for dragging this out. Y-you must want-I mean of course you-here," Jaskier thrust the potion at him, bottom lip trembling as he waited for the witcher to take it.

Geralt took the potion, turning it over and over in his fingers. All he had to do was drink it and he would be back to normal. He glanced at Jaskier, the bard giving him what he supposed was his attempt at a reassuring smile.

If anyone else had withheld the cure for his curse from him, even for a moment, Geralt would have been beyond pissed. But as Jaskier stood there, looking at Geralt with nothing but trust in his eyes despite his shaking hands, he knew what he had to do.

He set down the potion.

"Geralt what-

The witcher moved closer to his bard, bring a gentle hand to rest on the back of Jaskier's neck, his thumb brushing below his ear. He knew Jaskier liked that. He knew it would help to put him at ease.

"Ask me," Geralt said.

Jaskier's eyes were wide as saucers. He shook his head vehemently.

"No. No, Geralt, you don't have to. I trust you. I-

"I know," Geralt told him, cupping his face in both his hands.

"Then why?" Jaskier asked, curling his fingers around Geralt's wrists, just holding him there.

"Because I trust you too."

Geralt knew that Jaskier would understand the weight that those words carried for him. There were so few people in the world that Geralt was willing to place all of his trust in. Yennefer he trusted for the most part, but her never ending quest for power still made her dangerous. Triss was sweet, but they were hardly bosom buddies. Aside from Roach, the only person that Geralt trusted completely was Jaskier.

"Ask me," Geralt said again.

Jaskier nodded, his heart beating so rapidly Geralt was worried the bard may collapse before he actually got a chance to ask.

"Do you love me?"

Jaskier's voice was soft, hesitant, like he was afraid of the question. His fingers flexed nervously where they were still clutching Geralt's wrists.

The words came tumbling out of Geralt's mouth, clearly eager to put the antsy bard at ease.

"Yes," Geralt said, letting his forehead rest against Jaskiers. "More than anything."

The bard shuddered against him, pressing up on his toes, lips barely a breath away from Geralt's and-

"Except for maybe Roach, but to be fair I've had her since before I met you."

They blinked at each other, both surprised at the words. Not for the first time, Geralt cursed the truth spell for ruining the moment, but Jaskier was laughing so hard he had to hold onto the witcher for support, so he guessed it wasn't all bad.

"I suppose I can't blame you for that. She is a truly majestic beast," Jaskier said, giggling into Geralt's neck. "And so are you," he teased.

Geralt growled playfully, curling his fingers around the collar of Jaskier's jacket and dragging him in for a kiss that started slow and deep but was quickly going frantic. Jaskier moaned when Geralt's tongue teased against his own, fingers already slipping down to slide down the front of Geralt's pants-

"I'll thank you not to explore the more carnal side of your relationship in the middle of my spell room," Yennefer said, the sound of her voice making the two men break apart.

Jaskier, at least, had the decency to look sheepish, but Geralt was annoyed at being interrupted. The sooner they got out of here the better. Not that he wasn't thankful to Yen for her hospitality and her help in breaking spell, but he'd like to be able to kiss Jaskier whenever he wanted and not worry about being walked in on by his ex.

"Sorry, Yen, but I mean," Jaskier gestured to all of Geralt. "Can you really blame me?"

Yennefer smirked.

"I suppose not. Have you tried bouncing a coin off his ass yet, because-

"Yen," Geralt warned.

The witch rolled her eyes, but didn't continue wherever that sentence was about to go. She eyed the potion bottle that was still sitting on the table.

"Might want to see if that works. If not, it's back to the books," she said, sounding both annoyed and intrigued by the prospect of more research.

Jaskier picked up the potion, handing it to Geralt, his hands perfectly steady this time.

"Right then, bottoms up," the bard said, waiting expectantly to Geralt to take it.

The witcher took the bottle, popping the cork with his thumb. He hesitated for only a moment, but at Jaskier's reassuring smile, he downed it in one gulp, grimacing at the taste.

"The fuck did you put in that?" he asked Yennefer, wiping his mouth in disgust.

"It's better if you don't know," Triss said, appearing at Yennefer's side out of nowhere.

They waited with baited breath as the potion entered the witcher's system. There was a sheen of sweat on his brow and his pulse was unusually fast, but Geralt grit his teeth and waited it out, knowing it would pass. His stomach lurched and he fell to his knees, but thankfully he didn't vomit. Jaskier was at his side in an instant, rubbing his back and pressing his lips to Geralt's temple to keep him grounded. The witcher dug his fingers into Jaskier's knee, closing his eyes and bracing himself as he waited for the nausea to pass.

It was a solid few minutes before Geralt felt he could stand back up. The room wasn't spinning anymore, so that was a good sign.

"How do we know if it worked?" Jaskier asked the witches, who were looking on in both concern and amusement at the way the bard was refusing to let go of the witcher.

"Ask him a question," Triss suggested.

"Right, yes, I should have thought of that," Jaskier said. "Uh, Geralt, how old were you when you lost your virginity?"

Geralt grimaced.

"Really? That's what you chose to ask?"

Jaskier grinned.

"Well, you didn't answer so I'm guessing that means you're back to your normal gruff sense."

As if to prove the bard's point, Geralt hummed. He noted that despite the relief on Jaskier's face, he still looked a little apprehensive. Quick as a flash Geralt hefted the man over his shoulder, ignore his shriek as he headed for the door.

"Where are you going?" Yennefer asked, giggling madly and trying to keep herself upright as Triss fell into her, laughing so hard she looked like she might pass out.

"Not that it's any of your business, but I believe I have a bard to ravage," Geralt called, ignoring Yen's warning shout that should they break anything beyond repair, they'd be paying her back for it in coin. That was fair. Geralt didn't stop until he was back at the room he and Jaskier were sharing.

He deposited Jaskier onto the bed, perhaps a bit too roughly if the "oof" that the bard let out was anything to go off of, crawling over him with a smirk.

"You absolute ass! You can't just-

Geralt cut off Jaskier's rambling, fond of it though he was, and kissed him hard. Now that Jaskier had his voice back, he was more than eager to get his hands on him. He had wondered long enough what he would sound like when Geralt had him trembling with pleasure. As he trailed hot open mouthed kisses down Jaskier's neck, he felt a harsh tug on his hair. It took him a moment to realize the man wanted his attention and that he wasn't pulling Geralt's hair for sexy reasons.

"Yes?" Geralt asked, put out when he'd been about to leave a rather sizable love bit on the bard's neck.

"You're sure this is what you want, right?" Jaskier asked.

Geralt frowned. He thought they'd been over this. Had the bard forgotten his love confession already?

"I've got my voice back now, Geralt. I won't shut up. You know I won't. Promise you won't get sick of the sound of my voice."

Geralt nudged Jaskier's nose with his own, kissing him once, twice, three times before he found the words to respond with.

"I like your voice," he said simply.

Jaskier looked at him with disbelief clear on his face.

"You and I both know that my voice drives you up a wall, don't even-

"It drives me up a wall when you can't shut up when you're safety is called into question. It's got nothing to do with your voice," Geralt told him seriously, kissing the bard's forehead.

"Jas...I'm...I'm not going anywhere."

Jaskier nodded, smiling shyly.

"Suppose you better get on with it then. These pants do feel a bit tight," he said, wiggling his hips for good measure.

Geralt sat back on Jaskier's thighs, tugging his own shirt up and over his head. Jaskier did the same. His arm got caught in one of the sleeves of his chemise, but with a little help he was free of the offending garment. Before he could get started on his pants, Geralt was on him again, nipping at his chest.

Jaskier arched into his touch when Geralt's tongue circled one of his nipples, clever fingers giving the other one a pinch before they continued their downward quest.

"Gods, that's-ah!" Jaskier gasped, pushing his hips up into Geralt's hand as he palmed at him through his pants.

Geralt shivered with every moan the bard let out. It was so much better like this, Jaskier free to use his voice as much as he pleased, soft sounds of pleasure sliding past his lips, getting louder as Geralt continued.

"O-oh my-off, t-take them off for mercy's sake," Jaskier panted, pawing at Geralt until the witcher halted his assault on the bard's chest to unceremoniously rip his pants from his legs.

What the-Geralt! I liked those pants!" Jaskier said.

"I'll buy you a new pair," Geralt growled, catching the bard's flailing leg to press a kiss to his ankle.

Jaskier seemed to forget all about the ruined pants as Geralt nipped at his inner thighs, leaving red and purple bruises as he went. Geralt couldn't help but rock his hips against the bed, eager some type of relief, every sound out of Jaskier's mouth making him impossibly harder.

"Can I?" Geralt asked, so close to Jaskier's dick that the bard shivered as he felt the witcher's breath.

"Yes," Jaskier breathed. "Anything, anything you want."

Those were dangerous words and they both knew it.

Jaskier's entire body shuddered when Geralt finally got his mouth on him, wrapping his lips around the head of the bard's dick and sucking lightly. The witcher had planned to tease, but when Jaskier wrapped his thighs around Geralt's neck and began to thrust shallowly into the heat of his mouth, he found he could scarcely hold back himself.

"Goddess above, that feels-h-how are you so good at-w-where did you learn-" Jaskier seemed to be having trouble stringing a full sentence together.

Geralt hummed around him, bobbing his head faster, not missing the way Jaskier's thighs were beginning to tremble, the hand that had wound its way into Geralt's hair tightening.

"It's so good, _oh Geralt, please _," Jaskier whined when Geralt slipped a finger lower, teasing at his entrance. " _Fuck me _," Jaskier groaned.

Geralt pulled off with a wet pop, catching Jaskier's thumb in his mouth when the bard traced his bottom lip, giving it a playful nip. A second later a small bottle of oil was, quite literally, thrown at his head. Geralt frowned at it, looking up at the bard with an arched brow.

"You know what it is and why I handed it to you," Jaskier said quietly, looking at Geralt with a sort of reverence that made the witcher's pants tighter than they already were.

"Are you sure?" Geralt asked, running his hands over the bard's still shaking thighs.

Jaskier nodded eagerly.

"Yes. I'm sure. Gods, I've spent months, _years _, thinking about what it would feel like having you inside me," Jaskier admitted.

Neither of them were prepared for the deep groan that Geralt let out at that thought. The smirk on Jaskier's face was nothing short of filthy.

"Ooo, interesting," Jaskier teased, holding Geralt's chin between his thumb and forefinger. "I believe I've found one instance where you don't mind my chatter one bit."

Instead of responding, Geralt uncapped the oil and dribbled a decent amount onto his fingers, reaching under Jaskier to tease once more. The bard let out a hiss as the first finger slipped inside, giving an impatient wiggle of his hips when Geralt began to move his finger in and out far too slowly for his liking.

"For goodness sake, Geralt, I'm not going to brea-ake!"

Jaskier's voice skipped several octaves as Geralt took him back into his mouth at the same time as he added a second finger.

The witcher took great care in opening the bard up, scissoring his fingers slowly, taking Jaskier as far into his mouth as he could without gagging to distract him from the sting that came with being stretched.

"I-If you don't stop I'm going to finish before you even get a chance to fuck me," Jaskier warned.

"Distract yourself," Geralt grunted, licking a drop of precum that had gathered at the tip of the bard's dick. Somewhere deep inside, the more animalistic side that all witcher's had, purred with pleasure at the bittersweet taste of Jaskier on his tongue. What was happening between them now was raw; fueled by lust and love alike and Geralt found he wanted to crawl inside the bard until they were one and the same.

"What do you suggest I-oh god-do to distract myself? Sing?" Jaskier asked, a contemplative look on his face. "Actually-

"Don't you dare," Geralt warned, but Jaskier was already grinning cheekily.

"When a humble bard, graced a ride along...ride along is a bit weird to say when your fingers are in my-ass!" Jaskier gasped, jaw dropping open when Geralt's tongue joined his fingers.

It was pure, primal instinct, to get his mouth on every part of Jaskier he could; a need to leave his mark any and everywhere that he could. If they way Jaskier was clawing at the sheets was anything to go by, he was more than on board, but all too soon he was pushing at Geralt's shoulders with a whine.

"Please, for the love of god Geralt, I'm ready. I want-need you. _Please _," he begged, and really, who was Geralt to refuse.

The witcher pressed a lingering kiss to Jaskier's thigh, pushing himself off the bed to finally rid himself of his pants. When he looked back at the bard, his eyes were trained on Geralt's cock. It wasn't as though he hadn't seen Geralt's cock before. Hell, he'd held it in his hand just the night before. But now he looked...hungry.

"You're drooling," Gerlat deadpanned.

Jaskier shook himself from his stupor, blushing hard and wiping at his mouth, glaring at Geralt when there wasn't any actual drool.

"I told you, I've wanted you inside me for years. Did you think my fantasies were limited to one orifice?" Jaskier asked, eyes back on Geralt's cock and his tongue caught between his teeth.

Geralt had to take himself in hand, squeezing the base of his dick in an attempt to calm himself down because the thought of Jaskier taking him into his mouth was too much for him to handle in his current state of almost aggressive arousal.

"Later," Geralt said, crawling back over the bard.

Jaskier nodded.

"Yes. Later," he agreed, settling himself against the pillows, his hands settling on Geralt's hips as the witcher situated himself between his legs.

Geralt poured more of the oil onto his hand, using it to slick himself up before he pressed himself against the bard. Jaskier gave his hips a reassuring squeeze, his breath catching when Geralt pushed forward until just the head of his cock was inside.

"Keep going," Jaskier gasped.

"You should take a minute to-

" _Please _."

Geralt hushed the bard, taking one of his legs and hooking in over his shoulder, kissing at the bend of his knee. Despite Jaskier's pleads for him to continue, he waited, giving himself a moment to adjust as much as the bard before he slowly pushed in the rest of the way. Jaskier's fingers were digging into his hips so hard, Geralt knew there would be crescent shaped marks from his nails left behind, a reminder of their coupling that he would wear with pride.

"Oh, this is not going to last long at all," Jaskier said, a breathy sort of laugh leaving his throat.

Geralt hummed in agreement, his embarrassment at being so close to the edge already ebbing now that he knew that Jaskier was in the same state as him.

"Y-you can move now," Jaskier told him.

Geralt nodded, letting the bard's leg drop from his shoulder. Jaskier looked confused for a moment, but then Geralt was looping his arms around the man's back and yanking him upwards so that he was seated in his lap.

"Geralt, what-

"You're the one who wanted a ride along," Geralt teased, rocking his hips up to thrust shallowing into the man above him.

Jaskier moaned, locking his arms around Geralt's neck, lifting himself up and dropping back down. Geralt adjusted to his rhythm easily, meeting him thrust for thrust.

"This wasn't w-what I meant when I wrote t-that line," Jaskier huffed.

Geralt smirked.

"Wasn't it?" he asked knowingly.

Jaskier blushed, but refused to give Geralt the smug satisfaction of being right. Geralt groaned when clever fingers tangled in his hair, pulling hard, a sharp contrast to the bard's lips trailing softly up his neck to nibble at his ear.

"Jaskier," Geralt grunted, picking up the pace of his thrusts, his own nails dug hard into the other man's back. He was close. So fucking close, and Jaskier's gasps and moans were already starting to sound reedy and broken where his lips were pressed to Geralt's ear.

"I-I know," Jaskier said, understanding without Geralt having to say the words, just like he always did. "Me too. I-I'm close too."

The thought spurred Geralt on, his hand snaking down between them to curl around Jaskier's dick, stroking in time with the rise and fall of the bard's hips.

Jaskier came first, head thrown back as he moaned unabashedly, a beautiful, broken sound that had Geralt following a moment later, his teeth sunk into the bard's neck.

They came down slowly, taking long shaking breaths.

"Um, Geralt? Not that this wasn't fucking fantastic, but do you think you could maybe remove your teeth from my neck?" Jaskier asked.

Geralt had been so caught up in his pleasure that he hadn't even noticed his teeth were still in Jaskier's neck. He pulled away carefully, kissing the reddening bite apologetically. That was a mark that would be there for a day or two and despite Geralt's remorse, he knew it wouldn't be a hardship to see the mark standing out against Jaskier's pale skin.

When they had both cleaned up, Jaskier decided it was Geralt's job to go find them something to eat, since his ass was sore and he didn't intend to move until morning.

"I'm sorry about the bite," Geralt mumbled as he passed Jaskier a large piece of bread with cheese.

Jaskier shook his head.

"Don't be. I liked it. A lot actually," Jaskier said thoughtfully, fingers brushing over the bite. "Makes me feel like I'm yours."

Geralt's lips twitched into a soft smile, which he tried to cover up by shoving a handful of grapes into his mouth.

"I am you know...yours I mean. That's probably obvious at this point but I feel like sometimes it needs saying," Jaskier said, scrambling excitedly for his notebook. "That's rather good actually. There's definitely a ballad in there somewhere and-oi!"

He dropped his notebook as Geralt yanked him into his arms, nuzzling into his hair. Geralt had always been better with actions than with words, but her understood that now and again, he'd have to find it in himself to be honest with how he was feeling. If anyone deserved to know his thoughts it was Jaskier.

"Mine," he said softly, kissing Jaskier's forehead.

Jaskier smiled, popping a grape into his mouth and settling back against Geralt's chest.

"Yours," he agreed.

They sat in comfortable silence, Geralt feeling content for the first time in-

"I mean, who else is going to put up with your grumpy ass?"

Geralt took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose.

"You have until the count of three," he said.

Jaskier frowned.

"Until what?"

Geralt set the food aside, readying himself as if he were going to pounce.

"One."

"You look a bit like you're going to eat me...you're not are you? You wouldn't want to eat me, I'd be very stringy. Ha! Stringy! C-cause I'm a bard a-and I play the lute a-and a lute has strings...get it? " Jaskier asked nervously, sliding as far away as the bed would allow.

Geralt smirked, shrugging.

"Two."

Jaskier scrambled off the bed, tripping in his haste to get away from the witcher, who had a playful glint in his eyes that the bard knew spelled trouble.

"Oh dear, oh dear, oh dear-Geralt!"

"Three!"


	65. (E) 00Q - Synchronicity by stereobone

Synchronicity  
stereobone

Summary:  
It goes on like that for months, and then Q realizes that James Bond is "hanging out" at his flat.

* * *

They whisper about it often and Q doesn't pay much attention only that he does. When 007 goes into the field there's always damage control and Q is very much used to that by now—man can't even return his weapons intact—but it doesn't stop him from wondering. He's been Bond's quartermaster for almost a year now, and in that time he's seen Bond through four missions, one of which almost got Bond killed, yet he never knows too much of what Bond does.

He kills, obviously. Q isn't an idiot. He may be young but even he knows the perils of being in the field, the politics, the fear of never coming home. Of course, Bond seems not to fear anything at all. When he comes back, his wounds are already becoming scars, and he simply smiles at Q and apologizes for whatever piece of expensive technology he's damaged this time.

It makes Q wonder a bloody lot.

Especially when on their fifth mission together, Bond goes off the map. Despite his best efforts, Q can't track him, and neither can anyone else for that matter. One minute, he was in Thailand, the next, he was MIA. This isn't any cause for alarm, really, Bond does this a lot. More than he should, actually. Still, Q feels very young when he tells M.

"We've lost Bond."

"What do you mean, 'lost'?" M looks up at him over his files. "He isn't a bloody dog."

"I lost his signal in Thailand yesterday and I haven't been able to get it back," Q says.

M doesn't seem concerned, but he wouldn't. He isn't the one who gets agents screaming into his ear to do this and that. He's never heard the sound of one dying, the shallow, horridly ragged breathing that makes Q's guts twist. M tells Q to go home, _Bond will turn up, he always does. _So, Q goes home.

Two days later, Bond still hasn't checked in, and Q isn't worried, but he drinks more tea than usual and nearly forwards an email to someone he shouldn't. He sits at his computer unable to do anything about their missing agent. He sits and he wonders what Bond is doing right now. Dead, perhaps, that's always a very real possibility. Another is torture. Or perhaps, Bond is so close to accomplishing his goal that he can't be bothered to let anyone know, which sounds very much like him indeed.

Moneypenny tells him all sorts of stories.

"You know he let a Komodo Dragon eat that gun you gave him," she says, smiling with her mouth closed.

"A Komodo—" Q pauses. "You're having me on."

"I'm really not," Moneypenny says, and Q isn't surprised in the least.

Two days turns into two weeks. There's still no sign of Bond.

That Friday, M calls Q into his office.

"We got word of an explosion in Bangkok," he says, "so either Bond is dead or he finished the job none too subtly. Has he checked in with you?"

"No," Q says.

"Right, well, keep on the lookout."

"Sir," Q says.

He goes home and sits in bed and thinks about all the explosions in the world Bond has probably been responsible for. At least thirty percent, he thinks.

Sometime later, he wakes up because a man is grabbing him by the shoulders. Q tries to sit up, but the hand pushes him back down, and then another covers his mouth. Without his glasses on, he can't see for shit, but he can smell gunpowder on the hand over his mouth, he can smell—

007.

The hand leaves his mouth and Q scrambles for his glasses, slides them on to get a better look. It is Bond. In the flesh. In his flat. Q glances at the clock. It's nearly four in the morning. He can smell blood.

"MI6 is twelve kilometers west of here," he says.

And Bond says, "Do you have antiseptic?"

In the bathroom, Bond sits on his toilet while Q looks for his first aid kit. There's a rather deep cut on his shoulder that someone stitched up with what looks like dental floss, which leaves Q rather concerned.

"You'd be much better off in the hands of a professional," he says. "My first aid skills are subpar."

Bond looks up at him and his eyes are hazy but he says nothing, which is enough to let Q know he isn't going to a professional. Q pulls out the dental floss first and the wound oozes. There's pus and blood and the faint smell of mint, all of which makes Q want to gag. The cut isn't as deep as he thought, but it is wide and painful looking. Bond does nothing as Q cleans it, his breathing barely changes. Even when Q makes the first new stitch, Bond only sighs like he's waiting for a boring commercial on television to finish.

Q's hands shake, badly, mostly for fear of fucking it up. Bond says nothing about this, just sits patiently while Q gets his bearings and finishes sewing his skin back together. He finishes it off with a bandage over the wound.

"That should hold nicely." He waits for Bond to reply, and he doesn't, so Q keeps speaking. "M will want to talk with you, in the morning, I should think. Meanwhile, I—"

Bond stands up in the middle of him speaking and leaves the bathroom. It takes Q a moment to realize he should follow. He finds Bond in his kitchen, rummaging through his cupboard. James Bond, two months in Thailand and two weeks missing. James Bond, gun powder blood and stiff lipped. James Bond, shirtless in Q's kitchen.

He pulls half a bottle full of Merlot from Q's cupboard.

"Is this really all you have?"

"Well I'm afraid my distillery is out of service at the moment," Q says, miffed and also a little embarrassed.

Bond's eyebrows rise. He takes the cork out and drinks straight from the bottle. He sits at the kitchen table as if Q is to join him, only Q is afraid if he sits down, something will explode. Maybe his head. He stands and watches Bond slowly drain the rest of his very expensive wine. He wants to ask what's happened, and at the same time, he doesn't want to know at all.

When the wine is empty, Bond gets more talkative.

"Don't tell anyone I'm back," he says.

Q blinks. "I'm obligated—"

"Whose quartermaster are you?" Bond looks up at him. "Don't tell anyone I'm back."

"But…" Q trails off. "Why are you back?"

Bond's eyes flicker. "I finished the job."

And that's it. He doesn't want to talk about it, and Q certainly isn't going to _ask _him to, as that would be absurd. All it seems that Bond wants from him now is somewhere to rest up a bit.

"I have a pull-out sofa," Q hears himself saying. "I'd like to go back to bed now, if that's all right."

The silence tells him it is. He starts from the kitchen, turning around to see Bond's white knuckled hold on the empty bottle.

"Please recycle that," Q says, and then goes back to bed.

He wakes up before Bond, which is surprising to him, because Q has always imagined Bond as one of those up at the crack of dawn types, strapping his trainers on to work out or some other such nonsense. Q shuffles into the kitchen to put the kettle on and sees Bond asleep on his couch still. He didn't even bother to pull it into a bed, it seems, and he sleeps still as a corpse, arms folded like sleeping is a waste of his time. Q pours himself a cup of tea, feeds his cat, and pads back to his room.

Some hours later, Bond is leaning into the doorway of his room, frowning at him. Q is coding on the computer.

"Are those gingham pajamas?" Bond says.

"It's _Saturday_," Q says, as if this is reason enough. "And they were a gift from my mum."

Bond has yet to put on a shirt, and sitting down, the only thing Q can really do is stare at his nipples and a network of scar tissue just above his right peck. And above that, the black threads from Q's stitching. His fingers feel stiff and cold against his keyboard.

"Are you going to tell me why you broke into my flat, or just continue to insult my state of dress?"

"I needed to be stitched, and I trust you," Bond says, simple as that.

Q looks down and adjusts his glasses.

"Well that says something about our working relationship, I suppose. But there's still the matter of why you don't want anyone else to know you're here."

"I hate reporting in on Saturdays," says Bond, and smiles. "I'll report to M on Monday, in the meantime, I'd rather appreciate you not giving away my whereabouts."

Q can't tell if Bond is being serious or not. It's seems like such a ridiculous reason, yet so Bond, and Q finds himself believing it. And Bond _trusts _him. Q can't deny the small swell of pride he felt at hearing him say that. 007 is the mostly valuable agent MI6 has, and he trusts Q above anyone else. He lifts his fingers from the keyboard and cracks his knuckles.

"Fine," Q says. "The kettle's still on, if you'd like tea. Or I have coffee…somewhere."

And he goes back to coding. Nearly a minute passes before Bond says, "Thanks, Q."

Then he leaves Q to it. Five minutes later, when Q goes back into the kitchen, any trace of Bond is gone.

Thing is, Bond actually does check in with M that Monday. Q figures this out when Tanner comes in holding a file thick enough to be a book. He looks rather put out.

"Can you intercept any outgoing calls from the embassy in Bangkok?" he says.

Q gives him a look that says _please_, and does.

"Bond is back," Tanner says.

Q turns back around and nods, innocent.

"A relief," he says, not ceasing in his typing. "Any injuries?"

"A stab wound to the right shoulder." Tanner slaps the file down onto the desk. "Someone did a right shit job of patching him up."

_Better than dental floss, _Q wants to say, but doesn't. And second of all, he was ill prepared.

"M now has a direct link to the embassy on his laptop," Q says. "Anything else?"

"Bond needs a new gun." Tanner pats Q's shoulder. "Says the one you gave him got lost in the fire."

Q sighs through his nose. "Of course it did."

The next time Q sees Bond, it's a rainy night and he's bringing home groceries, drenched in freezing rain. He steps inside and sees the shadow against the wall, so Q promptly drops his bags and reaches for the gun strapped to his side. Once he realizes it's Bond, his adrenaline gives way to annoyance.

"Christ," he says. "I almost shot you."

Bond looks amused by that. "Are you even old enough to carry one of those?"

"I'll have you know the age jokes were never funny."

Q puts his gun away and starts picking his groceries up from the floor. An apple rolled from one of the bags to Bond's feet. He picks it up and bites into it loudly. Q shoots him a look but says nothing. He walks to kitchen, knowing Bond is following right behind him. There's a bottle of scotch on the table that Q definitely didn't buy. Apparently, Bond's come prepared this time. Q sets his bags on the counter and turns around.

"I thought you were supposed to be in Spain," he says.

"I finished the job," Bond says.

Q is still suspicious.

"You're not injured, are you?" He gives Bond a once over. "Is there a bone out of place? Blood? You should know Tanner thinks my stitch job was shit, so if you're looking for first aid, you may want to go somewhere else."

"I'm not injured," Bond says.

And then he sits at the table and abandons the apple to pour himself a drink. For a moment, Q just watches him, sitting there as if he's Q's flatmate or something. Then he continues to put away his groceries.

He's never heard of agents doing this, least of all Bond. He's been talked to about Bond, sure: the man is unstable and leaves a trail of dead bodies wherever he goes. _Best, _M had told him, _not to get too close. _Q recognizes he's not done a great job of that so far, but in his defense, he's never explicitly invited Bond inside. He pulls the cat food out and Bond hums behind him.

"You have a cat?"

"No, I'm just rather fond of the food," Q says, and is this _really _the conversation they're going to have?

"What's his name?" Bond asks, because apparently, it is.

"I don't want to tell you."

"Is it something to do with computers?"

"No, it—" Q whips around and tries to look menacing, which is difficult, given he's probably half Bond's weight and still soaking wet. "Why on earth are you here?"

"I live in London," Bond says.

Q shuts his cupboards. Bond is such an evasive bastard, it's rage inducing.

"I meant here, in my flat, which you've broken into. Again."

Bond makes a silent _ah _with his lips, finishing off his drink.

"I wanted to unwind a bit," he says.

Q blinks. "Here?"

"I didn't mean to alarm you," Bond says, suddenly apologetic. And then he smiles, brilliantly, and Q forgets to be annoyed.

He isn't sure he understands Bond's motivations one bit, but also doesn't have the energy to try and question him about them. Bond likes to keep his secrets, and Q can respect that.

"You could call, next time," he says. "Rather than give me a heart attack."

"I'll try to remember that."

They both know he won't, but Q appreciates hearing it. Anger gone, he starts to realize how incredibly cold he is. His jumper is soaked through, and the cool air from his flat isn't helping. Q shivers. He needs to change, but he suddenly feels awkward doing so with Bond there. Should he announce it? Q stands there a good minute trying to decide if he should or not. In the end, he just walks to his bathroom and starts pulling off his wet clothes, checking behind him to see if Bond is going to follow. He isn't, and for whatever reason, Q doesn't know if he's relieved or disappointed.

Q takes a hot shower and comes out with a towel around his waist, wiping the fog from his glasses. Bond is on his couch, scratching his cat behind the ears.

"What's his name?" Bond asks again.

"Stravinsky."

"You're a fan of classical music, then?" Bond looks genuinely surprised.

"I don't listen to One Direction, if that's what you thought."

At that, Bond looks absolutely perplexed, which makes Q smile. He's one of the smartest, but even simple pop culture references can slip past James Bond. The thought of it makes him seem so much more human, less two-dimensional, more three.

"You should consider yourself lucky," Q says, nodding to Stravinsky. "He normally doesn't take too kindly to strangers."

"I'm actually rather charming."

Bond gives Stravinsky a good scratch under his chin and looks up. Q suddenly remembers he's in a towel and feels rather naked. He also doesn't feel like he should have to respond to that statement, so he doesn't. He turns on his heel and gets dressed.

The next morning, Bond is still there, though this time he's up before Q.

"Morning," he says, doing crunches on Q's table, _on his table._

"I eat there," Q says, which is a lie. He usually eats in front of his computer, but still. He could. "And you're not wearing a shirt."

"I'll wipe it down," Bond says.

_That's not the point,_ Q thinks, but he doesn't say anything else. He makes toast and goes back to his room.

His life is actually fairly uneventful. Despite working in espionage, Q doesn't consider himself all that interesting. He enjoys the company of his cat more than people. His idea of a good night is a bag of crisps and a nice hack into some encrypted data. He's only dated four people in his life, one of which doesn't even count because he was still in primary school. Q has been told that he's too smart for his own good, also too gangly, and one lover told him he desperately needs a haircut. The point is, Q's life isn't exciting.

James Bond seems to find him fascinating.

When he isn't working out on various surfaces of Q's flat, he's standing over Q's shoulder and watching him work. At first, Q finds it a bit disconcerting, but Bond doesn't say anything, he just watches and occasionally cleans his gun. That night he even offers to pay for take away. Q finds it all very confusing.

He stays the entire weekend. In that time, Q learns a few things about him:

Bond works out almost constantly He really does love scotch He eats pickles from the jar He isn't nearly as insensitive as Q first thought

Sunday night, Bond says, "Thank you, Q." and then he's gone.

Monday morning, word goes around that Bond's returned, and once again, Q pretends to have not known.

Nothing changes, except that it does. It's nothing tangible, really, nothing that Q can put a finger on, but things seem different. For one, Bond wanders down to Q branch more than he used to, though he still gives no care to the weapons and gadgets Q gives him. That is really the extent of it, only Q _feels _things are different between them. Maybe more comfortable. He really doesn't know.

The next time, Q is expecting him.

He's home on a weeknight eating instant noodles and designing a new interface when he hears something peculiar outside his bedroom window. When Q pulls the curtain aside, Bond is standing on his fire escape, innocent as you please, trying to pick his lock.

"You could use the door," Q says. "There is this thing called knocking."

"I wasn't sure you were home." Bond slides in smooth through the window and shuts it against the chill outside. "But I'm glad you're here."

Q is flattered for a whole four seconds before he sees that Bond's arm is hanging out of its socket. He cringes without meaning to. Bond sits on his bed and shrugs off his coat.

"I don't think we should make this a habit," Q says, and Bond laughs painfully.

"Set it in place, would you?" His arm hangs limp. "Just grab the shoulder."

"I really don't think—"

"Q," Bond says. "Please."

He kneels in front of Bond and grabs his shoulder with one hand, holds Bond's forearm with the other.

"Like this?"

"That's it." Bond breathes out. "Now just push it back in place."

Q hesitates, and Bond says, "Don't be afraid."

"I'm not," Q snaps, though he is, just a bit—what would M say if he permanently damaged his most valuable agent?

Q breathes in deep and shoves Bond's shoulder back into the socket. The motion makes a thick cracking noise, then a click. Bond grunts, but other than that, shows no real signs of discomfort. Q holds onto his shoulder still.

"Is that…is that all right?"

"Quite," Bond says.

And Q doesn't let go. He feels the skin and muscle there and doesn't let go. He doesn't even think to, just stares at Bond's shoulder and wonders, _how do you do it? _It isn't until Bond's hand touches his own that he realizes it, and then he tries to rip his hand away, but Bond holds him there.

"All right?"

"Of course I'm all right," Q says. "I'm not the one who dislocated their shoulder."

He finally slips away and stands up, pulling his jumper back down from where it had risen up.

"So, you finished the job, then?"

"Yes." Bond remains seated on his bed, rolling his sleeve down and adjusting his cuffs. "I bloody hate Russia in the winter."

Q nods, though he's never been to Russia, so he wouldn't know. This, whatever it is, is becoming a thing between them, and Q finds himself comfortable enough with it to not ask questions. He knows Bond is staying, he doesn't need to ask.

"The couch is still made up," he says. "I'm sure Stravinsky will be happy to see you."

Bond is stretching and rotating his newly fixed arm, but he smiles to let Q know he's heard him. When he stands up, he cups the back of Q's neck briefly.

"Thanks, Q," he says.

Q goes into MI6 the next morning with Bond still snoozing on his couch. He considers leaving a note, but decides that's an insane course of action, obviously Bond will know where he's gone, so he just leaves.

What's funny is that M goes on and on about Bond being the most bloody unreliable man he's ever had the displeasure of working with and Q has to hide his smile behind his mug. Bond reports back to M the next morning.

It goes on like that for months. After a job, no matter how long, Bond shows up at Q's flat and, for lack of a better term, hangs out. Sometimes he comes for a few hours, other times he stays for days. It's become such a habit that Q actually has another key made, and leaves it for James on the table one morning to avoid having an actual conversation about it. Q never asks him why, or how the job went, or what the fresh hell is going on exactly. The last part he's curious about, but he's gotten so comfortable with it that he just doesn't mind.

He comes home one night and his entire flat smells like Italian. This, to Q, is more alarming than Bond sneaking in with a dental floss stitch job. He walks carefully into his kitchen and sees Bond sitting at his table with what looks like baked ziti and garlic bread. Q also recognizes a bottle of Merlot, unopened, the same type Bond so rudely drank the first time he came over.

"Um," Q says.

Bond is already eating, but there's a plate set aside, obviously for Q.

"I hope you like Italian," he says. "Much better than that instant noodle shit you're always eating."

"I don't always—"

"Sit," Bond says, and Q does.

He picks up his fork and pokes at the ziti. When he looks up, Bond is staring at him, waiting for him to take a bite. Q does so slowly, half afraid this is some kind of trick. If it is, it's a delicious trick. Q hums his approval around his fork, eyes flickering to the wine bottle.

"You'd do much better with scotch," Bond says.

Q pops the cork and pours them both a glass of wine.

And then they eat dinner. Together. It seems so strangely intimate that Q is half expecting a candle in the center of the table. There isn't one, luckily, because that would be really insane, more insane than this all is. Q can't even remember the last time he ate at this table, let alone with someone else.

Dinner is quiet but not awkward, and after they've finished Bond gets up without clearing his plate. He collapses onto the coach and Stravinsky goes straight to him, curling onto his lap and making Q oddly jealous.

"Terrible fucking job," Bond says, almost too quiet to hear.

Q says nothing for a moment. He's so used to Bond not talking about his work that he isn't sure what to say at first.

"Yeah?" he says, finally.

Bond hums an affirmative.

"It was a sex trafficking operation. We knew that, of course." He pauses for a long time. Q just waits. "The youngest girl was eight years old."

He says nothing else, but his eyes go cloudy, distracted, and Q knows that he's remembering it, every detail of it. He doesn't know what to say. In fact, he's quite sure that nothing he could say would make Bond feel any better, so he says absolutely nothing about it. Even if Bond rescued her, which Q is sure he did, it doesn't stop the fact that it happened, Q knows that very well.

"Do you want to see what's on the telly?" he says instead.

They watch a rerun of _Luther _and Q stares at the television without actually watching it. He feels stupid for not realizing it earlier, though Bond pretty much outright told him—he comes to Q's flat to forget a while. It makes sense, sort of, except for the fact that Q is Q and Bond is well…Bond. Q hasn't been able to offer him much.

"Why here?" he asks, not looking away from the television. "I mean, I don't mind, but why do you come _here?"_

The silence that follows feels too long, and Q is afraid he's said something he shouldn't. Then Bond says, "You don't ask questions."

"I…" Q thinks for a moment. "I suppose it never occurred to me to do so."

He looks over at Bond and sees that Bond is smiling at him as if he's said something so incredibly profound, Bond almost can't believe it. Q has to make himself look away. He feels so suddenly disarmed that it's nearly frightening, and his whole face goes hot. He tries so hard to stop the thought from coming into his head, but it's abruptly his only thought—he's attracted to Bond. Perhaps absurdly so, but Q isn't quite sure of the extent to which he is attracted to him, only that he is. It's slightly insane and also very dangerous. Q's palms are sweating, and Bond has said nothing else, for all Q knows, he's still staring at him with that ridiculous smile on his face. Q is desperate to change the subject.

"Did a Komodo Dragon really eat that gun?" he says.

"_What?"_

"In China, last year." He knows Bond is looking at him but he absolutely refuses to look away from the TV. "Moneypenny said—"

And then Bond is laughing hysterically, which only makes Q blush harder. Obviously, he's been lied to. Damn Moneypenny. He should put a virus on her laptop. He forgets that he isn't looking at Bond and looks at him. Apparently, when Bond laughs, the lines on his face multiply, especially around the eyes, and his lips curl up to expose his gums. He looks stupidly attractive doing it.

"I almost forgot about that," he says.

It takes another minute for Bond to stop laughing. He wipes at the corner of his eye with one finger and sighs.

"I didn't stick around to see it, but he probably did." Bond holds both hands out, creating an imaginary width in the space between them. "They're fucking huge."

"I've never seen one up close," Q says. At least Moneypenny hadn't lied to him.

"You don't want to," Bond says.

He lets out a last little chuckle, mouth still turned upright into a smile. Q is absolutely positive this is the only time he's ever heard James Bond laugh, and it will probably stay that way. He presses his lips together and waits for a good time to excuse himself to his room. Then _Doctor Who _comes on, and Bond says,

"Ah. I used to watch this as a boy."

"I think everyone in Britain did," Q says, though he's still picturing Bond as a young boy in front of an old television set, humming along to the theme music.

"Do you even know who the first doctor was?"

"William Hartnell."

"Lucky guess," Bond says.

Q peers at him through his glasses. "I never guess."

He tells himself he'll go back to his room after the episode ends, but then another comes on, and Q forgets to do anything but sit there.

He wakes with his cheek pressed against something warm and hard. Q blinks himself more awake, disorientated for a moment because he's not in his bed. It occurs to him quickly that he must have fallen asleep on the couch, and then it occurs to him even quicker that he's leaning against Bond. The idea of moving is terrifying. Q would much rather prefer the couch swallow him right now so he never has to deal with this ever.

The problem is Q really, really has to pee. He doesn't move for another minute, just silently hates himself. Then he jolts upright, quick, smooth. Bond doesn't move and Q doesn't want to risk looking at him, so he just very slowly stands from the couch, taking care not to move the cushions too much. Once he's up enough, Q bolts on tiptoes to the bathroom.

He comes out a minute later and sees Bond fiddling with his kettle.

"Tea?" he says, fresh as a fucking daisy.

He's been awake for a while, Q realizes, which means he only sat on the couch to let Q sleep more which means he was awake and possibly watching Q sleep, but definitely knew that Q was sleeping on him. His ears go red.

"I'm late," he says.

Then he makes the strategic decision to forgo the tea and just get dressed to go into MI6. Q leaves in a rush, looking at Bond only to avoid suspicion, and resorts to buying a cup of tea on his way in.

_When _did it happen, that's what Q wants to know. Maybe the attraction had been there all along; maybe he was just now realizing it. He decides not to think about it. He has a job to do, and he isn't an idiot, he knows better than to get mixed up with someone like Bond.

He doesn't see Bond for nearly two weeks. M sends him to Sudan for "political business", which sounds extremely dodgy to Q, but like hell if he's going to say that. At any rate, Q thinks time apart is only going to do them good. Spending too much time with Bond is clearly bad for his health, and Q is also pretty sure his cat is starting to like 007 better than him.

When he's not going in to work, Q keeps to his regular schedule; working on tech, hacking, and guiding Tanner through the new mail system. He also masturbates. A lot. In bed, the shower, sometimes sitting on the couch in what he considers to be a bizarre form of revenge. Q tells himself that his attraction to Bond is nothing more than a buildup of sexual tension that he's been unable to release, hence the excessive need to masturbate.

He's wrong.

Q doesn't realize that until Saturday night when he hears the sound of his door being unlocked. His stomach jumps to his throat, face already going warm just from the knowledge of who it is. Q focuses intently on his computer screen but still listens to the sound of Bond as he shuts the door, the soft tap of his shoes against the hardwood. Stravinsky stands from his spot on Q's bed, tail curling and happy. Q hates that cat.

His door is pushed open, and Bond walks in wearing a smart black trench coat and a black eye. In fact, it's practically swollen shut.

"Dear God," Q says, just as Bond asks for ice.

He holds an ice pack over Bond's swollen eye, both of them standing in the kitchen. Stravinsky purrs and moves at their feet. This close, Q realizes that he's only about an inch shorter than Bond, which is strange, because Bond has always seemed so much taller to him.

"I take it the job went sour," he says.

"Actually it went very well." Bond smiles faintly. "Bit of trouble at the border, though."

Q switches hands so they don't get numb, listening to ice crunch under his palm. Bond stays very still, but he watches Q with his good eye, almost like he's examining him.

"We switched to new mail system," Q says, for absolutely no reason at all other than to fill the silence. "Tanner couldn't figure it out."

Bond chuckles. Q lets him take over with the ice pack, searching the fridge for something that isn't leftovers. He doesn't have any luck—there's just day old curry and a half empty jar of pickles. Something crinkles from behind him, and Q turns to see Bond has produced a brown paper bag from somewhere in his coat.

"Tea," he says.

Q just stares at him. "Pardon?"

"Cinnamon tea." Bond holds the bag out for him. "Apparently it's the traditional drink in Sudan. I know how fond you are of a good brew."

Q takes it dumbly, suddenly unable to get his mouth to work. Bond brought him _tea. _He practically brought Q back a souvenir, like he's apologizing for being away. And this ends up being the tipping point. Q drops the bag on the table and goes to his room. If he were five years younger, he'd collapse face first onto his bed and scream. Instead, he bites his fist.

Bond, because he's a fucking idiot, follows him.

"You don't like cinnamon," he says.

"You're a right piece of work," Q tells him. "What do you think you're doing, anyway?"

Bond stares at him with the ice pack still over his eye. He looks ridiculous, and somehow still attractive, which only serves to make Q angrier.

"You've invaded my life, you know. Hanging around, drinking my wine, _doing crunches on my table._" He's amazed that through all this, he doesn't yell, though his voice may take on a slightly hysterical tone. "I don't know what you think is going on here, but it stops right now. Also stop bringing my cat wet food, he can only have dry."

He takes a deep breath, holds it, counts to ten, and then exhales loudly. Bond finally moves the ice pack from his eye.

"I didn't know that," he says, "about the food. Also, I like coming here."

It sounds so simple when he says it. _I like coming here. _Oddly enough, that thought hadn't really occurred to Q. A lot of things haven't occurred to him up until this moment, like why Bond actually brought him tea or why he watches Q rather fondly. He looks down at his feet, embarrassed at everything and nothing at the same time.

"If you'd like me to leave…" Bond says, which makes Q realize that he doesn't want that at all.

"Don't be stupid," he says. "But you should probably kiss me."

Bond crosses the room in three steps and does exactly that. He grabs hold of Q's face with both hands, one of which is extremely cold from the ice, but Q manages to ignore that in favor of Bond's tongue, which is doing really lovely things in his mouth. He very quickly finds himself being manhandled onto the bed, trying to get Bond's coat off without opening his eyes.

He can feel Bond's cock against his own, obviously hard, and it sends little shocks up and down his spine.

"Christ," Bond says. "Christ, I've wanted to do this to you for ages."

"Oh?"

"Mm." Bond pulls off Q's jumper and shirt, attaching his mouth to his newly exposed collarbone. "Ever since I saw you in those ridiculous gingham pajamas."

"They were a _gift,_" Q says, and then makes a less intelligible sound when Bond starts sucking on his nipple.

Bond kisses down his sternum, licks his way past Q's bellybutton and tongues just above the hem of his trousers, maddeningly slow. Q squirms.

"Bond, just—"

"Call me James."

Then he pulls down Q's trousers.

Bond himself gets naked in an impressive amount of time, crawling up the bed over Q's body and hedging him in with his ludicrously thick arms and kissing him soundly. Q palms his ass and pulls Bond flush against him, their cocks touching again, this time bare.

"Shit," Q says, realizing that he's already embarrassingly close to coming. "Shit. Fuck."

"The mouth on you young people," says Bond.

He pulls away and encourages Q to roll onto his stomach, so Q does. Bond drapes himself over Q's back, sliding his cock between his ass cheeks and rubbing. Q makes a really undignified noise.

"I'm going to fuck you until you can't get another word out of that mouth of yours," Bond says, voice rough in Q's ear.

Q fists the sheets and pushes back against the pressure. It feels fucking amazing; it's been an age since anyone touched him properly, and Bond is just as rough as Q needs him to be. They rut like that for a bit, Bond whispering the most filthy and admittedly cheesy things in his ear, but that doesn't stop Q from finding it extremely hot. Then, without warning, Bond pulls away and presses the tip of his finger into Q's hole. It's so unexpected that Q comes, the pressure proving too much. He muffles his moan into the pillow, clenching around Bond's finger.

Above him, he can hear Bond jerking off, and a minute or so later, he comes all over his back.

If Q hadn't just had such a fantastic orgasm, he'd be livid.

"That wasn't the least bit hygienic," he says, and Bond licks up his spine.

That night, Bond doesn't sleep on the couch.

The next morning when Bond checks in, he's also immediately told he's going to check out.

"One of our operatives is in a bind in North Korea," M says. "Get him out, and do it quick. Q has everything you'll need."

Bond's eye is still swollen, and he only just got in, but none of that matters when you're a double-oh. M leaves Bond in the lab, and Q hands him a black case. Their fingers brush, and the secretiveness of it all has Q feeling a bit giddy.

"Sniper rifle, but the sight has a heat signature built in, so you'll be able to see your target through the wall."

"Brilliant," Bond says.

There's no hesitation, which Q likes. They're both adults, they know what the other does for a living. But as Bond is leaving the lab, Q says, "Have a safe trip, Mr. Bond."

At the formality, Bond turns sharply, already grinning. He nods, slow, subtle, and then he's gone.

Nearly a week later, Q wakes up to rain against his window. From the looks of things, it's probably early morning, but Q can't be sure. He reaches for his glasses on the nightstand and slides them on. A hand strokes his back, and Q nearly shrieks.

James Bond is in his bed.

"Shit," Q says, hand clutching his chest. "How long have you been here?"

He lies back down, mimicking Bond's position on the bed.

"About four hours. I didn't want to wake you."

"Funny, you never seemed to mind before." Q kisses him. "You smell like an off-license."

"It was a long flight," Bond says. "But now I'm here and I plan on doing very wicked things to you."

That wakes Q up very quickly. He kisses Bond again, lazy at first until their bodies start touching, and then he's pulling his pajama bottoms down and pulling Bond on top of him.

"There's lubricant in the drawer," Q says, and Bond goes for it.

It's been opened, of course, and Bond notices that, rubbing his finger over the excess that's congealed to the cap.

"Did you miss me that much?" he says, and Q snorts.

"I have a harem of lovers, actually."

"Cheeky little shit."

But something about that makes Bond more in the mood. He kisses Q, harder now, slipping a hand between his legs and rubbing lightly at his inner thighs. Q shivers at the touch, at the feel of Bond's calloused fingers against his skin. He shuts his eyes, and it's only when Bond has two fingers inside of him that Q opens them again, panting roughly.

He tries to say something, but the only thing that comes out is _fuck_ and _yes_, and sometimes colorful combinations of the two. Bond won't look anywhere but his eyes while he fingers him, merciless and blue, like an arctic summer. He's killed people with those same hands. Q's back arches. He's getting close.

"I may come if you don't get inside me soon."

"You'll come when I tell you," Bond says, but he slips his fingers out anyway.

There's a bit of fumbling before they find a condom, but soon enough Bond slips one on, and then he lifts Q's legs, bending him slightly in-half. He fucks into Q with his mouth open, tongue pressed against his teeth.

"Fuck," he says. "I thought about doing this the whole flight home."

"Oh God," says Q.

He's heard extensive and various rumors of Bond's sexual prowess, all of which he'd written off until this moment. James Bond has an extremely fluid way of moving his hips, and it makes Q go a bit cross-eyed. He grips helplessly at Bond's shoulders, legs wrapped loosely around his back. It's a bit mortifying to find himself at a loss for words, but it feels so overwhelmingly good that Q just really doesn't care. What he does do, is squeeze down every so often, so that Bond falters in his thrusts and lets out a delightfully high whine.

At one point, Bond hits his prostate so perfectly that Q just sobs for it, twisting his hips down and throwing his head back. Bond sees his exposed neck and goes for it, biting the skin there until it nearly hurts.

Most of what Q says after that is just _James _and _please. _Bond also won't touch his cock, and it's driving Q mad.

"I want to see you come just like this, without me touching you," Bond says.

Q writhes. The pressure of being filled is enough, certainly, but he feels like Bond is delaying his orgasm on purpose, switching the angle just when Q thinks he's about to come.

He doesn't know why he does it, but he does. Mid-thrust, Q reaches up and grabs Bond around his neck, squeezing perhaps a bit too hard. The effect of it is brilliant: Bond comes, and he comes hard. He pushes himself as far as he can into Q's body, arms shaking, and Q watches him through it. Bond slows down after that, his thrusts becoming shallower until his cock softens, but by the time he pulls out, Q feels like his hole is gaping.

And then, right when Q is about to touch himself, Bond slips three fingers back inside of him. It's not the same pressure, but it does the trick. Q comes and Bond kisses him to swallow his moan.

They eat toast in bed together, Bond with his hand settled comfortably on Q's thigh. The rain is still going on, but every now and then the sun tries to break through the clouds.

"Oh," Q says. "How did the heat tracker on the sniper work?"

"Brilliantly." Bond smiles. "Just as you said."

"I don't suppose you brought it back with you."

"Not a chance," he says.

Q reaches over and wipes some crumbs from his lips.

"Bloody irresponsible."

Bond hums but doesn't disagree. He leans back against the wall, pulling Q with him so they're slumped comfortably together. He rests his chin on top of Q's head, and there's a stupid moment where Q doesn't ever want to have to move from this spot again. He does, though, because life goes on, mind-blowing orgasms or not.

Q grabs a fresh pair of trousers from his closet and sets them on the bed. Bond is still incredibly naked, legs splayed, empty plate between them. Q wants to crawl back into the bed and kiss him senseless. Instead, he goes for a shower, and when he comes out, Bond is cooking eggs on his stove.

"I should charge you rent," Q says.

"I believe I just paid you back in full."

"You're a very expensive prostitute, 007." Q peers over his shoulder at the eggs; they're scrambled, his favorite way. "I do hope some of those are for me."

Bond slaps him away with the spatula. Q gets dressed, and they eat again, at the table this time, with Stravinsky perched in Bond's lap. Why that cat loves the man so much, Q will never understand. After a brief consideration, Bond decides to check back with M today, but they get ready with the unspoken agreement to arrive at MI6 separately.

Before they leave the flat, Bond cups the back of Q's neck like before and kisses him, almost chastely compared to earlier.

"I imagine I'll be sent out again before the month is over," he says.

Q watches him. He knows what Bond is trying to do, and it's almost funny, because obviously Q is more than aware.

"Well when you get back, you know where I live."

Bond's nod says _of course, of course._

Q opens the door. "After you, James."

They arrive at MI6 within minutes of each other.


	66. (E) SIKUS - Find Me During Golden Hour T

Find Me During Golden Hour, Tell Me That I'm Yours  
farouche (AnonymousSinner)

Summary:  
"Fuck, you'd let me, wouldn't you? I wonder Simon, would you let me keep you locked in my room all day, spread out on that huge bed I barely ever use? Would you stay there, just waiting for me, letting me visit you whenever I wanted, use you whenever I felt like it?"

Or, the follow-up where Markus and Simon do exactly that.

* * *

It's golden hour, in Detroit. The sun is slowly beginning to set, marking the end of one of the hottest days of the summer. A blissfully cool evening breeze now filters through the large open window, soothing heated skin awash in gentle rays of sunlight.

Simon shifts on soft, teal sheets, one arm hanging off the edge of the bed as he rolls onto his back, lazily stroking fingers across the silk. Gingerly, he trails those fingers down his body, bringing them between his thighs. The skin there feels raw, thirium-based lubricant sticky as it slowly dries, and a soft noise escapes his throat when he moves his hand up, fingers sliding through synthetic folds and over his clit.

It's something he's still getting used to, actually having something down there. He'd only purchased it last week, having finally gathered enough courage to enter the small, secluded store he'd walked past far too many times. The employees had been almost scarily enthusiastic, but in a way he was relieved. They didn't blink when he told them what he wanted, just brought him straight to the back so he could choose which of the components he preferred.

He could have gotten a dick. Could have gotten the parts most commonly used for PL600s, to fit the human ideal of masculinity. But he didn't want to. He wanted to feel what he'd felt with Markus that day, wooden desk cold against Simon's back as cables stretched to accommodate Markus's cock, every brush over exposed, sensitive wires making him cry out. He wanted that, but he wanted it safer, wanted to avoid intrusive warning signals and program recommendations clogging up his vision.

The protective layer of his new biocomponent covers those wires now, muting the feeling to something less intense, but still pleasurable in a way he doesn't think he'll ever fully get used to. And far more durable.

That was the main reason he'd bought it. Not because he didn't enjoy the direct stimulation to wires and cables, not because it was what he thought Markus would want, but because he wanted it to _last; _to go on for as long as they wanted without his programming forcing him into emergency standby at inopportune moments.

He'd approached Markus in his office yesterday with timid, quiet steps, walking up to where he'd been sitting in his armchair, lost in a book. Wordlessly, he'd held out his hand, skin deactivating down to his wrist. And Markus, somewhat confused but endlessly trusting, had put the book down and taken it.

"_Fuck, you'd **let** me, wouldn't you? I wonder Simon, would you let me keep you locked in my room all day, spread out on that huge bed I barely ever use? Would you stay there, just waiting for me, letting me visit you whenever I wanted, use you whenever I felt like it?_"

He'd played the memory audio instead of actually asking himself, but Markus had understood, had stiffened and sucked in a surprised breath, intertwining their fingers as their skin slowly reappeared over their endoskeletons.

"_Are you sure?_" he'd asked, patient and voice perfectly level, but when Simon met his gaze he'd found those piercing eyes blown wide with want, his cheeks lightly tinted blue.

"_Please_," he'd replied, transfixed, and Markus had pulled him onto his lap, hands finding his waist like they belonged there as he brought him close and kissed him.

Simon shifts on the sheets again, thighs squeezing together as he delicately runs the tip of his index finger over his clit. It's sensitive, so sensitive, but he doesn't want to come. Not without Markus here. He makes a soft sound at the contact, then reluctantly pulls his hand away to rest it on his chest.

He's lost count of how long he's been here. Minutes passed so slowly yet so quickly, bleeding into hours, and his memory is a hazy mess of brown skin and stolen touches, of lips trailing over his body and fingers pressing into his skin as the earth sluggishly travelled around the sun.

At least 10 hours, he thinks. He remembers stepping into the room at around 10 a.m., and his internal clock tells him it's just past 8 p.m. now.

Simon sighs shakily, eyes closing as he searches through files. He doesn't often use this part of his programming, and he spends a few seconds organising and ordering, getting his bearings before he finally finds that first part of recorded footage. He hesitates, breath hitching, and then allows it to replay in his mind.

The sound of near-by traffic and the darkness behind his eyelids fade out, slowly replaced by the memory of Markus slamming the door of his bedroom shut, Simon's legs wrapped around his waist and hands desperately clutching to his back as he walks them across the room and drops him onto the bed.

"_Colours?_" Markus asks in Simon's mind, and it's somewhat unnerving to have the visual of him pulling off his shirt and pushing him down onto the sheets but not actually being able to feel the fabric slide under him or Markus's hands warm on his shoulders.

"_Red for stop, yellow for wait, green for go._" It's Simon's own voice played back to him, hurried and impatient, and Simon echoes the whimper that had escaped him as Markus murmured praise against his skin.

"_The thing is, Si_," Markus says quietly, and Simon's stomach swoops all over again, watching those fingers slide down his chest to undo the button of his jeans, "_I have a meeting in an hour, but I don't particularly feel like waiting until after it ends to play with you_."

Simon's memory shows him the teasing smile that had accompanied those words, how he'd dragged Simon's jeans down and off his legs, exposing him to the cool air of the room. It shows him how Simon's breathing had picked up, his own panting loud in his ears, as Markus leaned over him and kissed his way across his jaw.

"_So here's what's going to happen_," Markus says, and Simon shivers as his voice plays back, so close to his ear he can feel phantom lips brushing the skin, "_I'm going to get you nice and wet, and then you're going to be a good boy for me and come on my fingers. Can you do that_?"

"_Yes_," Simon says, and he's so lost in the memory he almost doesn't realise he's repeated it out loud as well.

And then, _fuck_, all Simon can really do is watch. Watch Markus, how he'd crawled down his body, how he'd settled between Simon's thighs, pressing teasing kisses to soft skin. How he'd glanced up at him, still smiling, before bringing those lips to his cunt. Simon twitches on the sheets, feels a familiar heat build between his legs, and _God_, he remembers how _good_ it had felt, how warm Markus's tongue was, warm and wet with synthetic saliva, laving over his clit and lapping up the slick already gathering between Simon's legs. In the memory, Markus moans, and Simon shudders, remembers how the vibrations of that had felt against sensitive skin.

"_You taste so good, Simon. God, I love the way you react to my tongue. Good boy_."

Simon swallows thickly, watches Markus gently suck at his clit, whines quietly as he sees that tongue dip inside him. Slowly, he runs his fingers down his chest, and it feels strange when his hands in the memory don't do the same, the touch somehow sharper, more striking. He teases at his folds as he watches the scene unfold, waiting for what he knows happens next.

_"You want my fingers, sweetheart? Think you can take two for me already, just like that?"_

He definitely can. Simon slides two fingers into himself, keens at the familiar pleasure, and copies the way Markus had pushed his own in and out of Simon, curling and stretching. He fails to get as deep, can't seem to replicate the perfect feeling of Markus's skilled fingers filling him up, but the memory of it is enough to make him moan.

"_Fuck, you open so easily for me. So desperate for it. My perfect boy, practically gagging for my fingers."_

_"Markus, I-"_

_"Sssh, Simon. I know you can take a third. Be good."_

_"Yes."_

Simon sucks in a sharp breath, adds a third finger as Markus does the same. It's not as intense now, stretched out and still soaked from earlier, but he remembers how tight he'd been this morning, how those fingers had pressed against him, stroking over sensitive wires through protective skin. He hears himself groan in the memory, watches how Markus moves up to kiss him. Simon had closed his eyes at that point, so all he sees now is darkness. It's strangely comforting, being in the dark as he fucks himself on his own fingers; allows him to focus on the soft sounds he and Markus had made, to listen to the wet slide of their lips and to skin brushing against silk sheets.

"_Look at you. My perfect toy, all mine to play with. Three fingers in and you still want more, don't you?"_

In the memory, Simon opens his eyes, finds Markus's face just above his, unflinchingly meeting his gaze.

"_I know you do. So what's going to happen now is you're going to come. And then we'll see if I feel generous_."

Simon's breath catches as he hears himself whimper in response, the sound high-pitched and embarrassingly needy.

"_There we go, that's a good boy_," Markus hums, and Simon speeds up his thrusts, spreading his fingers and cursing as he struggles to reach that spot, that place inside him that Markus seemed to be able to find instantly, if Simon's breathless moans in his memory are anything to go by. And fuck, he remembers just as he hears himself cry out, remembers how Markus had twisted his wrist, curled those clever fingers up in a way that drove him mad. Simon groans softly, head tilted back, and bites his lip hard to keep from making too much noise, because he wants to hear it again, wants to hear what Markus had said when he'd crawled over him and pressed his lips against his ear.

"_Go on, my little fucktoy. Come for me_."

Simon pulls his fingers out, sucks in a harsh breath he doesn't need, thighs shaking with the effort _not_ to as the Simon from this morning chokes on a loud moan and falls apart under Markus's hands. Because that Simon was allowed to come, _asked_ to come. Now, hours later, this Simon isn't. This Simon has to wait.

"_Good, that's so good. How did that feel, hm? Was that nice?"_ Markus's voice is lilted, a soft sing-song that's just on the edge of condescending, and Simon shivers as the words wash over him all over again, seeping deep into his skin. He hears himself hum in agreement, sees how he shifts on the sheets, trying to move away from Markus's too sensitive touch as those fingers gently pull out and slide over his clit.

"_No, no_," Markus says, and God, Simon's _so_ glad he recorded this for that slow, dark smile alone. He watches as Markus grabs his wrists and pins them above his head, the bright blue and green of his eyes swallowed by black. "_Don't shy away from me._ _Don't you think I deserve a turn? After I just so nicely helped you make a mess of yourself? You're gonna be a good boy for me Simon, and give me what's mine_."

He remembers this part so well he almost doesn't need the recording. Remembers how Markus had pulled his cock out of his pants, how he'd yanked Simon to the edge of the bed like he weighed nothing at all. How hands firmly grasped his hips, tight enough to bruise if he could, and how Markus's eyes had locked with his for a split second, checking, asking, always ensuring that Simon felt safe. He remembers how he'd nodded, spread his legs wider to accommodate Markus's frame, and how finally, fucking _finally_, Markus had slid himself inside. Not even bothering to properly pull down his jeans, letting the zipper dig into the flesh of Simon's ass as he fucked into him, fast and rough and hitting that spot inside him again and again and _again_.

"_You can come if you want. I don't particularly care – it's not about you, anymore. But if you want to, you better hurry up, baby_."

Simon had. It's somehow louder in the memory, hearing how he'd whined, how Markus had moaned when Simon threw his head back and came on his cock. His own pants and gasps echo in Simon's mind as he watches how Markus had fucked him through it, ducking his head to bite harshly at Simon's neck. It's a pretty thing, to see him come again, see how his brows had knitted together, how his lips had parted on a quiet gasp, hips stuttering. Simon makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat, fingers sliding between his legs again, gathering wetness as he watches Markus pull out of him, tuck himself back into his jeans with an almost bored expression on his face.

"_I'll be back later. Be a good boy, Simon. Don't come again, and don't you dare fucking move from that bed_."

The recording ends just as Markus turns and walks away, and Simon lets out a shaky breath as he blinks his eyes open, staring up at the ceiling. He counts the small lines in the plaster, watches the dust particles that float in the air, illuminated by the sunlight. His heart beats fast in his chest, lungs expanding as he inhales cool and sweet summer air, and he rolls onto his side, pulling the corner of silk sheets to cover his lower body. The fabric is smooth against him, the dark teal colour contrasting sharply with pale white skin.

"_Those sheets are such a pretty colour on you. Makes your eyes look so, so blue_."

The next recorded memory starts playing before Simon even realises he's picked it out. That low, velvet voice wraps around him like Markus is actually there, Simon's view changing from dust particles and setting sun to the sight of Markus slowly closing the door of the bedroom, eyes roaming over his body as he moves closer to him with quiet, confident steps.

He'd only made Simon wait three hours, the first time. Came back mere minutes after that meeting had ended, the sleeves of his button-down rolled up to his elbows. The familiar sound of his footsteps on the wooden floor had made Simon feel inexplicably nervous, and he remembers how he'd gingerly sat up, mouth dry as he looked up at Markus, waiting for instruction.

"_Were you a good boy for me, Simon?_"

His voice is honey-sweet and dangerous in Simon's memory, blue and green keeping him frozen in place as Markus trails teasing fingers up his leg, from ankle to inner thigh. Simon's point of view shakes a bit; a nod in response to Markus's question.

"_Simon, you know better than that. Answer me._"

"_Yes, Markus_." Very quiet, but level. Simon is almost proud of the fact that his voice hadn't stuttered.

"_There we go. Did you miss me?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Good._"

Markus moves back, steps away from the bed, and Simon stiffens, fingers curling into the sheets as he remembers what happens next.

"_Come here._"

Shaky movements, the sound of his bare feet touching the floor. Markus's hands move, and Simon wishes he could feel them again on his shoulders, how strong they were, and how _easily_ Markus had pushed him down.

"_On your knees, Simon._"

And _fuck_, the sight of Markus towering over him, one hand slowly going down to the button of his jeans, is enough for Simon to have to squeeze his thighs together, biting his tongue hard to quell the feeling of _heat_ that builds up again.

"_Colour?_" Markus whispers in the memory, eyes not leaving his, and Simon shudders as he hears himself answer, voice definitely wavering this time.

"_Green_."

Simon's hand goes to his head, fingers curling into his hair and pulling harshly at the strands, trying to replicate how it had felt when it had been Markus's fingers, pulling him forward, holding him where he wanted him as he took out his cock and pushed it between Simon's already parted lips. And he remembers the weight of him on his tongue, the salty-yet-sweet taste of thirium, the sharp pleasure-pain no android was ever supposed to be able to feel but Simon _did_ as Markus tugged his hair and fucked his throat.

"_There's a good boy, open up for me. That's it. Such a perfect little cockslut, aren't you?_"

Simon hears his own muffled moan, loud and desperate, sees his hands travel up Markus's legs, gripping tight in an attempt to steady himself.

"_Look at you. Dripping all down your thighs, taking my cock like you were made for it_. _So good, Si._"

Simon keens as he hears the words again, turns to bite at one of the pillows, his saliva seeping into the fabric. In the memory, Markus speeds up his thrusts, soft pants falling from his lips as his eyes flutter shut and his head tilts back, exposing the column of his throat. He's beautiful, the most beautiful thing Simon's ever seen, and Simon wants to come so badly that he lets out a frustrated sob, tears joining spit on the pillow. Markus groans quietly, and Simon remembers how warmth had flooded his mouth, how the taste of him had flooded his senses.

"_You can come now, baby. Come for me, go on_."

And he had. He came on command, untouched, drooling down his chin as Markus pulled out of his mouth, leaving him empty and shuddering on the cool wooden floor.

"_Get back on the bed, Simon. I'll see if I'm in the mood to visit you again later. Don't come before then._"

The memory ends. Simon unclenches his teeth, rolls away from the wet spot left behind on the pillow.

That was over six hours hours ago.

Slowly, gingerly, Simon sits up. His thighs are sticky with new lubricant, and a wire in his back twinges slightly as he moves.

**_Lubrication levels low. Standby mode recommended soon to allow for internal recharging and repair. Set a timer?_**

"Fuck off," he whispers to himself, waving the alert away. He leans against the headboard of the bed, eyes closing as he inhales deeply, trying to cool overheating systems.

Six hours. Six hours of trying to distract himself, of reliving memories, of tensing every time someone walked past the door. Six hours of trying to calm the heat coursing through him, of touching himself for any kind of relief, only to make it worse because he can't fucking _come_.

He understands that this is the point. That Markus is challenging him, pushing his limits, testing just how long Simon can last. Because he knows Simon won't disobey him. _Can't_ disobey him.

It doesn't make it any easier.

There's a soft noise, outside the door. Simon lazily blinks his eyes open, expecting the familiar sound of footsteps walking past, fading down the corridor. Instead, a key turns in the lock.

He flinches, scrambles to sit up straight, feet slipping on silk. The door opens quietly, just enough for Markus to step into the room and close it behind him. He's holding a book in one hand, eyes scanning the pages, and he doesn't say a word. The sound of him locking the door shut seems so much louder than it is in this silence, and Simon swallows as Markus walks towards him, barefooted across the wooden floor, free hand absent-mindedly playing with the key before he drops it on the unused dresser by the wall. He's changed his shirt, replaced it with the soft, medallion-yellow sweater that Simon loves, and he looks calm and relaxed and the exact opposite of what Simon's feeling.

Markus doesn't look at him as he crosses the room. His face is blank, perfectly neutral as he keeps reading the book, and he leisurely makes his way over to the bed before settling comfortably at Simon's side.

Simon wants to touch him. Wants to ask where he's been, wants to curl into his chest and brush his cheek over that sweater, wants Markus to play with his hair.

He doesn't move.

"Did you come while I was away?" Simon jumps as Markus breaks the silence, his voice completely level as he rests his book on his lap and turns the page with his left hand.

"No," Simon replies instantly, "No, I didn't. I promise."

A small smile plays at Markus's lips, and he runs his fingers briefly through Simon's hair. Simon sighs, leans into the touch, his eyelids fluttering.

"Good," Markus murmurs, and takes his hand away. It's silent again, Markus just sitting there, one leg crossed over the other as he keeps reading, turning the pages so unhurriedly that Simon feels like the whole world has slowed down. He swallows, fidgets with the sheets, balling the fabric up in his fist and sliding it through his fingers.

Markus turns another page. Inhales, sighs softly. Then, still not looking up from his book, he brings his right hand to the side of Simon's neck, strokes down to his shoulder. Simon shivers, leans back as those fingers trail down his chest, lower and lower until they find the fabric bunched around his waist and tug it away, exposing him.

"Markus," Simon whispers, fingers curling into fists as Markus finally, _finally_ slides his fingers over his cunt, dipping into the folds and spreading the wetness he finds there.

"Quiet, Simon," Markus says simply, "I'm trying to read."

Simon swallows thickly, tries to relax. Slowly, carefully, he spreads his legs, tentatively giving Markus's hand more room. He's rewarded by then man's middle finger rubbing teasingly over his clit, and he gasps at the sudden spark of pleasure the contact brings.

"Simon," Markus says again, voice low and quiet and ever so slightly threatening, "I said _quiet_. I'm trying to concentrate. I won't ask you again."

Simon glances at him, eyes roaming desperately over his profile. Markus's eyes stay fixated on his book, face schooled into that expression he has when he's going through files or playing piano or lost in thought. A slight furrow to his brow, mouth flat. Perfectly focused.

Simon lets his head fall back against the headboard, eyes finding the ceiling as he lets out a long exhale. Markus's fingers continue to rub over him, gentle circles over his clit and every so often slipping the tip of one inside him. Simon clenches his teeth together, nails digging into his palms with the effort it takes to stay silent. Markus turns another page as he finds a rhythm with his right hand; circling clockwise, rubbing down and then back up, and repeat. Simon's _slick_, feels wetness drip down as the pleasure steadily builds, making his toes curl. He's breathing heavily, moves a hand up to his mouth and bites down on the soft tissue between his thumb and index finger to stifle the moans that threaten to escape. The pressure of his teeth helps him focus, helps him steady his breathing as Markus continues his ministrations, and he relaxes his shoulders. For a second, Simon thinks he's okay.

And then Markus presses his fingers harder. Simon jolts, free hand clutching desperately at the sheets as he arches his back, biting down harder on his hand to quieten the sob that escapes him. Markus's pace picks up in response, two fingers rubbing over his clit from side to side in that way he recently discovered drives Simon insane.

And Simon – _shit, **fuck**_, Simon's gonna come. There's no way he can hold it in, not again. Desperately, he clutches at Markus's shoulder, panting harshly, nails scratching at the fabric of his sweater. Markus doesn't look up at him, doesn't even blink – just turns another fucking page of that fucking book, and keeps going.

Silent tears roll down Simon's cheek, hips stuttering as he desperately holds on for a few more seconds. Markus curls his middle finger, pushing it inside of Simon as much as he can in this position, and Simon gives up. His body goes rigid, head thrown back as his lips open on a silent moan, soaking Markus's hand.

"Simon. Now look what you've done." Markus closes the book, drops it unceremoniously on the floor besides the bed as he pulls his fingers away and holds them up, eyes finally meeting Simon's to give him such a disappointed look that Simon's stomach twists with shame. "You've made a mess."

"I'm s-sorry," Simon manages, voice layered with static, and Markus hums dismissively. Those eyes flicker to Simon's lips, and he brings thirium-coated fingers forward, brushing over synthetic pink skin.

"Clean them up, then," he says softly, expectantly. Simon whimpers, parts his lips and draws the digits into his mouth.

It's somewhat gratifying to hear Markus's breath hitch, reassuring to finally see him react as Simon wraps his tongue around his fingers and sucks them clean. His pupils widen as Simon moans around them, and a string of saliva connects him to Simon's mouth when he eventually pulls his fingers free.

"Enough," he says, voice hoarse, and Simon can't stop the proud smile that spreads across his face at the quiet need in the other's tone. Markus catches it, and his eyes darken further as he reaches out and gently cups the side of his face, thumb resting on his lips.

"Something funny?" he asks, soft and dangerous, and Simon swallows, tries to shake his head. Markus's fingers shift, grip tightly at his jaw.

"Use your _words_, Simon."

"N-no, Markus."

"Good boy." He leans forward, places unbearably chaste kisses on his mouth, his cheek, the shell of his ear. "Now. Are you going to apologise for interrupting my reading?"

"M'sorry," Simon murmurs again, but Markus makes another dismissive noise, pulling back from Simon's ear to look him in the eye.

"No, baby. Like you _mean_ it."

For a second, Simon just stares at him. Stares into blue and green, tries to process what he's being told to do.

"_Well?_" The tone is patronising, and when Markus's lips curve into a smirk and he raises an eyebrow, something in Simon's mind _clicks_. He swings a leg across Markus's waist and straddles him, his shaking hands immediately grabbing the hem of his sweater and yanking it off of him before capturing his mouth in a sloppy, uncoordinated kiss. Markus moans anyway, slides his tongue against Simon's and grabs at his hips, hard enough to bruise him if he could. Simon whines high in his throat, tears himself away from the kiss and hastily shuffles backward, fingers fumbling to unzip Markus's jeans. He peels them down long, brown legs as quickly as he can, moaning with relief when Markus kicks them off and pulls him back to meet him, lips sliding hungrily against Simon's and a hand stroking down his front. Those artist fingers find his cunt again, slide roughly over sensitive skin before pushing inside, and Simon whimpers.

"Go on then," Markus breathes, "Show me what a good little slut you are."

It takes all of Simon's willpower to pull off of Markus's hand, repositioning himself so he can take hold of Markus's cock and bring it to his entrance. Markus keeps holding his waist, trying to help him go slowly, but Simon's been waiting for hours and he just _can't_, anymore. He slides down before Markus can react, throwing his head back on a cry as his cock splits him open, cables and wires stretched so perfectly he could cry.

"Jesus, _fuck_, Simon." Markus's voice is strained, eyes wide in shock, and Simon almost wants to say _serves you fucking right_ as he lifts himself up and drops back down, but at that point he's all out of words. His body feels like it's on fire, Markus's fingers digging harshly into his skin as Simon fucks himself on his dick, drunk on the pleasure coursing through him.

"Baby, slow down, Si – _fuck_." Markus moans, eyes squeezing shut as Simon wraps his arms around his neck and stifles his whimpers into his shoulder, teeth grazing skin.

"_Please_," Simon sobs then, because everything is too much and not enough and he's so close to coming and he _needs_ Markus to take control, needs –

"I said _slow down_." Markus's grip on his waist tightens, and Simon barely has time to process being moved before he's flat on his back, Markus grabbing his wrists with one hand and pinning them above his head while the other moves to Simon's throat. Simon whimpers, grateful tears sliding down his cheeks and legs wrapping tightly around Markus's waist as he thrusts back in, the pace now torturously slow.

"Are you going to be good now, Simon?" Markus asks, the fingers around Simon's neck squeezing hard enough that it makes Simon almost instinctively gasp for air he doesn't need, "Are you going to behave? Or am I going to have to keep you like this, fucking you slow, not giving you what you need?"

"Please," Simon manages, voice shaking as it's distorted by static, "_Please_, Markus. Promise – I _promise_ I'll be good, just – _ah_." He trembles violently, clenching down on Markus's cock, and Markus groans, tightening his hold on Simon's wrists.

"Alright, baby," he murmurs then, soothing despite the warning pressure of his hand against Simon's neck and the vice grip around his wrists, "Because you asked so nicely, I'll give you what you need."

He lets go, pulling out of him, and Simon moans pathetically at the loss, trying to convey that this is the exact _opposite_ of what he needs, actually. But then Markus is moving him again, rolling him onto his stomach and pressing a kiss to the spot between his shoulder blades, and Simon understands before he even says the words.

"Hands and knees," Markus tells him sharply, "_Now_."

Simon complies, pushing himself up on to wobbly arms, and then Markus's hands find his waist again, long brown fingers holding him so easily that it feels like Simon was made to fit them. He moans, head dropping forward as Markus pushes his legs apart, and then his cock sinks back in and Simon just _breaks_. His arms give way and he drops onto his elbows, burying his face in silk sheets as he moans and sobs pathetically, and warning signals keep trying to tell him he's running out of tears and lubricant but he doesn't fucking _care_, doesn't care about anything that isn't this, that isn't _Markus_. A hand slides into his hair, harshly tugging at blonde strands as Markus wrenches Simon back up, holding him there as Simon cries out and arches his back.

"Come on," Markus says, hips snapping forward in a fast and almost brutal rhythm, every nudge against that spot inside Simon forcing hiccupping moans out of him, "Be my good little fucktoy and come on my cock."

Simon shatters. His vision whites out as Markus roughly pulls his head back, and his mouth opens on a silent scream as he clenches down on Markus's cock. Markus fucks him through it, pulling him against his chest and mouthing at his neck as he buries himself to the hilt and freezes, trembling and moaning into Simon's skin. Simon chokes out his name as he feels him come, sobs wracking his body as he shakes, fucked out and oversensitive.

"Fuck," Markus breathes, "Good boy, Simon. You did so well, I'm so proud of you." He pulls out slowly, carefully, and Simon instantly collapses onto the mattress, the tears on his cheeks darkening silken teal.

"It's okay, I've got you." Warm arms wrap around him, pull him into his chest, and Simon buries his face into Markus's neck and just _cries_. He's trembling, whimpering softly as Markus's come begins to drip out of him, and it takes him several minutes before he's even able to register the gentle fingers carding through his hair and Markus's voice whispering praises in his ear.

"- so good, Simon. You were so perfect for me, waiting all day just like I knew you would. My beautiful, _perfect_ boy, all mine. You're safe, I've got you, I love you. It's okay, sweetheart. It's okay."

Simon exhales, focuses on regulating his heart rate, matching it to the rhythm of Markus's, fingers splayed out over his chest as he feels it beat steadily in the man's chest. Markus kisses the top of his head, a hand rubbing up and down his back, comforting, reassuring, steadying.

"You're okay, Simon. You did so well. I love you so much, you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. I've got you. You're so good."

Simon lets himself be held, waits for the trembling to subside, waits for his programming to shut the fuck up with the error messages. He keeps his eyes closed, listens to Markus's gentle words and feels the soft caresses on his back. They lay there for a while, warm and safe and together, until Markus speaks up again.

"Can you give me your colour, baby?" he murmurs, achingly soft, but Simon knows he's nervous, always worried he went too far, always scared that he's hurt him.

"As green as that hideous painting Leo gave you a few days ago," he whispers weakly against his neck, "Kid clearly didn't inherit his father's talent."

Markus shakes with silent laughter, relief evident as he gently pushes Simon back to see his face.

"He's _trying_," he says, attempting to sound stern but failing miserably with the ridiculously fond smile that follows the words, "I couldn't just say no to him."

"You can't say no to most things," Simon points out, and Markus shakes his head, bringing their lips together.

"Yes I can," he murmurs stubbornly in between tender, languid kisses, "Just never to _you_."

"I love you," Simon tells him, kissing him back, sighing softly against his mouth, "So much."

"I love you too," Markus whispers, fingers dancing up his arm and across his shoulder before moving down, drawing shapes on the skin of his back. Simon huffs in amusement when he feels him write out the words, shies away from the slight tickle of the touch.

"You're gay," he says affectionately, and Markus grins, kisses him through quiet laughter and murmured affection.

Simon doesn't know how long they stay there. They talk in hushed tones for hours, trading warm touches and sweet kisses, and when he wakes up from Standby a significant amount of time later, Markus is still laying next to him. He's met with ocean blue and forest green the moment he blinks his eyes open, that gentle hand still stroking made-up patterns into his skin, and when his lips curve into that small, enamoured smile Simon loves so much, he knows he's home.


	67. (E) H800 - Cheers by callunavulgari

Cheers  
callunavulgari

Summary:  
The man is older, steely gray hair pulled back into a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck. Meticulously groomed beard. He's dressed smartly enough, his uniform a little ritzier than this place would warrant. Gunmetal gray vest, tight pants. The blue of his tie is a bright splash of color against all the gray. He's got his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hands are- god, they're distracting. Large, with big knuckles and square palms. Connor gets a little stuck, staring at them.

"Are you coming in or not?"

Connor blinks, jerks his eyes up and away from those hands and-

The bartender has blue eyes. They match the spinning LED at his temple perfectly.

* * *

It's been a long fucking day.

The streets are dark, gleaming oil-slick bright where the rain water has gathered to form dirty puddles in the crags of the asphalt. A car races by, a soundclap of roaring engine and thumping bass. Connor veers closer to the buildings on one side, but it's too late. The spray of stinking water gets him from the hip down across his side.

He should go home.

He should go home to his empty apartment and curl up under sheets that still smell like the store. Forget it all. He curls his hands into fists at his side.

There's a bar, just around the corner. The neon red of the sign is bright, casting the street in shadows and an ominous red light. It'll just take a minute. Just one fucking drink, then maybe he can sleep. Get out of the rain, for a while.

Forget.

The bar is quiet. It's a Tuesday, just after one in the morning.

There's a few people lingering at the tables along the wall, but the bar itself is strangely deserted. The bartender stands behind it, methodically polishing glasses. He glances up when Connor steps into the room, and nods a simple greeting.

Connor hesitates on the threshold. For a moment, he's not sure what's off, and then he takes a closer look at the bartender.

The man is older, steely gray hair pulled back into a neat ponytail at the nape of his neck. Meticulously groomed beard. He's dressed smartly enough, his uniform a little ritzier than this place would warrant. Gunmetal gray vest, tight pants. The blue of his tie is a bright splash of color against all the gray. He's got his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows and his hands are- god, they're distracting. Large, with big knuckles and square palms.

Connor gets a little stuck, staring at them.

"Are you coming in or not?"

Connor blinks, jerks his eyes up and away from those hands and-

The bartender has blue eyes. They match the spinning LED at his temple perfectly.

Connor snorts and lets the door swing shut behind him. Immediately, the chill of the AC begins to seep into his wet clothes.

He takes a seat at the bar, directly in front of where the android is polishing his tower of glasses. He can almost feel it as every human in the room holds their breath, the tension creeping upwards and holding there.

The android glances down at him, unconcerned.

"HK800," the android says.

Connor blinks. "HK800?"

The android sighs, the sound so explosively human that Connor can only blink as it sets the glass that its polishing to the side. It clinks lightly against the tower of others like it, all gleaming clear.

"Hank," it offers, like the name will make it easier for Connor. Like this is a conversation that it has had with humans hundreds of times. It's a formality. There is something snide in the curl of the android's lips, almost but not quite obscured by the mask of bland professionalism.

What it must think of him. He's dropped to a point so low that even the androids are judging him. Connor fights the urge to bare his teeth and take a swing. That wouldn't help a goddamn thing.

"Hank, then," Connor says with a polite smile, gritting his teeth so hard that they ache. "I'll have a whiskey, please."

"On the rocks?" the android drawls, one gray eyebrow arched.

There's an ache in the back of his skull, something growing there like a scream. The thin veneer of control slips, and Connor's smile is suddenly full of teeth.

"_Neat._"

The android shrugs and reaches for a bottle of the house whiskey without asking. He thinks he should maybe take offense to that. But then again, Connor probably looks like the type of person who would drink well whiskey right now. Every part of him is soaking wet, and his shirt has gone ashen with dirt all across the right side where the puddle hit him.

His hands are itching for something to do where he's got them tucked against his thighs, so he pulls out the damp pack of reds he'd stolen off Reed's desk earlier that night. He shakes a cigarette loose and waves it at the android as it - he? - pours.

"This the kind of bar you're allowed to smoke in?" he asks, already flicking idly at the lighter.

The android sets the whiskey down in front of Connor, then wordlessly passes him an ashtray.

The urge to thank him sits heavy and awkward on Connor's tongue. The revolution has been clear about a lot of things - androids are to be treated as people. They're to have jobs, a living wage. Breaking one is to all intents and purposes the same as manslaughter now. But the little things have slipped through the cracks a bit.

The silence has gone on too long, though. It would be weird to thank him now.

Connor lights the cigarette and tries not to stare. The people behind him seem to have resumed their conversations, the silence of the place nowhere near as oppressive as it was before. There's a television in one corner of the room that's playing the news, muted. The jukebox taking up a large portion of the west wall is playing something quiet and incredibly out of date.

"So," Connor says, taking a sip of his whiskey. He does his best not to wrinkle his nose at the burn.

"So?" the android -_ Hank_ \- echoes.

Connor swishes the liquid around in the glass, grimaces, and throws it back. "Thought that the bartender's supposed to keep the patrons entertained?"

"You're thinking of a stripper," Hank says, and sets another glass to the side. Wordlessly, he moves to grab the bottle of whiskey. He stares Connor down as he pours, all that narrow-eyed focus on him. "I'm not obligated to speak to you."

Connor raises an eyebrow, smiles politely, and throws this one back too. He holds out his glass for more, throat still burning.

Hank hesitates, then sighs, pouring him a third. This time, he pointedly sets the bottle out of reach.

"Fine," he says, the boredom heavy in his voice. "What do you want to talk about?"

Connor shrugs and takes a drag of his cigarette. "Whatever."

Hank hums in the back of his throat and grabs a dish towel off the counter. He begins to wipe down the bar with the same level of meticulous detail he'd used on the glasses. He glances at Connor, blue eyes sweeping him up and down. Connor feels himself begin to flush as they linger across his chest, where the white shirt has surely gone almost transparent. He fights the urge to cross his arms across his nipples.

"The weather, I'm guessing, is quite bad," Hanks says, his flat tone just this side of mocking.

Connor can't help himself. He laughs.

He catches the flash of surprise in Hank's eyes, sees the LED at his temple flicker yellow before the calm blue overtakes it again.

"Yep," he says, a glimmer of warmth growing in his chest. "The weather is pretty shitty."

Connor comes back to Jimmy's the next week. And then the week after that.

He tries not to go too often, just on the days bad enough that he knows sleeping will be a touch too hard to try sober. Hank seems to be a fixture of the place, if a recent one judging by the way people still flock to the tables instead of the bar itself.

He's not what Connor would have expected from an android. For one, he's kind of a dick.

But he also starts to anticipate what Connor needs before he can even say anything. The first day that Hank reaches for the woodford instead of the house whiskey, there's still rust colored stains beneath Connor's cuticles. It's a bad day, and his hands are shaking as he brings the whiskey to his lips.

Hank watches him solemnly, his gaze shrewd and even. Connor doesn't know too much about androids. He doesn't know a whole lot about how they work, what makes them tick. Never even paid much attention to them, really. So he can only guess at how much Hank is picking up just from looking at him.

His hands are shaking so bad that he can't even light his fucking cigarette.

"Here," Hank says, and Connor blinks as a cool hand extracts the lighter from his grip. He looms over Connor, and Connor wordlessly leans across the bar towards him. Hank's hands are steady as he reaches out and brings the trembling flame up to the tip of the cigarette. His eyes are dark.

"Breathe," he says, something like amusement in his voice, and Connor inhales gratefully, the cigarette flaring to life between them.

He smokes in silence for a moment. His hands are still shaky as Hank passes the lighter back to him and resumes his night time ritual of wiping the bar.

"What did you do before this?" Connor asks, in a rush, because he just can't take the silence anymore. Not tonight.

Hank raises an eyebrow at him. "You mean before the revolution?"

His lip curls when he says it. Connor frowns.

"I guess," Connor says, taking another drag.

Hank sighs, setting his hands palms down on the bar. He stares at them for a long time, LED a solid yellow as his twenty-thousand dollar brain chews on whatever he wants to say. Connor shifts, a little awkwardly, and wonders if maybe he shouldn't have asked. If that type of question was off limits when it came to androids.

Just when he's thinking about taking it back, Hank opens his mouth and says, "I was a hunt-kill model. Prototype. First and last of my kind."

Connor stares at him. Whatever he'd been thinking, it wasn't_ that._

Hank meets his eyes.

"I fucked up." He sweeps an arm across the bar, as if to say, _obviously._

"How?"

Hank's eyes flash, and his jaw sets.

"Remember when I said that I don't_ have_ to talk to you?" he snaps, and Connor's eyes shoot up towards his LED. Still yellow.

The silence creeps in around them, tense. Connor downs his whiskey, then nudges it forward for more. Hank pours him another drink. The lines around his mouth are tight, his back stiff. For some reason, Connor never really thought that androids could be uncomfortable.

"I fucked up," Hank says again. His mouth twists. "A kid died. Nearly got me decommissioned. Would have, if the revolution hadn't happened when it did."

"So you decided to become a bartender?"

Hank scoffs, and before Connor can blink, snatches the smoldering cigarette out of his fingers. He brings it to his lips, something defiant in his eyes as he inhales, then lets the smoke out all at once, fogging the air between them. There's a nasty little smile on his lips as he leans in, tilting one hip up against the bar as he passes the cigarette back to Connor.

"There wasn't really much_ deciding_ done. They saved me from the scrap heap, then gave me a job. Simple as that."

"But-"

Hank shoots him a glare. He sets the bottle on the bar between them, and straightens up again. "Shut up and drink your fucking whiskey."

It isn't a habit. Not quite. Can't be. Connor shows up once, maybe twice a week. Talks to Hank. Drinks. Smokes. Tries not to get too distracted by the way Hank's hands curl around the neck of the whiskey bottle.

He doesn't talk about the job much, but he does talk about little things. How he moved to Detroit, how the apartment is too small, too unlived in. How half his coworkers are fucking assholes and the other half resents him for getting the royal treatment just because he came out of the other side of the academy as some kind of prodigy.

"That a human thing?" Hanks asks him. "Seems to me that if you're good at the job, maybe you should get the royal fucking treatment."

They're huddled in the alleyway out back, blocked in by a dumpster that reeks of week old booze, the sour-sweet tang of fermentation hanging heavy in the humid night air. There are brick walls to either side of them and it feels claustrophobic, to not have a second way out.

Connor's not sure if it's a human thing. Jealousy always seemed pretty universal to him.

He takes a deep drag of the cigarette they've been passing back and forth, and gives it back to Hank.

His shoulderblades scrape against the wall he's leaning against when he shrugs.

"Think jealousy might be an everyone thing. Are you jealous of the androids up there?" He gestures, where the distant gleaming tower that once was Cyberlife looms on the horizon. They'd converted it into apartments, he'd read somewhere. Makeshift hospital in the basement, where androids could go for thyrium when they were running low or repairs when they didn't trust a human to do it. "You know," he adds. "The ones who started it all?"

Hank snorts, cigarette perched between his teeth. He inhales and the tip flares orange.

"You couldn't pay me to be Marcus right now," he says. "I'd rather be scrap than deal with that shit."

Connor arches an eyebrow and takes the cigarette when it's passed back to him. It's burned down low, nearly to the filter, so he takes one last drag then stubs it out on wall he's propped up against. "Why?"

Hank moves past him, gets the back door open, and props it open with his body. He glances back at Connor over his shoulder and tells him with a wry little smile. "Negotiation ain't exactly my strong suit, if you hadn't noticed."

Connor follows him inside. "Thought you were designed for it."

"I was designed to_ hunt_," Hank says, and Connor swallows, a shiver running down his spine. The look in Hank's eyes, the way he says it, low and dangerous, is an entirely different kind of distraction, and Connor isn't paying the best attention to his surroundings, so when he stumbles over a misplaced floor mat, he's not entirely surprised.

What he_ is_ surprised by is the way that Hank's hands catch him around the hips and tug him upright without a second's pause, like he was moving before Connor even started to fall.

"Thanks," Connor murmurs, and doesn't think about how breathy his voice sounds, how Hank's hands against his skin _burns._ Hank squeezes gently, thumb brushing over the patch of skin where Connor's shirt has gotten rucked up, then lets go.

"Not a problem," he says, and strides out past Connor, where he inserts himself behind the bar in his usual place like nothing ever happened. He starts polishing glasses. "Can I pour you another?"

Connor swallows. "Please."

Connor is still there half an hour after the last patron's cleared out. This isn't altogether unusual. Sometimes he stays late, drinking more to pass the time than out of any true desire to get drunk. He watches the people who come in, the ones who still linger at the tables instead of coming over to the bar, who flinch when Hank comes over to take their damn order.

Sometimes he and Hank play cards, but more often than not, he just annoys Hank until it's time to leave.

This time, when Hank turns to look at him after the last guy has thrown down his money and vanished out the door, his eyes are narrowed. They take in _everything_, from the way Connor's not quite steady on his bar stool to the alcohol-induced flush of his cheeks, and then he leans over and snatches Connor's drink out from under him.

"Hey," Connor protests.

The protest dies a quick, quiet death when Hank brings the glass up to his lips. He doesn't drink, just touches his mouth to the rim of the glass, where Connor's mouth has left a smudge there. There's a flicker of pink, a tongue swiping over the rim of the glass.

Connor's mouth goes dry.

"You're drunk," Hank tells him, accusatory.

"That is what happens when humans drink," Connor says, aiming for serious and completely failing when Hank turns a stink face on him.

"I'm quite aware," Hank says flatly, and pours the rest of the whiskey down the sink.

Connor gives a little cry of protest, but Hank just glares at him. "You know damn well that there's a limit. And you're well over it."

"Mm," Connor sighs agreeably, leaning back in his chair. "Yeah. Probably."

Hank stares him down a little longer. Connor doesn't know what he's thinking, doesn't know what's going on in there, but he feels good tonight. The whiskey's left his head light and everything is a little too blurry, the neon lights pressing in around him like a warm blanket.

"Jesus fuck," Hank grunts, and rubs the heel of his palm across the bridge of his nose. "Fucking humans."

Fucking humans.

Connor isn't _quite_ drunk enough to ask him if that's something Hank's ever felt like doing, but he's close enough to think it, which means he's too fucking drunk.

"It's okay," he says, pushing himself up and off the chair with a quiet groan. The feeling rushes back to his legs when he hits his feet, and he sways against the bar just long enough for Hanks' hand to dart out, getting a fistful of Connor's collar before he can do something stupid like hit the damn ground.

"Dammit, Connor," Hank snaps, and Connor goes still, his chest pressed uncomfortably against the bar. His dick twitches in his pants.

"Sorry," he says.

Hank makes a low, tsking noise and slowly lets go of Connor's shirt. He thrusts a threatening finger into Connor's face. Connor nearly goes cross-eyed trying to focus on it. "You stay right the fuck there."

"Yes, sir," Connor says, and throws a sloppy little salute.

Hank stalks off, muttering something under his breath. Probably more disparaging comments about his species. Connor doesn't quite get himself situated in his chair again, but he does prop himself up against it, half clinging to the edge of the bar as he watches Hank stomp around, shutting off lights, closing out the register, getting the lemons and cherries seran-wrapped and tucked into the fridge.

Everything Hank does is loud, his LED a solid yellow against his temple as he jerks nozzles off of bottles and drops them into a bin to soak in antibacterial soap overnight.

"Should I lock the doors?" Connor asks tentatively.

Hank shakes his head. "Nobody else is dumb enough to come in here at three in the damn morning."

They lapse back into silence, and Connor has nothing else to focus on, so he's drawn to the single curl hanging loose across Hank's forehead. His gaze lingers a little overlong when Hank crouches to pick up a bus tub full of liquor, his biceps bulging, the seams of his shirt straining.

Connor licks his lips and has to look away.

He is approaching sober, or at the very least, coming back down to tipsy by the time Hank comes to a stop at Connor's elbow, gaze still accusatory. He's flipped the sign to closed and locked the doors, rather firmly.

"Come on," he growls, and gets a hand around Connor's arm.

Connor is tugged, not very nicely, to the back of the bar where a staircase has been hiding around the corner near the bathrooms. Hank brushes a curtain to the side and begins to tow him up the stairs.

Connor licks his lips again. "So, not that I'm complaining, but where are we going?"

"Upstairs," Hank tells him. _Obviously._

"Okay." Connor blinks. "But why?"

There's a door at the top of the stairs, and Hank takes a moment to prop Connor up against the wall there before he grabs the keys hanging from his belt and unlocks it. The space beyond the door is quiet and dark, but Connor can make out the shadows of furniture as Hank manhandles him into the room.

He flicks a light.

"There's a dog," Connor says, feeling stupid.

"Uh huh," Hank says, closing the door behind them and pushing past Connor. He vanishes around the corner, and Connor can hear the buzz of another light being turned on.

"There's a _big dog_."

Hank sticks his head back out, holding an empty dog bowl in his hand.

"His name's Sumo."

Connor keeps his back to the wall, scooting around the perimeter of the room towards Hank. Distantly, he's aware of the rest of the apartment - the too clean living room that houses little more than a slate gray couch and a coffee table. There's a wilting palm tree tucked into one corner, just far enough away from the window that it's probably not getting enough light.

But there's also a _giant fucking dog_ staring him down. It's ninety-five percent fur, but big and bulky enough that if it stood up on its hind legs it might actually be taller than him. It watches Connor with the biggest, wettest brown eyes that he's ever seen.

After a moment, it lumbers to its feet and woofs softly.

"Nice doggie," Connor says, a bit dumbly as it pads towards him. It isn't growling at least.

To his left, Hank snorts.

"Sumo isn't going to hurt you, kid," Hank tells him. Then, "Sumo. Food."

He disappears into the other room, and after another moment of curious contemplation, the dog follows him.

Connor swallows, and tries to decide if it's a good idea or not to follow them. He could probably still make a run for it. Might fall down the stairs, but he could do it.

"You coming?" Hank calls from the other room.

Connor doesn't move. "Not sure yet."

Another snort, louder, and then the unmistakable sound of kibble being poured into a bowl. "Are you seriously afraid of my dog?"

"Maybe," Connor tells him, half serious.

He edges around the corner and into the next room.

The kitchen is just as neat as the living room had been. There's a kitchen table that looks like it never gets used, and shiny appliances that look like they get used even less. The only sign of life is the bag of dog food that Hank's got clutched in his hands.

"Kitchen doesn't get used much, huh?" Connor asks with an awkward little slide towards them. The dog doesn't look away from the kibble that it's wolfing down with alarming speed.

Hank pulls open a cabinet at random and sets the bag of dog food inside. The only other thing in the cabinet is another bag of dog food and a couple of cans of wet food for good measure. When he's done that, he turns to look at Connor disbelievingly.

"I'm a fucking android. We don't eat."

Connor slowly takes a seat at the table, feeling unsteady on his feet all of a sudden. The chair scrapes loudly against the linoleum. "Don't or can't?"

Hank narrows his eyes. "Don't, can't. Doesn't make much of a difference. I don't need to, so I don't do it."

"Guess it would be a waste of money," Connor murmurs, staring at the dog's tail, which is thumping steadily against Hank's calf. As he watches, Hank stoops down and scrubs a hand through the dog's fur indulgently. The tail thumps faster.

"Why?" Hank asks. "Did you want a snack?"

Connor shrugs and sprawls backwards in the chair. He rubs a hand across his eyes. He's fucking exhausted all of a sudden. He really should go home.

"I should go home," he says.

When Connor looks up again, Hank is watching him again, back propped against the kitchen counter. His arms are crossed across his broad chest and he looks… like a lot of things. Intimidating. Huge. Like he could throw Connor around the room and not even break a sweat.

Hunt-kill model. He was designed, a state of the art prototype, to hunt people or androids down and make sure they never troubled the general populace again. God, he _could_ throw Connor around the room.

"Think you can walk properly yet?" Hank asks, and Connor blinks.

"What?"

Hank scoffs, crossing the room to hook one huge hand in the fabric of Connor's shirt, easily tugging him to his feet. Connor staggers, and gets a hand hooked around Hank's forearm to steady himself. The flesh under his arm is warm, unyielding, but not like plastic or metal. It feels like skin. Like real muscle, blood, and bone.

Hank's eyes are narrowed. Connor squeezes once, then lets go.

"I can walk," Connor tries to tell him, but Hank just rolls his eyes.

"Sure you can," he says, and lets go of Connor's shirt.

They stand there in the kitchen for a moment, the only sound around them the faint hum and gurgle of the refrigerator and the scrape of kibble over metal.

"I can stand, at least."

"Progress," Hank tells him scathingly. "You're truly a paragon of your species."

Connor lets out a quiet, annoyed huff. "All right, fine. So I drank too much."

"Damn right." Hank sighs, dragging a hand across his face. "Just. Take the damn bed. Sleep it off."

Connor's pulse jumps, and he sees the way that Hank's eyes narrow all over again, how they flick from his neck to his face and back again. Knows that it registered, that whatever software Hank's got in that head of his saw that.

Maybe he doesn't know what it means, he tells himself.

"I couldn't do that," Connor tells him, shifting awkwardly on the balls of his feet.

Hank eyes him for a moment longer, then turns away. "Not like I use the damn thing anyway."

When Connor continues to linger, Hank turns to glare at him again. "Do I really have to carry you there myself?"

Connor hisses, dick twitching helplessly in his pants and moves to- what? Cover it up? He can't hide the way his breathing has gone unsteady, how his heart is probably speeding up, can't hide the burning red of his cheeks as Hank's eyes flick downwards, his eyebrows rising.

"Yeah, okay," he says instead, and goes in search of Hank's bedroom, feeling eyes on his back the whole way.

Connor doesn't go back to Jimmy's for over a month. He buries himself in work, tries to ignore his shitty coworkers and just get shit done. But it's hard. Couple weeks of not quite human contact, and Connor doesn't remember how to survive without it anymore.

He's never really had friends. Too focused. Too driven. Makes for a great student, but turns out, not so great of a human being.

So he coasts on fumes. On the bad nights, Connor doesn't sleep at all.

Detroit is a big goddamn city, and there's a lot of shady alleys. A lot of people who think they know better than others. Even now, nearly a year after the revolution, androids still turn up broken. Missing. Hopelessly unfixable, their chest and jaws crushed, blue blood streaked across the pavement.

Connor can't say he didn't notice it before. He might have come to Detroit after the revolution, but he'd seen the messy aftermath. Now that he knows one of them, it's different. Before it was easy to see the bodies of the androids that turned up dead in dumpsters as little more than broken dolls. Discarded after use, like the barbies some kids found on playgrounds with their heads torn off, plastic all scraped up.

They weren't broken dolls anymore.

It's a shitty Friday in October when Connor finally finds his way back to Jimmy's.

He's already a little drunk - drunk enough to think that it's a good idea to stumble into the bar and seat himself down in front of Hank like nothing's changed. He's tired and fucked up from not sleeping, his hair curling too much in the front, probably stinking of blood and dirt and the fucking booze that he'd started drinking in front of a cornerstore before he realized he wasn't that goddamn desperate.

"Hi," he says, sprawling a little in his seat.

Hank blinks at him. "Hi."

Then he reaches for the whiskey. House, this time.

Connor drinks too much, but this time he does it slowly. He smokes cigarette after cigarette, his shoulders hunched up to his ears, not really talking. The patrons are starting to get used to Hank, he thinks, watching as more and more of them sit down at the actual damn bar. He should be frustrated, because they're monopolizing all of Hank's time, calling out orders and even chatting with him at points.

The oppressive atmosphere of the previous months is all but gone, leaving something almost friendly in its wake.

It's nice, probably.

Connor watches Hank while he drinks, noting the way that he's not quite as stiff. He doesn't smile, but there is some warmth there now.

Except when he looks at Connor. Then his eyes are cold again, icy, judging each shot that Connor tips back. But he keeps pouring when Connor asks. One drink, then two, then four.

The time creeps by, glacially slow. The world feels sluggish, gone blurry and undefined around the edges. Connor watches the clock tick onwards, measures the time as people coming and going, as more people start to trickle out than in.

When they're alone, Hank wordlessly goes through the motions of closing up the bar. Connor watches him close out the register. Soak the nozzles. Clean the glasses. Put away the fruit.

And then Hank is in front of him again, one wry eyebrow arched towards the ceiling.

"What the fuck are you doing, Connor?" he asks.

Connor doesn't _know_. He has no fucking clue. He thinks he might even tell Hank as much, staggering to his feet as Hank's eyes take him in, disassembling him right down to his most basic, human components.

He doesn't really remember Hank dragging him around the corner and up the stairs, doesn't really register as the door closes behind them. Hank's hands are on him, distracting, not quite gentle on his hips as he shoves him over the threshold.

They don't kiss.

Hank's eyes are narrow, shrewd, so icy cold as he stares Connor down that he can't help but shiver.

"Please," he says, and doesn't know what he's asking for.

Except he does, because when Hank sneers and reaches for his clothing, Connor goes boneless against him. He lets Hank jerk his shirttails up and out of his pants, lets those cool fingers slide relentlessly under the shirt to touch skin.

Hank tugs his shirt up and over his head, buttons popping off where the fabric pulls too tightly. Then Hank is reaching for his pants, flipping open the tab and jerking down the zipper so he can get a hand inside, wrapping warmly around Connor's cock.

Connor makes a noise. It's not a very respectable one, the sound punched out of him, half groan, half whimper.

He's boneless, slack and wanting, open mouthed as Hank watches him, methodically jerking Connor's cock to full hardness before he shoves the pants down his thighs. A hand, huge and warm, reaches around to squeeze his ass.

"Is this what you wanted?" Hank jeers, one finger circling the rim of Connor's hole. There's a flush of angry blue across his cheeks. His hair is coming loose from its usually immaculate tail, curling against his forehead. His eyes are blue. His LED is not. "To lay back and take it? From a fucking machine?"

Connor whines, back arching as Hank dips the tip of his thumb inside, just enough to hold him open.

"That is it, isn't it?" Hanks says softly. There's a touch of triumph to his gaze as he fucks Connor open on his thumb. Something mean, too. Disdain, slowly unfurling in the curve of his lips. He shakes his head. "All this time, coming to this bar. Talking to me like you thought I was some kind of human, and you just wanted something like me to hold you up and take you apart."

"No," Connor gasps, but can't help the twist of his hips when Hank adds another finger.

"No?" Hank says with a laugh. "_Look at you_."

Connor's cock jerks against his belly as Hank drags his pants the rest of the way down his thighs. They make it as far as his knees before they tangle, stuck on his shoes. His cheeks feel hot, and he- god, he wants to protest. Wants to say that Hank's got it all wrong, that this is more. That he's more.

But then Hank is flipping him over, until the arm of the couch is digging firmly into his belly, his ass high in the air. Hank pulls his fingers out, then leans over and spits, the cool slippery slide of the saliva trailing down the curve of his ass.

"All right, Connor," he says. "This what you want? I'll give it to you."

No, Connor should say. It isn't like that.

Instead, he says, "Please."

Hank holds him down when he fucks him. He works Connor open on his fingers, finds something slick and cool that makes the glide of them butter-smooth inside of him. He fingers him open until Connor is crying out, hips jerking helplessly against the side of the couch.

Connor isn't quite so gone that he can't hear the sound of a zipper being drawn down behind him, but he is gone enough that the sound of it makes him shiver and shake, his entire body trembling, drawn out, _wanting._ Hank braces a warm palm against the center of his back, and Connor can hear him jerking himself with that same slick he'd used on his fingers.

When he presses inside, Connor _keens_.

There's sweat on his forehead, at the back of his neck, making the hair curl there from the damp. His fingers tighten against the couch cushions, scrabbling for purchase, and he feels so fucking beautifully full that it's all he can do not to come then and there.

"That's it, sweetheart," Hank says, croons really. He's hot where he presses up against Connor's back. Connor wonders if he can overheat.

"Please," Connor says, and then maybe, "Yes."

Each thrust makes him feel like something is short-circuiting inside of him, the heavy press of Hank against his back enough to make him whine, unashamed, panting and open-mouthed. Hank hooks two fingers into his mouth when he gets too loud, and Connor sighs and shudders, then _sucks_.

It feels like it lasts forever, like it's going to last forever, Hank relentlessly fucking him into a pile of goo while Connor's body_ throbs_, heavy and over-sensitized, too much, too good, just like he thought it would be, just like he wanted. He feels very human, sloppy and wrecked, drawn out to the sum of his parts, an exquisite organic mass of firing neurons and shaking limbs.

Hank groans against the back of his neck, bites down there, and Connor?

Connor's back arches.

He comes, harder than he's ever come before, and when he comes down from it, Hank is still fucking into him, harder even, losing the rhythm of it as he hisses something unintelligable into Connor's shoulder.

And then he stills, groaning again, louder.

Connor is shaking.

Hank slips out of him, moves back and away, leaving behind sticky trails of something down the backs of Connor's thighs.

Connor didn't know that androids even came equipped with something like jizz.

"Get up," Hank tells him, and Connor shudders, but moves.

He doesn't know what he looks like when he meets Hank's eyes. He knows that his face is probably red, that there's pillow creases etched into one side of his cheek, and that his mouth is still wet.

Hank looks at him, and Connor lets himself look back.

Hank's hair is loose around his shoulders, and there's a flush of blue across his cheeks. He's still wearing his damn uniform, the vest and dress shirt hopelessly crumpled, tie askew. As Connor watches, he jerks his pants back up around his muscled thighs, hiding his softening dick from view.

Connor licks his lips.

"Hank," he says, his voice choked.

"Go to bed," Hank tells him, and for the first time that night, the anger seems to drain out of him. His shoulders slump. He sighs, scrubbing a hand across his face.

Connor shakes his head and plants his feet. Lets his lips twist defiantly.

Hank stares at him. Sneers a little, but even that looks tired. "What? You gonna walk home?"

"No," Connor says. "But I'm not going unless you come with me."

"To bed?" Hank asks him, sounding disbelieving.

"No, to the goddamn moon," Connor snaps. "Yes, to the damn bed."

Hank blinks. "Why?"

"Because." Connor glares, finally kicking free of his pants and shoes. Now that it's over, he feels stupid, wet and sticky, and fucking _vulnerable_. "I want you there."

"You want me there," Hank repeats, squinting, like it doesn't compute. "You know I don't sleep, right?"

Connor shrugs. "Can you do something like it? Sleep mode? Hibernate? Turn yourself off, then back on again?"

"Technically," Hanks says, slowly.

"Then I want you there."

Hank is still looking at him like he's stupid, like he's fucking faulty. And Connor is tired. He's a fucking mess every given day of his godforsaken life and this is what he wants. A surly ass android with a giant bear of a dog who lives above a bar.

Connor crosses the space between them, and goes up on his toes, already reaching.

Hank's eyes flare wide just before Connor kisses him. And then they slide closed, his LED finally, blissfully flickering blue.

Connor makes the kiss soft.

Sweet.

Everything he couldn't say with his entire body keyed up to eleven.

When he pulls away, Hank's eyes flutter open.

"What was that?" he asks.

Connor smiles at him. Says, "Come to fucking bed."


	68. (G) SHERWITHAN - redamancy by katarasvev

redamancy  
katarasvevo

Summary:  
Sherwin falls for the ocean-eyed boy in five different ways.

* * *

**i. ocean eyes**

Sherwin is twelve when the ocean-eyed boy graces his class. His arrival births a strange, foreign warmth in his chest, the kind that thrives like a garden of unchecked weeds. At first, he panics whenever his heart skips a beat in Jonathan's presence, and his legs turn into jelly, because it can't be what he thinks it is—it just can't. He's only a boy, much too young to like anyone in a more-than-friends kind of way. Kids his age shouldn't be preoccupied with the matters of the heart—it's foreign territory he has no business exploring.

Confusion is what it is, Sherwin tells himself firmly; boys aren't supposed to like other boys. If anything, it's possible that he feels something for Mariko instead, the willowy girl with lily-white hands and cherry petals for lips. She's always mooning over Jonathan, giving him shy gazes and soft touches. Maybe he's just torn over the idea of Mariko liking Jonathan and not him. That has to be the case.

Sherwin spends a few weeks wrestling with his heart's erratic behaviour, hoping that it will soon come to pass. Lots of things fade with time, and this one shouldn't be an exception—only it is, which he figures out the hard way. Fear sinks in when the feelings intensify, showing no signs of abating. This is all wrong. He's not supposed to experience a fluttering in his stomach whenever Jonathan looks at him, nor is he supposed to look forward to it.

_Why does he?_

In the end, it is Mariko who inadvertently makes him arrive at a gut-twisting realization. It takes place during a warm spring afternoon, among a gilded sprawl of glistening blooms. The whole class is out on a field trip, the teacher guiding them through a sleepy, mountainside reserve. _Look, a bluebird! See that bubbling brook? Carlos, don't disturb the deer_. _Not again, Roshar._ Most of her words don't register in Sherwin's mind, because it's kind of hard to concentrate when both Mariko and Jonathan are standing in front of him, deep in conversation.

His blood warms at the sight, and his stomach clenches, and a faraway voice shouts out "_Look at me instead_" across an imaginary chasm, and he wants to bury himself into the ground—_god, why does this have to be so difficult?_

The thoughts swarm in his head like buzzing bees, drowning out most sounds and narrowing down his focus to the twiggy ground that he nearly bumps into Mariko. Luckily, a hand grabs at the back of his shirt, steadying him.

"Better watch where you're going," the class president, Elias, warns him good-naturedly. "You could've been hurt." He glances around at their fellow classmates, who have stopped as per the teacher's instruction.

Sherwin nods meekly, embarrassed. Elias claps him on the shoulder before jogging over to the teacher's side. A few metres away, Mariko mumbles something to Jonathan, and then they both halt, knee-high grass tickling their legs. Sherwin tries to shuffle away, but Mariko approaches him and asks, "Hey, Sherwin, mind if you hold this?" A paint-splotched satchel rests on her hands.

Sherwin blinks. "Uh, sure," he says, taking the bag off her hands.

Mariko fishes out her camera and flashes him a thumbs up. "Perfect," she says, turning back to Jonathan. "Hey, move back a little or I won't get a good shot of you." She walks a distance away and kneels on the ground, lifting the camera to her line of sight.

Sherwin's gaze falls onto Jonathan.

In movies, it's common for dramatic scenes to pan out in slow-motion, showing a close-up of the person of interest's face, and it's exactly what happens in this moment. Sunlight washes over Jonathan, illuminating his raven-black hair and ocean eyes—those deep, blue ocean eyes that bring to mind calm waters, crushed sapphires, depthless pools, warm summer days. Time unfolds a little differently, each second drawn out to near-infinity.

The realization strikes Sherwin with the subtlety of melting glaciers—slow but sure. And when their gazes meet, it hammers home the feeling, etching it onto his heart. The sun burns high and hot, the heat dulling most of his other senses save for his sight, which is clearer than it's ever been.

Jonathan's eyes are easy to get lost into. The spell doesn't break even when Jonathan looks away, and Sherwin absently presses his hand against his sternum, heart thudding a mad rhythm on his chest. He can no longer ignore the fact that he has does have a crush the size of the moon and all its nearby stars put together.

"Oh," he whispers to himself, a mild breeze swallowing up the word.

He likes Jonathan, not Mariko. It has always been Jonathan, not Mariko or any other girl.

He has truly fallen for the ocean-eyed boy.

His heart sighs.

* * *

**ii.** **hands**

It doesn't take long before the emotion swells to the width of Jupiter.

Spring slowly bleeds into bright summer, and Jonathan experiences a surge of popularity. Now, it's not only Mariko who fawns over him but a whole army of girls. The whole thing is utterly unsurprising; perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect eyes, Jonathan is the most handsome boy he's ever seen. Intelligent, too—he has one of the highest grades in their year, despite coming in late. Best of all, he's kind. He's always so impossibly nice, greeting everyone with a radiant smile, holding doors when necessary, offering to help out teachers. It's no wonder people are drawn to him like moths to flame, like tides to a shoreline. Jonathan just has that _attractive _quality, capable of pulling anyone to his sphere.

And it hurts.

It hurts because he has to keep his heart under lock and key, festering in the thrall of his ribcage. It hurts because he doesn't stand a chance. It hurts because every time he looks Jonathan in the eye he dissolves into a stuttering, blushing mess. It hurts because he likes someone who just so happens to be a boy and out of his league. It hurts because he's scared of what his parents, his friends, the world will think of him.

It hurts.

Sherwin hasn't even had a proper conversation with Jonathan. If they can't ever be more, at least they could be friends—but Sherwin has yet to muster enough courage for that attempt. Every time he contemplates trying, his mind brings up a thousand different ways those interactions could go horribly wrong, all of them resulting in Jonathan disliking him.

Consequently, the school year comes to a fruitless close, and Sherwin spends his holidays with a nagging feeling looming over his head like a pesky cloud. No amount of wishing manages to disperse it, so he lets it stew into a tangle of thorns that never misses an opportunity to dig into his skin. Sherwin thinks of what could have happened, but there's always a someday. He'll get there eventually.

* * *

Sherwin turns thirteen on a cloudless, indigo evening, surrounded by paper streamers, wisps of candle smoke, gooey slices of cake, and gifts. It's a joyful affair that lasts well up until the early hours of mornings; he and a few friends stay up late to gorge themselves on cold pizza and video games, only stopping when Elisha drifts off halfway through a boring cutscene. That's when he calls it a night, yawning as he watches Shin slump onto their crumpled chip bags, the sickly glow of the television rendering the room a weird, alien version of reality.

Sherwin doesn't sleep, though. Instead he sits by the window, gazing out onto the street below.

He's thirteen. Not a kid anymore but a teenager.

It doesn't feel much different from being twelve, but it also does at the same time, and he feels that he's lost an important safeguard, worrying him because should his feelings ever slip out they will no longer be dismissed as confusion but an unnatural choice.

Expired adolescence is absolutely terrifying.

* * *

Seventh grade begins, and on the first day back, Sherwin's mother drops him off early. Drowsy with sleep, Sherwin shuffles his way to the school grounds, dimly aware of the stuffiness of his collar and the slight pinch of his new uniform. The scent of freshly mown grass hangs in the air like a mild exhale of perfume, and it's really nice so he decides to wait on the bench near the giant oak tree. His friends aren't here yet, and it looks like it will take a while for most of the students to arrive.

Sherwin idly traces the engravings on the weathered wood, chuckling at a sloppy heart containing the words "_Z + K together forever!". _He finds more initials on the bench, and it's actually entertaining to think up of fun backstories for each couple—especially the crossed out ones—that he doesn't immediately notice a shift in the wind and a pair of approaching footsteps.

"Hey, Sherwin, mind if I sit here?" a soft voice asks.

Sherwin nearly topples off the bench. Suddenly, the world takes on a sharper, brighter tint, and his heart kicks into full gear, thumping wildly. _He called me by my name_, he thinks, dazed. _My name_.

Jonathan is here. And he's looking at Sherwin with that megawatt smile, absolutely melting him. Sherwin tries to say something, but the words lodge in his throat like a sticky swallow of rice. He nods instead, wide-eyed and shy.

Jonathan gives him another smile and sits beside him.

It's getting harder and harder to breathe. Sherwin bunches his hands into his shirt, heat flooding his face. The scenarios crop up in the forefront of his mind, reminding him that he has Jonathan all to himself now so it would be a really good time to talk to him, because who knows when he'll have this kind of opportunity again, surely it won't be tomorrow or the day after that.

Fortunately, Jonathan spares him the ordeal of initiating conversation.

"How was your summer?" he asks.

Miraculously, Sherwin's throat unsticks. "Oh, it - it was good. Really good. Super good," he stammers out. "A-Although I didn't actually do much. Just the usual stuff. Nothing exciting." He lets out a high, breathy laugh. "How about you? I'm - I'm sure you must've had a better holiday than me. I mean, I spent most of my time cooped up in my house, and - oh gosh, am I talking too much? Sorry, it's just a thing I do—" Sherwin breaks off, flushing a deep red, thinking that this is the part where Jonathan excuses himself, but then—

Jonathan lights up, ocean eyes and all.

The butterflies in his stomach swoon.

"No, it's fine," Jonathan says, smiling, shaking his head. "I didn't really do much either, to be honest."

_We're talking_, _we're really talking_.

"So, whose homeroom do you think you'll be in?" Jonathan asks. "They didn't put it on my schedule. Weird."

_I hope I'm with you._

"I don't know either. Well, it doesn't matter to me," Sherwin says. A half-lie at best.

"Hope we're in the same one."

Sherwin's pulse picks up speed. Did he mishear that? Is he in some sort of trance? The sentence reverberates in his head a million times in the span of a single heartbeat that he's sure he must be dreaming. "Me too," he squeaks, blinking.

Their gazes lock. And just like that an invisible barrier between them has lifted, and Sherwin feels much more at ease around him. They make small talk, Jonathan carrying most of the conversation because Sherwin is still too tongue-tied and he knows that if he tries to say something, he'll end up going on another ramble.

Soon enough the chatter of students permeates the air, and Jonathan takes it as a cue to head back.

"I think we should go in," Jonathan says, rising up from the bench.

Sherwin's gut deflates at the notion. It was going so well. This is the part where they return to their own separate ways, back into their respective social circles. Not quite out of reach, though not touching. Coldness washes over Sherwin as he forces out a nod.

Then, Jonathan does something he doesn't quite expect: he holds out his hand to Sherwin.

"You know, I really enjoyed talking to you," Jonathan says. "I don't know you a whole lot, but I think that it would be real nice to have you as a friend."

Blushing, Sherwin glances at his open hand. Shakes it.

Jonathan's touch is every bit as gentle and warm as he imagined. It sends his heart into another stuttering frenzy, and he thinks of fate, destiny, kismet.

"Friends," he whispers back, and he falls some more for the ocean-eyed boy.

* * *

**iii. voice**

The hallways are always quiet this time of the day. Come lunch time, and everyone is either out the door or stuffed in the noisy cafeteria—but since Sherwin needs to catch up on some reading for English class, he decides to look for an empty classroom where he won't be disturbed, much to Elisha and Shin's annoyance.

It's been several months since Jonathan officially became his friend, and things have been running smoothly since then. They've been doing some talking here and there, but not a whole lot, because Jonathan is a busy person and has many other friends. He has a hectic schedule ahead of him, what with the number of clubs on his plate, plus a districtwide science fair to prepare for.

(And of course, even if Sherwin doesn't have to long for him from afar anymore, he still kind of stalks him online).

The corridors on the third floor are eerily quiet. And clean; the tiles squeak underfoot. There's been this creepy rumour going around the school, about how if you listen close enough, you might hear the wail of a dead woman, and Sherwin supposes he'll just have to take the risk.

As he walks around, a gentle hum reaches him. Sherwin stops in his tracks. It's strangely familiar; there's a nostalgic quality interwoven into the sound, like it's been around since time immemorial. Hoping that it's not the dead woman or anything, he follows the sound and comes upon a messy classroom in total disarray. Pushed up against one wall are tables scattered with papers, textbooks, and other miscellaneous articles.

At the opposite end of the room, there's a dark-haired person sat cross-legged on the floor, now singing lyrics instead of humming. Sherwin's palms start to sweat.

Jonathan.

Oblivious to another presence at the doorway, the boy of his dreams continues singing, and _wow_, his voice is _amazing_. It's clear as crystal and bright as the sun, making Sherwin giddy all over but just when he starts to figure out the song the singing stops.

"Uh, hey, Sherwin, what are you doing here?" Jonathan blinks at him, eyebrows raised. A smudge of paint is smeared across his cheek, and he's holding some sort of metal contraption that's jagged at the edges.

Sherwin nearly drops the book he's holding. "Me? Oh, I was just - I was just looking for somewhere quiet to stay," he says in a rush, heat flooding his cheeks. "I see that you're doing something very important, and you probably don't want to be disturbed, so, um, I guess I'll just leave you to it, and—"

"No, it's okay. Sit here," Jonathan says firmly, putting aside the object and patting the spot beside him. "But it's fine if you want to go elsewhere. Hope my singing didn't scare you off." He scratches at his neck, letting out a nervous chuckle.

"Are you kidding me? Your voice is _killer_," Sherwin assures him, carefully manoeuvring around the mess to reach the proffered spot.

"You think so?" Jonathan flushes.

Sherwin tries not to linger over the close proximity between them. And how easy it would be to close the gap. "Absolutely." Thankful that he's no longer embarrassingly shy around Jonathan, he nudges the metal contraption. "So, is this is a rocket?"

"Yup. I've been trying to figure out how to make it run, but so far, I have nothing. My group mates haven't had any luck either, so fingers crossed we'll work out a solution before tomorrow."

Sherwin idly loops an auburn curl around his finger. "So, what's the process behind it?"

Jonathan laughs. "I'm afraid that it's boring technical stuff." He glances at the book perched on Sherwin's lap. "Still reading it?" At Sherwin's grimace, Jonathan lightly elbows him in the arm. "Don't worry; the story picks up at the fifth chapter. It's just the first fifty pages that are a real slog to get through."

"You tell me," Sherwin says, rolling his eyes. "The narrator is such a huge bore."

"Huh, I actually kind of like him, warts and all. But then again, maybe it's because I'm a book nerd."

And just like that they fall into conversation, discussing just about every topic under the sun. Jonathan tells him about his home life, about his little sister and the household dog named Dorian, about how his family plans to visit his dad's hometown in Mexico for the holidays. So Sherwin shares with him funny anecdotes, stuff he does with Elisha and Shin, and other little things like that.

Being around Jonathan is nice. Easy. As natural as breathing.

"You know, you didn't finish the song you were singing earlier on," Sherwin says towards the end of lunch period. Wrinkled chocolate bar wrappers and a half-eaten bag of gummy worms sit between them. "I'm curious about it."

Jonathan waves a hand. "It's nothing. Just a Disney song. It got stuck in my head all thanks to my sister. You'll just laugh."

"Try me." Sherwin grins at him.

"It's really embarrassing."

"Even better."

"It's a love song."

Sherwin's heart stutters. "Doesn't matter." It does.

Jonathan lets out a huff. A strand of hair falls over his face. Sherwin resists the urge to tuck it away. "You asked for it." He clears his throat. Then he throws up his hands and says, "I can't do it!"

"Yes, you can." Sherwin's own voice sounds distant to his ears.

Jonathan looks away. Sucks in a deep breath. "Okay, fine." A blush stains his cheeks.

Sherwin waits. When Jonathan finally breaks out the first note, the atmosphere takes on a dreamlike quality. A slant of light crawls over their legs, dust motes swirling in the space, the sight almost like magic—_correction_, it is, it really is.

"_So this is love ... so this is love_." His voice floats through the air the way a paper boat would sail across a lake—languid and smooth. "_So this is what makes life divine_ ..."

The words fuse into the wild rush roaring in Sherwin's ears.

_"... my heart has wings ... and I can fly_." Jonathan's cheeks are still stained a dusty pink. His ocean eyes, so full of tenderness and warmth, flit over to Sherwin's face.

Sherwin falls for him. Again.

His heart flutters, growing restless.

It wants to take flight.

* * *

**iv. lips**

Jonathan has several different smiles, and Sherwin feels that he has memorized every single one. There's the Amused Smile, which is a slight tilt of the mouth, lips parted by an inch. The Pensive Smile is almost exactly the same, except his gaze would be glazed over and eyebrows furrowed. The most frequent smile he's been giving out lately is the Apologetic Smile, reserved for whenever he turns down one of his many admirers, and there are quite a lot of them now.

Sherwin's favourite smile is the Soft Smile—even though it's like a rose. Beautiful to look at, but painful at the same time. It always occurs after the Apologetic Smile, and it heals and hurts at the same time. It heals because it's such a pretty smile, striking him breathless if he imagines that he's the cause of it. It hurts because he knows that there is a reason why Jonathan isn't going out with anyone; there's someone he likes, someone he's holding out for, and Sherwin sees it in the curve of his mouth and the softening of his expression and the way his words clump together when he's wearing that smile.

It hurts because he's liked Jonathan for this long.

Seventh grade passed by rather quickly, and they're in eighth grade now. Sherwin's crush has grown to an almost unbearable level, not helped by the fact that Jonathan grew more handsome over the holidays. Taller, too—now, he's got more than a couple of inches on Sherwin. It's funny what a short amount of time can do and will do.

"Did you see where it fell?" Jonathan asks him, leaning over the fence to stare at the rippling pond below.

They're both standing on a mini bridge that they always pass by on their way home from school—when Jonathan is walking with him, that is, and today happens to be one of those days.

"No, I didn't," Sherwin says, shaking his head. He doesn't even know what the thing is.

A look of distress steals over Jonathan's face. He continues staring at the water, fingers digging sharply into the wooden beam. Sherwin's throat constricts.

Earlier on, he caught sight of Mariko pressing an unknown object into Jonathan's palm, grinning as she did so, before leaving the school grounds. An important gift of some sort—going by the worry etched along Jonathan's features. He had looked happy to receive it, and there had been the Soft Smile on his face. For a while, Sherwin tried not to think much about Mariko and Jonathan, who have known each other for two years and are _close_ friends. Sherwin knows that Mariko definitely had—has—a crush on him, but until now, he hadn't been sure of Jonathan's feelings on that matter.

It's gotten impossible to ignore. If Jonathan is this affected by losing something of Mariko's, then ...

_He sees it now._

And it hurts.

Jonathan presses his lips together, brow furrowing. His backpack thuds on the floor, the bridge creaking as he jogs over to the edge of the pond, rolling up his sleeves and pants along the way. Despite being numb, Sherwin does the same anyway, shucking off his shoes and saying, "I'm going to help you look for it." Whatever _it _is. All he knows is that Jonathan pulled the mystery object out and accidentally dropped it as they were crossing the bridge.

Hesitation flickers in Jonathan's face. "You don't have to," he says, biting on the inside of his cheek.

"Four eyes are better than two," Sherwin says, wading into the shallow water. Ice crawls up his legs. "And you still haven't told me what you lost."

A few moments of silence pass before Jonathan answers, a little reluctantly, "A ... necklace." Shyness glazes his expression. A painful twinge erupts in Sherwin's chest. Mariko gave him a necklace. And he accepted it. It was as good as openly reciprocating her feelings.

This is the part where a normal friend would tease him about finally getting together with a girl who has obviously liked him for years. This is the part where a normal friend would clap him on the back and offer pseudo-dating advice, because a normal boy wouldn't have a crush on another boy. A normal boy wouldn't spend spare hours thinking of what it would feel like to hold another guy's hand, of what it would feel like to kiss one.

But Sherwin isn't a normal boy, so instead he nods. Feels his heart shattering inside.

A few minutes of sloshing through the pond later, Jonathan announces, "I found it!" A triumphant grin curls his mouth. A beaded string hangs from his fingers, adorned by a single charm the shape of a—

Heart.

Sherwin's throat wells up. The iciness of the water starts to freeze his entire body. "Do you like her?" he blurts out, even though he is aware of the answer.

The grin fades from Jonathan's face. Confusion simmers in his eyes—in those damn ocean eyes. "What do you mean?"

"It's Mariko, isn't it?" The words are laced with weariness and defeat and heartbreak.

Before Jonathan can open his mouth to speak, a confession slips through Sherwin's lips. "I like you," he croaks out, voice tearing at the edges. He's throwing all caution to the wind, but he can't find it in himself to stop, to shove down his feelings like he always has, because they're piercing into him like glass shards, bleeding him bone-dry. "I've always liked you. I fell for you the first time I saw you."

Jonathan freezes.

Silence fills the space around them like a fall of silk. The rippling surface of the pond flattens out into a motionless mirror. The water droplets tangled in Jonathan's hair glint, pearlescent in the soft glow of autumn. Rose red burnishes his brown cheeks, and his lips part but not even a whisper slips out. It's unfair that he has to be this handsome even when he's breaking hearts like he always does but never means to.

Jonathan isn't that type of person.

"It's always been you," Sherwin whispers, the ache in his gut expanding.

This should be the part where Jonathan backs away. This should be the part where Jonathan takes off, never once looking back. This should be the part where the sun turns blue, the sky starts weeping, and the ground cleaves open to swallow Sherwin whole.

It should be but it won't be. He won't let it be.

Jonathan stares. The necklace slips off his fingers.

Sherwin runs.

* * *

His parents are there when he gets home, shoes muddy and chest hollow. His mother rises from her favourite armchair—a striped blue thing fraying at the seams. Concern fills her face as she takes in his disheveled form.

"What's wrong, son?" his father asks, switching off the television.

"Everything," Sherwin murmurs, tired.

And that's when he breaks down, chest heaving, sobs coming out in raw, ragged stretches, tears pooling onto the floor and flooding the entire house.

And that's when he tells them about _everything,_ about how he likes boys and not girls, about how he's kind of sort of in love with his friend, about how he's sorry that he's not normal, about how his friend is probably disgusted with him now, and _please don't hate me, please don't hate me_—

"Don't think for a second that we could ever hate you," his father says, pulling him in for an embrace.

His mother wraps her arms around him, too. "You are just like everyone else. If your friend can't accept that, he's the problem and not you. Never you," she murmurs into his hair, pressing a kiss to his temple. "You're our son and we love you very much, no matter who or what you are."

Eventually, the crying ceases, and Sherwin feels that he's five again, tucked in the warm harbour of his parent's embrace, safe from the outside world, and "_We love you very much_" is the last thing on his mind before he drifts off, shell-less and hurting inside.

* * *

**v. heart**

It's raining outside. Sherwin squints through the heavy downpour, deflating inwardly at the thought of having to walk home in this weather; his mom's shift at work won't end until late at night, and his dad is presenting at a lecture hall two hours away. He can't get rides from Shin or Elisha, because they're both staying behind for volleyball practice.

Sherwin sighs. He'll have to brave the rain soon enough, whether he likes it or not. He shrugs off his backpack and plunges his arm inside it, searching for his umbrella. His fingers come across pencils, bits of paper, textbooks, but no umbrella. How could he have forgotten to bring one? Coming up empty, he lets out another sigh and presses his cheek against the door window. The action fogs up the glass. Sherwin idly traces patterns onto it, pondering over the fact that he'll be stuck here for god knows how long, and then he stops his finger when Jonathan's name starts to emerge.

At this, Sherwin's stomach twists. He swipes the fog clear and lets his hand fall to his side, clenched in a fist.

It's been two days since the confession, and Sherwin has done all that he can to avoid Jonathan. It's surprisingly easier than he thought it would be, considering they share two classes together and a spare. Plus, Jonathan hasn't tried to reach out, so there's that. Sherwin's sure he probably put off Jonathan forever, and it hurts like hell, but—

Maybe it's better off this way. Unsticking his cheek from the window, he makes a decision to look for someone with a spare umbrella when a hand falls on his shoulder.

"Hey."

Sherwin's lungs shrivel up. The urge to run away strikes him, but the moment his gaze meets Jonathan's, his resolve disintegrates into dust, heart racing up to the speed of light.

"Hi," Sherwin manages.

The boy of his dreams is staring at him with an unfathomable emotion stamped across his features. "Can I walk you home?" he asks quietly.

Hope flares in Sherwin's chest, but he wills it away. He nearly says "no", but when Jonathan gives him a small smile, it strikes him that he could never refuse Jonathan, not with those pretty eyes and megawatt smile of his. Besides, he must have something to say. Sherwin should at least hear him out.

"I don't have an umbrella," he mumbles, picking at a loose thread on his sweater.

"We can share," Jonathan offers, holding up one.

Sherwin's breath hitches in his throat. He nods, blushing. Jonathan pushes open the door, and a wet squall of air catches them in the face. The umbrella unfurls in a radial sweep, stretching out over their heads.

"You can hold it, too, if you want." Jonathan holds out the handle to him.

It suddenly occurs to Sherwin that the umbrella isn't very big, so they'll probably have to stick close to avoid getting soaked. Sherwin blinks and wraps his hand around the handle. His skin grazes Jonathan's for the briefest millisecond, but it's enough to send a line of fire searing up his arm.

He swallows, grip on the umbrella tightening.

The two of them begin their walk in silence, accompanied by the loud drum of the rain. A cacophony of thoughts swirls in Sherwin's brain. There are so many things he wants to say yet can't. He peeks at Jonathan using his peripheral vision. His mouth is pressed in a tight line, eyes focused on the road up ahead. The streetlights and the neon glare of a nearby convenience store cast iridescent swirls onto the puddles beneath their shoes.

For a moment, it feels as if Sherwin has entered a trancelike state, and that if he breathes in the wrong direction the illusion will shatter and he'll be back at school. But when Jonathan's elbow bumps against his, he's reminded that this scenario is in fact very real and not some figment of his imagination. He's not sure whether to be relieved or not.

By the time they arrive at the bridge, the downpour has calmed down to a gentle patter. The skies lighten, and the sun grows wider. Jonathan halts. The world inhales.

"I've been thinking about you for the past couple days," he says, breaking the silence. Drizzle falls around them,_ drop drop drop_. "About what you said to me." Jonathan's gaze lifts up to meet his.

This is the part where he says he's sorry because he's with Mariko now. This is the part where he says he doesn't like him in that way _but they can still be friends, right_? This is the part where Sherwin grits his teeth, nods, fakes a smile, and then they'll be off on their separate ways, because that's how the story always goes, _boy meets boy, boy likes boy, boy gets rejected by boy_, and he's lucky it will end with only an apology, and not broken bones.

A lump forms in Sherwin's throat as his grip on the umbrella slackens.

"You know," Jonathan continues, ocean eyes wavering, "the necklace doesn't belong to Mariko. It belongs to me."

_Boy meets boy._

"I just showed it to her. She didn't give it to me, I'm not planning to give it to her, because it's for someone else. She doesn't even _like_ me in that way anymore."

_Boy likes boy._

"_Sherwin_." Jonathan speaks his name softly, gently, quietly. The skies lighten some more. There are raindrops lining Jonathan's eyelashes, and they're glistening like crushed diamonds, and it's unfair that he's still so pretty even when Sherwin's aching inside, waiting for _boy gets rejected by boy_, because it's inevitable, that's how the story always goes—

"It's always been you."

The world exhales. A dizzying sensation creeps up over Sherwin as he tries to reconcile Jonathan's words with reality, and he's terrified, absolutely terrified that in the next second Jonathan will say that they're just a joke, that he's not serious. But hope blooms in his chest once more, and for this moment, it's enough to drown out his fears and allow himself to believe that this boy reciprocates his feelings, that he's always liked him back.

"You really mean it?" Sherwin breathes out, but this time, he knows the right answer.

Jonathan would never hurt him. He's never been that type of person.

"I mean it," Jonathan says. His mouth curves into Sherwin's favourite smile, ocean eyes softening, shyness settling on his face, and Sherwin is struck with the realization that this smile has always been meant for him.

Warmth fills him up from head to toe, and his heart thuds wildly, unrestrained. The boy of his dreams likes him back, and he never once thought that it would actually happen, but it did, and he wants to lock this moment in a forever, because Jonathan's words are the sweetest song he's ever tasted, and the sheer euphoria coursing through his veins is the most exhilarating feeling he's ever experienced.

Sherwin's lips part. Jonathan leans in.

Close. So close. Jonathan's face is only five inches away from him.

Sherwin holds in a breath.

_Three inches._

Jonathan's eyes are an even richer shade of blue up close, flecked with indigo.

_One inch._

Sherwin's eyes flutter shut.

_No space._

Jonathan's lips graze his own ones. Sherwin's whole face burns, and the feelings in his stomach intensify a hundredfold.

The kiss lasts for a total of two seconds—but it might as well be an infinity.

"This is for you," Jonathan whispers, holding out the necklace.

The heart charm dangles in the air, glinting. An inexorable smile blooms on Sherwin's face, and he takes the necklace, his own heart growing larger than Jupiter.

Now, it's the size of the entire solar system.


	69. (T) TYRUS - No Need for Dreaming by tyru

No Need for Dreaming  
tyrus-time (itkeepsusdancing)

Summary:  
After TJ raps 'the best apology ever' and looks back at Cyrus, Cyrus realizes he likes TJ. And not just as a friend.

Cue the mutual pining between two friends who are totally oblivious to each other's feelings.

* * *

Chapter 01: within you, there's a light

Cyrus, stars in his eyes, watched TJ walk away. _You think you know someone… Until, you find out that you don't._

He and Buffy continued on their own way, heading home. Buffy seemed content to move forward with no further discussion of what had just happened between them and TJ. Cyrus, however, couldn't stop his mind from spinning. He turned to Buffy and confessed, "I think I might like TJ."

Buffy rolled her eyes. "Obviously, seeing as how you've been going to so much trouble to get us all to be friends. And you were right: he isn't as much of a jerk as I originally thought."

"No no, I _like _TJ."

"... _Ohhh _," Buffy's eyes widened with realization. "Oh my god. Ah, Cyrus! Wow! I still think there are definitely better options — it _is _still TJ, after all — but wow, this is exciting! A new crush!"

"What! No! This is not exciting! This is terrifying! I don't want to _like _someone right now! I _just _got over Jonah," Cyrus bemoaned, "I don't want to deal with that hopeless pining all over again!"

Cyrus could see the wheels turning in Buffy's mind. "Isn't this possibly _why _you got over Jonah, though? I hear that getting over someone is easier when you develop feelings for someone else," she said.

"What? No. I mean. _Maybe _, partially…" Cyrus mulled over it. " I truly did get over Jonah by realizing the two of us are better as friends. But…"

"But…?"

"But, it is possible that… my growing relationship with TJ was an influencing factor in the matter."

Buffy gave him a smug look.

"What, what's with that face, Buffy!"

"So, you and TJ… I can see it, to be honest. It's still weird to me, after everything he put me through, but he does seem to have changed. And the way he looks at you — " Buffy suddenly stopped in her tracks with a jolt of realization. "Oh my god. It suddenly makes so much sense! That's why he cares about being nice to me now! It's because of you!"

"Buffy, I think you're getting ahead of yourself."

"No, I'm serious! He wants to be on good terms with me so he can be around you more. _He totally likes you, Cyrus. _I bet he's trying to impress you."

"Do you really think so?" Cyrus' voice was tinged with hope. Then he frowned, "I would hope that his conscience made him realize he should be nicer." He looked at Buffy with concern, "Let's say that hypothetically, for whatever reason, TJ did like me. You don't think he would be nicer to you just to manipulate me, would he?"

"If you had asked me that a week ago, I probably would have said yes," Buffy admitted. "I still don't think too highly of him, but I think very highly of you, Cyrus. You've shown him extreme kindness, and I wouldn't be surprised if your intervention is what softened his heart."

"Thanks, Buffy," Cyrus smiled. "That is a nice thought. And I do feel like the friendship I've built with him is genuine. But I don't want to mess it up by _liking _him!" The anxiety was obvious in Cyrus' voice.

"Hey, did you mess up your friendship with Jonah?"

"... No…"

"Then why should this be any different?"

"Because," Cyrus said pointedly, "I idolized Jonah until we became closer, and then I realized he wasn't exactly _boyfriend material _, if you know what I mean."

Buffy nodded in understanding, thinking of all the drama that had happened between Jonah and Andi.

"But with TJ, he started off as this scary, mean guy who turned out to be totally different than I expected, and in a good way! The more I get to know him, the more I love him!"

" _Love _?"

"Psh, no, not like _in _love… more like, I love him as a person, you know? I… I appreciate him as just another person that I share this Earth with, but I also, uh, think he's cute." Cyrus blushed, "Agh, the more I think of him, the cuter I realize he is. Please, someone stop me."

"What do you want me to do?" Buffy asked.

"Tell me to calm down and pull myself together."

"Alright." Imitating Edna Mode, Buffy playfully smacked Cyrus' head and said, "Pull yourself together!" She laughed. "But seriously, don't you think you're overanalyzing the situation?"

"I analyze situations the appropriate amount, thank you very much." Cyrus sighed, "I'm not even sure what I want at this point. Don't tell anybody else about this, okay?"

"I won't. You probably should tell Andi at some point though — so she's not left in the dark again."

Cyrus laughed, "Yeah. You can actually tell her if you want, if it ever happens to come up in conversation when I'm not there. I'm fine with her knowing, but do _not _let TJ find out."

"Of course not. I'm not exactly dying to talk with TJ, even if we are on better terms now. But when you do want to talk about this again, I'm here for you."

Cyrus breathed a sigh of relief. "Thanks, Buffy. For everything."

* * *

Chapter 02: love was released

It was the little things that Cyrus began to notice. For instance: the way TJ would initiate physical contact with him so frequently, but hardly at all with anyone else. _Maybe he's just more comfortable with me. We're close now. We can be vulnerable with each other. Maybe he's tired of being the tough guy. _That made sense, right? Cyrus knew himself to be a non-threatening person. He could understand why he'd be the only one that TJ could let his guard down around. Cyrus was honored; he took it as proof of his excellent peer counseling skills. That's why TJ acted differently around him… yep, that was it…

After all, why would TJ be _attracted _to him? TJ, handsome and cocky athlete, crushing on dorky Cyrus Goodman? It seemed highly unlikely. But the closer they got, they more Cyrus questioned the nature of their relationship. On the one hand, the two boys grew increasingly comfortable with each other. If they really _"liked" _each other, wouldn't things be more awkward between them? _Cyrus _certainly felt awkward at certain times. Like when they would hug and an electrical current would shoot through Cyrus' body. Or when his breath hitched from an unexpected touch of TJ's hand on his shoulder. Or when he laughed a bit too loud at TJ's jokes.

But despite Cyrus being a bit of a gay disaster, their friendship felt even stronger. Cyrus must have done a pretty good job hiding evidence of his crush, because TJ seemed unfazed. Everything seemed… normal? Cyrus hadn't really had any guy friends before. Well, except Jonah, and that friendship was also initially complicated by a crush. So, how was Cyrus to know what a "normal" male friendship was supposed to be like?  
TJ seemed more touchy than typical guys, yes, but that didn't mean anything romantic was going on in TJ's mind. Why couldn't boys be affectionate with each other? _Screw toxic masculinity!_

And yes, TJ gave him quite a lot of compliments, but that's what friends are for! The two of them could support and reassure each other wholeheartedly. Buffy and Andi were still his highest priority, but there was also something special about his bond with TJ. _I'm not going to mess this up. I don't want to lose this._

* * *

Chapter 03: woe is me

Several months passed from when Cyrus realized he _liked _TJ, and he was still refusing to outwardly acknowledge it. Buffy hadn't even brought it up, not even to tease him about; she was a loyal friend and kept her word about respecting Cyrus' privacy. Cyrus felt a bit guilty about keeping Andi out of the loop _again _, but he couldn't bring himself to discuss his crush with anyone. Doing so would make the whole situation that much more real, and Cyrus didn't know if he could handle any more internal awkwardness about his feelings around TJ. If he actually discussed his crush with his friends, then it became a proper _thing _instead of a fantasy that Cyrus caught himself daydreaming about. (Occasionally, romantic thoughts of TJ would even manifest in his dreams while he slept. But Cyrus would definitely never tell anybody about _that _. )

See, Cyrus liked his current reality. He and TJ were closer than ever, and the ex-bully was growing on Buffy and Andi, much to Cyrus' relief. TJ made a habit of visiting them at the Spoon on his way to work; thankfully, Andi was much more welcoming to him, now that Buffy and TJ had made amends. Since Buffy and TJ were now on separate basketball teams, the two captains could maintain a friendly rivalry without actually competing with or against each other. Cyrus was glad that the two of them were on good times so that they could banter and tease each other without actual hostility; since Marty was out of the picture and Jonah was away at frisbee camp, TJ provided a great target for Buffy's constant competitiveness.

Such was the case during one afternoon at the Spoon. TJ and Buffy were seated across from each other, next to Cyrus and Andi respectively. The two athletes were roasting each other when a fellow customer, an elderly man, passed by them with a smirk and remarked, "Ah, young love…" Buffy and TJ recoiled in disgust at the suggestion that they were a couple.

"Ew, we are _not _in love," Buffy called at the random man as he exited the diner.

"Yeah, no offense, but even if I _was _into girls, I wouldn't be into you," TJ said.

With that, the air went still. Buffy, Cyrus, and Andi looked at TJ in varying degrees of surprise.

"Why are you guys staring at me like that…?" TJ asked.

"TJ, did… did you just come out to us?" Cyrus gasped.

Puzzlement swept over TJ's face and he laughed, "I… I thought you already knew? Uh, yeah, I'm super gay. I thought it was obvious… It's not a big deal, right?"

_Big deal? BIG DEAL? _It was a big deal to Cyrus, who felt his hearting beating a bit faster thinking about all the 'signs' he had been noticing over the past few months; he had been hopeful that TJ was gay, but he tended to write it off as wishful thinking due to his crush. _Maybe you do have a chance with him. Ugh, no, just because he's gay too doesn't mean he's interested in you! Calm down! _Cyrus attempted to maintain his composure. "Cool, that's cool. Yeah, I'm gay too, actually."

With a knowing sparkle in her eye, Buffy exclaimed, "This is great!" Before she could continue, Cyrus shot her a look, warning her not to further 'out' him. "Uh, great because nobody can make the assumption that you and I are together."

"Nobody should make that assumption anyway," TJ said. "Seriously, fuck heteronormativity."

"Hetero-what?" Andi asked, unfamiliar with the term.

"Heteronormativity? It's like, assuming that everyone is straight until proven otherwise, because only straight people are_ normal, _" TJ rolled his eyes. "It's a stupid, outdated way of thinking that gets pushed on everybody all the time."

"Oh, for example: everytime I see my grandparents, they ask me if there's _any nice girls at school I'm seeing, _" Cyrus groaned. "To be fair, they did hear about Iris, and I didn't given an honest explanation about why that ended."

"Oh, who's Iris?" TJ asked.

_Was that a hint of jealousy in his voice?_

"She's basically the girl version of me. She's one of Amber's friends that I was set up with… I tried to enjoy being her boyfriend for a short while, but I couldn't do it. She's a lovely person, but I am - how did you say it? - uh, _super gay. _"

"Ah. So you broke up with her? She must've been _heartbroken _," TJ teased.

"I'm sure she's fine," Cyrus responded, oblivious to TJ's flirtation. "Anyway, I think we may have been _too _similar. We got along well, but… I think dating your clone would eventually get boring. You need someone to expose you to new things, y'know?" _You know, like you and me? Crap. That was probably too revealing. Keep it together, Cyrus. _He grabbed his milkshake so he could shut himself up.

"So, Cyrus, is there anyone you currently have your eyes on?" Andi asked.

The shock of her question startled Cyrus, making him knock over his milkshake, which then spilled all over himself and the table. He nearly choked, but from the shake and from embarrassment.

"Oh my god, Cyrus, are you okay?" TJ asked with concern, ready to give Cyrus the heimlich if necessary.

Cyrus nodded through the coughing.

"I'll go get some paper towels; I'll be right back," TJ sprinted off.

"Sorry Cyrus, didn't mean to surprise you and make you die," Andi winced.

Cyrus glared at her in response.

"Oh no, Cyrus, your sweatshirt is a mess," Buffy sighed.

"Ah, great," Cyrus cleared his throat and took off the milkshake-stained garment. Ugh, he felt so vulnerable in just his undershirt.

TJ came rushing back, hands full of towels, and made quick work of cleaning the mess. "I got it. You alright, Cyrus?"

"Thanks, TJ. Yeah, I'm fine; just a bit messy. Can you let me out of the booth? I need to clean my sweatshirt."

"Oh, yeah." TJ stepped aside to allow Cyrus to pass.

Cyrus took deep breaths as he went to the bathroom and cleaned himself up. He did his best to stave off intrusive thoughts about how awkward and pathetic he was. _Yes, you probably looked like a fool, but at least your mess provided a diversion from Andi's question. Sigh. _He frustratingly wrung the water out of his jacket.

TJ was waiting for him when he stepped out.

"Thanks again for helping," Cyrus smiled.

"Of course, Underdog. Hey," TJ held out his hoodie, "I thought you might wanna wear this, since yours is probably all wet."

"Oh! Thank you!" Cyrus graciously accepted and wrapped the hoodie around himself.

The two walked back to their booth to see Buffy getting up to leave. "Sorry guys, I gotta go. My mom's here to drive me home."

"Don't get me wrong, I'm happy that we still get to see you all the time, but I'm still upset that you moved. An hour away is still too far away," Andi sighed.

"Crap, I gotta go too. I gotta head to work," TJ said, realizing the time. "Keep my hoodie as long as you need, Cyrus," he added softly with a smile.

"Thanks! See you soon," Cyrus waved with a cute smile on his face, unaware of the way Andi was raising her eyebrows.

"Are you two dating yet?" she asked when it was only her and Cyrus left.

"Umm. Excuse me, what?"

"You and TJ. Are you boyfriends?"

Cyrus stared at her, no words about to come out of his mouth.

"Cyrus, relax. I know you like him."

"...did Buffy tell you?"

"No. You did, actually"

Cyrus face was pure confusion. "I... I did? When?!"

"Just now. And, almost every single day for the past few months. It's written all over your face, Cyrus."

"It ... it is?"

Andi rolled her eyes. "You get _so _excited to see him. He always puts a spring in your step! The way you both greet and say goodbye to each other... And your face when you look at him? I'm not blind, Cyrus."

Cyrus grimaced, "I've been trying to keep it hidden! Is it really _that _obvious? Do you think TJ knows?"

"It's pretty clear that he's into you, too. You're wearing his jacket, for crying out loud."

"That doesn't necessarily mean anything."

"Sure, but combined with the way he openly flirts with you in front of us… And the fact that he thought it was obvious that he's gay… He's totally in love with you, Cyrus."

"Psh… I don't think we should jump to that conclusion yet. Why wouldn't he just ask me out?"

"Maybe he wants to make sure you'll be receptive to it? He's probably flirted with you even more when you two are alone, but you're oblivious to it! You need to make it obvious that you want something romantic to happen between you two! Then he should actually confront you about it."

"You seem so certain about this."

"Seriously, _do you not see the way he looks at you_? He's even more obvious than you are! But, apparently you're both oblivious."

"I mean, sometimes I do wonder… if it could be true… but I don't know if I can believe it. I can't even look directly at him for too long!" Cyrus covered his face in embarrassment. "When he smiles, it lights up the room. I feel like I'll be blinded. And his _EYES_. They're so green, Andi! If I stare into them, I'll fall right in!" Cyrus slumped over, his arms folding onto the table and his face nestled into the crook of his elbow. "How did I become such a pathetic sap…"

"Probably from watching so many romcoms. But I think it's sweet! Seriously though, you two better figure this out sooner or later. Preferably sooner. It's getting torturous, watching you two be like this."

"Torturous for you?"

"Yeah, it's like you're already dating, but neither of you acknowledge it. It's frustrating!"

"Imagine how frustrating it is for me!"

Andi shook her head. "Do I need to conspire with Buffy about this?"

"What."

"You know, one of us could talk to TJ… Maybe get some confirmation about how he feels...?"

"Oh no. Please don't. I... I don't want any chance of things getting awkward with TJ, okay? I really value his friendship. I never really thought I could be so close with anyone besides you and Buffy. You two are top priority," Cyrus reassured, "but I really want to keep TJ in my life, too."

Andi sighed. "Okay. But I'm totally going to silently _will _you two together at every chance I get," she smiled.

Cyrus secretly hoped that her plan would work.

* * *

Chapter 04: you shake the insides of what i hide

It wasn't like Cyrus was infatuated, like he had been with Jonah. That crush had been like a crush on a celebrity: passionate, but distanced. When the distance was closed - when Cyrus and Jonah actually became close friends - there was no room left for infatuation, and the crush disappeared.

With TJ, it was like the more he got to know the other boy, the more he found his heart swelling with affection. There was a bit of an ache, sure, but there was so much joy and appreciation. Cyrus didn't have to pretend to be someone or something else. The two of them could talk about anything. Well, almost anything; there was, of course, that one little secret… his romantic feelings for TJ… but this didn't stop the two boys from being genuine with each other.

The swings quickly became their go-to spot for serious conversations. Cyrus was already a frequent visitor, and ever since TJ first approached him there, it felt like the natural place to vent to each other about their "stuff." Usually Cyrus would be there first; sometimes he'd text TJ to come over, and other times, TJ would simply show up when Cyrus needed him the most.

This time, however, it was TJ who called for Cyrus.

"Hey, TJ!" Cyrus answered his phone, "What's up?"

"Hey Cyrus… I'm at the swings right now… Could you come meet me?" TJ asked, voice lacking his usual confidence.

"Yeah, of course, I'll be there as soon as I can."

TJ was swinging rather emphatically when Cyrus arrived. Swinging usually put TJ at ease; the rhythmic motion could be both calming and exhilarating. Today, however, TJ's face remained hardened. Cyrus could tell he was deep in thought.

"Hey, what's going on?" Cyrus asked as he took a seat on the neighboring. swing.

TJ slowed himself to a halt, face softening a bit when he looked at Cyrus. "Do you ever feel…" He shook his head, trying to find the right words, "just, overwhelmed with existence?'

"Ha, , I definitely do..."

TJ motioned for Cyrus to continue. "And? How do you deal?"

"Besides coming to the swings? Well, I mostly feel daunted by what I'm going to do with the rest of my life. There are so many things that seem interesting, but sometimes I feel utterly incapable of accomplishing any of it. So, to make it less intimidating, I write it all down in a journal. I make a list of what I want and what would be the steps to get there."

TJ nodded. "Makes sense." He sighed, "See, I have no idea what I want to do. Sometimes it feels like everyone sees me as a star basketball player, and that's it... Don't get me wrong; I love being the star. I love playing basketball and I'm proud to be the captain. But I don't see myself doing that for the rest of my life, y'know? I don't even know what it'll be like playing in high school. Being an athlete is important to me, but isn't really my dream." TJ paused, then frowned. "There are so many horrible things going on in the world, and here I am just playing basketball? I feel… guilty."

Cyrus shouldn't have been surprised by this response. He already knew there was much more depth to TJ Kippen than most people could imagine… and yet, Cyrus still couldn't help but marvel at how much TJ had grown since they first met.

TJ continued, "And then I kind of feel guilty about feeling guilty? I don't know. I want to do something that really matters. Something that makes difference in the world, for the better. Or whatever," TJ began to grumble, "I know that's cheesy and cliche and..."

"No, I think that's very noble of you, TJ Kippen." _And I think I really am in love with you _.

"Eh... I'm actually pretty selfish. I just can't bear the pain of knowing that the world seems to be falling apart while I did nothing about it," TJ shrugged. "So, I mostly block it out. Because how am I supposed to process all the shit going on nowadays? But it's like… it's this weight that drops back down on me whenever I stop to really think. Fuck… I don't know how to handle it." TJ's eyes were full of mixed emotions in a way that Cyrus hadn't quite seen before.

"Hey," Cyrus reaches out and placed his hand on TJ's shoulder in comfort. "You're not alone. I know exactly what you mean… it's hard. You're not alone; it's normal to be overwhelmed by this stuff."

"Yeah… thanks, Underdog," TJ smiled. "God, I just… I really wanna _be somebody _. Somebody who does some _good _in this shitty world." TJ bit his lip and spoke softly, "You made me realize that, you know"

"...Me?"

TJ rolled his eyes and returned to his classic playful tone. "Yeah, _you _, Mr. Therapist. You're so damn nice to everyone. Even jerks like me."

"Ex-jerk," Cyrus corrected. "Yeah… I guess you're right…" Cyrus beamed, "I did help you become not-a-jerk! I am pretty great, aren't I?"

"Damn right. You're the best," TJ grinned.

Cyrus felt his heart quicken. How could one phrase, one smile, make him feel like he was falling and soaring at the same time?

* * *

Chapter 05: we're not made for sorrow

Cyrus tried to take Andi's advice: he attempted to flirt with TJ, but he often found himself freezing up.

Like that day when TJ leaned against his locker and complimented his outfit, Cyrus, easily flustered, had babbled something incoherent and ran off to class. As soon as he reached his desk, he buried his head in his hands with embarrassment.

And then there was that day when Cyrus was supporting TJ at the boys basketball game. It was their first big game since Buffy had started the girls team.

Cyrus came prepared with a poster that read, "We're not _Kippen _around!" Andi and Buffy had rolled their eyes, but TJ seemed to be amused by it. When Cyrus chanted and held up the sign throughout the game, he caught TJ glancing over and smiling.

Jefferson ended up winning the game, and afterwards, Cyrus made a point to tell TJ how great he looked out there.

"Oh yeah?" TJ responded in a seemingly flirtatious manner.

Panicking, Cyrus nodded and babbled something like, "Yeah, you really, uh, got those balls in the… the hoop…"

To this TJ chuckled, "You really don't know much about how the game works, do you?"

Cyrus shook his head "no" in embarrassment, but instead of teasing, TJ patted his shoulder with affection and said, "Well, I really appreciate the support. Thanks for being here, Underdog, even though Buffy's not on the team anymore."

"Of course!" _Anything for you_, Cyrus wanted to continue, but the words wouldn't come out.

Clearly, Cyrus Goodman did not know how to master the art of seduction. He probably wasn't even good enough to be an _apprentice_. The more he thought about it, the more frustrated and flustered he became. TJ had helped him build confidence by tackling his 'list of things I can't do,' but his self esteem was still far from perfect.

He accepted himself for being gay, he really did, but he felt hopeless when it came to romance… especially after his awkwardness with Iris. Even though they ended things on relatively good terms, Cyrus couldn't help but beat himself up over how clumsily their relationship had played out.

Iris came to mind again when Cyrus found himself spending a movie night at TJ's house while his parents were away.

During the first movie, Cyrus and TJ ended up getting closer and closer on the couch. TJ was not exactly one for personal space; Cyrus already knew this. Because this physical closeness had been part of their friendship from the beginning, Cyrus was relatively comfortable with it.

But when it was the two of them alone together in the dark, Cyrus felt his heart beat fast as TJ snuggled against him. He thought back to when he was a similar situation with Iris. He had been so nervous back then, inexperienced and in denial of his sexuality. Cyrus had felt pressure to express affection for Iris when his heart wasn't in it; he really did like her, but not in the way that boys were 'supposed' to when it came to girls.

Now he was in the same physical position, watching a movie with a companion, but Cyrus felt opposite from how he had felt with Iris. Cyrus _liked _TJ. In a gay way. But he didn't know if he should, or even _could,_ express this type of affection for his friend.

He didn't want his friendship with TJ to fade like it had with Iris. And the fact that this was about another boy seemed to make it even more complicated. It was an even bigger unknown. This was definitely a different type of nervousness.

_Hey, we are friends first and foremost, and it's good for friends to be affectionate like this. It doesn't necessarily mean there's anything else going on between us. _

To compose himself, Cyrus focused on his own breathing, imagining the tension sliding down and out of his body.

Cyrus relaxed and reciprocated TJ's snuggling. When his anxiety was under control, cuddling with TJ felt so natural. Whenever Cyrus managed to get out of his own head, he was so at ease around the other boy.

No matter where they were, being with TJ felt like home.

If Cyrus had a bit more courage and a bit more impulsiveness, he would have directly confronted TJ about what was going on between them. Instead, he settled with putting his hand on top of TJ's.

TJ kept his eyes fixed on the television and didn't say anything. But out of the corner of his eye, Cyrus could've sworn he saw a faint smile on TJ's lips.

Neither of them drew away.

Cyrus left TJ's house that night with warmth in his chest. Their cuddling, platonic or not, had released enough oxytocin to keep Cyrus calm and content, even though he was still unsure about where his relationship with TJ was headed.

He decided that things would be better if he stopped pressuring himself about it. Cyrus wasn't the most "go with the flow" kind of guy, but he was going to try. Why did he have to make life so hard by being hard on himself?

This new attempt at being easy-going didn't last long, however.

A week later, the entire grade took a field trip to a sparkly new science museum a few hours away. Because of the distance, they left school early in the morning.

Buffy had reunited with Marty, so that left Cyrus to sit with Andi on the bus. TJ was across the aisle, sitting with someone from the basketball team.

At one point, Cyrus caught the early morning sun illuminating TJ's outline, casting a warm glom on his hair and skin, green eyes sparkling… he was beautiful. _So beautiful _.

Cyrus feels the affection like a sucker punch, accompanied by an unignorable thought:

_I want to kiss him._

Cyrus Goodman wanted to kiss TJ Kippen.

Hr was convinced that TJ's face was the cutest thing ever, particularly with the way his lips always curled into a "W" shape when he smiled.

Cyrus berated himself for staring at those perfectly curved lips, wondering how they'd feel against his own.

Cyrus wanted to kiss him and tell him how beautiful he was, how _handsome _he was, how strong and talented and _amazing _he was.

Cyrus felt like the floodgates of his heart had suddenly opened.

Before, his attraction to TJ was a bit like static; loud and distracting at times, but it would eventually fade into the background if Cyrus focused on something else.

But suddenly, Cyrus found himself at a point where his feelings could no longer be pushed away. He _felt _things for TJ. He felt it so much.

But he was still afraid. Afraid of being rejected. Afraid of losing TJ. Afraid of another awkward attempt at a kiss.

When he had kissed Iris, he thought it was 'off' simply because he was gay. But what if Cyrus wasn't good at kissing anyone? If he were to kiss TJ - and that was still a **big **_if _\- would it still be awkward? Was Cyrus just too awkward for love?

Attempting to ground himself before he going further down that thought spiral, Cyrus brought his attention back to the feeling of the bus seat below him. Shifting focus away from himself, he turned to Andi. "Hey, what's going on with your latest craft project? Haven't you been working on something for your parents' wedding?"

"Yes! I'm so excited, I'm making these gorgeous centerpieces…"

Cyrus chose the right conversation topic. Andi enthusiastically detailed the wedding plans, which was a great distraction.

That is, until the romance of it made him think about TJ.

When Cyrus glanced back at the other boy, he felt that sharp pang in his chest.

He decided to stop looking at TJ all together.

Finally they arrived at the museum and were broken into assigned groups. Cyrus had been annoyed that Dr. Metcalf wasn't letting them enjoy the day with friends, but now, he was rather grateful that he didn't have to spend all day with TJ.

All day, despite his anxiety, Cyrus felt the urge of _kiss him, kiss him, kiss him, _pulsing through him like a heartbeat.

As they were preparing to board the bus to go back home, TJ approached him.

_Crap_.

"Hey Underdog. How was your day?"

"Good, good... How was yours?"

"It was great, actually. My group might've half-assed the worksheet, but I really enjoyed the exhibits. The planetarium was dope," TJ smiled, "but I would've enjoyed it even more if I got to do it with you."

Cyrus smiled, his heart twisting and turning at TJ's words. Was this flirting? Should Cyrus go for it? He felt like he was going to throw up.

Before Cyrus could respond, the chaperones started roll-call and then ushered everyone to form a line to get on the buses.

"Still sitting with Andi?" TJ asked as everyone shuffled forward.

Cyrus nodded.

"Hey, are you okay, Cyrus? You look a bit sick."

_You have no idea. _"Yeah, uh, I'm fine."

TJ didn't look convinced.

"I've just… got some stuff going on. You shouldn't worry about it."

"Okay… Let me know if there's anything I can do."

_There is one thing. Tell me, how do you feel about me? _Cyrus smiled weakily. "Thanks… oh, watch out, we're boarding now."

Cyrus took his seat and closed his eyes. He was quiet the whole ride back.

After coming home, his body yelled at him to just lay in bed and go to sleep early. But instead, he found himself going back out to the swings.

Not long after he got there, TJ showed up.

"Hey Cy, are you alright?"

_Guess I can't keep avoiding this._ "How'd you know I'd be here?"

"Well, you seemed a bit off today, and I wanted to make sure you're okay. Y'know, with your 'stuff'… I figured you might be here."

Of course TJ would considerately show up for him. What was Cyrus supposed to say?

"You don't have to tell me if you don't want to," TJ said, walking over to sit on the swing next to Cyrus. "But… I'm here."

TJ always seemed willing to go out of his way for Cyrus. Even if he didn't like Cyrus back, he wouldn't drop him as a friend, right? Cyrus attempted to swallow the lump in his throat. "Can I ask you something?"

"Yeah, go ahead," TJ responded somewhat warily.

Cyrus paused. "All those months ago, when we first talked… why did you approach me here?"

"Oh. Uh. Okay, here it goes... I was being tutored by Buffy, as you might recall, and it was not going well. I was really down on myself. This was before I knew about the dyscalculia, so I just thought I was stupid… I was embarrassed. I stormed out of the classroom and was just walking aimlessly until I saw you." A faint blush rose on TJ's face.

Cyrus waited for TJ to continue.

"I remembered you from the cafeteria, from when I got you that muffin. I… I could tell that you were a good guy. Better than I was. So when I saw you sitting here… I wanted to talk to you again. I wanted to know you. I guess an intuitive part of me knew you'd help me feel better, which you did," TJ looked into Cyrus' eyes with fondness.

"Well, I'm glad you found me, and I'm glad I could help. You've helped me a lot, too," Cyrus smiled. Then his eyes fell to the ground. "I have to admit, I still have moments when I'm surprised that we became so close."

That must've come out wrong, because TJ's voice was laced with anxiety as he responded, "That's not a bad thing, though, is it? Us being close?"

"No, of course not." The lump was back in Cyrus' throat. "I love being your friend." That wasn't a lie. Cyrus really loved being close friends with TJ, but it also felt more and more like torture.

TJ bit his lip, a hint of insecurity flashing behind his eyes. "Cyrus… Sorry, I have to ask… Do you like me _just _as a friend?"

Oh no. Uh. "...Why do you ask?" Cyrus squeaked nervously.

"I'm sorry. I know it's an awkward question. I just need to know for sure."

Cyrus eyebrows scrunched together. _What is happening?_

He must've paused too long, because TJ sighed and continued, "I really like you Cyrus. Like, a _lot... _And not just as a friend."

And with that, Cyrus fell.

He fell off of his swing in shock.

"Cyrus!" TJ rushed over, concerned and apologetic. He put his arms around Cyrus, helping him sit up. "Oh my gosh, are you okay? Cyrus, you're shaking…"

Cyrus laughed awkwardly, shaking from nerves. _Okay. This is it._

"Yeah, I'm fine…" Cyrus looked into TJ's eyes. "I'm wondering if I should kiss you, now."

Now it was TJ's turn to be shocked. As he processed what Cyrus had just said, a lovestruck smile formed on his face. "_ Yes _."

Cyrus leaned forward and TJ met him halfway until their lips touched.

Just for a moment.

Cyrus pulled away first and laughed awkwardly again. "So that happened."

"It really did, didn't it? This is finally happening," TJ said in amazement. "Was that… okay?"

"Yeah, that was... nice."

TJ cringed. "I'm sorry."

"What? Why?"

"I've been wanting this for _months _, and I wanted to do better than 'nice' for you if it ever happened… I wanted our first kiss to be perfect." TJ facepalmed himself, "But instead, I made you fall off the swings, possibly causing injury, and then kissed you instead of giving you medical attention."

"Oh my gosh, no, TJ! Don't worry!" Cyrus rubbed his shoulder in comfort. "One, I am fine. It wasn't a big fall. Two, I literally _fell _for you. Don't you see this is top-notch, rom-com irony? And three, need I remind you that _I'm _the one that asked to kiss _you _."

"Alright, fair points… "

"Don't worry. I like you a lot… I just… I don't know what I was expecting? Everyone makes it seem like a first kiss should be so dramatic. Like, Fireworks! Dramatic music swells in the background!" Cyrus gesticulated. "But instead, it was just… quiet. In a good way! I was an anxious mess before, so nervous and awkward but... but then, when it actually happened, I felt calm. And I kind of feel stupid for being worried about it for so long, I was scared I would be bad at it, and I-"

Before Cyrus could ramble any further, TJ cut him off with another kiss.

And this time? It was like _lightning _. A sudden crackle of energy that sends shockwaves through their bodies. _They're electric. _Cyrus kisses back eagerly, gripping TJ's shirt and pulling him in.

They break apart, gasping for air, and burst into smiles.

"How was that?" TJ asked, coy.

"That… was _exhilarating _," Cyrus responded, stars in his eyes.

That response made TJ's face light up with a megawatt grin.

"Wait," Cyrus said in realization, " Did you say you've been wanting to kiss me for months?"

"Uh, yeah," TJ chuckled, "Since we first became friends, really… I've actually had eyes for you since the first day we met…"

"Wait, really? You mean ever since the cafeteria, with the muffin?"

"Yes. With the muffin," TJ giggled. " You were so adorable… I had this, like, instinctual urge to help and protect you. I hadn't ever felt that way about anyone before. I didn't know if you'd be attracted to me, let alone be my friend, but I knew I had to get to know you better. That's actually part of why I approached you, in addition to what I said before..."

"You've had a crush on me this _entire _time."

TJ nodded with some embarrassment.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner!" Cyrus laughed.

"I wasn't sure how you would react! And I was afraid that we wouldn't be friends anymore if I confessed but you didn't feel the same way! I didn't want to freak you out. I wanted to keep you in my life. No matter the circumstances."

All this time, they really had felt the exact same way about each other. "Me too. I was hoping that you liked me back, but I wasn't totally sure, and I didn't want to mess it up." Cyrus buried his face in TJ's shoulder. "We really have been oblivious fools, huh."

TJ wrapped his arms around Cyrus. "Hey, at least we're fools _together_."

"_Finally_. Does this mean I can cuddle you all the time with no qualms?"

"Absolutely. Can I... call you my boyfriend now?"

"Yes, please," Cyrus smiled and snuggled against his boyfriend's chest. He chuckled with realization, "Ha, Andi and Buffy are going to be ecstatic."

"I take it they both approve of us."

"Yeah, they've been saying how we're so in love with each other. They've been annoyed that we haven't openly admitted it. I was so afraid that they might be wrong, though."

TJ laughed. "They do have a point. I wasn't exactly hiding my feelings for you..."

"Yeah, it does seem pretty obvious now. But of course I had to torture myself over it. We are angsty teenagers, after all."

"Wait, is this why you seemed weird today? Were you sitting here all sad and anxious because of your feelings for me?"

"Oh, yeah… I'd been trying to convince myself that I could handle being friends even if you didn't like me back. But there was this moment earlier today, during the bus ride, when you looked so gorgeous…. And… I _really _wanted to kiss you… and at that point, there was no more denying my feelings for you. Seriously, you looked like an angel in the morning light."

"Oh my god. That's adorable." TJ gently nudged Cyrus away from him so he could look his boyfriend in the eyes. "_You're_ adorable. I'm going to kiss you again, if that's alright."

Cyrus giggled and nodded, letting TJ close the short distance between their lips.

Their first kiss had been shy.

The second kiss had been exhilarating.

The third, however, was warm and steady. Soft, strong, and comforting, like coming home and cozying up next to the fireplace.

Cyrus melted into the kiss, resting his hands on TJ's neck.

Then, it was TJ's turn to pull away, unable to stifle a goofy smile that stretched from ear to ear. "Ah, I'm just so happy. I've dreamt of this for months."

"Me too," Cyrus blushed. "Actually, I tried not to let myself even dream about it, because I didn't believe this could my reality."

"You better believe it now, babe," TJ teased, pressing a quick kiss to Cyrus' forehead. "Now there's no need for dreaming."

Cyrus beamed, only to realize the sun was setting. "Speaking of dreams, it is getting dark. I'm sad to say this, but we should probably get going."

TJ jumped up and outstretched his hand. "Cyrus Goodman, may I have the honor of walking you home?"

Cyrus grinned and grasped his boyfriend's hand. "I thought you'd never ask."


	70. (T) IRONWINTER - Monday In A Cafe (All Y

Monday In A Cafe (All You Did Was Look My Way)  
RayShippouUchiha

Summary:  
Then Gorgeous, as Bucky abruptly names him in his head, slides a bit further down the counter and reaches for his wallet. He pulls out what Bucky's pretty sure is a crisp hundred and stuffs it into the tip jar Clint decorated to look like a bulls-eye.

And then he turns and looks directly at Bucky.

Staring into big doe eyes from across the way Bucky resists the urge to bring his hand up to grip at his chest.

Because that split second is all it takes.

One look and Bucky is officially gone.

* * *

It starts, as does so many things in Bucky's life, with _Steve_.

Or, more accurately, with Steve relentlessly badgering him.

"Staying locked up in here's not healthy for you Buck," Steve tells him, face set in a familiar mulish expression.

It's the same expression that's been a constant in Bucky's life ever since he'd helped Steve pull himself out of that dumpster when they were seven.

After much thought over a number of years Bucky's pretty much come to the conclusion that Steve used to be an actual honey badger in a past life.

They're both small, vicious, and completely ready to throw down at any given point and time no matter how big their opponent is.

It fits.

"I'm _fine_, Stevie," Bucky groans, head pressed against the back of the couch and his right arm thrown across his eyes.

"You're not _fine_, Buck," Steve presses as he props his long fingered, paint spattered hands on his thin, bony hips and glares down at Bucky.

Bucky doesn't even have to look to know Steve's glaring, it's implied in his tone of voice.

And his general personality when he's not getting his way.

"_Fine _isn't staying locked up in your apartment for weeks on end," Steve keeps going even as he kicks out lightly with one booted foot. "Feet down, you heathen," he says as he knocks Bucky's feet off of the coffee table

_Bucky's _feet off of _Bucky's _coffee table, in _Bucky's _own apartment.

Like Steve isn't the same little fuck who Bucky's caught drinking _paint water _from a clearly labeled cup more than once.

But no, that's fine, that's just an _artist's forgetfulness_. That's _charming_. But let Bucky put his feet on his own coffee table and suddenly he's a _heathen_.

It's just par for the course of Bucky's life that he can't even get any basic respect out of his best friend in his own home these days.

"Stop acting like I don't go places," Bucky tells him. "I go places all the time."

"Therapy and grocery shopping don't count." Steve insists.

"Bullshit," Bucky grumbles, "they both fucking count."

"Buck," Steve suddenly sounds sad, the little manipulative fuck. "Come on, I'm worried about you."

"_God _Stevie, _fine_," Bucky finally groans as he moves his arm and levels his best baleful stare in Steve's direction. "What do you want out of me now, huh?"

"I want you to get up, take a shower, and get out of this apartment with me for a bit." Steve tells him mercilessly.

"And go where?" Bucky asks. "I've got one friend stateside and that's your scrawny ass. So where, _exactly_, are you so determined to make me go?"

"Don't be like that," Steve protests. "You've got more friends than just me and you know it. What about Clint and Natasha? Or Sam? Or even Thor and Loki?"

"First of all," Bucky raise a finger up, "Barton barely ranks as a human friend. He's more like Natasha's really large pet. Second," Bucky raises up another finger, "Natasha doesn't have _friends_. She has marks and potential marks. And enemies. Can't forget those."

"You're ridiculous," Steve rolls his eyes, "What about Sam then huh?"

"Wilson is your friend, not mine," Bucky reminds him. "And one of these days I'm gonna throw him off the bridge at the park just to see if he really can swim."

"You two are gonna end up getting arrested one of these days," Steve points out.

"Your point?" Bucky asks because Steve's right, Bucky knows he's right.

But the thing is, Bucky doesn't really _care_.

If he ends up getting arrested in the process of humiliating Wilson it will have been worth it.

Plus Bucky can always just pull his dog tags out of his shirt, wave his prosthetic around, smile as sweetly as possible, and pretend to be confused.

People get kind of tetchy about arresting one armed vets for some reason, although, to be fair, people, even cops, get squirrely about missing limbs in general.

Bucky thinks it's because they're never sure, exactly, how they're supposed to handcuff him.

Either way it's worked for him before and he's sure it will again.

"My _point_, asshole," Steve says, "is that you can't keep acting like I'm the only person in your life. Hell Loki and Thor have both invited you out pretty much every week this month and you keep saying no."

"You must actually _want _me to get arrested if you want me sit through another one of Loki's shitty French dramas or listen to Thor wax on about Jane," Bucky points out.

There's a moment of silence.

"Fair," Steve agrees with a grimace.

Because Loki really does have shit taste in movies. Hell Bucky actually speaks French so he knows there's better shit than the trash Loki keeps picking. And if he has to listen to Thor go on about Jane anymore he's either going to go insane or ask her to marry Thor himself.

Neither of those two options sounds at all appealing.

"Look," Steve finally sighs, "just … just come to the shop with me. Bring your laptop, sit down, have a drink or four or a muffin or whatever. Just, get out of this apartment Buck. Cause I, _we_, are all worried about you. You haven't been the same since …," Steve cuts himself off with a grimace, "we just don't want to see you waste away in here."

Bucky is, as always, far weaker to Steve's genuine worry than he should be.

And to the guilt over the loss of Bucky's arm that Steve can't seem to shake despite the fact that it is, very clearly, not his fault.

But then Bucky using his military pay to help out with Steve's art school tuition has left Steve feeling as if Bucky's entire enlistment was his fault anyways.

It's something they're still working out between the two of them.

"Fine," he finally grumbles, "I'll go but I'm not staying long and I'm not making it a habit."

"Baby steps," Steve agrees with a happy grin. "Better than nothing."

_Espresso Yourself _is a nice shop, Bucky admits that readily enough as he trudges in behind Steve, laptop in his bag and left glove pulled on securely.

Natasha's a deft hand as a barista and Clint, her human shaped appendage, makes up for basically all of himself by making actual magic in the kitchen.

Well that and shockingly good latte art when he fills in behind the counter. Even if he has been doing nothing but dogs for months now in his one man effort to wear Natasha down into letting him get a puppy.

Bucky's got the insider information that he's gonna be really happy come his birthday in a few weeks.

Steve gets him settled quickly enough at a table with one of Natasha's special drink blends made just for him and one of Clint's double fudge cupcakes. They sit there together for a bit, chatting back and forth about Bucky's newest book and Steve's new piece.

It's nice, relaxing and familiar.

Then, about fifteen minutes in, Steve promptly abandons him when his agent texts him about the gallery meeting they've been angling for. There's some show being put on by some upper-crust tech CEO with more money than god that Steve's work would, apparently, be perfect for. He's been hashing things out with the woman in charge for months now.

Bucky waves him off and promises to stay at least long enough to finish his drink.

"He's been worried about you," Natasha says as she slides up to his table with another thick dark drink made just for him and a platter of cookies Bucky very much _did not _order. But they're Clint's dark chocolate chunk recipe so he'll allow it.

"Stevie worries too much," Bucky says as he snaps a hand out towards the platter and shoves an entire stolen cookie in his mouth before Natasha can stop him.

Natasha makes an agreeing sound, pats him on his head, and walks back towards the counter.

She leaves the entire platter of cookies though and Bucky can't help but feel as if he's being bribed to stay.

It works but that's hardly the point.

Bucky's half way through the platter and has his laptop open in front of him as he one hand types when his entire world gets thrown off kilter.

The bell at the front door jingles and Bucky, instincts and reflexes still as sharp as ever, automatically looks up and zeroes in on the sound.

And that's when _he _walks in.

He's shorter than Bucky by a pretty good amount and slender, lean in a way that speaks of _strength _instead of weakness. He's all fluffy black hair with an immaculate but interestingly flashy goatee, sweet golden bronze skin, and he also happens to be rocking a three piece suit that looks like it cost more than Bucky's rent.

He's absolutely _gorgeous_.

And what makes it better is that when he strides up to the counter, his suit pants pull tight against an ass that makes Bucky actively sit up and take notice.

Bucky watches, trying his best not to be too obvious, as the man gives Natasha his order, one black coffee with two shots of espresso from what Bucky can hear. The smile he gives her afterwards is enough to make Bucky feel vaguely weak in the knees even from the side.

Then Gorgeous, as Bucky abruptly names him in his head, slides a bit further down the counter and reaches for his wallet. He pulls out what Bucky's pretty sure is a crisp hundred and stuffs it in the tip jar Clint decorated to look like a bulls-eye.

And then he turns and looks directly at Bucky.

Staring into big doe eyes from across the way Bucky resists the urge to bring his hand up to grip at his chest.

Because that split second is all it takes.

One look and Bucky is officially _gone_.

"See something you like?" Natasha slithers up to his side after Gorgeous chugs at least half of his drink in impressive time as he leaves.

"He a regular?" Bucky can't help but ask, too far gone to even care that Natasha is, likely, going to immediately text Steve about this. Hell since her phone's already in her hand she's probably actively texting him about it right now.

Bucky doesn't actually care because he's pretty sure he just saw his future husband.

"You really do live under a rock don't you?" The look Natasha gives him is narrow eyed and searching before she smiles just a bit, and shakes her head. "His name's Tony, or at least that's what he gave for his order."

"_Tony_," Bucky hums as he resists the urge to find a pen so he can doodle _Tony Barnes _and little hearts on his napkin like he's back in grade school. "It suits him."

"Yeah," Natasha shakes her head, "you're pathetic. It's actually kind of cute."

"Think he'd mind a winter wedding?" Bucky asks. "That way I could wear gloves?"

"Absolutely pathetic." Natasha repeats as she goes to turn away.

"Keep it up and we won't name any of the kids after you," Bucky calls at her retreating back.

Natasha gives him the finger and doesn't even break stride.

"So," Steve says as soon as he pushes his way inside Bucky's apartment later on that evening, "Natasha said you're getting married. Dibs on best man and you'd better let me paint the wedding portrait. I might actually be able to capture what little bit of a good side you got."

"You're hilarious," Bucky cuts back. "Keep your shit up and I'll make Clint my best man and I'll make sure your seat's outside. By the bathroom. Where you belong."

"Rude," Steve says as he strips off his leather jacket and collapses down onto Bucky's couch. "So tell me more about your husband to be."

"His name's Tony and he's _gorgeous_," Bucky sighs as he slumps back down on the opposite end of the couch, laptop balanced on his knees.

"Yeah Natasha said that's what you'd say," Steve pokes him in the rib cage with one sharp, spindly finger. "More information would be good."

"Why?" Bucky asks as he swats Steve's hand away from his side. "I'm the one marrying him, not you."

"You don't know anything else about him do you?" Steve cuts right to the chase.

"No," Bucky admits sullenly.

"Nat's right," Steve sighs. "You are pathetic."

Bucky can't actually protest that either way at the moment.

"Well," Steve finally says. "On the bright side I guess this means you'll be getting out of the apartment more right?"

There's a moment of silence.

"_Son of a bitch_," Bucky grumbles because they both know it's true.

Bucky's gonna have to go to the shop if he wants the chance to see his future husband again.

Beside him Steve laughs delightedly.

Bucky feels zero remorse for hitting him with one of the throw pillows Thor had bought him.

Sure enough the next day finds Bucky back in the shop around the same time and at the same table he'd had the day before.

Natasha, running the register, looks unbearably amused and smug to see him.

Bucky ignores her and pretends like he's not watching the door with sniper like intensity.

Unfortunately Gorgeous Tony doesn't show up.

Bucky's more disappointed than he wants to admit.

It doesn't stop him from going back the next day.

Or the next.

He's been getting more work done sitting in the shop than he wants to admit plus Natasha's been giving him free cookies, and Steve looks happier by the day.

So, overall, it might actually be a win that Bucky's pretty much adjusted his entire schedule on a whim.

Go figure.

Then, almost a week after seeing him for the first and only time, the bell above the shop door rings and Bucky looks up just as Gorgeous Tony walks back into his life.

And, Bucky notes helplessly, he looks just as good as he had the first time.

Maybe even _better _if that's at all possible since this time he looks well rested and calmer.

Bucky, caught off guard after being ready to give up hope of ever seeing Gorgeous Tony again, is struck dumb.

So instead of saying anything, instead of mustering the courage to approach him, he just sits in the corner and stares like a fucking creeper.

Gorgeous Tony doesn't stay long, just gets his order, shoves some bills in the tip jar, and strolls out, throat working as he chugs his drink.

Bucky just watches him go as he brings his hand up to frame _that ass _with his fingers and sigh wistfully.

From behind the counter Natasha stares at him judgingly but, again, Bucky doesn't care.

Tony Spotting™ becomes one of Bucky's new favorite past times as he settles into the shop everyday, laptop in tow as he plows through his newest manuscript.

Bucky won't admit it but Steve was right. Being out of the apartment for more than just therapy and food has done a lot for both his mood and his productivity.

That being said writing is still semi-slow going because his arm is good for a lot of things but the finger articulation isn't exactly great for typing so he's mostly going about it one handed.

But the ten to fifteen seconds of eye contact he gets with Tony almost every day is worth it.

Steve finds the entire thing beyond amusing right up until he finally sees Tony for himself a month or so in.

Bucky's finally shed his glove and moved to short sleeves in honor of the quickly rising heat and the vague hope that Tony won't be off put by his prosthetic like some people are. He's sitting at his usual table, the one with the good view of the door and the counter, when Tony comes in right on time.

Bucky can't help the small appreciative hum he gives off when he sees the dark three piece suit with red accents Tony's wearing today.

"Lover boy here?" Steve perks up from across the table where he's been bent over his sketchbook.

"Lower your voice or I'll make sure you never speak again," Bucky hisses sharply as he kicks out at Steve beneath the table and raises his hand to get Natasha's attention because he needs another drink.

"Calm down he can't hear me from here," Steve says as he snaps his book closed, picks up his tea, and turns in his seat to look towards the counter. "Now let me see my future brother-in-law."

"Dark suit, ass crafted out of dreams, and standing by the counter _obviously_," Bucky says because he not so secretly enjoys ribbing Steve when he can. It's an important part of their relationship.

Steve, mug of tea raised up, takes one look at Gorgeous Tony and promptly chokes.

Tony turns towards the sound, brows raised in curiosity, and Bucky feels his ears turn red at the tips as he reaches over and pats Steve none too gently on the back.

Standing at the counter behind Tony, two cups in hand, Natasha's also staring at them obviously unimpressed.

"Stop dying you little fuck," Bucky hisses low and vicious, "you're embarrassing me in front of my fiance."

"That's your dream husband?" Steve half whispers, half screams as he looks between Tony at the counter and Bucky.

"Yeah," Bucky cuts a look in Tony's direction and does his best to keep his expression from going dopey and soft when they make eye contact again. As it is he can practically hear the cartoon hearts in his own voice. Hell if the way Natasha rolls her eyes at him from behind Tony as she puts the drinks down at the edge of the counter is anything to go by there might actually _be_ cartoon hearts. "Ain't he _perfect_?"

"Oh he's … he's _something _alright," Steve sounds caught between incredulous and dazed. "You sure all you know is his first name?"

"Unfortunately," Bucky says as he continues staring at Tony, more than a bit lovelorn. "Don't matter though, cause his last name's gonna be Barnes eventually."

Bucky sees Steve open his mouth to say something else out of the corner of his eye but just then Natasha makes a small lunging motion towards Tony who's picked up one of the two drinks.

She's too late though, Tony's already chugging the drink without a pause, head tipped back and throat working in a way Bucky knows he probably shouldn't find attractive but _does_.

Behind the counter Natasha's staring at him in what looks like a strange mix of horror, awe, and what could be a hint of fear.

And that's when Bucky realizes what's happened.

Tony had, obviously, grabbed the wrong drink.

Instead of whatever he'd ordered Tony had gotten his hands on Bucky's specially formulated drink.

All Bucky can do is watch, awed, as he finishes the thing off only to turn to a slightly flustered Natasha with a curious expression.

"Wrong drink," Natasha says flatly as she holds out Tony's actual order.

"Ah," Tony says, looking bashful enough to make Bucky's entire chest seize up. "Sorry darling, I'll pay for it."

Tony does and then he shoves even more money into the tip jar before he looks over at Bucky one last time, grabs his actual order, and finally heads for the door.

Bucky's left behind, uncomfortably flustered, as he watches him leave again.

"He just chugged my entire special dark blend quad espresso in forty-five seconds flat without flinching," Bucky finally sighs dreamily. "I'm gonna have his babies, Stevie. His beautiful, caffeine proof babies."

"Pretty sure that's not how that works, Buck," Steve, staring at Tony's retreating back with a mix of horror and incredulity, also somehow manages to sound unbearably amused and vaguely disgusted all at the same time. He's talented like that. "And honestly I'm not even sure how either of you are _alive _after drinking that shit, it's toxic."

"All you drink is tea, so you and your leaf water don't get an opinion. Besides, don't try to crush my dreams you little shit," Bucky says as he reaches over the table and swats halfheartedly at him. "I'm gonna marry that man."

"Kind of hard to marry the guy if you _don't actually talk to him_." Steve points out like the killjoy he not so secretly is.

It is, Bucky's realized over the years, one of Steve's superpowers. Right up there with stubbornness and living through almost every allergy known to man. And a few Steve probably discovered himself.

"I should've drowned you when we were kids," Bucky grumbles as he curls his hands around his cup, grimacing lightly at the now long familiar but still irritatingly loud grinding of his prosthetic.

"Truth hurts, Buck," Steve cuts back unsympathetically from beneath blue tipped bangs. "I'm all for you finding a husband but you can't do that without actually talking to him first. I mean, what's your game plan here? You gonna Care Bear stare St-_Tony _into marrying you?"

"You never know," Bucky shrugs, only half jokingly, "it could work."

It doesn't work.

Or at least if it is working it's working bit by bit on such a slow basis that Bucky can't really tell the difference.

Because months of eye contact and longing sighs pass and Bucky _still _can't seem to gather the nerve to actually talk to Tony.

Natasha and Clint both mock him mercilessly as does Sam. Loki had laughed, opened his mouth to say something, and then been abruptly dragged off by Natasha when he'd found out.

Steve's been surprisingly decent about it all but Bucky's also seen him sliding money to Natasha that he's pretty sure is going into the pot he's not supposed to know about.

The one dedicated to when, exactly, he'll finally get the guts to talk to his future husband.

That or give up the ghost and go on one of the blind dates Thor keeps trying to set him up on to help him get his mind off of Tony. At least Natasha seems to have stopped her matchmaking attempts for the time being.

Well her matchmaking outside of the shop because Bucky's not oblivious to all the pointed looks, loudly held conversations, and attempts to push Bucky further in Tony's direction.

He's been resisting because he wants to do this on his own time and in his own way. Tony's the first person he's felt any interest for, even on a purely physical level, since he lost his arm.

So this … this needs to be handled just right no matter what they say or how they pick at him for being overly dramatic.

Or, as Clint says, a '_fucking heart-eyed creeper in the corner'_.

Honestly Bucky can't help but wonder if any of them really remember that before he lost his arm he was a sniper by trade.

And that means he's got patience to spare.

Plus, as Steve should remember, even before his stint in the military Bucky had always been more than a bit loyal even to minor crushes.

So yeah, he's a bit preoccupied with Tony at the moment and that … that's probably not going to change.

Which may or may not be a good thing in this situation.

Because, in the end, Steve's actually right.

_Again_.

He's never gonna move passed the starring stage and get anywhere with Tony if he doesn't at least _talk _to him.

But that, Bucky has found, is a bit easier said than done, all things considered.

At least it is ... right up until it's _not_.

Because Steve, skinny, belligerently kind Steve, has an asthma attack.

Right at Bucky's table.

Right after Tony has walked through the door and just placed his order.

Bucky sees the warning signs as soon as they happen and he moves with an instinct and smoothness born of long years of friendship and more than one terrifying hospital trip. He's got his bag open and is out of his seat and sliding around the table the _second _Steve starts to really _wheeze _and slumps out of his chair.

He guides Steve down to the floor carefully, going down behind him until he's got Steve's back pressed against his chest. The emergency inhaler that everyone in their group carries is in his good hand as he pushes it up towards Steve's mouth, taking deliberately deep breathes that will be easier for Steve to match.

"Come on buddy," Bucky says, careful to keep his voice even and calm. A hint of panic from Bucky will only make Steve worse, they know that from experience. "Two puffs and then I'm gonna need you to breathe, Stevie. Nice and easy now, okay?"

Steve just nods his head, clutches at Bucky's hand and the inhaler it's holding, and does his best to breathe.

Bucky, intent on making sure his best friend isn't turning blue in the face anymore, ignores the commotion in the shop and the sound of footsteps coming closer.

"He okay?" A rich, smooth voice asks from the side. "You need me to call it in? Or maybe a ride to a hospital or something?"

Bucky looks up then and finds himself staring directly at Tony who's watching the two of them, brows furrowed, phone in hand, and eyes dark with concern.

Natasha and Clint are there too, standing just beside Tony, both with their own inhalers in hand, but for a split second all Bucky can focus on is Tony.

He really is _beautiful_.

Bucky shakes the thought off quickly enough because Steve and getting him to breathe is far more important at the moment.

Thankfully Steve's already beginning to find a steady breathing rhythm, the extra strength inhaler doing its job with relieving ease.

Which means this wasn't, despite how it may have appeared, actually a severe attack.

"I think he's good," Bucky finally remembers Tony's questions as he feels Steve trying to match the rhythm of his breathing. "Wasn't so severe. I'll get him back to his apartment once he's steadier. Some rest and he'll be okay."

"Sure you don't want that ride?" Tony asks softly.

"That's real sweet of you, doll," Bucky cuts a small smile up at Tony whose eyes widen abruptly, "but we're gonna be here a while. Don't want you to be late, wherever it is you gotta go with that fancy suit."

"_Ah_," Tony clears his throat slightly, "alright, if you're sure. I hope he feels better."

And then, much to Bucky's confusion, Tony turns on his heel and scuttles out of the shop, freshly made drink left behind on the counter.

Bucky doesn't let himself linger on that though, instead he focuses on getting Steve evened back out and then, once he's steady, all of their stuff bundled up so he can get both of them home.

Attacks, even the less severe ones, always take a lot out of Steve so Bucky needs to flag down a cab and get him home as soon as possible.

The only thing is, when Bucky steps out of the shop with Steve pressed close to his side and Natasha and Clint yelling at him to call them later behind him, there's a cab already idling at the sidewalk.

The cab ride's not long but Steve and Bucky both must look worse for the wear because the cabbie refuses to take their fair. Hell once Bucky looks up he realizes the man's meter isn't even running. And when Bucky questions him about it all he does is grin and tell him he had some luck today and that he was clocking off early anyways and they weren't far off his route home.

It's a kind gesture that actually helps Bucky feel a little less tense as he follows Steve into his building.

Sometimes the world really can be kind.

"You know," Steve rasps about half an hour later from where he's laying sprawled across his hideous but _outrageously _comfortable plaid couch, "that would have been a perfect time to really talk to him. I mean I let you look like a hero and everything, jumping to help out a sick friend. Would've been a good in."

"Next time I'll let you suffocate while I hit on the guy of my dreams okay?" Bucky snips back easily enough. "Now stop talking before I smother you with a pillow and save us both the trouble."

"You'd be lost without me," Steve flaps a hand dismissively at his threat.

"I'd be on a date with my fiance right now if I didn't have you to worry about, you little fungus," Bucky denies easily, even as he sits down and pulls Steve's feet into his lap.

They both know he's joking anyways so it's all good.

Another month or so passes after Steve's attack.

And after much waxing poetic about how _sweet _and ready to be help Tony had been that day Bucky thinks he might actually be ready to talk to him outside of a crisis.

There's also the fact that if he doesn't do something soon Steve might actually try to strangle him.

He wouldn't really be able to reach Bucky's throat but, again, Bucky's not willing to take that chance. Steve's vicious when he's determined and he's almost always determined about something.

Plus, if he's being honest, Bucky really does feel like it's time so it's less about finally giving into the peer pressure and more about finally being actually ready.

So. determined, Bucky puts his game face on and gets ready.

After an extra long shower and scrub down he puts on the red Henley Natasha bought him, the one she says makes him look _edible_. Then he dries his hair and lets it stay down from its regular little bun so that it hangs around his jaw line.

He even takes the time to shave his scruff down to more _attractively stubbled _levels before he heads out to the shop.

Nerves jangling more than he likes to admit Bucky orders a drink, something filled with enough sugar that even Clint blanches when he drinks it, and settles in to wait.

And then wait some more.

Because, for the first time in closer to a year than Bucky wants to admit, _Tony doesn't show_.

Disappointed Bucky slinks home that afternoon with zero work done and more than a bit sugar high.

But he's still determined so he tries to cheer himself up with the fact that there's always tomorrow.

Only tomorrow comes and for the second day in a row Tony's a no show.

In fact the only person besides the few regulars that Bucky sees is a stern looking black man in an Air Force uniform who strides into the shop, takes one look around and immediately zeroes in on Bucky's table.

Bucky, caught off guard, automatically stands and salutes as soon as he sees the man's rank.

He might not have been Air Force himself but he's still gonna be respectful. Spent too many years in the service and had his ass saved too many time by other branches to not be all things considered.

"Unit and specialization?" Air Force asks briskly without even bothering to introduce himself.

"107th," Bucky instantly volunteers, "sniper, Sir."

Bucky feels as if he's seen this guy somewhere before but he just can't put his finger on _where_.

"Hold still for a second," Air Force orders as he brings a sleek looking phone up between them. Bucky freezes, slightly wide eyed, as the other man takes his picture.

Air Force lowers his phone, fingers flying across the screen, and offers zero explanation as to what's going on.

Behind the counter Natasha actually looks ridiculously amused for some reason.

"Sir?" Bucky finally speaks up after the silence drags on for a long moment, "what's going on?"

"You'll be seeing me soon," Air Force announces, "and you'd better _hope _it's under good circumstances."

And then he turns on his heel and walks back out of the shop.

Bucky's left standing behind him, brows raised high in confusion, and pretty fucking sure he just got threatened.

And he, for once, has absolutely no idea as to _why_.

Steve, the little bastard that he is, finds the entire thing _hilarious _for some reason when he shows up at the shop an hour or so later.

"You're so clueless that it's honestly kind of sad," Steve tells him as he sprawls in his chair, huge mug of tea settled to the side and a platter of lemon muffins piled high in front of him courtesy of Clint.

Bucky opens his mouth to defend himself only to snap it shut when the door the shop abruptly slams open.

Everybody in the shop jumps just a bit but Bucky's frozen, eyes wide and breath caught in his throat.

Because, standing there in the door after two days of being a no show, is Tony.

Only he looks nothing like the Tony Bucky's gotten so used to seeing.

Gone are the regular three piece suits and perfectly coiffed hair.

Instead Tony's in a pair of ratty old jeans, some sneakers that have seen better days, and there's what looks like motor oil streaked across one of his cheeks.

Bucky's pretty sure he feels faint.

There's also he realizes a second or so later, something large and awkwardly shaped tucked under Tony's arm.

Something that looks, strangely enough, a lot like a _arm_.

But before Bucky can even blink Tony's making a beeline towards his table.

"I've been awake for fifty plus hours," Tony announces as he slams his bundle down onto the table between Bucky and Steve's muffins and drink. "You're gorgeous, and I built you an arm because I'm pretty sure I wanna marry you. So, wanna get hitched?"

Bucky has a split second where he's pretty sure he's died and gone to heaven as his mind blue screens.

"_Yes_!" He yelps without even realizing he's opened his mouth.

And then the next thing he knows Steve is kicking him beneath the table as he practically dies in laughter.

"I-I mean _no_," Bucky scrambles to recover some small shred of dignity or composure, "I mean … I … _oh god kill me now_."

"No take backs, handsome," Tony announces gleefully, face split in a wide, delighted grin. "We're gonna get married and make gorgeous robotic babies together. I've decided, you've agreed, now all that's left is the details. And finally getting your name."

"I'm Bucky," Bucky manages to find the will power and brain cells to say, "Bucky Barnes."

"I'm Tony," Tony announces, "Tony Stark."

And then Bucky's entire brain promptly derails itself yet again because he knows that name, _everyone_ knows that name. But then Bucky's never paid much attention to the tabloids so it's no wonder he hadn't connected the dots before now.

Hell if he'd known he was crushing on _the_ Tony Stark he probably would have given it up pretty quickly because _Tony Stark_ is the _definition_ of out of his league.

It turns out not to matter much either way though.

Because, apparently, Tony Stark is very, very much in his league.

Because Bucky's not the only one who's been staring. Tony's been looking and watching awfully hard as well.

So his little crush is, by some miracle of fate, entirely requited.

And, as it turns out, the arm Tony built for him fits like a dream with only a few minor tweaks.

Bucky's first official date with his _fiance_ the day after the final fitting is also a rousing success.

Just like SI's new line of affordable prosthetic limbs and parts ends up being a rousing success. The same line of prosthetics that Tony and his terrifying Pepper Potts end up smooth talking Bucky into becoming the face of,

And that's a move which, in turn, helps send his own book sales through the roof thanks to the exposure and people's curiosity turning them in his direction.

None of that matters though. Bucky would give it all away because it's not important.

What's really important to him, what really _matters_, is the fact that, somehow, in the end, Bucky gets Tony.

And then, two years later, and still blissfully happy, Bucky gets down on one knee in the middle of the shop and in front of all of their friends, and asks Tony a very specific question.

Tony, to Bucky's everlasting relief and delight, says _yes_.

So, in the end, Rhodes, the terrifying Air Force Colonel who still gives Bucky the 'I'm watching you" eyes occasionally despite them bonding over the service and a mutual adoration of Tony, is Tony's best man.

Steve who, alongside the entire rest of their friend group, apparently knew Bucky's Gorgeous Tony was _Tony Stark _the entire time and _never said anything _is_, _of course, Bucky's. He's unbearably smug about it but Bucky can't even blame him. He owes Steve a lot after all.

And Tony's clumsy little robot kid DUM-E is the ring bearer.

Bucky loves all of Tony's creations but there's a specail soft spot in his heart for DUM-E. The clumsy little bot is, as it turns out, the other person to whom Bucky apparently owes his happily ever after. It was thanks to his ill timed fire extinguisher attack that Tony was running late that first day and ducked into the shop at all.

Life, Bucky finds, is damn strange sometimes but is also so damn _good_.

All because, one Monday morning in a cafe, Bucky made eye contact with the man who turned out to be the love of his life.


	71. (O) BOYF - Gaymer Heere by WanderingWar

Gaymer Heere  
Wandering_Warlock

Summary:  
Michael Mell is a fairly popular YouTuber if he does say so himself. He has a fair amount of fans so isn't too surprised when they tell him about an amazing fan video based on one of his vlogs. He is surprised at how amazing the singer is and just has to get to know this guy.

* * *

Chapter 01: Michael watches a video

It was late and Michael knew that he should have been in bed hours ago. That didn't stop him from mindlessly scrolling through his twitter feed though. Although the way it was looking, he wasn't going to see much tonight. It seemed that all of his fans were telling him to watch this one video. Michael had been doing YouTube for a few years now, since his senior year in High School, and his channel 'Mellow Gaymer' was mostly him playing his favorite retro games and the occasional vlogs. The vlogs were what apparently inspired this video that everyone wanted him to watch. From what he had gathered, some fan had made a video based on one of his more 'emotional' vlogs where he talked about one time he had gone to a party in his junior year and was essentially friend-dumped by his so-called best friend. That night had been a sore spot for a long time afterwards and even to this day Michael still did not like really talking about that night. Honestly the only 'good' thing out of the whole situation was that he made friends with Rich not too long after. Rich was in the same grade as Michael but was a popular kid and would sometimes bully people. They never interacted much before that day, not until after the fiasco of when Rich had hurt himself after setting a house on fire during the same disaster party Michael had been at. When he returned to school, after months in the hospital, he was still on crutches and needed someone to help him carry books and stuff. The administration gave that job to Michael. It had been awkward at first but it seemed that the time away had done well for the smaller boy. Rich told him that nobody had visited him while in the hospital so he knew that all his so called friends were fake. Michael felt bad for him and had offered to hang out sometime if the other wanted, and Rich agreed. After that the two had become fast friends and now even shared an apartment. Michael sighed as he saw yet another person linking him to the video and telling him that he '_must watch this omg its so good!_'.

"Fine you guys win." He huffed as he clicked the link. It took him to YouTube and after the ad played his paused the video before it could start. He first checked the title 'Michael in the Bathroom' and snorted. Yeah that pretty much summed up his experience. He was kind of surprised to see the 'Check the description before watching' message that the video was paused on. So following its direction, he scrolled down a bit and laughed again when he finally seen the channel name 'Heere and Queere'. This guy clearly had a sense of humor. "Ok let's check this description" he mumbled as he clicked the 'show more' button and started reading.

_Hey guys, thanks for reading this. As you guys know we usually do original content over something that happened to us or one of our close friends, but this video is different. A while back a YouTuber I greatly admire named 'Mellow Gaymer' uploaded a video where he talked about a very hard time in his life and it hit home with me a lot cause I've had a similar experience to the one he talks about. So anyway after watching that video I got inspired to write this song. It's not all just his experiences, some of it is based off of mine, but I really hope you guys like it! And go watch the original video I'll leave a link for you guys! Thanks for watching! -J_

Well now Michael was even more intrigued and was excited as he scrolled back up to finally watch the video. The warning faded away and the next screen said 'Song written/sung by: Jeremy. Art done by: Connor & Evan'. The jingle then started up and Michael was surprised by how cheerful it sounded for such a rough topic. He sat in silence as he watched the 'cartoon' him walk around a bathroom and have a near panic attack at being abandoned by his best friend. He didn't know when he started crying, he just knew that by the end he was wiping them away from his eyes furiously as the video faded to black and the auto play tried to start a new video. God he never knew that somebody's voice could sound so emotional. This guy clearly had had a similar experience in order to be able to sound that sad. He shook himself and switched back over to twitter. He knew what he had to do.

* * *

Chapter 02: Jeremy has a metldown

Jeremy was having a bad day that much was for sure. His alarm hadn't gone off so he was almost late to his morning class. Then he found that it hadn't gone off because he had forgot to put his dumb phone on its dumb charger the night before so it was as dead as he felt since he hadn't had time to get a coffee. The rest of his day seemed to go from bad to worse. He had had a test in his second class, forgot his wallet in his dorm so he couldn't get lunch from the cafeteria and didn't have the time to go back and get it, his teacher hated him in his third class, and his fourth and last class was two hours long! Needless to say he was ready to go back to his dorm and sleep for the next year. Being a sophomore in college was tough. He was majoring in Music with a minor in Theater, it was a dream of his to someday write songs for Broadway musicals. That was, if he could survive the horrors of college. As soon as he got to his room he tossed his bag on his desk, plugged his phone into the charger, and fell face first onto his bed. He laid there for a moment of bliss before it was rudely interrupted as his phone got all the messages he had missed over the day. It pinged like crazy and Jeremy was surprised. He normally never got this many messages in one day. He decided to get up and see what the fuss was about. He scrolled though the huge amount of messages from Twitter and YouTube and focused on the ones from his best friend Christine.

Christine was honestly the best person Jeremy had ever met. He had had a crush on her for the longest time back in High School and they had even dated, shortly, during their junior year before realizing that they were better off as friends. They had both even gone to the same college to study theater, she majored in it, and they were inseparable at times. She had been there for some of the worst times of his life such as when he came out as Bi, or when he had finally broken up with his abusive boyfriend in senior year.

He looked at her most recent message from just a few minutes ago that read 'Jeremiah Heere if you do not answer me in the next ten minutes you will regret it!' and gulped in fear. He quickly typed out a response telling her that his phone was dead all day and he was tired. Her response was immediate 'I'm coming over and bringing sustenance'. Jeremy just sighed and flopped back onto his bead. Christine had a key to his dorm so he could get a quick nap in before she got here hopefully.

It felt like he had just closed his eyes when he heard the sound of a camera and a light giggle. He groaned as he rolled over and glared at the offending person. This only made Christine laugh more and snap another picture. "Aw Jake will love this!" she said quickly sending the pictures to their friend.

Jeremy's eyes widened and he tried to grab the phone. "No! Don't send that to Jake!" he whined as the smaller girl danced out of his reach. Jake was another friend he had made back in high school. Back then Jake had been the most popular guy in the school whereas Jeremy had been invisible in the background. They only became friends because of Christine and theater. Jake had initially joined their little theater group at the beginning of their junior year so that he could get closer to Chris and ask her out, but he loved it so much he stayed even after breaking up with Chris a few months later. Jake didn't do much theater stuff now in college but he went to every one of Jeremys and Christine's plays.  
Christine stuck out her tongue as she slipped her phone back into her pocket. "Too late Hun, already sent."

Jeremy sighed dramatically, "Why would you wound me in such a way!" causing both of them to burst into giggles. "So what was so important that you rushed over here and threatened me by text?" He asked once they had settled down on his bed eating the Chinese that the girl had brought with her.

"Oh my gosh that's right!" she gasped. "Have you seen the news yet? Probably not because you aren't like freaking out or anything!"

"News? What news?" He asked curiously.

"Maybe you should just check your Twitter?" She replied coyly.

Jeremy hesitantly grabbed his phone and quickly logged into his Twitter account. It didn't take him long at all to find what his best friend was referring to. Michael Mell, his all-time favorite YouTuber and celebrity crush, had mentioned him in a comment about one of his songs!

Close to the end of his senior year Christine had finally convinced Jeremy to create a YouTube account so that 'all the world can hear your amazing voice Jer! I swear you sound like an angel! I'm so jealous!' Jeremy had been hesitant at first but looking back now was super glad he had. Since he was so painfully awkward and shy in front of a camera he instead would record the song and send it to his step-brother Evan and, with the help of his artistic fiancé Conner, would then draw an animatic for it. Once it was finished they would upload it to the channel. Sometimes Jeremy would even help Christine or Evan write and sing their own songs and upload them to the channel as well. With everyone working together the whole system worked smoothly. By now Jeremy felt pretty comfortable in his ability to write songs, so when he watched one of Michael's vlogs talking about how he had been abandoned by his only friend while at a party, he knew he had to write about it. He had never actually expected the other to see it though!

"I-I never expected him to a-actually see it" he stuttered out. "h-how d-did this happen?" he could feel his pulse racing and knew he was about to start freaking out. Then he noticed the private dm message from the YouTuber and screamed, throwing his phone as if it was on fire. "Nonononono. This can't be happening! I-I-I. What do I do Chris?" He was crying and found it harder to breathe.

He felt a soft hand on his back as he was pulled into Christine's chest. "Oh don't worry my sweet! It'll turn out alright! Look he said he really liked the video! And his message just says that he wants to thank you for making such a touching song and that he cried watching it! That's good right?" She ran her fingers though his curly hair. He nodded slightly. "See! Now, enough of this, lets watch the new season of Voltron! I hear we are supposed to get to learn more about Galra culture!"

They spent the rest of the night eating and watching Netflix on Jeremy's laptop until Christine fell asleep. Not wanting to face her wrath by watching more without her, Jeremy exited Netflix and, with a quick glance over at his discarded phone, opened Twitter. Taking a deep breath Jeremy wrote out his reply, which was basically just a 'thank you for liking my video! I'm a huge fan of yours! Especially your Apocalypse of the Dammed videos!' and sent it.

He was honestly surprised when he got a response a few minutes later saying 'Are you kidding me! Of course I liked it! How could people not! You like AotD too? That's awesome! Not many people appreciate the older games even though they have so much to offer! Those uncultured swine' Jeremy snorted at the dorky reply. He was smiling as he wrote out his response. It was going to be a long night.

* * *

Chapter 03: Michael gets a clue

[**Text** = Michael, Text = Jeremy]

Michael couldn't stop smiling. It had been nearly a week since he had started talking to Jeremy and, honestly, he had never connected to anyone as fast as he did with the other boy. That first night they had texted all night about anything and everything. They both had the same interest in old school games, terrible movies, and cartoons. He learned that Jeremy was in his second year of college and was a huge theater nerd and that his friends helped him work on his channel.

"Oh shit you got that dopey look on your face again. Is it your boyfriend?" Rich teased leaning over the back of the couch to read Michaels messages.

Michael swatted the other boy away. "Stop it man. He's not my boyfriend!" Michael exclaimed while Rich just laughed and moved into the kitchen.

The smaller boy had been teasing him nonstop ever since he found out. Michael shook his head and continued scrolling through his Tumblr when he got a message from Jake. Jake was Rich's boyfriend and honestly a really cool guy. They had been dating for almost a year now and Jake would often crash at their apartment or just come over to hang out. Michael opened the message and was surprised to find a video. The attached message didn't help clear anything up since all it said was 'I told you he was a furry!' "Well the only way to find out is to watch it I guess."

_The video started with a door opening into a room. There were a couple of posters on the wall, the edge of a bed was just visible off to the side, a handful of clothes were scattered on the floor, and lastly there was a boy sitting in front of a computer on a desk. "Hey Jer meow." Jake's voice said off camera._

_The boy turned around, held up his hands in a way that imitated a cat's paws, and meowed. "Wait why?" he asked hesitantly before noticing the camera. "Wait. You're filming this!" Jake started laughing as the video ended. _

The video wasn't even twenty seconds but Michael found that he couldn't stop wondering who the boy in it was. He let it play again, this time pausing it so he could get a good look at the mystery boy. His hair was a light brown color with a slight curl in it, freckles decorating his face standing out against his pale skin, and his voice sounded so familiar but Michael just couldn't place where he might have heard it.

It was a few days later that Michael found his answer. He was listening to some song by Jeremy's friend, Christine, while waiting for his newest video to finish uploading to his channel. He had to admit Christine had a pretty voice and the song itself was pretty funny too. It was about Christine telling Jeremy about this guy she might like and wanted advice on if she should ask him out. Jeremy, the dunce, thought she was talking about him and got really excited since he had a massive crush on her. When he first heard it Michael had messaged Jeremy about it and had laughed when Jeremy told him that the whole thing had really happened and it was so embarrassing when she told him. "Hey man whatcha listening to?"

Michael jumped and turned to look at the newcomer. "Jake dude! Don't scare me like that!" He told the taller man. Jake was always coming into the apartment unannounced.

He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Sorry, sorry." Jake then leaned on the back of the couch to look at Michael's computer. "A guy that I'd kinda be into." He read. "Wait is this Jer's channel?"

"Jer?"

"Yeah Jeremy. Oh man his stuff is great right! Did you know that apparently the guy Chris was talking about was me? I didn't know at the time that Jeremy even had a crush on her but hey who didn't really."

Michael stared at the other man as he was talking. "Wait, wait, wait. You know Jeremy? Like this Jeremy?" he gestured to the screen just to be safe.

Jake nodded. "Oh yea man. We used to go to high school together. I was just at his dorm the other day and got this great video of him being a dork."

Michael thought of the random video that Jake had accidently sent him earlier that week. "So that was Jeremy? My Jeremy?" He asked himself quietly. Louder he asked "So you're saying he lives nearby? Oh my god we could actually meet!" He could feel himself getting excited at the thought.

"I mean yea I guess you could. Why though? You a fan of his?" Jake teased.

Michael could feel his face heating up slightly. "A bit I guess. He did a song of one of my vlogs and we've been talking for a few weeks now."

He heard Jake's sharp intake of breath. "Oh my god your Mellow Gaymer aren't you! Jer doesn't shut up about you! Oh man! This is going to be so great. He loves you."

Michaels face was on fire now. "Uh thanks I guess." His face was still red long after Jake and Rich left for their date. Picking up his phone he opened his chat with Jeremy.

_(17:23)_ **Hey**

_(17:26)_ Hey, whats up?

_(17:27)_ **Hmmm not much. Rich is out with his bf Jake**

_(17:28)_ **Speaking of Jake. He said he knows you?**

_(17:28)_ **From High school I guess?**

_(17:29)_ Jake? Dillinger? That Jake?

_(17:31)_ **Yea! How weird is that?**

_(17:32)_ Super weird! Like what kind of coincidence is that?

_(17:34)_ **I know right?**

_(17:34)_ **_So I was thinkin_**

_(17:35)_ **Since we know we live in the same city and stuff**

_(17:35)_ **We should meet sometime**

* * *

Chapter 04: Jeremy goes on a date

Jeremy's dad started dating Heidi Hansen when Jeremy was 15 and married her two years later. At first he wasn't sure how to feel about having a new step-mom and step-brother, who was a year older than him, but Heidi turned out to be super nice and she made his dad really happy so Jeremy figured that that was good enough for him. Evan, Heidi's son, was also pretty cool once they had gotten past the awkward 'our parents are dating and they want us to like each other' phase. They didn't really start getting close till Jeremy graduated high school and decided to go to the same college that Evan was already attending. Unlike Jeremy, who lived in the school dorms, Evan lived off campus in an apartment with his fiancé Connor so Jeremy would often go over to their place for Friday night dinners. That was where he was, in fact, when he received Michael's text.

"Jeremy you ok?" a soft voice pulled Jeremy's attention away from the text to where his step-brother's worried face was.

"Uh. Yea I'm good. I'm good."

"Oh yeah I totally believed that." Another voice chimed in from the kitchen.

"Shut up Connor." Jeremy told him. "It's just. Michael wants to meet but I'm not sure what to do."

Evan tilted his head "Michael. Isn't that the guy you like from YouTube?" he asked.

When Jeremy nodded he continued. "And he wants to meet in person." Another nod. "And this is bad why?"

Jeremy groaned and hid his face in his hands. "What if we meet and I'm not as cool or interesting as he thinks I am? What if he takes one look at me and thinks 'nah I could do better than this loser'. What if he hates me!?"

He felt someone cuff him harshly on the back of his head. "You idiot. If that guy decides all that from just one look at ya then good riddance."

Connor sat down next to Evan on the couch and pulled the other boy closer to him.

Jeremy watched them from his own seat on the opposite couch. "How did you guys start dating?"

By the time that Jeremy really started getting close to Evan they had been practically attached at the hip.

The question seemed to set something off since Connor started laughing and Evan turned a bright red color. "Well, uh, we just, we hung out a lot and, uhm, liked each other and." Evan started before Connor cut him off.

"Jeremy trust me we are not the couple you want to base your relationship off of. We became friends because when I was in the hospital after trying to kill myself senior year this guy," he gestured at Evan who was trying harder and harder to hide into the couch "convinced my parents and everyone else that we were best friends or some shit and I didn't bother correcting them when I got out."

Jeremy laughed. "Oh my god did that really happen?"

"I didn't mean to lie!" Evan exclaimed "His parents were just so happy to think he had a friend and I didn't want them to be sad."

"Sure babe." Connor kissed the top of his head. "You have a bleedin' heart."

They spent the rest of the night just hanging out and Jeremy felt surprisingly calm when he sent his reply to Michael.

(19:20) I would love to meet up. Are you free tomorrow?

(19:26) **Yea I am!**

(19:27) **Not going to lie. Was kinda worried when you didn't respond earlier**

(19:28) Ah sorry. At Ev's house so was busy.

(19:28) I have an idea of where we can go if you want. There's this little café that's nice and near a mall that we can go to if we want.

(19:33) **Sounds good to me! Just send me the time and place!**

Jeremy was smiling when he went to bed that night.

The next day Jeremy found himself waiting anxiously at a small café that he sometimes went to, watching the door like a hawk for Michael to arrive. It was five minutes past the time they said and Jeremy was starting to freak out and wondered if maybe Michael had decided that he didn't actually want to meet and stood Jeremy up.

He sighed as he stared into his almost empty cup. "I'll give him five more minutes I guess."

Five minutes passed, Jeremy checked his phone and sighed again when there was no new messages. "This was stupid."

He had just stood up and was about to leave when he saw a flash of red coming in the door. He stopped in the middle of the floor and stared. Michael had just walked in and was looking around, until his eyes met Jeremy's. They stared at each other for several seconds before Michael broke out into a huge smile, and Jeremy almost melted at that sight.

"Jeremy?" He asked, and oh god if that voice wasn't even better hearing it in person versus through his headphones.

Jeremy nodded dumbly and held up a hand in an awkward half wave. "Dude it's so great to meet you."

And just like that Michael surged forward and hugged Jeremy. They stood there for a moment before pulling apart.

"I'm so sorry I'm late man. I woke up late and I swear I got stopped by every red light! How bout I buy you a drink to apologize!" Jeremy agreed and told him his order and returned to the table he had abandoned.

Jeremy took the time to get a good look at Michael. He was a few inches taller than Jeremy was, he had noticed that when they were hugging, and he had on his signature red hoodie with his headphones resting on his neck. Honestly he was the most beautiful person Jeremy had seen and Jeremy felt a little self-conscious in his worn blue sweater. It was one he had had for years but was his favorite article of clothing since it was soft and the blue was his favorite shade. He watched as Michael came to the table and set down the drinks.

They sat there in an awkward quiet for a moment before Jeremy blurted out "It's so great to finally meet you in person. I've been a huge fan for so long." He slapped a hand over his mouth and felt himself turn beat red. 'That was so dumb' he thought.

But to his surprise Michael just laughed, making Jeremy go even redder. "Thanks. I'm a fan of you too so we're even."

They sat in the café for nearly two hours talking. After the initial awkwardness was over, it was like talking to an old friend they hadn't seen for a while. After a while they decided to head over to a game store that was not too far away to look at all the cool geek stuff.

Jeremy picked up a copy of the remastered Crash Bandicoot games. "Oh man I've been wanting to play these but I don't have the money to get em."

Michael leaned over Jeremy's shoulder to look at the game. "I have that at my place if you want to come over and play."

Jeremy turned to reply, only for it to get stuck in his thought when he realized just how close the other boy was. 'It would be so easy to kiss him' he thought, and it was true. If he leaned his head a bit and moved forward a fraction they would be kissing. So that's what he did.

Michael hesitated for a second before he started kissing back. It was over fairly quickly as Jeremy pulled back and asked "Was that ok?"

"I dunno." Michael replied. "We better do it again to make sure." So they kissed again. All in all it was hurried, sloppy, and absolutely perfect.

* * *

Chapter 05: One Year Later

Michael hummed to himself as he set up the equipment that he needed for his live stream. He only did them once every few months and they were pretty much just a big Q&A session where his fans could ask him questions and he would answer. Normally he would do this in his room since that's where all he did all his videos, but Jeremy was still asleep and Michael didn't have the heart to wake him up since they had stayed up late the previous night to celebrate Jeremy's release from the hell that was Final's week. They had been dating for almost a year now but Jeremy was still living in the school dorms since he said it was nice to have somewhere he could go when he just wanted to be alone to study. Often times though they would be up till the early hours of the morning and Jeremy didn't have the energy to go all the way back to his dorm so would crash on Michael's bed with him. Michael smiled at the memory of Jeremy sleeping even as rays of light start to dance across his pale face. He shook his head as he glanced at the clock. It was almost time to start his stream.

Jeremy groaned as the light from the window woke him up. After a few minutes of trying desperately to go back to sleep he finally gave up and stretched. A quick glance around the room told him that his boyfriend was no longer in the room, which wasn't a big deal since Michael tended to wake up earlier than Jeremy anyway. With another yawn Jeremy decided that he wanted to go find his wayward boyfriend and quickly left the bedroom. Once in the hallway he heard Michael's voice talking to someone and followed it into the living room where he found him sitting on the couch with his computer and equipment. "asks why I'm not in my room. Well that is a great question! The short answer is that my terrible boyfriend is still sleeping even though it's like noon already." Michael said with a laugh.

Jeremy picked up a toy off the shelf and threw it at Michael. "Ow what the…" Michael looked up and locked eyes with Jeremy. "Jerm what the hell? What did," he glanced down at the offending toy. "Pikachu ever do to you?"

Jeremy shrugged. "Pikachu did nothing to me. You however just told thousands of people that I'm a terrible boyfriend cause I like to sleep in." They both laughed. "If you're in the middle of a stream I can head out." He said hesitantly.

Truth be told he didn't want to leave. He wanted to stay in the apartment and cuddle with his boyfriend for the rest of the day.

Michael looked at Jeremy for a moment before turning back to his computer. "Hey guys sorry 'bout this uhm give me ten and I'll be right back! I got some boyf business to attend to real quick." He told his fans before he came over to Jeremy's side. "You could join me you know?" he asked quietly so the fans wouldn't hear him.

Jeremy looked hesitant. "I dunno Micha. They are your fans. I don't know if they would want me to be there with you. And you know how I get nervous in front of people."

"Are you kidding me? You're all they talk about sometimes! They all want to meet the beautiful boy who stole my heart trust me! And you're a natural performer Jer. I've seen you on stage! You'll do great trust me!"

Jeremy blushed. "I kinda doubt that. Besides I just woke up so I probably look terrible."

Michael just shook his head. "You look wonderful."

Jeremy felt his blush deepen. "Let me get dressed real quick and I guess I'll join you for a bit."

"You're the best Jer!" Michael gave him a quick peck.

Jeremy rushed back into the bedroom and quickly changed into a new shirt and his favorite blue cardigan before rejoining Michael a minute later. "Ok I think I'm ready." He gave a shaky smile and laughed when Michael ruffled up his hair playfully.

"K. Now you're ready." Michael teased before guiding Jeremy over to the couch and motioning him to stay just out of camera view. "Hey guys, sorry about that! I can see you're all very excited!" He paused for a moment as he looked at the chat. "Aw you guys are so sweet. Don't worry the boyf problem is fixed now. In fact I have someone here with me that I think you guys might want to meet." He pulled Jeremy over to sit next to him. "And here he is. Ladies and gentlemen meet my lovely boyfriend Jeremy!"

Jeremy awkwardly waved to the camera. "Uh. Hi?"

Michael grinned brightly as the chat blew up with comments. He knew his fans would love Jeremy as much as he does. He leaned over and nudged Jeremy with his shoulder. "See babe. I told you they would like you!"

Jeremy brought one of his sleeve covered hands up to his mouth to cover his blush and smile causing Michael to almost die of cuteness overload. "Why don't we read some comments?" Jeremy suggested, still hiding behind his hand.

"Sounds good to me!" Michael turned towards the computer. "Ok let's see. 'Gaymerfan69' said '_Omg Jeremy you are so freaking cute!'_ I gotta say, I totally agree with this comment. Jeremy is freaking cute."

Jeremy moved his hand from his face to swat at Michael. "I'm not cute Miah!"

Miachel gave him a look. "Babe. Babe. You are the cutest. Next one is from 'JessieJake' who says '_AAAHH He called him Miah! That's so cute!' _Again, He is the cutest out there."

Jeremy watched all the comments pour in. "Wow you have great fans Michael. This is so overwhelming. What do we do?"

"Well usually I just answer questions people have and talk about whatever so," He then addressed the computer, "If you guys have any questions for us ask away."

For the next few hours they took turns answering questions that their fans sent in laughing the whole time. Later, a year or two from now, one of them will ask the other to share the rest of their life with them and the other will laugh through tears and reveal a similar box and tell them that they had beat them to it. They will kiss and get married and eventually grow old together having filled their days with love and laughter. But for now, in this moment, they are just two boys who are still finding out what it means to love each other. For now, being together is all they need.


	72. (T) STARKER - The Field Trip to the Boyf

The Field Trip to the Boyfriends House  
ShadowQuill

Summary:  
Peter wakes up as he always does, in bed with his boyfriend, Tony Stark. When he heads to school, he realizes he has a field trip and where is it to?

Of course it's to his boyfriends home.

(I don't really ship Starker, but this has been in my head forever. Also one of my main issues with it is the age difference, so in this Tony is 20 and Peter is 18, but don't worry everything is explained. If it's not plz comment and tell me) :-)

* * *

"Hey," Peter said rolling over in bed to face his boyfriend.

"Hello," Tony responded.

His arms went around Peter's waist and grabbed his ass.

"I think you got enough of that last night," Peter responded as he rolled away from Tony and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I can never get enough of you," Tony stayed as he pulled Peter back to him and made out with him hungrily.

Peter just laughed then pushed him away, "Stop I have to got to school Tony."

Tony groaned, "You're so smart Pete. Why can't you just go to college already?"

Peter just sighed, "You know this Tony, I just want to be a normal kid, not some super genius like you."

Tony poured but dropped the subject, "You are still going to go to MIT right? And you would've told me if you were changing your mind right?" Tony asked instead.

"Tony you begged me, on your hands and knees and convinced me with sex, I won't change my mind," Peter explained.

Tony literally begged for Peter to go to MIT. He pulled out all the stocks, and Peter was hooked.

His dream school since he was a kid was MIT, but he want about to tell that to Tony.

"But not all of us are genius children who graduate college at 17," Peter said.

"But you could if you wanted to Pete," Tony pointed out.

Which was true. Peter's IQ was 210, and Tony's was 200. Both of them were some of the highest ever recorded.

Tony likes to claim that the only reason that his is lower is because he lost some of his intelligence with age, and Peter retorts by saying that Tony is only 20.

Being 20, Tony is the youngest CEO in the world, and has been for 5 years. His parents died in a freaky car crash when Tony was 15. Since when he was 15 and he was in college he practically raised himself. Peter admires him for passing college and running a Fortune 500 company at the same time. A lot of people complained about a 15 year old running a company, but under Tony's leadership Stark Industries thrived.

When Howard was incharge it was only weapons. Weapons this and weapons that. When Tony proposed creating batteries, phones, tablets, and advancing the medical world everyone thought he was crazy, until he did it.

Stark Industries hasn't been the same since, it has been better. Tony has made a great name for himself and his company.

And becoming Iron Man at 17, that also did wonders for his company.

And dating Spider-Man. (But nobody knows that, so it doesn't actually affect the company)

"I've actually got to go Tony, or I'll be late to school." Peter said as he stood up from the bed.

He pulled in some boxers, faded jeans, and and one of Tony's oversized MIT hoodies. It left one of his shoulders bare, showing Tony's hickies from last night, and came down to his mid thigh.

"I love seeing you in my clothes," Tony said before wrapping his arms around Peter's waist.

Peter just hummed and wiggled his way out of Tony's grasp.

"I really have to go if I don't want to be late, but I'll make you a promise," and Tony looked at him excitedly.

"What promise?" Tony asked.

"If I get bored in school or start missing you too much I'll just ditch and join you in your lab," Peter stated.

Tony stares at him dumbfounded, "Are you serious?"

Peter just nodded, "Yeah, I'd rather spend my day with you than at boring school."

"Yay!" Tony yelled as he pumped his hand in the air.

Peter glanced at his watch and cursed. "I actually really have to go if I want to be on time."

"Bye Pete, I'll see you in a few minutes when you get bored of school," Tony yelled after him.

Peter laughed but took the elevator all the way down to the garage where he stole Tony's Harley Davidson.

He weaved his way through traffic doing a lot of illegal and stupid tricks, but he arrived on time so that's all that really mattered.

Before he could even make it inside his electrical engineering teacher stopped him.

"Good thing you're here Peter, we were about to leave without you," Mr. Warren.

Puzzled Peter asked, "Leave me to go where?"

"The mystery field trip that has been planned for today," his teacher responded.

"Oh right," Peter replied.

Then he remembered. They had a field trip to some great engineering company and they were going to tell the student while on the bus ride over there.

Of course Peter has completely forgotten.

It was his damned Parker Luck™.

Peter got on the bus reluctantly, but brightened up when he saw Ned.

He took a seat next to him.

"Hey Ned," he said.

Ned looked up and a smile took over his face, "Hey Peter, we almost left without you, where were you?"

"Tony's bed," he whispered to Ned.

Ned face turned to one of disgust, "I know you guys live together, but I don't want to hear about it."  
After coming out to Aunt May, she was a lot less than supportive and kicked him out. Peter was Spider-Man from the streets for a while, until his billionaire boyfriend found out. Peter's been living with him since.

Peter laughed and changed the subject, "So where do you think this trip is going to be to?"

Ned just sighed, "Probably somewhere lame like Hammer Tech or something like that."

Peter just laughed and remembered all the times Tony discussed his hatred for Justin Hammer.

They discussed random stuff from Star Wars to Harry Potter, and then they suddenly felt the bus start moving.

After a few minutes of random discussion, Mr. Warren said "Class can I please have you attention at the front of the bus," and everyone shut up and turned to gave him.

"Thank you, so as you know we are on our way to our field trip this year and before I announce where we are actually going would anyone like to guess?" Mr. Warren asked.

A few hand went up and he called on people.

The guesses ranged from Hammer tech, to Oscorp, Alchemax, and Roxxon Energy Corporation.

Of course none of them were right.

"No guys," at the look he remained from MJ he added, " and gals, today we are going to Stark Tower for a tour."

The bus erupted into cheers and Peter was frozen in his seat.

'Fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck.'

"Hey Puny Parker, now everyone will know that your internship is fake!" Flash yelled to the whole bus.

Peter just sighed and ignored him.

"Puny Parker I'm talking to you!" He yelled again.

"But I'm not talking to you so, bye!" Peter said before turning back to Ned to continue their discussion.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter saw a smile tug at the corner of MJ's lips. Peter smiled at that, but didn't point it out to save her from "embarrassment."

Ned started laughing at Peter's expense once where they are going really sunk in.

"We're going to your boyfriends house," he laughed in a whisper.

Peter just rolled his eyes and ignored the dread he felt in his stomach.

Peter just placed his head against the back of the seat and nodded off until he felt the bus stop. When he looked out the window he found himself staring at the same building he had left that very morning, and the stress started to weigh him down even more.

Peter held back to be the last one off the bus, and to try to withhold this tour for as long as possible.

When he got off he found standing there.

"Peter I need to talk to you," he stated.

Peter gave him a confused stare but nodded nonetheless.

"What do you need to talk to me about?" Peter asked.

Mr. Warren sighed, "Peter I know you've been through a lot with your uncle dying, and your aunt throwing you out," Peter grimaced at the reminders, "but it doesn't give you the right to make up an internship."

Peter looked at him gaping, 'even his teachers didn't believe him?'

"I can assure you it's not made up," Peter persisted.

His teacher was red and fuming, "I guess we'll figure out in a few minutes, won't we Mr. Parker."

"Yes we will," Peter replied smugly.

His teacher rolled his eyes at him and led the class into Stark Tower.

"Hey Peter," was heard immediately from the receptionist when they walked in.

Peter smiled at her timidly and waved, "Hey Grace."

That's another thing about Peter and Tony's relationship, all of Stark Industries knows about it.

Some of them were going to go to the press but they were threatened with getting fired.

But once they actually got to know Peter, and what a big cinnamon roll he is, none of them wanted to do him wrong.

Grace was the receptionist who was like an older sister to Peter. She likes to talk to him and always, always has some sort of food for him, and this morning he went straight to the garage so he missed saying hi to her.

Forgetting about his class he walked over to Grace and asked what she had for him today.

She smiled at him and pulled a box of donuts from under the desk.

"You always forget breakfast, and I thought I'd be seeing you before you left for school, but this works too," she said with a smile.

Peter smiled bright and grabbed two donuts, one Boston cream and one jelly filled. He loves filled donuts.

"Thanks Grace," he said before he took a bite of the first donut.

Then he turned around and saw his class staring at him opened mouth.

He had totally forgot about them.

"Woah Puny Parker, how much did you pay her to pretend to know you?" Flashed asked.

Grace looked at Flash with a look of confusion, "Why would Peter have paid me?" She asked.

"To keep up the lie about his internship, duh," Flash said like she was stupid.

"Why you little piece of-," Grace started before Peter stopped her.

"It's fine Grace, let it go," he told her.

"Fine," she said with a huff, "your tour guide will be here shortly," she told them with a short temper.

Peter turned to see his teacher glaring at him like he paid her.

"Mr. Warren I swear I didn't pay her," Peter said.

"You and I will definitely be talking to the principal about this," he stated.

Peter just hung his head and went to stand next to Ned. The rest of the class was waiting for the guide to get here so they could start the tour.

At least he had his donuts to keep him busy, and keep his metabolism from eating his own stomach.

After a few minutes their tour guide showed up.

"Hello are you Midtown?" Peter heard the familiar voice ask.

"Yes," Mr. Warren said happily.

"Okay well I'm Harley Keener, and I have to give you all passes that will let you into the actual building, and out of the lobby," Harley said.

Peter loved Harley, and he lives at Stark Tower with Peter and Tony. When Tony found out he lived on the street of a small Tennessee town and was just as smart as some of his best engineers, Tony offered him a home. So Stark Tower has three genius young adults living within its walls.

Harley's not a third wheel like some would think, but he's definitely not part of their relationship. He's like a brother to both Tony and Peter, and they are like one small happy family.

"Harley?" Peter asked curiously.

"Pete?" Harley asked confused and looked up to see him on the lobby wall.

"What're you doing here?" Peter asked as Harley continued to hand out passed to his class.

"Got bored," he replied simply, "What're you doing on a tour?" Harley asked back.

"Apparently I had a trip today and it's to here," Peter said pointing around.

"Ah," Harley said as he handed out the last pass, "I see you and you know who had fun last night," Harley finished pointing to Peter's shoulders.

Peter blushed and tried to cover his shoulders, but the hoodie fell off his other shoulder. Peter gave up and shrugged his shoulders, and Harley laughed.

They always called Tony you know who, because they don't want to give away too much information.

"Why didn't Pu-Parker get a pass?" Flash asked.

Harley looked at him like he had three heads, which in turn made Flash squirm.

"Because each person gets one pass and Peter already has one," Harley said like it was obvious, "You do have your pass right Peter?" Harley finished asking.

Peter nodded and pulled his pass out of his backpack. It had a Spider-Man lanyard that Tony custom made for him, it made Peter giddy just to think about.

The badge itself was read and yellow, and had Tony's arc reactor pictured on it. It also had his name and level on it.

"Why does Parker's have a picture on it?" Betsy asked.

"Because yours are guest passes and his is permanent," Harley stated.

Then he walked over to the scanners, "Now everyone come up and scan yourself in," Harley instructed.

He the demonstrated by scanning his card and waking in.

Jarvis said 'Harley Keener, tower resident and intern, level 10, all access.'

"That's Jarvis," Harley explained at the confused looks on the teens faces, "he's an AI that Tony built, and he runs the whole building."

Oohs and aahs could be heard through the tour group.

"Who wants to go first?" Harley asked.

As soon as he asked all the kids rushed to be first except for Peter. Even Ned had ran into the commotion.

Of course though, Flash got to go first.

'Eugene Thompson, guest, level 1, restricted access,' Friday read.

Flash flushed at the use of his first name, but was smug once he realized the AI recognized him.

"Beat that Parker," he yelled to Peter.

Peter just rolled his eyes, and waited so he could be the last one through.

Of course his teacher gave him a look that said 'if you are making this up I will kill you in your sleep,' so that was fun, Peter thought.

Of course when Peter swipes his badge Jarvis seemed more excited, like he did when Harley scanned in, 'Peter Parker, tower resident and paid intern, level 10, all access.'

"Hey your a paid intern?" Harley asked.

"Yes," Peter replied looking smug.

"Why am I not paid then," Harley asked.

"Harls, you're 15, and Tony buys everything you could possibly need, why would you want to get paid?" Peter asked.

Harley just crossed his arms and turned to face the class.

"Peter I owe you an apology," Mr. Warren said.

"Yeah you do," Peter said before he walked up to where Ned was waiting for him.

"That was savage bro," Ned said.

Peter turned to look at him like he was crazy for saying that, and then they both started laughing so hard and Ned's cringyness.

"Don't ever say that again okay," Peter said when he was done laughing.

"Okay," Ned agreed.

"I have a question," Flash yelled when Harley started leading them to the elevators.

Harley rolled his eyes, but indulged him anyway, "What is it?"

"Why does Peter have a level 10 pass, is that the lowest?" Flash asked with a smug look in Peter's direction.

"Are you stupid?" Harley asked.

Flash looked taken aback, "What do you mean?"

"Jarvis literally said 'level 10 all access' and 'level 1 restricted access' so why would you think level 10 was the lowest?" Harley snapped back.

Flash at least had the decency to look ashamed as he lowered his head and tried to fade into the group.

Harley quickly got them all into the elevator.

"Okay kids..." Harley began.

"You're younger than us," someone yelled from the crowd and Peter couldn't contain his laughter, and as it turns out neither could the rest of the class.

But Harley continued like he didn't hear them, "today we will be touring the labs, Avengers museum, and Tony Stark's private lab."

They all cheered.

"This is a major treat because I don't think a tour group has ever been to Tony's lab so make sure you don't touch anything or you'll be kicked out, and this goes for everything!" Harley added.

Everyone looked properly scolded and shut up.

The elevator doors opened to the Avengers museum, and all the kids ran out to look at their favorite Avenger.

That's another thing, the Avengers.

None of them took Tony or Peter seriously at first, because they are so young. When they learned that Tony was taken hostage at age 17 and might have seen some of the worst shit imaginable they respected him more, and when they learned that Peter was still Spider-Man while being homeless, he also gained respect with the Avengers.

Of course getting used to Tony and Peter's heavy petting took longer to get used to.

"You have 40 minutes to tour the museum!" Harley yelled over the kids.

When everyone was gone Peter went up to Harley and punched him on the arm.

"Did you know that I had this tour," Peter asked.

"Oow," Harley said, "And no I actually got really bored."

"Is homeschooling too boring for you?" Peter asked like he would be asking a baby.

If either of them really wanted to they could both be in college.

"Yes Peter, and high school is boring for you too," Harley responded.

That's true but thankfully Peter would be graduating in a few months so it wouldn't matter as much then.

"So wanna look around?" Harley asked.

"Sure," Peter agreed.

They walked around and did their best impression of each Avenger. Which ended in them laughing and on the ground.

Soon enough the 40 minutes were up and the rest of the class gathered around Harley when he called for their attention.

"Okay so I hope you guys had fun touring the museum but now we get to see the science and cool stuff," Harley said.

They all cheered again and gathered in the elevator as they went up to the labs.

The elevator opened with a ding and when the interns realized it was a tour group they sighed.

Tour groups are annoying.

Then they noticed Peter and Harley, and they all cheered.

"Yo Peter, I need your help please!" Peter heard from across the room.

Peter looked to his teacher who just looked so defeated that Peter didn't even wait for an answer. He just walked across the room to David's work space.

"Hey Dave, what's wrong?" He asked as Dave tugged his hair into all different directions.

"I can't figure out what I did wrong, and it's driving me insane," he replied.

Peter looked at the board and found the mistake almost instantly, he actually felt bad about how fast he found it.

"It's right here," Peter said as he took the eraser and erased where Dave said that 2,781/678 was 5.1 instead of 4.1.

"Oh my god," David said looking the board in shock.

"Sorry Dave, but one small mistake can throw off all your calculations," Peter said with a shrug of his shoulders.

As soon as he was done helping Dave he was pulled to Clair's area where she was trying to build a robot. His class was gaping at him again.

"You have like 3 hours on this floor," Harley stated, "spend the time however you want, ask questions try to build a robot, I don't care, just ask cause some of this stuff can explode."

The class, if possible, looked more excited at that thought.

Peter and Harley just laughed and helped all the interns with their own projects.

"Yo, Puny Parker, how long are you going to keep this fake internship up for?" Flash asked.

His buddies laughed at Peter.

Peter rolled his eyes, and MJ actually stood up for him this time, "Flash all the interns literally all yelled his name, and he helped most of them to improve what they are working on. How fucking stupid must you be to think that Peter would've put this much work into spending just to impress you? Your opinion doesn't matter to him, or me for that matter, so why don't you shut up and sit there like a good little boy," MJ snapped.

Flash flushed the darkest red Peter had ever seen and, shockingly, did what MJ said. He took a seat at an unused desk and muttered darkly with his goons.

"Thanks MJ," Peter whispered.

If Peter didn't know her as well as he did he would've been able to catch the glint in her eye that said 'I've been wanting to do that forever.'

The three hours flew by with the class asking questions on anything and everything they could think of. The interns actually looked happy to answer some, and they all made a pact to ignore Flash. When he asked a question they all pretended to not see or hear him, it pissed him off so much, but it was hysterical.

"Okay now for the main event, follow me to the elevators again," Harley said.

Harley of course made Peter the last one in, so that way he'd be the first on that Tony would see.

Peter was both excited and scared to see his boyfriend.

Yes he saw him this morning, and yes he will see him tonight, but he's never seen his boyfriend with his entire class.

"Harley," Peter asked, "why did Tony agree to letting us tour his lab?"

"In all honesty I think Pepper made him," Harley responded.

Pepper is Tony's assistant and she's also on the young side, not as young as Tony but a solid 24 years old. Straight out of college to being the assistant to a major CEO.

Also Tony's a little scared of her, so he does whatever she says.

The elevator doors finally opened and Peter saw Tony leaning across the table to grab a newer solder iron. He turned around and saw Peter and his smile immediately grew.

"Peter!" He yelled as he ran up to Peter and swung him around, "I thought you were joking about the ditching school to come see me, but I'm so glad that you decided to go through with it!"

Peter sheepishly wrapped his arms around Tony's neck, "About that…"

"What the actual fuck?!" Flash yelled.

The rest of the class joined in on the commotion however.

"Is this why your an intern?"

"Are you two sleeping together?"

"Are you a prostitute, or is this a sugar baby thing?"

"Are you guys like actually dating?"

"They're so cute together!"

"I stan!"

"I knew Puny Parker was a whore!"

Of course Flash's comments were the ones that Tony heard the most and he became red with anger.

"First off, fuck you," he said to Flash, and Peter started laughing, "Peter and I got together after he became and intern and we've been dating for 2 years, so no he's not a prostitute nor a sugar baby!"

Everyone looked properly ashamed when Tony spoke of Peter.

"I do believe that you all signed NDA's on your form right?" Tony asked.

They all nodded.

"Great then you can't tell anyone and I can show you my lab!"

Peter laughed at his boyfriends energy, and followed him into the lab.

"Okay," Tony started, "this is my newest Iron Man suit. It's going to have more weapons, hold more power, and weigh less."

The class was enraptured with Tony's explanations and could tell the Tony was really passionate about this stuff.

"Why don't you show them your stuff Pete?" Tony offered.

Peter looked at him like he was crazy but agreed nonetheless. He walked over to his cabinet and pulled out some of his web shooters.

"So I make Spider-Man's tech," Peter said, "I created the web shooters and the web compound. The formula is very top secret that not even Tony knows."

Tony huffed and crossed his arms, but Peter leaned over and pecked the pout off his face.

"I also make the tech for the other Avengers such as…" Peter goes to reach something off the counter but noticed that Natasha's widow bites aren't there. "Tony where are the widow bites?"

Tony smirked, "I moved them so I could fix my armor," and he pointed to where an Iron Man hand was sat on the counter.

"Soo where are they?"

"The top shelf," Tony smirked.

"Tony!" Peter yelled. The class moved away from the two, 'who yells at Tony Stark and lives to see the light of day?'

"You know damn well that I'm too short to reach that fucking shelf," Peter said.

Harley started laughing, and he could laugh because he was 6'2" 15 year old, Tony was really y'all, 6'5", and poor Peter was 5'4". Tony loves that Peter was so short, and Peter usually didn't mind, but when Tony moves his shit to a shelf he can't reach he gets pissed.

Tony quickly went to get the Widow Bites because the last time he kept something too high for Peter to reach, he didn't get to even touch him for a week, and slept on the couch. He was not going to be reliving that experience.

He quickly handed the bites to Peter and pecked him on the cheek. The fact that Peter didn't pull away was a good sign.

He held out one of the bites, "this is something I'm making for Black Widow, they look like bullets, but they go around her wrist. When she punches someone they are electric so they hurt more and do more damage," Peter explained.

The class looked at him in awe, "Any questions?" He asked.

"You guys have like 45 minutes left before the tour is over so let's do a Q&A," Tony suggested.

Abe raised his hand and Peter called on him, "What are you modifying on the widow bites?"

Peter grabbed the wrist device that holds the bullet like shockers and attached them.

"Right now I'm trying to make a miniature trigger that will allow her to actually shoot the electric capacitors like a gun, but on her wrist," Peter explained as he put on the bite.

He aimed at the wall that he knew was reinforced with vibranium. He shot the bite and you could see the electric bullet connect with the wall.

Right after it shot the wrist guard caught fire.

He quickly pulled it off and put it out with a fireproof blanket that they always kept in the lab.

"And that's what I'm trying to fix, but I can't figure out how to stop getting it to set on fire. It's because the launch mechanism is so small and moving at such a fast speed that it starts burning. It's going to take a while but I'll get it," Peter said confidently and with a smile.

After that everyone starting asking questions left and right.

"How did you get together?" Flash asked at one point. He said it very loud over the chaos of people calling out.

Peter was a little disconcerted that Flash asked a reasonable question.

Tony looked very smug at the question and wrapped his arms around Peter's waist in a possessive style.

"It's actually funny, but I saved him," Tony said.

Peter just smacked him on the arm, "You're being ridiculous."

"Really?" Tony asked, "Because I clearly remember me in my Iron Man armory flying you off a roof and safely to the ground."

The class was shocked at the revelation, but also a little sad.

"Peter if you ever need to talk you have me, always," MJ said.

Peter looked at her confused. Then it hit him.

They thought he was gonna jump.

"Wait! No that's not what happened!" Peter exclaimed, "See what happens when you explain shit, people get confused."

Tony just laughed and hugged Peter closer.

"I was on the roof of my old apartment building when this idiot flew next to me and used one of the cheesiest pickup lines I've ever heard," Peter began.

The sun was setting over the Queens skyline and Peter was up on the roof of his aunts apartment building watching it.

"Are you metal shrapnel? Because I feel you in my heart," Peter heard as the Iron Man armour landed next to him. Peter turned to him and noticed the chocolates and flowers in his hand and sighed.

Then Peter looked at him like he was crazy.

"That was the best I got, what else do you want from me?" Tony asked as he lifted off his face plate.

Tony and Peter have been casually fighting crime together for a while and that's how they met. They met as each other's superhero alias, but they grew to like each other. Peter was 16 at the time and Tony was 18, and Tony has already told the world he was Iron Man, so Peter already knew who Iron Man was, but Peter eventually gave Tony his real name and Tony's been hitting on him ever since.

"Maybe I want you to not try so hard," Peter said.

Tony looked taken aback, "What?"

Peter sighed, "Has it occurred to you that maybe I don't want to date Iron Man? That maybe if you asked me out as Tony and stopped trying to impress me that I'd say yes?" Peter asked annoyed.

"Wait so you do want to date me?" Tony asked perking up.

Peter rolled his eyes, "Yes you idiot. But I wanted you to ask me as Tony not Iron Man, because I don't care about that as much."

Peter was standing on the edge of the building and Tony was about to get out of the suit to ask him properly when Peter tripped over a potted plant and fell over the edge.

Tony's heart was in his throat, as without a speck of doubt, he jumped over the building to save him. Tony quickly maneuvered him bridal style in his arms.

"Damn you really are short," Tony joked as he carried Peter to safety. Peter pouted but didn't dare try to get out of Tony's grasp for fear of falling.

They eventually landed back at Stark Tower, "So can I pick you up, Friday at 8?" Tony asked hopefully.

"Yeah," Peter said once he was put back on the ground, "but make sure to come as Tony Stark and not Iron Man because I swear to god I will walk away."

Tony just nodded and when Peter came out to Aunt May he was there to give Peter a home and a family. Eventually Harley joined them and Peter had never been happier

Most of the kids in the class "awwwed" at their story.

It was kinda cute, Peter had to admit.

"Okay that's all the time you guys have so it's time to get back to the lobby," Harley instructed.

All the kids tried to disagree, but Mr. Warren stopped them this time, "we do, or the bus will leave without us."

"Can't Peter just stay?" Tony asked.

Peter sighed, "I can't Tony, I left the motorcycle at school."

Tony pouted, "I can send someone to get it," he offered.

Peter perked up, "Really?"

"Yeah," Tony responded, "I'll send Harley."

"That's not fair!" Harley exclaimed as the class started getting in.

"I'll give you 100 bucks," Tony responded and Harley nodded his head quickly.

"Mr. Warren I'm staying here," Peter said challenging Mr. Warren to stop him.

Mr. Warren just nodded sullenly, knowing he was screwed.

The class got into the elevator and when the doors closed Tony was all over Peter, kissing him hastily.

Peter moaned.

"You're so hot talking about mechanics and engineering like that," Tony claimed.

"Let's go upstairs," Peter got out between pants and moans.

Tony nodded, lifted Peter up so his legs wrapped around Tony's hips, and Tony's hands went to cup Peter's ass.

They made it to the bedroom almost complete naked. Tony and Peter had a pretty pleasurable night, and the day could've been worse.


	73. (O) STETER - Whose Woods These Are by mo

Whose Woods These Are  
moonstalker24

Summary:  
Stiles chooses the house simply because it's far enough out in the wilderness to be away. His… reticence for human contact on any given day coincides entirely with how much pain he's in when he wakes up the morning. His patience is limited, and he has more bad days than good…

So Stiles moves into an old house out in the woods like a creepy serial killer. Reminds himself that other people suck on a regular basis and just sort of gets on with it…

It isn't until after several sightings that Stiles realizes that the wolf is following him.

If the wolf decides it wants to eat him, Stiles would be a pretty easy meal…

* * *

Stiles chooses the house simply because it's far enough out in the wilderness to be _away_. His... reticence for human contact on any given day coincides entirely with how much pain he's in when he wakes up in the morning. His patience is limited, and he has more bad days than good.

His dad helps him find it. He trudges around the property with a video camera and enough sarcasm to pave the driveway if he wanted.

Stiles falls in love with the place.

It's a sprawling ranch style house built with log cabin finesse and only two shallow, low steps up onto the wraparound porch. It's got three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a library.

It needs work. General maintenance and repairs. The southeast corner of the porch has collapsed and Dad isn't too sure about the integrity of the rest of it, but there's no mice, rats, termites or any other sort of infestation.

Stiles will muddle through, he says. It'll give him something to do on the days when it gets so bad the only thing that eases the pain is _movement_.

Dad doesn't like it, but he helps with the realtor because he's too relieved that Stiles is _alive_ and _coming home_ to try and hinder the process.

Stiles gets it, he does, but it's his leg that's all screwed up. It's him that wanders around with a hardware store holding him together everyday. So, as much as he loves his father, the man doesn't get a say. He's the one who has to live without cartilage and a portion of his thigh muscle and the memories of being gutted by big steel rods that slammed through the side of his jeep like toothpicks through mini weiners.

Scott helps him move in, offers to do a grocery run with his hands shoved in his pockets, shifting from one foot to the other while he avoids meeting Stiles' gaze. Stiles gets that Scott's got some kind of weirdo guilt complex over what happened to him, but Stiles doesn't blame him.

He gives him a list and watches him climb into his beat up Dodge Dart and reminds himself that this is his best friend. Scott has always needed extra time to realize that something is not his fault. It'll come to him eventually.

Stiles places the blame solely on the shoulders of the truck driver that fell asleep at the wheel like a moron. Well, the driver and the load of construction equipment he was hauling.

So Stiles moves into an old house out in the woods like a creepy serial killer. Reminds himself that other people suck on a regular basis and just sort of gets on with it.

He creates a routine.

He wakes up on good days and works on his writing because it is what he loves and he does have a deadline. He learns to cook (badly in some cases) and discovers that while potatoes will never be his forte, he makes a mean croissant. He buys a used GMC Acadia to haul things around in after Dad tells him that walking fifty miles to the nearest grocery store is not actually a very good idea.

He wakes up on bad days and when he finally manages to haul his ass out of bed, he works on the house. He refinishes the hardwood flooring. He tears down pieces of the crumbling porch. He buys a new cane when hitting the rotting sections of porch damages it enough to lose supportive integrity. He paints the shutters and window frames a nice deep cobalt.

He wakes up on the really bad days. On those days he wanders around in the woods. Sometimes he wonders where his property line actually is. He owns the house and some ten to fifteen acres aside, but he didn't buy all of the property.

The Hales hadn't been happy that he hadn't wanted all of it, but were glad to get something, _anything_ for some of the land. Stiles hadn't wanted the crumbling ruin that was the main house about thirty miles closer to town.

He didn't want anything in which anybody had been burned alive, thanks.

The Hales had understood, and according to Dad were quietly letting the county condemn and reclaim the land.

So Stiles walks. He walks, and he walks, and he walks.

The first time he sees the wolf, Stiles kind of thinks he's hallucinating. There haven't been wolves in California in over sixty years. Blinking rapidly and rubbing at his eyes don't make the apparition vanish, so Stiles decides it's real. After several sightings, Stiles breaks down and sates his curiosity and researches it.

It's a Grey Wolf. Huge, with a white underbelly and a gorgeous patterning of black and grey fur ranging the scale. When he says the wolf is huge, Stiles means _huge_. He thinks it would easily reach his waist at the shoulder if they were standing side by side. The size of it is intimidating, so is the fact that those blue eyes watch Stiles when they see each other.

It isn't until after several sightings that Stiles realizes that the wolf is following him. It doesn't matter where he goes, or how far, the wolf dogs his footsteps from twenty to thirty feet away. Stiles knows that he's easy pickings. Between his limping gait and the cane he relies on, Stiles is no longer capable of running. His version of running now consists mainly of a slightly faster shamble interspersed with a hop every now and then.

If the wolf decides it wants to eat him, Stiles would be a pretty easy meal.

It doesn't; so Stiles keeps walking.

Somehow he gets used to the wolf. Just like he gets used to everything else. The way the floorboards creak beneath his feet, but only in certain places. The way the water always sputters before coming out of any of the spigots, like the plumbing doesn't like this idea of working. How sometimes in the early morning fog he can see the wolf trotting through the trees around the house, watching Stiles as much as Stiles watches it.

Stiles starts leaving a bowl of fresh water on the porch by the kitchen door. It's easier for him to reach that way. It goes untouched for a few days until Stiles leaves out a plate of leftovers. He doesn't eat as much as he used to, and reheated steak is never as good as it was the night of. Reheating it means cooking it more; cooking it more means losing the flavor.

So Stiles cuts the rest of the steak up, adds some leftover chicken from a few nights before when his Dad had come out to the house to see him, and leaves the plate on the porch next to the bowl. He doesn't wait to see if the wolf will come, he just turns off the lights and goes to bed.

In the morning the plate is empty, and Stiles starts buying more meat when he goes to the store.

Stiles rarely sleeps well. His doctor gave him a prescription for some pretty heavy duty sleeping pills, but Stiles doesn't like the way they make him feel. Doesn't like how his head feels stuffed full of cotton and that lingering bitter medicine taste that lasts for twenty-four hours. So he only takes one when the pain gets to be too much to bear. Otherwise he'll suffer through it, thanks.

On the nights when he can't sleep, when he's in too much pain to stay lying down, he likes to sit on the shallow steps leading up to the porch with all the lights off and his head tipped back so that he can see the stars. He likes to dig his bare toes into the earth and just breathe for a while.

That night it's worse that it usually is. He's tired enough, and in enough pain that he's considering the idea that maybe he should have just taken that stupid pill anyway when he hears it. It's soft, leaves rustling. The padding of paws on the ground that Stiles knows have been deliberately made loud enough for him to hear.

He'd given up trying to justify reasons for how intelligent the wolf is, and just accepts it as something that _is_.

He wonders briefly if he's about to be eaten, but then decides he just doesn't care all that much. Stiles doesn't even so much as look down from the sky as nails click on the wood of the steps and a large, warm weight settles in around Stiles' back. It curves around his spine and a black tail drapes over the leg that actually works.

Stiles sags, leans back into the warm bulk behind him and just decides that trying to puzzle this one out isn't worth it. He's too tired to care that this is a wild animal and could just as easily tear his throat out.

He can't bring himself to care.

The pain seems to just drain away after the wolf settles in behind him. Stiles can feel all the muscles in his body loosen up one by one and he can't help but let out a relieved sigh. He slouches and turns just enough to weave a hand through the dense fur at the base of the wolf's neck.

He doesn't know where the pain has gone, but he has the niggling idea that somehow it's because of the wolf. There is no one around to hear it, so Stiles doesn't bother feeling strange for speaking to a wild animal like it will understand him.

Instead he just whispers: "Thank you."

It becomes sort of routine after that. The wolf comes and goes. Stiles knows better than to think it tame. There is free food for it all the time. A warm place to sleep and a creature that poses it no threat for company. Now, instead of watching Stiles' walks from afar, most days the wolf joins him.

He finds himself going farther and farther afield. The company of the wolf makes him braver. Somehow the pain isn't as bad as it once was. When they touch, it's like the wolf drains his pain somehow.

Stiles knows that this is not an ordinary wolf. It is far too intelligent, and Stiles always feels like he is having an _actual_ conversation when he talks to it. It's in the looks he receives, the way the wolf tilts his head, or the expression in his eyes.

Stiles is grateful.

Slowly, very slowly, they develop a routine and suddenly the wolf is more living with Stiles than he is visiting. Late one night, after a day in town visiting his Dad, Stiles sits with the wolf and his laptop open to _Behind the Name_ and scrolls through names. He can't keep calling the wolf 'you' or 'it'.

The wolf likes Peter, so Peter he becomes. Stiles tells his Dad and Scott that he's adopted a dog, not a wolf. Especially not a weirdly intelligent wolf that prefers classical music over anything else, or that he actually prefers his steak medium rare instead of raw.

It becomes just one more of those things that Stiles just doesn't talk about.

There are a lot of those these days.

One day Scott comes out to the house for the first time since Stiles moved in. They aren't as close as they used to be. Stiles doesn't blame Scott for the accident that crippled him, he never did. That doesn't stop Scott from feeling guilty though, no matter how many times Stiles tells him to just let it go.

So it hovers over them. Stiles finds that he can only tolerate Scott's guilty puppy eyes for so long before he just wants to punch him, so they usually do things. Go to eat, go to movies. They went bowling with Allison and Lydia once when Lydia was on break from MIT. Stiles is still pretty good at bowling, but the movements exaggerate his injury, and it makes Scott's puppy eyes worse. They haven't done it again.

Dad goes with him once a month. They've joined the Sheriff's Dept team and compete against the Fire Dept and both of the local hospitals have teams. Melissa McCall likes to heckle them from the sidelines when they're playing. She's on the Beacon County Hospital team. They're undefeated three years running. Melissa is very proud.

The day Scott comes out to the house, it's unannounced and Stiles had somehow gotten up onto the roof and was prying up rotting roofing tiles with a crowbar and a scowl.

"Dude! What are you doing?!"

Stiles scowls over the edge of the roof at his best friend, "What's it look like?"

"How'd you get up there?" Scott asks curiously.

"There's a ladder around the side. Bring a hammer will you?"

So Scott and Stiles spend the rest of the day replacing damaged roof tiles. After, they watch _Gladiator_ and eat homemade nachos because Stiles is the Nacho King. Later when Scott leaves after a friendly, back-slapping hug, Stiles heads for bed.

Stiles had thought Peter had left when Scott arrived. That was what he usually did when Dad came out once a week for dinner. He was surprised to find that the big wolf had made himself at home on Stiles' bed.

Stiles scowled, Peter's gaze held no remorse.

So Stiles did what any self-respecting body would do when encountering an immovable object occupying their personal space. He got ready for bed, spent five minutes trying to push Peter out of the way, then gave up and just climbed into bed with him.

This, Stiles will realize later, is when all boundaries between wolf and man begin to fail.

It takes very little time after that first night sharing Stiles' bed for _things_ to start happening. Stiles has always known that his wolf wasn't just some random wolf that had followed him home one night and then never left. There was more to it than that.

Peter the wolf was haunted. Scarred, silent, gigantic Peter. His Peter that sometimes stared off toward where the burnt out remains of the Hale House still stood. That section of the property that Stiles had refused to buy, and even now, several months later, still didn't go near on his walks.

Sometimes Peter would disappear for days only to return looking haggard. On those days Stiles made himself sit still. No matter how much his leg hurt or how restless he felt, he would sit down with his laptop to write and just let the wolf curl himself around him. On those days Stiles always got the feeling that there was something more _human_ about Peter than wolf.

Stiles took to talking to him. The things he wouldn't tell his Dad or Scott, like how much he resented the fact that his Dad's worry always made him feel guilty or how Scott's misplaced guilt never really let Stiles move past the accident. Sometimes he talked about what he was working on, sometimes about the slow going repairs he was performing on the house.

It didn't matter what he said, Peter always seemed like he was listening.

Late at night, after the good days, but especially after the bad, they would curl up in bed together and sleep. It was the best sleep Stiles had had in a long time. Sometimes, when he wasn't sure if he was awake or asleep he swore he could feel strong arms around him and a face tucked into the back of his neck.

But those were just dreams.

Weren't they?

It was early. So early that the light coming in through the window was gray and weak. Stiles could hear the birds twittering in the trees outside. The summer was coming to a close and fall was setting in. Stiles knew that there was a chill in the air, knew that if he got out of bed the hardwood flooring would ice out his nice, toasty warm toes as he dashed toward the bathroom.

He wasn't getting up though.

He was warm in his blanket cocoon, wrapped up in the deep comfort only a night of solid, deep sleep could afford you. He allowed himself to smile a little, just a quirk of the lips and he snuggled back into the warm arms surrounding him.

A deep rumble vibrated through his back into his chest and his bed partner pulled him closer. Stiles sighed in content at the close feeling and let himself doze back toward sleep as a nose tucked itself into the crook of his neck.

Stiles would be the first person to admit that he wasn't really a morning person. His lightbulb was a little dim until after his first mug of whatever tea had caught his fancy that week.

So it took a while for him to register that he was in bed with an actual _person_ and not a _wolf_.

As soon as this realization sank into his subconscious, his eyes flew open and he stiffened up. The body holding him grumbled at the suddenly less pliant Stiles in their arms.

"Go back to sleep," was whispered into his neck, "too early."

"Gotta pee," Stiles whispered back. He wondered why the hell he wasn't freaking the absolute fuck out, but then realized he couldn't be bothered really while he had an inkling of what was going on.

His wolf wasn't normal after all.

"Shhhh, sleeping" was muttered into his neck and the arm around his torso tightened.

"Peter" Stiles said softly, turning a little. It wasn't enough to get a really good look at the man, but he gave it his most valiant effort. He caught a glimpse of brown hair and sleepy blue eyes looking up at him. "My bladder waits for no one, wolf or man."

Peter flinched minutely and his grip relaxed a little, letting Stiles scoot to the edge of the bed where he hesitated for a minute. He peered down at the floor for a moment before he took a deep breath and bolted out of bed screeching_ 'Cold! Cold! Cold!'_ as he went.

He took his time in the bathroom. Staring at himself in the mirror as he contemplated what was going on. He wasn't freaking out as much as he thought he should be. There was a strange man in his bed after all... but... was he really a strange man? He'd been hanging around long enough as a wolf that Stiles felt like he knew him.

Peter liked his meat medium rare, enjoyed a good artichoke, but disliked peas and yellow squash. He preferred the side of the bed facing the window and had a thing about the bit of crumbling stairs off the back of the porch.

He knew more about Peter then he felt like he knew about Scott these days.

He squared his shoulders and trundled back into the bedroom. He half expected to see a wolf once again where the man had been. If this was happening now, all those half remembered dreams had been real too.

He was pleasantly surprised to see Peter-the-man still in his bed. Tufts of curly brown hair was sticking up over the pillow and he had the blanket tucked up around the back of his head. Guarded blue eyes were watching him from a handsome face with sharp cheekbones and a strong chin. There was some bad scarring across the right side of his face. It looked like it was healing, as if it used to be so much worse than it was now.

Peter's expression was wary, braced for the sort of pain only rejection could cause.

Stiles couldn't make himself cause that pain. Instead he darted from the rug in the bathroom, across the cold floor and crawled back into bed. He pulled the blankets up over their heads to keep in as much heat as possible and tucked himself into Peter's chest with a sigh as the ache that always came with the cold settled into his leg and upper back, protesting the quick movement to and from the bathroom.

He tucked his feet between Peter's, making the man flinch and scowl even as he pulled Stiles into him.

Stiles tilted his head back to get a good look at the man in bed with him. He was handsome, but he was all sharp angles. A bit underweight, but living in the woods as a wild animal would do that to you.

"Sooo," Stiles offered up between them. "Shapeshifter?"

"Werewolf."

Stiles grinned, that was going to be his second guess. Technically they were sort of the same thing, but semantics. "Bitten by a hairy dude on a full moon?"

"No," Peter chuckled. "I was born this way."

Stiles was a smart man, and the puzzle pieces were starting to slot together. "You're Peter Hale, aren't you?"

There was a pregnant moment of silence. Stiles held his breath and Peter looked the sort of uncomfortable that usually came with visits to (or from) distant relatives.

"I - yes..."

Stiles nodded and then pressed his cold nose into the juncture of Peter's neck. Peter heaved a long suffering sigh, but didn't protest. "That makes so much sense. Did you know you're still listed as missing?"

"I thought I would have been declared dead by now," Peter replied, caution in his tone.

"Nah." Stiles would have shrugged, but he was comfortable now, so he fought the urge, "Derek and Laura call about you every couple of months. Dad keeps your poster on the board because he knows it makes them feel better. So the case is still open."

"What happened with the fire?"

Stiles had gotten extremely curious when he'd started to consider buying some of the property. He had originally considered the main house, but what he had learned had turned him off. Besides, the smaller house even further out in the woods was definitely more his style. What his Dad hadn't told him, he'd found out for himself by snooping into the case file on his own.

"One of the insurance guys Kate Argent paid off to cover up the arson got a case of the guilts and turned himself in. The evidence just kind of poured in after that. Dad managed to link her to three or four other cases in other states, enough to put her on the FBI's most wanted list. Dad wants to be the one to bring her in."

Peter made a noncommittal sound as he took in the information.

"Laura and Derek moved to New York when Laura got accepted to Parsons. I don't think they've ever been back. I dealt with them over the phone when I bought this place."

"Mmmm." It didn't seem to surprise Peter in the slightest that his niece and nephew had never come back to the place where their family had been burned alive. Missing uncle or no, no wolf with any sense in their head would have stayed.

They drifted into silence then. There was a lot they weren't saying. About a lot of things. Now that Peter was no longer a wolf things were different. Life would be different with someone else in the house rather than a large canine animal that avoided other people.

There was a lot to consider (like where Stiles' mind had gone since he wasn't freaking out).

It would wait.

For now they were both content to hide away from the world in the early morning, curled up together in a place that meant safety and less pain to both of them.

Days pass. Dad comes to visit and Peter makes himself scarce. Stiles' big-ass dog is lying on the couch instead. Stiles doesn't mind. Things are awkward enough with the Sheriff that trying to explain the appearance of an older man with his picture on the Missing board at the station is probably a bad idea.

The gaunt look begins to leave Peter's features. Stiles takes his chance to feed him large quantities of food, especially once he figures out that as a werewolf, Peter's metabolism is faster than average.

An added bonus to feeding Peter? Yeah, he starts to heal. The lingering damage from the fire begins to fade over the course of the next weeks. As summer begins to fade, so do the scars marring Peter's body as his accelerated healing does its job, no longer starved for the energy needed for such a feat.

They read a lot of books together. They go for a lot of walks, man and wolf, man and man.

Sometimes Stiles can't stand having anyone around. When he has a bad day and his leg is more searing pain than throbbing ache. When all he can see in other people's eyes is pity, even when it isn't there. Sometimes he yells, throws things.

He tells Peter to leave.

Peter doesn't. He gets it. Stiles is wounded. Even though it's been so long since the accident, Stiles is changed. He will never be who he was before a late night on a rainy road in junior year. He is angry, he is wounded. He does not have the advantage of werewolf healing to help him get better.

Stiles is never going to get better. So Peter gets it, and he stays.

Sometimes Peter gets quiet. Silent in a way that is unsettling. He gets a far away look in his eyes and Stiles can tell he's reliving the fire, or thinking of the people he lost. The love and the family. When this happens Stiles stays with him. He knows trauma when he sees it, he sees it often enough when he looks in the mirror.

He gives Peter his company, his silent support, and he lets him be quiet.

Slowly they become less like planets orbiting the same sun and more like moons orbiting the same planet. Together, synchronized and harmonious.

Stiles doesn't realize how integral Peter has become to his daily life until the day he's throwing roofing tiles over the edge of the roof while repairing a few places he'd missed earlier in the summer and sees a dark, scruffy man standing next to his crappy car. The guy has this look on his face like Stiles had just shot his puppy and now he's going to murder him and bury him under the perennials.

Stiles eyeballs him for a second, throws the piece of roofing he's holding toward the pile by the weirdly collapsing side of the steps that he hasn't fixed yet and yells: "We don't want any! Go away."

The guy's very bushy and extraordinarily expressive eyebrows crawl up toward his hairline in a mild sort of disbelief that says this guy can't believe that Stiles is who he found when he came out here.

Stiles has been the recluse in the woods for nearly six months now. Everyone in town knows that the Sheriff's kid (you know, the one with the limp?) lives out on the preserve. Kids under the age of thirteen think he's the creepiest thing since they began daring each other to go out to the old Hale place in the middle of the night. _Stiles lives out there._ By choice.

Yeah, they're all convinced he's secretly a serial killer that feeds his victim to his giant dog.

Stiles thinks it's hilarious. So does Peter.

"Seriously, dude" Stiles tells the guy. "I don't care how well you rock the leather jacket, this is private property."

Eyebrow Guy says nothing, but now he looks mildly surprised that Stiles is essentially telling him to get off his lawn. If Stiles was that kind of guy, he'd heft a shotgun at the guy, but he's not. Besides, the shotgun is in the house in the umbrella stand he found at that antique/thrift store in town. It's shaped like witches feet, striped stockings and all. Stiles keeps his canes in it, not umbrellas.

He keeps the ammunition for the twelve gauge in a cookie jar shaped like Iron Man's helmet.

There's a long silence. Long enough for Stiles to wonder if he really _does_ have to tell the guy to get off his lawn, before he says anything. "Where is he?" he demands.

"I don't know, where did you leave him?"

Stiles always figured his sarcasm would get him in trouble one day (his dad had money riding on it). He wasn't expecting it today, but it wasn't entirely unexpected either. The guy's eyes flared a bright blue and he snarled, huge fangs flashing.

Werewolf.

Stiles suddenly wishes he hadn't left his cane on the ground hooked over the porch railing.

The werewolf on the ground moves toward the house, and suddenly there's Peter. A big flash of gray and white and black and snarling and _absolutely furious_.

The guy looks momentarily surprised, and then Peter is on him and they go down in a tangle of limbs and fur and teeth. Stiles' heart leaps into his throat and the only thing he can think about is that that is _his_ wolf down there.

If anything happens to his wolf, Stiles might just live up to that serial killer rumor and bury this dude underneath the irises.

"PETER!"

Peter is not the forgiving sort. Seeing Derek brings back the pain and horror and hate that seemed to be fading now with Stiles in his life. The moment his nephew makes a threatening move toward the only person he really considers pack ('_mate_' his wolf says) he attacks.

They go down in a mass of gnashing teeth and claws.

he vaguely recognizes the sound of Stiles screaming his name from the roof, but Peter is not a domesticated wolf. He may have been playing house with a man nearly half his age, may have been becoming more in touch with the humanity buried deep inside again, but that did not make him safe.

It did not make him sane.

Peter let the beast take over. In a flash of snapping bone and teeth the great hulking wolf that Peter was when he found Stiles repairing his house all those months ago is back. Only now he's filled out, no longer malnourished and scruffy. In its place is a strong, healthy wolf bigger than Derek's.

In moments Peter loses that small bit of him that makes an effort at humanity. It doesn't matter that the wolf he's fighting is his nephew, doesn't matter that, as Derek defends himself Peter begins to bleed. The pain doesn't matter, only protecting the only thing Peter finds comfort in does.

Stiles takes the opportunity to get off the roof. He continues yelling at the two wolves going at it on the ground as he does so. He hasn't yelled in this particular panicked fashion since just after the accident. It's kind of refreshing to just scream himself hoarse.

When he reaches the ground he grabs for his cane and heads for the tumble of blood and fangs and fur and hefts the cane just as Derek rolls them. With a loud _crack!_ Derek's head snaps back and he falls away from Peter with a grunt and a wounded expression, staring up at Stiles who is panting heavily and clutching his now broken cane in a white knuckled grip.

"Get off my property."

Derek stares at the human for a long moment, blood dripping down from his rapidly healing broken nose. He's just a human, but Derek can tell from the tight lipped frown and the grip on the cane that this human is ready to impale him on said cane. He looks to Peter then. Peter is crouched, bloody and growling next to the human.

"I want -"

Stiles cuts him off with a gesture "I don't care what you want. I don't care who you are. This is private property, you are trespassing, and you tried to kill my wolf. I will call the cops, and you will be arrested."

Derek stares as, with a cracking of shifting bones, Peter returns to human form and stares at his nephew with eyes like ice. Stiles puts his hand on Peter's arm as the older wolf snarls: "You are not pack. Neither is Laura. Stay away from us."

Peter stalks naked up to the house and Stiles watches Derek get to his feet. Derek watches warily as Stiles pulls out his cell phone.

"I have the Sheriff on speed dial, just so you know" Stiles says conversationally. The look on his face betrays the conversational tone he uses. "I recommend going back to New York Mr. Hale. Peter's not really the forgiving type."

Derek doesn't say anything, but his gaze flickers to the front door, which Peter left open. Then he turns and heads back down the drive in the direction of the Hale House. Stiles watched him until he topped the low hill that marked the edge of the property between the two houses and vanished from view into the trees.

Stiles' gaze sweeps the treeline. He peers down the drive for a minute, then he turned and headed into the house. He abandoned his splintered cane to the pile of old roofing tiles before he hauled himself up the stairs and into the house.

Stiles knows that he is an inherently selfish being. He hopes that Derek doesn't come back. Stiles cares for and looks after those he loves. Loyalty is his default setting, and _Peter is his_.

After that everything changes. And everything stays the same. Stiles and Peter remain them. Only, instead of hiding, Peter is there. Stiles takes him to the station to reclaim his identity. This inevitably brings about Peter meeting Stiles' Dad.

Dad knows Stiles well enough that all he does is just sigh and say "Stiles, no."

But it is too late. Months too late. The Sheriff knows that.

They don't see Derek again for weeks. Peter settles into life as a human under his own identity and suddenly Beacon Hills has _two_ recluse psychos living out in the woods. Stiles continues to find it fairly hilarious. Peter likes to encourage it along.

Scott doesn't like Peter. It's not that he doesn't think he's a good match for Stiles intellectually, it's that he transforms into a giant ass monster of a wolf. He's a veterinarian, and animals that size is just wrong and makes his inner vet cringe.

Stiles stopped caring about other people's feelings shortly after the accident when a doctor told him he would spend the rest of his life in excruciating pain. Scott knows this, doesn't begrudge it. It makes for some awkward moments, but eventually Scott gets used to Peter being around.

Peter decides to retake the bar exam and get back to being a highly paid lawyer. He deals in locating and acquiring antiquities. Stiles doesn't get how that works, and it makes his brain hurt, but when Peter undercuts someone else or gets to sue someone who goes after something he shouldn't be because Grandma left them out of the will, he cackles like a supervillain.

Stiles thinks it's adorable.

After the incident with Derek, they trust each other. In that _'I would gladly go to prison for murder for you'_ way. Which fits the whole being the creepy hermit in the woods the kids (and a good majority of adults) of Beacon Hills have developed.

A few weeks after Peter reclaims his identity Derek reappears. This time, Laura is with him.

Peter is furious.

The confrontation is inevitable.

Violence is inevitable.

Laura and Derek come back into town just as Judge Carter bangs the gavel and states that Kate Argent doesn't get bail. She's a flight risk. Also, she's being charged with eleven cases of murder, so that might have something to do with his choice.

The Sheriff had been working tirelessly with Peter to put away every single person involved with the Hale fire. Peter wanted to play prosecutor, but he knows he's still out of practice after so many years. He's taking several classes to get caught up. So he called in an old school friend and now Kate is facing down one of the best prosecutors in LA.

Laura and Derek slip into the arraignment at the very last minute. Stiles is sitting next to Peter just behind the prosecution. Peter is wearing an armani suit, Stiles is in whatever suit Peter picked for him. He's twirling his cane in the aisle.

Stiles is very good at looking sinister these days. Between the cane and the limp.

Sheriff Stilinski and two deputies have book-ended Kate into the space for the defense. She looks resplendent in prison orange. Peter finds it fitting.

Peter notices them come in. Of course he does. He's lived for years in wolf form, his senses are always at their height. He tenses, but chooses not to react. It doesn't stop Stiles from placing a hand on his thigh.

The argument after Kate is led away in chains is epic. It occurs in the big front hallway of the courthouse where all the marble tile is.

Meaning? It echoes.

Laura makes demands. She's the Alpha, she's supposed to be in charge… but Peter isn't _her_ Beta. He's not a part of her pack, not anymore. She's all flashing eyes and anger. Derek is a silent shadow behind his sister. He's keeping one eye on Stiles as he watches Peter and Laura argue.

Good. He should be worried about Stiles. Stiles wields his canes like weapons. His grip on the one he has with him today is so tight his knuckles are white. It's a replica of Lucius Malfoy's cane, and the snake on top is solid pewter with little green glass gems for eyes. Hitting that thing hurts. Stiles should know, he's landed on it several times after falling over.

He is ready to flip this thing and swing it like a bat if he needs to.

"There a problem here?"

Stiles stifles his grin. Derek quirks an eyebrow at him, so he knows he wasn't the most successful at it, but he doesn't care. That is Dad's _'I'm the Sheriff'_ voice. Stiles loves that voice (when it isn't aimed at him).

"No" Laura says quickly. She's angry enough steam might as well be coming out of her ears.

"Yes" Peter says at the same time. "My niece doesn't seem to be taking kindly to the idea that I have no desire to see or interact with either her or my nephew."

"This the guy you were complaining about trespassing a while ago?"

"Yup" Stiles says, slouching a bit and leaning on his cane.

The Sheriff's eyes sharpen, he straightens up and suddenly everyone eavesdropping on the argument remembers why this man has been re-elected four times. He eyeballs Derek and then looks at Laura. "I believe Mr. Hale has a right to his request, Miss Hale."

"This is a family matt-"

The Sheriff cuts her off with a waved hand like he's telling her that Peter's not the droid she's looking for. "You are in a public venue, causing a disturbance. It is very much my business."

Laura colors. Peter steps back with a little smirk. He's suddenly very glad Stiles introduced him to his father.

"I'll ask you to respect my son-in-law's wishes, Miss Hale, or I will arrest you for disturbing the peace while he files the restraining order."

A ripple of whispers goes through the bystanders. Stiles grins manically. Laura has a look of open mouthed shock on her face.

Peter heaves a heavy sigh and throws Stiles a look. He's tired. He's been staring the past down it's ugly maw for years. First fleeing and now in helping the Sheriff. He's just tired. Stiles gets it. He's tired too. Every time he gets that strangely pitying look whenever anyone sees him walking past.

So Stiles limps forward, laces the fingers of his free hand through Peter's. "C'mon, let's go home."

Peter looks relieved. It's not outward, but Stiles learned to read Peter's eyes way back when he thought he was just a wolf. They turn away from Laura and Derek together.

"You coming over for dinner later, Dad?" Stiles asks the Sheriff when they pass him.

"Yeah kid" Dad says with a little grin.

Then Stiles and Peter leave the courthouse.

They go home.

_.. fin .._


	74. (M) KEVEDD - Deadly Weapons by Deadly We

Deadly Weapons  
GoldenSnowflake

Summary:  
Officer Kevin Barr has been with the Peach Creek Police Department for five months when he meets a young man named Eddward Vincent on a domestic violence call. His increasing visits and intensifying concern for Eddward's safety are completely professional, though. Really.

* * *

Chapter 01

The first time Officer Kevin Barr found himself on Eddward's doorstep was a routine disturbance call. A neighbor heard shouting, two men; glass was breaking and it was scaring her and her children. The dog in the heavily wooded yard across the street was barking frantically and vigilantly as he arrived.

Consciously breathing deeply, the young policeman drew his weapon and approached the house. He could hear screaming from the end of the short driveway. Before he had even gotten on the porch, there was an immense crash.

"_Peach Creek Police Department; come to the door now_." Five months and it still sounded like a joke coming from his uncertain mouth. He waited and heard a grunt and then a pause. The dog across the street yelped hysterically.

"_Police! Open the door now_."

A hoarse, deep voice came from inside. "Everything's fine. We don't need any help."

"Open the door now," Kevin called, and when the man replied again, closer, he lifted his gun, his heart pounding in his ears.

"_We don't need any help,_ sir, everything's under control."

The redhead edged forward and tried the door, finding it unlocked. Tensing as he steeled himself for what he might find, he threw it open and recaptured his gun with both hands. "Peach Creek Police Department! Hands where I can see them, _now_."

The figure closer to him was taller and wiry, muscles standing out through his dingy white wife-beater. The one behind him was small, slim, with black hair and huge eyes. There was a streak of blood running from his upper lip.

"Officer, we were just having a discussion," the man with shaggy blonde hair half-yelled, hands hovering by his ears as he shifted his weight. "Everything's completely under control."

"Hands on your head. Back toward me _slowly_."

The man half-turned toward him, rolling his bright blue eyes. "Sir, I _told_ you, there's no reason for you to be here-"

Running out of patience, Kevin approached him in two quick strides and wrenched one sweaty wrist behind the man's back while sheathing his gun with the other. "I _said_ put your hands on your head," he growled, snapping a handcuff onto the blonde before he had the chance to pull away. There were papers scattered everywhere and a chair was overturned near the pair. The smaller male staggered backward, whimpering as Kevin cuffed his aggressor. The blonde jerked hard when the redhead took his other arm, but Kevin held his wrist in place, shoving it down to the open handcuff as soon as the man stopped struggling.

"I didn't do anything _wrong_, officer."

Pushing him toward the front door, Kevin forced himself to speak as if he hadn't just been afraid for his life. "You're under arrest for disturbing the peace and domestic battery."

"I don't understand, everything was under control," the wiry man protested, stumbling onto the grass as Barr walked him to the cruiser.

"We can throw resisting arrest in there too if you want."

At that, the guy shut up. Kevin eased him down into the back seat and shut the door, straightening up and letting himself gasp for breath. A curtain pulled back from a neighboring house's window fell into place and caught his eye; the dog next door was yapping softly, still unsure whether things had returned to normal.

It took him a moment to find himself. Kevin sighed and pulled the notebook from his pocket before returning to the house.

The boy inside looked to be around Kevin's age if not a little younger, his eyes dark and immense and his black hair clinging to his cheekbones. "Sir, can you tell me what happened here?"

"It was just a minor altercation."

His voice was raspy and soft. His hands trembled at his sides.

"Please, just for procedure." Kevin pulled the pen out of the little notebook's spiral. "I just need to know how this all took place."

The young man's eyes were owlish. He blinked back tears, grimacing as he bit back a sob. The blood on his lip had dried into an ugly black crescent. "We were talking and we - we had a disagreement. We may have raised our v-voices but … I promise, officer, it won't happen again. I'm so, so sorry for causing the neighborhood any trouble."

Kevin swallowed, unable to come up with the words to convince the man that this was necessary. "I'll just document your injuries, sir. Let me get my camera turned on - can you give me your name?"

"Eddward Vincent," he ravenette murmured softly. "Eddward with two d's."

The cheap digital camera beeped as Kevin took pictures of the swollen, bloody lip and a bruise on the man's pale shoulder that was too dark to be more than a few minutes old. "Do you have any injuries from the altercation other than your shoulder and the-" Kevin gestured at his full lips, thrown off-balance by the individual's painfully fragile demeanor.

"No, no." He sniffed, backing away and drawing his arms around himself. "No, he - he didn't mean it. Things escalated and he struck me and he-"

"Okay, okay, Eddward, that's okay." Kevin flipped the notebook shut and took a cautious step forward, reaching out to touch his arm. "That's definitely enough for the report - for me to work with. Right now he's going to jail on charges of disturbance and domestic battery, but you'll need to press charges separately if you want a restraining order on him. Is the house in your name, sir?" He could feel his voice softening in response to the young man's terrified shaking. Eddward didn't jerk away when Kevin touched his baggy sleeve, but he seemed to tighten in on himself impossibly, arched brows pinching together as he squeezed his eyes shut.

"No," he whispered, "I don't want to press any charges."

The redhead was stunned.

"Sir, I - Eddward, it's clear to me - not only me, but the whole neighborhood what's going on here. I don't know if this is a routine thing and nobody's called it in before or if this is a first-time thing for him, but this kind of situation isn't safe. You're injured, and he isn't. I'll ask him of course, and inspect him, but it's obvious he was the aggressor."

Eddward whimpered, refusing to look up.

"Look I - I can't force you to file against him, but come on, man, you can't let things get to this point. It's … it's my job to keep people safe, and I can't do that if you let people into your home that are violent like this."

"I know," the man barely breathed. "I know."

"Now, he's probably not gonna be in for very long. I don't know if he's your roommate or just a friend or what, but please, you need to start looking for better people to hang around with."

"I know. He's not coming back here."

"Okay." Kevin nodded, putting a hand on his hip. His stomach sank as his gaze wandered over the hideous blot on the young man's delicate collarbone. "Do you need any medical attention tonight?"

"No." The boy's voice was thick with barely-restrained tears. "No, I'm fine."

"All right," said Barr, even though he didn't know what to do and everything was profoundly _not_ all right. "Please call us if you get into any trouble, okay, Eddward?"

Nodding hastily, he rasped, "Okay."

Feeling like he was going to be ill, Officer Barr headed back to his car and the blonde man as the ravenette closed the door behind him.

* * *

Chapter 02

The second time Kevin met Eddward was about three months later.

Life had gone on as before; eating late at night, falling asleep with the TV on and waking up a few hours later to stumble off to pee. Scalding showers to burn the sleep from his skin, his belt with fifty pounds of radios and Tasers and little carbon-copy notebooks that still felt unsettlingly more like a Halloween costume than a uniform. The occasional call to his parents who were less worried than he'd expected about his career choice (he wasn't sure whether he was relieved or hurt yet.) He issued parking tickets to furious soccer moms and took wannabe thugs to jail while their girlfriends wept on the porches. He talked drunk people out of bars and chased drunk teenagers away from parties and occasionally got to help in a takedown, always ending in bruises and scraped elbows and embarrassed handshakes with fellow officers. A few cute girls approached him when his coworkers talked him into going out to eat, but he swallowed down the swell of lust and always graciously declined them. He wasn't one for getting a girl's hopes up only to disappoint them, and to Kevin Barr, that was the only foreseeable outcome.

The young man's life continued to slowly unfurl and time passed.

The chief flicked him in the back of the head one morning as he stood, zombielike, in the doorway of the police station with a Styrofoam cup of coffee. Rubbing the spot contemptuously, he squinted at the man and followed as his boss grinned teasingly and beckoned with one hand. The rest of their meager force was already in Chief's office, and Herbert waved at Kevin cheerily as the redhead plopped on the dented coffee table pushed into the far corner.

"As you all know, this month kicks off our drug crackdown. We'll be making some controlled buys downtown of the park where you all know most of our deals take place. You guys will also patrol some of the lesser areas we've done a high amount of arrests in a couple nights out of the week. And since you all know how much I like to screw with ya, you'll be pickin' routes out of a hat."

Johnson scratched his nose before putting his hand in the air.

"Ellen's making more coffee, Johns."

Turning red, Johnson looked at his feet. Kevin chuckled.

The sun had just slipped beneath the tree line when Kevin turned onto the road leading to a middle-class neighborhood, his gaze flicking from one lit window to the next. A young couple sat together on a porch swing, their faces close together. There was a heavy woman on the other side of the road, her hair tied back with a bandana. She was calling to someone, but until Kevin had almost reached her, he didn't see the handful of chickens wandering loose around the yard. He laughed out loud, shaking his head as he passed. He listened to the brief conversation between Herbert and Easten over the radio and breathed in the delicious smell of leaves just beginning to change color. He'd been down this road to make arrests a few times before, but most of the homes looked fairly well-kept, though some of the residents seemed a little odd. He had almost reached the cul-de-sac at the end of the lane when a man approached him waving a hand to slow him down.

"How's it going?" Kevin leaned his elbow on the window as he stopped. The guy approached him cautiously, a look of urgency on his face.

"Somethin's goin' on in that house. The red one. There."

"Can you explain what you think is happening?" The man's gaunt face twisted strangely at the question.

"Something bad," he responded, then shook his head, sending his dreadlocks falling over his shoulders. "Something bad. Please check on them, Officer."

"Okay." Kevin nodded when the man backed away, looking either way anxiously and stopping once his feet were off the asphalt. "Thank you, sir. Stay safe tonight."

"Thank you," the guy called after Kevin had pulled away, a note of hysteria in his voice. Squinting as he pulled into the driveway, the redhead tried to remember why the house seemed familiar.

As he put the cruiser in park, the front door flew open and a slim, dark-skinned man trotted out. His eyes went wide at the sight of a police car, and as Kevin shut the cruiser off and stepped out, he broke into a sprint. The redhead bolted after him, struggling to speak clearly enough to be understood into his radio. "10-36 in progress. All available units respond."

The man glanced back to find Kevin pursuing him, his face morphing into one of complete horror.

"_Police,_" Barr shouted, hopping nimbly over a cluster of flowers and narrowly missing a beach ball deflating next to it. "_Get on the ground now._"

"I ain't do nothin', man!" The guy leapt over a picket fence with remarkable agility. Kevin steeled himself, knowing the entire neighborhood was watching or soon would be, and scrambled over the fence as gracefully as possible.

"I should arrest you for that grammar," he shouted, and as the guy skittered into the cul-de-sac, the sound of sirens appeared, bouncing off of the pavement as the car tore down the street. Freezing in place as headlights fell on his frame, the man turned around, his mouth falling open.

"I ain't _do_ nothin," he wailed again, and Kevin bowled him over.

"Put your hands behind your back," Kevin shouted into the guy's armpit, scrabbling to get to his knees without removing his weight from the man's torso.

"Why you hurting me, man? I didn't do nothin' wrong!"

"Why'd you run?" Kevin shifted his weight, grabbing for the man's arms. Grunting in exaggerated agony, the man wriggled his arms under himself. The redhead pressed down on his shoulders with either hand, holding him in place.

"You _scared_ me, dude! _You're hurting me!_"

"Why would you run from the police if you didn't do noth-anything?"

"I told you, you scared me, man! Stop _hurting_ me! I want a lawyer!"

"Rad," Barr uttered sarcastically, pushing the squirming guy into the ground as the shouts of two of his coworkers echoed behind him. Easten and Horowitz landed on top of him, the bumping of elbows and knees into cheekbones and ribs ensuing until Easten announced that he had the guy's arms ("I got it I got it I got it I GOT IT.") Kevin stumbled back and heaved a sigh of relief, nodding when Horowitz repeatedly asked him if he was okay after being kicked in the shin. A little girl was leaning out of a second story window, pointing and shouting something over and over again as the lights flashed across the siding like an impromptu rave. The hands of someone older reached around her, clamping over her mouth and pulling her gently back inside.

"I'll take him back," Easten wheezed, sweat glistening on his upper lip. Whipping his head back to the babbling suspect, he bellowed, "WHY'D YOU RUN?"

Barr nodded and shrugged sheepishly when Horowitz told him that he'd done a nice job, and as Easten loudly asked people to go back inside and dragged the protesting man toward his car, the redhead turned back to the small house where his pursuit had begun.

The door was still open, warm light spilling out onto the grass. A small figure was huddled on the doorstep.

"Peach Creek Police Department," he announced, approaching the silhouette leaning against the door. "Do you know the individual who just fled from me?"

"Yes," the young man responded, and Kevin knew immediately why the house seemed familiar. "I know him."

"We're questioning him now, but do you know why he ran?"

Eddward blinked his immense eyes, shaking his head slowly. "I'm not sure."

"Can I - may I come in?"

The raven-haired man nodded, backing out of the way. The house was the same as before with its cathedral ceiling and large, open doorways. There was very little clutter. Eddward seemed to shrink in on himself when Kevin turned to face him, gripping handfuls of his oversized sweater and lowering his head.

"If we search him, will we find anything illegal? Drugs, stolen IDs, unregistered firearms?"

The smaller man shook his head. "I honestly don't know."

"Eddward, are you sure?"

Startled at Kevin having remembered him, he blinked up at the redhead. "Y-yes. I'm sure."

Barr nodded, chewing on his upper lip in thought. "Okay. Are you okay?"

"I'm all right," the ravenette mumbled softly. Kevin's gaze burned into his eyes and he looked away, face reddening.

Kevin stepped closer, eyes wandering down the man's small frame. He was on the cusp of being too skinny, and his lips were badly chapped. "Are you sure?"

"I'm fine, officer."

"And you're sure that you don't know why he ran?"

Eddward nodded again, and Kevin caught a whiff of his scent. Musky but faint. No trace of alcohol or marijuana. He opened his mouth to speak, hesitated, and went with his instinct.

"Are you in an intimate relationship with him?"

Eddward squeezed his arms until his knuckles went white, screwing his eyes shut and ducking his head. It reminded Kevin of how a puppy flinched when afraid it was going to be struck.

Swallowing, Kevin looked away. "Don't you think you deserve better? Whatever the nature of your relationship. These junkie-types seem to keep finding you and there has to be a reason for that. What happens if someone leaves something in your house? Don't tell me the guy in the back of Easten's car would take the fall for you."

Voices rang out from down the road and a chilly breeze drifted into the house. Barr looked back to see goosebumps rising on the pale skin of the man's throat.

"I don't know what's going on here - drugs, some form or prostitution … please don't let him back into your house."

"Okay," Eddward rasped. His long eyelashes were glistening with moisture.

"He's going to jail tonight for alluding arrest and almost definitely for possession of an illegal substance. If you need any kind of assistance when it comes to people who pose a risk to your safety, that's what I'm here for."

Biting his lip, the small male nodded again.

Kevin backed away, stepping out into the cold of the night. When he looked back, Eddward hadn't moved a muscle, his eyes squeezed shut and his arms wrapped tightly around his body.

"Be safe, okay, man?"

"Okay."

Forcing himself to look away, the redhead closed the door softly and trotted back to where Easten and Horowitz were testing a small baggie of white powder on the trunk of Easten's cruiser.

* * *

Chapter 03

The third time Officer Kevin Barr encountered Eddward Vincent was just after leaving his cousin's birthday party, and in three seconds the drowsy ease of being full of cake and sparkling grape juice had been stripped away to an ice-cold, sickening horror.

Dispatch recounted a call that had just come in: a man reporting an assault that was in progress, although little more than his address could be heard over the shouting and a distinct crash in the background. She was halfway into the address when Kevin pulled into a gas station parking lot and floored it toward the opposite side of town.

Time had slowed to a crawl in Kevin's life, in sophomore social studies, fourth grade math; during dinners at his grandma's and in line at McDonald's with no air conditioning and the buzz of a push-mower from just over the fence, so dauntingly, immensely slow that it felt almost unreal. And yet, as he mapped out the construction areas and watched his lights reflect on tailgates for a brief moment before streaking past them, time seemed to move so quickly that he felt almost frozen in place behind his speedometer.

The road was empty when he arrived, or at least that was how he remembered it. He was the first one there and was momentarily angry at this as he threw open his door and sprinted across the dew-covered grass, drawing his gun and skipping two of the porch steps as he shifted to shoulder the weak spot just under the latch.

The figure was tall and slim and his hands seemed almost black in the dim light of the cheap kitchen chandelier, disappearing into the deathly-pale flesh of the smaller man's neck, squeezing so tightly that Kevin swore he could hear arteries popping. Sheathing his gun, he was on the man immediately. He locked his arms around the man's biceps and pulled him off balance, dragging him back as he released the squirming figure pressed against the wall and slamming a knee into the center of the man's back. Eddward sank to the floor, a shrill sound escaping his throat as he gasped for breath. Blood poured from his nose and mouth and his shirt was torn apart to reveal a hideous trail of bruises peppering his ribcage. Kevin turned back to his attacker, who was curling slowly into a ball, groaning softly as he fought to remain conscious after the blow to his spine.

Pulling his handcuffs from his belt, the redhead shoved the tall man back down to face the floor. "_Stay down_."

The tiny figure behind him sobbed, his shrill, screaming breaths broken by pitiful whimpers. Kevin cuffed the suspect, and as the mass beneath him began twitching and the metal clicked into place around his skinny wrists, the shouts of Horowitz and Landon, the newest recruit, echoed through the cul-de-sac. "Finally," Kevin snapped, only removing his knee from the man's spine when the other officers' footsteps were almost at the door.

"_Jesus_," Landon breathed, his blue eyes huge as he stared at the tiny man huddled against the wall and the freakishly tall man curled up before Kevin, arms straining against his restraints as his face grew pale. "You took him down all by yourself?"

"Get over here and help me get him up," Horowitz shouted. The middle-aged man was already kneeling beside the groaning suspect, hefting him upwards as the younger officer rushed over to help him, glancing nervously at the fury written on the redhead's face. The pair dragged the suspect outside on shaky legs, Landon freeing a hand to radio in that the suspect was in custody.

Kevin was on his knees before the black-haired boy, yanking down his rolled-up sleeve to dab at the blackened blood on his lips. "_Fuck_. What the fuck was that all about?"

The smaller man sobbed pitifully, his hands shaking violently as he raised them to grip Barr's shirt. "Don't - I don't know-"

"Fucking son of a bitch. I'll kill him. I'll-"

"No, please." Tears streamed down his face as Eddward leaned against him, hiccupping pitifully as Kevin began to feel his shoulders and back for any breaks or concealed punctures. "Please. It's my fault. Don't l-lose your job…"

"Fuck," Kevin hissed again. He held the ravenette's head in his hands for a moment, thumb smearing away blood and tears as he blinked up at Kevin. "Think I've seen him before. Breaking and entering. Maybe vandalism. Mother fucking piece of shit."

"Y-you're shaking," Eddward observed softly.

"I - of course I am," the redhead barked, his heartbeat still pounding in his ears. "Jesus."

To Kevin's disbelief, at this the smaller man laughed softly.

"Shit." The redhead leaned back, his hands on the petite man's shoulders holding him at a distance. "Are you- where are you hurt? No stab wounds, gunshots, sub-dermal self-destructing nanobots?"

It was something he asked all the time to lighten the mood, but when it rattled out, the ravenette choked out a half-sob, half-laugh and squeezed where his fingers had curled around Barr's broad shoulders. "No."

"We're calling medical for you. There'll be an ambulance here shortly." He was dabbing Eddward's face again, cleaning the blood from his chin and gingerly from under his nose.

"Everything w-was fine," the smaller of the two whispered, and tears flowed down his cheeks once more. "One minute everything was fine and then … it's my fault, I … s-said something I shouldn't have. I didn't think I - I didn't think he would-"

"Fuck that," Kevin interrupted, cupping the shuddering figure's jaw with one hand as he tried to stifle the flow from his split lip with the cuff of his sleeve. "Fuck him."

"Barr," called Horowitz, and the redhead looked up to see his colleague out in the yard, radio in hand as the frenetic strobe of cruiser lights danced on the trees behind him. "Medical's almost here."

"Affirmative," Kevin shouted back. "I'm gonna help you up. Can you stand?"

Eddward had fallen silent, overtaken with tremors. He nodded. Barr slid an arm behind his back gingerly, waiting until the smaller male had gripped onto his shirt tightly to hoist him to his feet. "Thank you."

"Don't. This is my job, man. Fucks like him don't deserve to walk the streets with decent people."

"Would you p-please mind your language, Officer?" A vague smile played on his lips as the redhead walked him across the room. "You _are_ in my house."

As they stood on the doorstep, Kevin had a moment to stare at him in amazement before the ambulance arrived. He stood on the porch, looking out over the neighborhood long after the EMTs had eased him inside and departed; long after he explained the scene to Horowitz and watched the other two cruisers leave for the county penitentiary.

It wasn't until late the next morning that he realized his shirt was soaked through with blood and that he should probably go out and buy a replacement.

* * *

Chapter 04

Time passed; some nights sleepless, far more with Kevin dead to the world. He spend an awkward evening at his parents' house, his mother looking strangely anxious while his father repeatedly mentioned that the neighbor girl had just gotten her bachelor's and had stopped by to say hello. "Choice," the young officer finally muttered through a mouthful of pork chop, "college ain't a walk in the park."

In the moment that followed, his mom opened her mouth to speak, realized that her husband had put down his fork to stare at their son, and closed her mouth. Kevin shoveled his green beans into his face and the subject was closed.

The chief brought Landon on full-time, which Easten was disgusted with. The talkative blonde seemed to grate on his nerves whenever they were in the same room. The rest of the force found themselves scrambling to traffic stops and drug busts to keep the two from ending up at the same scene and squeezing between them at conferences and council meetings to avoid the potential explosion that even eye contact might bring. The secretary, Ellen, turned 55 one Sunday, and they surprised her the following morning with a huge stack of gourmet coffee canisters. She laughed until she cried, kissing each of them on the cheek. Johnson turned noticeably red.

"Barr."

The redhead blinked up at the chief, heat rising to his pale face as he readjusted his grip on the ballpoint pen in his hand. He'd been dozing for the last fifteen minutes.

"The trial against Owens is off. You won't be testifying."

"Owens? That's…"

"Assault you responded to on Ninth Street in October. Owens is a real piece of work. Using, possession with intent, DWI, soliciting and an absolute shit ton of civil disputes. He made a deal with the county prosecutor."

"October. That was-" Kevin blinked in surprise. "Eddward Vincent."

The chief nodded, grunting. "Victim of a dozen or so assaults. Suspicious circumstances, all of them. As far as I'm aware, things have been pretty quiet out his way since Owens. Hopefully the kid made a change before his bad decisions did him in."

Kevin stared at the paper in front of him, swallowing hard. When he realized he was still being looked at he nodded hastily.

Through the following week, not a night went by when he wasn't awakened by the vision of the tiny male against the wall, feet scrabbling above the floor as his face went whiter and whiter against the black blood dripping down his chin.

"Okay, kids. What we've - Ellen, grab us a cup of coffee. Barr's a zombie."

"Huh?" Kevin blinked, head snapping up.

The chief nodded. "Exactly. So, what we've got goin' on this week is routine patrolling. Drug activity has significantly decreased in the past six months thanks to my genius and all of your hard work."

A fake nail poked Kevin in the arm and he accepted the steaming mug Ellen held out to him gratefully.

"Before I go on for my interview Friday night, I want all of our bad neighborhoods swept. I'm not telling anybody that this improvement is something sustainable unless we're positive that it is."

The middle-aged woman's bored voice from beside him made Barr jump. "Should I get the hat?"

"Yes ma'am. And Barr, is you don't finish that coffee before she gets back, I'm putting your name in another dozen times."

The redhead gazed down at the bubbles of hazelnut creamer and took an enormous gulp. Landon was given the privilege of picking out names as the chief read off locations.

When Kevin was assigned the northern residential district, he told himself that the sweat that broke out down his back was from drinking too much caffeine too fast.

The day passed quickly, with one traffic stop that was particularly disagreeable and another that went so well that he let the woman off with just a warning. In the afternoon he stopped at a lemonade stand occupied by a few young boys. He had the plastic cup halfway to his mouth when he hesitated. "There's no pee in here, right?"

The three were immediately in stitches, the chubbiest of the trio going so far as to wipe a tear from his eye. "Hey, you just don't know these days. I gotta ask."

"No _sir_," said the kid in the middle when he could speak again. "That's unsanitary."

The sincerity of his tone was so amusing that Kevin ran back to his car and gave them each a plastic police badge. As soon as he drove away, the three screamed with delight. He glanced at their shrinking figures in his rearview mirror and grinned as he turned his radio back on. Evening slipped over the town in a haze of orange and black, and headlights and streetlights blinked on like a glistening smatter of low-wattage stars. At around 7 pm, he turned down the road to the small cluster of residential streets on the edge of the county.

By the time his headlights illuminated the brown street sign reading "NINTH," Barr's stomach was twisting into boy scout knots.

The house where he'd once seen two kids kissing was dark, a FOR SALE sign pitched by the mailbox. On the opposite side of the road, the massive wall of trees had been thinned; the dying foliage replaced by small, brightly-flowered bushes. They smelled like lilacs, but Barr wasn't sure if they were, and the breeze was suddenly too much and he closed his windows. He couldn't tell if any of the lumps in the overgrown yard a few houses down were chickens or small shrubs. Kevin's finger flitted to the window button but returned to the steering wheel almost immediately as he decided against it, giving a snort of laughter at himself. "Listening for chickens is definitely not what I'm getting paid for," he muttered to himself. The hoarseness of his own voice startled him.

Holding his green eyes on the end of the cul-de-sac, the redhead silently noted each tidy house as he passed. Brick, shingles, brick, shutters, porches, decks, mailboxes. Intact, just as they should've been.

Kevin hesitated as he turned around at the end of the road and swallowed the thick lump in his throat.

Brick, no shutters, no porch, mailbox.

Lights on.

Accelerating, he began up the other side of the road. Everything normal; nothing suspicious. A green house. A little white house.

Brick.

The cruiser slowed to a stop.

Flexing his hands on the grip of the wheel, he pulled into the driveway.

The night was slipping from chilly into bitter, and Kevin again wondered what had gone through his mind when he'd put on a thin tank top under his uniform. His feet reached the bottom step and then the dusty stoop. When he knocked briskly, his heart matched the rhythm.

The door creaked open as he was raising his fist to knock again.

Yellow light spilled out as the door swung open, illuminating the occupant's small frame as he froze in place.

Kevin cleared his throat. "I - it's the - I'm Officer Kevin Barr and I've been here before and I was just - um-"

"I know." The figure swallowed, and the shadows down the column of his throat shifted. "D-do you want to come in?"

"Yeah, sure."

When the redhead stepped forward, the petite man tensed and backed up. Kevin closed the door behind him before turning his gaze back to the ravenette, who was watching him with rapt attention, eyes immense as his delicate hands fisted in the hem of his shirt.

"I was patrolling the area and - I thought, uh - it's been pretty quiet out this way and I thought I'd…"

"You came to see how I was doing?" He was in a red shirt and skinny little jeans that hugged his legs. Kevin's throat was dry again and he cleared it, nodding.

"Yeah. I was worried."

"There's really no need for that." Eddward gave a brief smile that showed the small gap between his front teeth. "I've been keeping busy."

"Oh," said Kevin. "That's good. I'm glad."

"I've been working at the botany center in Lakewood … just data entry, but my boss seems to think I'm better suited to some kind of actual research." As he spoke, the small figure backed up to lean against the wall. "I've been reading a lot. I'm not sure why I ever quit, frankly." He swallowed, the action making a loud clicking sound. "I'm … things are better."

"Okay." The redhead bit his lip, nodding again. "And nobody - nobody has-"

"No, no."

Eddward shook his head vigorously, sending his shimmering hair feathering out from his cheekbones.

"No, I haven't kept much company as of late. No one has harmed me."

"Okay," Kevin murmured again. He took a cautious step forward. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," said the smaller softly. His pale hands hovered in front of him as he turned his gaze up to the officer's.

"You're telling the truth? Because I know how easy it is to pretend its normal, to make it feel like it's your fault…"

"_Yes_," Eddward repeated, his voice barely above a whisper.

The redhead struggled to breathe normally as he searched the ravenette's face for any signs of dishonesty. He wasn't sure how he'd gotten in front of the smaller male, he realized distantly, gaze trailing over his turned-up nose and his full lips, both of which had been gushing blood the last time he saw him.

"I was … I was so worried," he mumbled. Edd's breathing was rapid and faint and his pupils had enveloped his eyes almost completely. He nodded quickly and opened his mouth to say something, but the words died on his tongue when the redhead's hand came up to hover beside his face. "I … I didn't…"

It seemed like an endless moment, the golden glow of the smaller man's face making his twitching fingers look sickly, and while he knew that he was responsible for deciding something, it felt as if he were merely watching as his palm moved to touch the smooth skin of Eddward's jaw; felt like he was far away when a shudder raced up the ravenette's spine and his dark lashes fluttered, leaning into Kevin's touch.

When the smaller male let out a shuddering breath it was damp and warm, and the redhead was suddenly aware of how badly he was shaking as he leaned toward those immense, bewitching eyes.

Eddward's breath hitched and he made the tiniest of sounds. Kevin's mouth was on his instantly.

As soon as he had done it he pulled back, eyes flashing open in horror. "Oh my God, shit, I'm so-"

The ravenette's lips interrupted him mid-sentence.

Cold fingertips slid up his neck and into his hair and Kevin kissed him again, harder, his tongue coming out to taste full lips that parted for him instantly. He cupped the beautiful boy's face in his hands and groaned when his tongue met Eddward's and he was being pulled forward as his hands skimmed across the ravenette's neck and chest and stomach and his shuddering sides. They were in a different room, small and lit with a single lamp, and Edd was leading him clumsily across the floor, clinging to Kevin's chest like he was the only thing anchoring him in the living world.

When the smaller male reached the mattress, he wrapped his arms around Barr's neck to tug him down. Kevin caught himself with his forearms, staring with wide eyes at the dark-eyed man beneath him.

Eddward blinked up at him, his pupils and eyelashes so black that the redhead felt like he could fall into them. The delicate hands were trailing down his chest, skirting over his stomach. Kevin moaned softly and squeezed his eyes shut as his heart rose to a deafening roar and the edges of his vision started to go blurry.

Though he couldn't tell exactly when it happened, the beautiful male had started unbuttoning his shirt in swift, graceful movements, spurring the officer out of his second of hesitation. He tugged on the smaller man's pants, gasping for breath that wouldn't come as he exposed slender hips and coaxed a frightened sound from the ravenette's mouth. Eddward shoved his overshirt off, knocking his radio to the floor with a clatter, and began to claw at his belt as the redhead pushed the baggy sweater up and dipped to press a frantic trail of kisses along the smooth line of the smaller man's stomach. His skin was almost sweet, and his back arched as he let out a choked sound of desperation, his flesh heating up as the redhead's tongue and teeth wandered over it. Kevin leaned back to finish undoing his pants and the gorgeous boy's gaze burned into him. The sound of his badge and his gun holster striking hardwood sounded like they were miles away.

Any echoes of his conscience were silenced when the ravenette clutched one of Kevin's hands to his face and sucked a finger into his mouth.

Barr groaned as velvety heat enveloped his skin, shivering when the smaller man rolled his tongue and gazed up at the redhead with needy eyes. Eddward nipped at the tip of his middle finger to draw it forward, and the cop's hips jerked in response to the shockingly erotic sensation of the superheated muscle slipping between his fingers. The beautiful male parted his lips, allowing the figure over him to withdraw his hand, and the tiny strand of saliva that pulled from the ravenette's swollen lips made Kevin's vision darken dangerously.

Clawing the smaller's briefs off took all of a second, giving Kevin room to suck and bite frantically at his bony hips and thighs. A moment of locked eyes and a small twitch from Edd's erection was all Kevin needed to know that swirling a wet finger gingerly against his opening was the right move, and the trembling resistance of his tiny body suddenly gave way to sinfully tight heat.

"Oh _Christ_," Barr heard himself whisper.

The brilliant boy gave a keening wail, arching off the bed at the pressure within him. When Kevin nervously added a second finger, he all but sobbed, hips snapping to take in as much as possible. His wriggling and gasping for breath as his muscles clenched greedily and his night-black eyes held foggily onto Kevin's made for the most pitiful and arousing sight the man had ever seen.

"Please," the gorgeous ravenette gasped, his small hands grasping at Barr's shoulders as he squirmed and violently shuddered. "Please, Kevin, oh please-"

The redhead clenched his teeth, mustering every remaining ounce of his control to slowly withdraw his fingers. He spat into his palm, too far gone to worry about being so rash, and a grunt escaped through his teeth as he shoved his boxers out of the way and coated his length in hasty, rough strokes. When he braced himself over the smaller male, Eddward gazed up at him in dazed anticipation, his shallow panting and scrabbling fingernails betraying that he too was beyond caring.

Kevin gripped his length, lining up with the trembling, gasping figure beneath him, and in that moment, he didn't care if Edd was damaged or diseased or broken. Every trauma and every demon swimming in his wild gaze lie there, vulnerable and exposed, and Barr knew he wanted to take every inch of the ravenette's pain and make it his own.

He plunged himself into Eddward in one steady movement.

The ravenette gave a strangled cry and buried his face in the crook of Barr's neck as the exquisite warmth and the shaking of his thighs made the redhead's vision go black. Kevin felt ten short, uniform nails dig into his back as slender legs interlocked around his waist. He felt the thrum of a long, low moan in his chest but couldn't hear it over the high-pitched whine of the figure beneath him. Edd clenched and spasmed around his length - excruciating, delicious silk gripping him making Kevin jump and hiss out a noise that he couldn't possibly have made - and then he was lifting his head from the sheets to meet those painfully big and trusting eyes, and he was moving, so slowly it was unbearable, terrified of hurting the thing beneath him who had been hurt so many times.

The sharp rock of his hips forward and the flash of teeth as the smaller man's head rolled back against the sheets caused something deep down in his screaming mind to click; made the rhythm burning through his limbs feel achievable if he felt it out slowly. He pulled back, the freezing air stinging as Eddward gave the softest whine, and sank in, the gorgeous thing's starved, delighted cry sending a chill from his spine down to his ankles. He was staring up at Kevin, brows creased and his lips pulled back at the struggle of staying sane enough to keep his eyes on the redhead. His skin was too beautiful, too fragile, and Barr pressed his teeth and tongue into the hammering pulse he found until the ravenette dragged him back up with a painful grip on his hair to clack their teeth together.

"Please, _please_."

Kevin groaned against his lips, hips pressing the smaller figure into the bed. The slender hands on his shoulders gripped hard, and when the slap of skin on skin quickened to a tempo that made the headboard thump against the wall, the smaller male's desperate moans rose to a shriek.

"Hey, hey." The redhead sank into the tiny male, pressing a hand to his face and slowing his hips. "Shhh. We - we can't-" Before he could utter anything further, Eddward nodded once and latched onto the flesh beneath his ear, muffling his cries into the redhead's neck.

The edge of blinding pain added to the pleasure made Kevin shout hoarsely and slam hard into the ravenette. He shoved his arms under the smaller man, pulling him close and bracing the small of his back. Eddward's arms snaked tightly around his shoulders to cling to him. He released the redhead's neck with a sob.

"P-please-" He was interrupted by Kevin brushing hard against the bundle of nerves inside him and let out a low moan, pressing his face into his shoulder. "Don't stop please don't stop."

Unable to speak, Barr held the ravenette even tighter, gasping into the sheets as the suffocating heat of the smaller male swallowed him up. Eddward whimpered and tensed and clung to him until his hands shook, and the soft, pleading sound he made into his skin was so vulnerable and so sweet that Kevin thought that he would do anything to shield him from the horrors of the world.

"I'm - I'm going-"

Kevin muffled the other's mouth with his own and redoubled his pace, hitting deep and choking out a cry at the tightening of the ravenette's ankles on his back and the stuttering spasm of his body. Their tongues had barely met when Eddward writhed against him and screamed into his mouth.

The sudden vicelike grip of his body made stars explode behind Kevin's eyes, blackness enveloping him until all he could sense was the sting of fingernails on his back and the smell of the man's hair and skin and breath.

Awareness returned slowly. Barr was aware of his legs shaking and a hot, slick substance on his chest. It was the most violent orgasm he'd ever had. The sweet thing curled beneath him was breathing rapidly in puffs that mingled with the sweat racing down his neck, so he pushed his face into soft hair and nuzzled against the forehead he found. Something tugged on his mind, telling him that something was awry and that he needed to be up and alert and leaving this place, but he shoved it aside. The trembling warmth beneath him felt wonderful and absurdly safe.

The static of his radio made him jump. Was the voice Landon's? Kevin hummed in irritation and forced his arms to hold him up. His eyes sluggishly focused on the long-lashed figure sprawled there, dark eyes blinking open blearily. His shirt was shoved up to his collarbone and the drying sweat glistened as he let out a shaky breath.

"Should you … answer that?"

His voice was thick with euphoria and exhaustion. Kevin commanded his legs to work, and he slid out of Eddward's spent body, making the ravenette's eyes flutter closed with a sigh.

The horror hit him like a ton of bricks. "_Shit,_" he hissed, his legs giving out when he tried to stand up. He clawed through the clothes on the floor, grabbing the radio with shaking hands just as Landon called again for all available units to get to the convenience store at the South end.

The fourth time Officer Kevin Barr met Eddward Vincent, he stumbled out of his house still buttoning his shirt, shaking the water off of his just-washed hands as he dove behind the wheel of the cruiser to snap on the lights.

He wouldn't realize until beginning his report on the convenience store robbery an hour later that he didn't have his pen and had left it behind after scrawling his number onto a sticky note he'd put on the ravenette's nightstand.


	75. (T) SPIDEYPOOL - Time After Time by glac

Time After Time  
glaciya

Summary:  
"I can't let you kill him." Peter watches as Deadpool goes almost unnaturally still, the only movement coming from when he tilts his head at Peter. The odd tingling his spidey-sense has been making all night gets even worse as Peter tries not to shudder under the heavy weight of Deadpool's gaze.

"Sure you can," Deadpool singsongs, but it's not in the high-pitched raspy voice he was using before. This time his voice is deeper and it makes the hair on Peter's arms stand up. This was probably what the Avengers were warning him about.

"I really can't." Peter insists lowering himself into a crouch, knowing things are about to get pretty ugly.

* * *

Wade's Boxes: **White**/_Yellow_

"This shit is Bananas," Wade curses as he fiddles with the lock of the second-floor window he is currently trying to break into. Trouble is, his left hand was blasted off by some thug getting a little too kill happy with a shotgun. That had only happened less than thirty minutes ago, so right now his hand was about the size of a nine-month old's and being less than helpful with stealthily breaking into the closest house he could find while he healed up.

**I can't believe you let those guys get the jump on us! We should have seen them coming from miles away!**

"I'm sorry, okay? I wasn't really expecting to deal with an attempted murder on me when I'm shopping at midnight for ingredients for a bacon and ice-cream lasagna. Besides, I'm wonderful. Who'd want to kill me?" Even worse, most grocery shops didn't take too kindly to his usual getup, so he was dressed in a hoodie and jeans that could only inconspicuously hide two hand guns and a pocket knife.

_Maybe the mob boss whose father you beheaded last week? I told you we should have charged more._

"I told them it wasn't personal! Now shush both of you, I need to concentrate." He really would like to get inside before he passes out from blood loss and actually wake up indoors instead of on the dirty New York streets. With any luck, he'll pass out and wake back up before the family that lives here finds him and calls the cops.

"B.A.N.A.N.A-YES!" Wade whisper-shouts as he finally manages to break the lock on the window. He falls through the newly opened window and lays on the ground. As his vision slowly fades to blackness he thinks he hears a surprised squeal coming from inside the room.

Wade wakes up to the feeling of something sharp and hard jabbing him in the side, and not in the good way either. His whole body shudders as it comes to, feeling fully recovered. He opens his eyes to find himself face to face with a scrawny kid. Wide brown eyes stare back at him for about two seconds before the boy is scrambling away from him.

Wade looks around the dimly lit room, the boy must have turned on the lamp by computer while he was out. Wade had apparently fallen right into his bedroom, judging from the unmade bed pressed against the wall beside where he landed. The room is cramped and messy, clothes all over the place and chemistry posters taped crookedly to the wall. He has a worn desk with a computer that looks to be from the nineties on it and a bookshelf that is leaning dangerously to the left.

The kid himself is pressed back against the bookshelf. He has a messy mop of brown hair on his head and thick square glasses guarding his eyes. He's wearing a green shirt with a red Mario hat on the front, basketball shorts and socks that go up to his knees. He presses back even further against the bookshelf when Wade moves to sit up.

"I'm armed!" The boy warns, waving the broom handle at him.

_Look at him! So tiny, so vicious! He's adorable._

**He's pathetic. Kill him and put him out of his misery.**

"Shut up, both of you." Wade growls. The boy's look of terror turns into one of confusion. He looks around the room as if he's trying to find something.

"Have you already called the cops?" Wade asks, trying to calculate how much longer he has until he needs to make a break for it.

"No." The boy says and then grimaces. "I mean yes, they're on their way as we speak!"

"I don't believe you." Wade sings, waving his pointer finger at him. The boy visibly deflates.

"You shouldn't." The boy sighs. "I was going to but then I saw all the blood coming from your stomach and I had to puke first. And then when I came back you were healed." His eyes flicker up to his face and then back down again. "Well, mostly healed."

Wade's hand flies up to his face, touching the scarred skin there.

_Oh yeah, we are minus the mask today. Wonder why he hasn't run away screaming yet?_

**He's an idiot obviously.**

"A face not even a mother could love, right?" Wade laughs bitterly. "I'm gonna apologize in advance for the nightmares you'll have after this."

"It's not that bad," The boy scoffs. "I'm more concerned about why you broke into my window at-" The color drains from his face. "Oh crap, what time is it?!" He says scrambling over and grabbing the alarm clock from his dresser. He relaxes, letting out a long sigh after he reads it.

"Phew, it's only one-thirty. I still have a couple hours, then."

"Until what? Wait, wait, wait! Are you a werewolf?" Wade asks excitedly.

"What? No I'm not a werewolf jeebus, that doesn't even make sense. It's my sixteenth birthday today, and I was born at exactly three thirty-four A.M so I can finally see what my Soul Mark is going to be!" He grins up at Wade excitedly.

Oh right, Soul Marks. The constant reminder that some poor person is destined to spend their life with him. Wade remembers being excited when he first saw his, a grey and black spider web painted across his left breast.

The mark would always appear on the person's sixteenth birthday, at the exact time they were born. It was like the universe was giving you a hint of who you should belong with before you met them. Sometimes it was more obvious or sometimes it was like Wade's, who spent years wondering if his mate was some sort of bug specialist.

When he was young and naïve, he used to daydream about the day when he would finally meet his person. Someone who was designed to love him, someone who'd be interested in what he had to say instead of wanting him to shut up so they could hear the television. Someone who'd protect him.

Then the cancer and the experiments happened and Wade lost interest. He knew he'd never find out who his partner was. Because, even though the marks started out in shades of black and grey, the moment you have skin on skin contact with your partner they change, coloring themselves in to reveal your actual soul mate. And no one in their right mind would touch Wade the way he is now. He tended to avoid looking at himself as much as possible so he forgot it was there most of the time.

"So what? You're staying up for the big reveal?"

"Yup!" The boy chirps. "I hope it's something cool. Like, a science beaker or maybe a molecule. Then we could talk science and stuff. Ohmygosh, you're pretty old right? Like thirty or something? You have your mark, have you met your Soulmate yet?"

"More like twenty-five, but thank you, I'm flattered. And I haven't." Wade shrugs nonchalantly, feeling for maybe the first time in his life uncomfortable with the conversation at hand.

"Well what's your mark look like then? Can I see it?" The kid asks, already reaching his hand out toward Wade.

"NO!" Wade shouts and immediately feels guilty when the boy flinches back against the bookshelf hard enough to knock several books on the floor. The silence that follows is awkward, Wade is tempted to stab himself in the head just so he can escape it but he doubts the kid would appreciate that very much.

"Aren't you worried I'm going to like rob or kill you or something?" Wade asks.

"Not really, I mean I was at first but all the blood distracted me and, I mean, you haven't tried to do either of those things yet so I'm assuming it's something else." His eyes widen and Wade can see a lightbulb flickering on above his head. "You're one of those superheroes aren't you? That's why you were injured, and you came here because you needed a place to lay low while you used your healing powers!"

_Oh. My. God. He's precious!_

**I'm still voting we kill him.**

"Uh yes?" Wade says.

"I knew it!" The boy shouts, pumping his fist. "That is _so cool_."

"Sure is. Speaking of, I'd better get back to uh, patrolling and whatnot…" Wade trails off as he stands up, heading towards the window. He's halfway out before he feels a small tug on his sleeve, the kid snatches his hand back once Wade turns back toward him.

"Can you stay please? I don't really want to be alone when it happens." Wade takes one look at those pleading brown eyes and feels himself cave in.

_Dammit._

**Dammit.**

"Dammit," Wade mutters. "Aren't your parents home?" He asks even though he's already crawling back into the room.

"Oh, they umm…My aunt is visiting a friend in Chicago and my uncle works nights." He tugs on his messy hair awkwardly and avoids Wade's eyes.

"Oh." For once, Wade and the boxes are all speechless.

"Yeah so, we could uh," The kid looks around the room. "I have the modulator for Mario Kart downloaded on my computer if you want to-Oh wait sorry you're probably too old for-" He cuts off as Wade squeals. "I LOVE MARIO KART!"

"Oh," The boy blinks surprised, watching as Wade settles himself on the floor in front of the computer.

"You better let me be Princess Peach." Wade warns waggling a finger at him. He gets an eyeroll in response as the kid walks over to set the game up.

"That's fine, I like being Toad anyway."

Wade's not sure how long they spend racing each other before the boy nods off mid-race. Controller slipping from his hands as Toad drives straight into a pool of hot lava. Wade manages to catch him before he face-plants into the ground, thankful he's wearing gloves so his mangled skin isn't actually touching the boy's as he lifts him up to maneuver him onto the bed.

Wade shuts off his computer and turns off his lamp, before leaving back through the window. He's almost back to his home before realizes that he never got the kid's name.

_We can just get it next time!_

**Yeah and after he tells us, we can kill him?**

But there never is a next time. Because the very next day, Wade accepts a job that takes him out of the country, where he gets shot in the head by his target, an emo prick with a metal arm and killer aim. When his brain grows back he forgets he ever even met the kid.

Peter

"Maybe he's a lawyer." Gwen states out of the blue. She's laying on her stomach on his bed, flipping through an old National Geographic magazine she found on his bookshelf.

"Who's a lawyer?" Peter asks, frowning at his best friend.

"Your soulmate," Gwen says simply, not taking her eyes off whatever article has caught her interest. "You're touching your chest again." Peter glances down and notices to his embarrassment that she's right. While he was concentrating on editing the new Spiderman picture he took last night on patrol, his right hand had been tracing the shape over the left side of his chest.

He had woken up on the morning of his sixteenth birthday, after an incredibly strange dream about a burglar, with his mark; two katanas crossed in an X right over his heart. He had been hoping his mark would be an obvious clue as to who he belonged with, but unless his partner was a samurai training in Asia, he was screwed.

"Where did you get lawyer?"

"You know," Gwen says, gesturing vaguely at his chest. "They'd use their words like swords to cut through opponent's arguments." It makes Peter think of Daredevil, whose secret identity Peter had very recently discovered, and he feels his ears get hot.

"Yeah, could be." He says doubtfully. He only just turned eighteen, so logically he knows he still has plenty of time to find them, but he's felt impatient, almost jittery since he got his mark. He had read stories about people feeling a strange sort of energy flowing through them once they started getting close to the moment where they met the one. But after two years of feeling like this, Peter was starting to think maybe the energy thing was bull-honky.

He gives up on editing the picture, too distracted to make any real progress and turns back to Gwen. He catches her staring at a random spot on his wall, a far off look in her eyes as she touches the spot on her chest where her soul mark is. Peter feels guilt wash over him. When Gwen had received her mark, it had been outlined in white, a sign that meant she wouldn't meet her soulmate in this lifetime.

"Crap, Gwen I'm sorry."

"Hmm?" She blinks and looks over at him, dropping her hand back on the bed when she catches Peter watching her. "Stop giving me that look, Peter Parker. I get enough of that from my mother. You know I'm perfectly happy with M.J. and I'm not going to let something like fate or whatever you want to call it take that away from me."

Peter grins at her, pride swelling in his chest at his feisty, genius best friend. After she had discovered that Harry was the Green Goblin, M.J had decided that she was one of the rare few who were better off without their soulmate. His two closest friends, who initially didn't like each other very much, bonded over the loss of their soulmates and had been dating ever since.

"Speaking of," Peter glances back at the time on his laptop. "Don't you need to be meeting her, like right now?" Gwen blanches when she checks the time on her phone, hopping up off the bed and planting a quick kiss on Peter's forehead.

"Stay safe tonight!" Gwen calls behind her as she rushes out the door. Peter laughs shaking his head at his friend.

Several hours later, Peter finds himself sitting on a random rooftop, legs swinging over the edge as he contemplates calling it an early night. His spidey-sense had been acting strange all evening, providing him with a dull but distracting tingle ever since he put on his costume. But, other than a drunken brawl and an attempted car thief, the night had been pretty slow.

He stands and has his arm out, ready to shoot a web, when his sense causes a sudden shudder to run through his whole body, and then he hears the scream. Moving fast, he leaps from the building and swings toward the voice.

The sound leads him to a dark alleyway, which is pretty much the usual place for a scream of terror to be coming from. He's prepared to rush in and stop whatever horrible thing is going on but, once he takes in the scene he finds himself hesitating.

There's a man lying on the ground, with a disturbing amount of blood coming out of a wound in his side. He's desperately trying to crawl away from his attacker, but doesn't look like he'll make it very far. The gore isn't what makes Peter stop in tracks though, it's the attacker. He's dressed in a red and black costume, complete with two katanas on his back…crossed to form an X just like the one over Peter's heart.

Peter snaps out of his daze when the man pulls one of the katanas out of the sheath as he advances on the injured man, it's blade is stained red.

"Wait!" He cries, shooting webbing at the man's feet. The man looks down at where his left foot is now stuck to the concrete.

"Okay, that's so gross. Like, here I am just minding my own business, committing homicide and you gotta do me this way." The man says in a raspy voice before turning towards Peter. "How am I even going to wash this-SPIDERMAN?!" Peter winces at the man's screech.

"Holy crap! If I'd have known I'd be meeting you tonight I would have worn the dress instead!" He coos, clasping his hands together.

_There is no way in hell this is my soulmate_. Peter thinks to himself, shaking his head at the man.

"Who are you?" He demands, using his best Intimidating Spiderman voice.

"I'm Deadpool, at your service!" He says, giving Peter a salute. "Now, if you don't mind letting my poor little tootsie go, I have a job to do and I'm not paid by the hour, ya feel?"

So this is the infamous Deadpool. The one both Tony and Steve had warned him about countless times. He certainly didn't seem as much of a threat as they made him out to be.

"I can't let you kill him." Peter watches as Deadpool goes almost unnaturally still, the only movement coming from when he tilts his head at Peter. The odd tingling his spidey-sense has been making all night gets even worse as Peter tries not to shudder under the heavy weight of Deadpool's gaze.

"Sure you can," Deadpool singsongs, but it's not in the high-pitched raspy voice he was using before. This time his voice is deeper and it makes the hair on Peter's arms stand up. This was probably what the Avengers were warning him about.

"I really can't." Peter insists lowering himself into a crouch, knowing things are about to get pretty ugly.

Before he can even react, Deadpool uses his free hand to draw a gun from his holster and shoots behind him without even looking away from Peter. The man on the ground screams as the bullet hits the concrete right in front of him, where he had still been trying to crawl away.

Peter shoots a web and yanks the gun out of Deadpool's grip, catching in a tossing it in the dumpster beside him. In the time it takes him to do that, Deadpool has cut himself free of the webbing surrounding his foot.

"Look Webberoni, I don't want to fight you but you have no idea how many chimichangas I'm going to be able to buy just from killing him. Would it make you feel better knowing that he's been dealing to kids? Apparently, he got a minor with a very wealthy daddy hooked on heroine. Daddy didn't like that very much."

"I'd feel better knowing he was in jail, serving time for the crimes he committed." He strangely doesn't want to fight either, not that he's going to let Deadpool just kill the guy, but he'd rather they found a way to resolve this peacefully. Maybe it's the katanas, reminding him that he has a soulmate somewhere out there and he'd like to have all of his limbs intact when they meet.

"But what about the chimichangas?" Deadpool whines, stomping his foot. It gives Peter an idea.

"If you let me call the cops and have him arrested, I'll buy you chimichangas." Peter blurts, almost instantly regretting the offer when Deadpool seems to perk up. But, if it saves a life and keeps all of his limbs in place then it might be worth it. "Maybe not all of them at once, but like slowly over time…if you continue to be good."

"I can be good." Deadpool nods, and puts away his katana.

"Wait, really?" Peter asks.

"Really?" The guy on the ground asks. Both Deadpool and Spiderman ignore him.

"Yeah," Deadpool shrugs. "I mean the only reason I was doing it was for junk food money so if you're taking care of that then there's no reason for me to kill him."

"Okay that's uh, not how I was expecting this to go down, but it's cool." Peter says getting his phone out to call the police and leave an anonymous tip. Deadpool pulls some rope from a pouch that seems way too small for it to fit in and hogties the criminal, who seems to be shocked into silence.

"So, how many chimichangas are we talking about here? Like if we meet like once a week and I bring you two of them, how long would we have to do that?" Deadpool hums, thinking.

"If we meet once a week and you bring me four chimichangas," Deadpool corrects. "AND you hang out with me while I eat them…maybe a year?" Peter is glad the mask covers the look of horror that appears on his face.

'_A whole freakin year of meeting up with this guy_? Peter thinks. _Maybe he should've just let- No, no Peter Benjamin Parker you were raised better than that.'_

"Okay, but since we're hanging out while I'm supposed to be patrolling, if there's a crime you have to help." Peter insists. Deadpool literally jumps up and down.

"You mean we'd be like teammates?! Oh man, that is so much cooler than murder!"

"I'm glad you think so," Peter says and then hesitates. Maybe it wasn't a coincidence that his mark and Deadpool's weapon were the exact same. Only one way to find out.

He walks up to Deadpool, ignoring the way he seems to tense as Peter reaches out to touch him.

"It's a deal then," Peter says, hesitating just for a moment more before placing his gloved hand on Deadpool's shoulder. Nothing happens, he gets no flash of heat or moment of clarity as he awkwardly pats Deadpool's shoulder. He can't tell if the feeling immerging in his chest is disappointment or relief.

Deadpool reaches up and takes Peter's hand in his, turning on his heel and marching them out of the alley.

"And what better time to start than tonight!"

Wade

It takes Wade about three months to start feeling guilty for essentially forcing Spiderman to be his friend. Usually something like that would have taken much longer, but Spidey is different from others. He can keep up with Wade's references and, other than during the first few times of they hung out, he never seemed annoyed by Wade's talking.

**You're being selfish. Poor kid is only hanging out with you because he has to. You shouldn't keep torturing him this way.**

_He's started coming over to our apartment after patrol. That wasn't part of the deal. Maybe we've grown on him?!_

Not for the first time, Wade thinks about the mark covering the left side of his chest. It seemed like a cruel twist of fate that his mark would be so similar to Spiderman's weapon of choice, yet Spidey himself wasn't his mate. He double-checked every time they hung out though, just to make sure.

Not once did Wade forget to touch Spidey in some way when he saw him. Sometimes it was a simple high-five, but most of the time he checked by slapping Spidey on that glorious ass. Spidey had even stopped trying to punch him afterword, he must like it more than he let on. And, as amazing experience as that was, Wade couldn't help feeling disappointed every time they made contact and his mark didn't light up.

**It's for the best. Can't imagine how'd he'd react if he knew he was stuck with us for the rest of his life.**

_Spidey is too good for us._

"First sign of the apocalypse," Wade mutters to himself, "All three of us agree."

He's interrupted from that depressing train of thought by a light tapping on his window. Excited, he jumps up where he was laying on his living room floor(his most favorite napping spot), and, in his rush to open the window, he tears the blinds from their holder so they clatter to the floor.

"Santa you finally came!" He exclaims as he finally yanks the window open.

"Okay one: It's the middle of summer and Santa is much too busy making toys to visit kids this time of year, Wade you know this." Spidey sighs, crawling through the window without being invited in. He manages to still be graceful even though he's carrying a few full grocery bags filled with what Wade desperately hopes is junk food. "And, two: I think I'm a little offended because I'm pretty sure that was a fat joke."

"The only thing fat on you is Dat Ass." Wade says, making grabby hands at said booty, hoping to sneak a grope in while Spidey's hands are full. Spidey dances around him with a laugh and marches his way into Wade's kitchen with an ease that showed just how often he had been showing up at Wade's place.

The first time Spidey had accepted Wade's invitation to come over, he was badly injured from a fun encounter with Venom about a month after their little deal began. Their fight had taken place in an abandoned building right across the street from Wade's apartment and, when he heard all the commotion, he naturally had to go check it out.

Once he got into the building and saw the vicious beating his Spidey was taking, Wade was filled with a quiet rage he had felt only a few times in his life. By the end of his involvement, he was sure Venom knew the only reason he was still alive was because of Spiderman's presence. Once Venom ran away like the coward he was, Wade had taken Spidey back to his place and patched him up, watching over him in a totally non-creepy way when he passed out.

Afterword their relationship had changed, Spiderman seemed more relaxed around Wade, even joking around with him. The simple fact that Wade had both taken care of his Spider when he was vulnerable and not taken the opportunity to take off his mask when he was unconscious seemed to go a long way with Spidey.

_Hold up…is he actually in our kitchen right now, making food?!_

**He's trying to poison us now that he has our guard down.**

_No he's too smart for that. He knows we can't die._

**Hallucination? We _are_ insane.**

"Probably," Wade mutters, leaning against the doorway watching Spidey work. He had taken off his gloves and boots at some point, but not his mask, never the mask. Wade has never been more glad for his own habit of constantly being in costume, even in his own home. Spidey looks over his shoulder at the sound of Wade's voice.

"What are the boxes saying now?" He asks.

"Trying to decide why there's a beautiful baby boy in my kitchen cooking food. White thinks I'm hallucinating, which makes sense because you are one sexy wardrobe change from this being a fantasy I've had pretty frequently." Spidey ducks his head in what Wade has picked up on as a telltale sign that he's blushing. Wade pumps his fist in the air.

"It's not a hallucination, you weirdo. I'm really cooking for you and I really brought cake because it's a special occasion." Spidey says, waving a cooking knife at him.

"Special occasion? Wait, are you gonna propose to me? Ohmygosh, where are my tissues?" Wade gasps, placing a hand over his heart.

"No, jeebus, Wade did you forget your own birthday?" Spidey says, shaking his head at him before turning back to chopping vegetables.

"…How'd you know it was my birthday?"

"You only told me like sixty times last week." And, okay maybe he did, he tends to ramble a lot so he doesn't even remember half of what he said, but still…

_He remembered our birthday._

**He remembered our birthday.**

"He remembered our birthday…" Wade breathes staring at Spidey in awe.

"_He_ is right here and, like I said, you only told me like a hundred times last week. So, I'm making us some fajitas, I bought a cake from that bakery you like down the street, and after we eat we are going to spend the rest of the evening playing Borderlands. I'll even let you be the Siren since it's your special day."

Wade tries to think of something to say but he ends up just standing there staring at Spidey with his mouth hanging open.

Later on that night, after they've given up playing video games and are in the middle of a B-Horror movie marathon, Wade glances over at Spidey. He's laying of his side, taking up most of the couch and has his feet propped up on Wade's lap. Wade had begun absentmindedly rubbing one of his socked feet during the opening credits.

"You don't have to do this." Wade says suddenly.

"Hmm?" Spidey asks, still focused on the movie. He nudges Wade's thigh with his foot because he had stopped massaging him.

"You coming here, hanging out with me on my birthday. It wasn't part of the deal." Wade clarifies, keeping his eyes focused on the T.V to avoid looking at Spidey. He can still see Spidey moving out of the corner of his eye though, sitting up and shooting over so he's right next to Wade, their thighs pressed up against each other.

"I didn't do this because of the deal." He says, sighing when Wade won't look at him. "I haven't actually thought much about the deal in a long time. I just like being around you." Wade does turn to him then, wishing he could see Spidey's facial expression behind his mask.

"The food, video games, and hanging out was because…" Wade trails off, still having a hard time processing.

"I did all that because I like you, you dummy."

Peter

It takes Peter six months after their deal to realize he has a crush on Wade, then another month of some heavy denial before he comes to accept it. And now, for the first time in his life he finds himself not wanting to find his soulmate.

Because he knows it's not Wade. No matter how much casual, purely platonic, touching happened when they hung out, his mark remained black and white. That didn't seem to affect how hard his heart would start beating at the slightest touch from Wade, something he should long be used to by now.

Peter finds himself more than a little relieved that Wade doesn't seem enthused to find his soulmate either. Every time Peter brings up the subject, Wade dances around it or tells Peter that 'It's rude to ask a lady about her marks'.

He's jealous of this stranger he's never met before. The person who is destined to be with Wade for eternity, who gets to hear Wade's jokes and listen to the constant, annoyingly wonderful, nonsense that's always spilling out of his mouth. He's had too many restless nights recently asking the silent universe why that person couldn't be him.

He had recently started flirting back with Wade, and the results were better than expected. The first time it happened, the two were grabbing some hot chocolate mid patrol because it was a slow, chilly night. He didn't remember what they were talking about, just that Wade had called him baby boy, as usual.

"If you keep calling me baby boy, does that mean I should start calling you daddy?" Peter had asked, fighting to keep the smirk off his face when Wade froze, looking at him with his mouth open. Then, he promptly dumped his steaming hot chocolate onto his own lap.

"Sorry," He shrugged in response to Peter's shocked cry. "That boner was not going away anytime soon."

His phone buzzes one Tuesday evening while he's having his weekly food date with Wade.

"It's the Avengers," He informs Wade. "There's an emergency three miles south of here, we have to go help out."

"Woo! A team-up with the Avengers, I'm a real hero now!" Wade says, jumping up and down.

"You were a hero the moment you decided to stop killing and start saving people in trouble," Peter says. He turns his back to Wade and crouches down. "Now, do you want a piggy back or not?"

Wade squeals instead of giving an actual answer and leaps on to Peter's back. Peter's thankful for his super strength allowing him to easily support Wade's weight. He swings them from building to building, trying to ignore the way Wade's body is pressed against him as he listens to Wade's excited chatter in his ear.

Peter receives various reactions to showing up with Wade on his back, from Iron Man's loud exasperated sigh to Clint's "You've got to be kidding me. We're supposed to be saving the city not wrecking it further!"

Peter ignores them, making his way over to Captain America. He knows the team has been keeping tabs on him so he's not sure why they are even surprised, Deadpool is nearly a constant presence with him at this point. The media had been having a field day with their new partnership.

"Do you really think it's a good idea to involve Deadpool in this, son?" Peter hates the way Steve's disappointment in him makes him feel but he hates how quiet Wade became after Clint's comment even more.

"Deadpool came to help out," He says, gesturing at the chaos going on below the rooftop they had agreed to meet on. "And it looks like you could use all the help you could get."

The captain remains silent, looking Wade over contemplatively. Wade shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny, which is weird because Peter didn't know Wade could even feel uncomfortable, but then again, he has said before that the Captain is one of his heroes.

"Alright Cap, we really don't have time for this," Tony says coming to stand beside them. "If the Spider-Child trusts him then we are going to have to too." Peter feels something warm swell in his chest at Tony's words, that was about as close to a compliment as the man could give.

The team begrudgingly accepts Wade's assistance and together they fight off the Alien Invaders of the Week. Peter watches, as much as he can while he's fighting, with a swell of pride as Wade adapts easily to fight perfectly in sync with whichever Avenger is next to him at the time.

This particular type of Alien species was definitely not as intelligent or durable as the creatures that the team had fought before. They did however breathe fire, which was pretty annoying in Peter's opinion. The fight didn't last very long but by the end of it, Peter's costume was halfway burned off and he was showing an embarrassing amount of skin. Apparently, his fire resistant suit wasn't an _alien_ fire resistant suit. Thankfully, his mask and most of his leggings are still intact.

At the Captain's orders, Peter swings his way to meet back up with the team once the fight was over. Most of their suits were in similar states of disarray. Natasha has Thor's cape wrapped around her like a robe and a look on her face that promised death to whoever commented on her new outfit.

"Excellent work everyone, we managed to eliminate the threat and cause minimal damage to the- "

"Where's Wade?" Peter asks suddenly. He tries not to feel frustrated at the blank looks the rest of the team give him.

"Marco!" A scratchy voice calls from somewhere to Peter's left.

"Polo!" Peter calls, heading in that direction. It takes Wade calling Marco two more times for Peter to find him, lying on ground, his lower half pinned beneath an overturned car.

Peter quickly moves it off him and proceeds to watch in a type of morbid fascination as Wade's legs snap back into place. Wade's costume is in the same shape as the rest of the team, so Peter can see the scars and ridges decorating Wade's skin. Its the first time he's seen so much of it at once because, unless Wade rolled the bottom of his mask up to eat, he's always completely covered.

Peter looks away as Wade finishes healing, he knows even with his mask on that Wade would be able to tell there is pity on Peter's gaze and he'd hate that.

"Hey Spidey-Butt, the gross stuff is all over now, mind giving a friend a hand?" Peter looks back over to see Wade still on the ground but definitely less mangled now, waggling a gloveless hand up at him. Peter makes his way over to him smiling at how silly Wade looks.

"You know you're completely helpless without m-" He cuts off with a gasp as his hand clasps Wade's. As soon as their bare skin touched, a flash of heat shot up his arm and went directly into his heart. Peter, whose eyes had closed at the not painful but intense sensation, opens them again when he hears a low whining noise. The noise is coming from Wade, who's one hand is gripping Peter's with crushing force and grabbing at his chest with the other.

In an instant, the heat on his chest goes from tolerable to painful and Peter uses his free hand to rip off the shredded remains of the top half of his costume. It's a struggle because his other hand can't seem to let go of Wade's.

The heat is coming from the mark on his chest, which is now shining proudly with it's new shades of red and silver to decorate it. Peter slowly sinks to his knees next to Wade, who hasn't stopped making the whining noise. The heat thankfully has receded for the most part now that the mark has colored itself in.

"Wade," Peter breathes in awe, staring at his mark. He had been so stupid. _Skin on skin contact_ was how a person found their soulmate. And the two of them had never been out of costume together. He looks back up at Wade, the smiling that had been forming of his face dropping when he notices the way Wade is looking at him, or rather his mark.

Wade's face is twisted up in a grimace, his mouth, showing through a rip in his mask is set in a hard frown.

"Does it still hurt?" Peter asks, reaching with his free hand towards Wade's chest. Wade flinches back from him, dropping his hand. Peter's fingers tingle as the blood starts flowing through them again.

"Hey, it's okay, in fact more than ok. I think we're soul-"

"_No_," Wade's moan cuts Peter off. He watches in disbelief as Wade starts shaking his head back and forth, never taking his eyes off Peter's chest.

"Wade, c'mon buddy, you gotta use your words." Peter laughs nervously, a tornado of dread forming in the pit of his stomach. "It's not all that bad…is it?"

Wade leaps away from him, fumbling with something in his belt. Peter realizes what he's doing too late, reaching out with a shout. His fingers touch the air where Wade had vanished, using his teleporter to escape.

Peter remains frozen in place even after he hears the whispers of the rest of the Avengers start behind him, no doubt having witnessed the whole thing. He barely registers when Tony comes to stand beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder in an attempt at comfort.

It doesn't help though, because Wade, his best friend, crush, and _soulmate_ had just rejected him.

Wade

Wade attempts to remove the mark thirty-two times before he gives up. He tries everything from skinning the area to pouring acid that he found in a secret lab over it. While both attempts had been incredibly painful, the mark returned with its new shades of deep blue and red each time.

It's been a month since he's last seen Spidey. His shocked voice as he said Wade's name still echoed in his ear. Wade hadn't heard much after that, his own heart beat too loud in his ears for him to make out what Spidey was saying. It was just as well though, he didn't want to hear Spidey's reaction to realizing they were soulmates.

**He must have done something pretty shitty in a past life to warrant this kind of bad karma.**

_Or we did something really amazing!_

**You realize who you're talking about here right?**

_Oh yeah…We don't deserve him._

"You're tellin' me," Wade mutters. He swings his legs from where he's perched on a bridge over-looking the Niagara Falls.

He had done a lot of traveling in his home country over the past few weeks, hoping it would help him keep his mind off the bug. But, where his brain used to work at super sonic speed, making him think of at least a hundred different topics a minute, now every thought seems centered around Spidey.

Movement out of the corner of his eye catches his attention. It surprises him because it's not even six in the morning yet, no one else should be here right now. He turns to find a college-aged boy standing about ten feet away from him, he's surprised the boy got this close to him before Wade noticed, most people aren't able to do that.

He looks small, wearing only a hoodie and worn jeans to protect him from the chilly air, and has a messy tuff of brown hair on top of his head. Wade jolts when the boy turns toward him with an almost amused expression, as if he was expecting a psycho in a red costume with lethal weapons to be on the bridge with him. His impossibly wide brown eyes hold Wade's for a few seconds before he smirks and then jumps off the bridge.

_What_

**The**

"Fuck!" Wade cries sprinting over to where the boy jumped and leaping over after him. He closes his eyes as he braces himself for impact with the cold water, but it never comes. Instead he lands on something that slows his fall to a stop and bounces him slightly.

He opens his eyes and the first thing he notices is the river rushing below him, which causes knots in his stomach. Even though he knows he wouldn't die from the fall, heights are still pretty scary. The second thing he notices is the thin but durable wiring holding him up. It's in a crisscrossed pattern shaped similarly to a...web.

Wade carefully turns himself over into a sitting position. Movement is awkward because every time he shifts, the web shifts with him, almost like being on a trampoline. The kid is sitting cross legged in the center of the web, looking at Wade with a sheepish expression.

"Uh hey so, I didn't fall in the river." He says. giving Wade a small grin.

"Spidey?!"

"It's Peter actually, Peter Parker. But, yeah it's me…in the flesh." He shoots finger guns at Wade, laughing awkwardly. His voice is slightly higher than Spiderman's but Wade can definitely recognize it. He must pitch his voice lower when he's in costume, smart boy.

**What a dork.**

_PETEY PETEY PETEY!_

"Why are you here and not like, a thousand miles away from me?" Wade asks. Peter's face turns serious at Wade's words.

"I tried to give you your space, I really did, but I just couldn't stop wondering why you ran, why you seemed so devastated when our marks matched us. At first I thought it was because you didn't want me," Peter raises a hand to silence Wade when he tries to interrupt. "But then a certain billionaire genius reminded me of something pretty simple but important."

"It was probably to eat your veggies right? To keep a tush that magnificent you have to get all your nutrients in." Wade lets his mouth move to cover up his nerves.

"It was that we're soulmates," Peter ignores his chatter. "That means that you're destined to be with me, destined to keep me strong and to make me happier than anyone else ever could." Wade swallows loudly, unable to look away from the intense look in Peter's eyes. "And that goes both ways, Wade."

"I don't understand what you mean," Wade says. What is it about this boy that takes away his dashing wit? Peter rolls his eyes at him and starting crawling gracefully towards him.

"I mean that, even though it took me awhile, I know you left because you thought I'd be unhappy being yours," He says getting closer with every word, and Wade finds himself frozen in spot.

"That I just spent the last week following your trail across Canada and planned this elaborate confession that included me jumping off a bridge and spending an hour trying to make the perfect web to trap you in, so you couldn't run away from me again." He pauses with his face just inches from Wade's. He reaches his hands up to tugs Wade's mask up just past his nose, and Wade is still frozen in place.

"It means that I love you and I know you love me too, so I've come here to tell you that it's time to come back home." And then Peter kisses him.


	76. (T) STEREK - Building Blocks by Lisztful

Building Blocks  
Lisztful

Summary:  
Stiles doesn't exactly mean to start cleaning up after everybody, it's just that, well, sometimes he thinks Derek turned them into actual animals.

* * *

Stiles doesn't exactly mean to start cleaning up after everybody, it's just that, well, sometimes he thinks Derek turned them into _actual_ animals.

They've been meeting at the Hale house for a long time, now, long enough that Derek had finally given in to everybody's silent looks of disdain (well, Lydia's silent looks of disdain) and started fixing it up. The first room he finished after the downstairs bathroom was Isaac's , which is actually too cute for words. But after that it had been the living room, big and drafty, but pretty cozy now that it has things like carpets and curtains and actual walls. Then it was the kitchen, and now it's just whatever odds and ends and bits Derek seems to feel like working on. Stiles figures he worked on his own room at some point, but nobody's ever seen it so it's hard to confirm.

So, once there's an actual house to hang out in, and everyone's there until the evening exhausting themselves on training, it becomes sort of normal for the whole pack to pile in and watch crappy movies, or sometimes play videogames. They usually convince someone (generally Stiles or Derek, given the existence of their cars) to go pick up takeout. Stiles totally didn't intend to clean up after anybody, but on this particular night, he's the last person to go into the kitchen to throw away his paper plate, and it's just _gross_. That's why, when Derek pads quietly into the room, Stiles is up to his elbows in paper towels, wiping off all the things. Seriously, it's disgusting.

"I was going to do that," Derek says quietly, watching him. Stiles figures it's true, since the house is never horrifying when they get there, although it usually is by the time they leave. It's hard to imagine Derek scrubbing his kitchen, alone in the evening, but there's no other obvious explanation.

Stiles shrugs. "I couldn't leave it like this," he admits. "It's like they were raised by actual wolves."

Derek shrugs back, mirroring Stiles. It's probably subconscious, but it's hard to say. Derek is better with body language than he is with words.

Derek closes the door, leaning comfortably back against it. "Need help?"

"Nah," Stiles says. "Go kill zombies." He can hear the sounds of video-game carnage from the living room, though it's muffled by the door.

"Pack bonding," Derek says easily. "They don't need me around all the time." He straightens, all easy grace, and crosses the room, running a hand over the newly wiped-down counter. "Thanks."

"No problem," Stiles says awkwardly, and watches Derek empty the trash with his ridiculous muscles. Stiles is pretty lucky no werewolves seem interested in asking him about it, because there's no way he'd ever be able to convince them that he wasn't totally ogling Derek's ass as he slips out the kitchen door, trash bag in tow.

"Come on," Derek says a second later, startling Stiles. Nobody should be able to move that fast.

"Okay," Stiles says, because there isn't really anything else left to do. They go watch bloody zombie murders, and Stiles is surprisingly content.

So after that, it becomes some sort of routine. Everyone comes over and eats, and afterward, Stiles and Derek hang out in the kitchen, ostensibly cleaning, but really just basking in the quiet calm of the evening. Or at least, that's what Stiles is getting out of it. It's hard to say why Derek participates, although he seems warmer, easier, when they're alone like this. He still doesn't talk much, but it's comfortable, companionable. He seems to like being up in Stiles' space, nudging against his shoulder, reaching across him to put glasses back in the cabinet. Stiles, well, Stiles doesn't mind that at all.

The next thing that happens is pretty much a result of Derek being an idiot, which isn't at all surprising.

Some dickwad first-liner on the lacrosse team is having a big party for all the cool kids, which means that Scott and Jackson are going (carpooling, no less) and Stiles is emphatically not invited. Scott had told Stiles he could still come along, but he's not in the mood to watch people be annoyed at his general existence. He ends up at Derek's instead, having a spirited discussion about werewolf biology and restorative herbs. Derek is actually saying sentences containing multiple words, so both the geek part of Stiles' brain and the part that takes secret enjoyment out of Derek's pleasure, are happy.

Isaac interrupts them right when Stiles is getting to the good part of his monologue. Derek looks grateful for the reprieve.

"Going to the party?" Stiles asks him, without malice. All the wolf-y kids are cool, nowadays.

"Yeah," Isaac says, looking a little nervously at Derek for approval.

"Be back at nine," Derek says gruffly.

_"Nine?"_ Stiles says, in disbelief. "He's sixteen, not twelve!"

"There'll be drinking," Derek protests mulishly.

"He can't get drunk!" Stiles says, because this is seriously ridiculous.

"Other people can," Derek says stubbornly. "Drunk drivers."

"Supernatural healing," Stiles says, and then, without really thinking, "Midnight."

"11.30," Derek says. Stiles shrugs at Isaac, trying to convey, _pick your battles_.

Isaac grins at Stiles and nods. "11.30. Okay."

After he's gone, Derek looks over at him across the kitchen table, thoughtful. "Why aren't you at the party?"

"Not my scene," Stiles says breezily, because the real answer is that he kind of likes this, bickering with Derek when the night is quiet and cool, having somewhere to go where he can just relax. He never would have thought that Derek's house would turn out to be Stiles' zen place, but there it was.

Derek shrugs, but Stiles doesn't think he's imagining the pleased tilt to his mouth. "Movie?"

"Sure," Stiles says, and it's as easy as that.

Either they aren't sitting as far apart on the couch as Stiles could have sworn they were, or Derek has freaky ninja powers. Stiles is betting on the second one, because halfway through the movie, Derek actually manages to doze off. His head lolls heavily, coming to a stop against Stiles' shoulder, and Stiles is really positive they weren't close enough for that to happen, like 30 minutes ago tops. He doesn't mind, though. It's pretty ridiculous how much he doesn't mind. Derek looks young like this, sleep smoothing the furrows out of his brow. His face looks soft and open, vulnerable. Stiles has never seen him sleep before, and he's pretty certain Scott never has either, maybe not even Isaac. He doesn't know what that means, but definitely something. Stiles sighs and lets Derek lean more heavily on him, relaxing into the couch so that Derek can sleepily tuck his nose against Stiles' neck and sigh contentedly. It should be scary, but it's honestly just nice. Stiles wraps his arm around Derek's ridiculous, muscle-y back and tries not to think about anything at all.

The movie's looping on the menu screen when Isaac gets in. Stiles has been staring at it for at least an hour, but he can't stand the thought of dislodging Derek, who's well and truly asleep, his breath heavy and slow against Stiles' throat. Isaac pauses in the doorway, his eyes dancing between the two of them. Stiles tries to shrug without waking Derek. Isaac shrugs back, grinning.

"Have fun?" Stiles mouths.

Isaac nods, and something in his face relaxes, like he still has to work to remember that he's allowed to be happy, that nobody's going to punish him for it.

"That's good," Stiles murmurs, shifting a little. His arm is like 100% asleep. Derek makes a low, rumbly noise of protest and sort of slumps more heavily onto Stiles. Stiles tries not to love his stupid face. It doesn't work.

The next couple of weeks are uneventful, except that something's up with Erica.

"What's up with Erica?" Stiles asks Scott. They're at Scott's house and Stiles is trying to force some sort of mastery of algebra into Scott's head. It's exhausting.

Scott shrugs, glancing down at his phone. "Are you hungry? I could totally eat a pizza right now."

"Your mom said she's cooking," Stiles says automatically. "You really didn't notice anything off about Erica? She's like, not nearly as, you know, aggressive, as usual." It's the nicest possible way of saying that Erica hasn't been snarling or showing her teeth to anybody lately, which is so abnormal.

"Whatever," Scott says. "I haven't really noticed anything. Are you sure you don't want pizza? I could totally eat pizza _and_ supper."

"What's up with Erica?" Stiles asks Jackson at practice, that Friday.

"I don't care," Jackson says flatly, shouldering Stiles a little harder than strictly necessary. It kind of seems like a love tap, but Stiles still gets the message.

"What's up with Erica?" Scott asks Derek the next evening. They're sitting at the kitchen table drinking hot chocolate, which is frankly hilarious because it's Derek. The hot chocolate even has mini marshmallows.

"Something's off," Derek says darkly, because he hasn't really learned that not everything automatically ends in tragedy. Stiles is trying to teach him, but these things evidently take time.

"I know!" Stiles says triumphantly. "Nobody else believed me!"

"She won't talk to me," Derek says, sounding frustrated.

"Yeah, maybe because you're about as responsive as a brick wall," Stiles says, grinning when Derek tries to kick him. "Okay, okay, you win at feelings," he says, and steals a spoonful of Derek's mini marshmallows while he's distracted, grinning open and honestly at Stiles. Derek steals them back, grabbing Stiles' spoon and licking it, looking unconcerned. Stiles' heart feels painfully tight.

"You're good at talking," Derek says innocently, around the spoon.

"Oh no," Stiles says. "Definitely not. Absolutely not. No way, no how."

So that's how he ends up talking to Erica.

"I, uh, you, uh, feelings, have them," Stiles begins. Derek has Stiles and Erica cornered alone in the living room. Derek probably thinks it was very subtle, which it was not. Stiles waits for Erica to do something typical, like try to slam him against a wall or threaten his unborn children or something. It's kind of a shock when she bursts into tears instead.

"Oh, uh, okay," Stiles says awkwardly. "Um, you want to talk about it?"

"You're like, so bad at this," Erica sniffles, but the crying seems to have tapered off as quickly as it began. Stiles offers her a tissue, and Erica blows her nose.

"Seriously," Stiles says. "Is everything okay? Even Derek's worried, and I think that might be one of the signs of the apocalypse."

Erica laughs, kind of wet and sniffly, but it's still an improvement. "Do you think Boyd likes me?" she asks suddenly. She looks surprised, like she hadn't meant to say it.

"Well yeah," Stiles says, because he has _eyes_, and Boyd does too, and uses them mostly for staring at Erica like she's the best thing he's ever seen. "Boyd has said probably 20 words in front of me," Stiles says, "and at least 75% of them were about you. That's like a ringing endorsement, from him."

"He hasn't said anything to me about it," Erica says, looking like she kind of hates herself for admitting that she cares.

"Well yeah," Stiles says again, because this one's actually easy. "Boyd's really shy, and you're kind of really hot and intimidating. You're going to have to make the first move, for sure."

"But you think he'll say yes?" Erica says. She looks a lot better now, like she's starting to be okay with all of this. Stiles is suddenly, sharply reminded that Erica has no experience with this, that she's just as lost as Stiles probably would be, if he was considering talking about his feelings instead of just awkwardly cuddling with a hot werewolf.

"He'll say yes," Stiles says.

"Thanks," Erica says, sounding kind of surprised that she's saying it. She pauses, clearly considering, then adds, "Derek's happier when you're around."

"Oh," Stiles says, surprised. "That, um, that's good. I'm glad."

"We are too," Erica says, and she kind of ruffles a hand over his hair before she bounces out of the room.

It's a surprise to exactly nobody that Boyd practically trips over himself in his haste to say yes. Derek pulls Boyd aside to have a pretty hilarious talk, in which he tells Boyd that he won't stop Erica from ripping his limbs off or something if Boyd hurts her. Boyd nods and then says, "This is Erica we're talking about, I'm kind of more worried about her eating me alive."

Derek nods thoughtfully, and then gives the same talk to Erica. It's so endearing that Stiles pretty much can't take it at all. "They grow up so fast," he says, when Erica and Boyd have gone off to the movies. Derek cuffs him on the back of the head, but it's so gentle that it's almost more like a caress. Stiles tries not to read any of the more obvious things into that, but it's getting kind of difficult.

The next time the pack's around for training, the sky opens up in a sudden, violent downpour, soaking everyone. The training devolves into a mud-fight almost immediately, and even Derek rolls around in it a little, barking out a sharp, surprised laugh when he slips into a tussle between Scott and Jackson. Erica drags Stiles into the middle of the pile, and he's protesting but really he doesn't mind at all, because he ends up pressed close to the warmth of Derek's chest, rolling around until they're all absolutely filthy.

Everyone takes off to get cleaned up, but Stiles has very important research things to discuss with Derek. So, it only makes sense to accept when Derek says, sounding kind of shy and unsure, "You could just shower here." Scott's raising his eyebrows at Stiles, and it's a problem if Scott's becoming aware of things. But Stiles can't bring himself to slog home all cold and disgusting, so he just pretends not to see.

There are three working bathrooms in the house, but Stiles ends up in Derek's, because Isaac's is kind of gross, and the downstairs one is cramped and still smells sterile. Derek's is warm and inviting, and smells a little bit like his body-wash, more so when Stiles uses some of it, sighing contentedly as he sloughs off the mud. The water pressure is sinfully good.

He hears the bathroom door open, freezes for a second but then relaxes because it can really only be Derek. Stiles chooses not to consider why Derek's presence doesn't concern him. He can just barely make out the cut of Derek's shoulders through the shower curtain, a dark blur against the warm light of the bathroom. He smells freshly showered, though Stiles isn't sure how he can tell through the hazy scent of soap that's already surrounding him. He hears Derek reaching for something, the clink of his toothbrush and the sound of him turning the tap on. It should be weird, it should be so, so weird, but instead it just feels comfortable. Stiles wishes off-handedly that Derek had climbed in the shower with him instead, but that's more approaching fantasy than reality, so he'll take this quiet companionship instead.

When he finally gets out of the shower, he sees that Derek has left a pile of folded up clothes for him. That's kind of really nice, and Stiles can't help but press the cotton t-shirt to his nose and inhale the earthy, pleasant smell of Derek. He hates himself a little bit, but Derek's the one who's being all thoughtful and clothes-leaving-y, and Stiles can't help if he takes that thought to its logical conclusion and wonders how Derek will feel about Stiles wearing his clothes. He shakes his head hard, trying to clear it, and puts the stupid outfit on.

The weather's starting to get cool, but when Stiles makes it downstairs he finds that it's pleasantly warm. Derek's getting something out of the oven, chicken pot pie, which is just awesome. Stiles wanders through the doorway to tell him so, and he's rewarded by one of Derek's rare, honest smiles. Stiles gives it right back to him, and tries not to melt through the floor.

They end up in the living room, curled up on the couch. Isaac shows up a few minutes later, evidently drawn out of his room by the smell of food. He grins widely at Stiles, then shoves him over and takes a seat at the end of the couch, leaving Stiles half in Derek's lap. Derek raises an eyebrow at both of them, like he doesn't understand their shenanigans but won't have any of it, then shifts so that Stiles is leaning more easily against him. Stiles doesn't really know what to do, but he's too comfortable to move, and besides, Isaac is taking up an unreasonable amount of the couch. Werewolves think they're so subtle, but they're really, really not.

Later, when they're done eating and Derek is puttering around in the kitchen, Isaac grabs Stiles' arm and drags him out into the hallway, out of earshot.

"You smell like him," Isaac says.

"I, uh, used his shower stuff," Stiles says awkwardly. This conversation is seriously the worst.

"You always smell like him," Isaac counters, and before Stiles can reply, he adds, "He likes it. We can all tell. You like it too."

"Um," Stiles says. There is seriously no better response available to him.

"It's okay," Isaac says, and his face softens, like he can tell how uncomfortable Stiles is. Well good on him, Stiles probably reeks of discomfort. "We want him to be happy," Isaac says quietly. "He was never very happy, before this."

"And he is now?" Stiles asks, surprised out of his awkwardness.

"Yeah," Isaac says, and somehow, it sounds like he's giving his permission, which is ridiculous on so many levels. "Now he is. But remember what you told Erica, about Boyd?"

Stiles nods. He knows exactly where this is going, because he's not an idiot.

"Well Derek's like that too," Isaac says, like that isn't patently obvious. "He's actually worse, I think."

"Well yeah," Stiles can't restrain himself from saying.

Isaac huffs out a laugh. "Just, just know that you make him, uh," Isaac is kind of blushing, now. "You make him feel that way," Isaac finishes, and looks up through his lashes at Stiles. He seems like way more than a year younger than Stiles, open and vulnerable. It makes Stiles' heart clench in his chest.

"Okay," he says, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Noted."

"Okay," Isaac agrees.

"Hey assholes, "Derek calls from the kitchen, not sounding at all annoyed. "Rinse your plates off."

Stiles just has to love him, because how could he not?

"So," Stiles says, the next time he's alone with Scott. "Do you think Derek's into me?"

"_Into_ you?" Scott asks, weighting the words significantly.

"Yeah," Stiles says, uncomfortable. "You know, into me."

Scott's face clears. "_Yeah_," he says, like it's obvious. "I'm just pretty surprised that you don't already know that. "

It's a valid point. If Scott has it figured out before Stiles does, that's definitely saying something. Stiles abruptly remembers that they're talking about Derek _liking_ him, and freaks out.

"Dude, your pulse," Scott says. "Are you having like a heart attack or something?"

"No," Stiles chokes out, "I'm just fine." He is _not_ just fine.

"Okay," Scott says, seeming satisfied with that non-explanation. He goes back to staring at Allison's Facebook. "Good talk, bro."

"Uh huh," Stiles says absently, because _Derek likes him_.

Stiles doesn't turn up at the Hale house over the next couple days, because he's extremely busy trying to figure out how he can look at Derek without blurting out a lot of really embarrassing things about feelings and how he wants to maybe lick Derek's face. In movies this kind of shit is easy. They like each other, so it should be as simple as that. They should be able to run through a rainstorm into each other's arms, or maybe a field of daisies or something. Okay, perhaps Stiles has been watching too much Lifetime, but he's in serious need of guidance, here. Derek is Derek, though. He has the total package of issues, and Stiles is just about driving himself crazy with all the ways Derek could say no, all because Derek is too damaged to think this is something he can have.

"Just talk to him," Allison advises him, when Stiles breaks down and calls her.

"Is that how you got Scott to ask you out?" Stiles asks.

"Nah," Allison says. "Scott's not great at that kind of up-front communication."

"And you think _Derek's_ any better?" Stiles asks, incredulously.

"Hmm," Allison says, conceding the point. "Maybe you could bake him something. Everyone likes cookies."

He could, except they had totally baked cookies last weekend, because Derek probably hadn't done it since before his life was tragic, and Isaac maybe never had. They'd eaten way too many chocolate chips and Derek had rubbed a little bit of cookie dough off Stiles' cheek and licked it off his own fingertip while looking softly down at Stiles, so warm it hurt. Derek is _never_ going to say anything.

"Not interested," Lydia says, when Stiles tries her. "But I'm thinking you could just keep doing whatever you're doing. He's pretty obsessed with you."

"It doesn't help, if he won't _do_ anything about it," Stiles half-wails, throwing himself down on his bed in a fit of pique.

"Uh huh," Lydia says, and apparently the conversation is over.

It becomes evident that things are getting bad when the entire rest of the pack shows up at Stiles' front door.

"You made him _sad_," Isaac says, sounding betrayed. He pushes Stiles out of the way and Boyd and Erica troop through the door, Jackson following them, looking like it's under extreme duress.

"He keeps training us," Boyd says. "Like in the middle of the night. I'm a working guy, I can't be doing laps at 2 AM."

"He never smiles anymore," Isaac says. "When you were around he smiled." He manages to make it sound like Stiles is the absolute worst, which he kind of already feels, so that's just great.

"I don't want to be here," Jackson says stiffly. "But this has to stop. I can't do any more push-ups."

"I'll bite your face," Erica says. "I will, and it will _hurt_."

"_Okay_," Stiles says, hating them all. "I just don't know how to talk to him."

"You've been talking to Derek all along!" Erica says, throwing her hands up in disgust. "Figure it out!"

"Fine," Stiles says flatly, and shoves them all out the door.

"Um, kid?" Stiles' dad says from behind him. Seriously? His life is genuinely the worst. "Derek as in Hale?"

"Um," Stiles says miserably. "I guess we should talk."

His dad lets him babble on for a good half hour, until Stiles is pretty much exhausted. His dad has the bottle of whiskey out, but he's only had one shot, which is not too bad.

"Okay," his dad says quellingly, taking pity on him. "Now, I know I absolutely should not be approving of this, given many very, very good reasons." He pauses, eyeing the whiskey, before continuing. "But you've been happy, kid. I haven't seen you happy like this in years, since-" His dad cuts off, but Stiles knows what he's saying. He swallows around the lump in his throat, because if his dad really sees that, then this is a bigger deal than even Stiles thought.

"If he makes you happy," Stiles' dad says haltingly. "He does make you happy, right? Nothing you, uh, don't want to be doing?"

"_Dad_," Stiles says, ending that line of thought for hopefully forever.

"Okay, okay," he says, putting his hands up. "Okay. Then I guess you just need to be the brave one, son. That boy's been through a lot of hurt. I can see why he wouldn't want to open himself up for more."

"Fiiiine," Stiles says, but he can't help grinning a little. It's still unbelievably, all-encompassingly scary, but his dad being okay with it, that helps.

"Well," his dad says. "Go make your big move. Don't ever tell me gory details, or else I might have to show Derek my weapons, which nobody will enjoy."

"Okay," Stiles says, "Okay."

"Okay," his dad echoes, but before Stiles can go, he gets up and hugs him, over the table. "Be safe."

"Ugh," Stiles says, but he hugs him back.

What seemed like a reasonably solid plan dissolves into nothing during the short drive to the Hale house. Stiles never actually worked out what he was going to say, and since talking to Derek is the entirety of the plan, that sucks. "Be the brave one," Stiles mutters to himself. Well, Derek did say that he was good at talking. Stiles guesses he'll just have to use his skills.

It's dark by the time he arrives, but the house looks invitingly warm, light shining out through the windows. Stiles can make out the muted warmth of the living room, and the smaller, brighter square of the kitchen door, through which he can see a hunched form slumped over at the table. It's clearly Derek, because only he can brood with that level of skill and determination. Stiles tells his stupid heart to stop pounding, and gets out of the jeep, rubbing his clammy hands against his jeans. Ugh. Being the brave one is hard.

He doesn't go in through the front door, because that way lies a pack of angry werewolves, and honestly nothing is worth braving their collective disappointment. He cuts around to the kitchen door instead, opening it gently so as not to startle Derek.

Somehow he still manages to, which is weird because Derek usually knows he's coming from like a literal mile away. Derek does an obvious double-take at the sight of him, though, and it kind of breaks Stiles' heart to see the way Derek shrinks back into himself, like he needs a shield.

"Hey," he says quietly, raising an awkward hand.

"Hi," Derek says gruffly, pointedly not looking at him.

"Sorry I haven't been around much," Stiles offers. "I had some stuff to figure out."

Derek looks up at him, then, like he can't seem to help it. "Oh," he says, with absolutely no inflection. He really isn't going to make this easy.

Stiles takes a deep breath, considers, and then says fuck it and just starts talking. "So, the thing is," he says, not really thinking at all, "You like me."

Derek makes a noise, like he's going to deny it, like he thinks it could come back to haunt him if he doesn't.

"No, shut up," Stiles says impatiently. "You like me, and obviously I like you too. You could probably smell it on me, if you got your head out of that perpetual cloud of misery or whatever. Everyone else we know is well aware of it." He holds up a hand as Derek tries to say something again, looking hunted. "Nope, I'm not done. No arguments until I'm done."

It feels like a long-shot, but Derek subsides, slumping back down against the table.

"I'm sure you have a lot of reasons why this won't work, okay? I get it. I really do. But people are saying they can't remember the last time I was as happy as I am with you, okay? And you? Nobody even knew you had the physical ability to smile, but you do when I'm around. That means something. We're good together." Stiles pauses, because that all came out really fast and he needs to catch his breath.

Derek puts his head up, like he wants to say something. His face looks like Stiles doesn't think he has ever seen it before, open, and wow, hopeful.

"Are you going to tell me why this can't work?" Stiles asks.

Derek shakes his head no.

"Any other complaints or problems?"

Derek shakes his head again.

"Okay," Stiles says, "Then what?"

"Stiles," Derek says, and his name comes out choked, like he's trying not to growl it, or even sob it maybe. "Come _here_."

"Oh," Stiles says, and his pulse goes up, just like that, just on those three words. He stumbles over to Derek, closing the distance between them.

Derek reaches out and puts his hands on Stiles' hips. He has this stupid look on his face like he doesn't quite know what he did to deserve this, and Stiles just really wants to kiss him.

So he does. He leans his head down and tilts his mouth toward Derek's unfairly pretty face, and then they're kissing, warm and soft and perfect, which is to say, at a very awkward angle that Stiles doesn't care about in the least.

Derek makes a noise against his mouth and pulls Stiles down onto his lap, and that's even better. That's all heat and a wet slide of tongues, and Derek's teeth scraping gently against Stiles' lower lip. It feels too good to be real, seriously.

Stiles pulls back fractionally, because he feels like he's forgotten how to breathe. He gasps huge lung-fuls, his hands tight on Derek's shoulders. "Okay," he says, and it comes out all embarrassing and breathy. "Okay, that's awesome. That is so awesome."

Derek tilts their foreheads together, looking up at Stiles. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Yeah, it is." His arms tighten, one around Stiles' waist, the other draped across his back. "Don't go away again."  
"I won't," Stiles says. "At least, not if you can promise that's going to keep happening. That really needs to keep happening."

"It's going to happen a lot," Derek says, "As long as you want it to."

That's too cute for words, that Derek's _still_ not sure that Stiles really wants him, so then Stiles has to kiss him some more, and there might be some pretty inappropriate grinding, especially in a kitchen when other people are in the next room over. So, of course that's when everyone chooses to barge in, because Stiles is surrounded by complete assholes.

"Are daddy and daddy still fighting?" Erica asks, sounding altogether too amused.

"Am I going to have to sleep on Stiles' floor on the weekends?" Isaac says. "Is it because you don't love me enough?"

"You guys are the worst," Stiles says, but he can't stop grinning, because Derek isn't trying to shove him off his lap. In fact he seems to be holding Stiles even tighter, like he's afraid Stiles might go away. How bossy, and adorable.

"I don't care about any of this," Jackson says, like he's really worried that they think he might have grown a heart or something.

"Sure you don't," Boyd says, and grabs him and Isaac by the scruffs of their necks. "We're going to watch a movie now," he says significantly, like he's daring any of them to argue, and everyone shuffles out and leaves them alone again.

"I've never seen your room," Stiles says, because he is awesome at hinting.

Derek looks amused. "Do you want to see my room?"

"You're actually the worst at this," Stiles says, but it's hard to say it seriously when he physically cannot stop kissing Derek all over his face.

"That's probably true," Derek admits, and Stiles tries to piss him off some more, until Derek puts his annoyingly big muscles to use and carries Stiles up the stairs. It's a nice room, but Derek is much nicer, in a variety of ways.

Next weekend, on movie night, everyone shuffles around until Derek and Stiles are sitting together, and Derek puts his arm around Stiles. Stiles just leans into it, because sometimes things really are that easy.

"You guys are gross," Scott says, but he doesn't mean it at all.

"You're grosser," Erica says, but she really can't talk, because Boyd's head is on her knee, and she looks hilariously happy about it. Scott throws his arm around Isaac companionably, and Isaac grins and elbows him affectionately. Lydia makes a face until Jackson moves over for her, and Allison pushes her way in on Lydia's other side, laughing. Derek wraps his big, warm hand around the base of Stiles' neck, and Stiles realizes, distant through his contentment, that somehow they've built themselves a family.


	77. (G) SIDLINK - Seabreeze by disastergays

Seabreeze  
disastergays

Hi gays! Editor-san here, so this isn't really a fanfic, it's a collection of one-shots (don't worry these are all related) but I'm too lazy to post this individually so here it is! Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 01: Recovery

He hated water, he hated rain, he hated shock arrows, he despised Lynels with every fiber of his being. Link hated a lot of things at the moment. Though, with the Lynel dead on the grass, his seething rage was now directed at the weather.

Link glanced over his shoulder to Achak, standing there quietly as if he had not just kicked a monster's ass. Quite literally actually, Link would probably have more than a few broken ribs and maybe a leg if it werent for his trusty steed.

He held up a hand and the white horse pressed his velvety snout to it, snorting softly. The beast was dead, so the Zora people would be able to scout up here again. Drawing in a sharp breath, Link took a step forward, and found that yes indeed, his leg was broken. He crumbled to the ground with a cry.

It was still raining.

Link swallowed back a groan, lying here was just asking for him to get sick, or for some other monster to wander up and kill him in his weakened state. Zora's domain at least offered some protection. He could make it back.

Though he'd have to find a way onto Achak's back first.

Trying not to jostle his definitely broken leg too much, he grabbed the reins and pulled them down, Achak snorted and lifted his head up, dragging Link to his feet as he did so.

With a death grip on the saddle, he used his good leg to kick off a nearby rock and vault himself onto his steed's back.

His leg hit the side of Achak's flank, forcing out a cry of pain at the white hot fire that suddenly shot up from his toes all the way to his skull. Link didn't bother with the reigns and hunched over the saddle, hugging Achak's neck instead.

The world spun around him, but Link blinked it away. He was fine. He needed to stay conscious at least until he got to the inn, then he could bandage up and sleep it off. He'd be fine.

He still let himself remain hunched in the saddle as he spurred Achak on down the mountain, towards the bridge that would take him back Zora's Domain. Achak knew the way back, he didn't need to worry that much, so he let himself have the luxury of just zoning out in a feeble attempt to ease the pain.

As he watched the ground pass under Achak's hooves, he noticed occasionally he'd see dots of red. He sat up and to his surprise, blood caked the saddle, and some of Achak's neck.

Ah. Must have been when the Lynel swung his sword and hit him in the chest. Link didn't feel the pain - _oh wait, there it is _\- he had been too hyped up on adrenaline before, trying to ignore the sensible voice in the back of his head telling him to run for his dear little life.

Did the Zora's have doctors on hand? He sure hoped so, probably wouldn't do Hyrule good to just die of blood loss now. He still had two other Divine Beasts to save.

As they drew closer, Link sat up in the saddle. He couldn't let people see his weakness, not with them all counting on him. So he gritted a calm smile and tried to pretend that every slightest movement was not actual agony.

Prince Sidon was standing on the bridge with another guard. Link felt his mood brighten a bit at that, it was hard to be upset around the Prince.

"Link!" He playfully nudged the guard standing beside him, "Told you - Link! You are incredible, I knew you could slay that beast! You are such a treasure."

He had _not _expected Sidon to dash up to him and envelop him in a hug tight enough it lifted him off Achak's back.

An anguish wail echoed through the air, and it wasn't until Sidon dropped him like a hot baked apple, that he realized the sound was from him. He groaned from the stone ground, blinking away tears. Link gently pushed Achak's snout away when it pressed against his face, earning him a whicker in response.

Sidon, Link noticed, was hovering over him. It looked like he was going to cry.

The guard was not within his peripheral, Sion was huge was basically covered his entire vision, but he heard shouts vaguely off in the distance, so he probably went to get help.

"I'm so sorry. I had no idea! Of course you'd be injured after a fight like that." The prince groaned, "I thought that blood was that monster's… Don't worry, we have excellent healers. You'll be back to normal before you know it."

Link didn't respond, not like he could have anyway. Pain didn't exactly put him in a talking mood.

He then noticed he wasn't getting wet anymore. It took him a moment, but he realized that the reason Sidon had taken up so much of his vision was because he was crouched over him enough to keep the rain at bay.

The world lurched into a spin. Black dotted his vision as he felt himself start to dip away from reality.

He was dimly aware of being picked up, Achak making irritated snorts, and a soft voice telling him to remain conscious. To hell with that, Link was ready for a good long nap.

* * *

When Link woke he was in a water bed. He slowly tested his joints and muscles, his chest was bound, and leg had been set. He was still in a lot of pain, but he was in one piece. He sat himself up, with unnecessary difficulty because water beds were impossible, and looked around. His armor was folded up neatly in the corner, with his shield, sword, and bow.

He wasn't at the inn, probably some sort of hospice. The room was small, the only lighting coming from four glowing stones positioned at each corner. There was a desk and stool near the door, and shelves with some being empty and the rest filled with vials and jars of who-knows-what.

How long had he been out? Probably too long.

Link set his jaw and slowly, but surely, swung his legs over the side of the bed and slid out. He stood, shakily, and waddled his way over to get dressed.

He had his britches on when none other than Prince Sidon barreled through the door. A smaller Zora trailing behind him, looking positively distraught. "He is resting, you shouldn't disturb him!"

Link froze, feeling like a cat that got caught eating the canary. The two Zoras stared at him, then eventually the healer spoke, "How - You shouldn't be standing! You'll risk permanent damage to your leg. Please, lay back down and rest until you are fully recovered. Your body cannot function under such distress!"

It was tempting to just ignore her, but he didn't like the idea of being rude, so instead he answered, "I'm fine."

Of course his voice wavered just enough for it to be blatantly clear he was not. He swallowed and tried again, "Divine Beasts, no time for resting."

To Link's surprise it was not the healer who acted, but Sidon himself. He scooped Link up under his arms - surprisingly gentle for someone of his size - and set him back down on the bed, "The Divine Beasts have waited 100 years, I think they can wait a few more days."

The healer was by the bedside immediately, and Link conceded to his fate, for now. He could always sneak out later.

Link remained as still as he could while the healer poked and prodded at his wounds, changing bandages and rubbing some foul smelling poultice over the stitches along his stomach and chest. He wondered if it would scar.

"Please stay in the bed this time, if you strain yourself you could permanently damage your leg." She warned, then addressed Sidon, "Prince, the Champion needs his rest."

Sidon made an affirming noise, "Dont worry! I'll make sure he falls asleep before I leave. Can't have him running off when we aren't looking!"

Link could picture the look on the healer's face as she sighed and gave up, letting Sidon remain in the room.

There was a scraping sound, and Link rolled his head to the side to see Sidon perched comically on a stool. Probably the one from the desk, now dragged to the side of the bed.

His yellow eyes kind of glowed in the dim lighting of the room. Link wondered what time it was.

"Your horse is fine, I had another healer look him over while the rest were taking care of you." Sidon offered. He looked uncomfortable, probably regretting his promise to stay here until Link fell asleep.

"You can go." Link croaked out, not bothering to pretend he was in perfect shape anymore, he had already been caught, what was the point?

Sidon blinked at him, so Link tried again, "I won't leave tonight."

The prince's eyes narrowed at him for a moment, then he perked up considerably and beamed, "Great! I'm glad you are taking your health more seriously!"

Link laughed weakly, and looked back up at the ceiling. After a few minutes, Sidon didn't move from his spot and Link looked back to him. "You're still here…?"

"Of course! I'm keeping you company."

"...Why?"

Sidon was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. He opened his mouth and closed it a few times, before covering up his blatant surprise (embarrassment?) with an overzealous grin, "Because you are my most treasured friend, of course! I wouldn't want you to feel lonely."

Link smiled, it was impossible to be upset with him around. He was incredible. Way out of his league obviously, but still, he could admire from afar.

"Sheika Slate." Link jerked his head in the direction of his armor and weapons, "Please?"

Sidon stood and dug the ancient technology out from under his clothes and brought it back to the bed, sitting down and handing it to Link in one smooth motion.

Link booted it up once it was in his hands. He slipped on camera mode, and turned a bit so he was facing Sidon, then snapped a picture. The prince was obviously confused, which the picture captured perfectly. Link chuckled to himself and offered the slate to Sidon.

After a pregnant pause, Sidon took it and looked down at the screen. "That's all you wanted it for?"

Link nodded and averted his gaze up to the ceiling.

Sidon hummed to himself, observing the slate, and probably going through the pictures on it. Link didn't care, they were mostly of places he liked, Achak, people he wanted to remember, and that wolf that followed him around.

Though now that Link thought about it, there were a lot of pictures of Sidon in it. Perhaps admiring from afar was taken a bit too literally.

He heard a noise from Sidon, which meant he probably discovered the swarm of photos of him. He didn't comment, to Link's surprise.

Though he did speak up after a few minutes, "You take a lot of pictures."

Link grunted his confirmation.

Sidon set the slate down on the edge of the bed, "Why?"

He really didn't want to be having this conversation. Be it exhaustion or pain however, he ended up answering despite his better judgement. "I don't want to forget again."

When Sidon didn't speak, Link continued, "I remember so little. But pictures help me remember." Link grabbed the slate and pulled up a picture of a valley he and Zelda rode their horses on often, before Ganon attacked, "I go places and sometimes remember things. Little things, but still something."

Link put the slate back down, "If… If I forget again, I want to leave pictures of things that are important to me, so I can remember."

Sidon laughed, it was a warm, joyus sound. "You must adore your horse."

Link snorted, though he was right. Achak was his only steady companion through his journeys, along with the wolf occasionally, so he wanted to be sure he'd never forget all Achak has done. "I'd be dead if not for him."

Sidon's brows raised, "Wow, what an incredible steed. Of course. He matches how fantastic you are, no wonder you two make such a great team!"

It was hard not to laugh at that, even though it hurt his chest. A snap sounded beside him, and he glanced over to see Sidon lowering the slate, he offered it back to Link. It was a picture of him laughing.

He looked like a mess. His hair was in _at least _eight different directions, he was covered in bruises, and he looked like he was going to sneeze. Was that how he looked while laughing? Good Goddess, he was never laughing in front of anyone again.

"You have a wonderful laugh." Sidon added, scooting his stool closer to the bed so he could lean closer to Link. Probably to see the Sheika Slate, he figured.

It was a strange compliment. Especially now after seeing what he looked like when he laughed.

"Hylian laughs sound different than Zora's." Sidon leaned back, "I like them."

Link grunted in response. Maybe it was because Zora don't have noses, or at least noses like Hylian people.

With a huff he closed his eyes and just rested comfortably, Sidon sat surprisingly silent beside him. After what Link guessed was about ten minutes, he eventually spoke.

"You probably shouldn't be so reckless."

This was another conversation Link didn't feel overly inclined to have. He had heard it all already, he was the _Champion, _a _hero, _he had to live to free the Divine Beasts, defeat Calamity Ganon and just all around save the world. He could die on his own time.

Instead of answering, he feigned sleep. At least he could justify it to himself as he was actually tired. Which, he was.

When he did not respond, Sidon sighed and shifted in his seat. Link felt the Sheika Slate taken from his hands and set on the table with his clothes. Link expected him to leave, but the prince actually returned to his seat. Did he know Link was awake?

Time passed and eventually Link began to truly fall asleep, though was stirred when Sidon rested a hand on his forehead. He brushed some hair out of Link's face with a sigh.

"Stupid." He muttered, low enough that even Link could barely hear it. "Hurry and defeat Calamity Ganon."

If Link didn't adore the Prince so much, he probably would have had a more bitter response. Now, Link just sort of deflated.

In the end he was just the Champion, it was his duty, he knew. One he failed 100 years ago. Sidon was a good prince, and would make an excellent king eventually, Link was sure. After he defeated Calamity Ganon, he'd probably just fade off into obscurity, let Zelda handle the Hylian people.

"There you are, my Prince." A weakened voice called from what Link guessed was the doorway. It was familiar, so one of the elders. Not Muzu though, he didn't think.

The stool scraped against the floor as Sidon stood, "Yes?"

"Your father needs you, a diplomat will be arriving within the day." The elder explained, "He requested you be present."

"Of course, tell him I will be there momentarily." Sidon sounded strange when he spoke professionally. He was so casual when they first met. Link is glad that at the very least, Sidon continued to act the same. Even after finding out who he was.

The footsteps of the elder padded away, leaving him and Sidon the only ones in the room again.

Sidon's hand returned to Link's forehead. Well, Link presumed that was its intended place, Sidon's hand was big enough to cover his entire head frankly.

It lingered there for another moment, then disappeared, followed by Sidon's footsteps fading away.

Were all Zora this touchy-feely? Link couldn't remember. Though a voice in the far back of his head told him Sidon's hand lingered longer than standardly appropriate. He ignored the voice.

* * *

When Link opened his eyes again, the room was a bit brighter than he remembered. He did his body test, still in pain, but still in one piece. He could probably travel now without too much worry. He'd just lay off fighting for a bit if he could.

Link slowly pushed himself up, and moved to swing his legs off the bed, but a voice stilled him, "Going to try and sneak off again?"

He looked up to see Sidon was seated on the stool from last night, though he held some papers in his hands this time. He also looked a fair bit more decorated than usual. Maybe for that diplomat the elder mentioned.

Sidon set the papers aside and offered him a good natured smile, "You still shouldn't be moving around yet."

Link grunted and remained upright, though adjusted himself so he was no longer poised to leap off the bed.

"How do you feel? That Lynel really did a number on you, we were worried for a bit that you wouldn't make it."

"I'm tenacious." Link snorted, then added in a more genuine voice, "I'll be alright."

"Good." Sidon scooted closer, "The healer advised you stay in bed for a few more days, but she said you should be able to move without permanent damage by tomorrow."

He'd leave tomorrow then.

His conviction must have shown on his face since Sidon laughed, "Your dedication is so outstanding! You truly are a hero."

Link tried not to grimace. He failed.

Sidon must have noticed as his beaming smile fell into a frown, "Link?"

He waved it off, he'd probably need to get used to it anyway. The Gorons didn't even know who he was, which frankly Link was thankful for. Who knows about the Rito or Gerudo though.

Not to mention if he lived through this, he'd definitely be bestowed all kinds of titles he was wholly unworthy of.

"Don't like being called Champion _or _Hero then." Sidon mused, leaning precariously back in his stool, "Just Link then?"

"Yes." Just Link.

A firm nod was his response, and he felt a bit of relief wash over him. Link didn't want to be called any sort of honorific by anyone, least of all Sidon.

Sidon picked the papers back up and resumed reading, yellow eyes narrowing at the fine print. Link was curious, but knew it wasn't his place to ask. Instead, he shifted and fell back into the bed. It rippled around him, then eventually stilled and molded itself around his body.

"We're trying to establish a trade route with the Gerudo. None of my people can physically go there though due to the climate." Sidon spoke, "They don't want to be the only ones doing the traveling, and the humid air here is uncomfortable for them."

Link was glad he wasn't royalty. Being a warrior thankfully came with very little need for politics and posturing. Well, some posturing, but he was able to stay out of politics completely.

A warm chuckle came from Sidon, "Not your forte?"

He scrunched his nose and stuck his tongue out in response, drawing another laugh out.

Sidon watched him with something akin to fondness, a small smile spread through his lips. Which, by the way, Link was absolutely not staring at.

Breaking the brief moment, Link cleared his throat and jerked his head towards his clothes. He needed something to entertain himself and distract him from the burning in his cheeks. Sidon stood and grabbed the Sheikah Slate, he held it up to make sure it was what Link wanted, then brought it to him when he nodded.

Link took it and distracted himself with the photos, giving time to rid his mind of little pesky thoughts. He did take note of the slightly disappointed look on the Prince's face when Link kept his attention on the slate.

An awkward silence spanned between the two, until eventually Sidon broke it. "Where do you plan on heading next?"

Link let his head hit the pillow with a huff, "North. To the Rito."

"Any particular reason?"

Link shrugged, "They are having the most trouble. The Divine Beast shoots at anyone who flies too high."

"Hm, good choice then. Quite the distance though." Sidon's concerned tone prompted Link to move his gaze from the ceiling to the Zora.

"I have Achak."

"Of course, your horse would make the travel far easier!" Sidon laughed, "He was grazing just outside of the palace this morning. He has quite the attitude."

Link raised a brow and waited for an explanation.

"He got rather testy when anyone approached. I tried offering some food and he _kicked _me."

It hurt to laugh, it hurt so much, but Link couldn't stop himself from howling with laughter. Link probably should apologize for his horse's behavior, he found he wasn't sorry at all. In fact, he was rather disappointed he didn't get to see it himself.

Sidon's head was tilted with a bewildered, but happy, expression when Link finally looked back to him. "What did you give him?"

The Prince's expression shifted to a sheepish one, "There aren't any horses here, we're too big to ride them." He fingered the rope along his chest and glanced about the room, "My people really only eat fish so…"

Once again, Link was in tears.

"I offered him some Hylian rice, and he wouldn't take that either." Sidon snorted, cheeks turning an interesting shade of blue.

"He likes apples." Link offered after he was able to catch his breath.

"Apples… I don't think any of our vendors sell them. I shall put in a request then."

Link nodded towards his bag, "I have some."

Sidon set the papers down on one of the shelves beside him, then pushed to his feet. Sometimes Link forgot just how _huge _he was.

After some digging around, Sidon produced a small bag of apples. Link always made sure to have them on hand, they were Achak's favorite after all.

Sidon took one apple and returned the bag back to it's place. Link propped himself up on his elbows and raised a brow.

"The best friend of my best friend should like me." Sidon justified with a laugh.

"You going to try and befriend the wolf too?"

"Of course, whenever I meet him that is. I don't think he's ever actually been here, has he?"

Link pursed his lips in thought, Sidon was right. The wolf hadn't set a single paw in Zora's Domain. Probably didn't like getting wet or something.

"I'll meet him eventually, I'm sure! Until then, I can just focus on getting your valiant steed to like me."

Link chuckled and flopped back down on the bed.

Sidon grabbed the papers from the shelf, "I have to give this to my father anyhow. I'll be back later. Get some sleep, alright?"

A grunt was his only response from Link as he waved the Prince off. He'd feel bad if he left without saying goodbye now. Link turned onto his side, careful of his leg, and decided to do just as Sidon suggested.

* * *

There was something on his arm.

Link jerked awake, sitting up swiftly and already positioning himself to lunge for his weapons. The action deflated halfway through, leaving him to flop ungraciously back on the bed with an "Oof."

Sidon stared at him with wide eyes, the thing Link felt touching the arm in question was his hand, which was now held up in a sign of peace. "Sorry."

"It's alright." Link shook his head, a bit embarrassed at his overreaction. In his defence, it could have been a monster or something. Unlikely, but Link was paranoid.

Wobbling around, Link regained his balance and sat up to face Sidon.

"Achak took the apple. Though wouldnt let me touch him." Sidon mentioned, an obvious attempt to move on from the awkward silence.

"He didn't warm up to me for a while." Link assured, flinching at the memory of getting kicked off his back. Twice.

It warmed Link's heart when Sidon laughed.

"Thats a relief, I was worried your horse hated me." Sidon's fingers twitched, Link moved his gaze from Sidon to his hands.

They were huge, like the rest of him, and his fingers were connected together by a thin webbing that reflected light differently than his skin. Or really small scales. Link couldn't tell.

He continued to fidget, eyes darting around the room, looking anywhere but Link himself. Something which worried Link, had he offended Sidon? He liked to think Sidon would have told him if he did. Still, something was up.

"You ok?" Link inquired, narrowing his eyes a bit at him.

Sidon didn't respond immediately, then let out a sigh that deflated him. "I am fine, don't worry Link. Nothing for you to worry about."

After a moment, Sidon reached out and rested a hand on Link's arm again. Link could see his muscles tense under his skin, as if he expected Link to dart away again.

The hand was warm and brought a sense of comfort unfamiliar to him. Link rested his hand on Sidon's own, which instantly relaxed him. Guess Sidon was the one worried that he had offended Link.

"The healer said you could leave now, if you really wanted to." Sidon mumurred.

Link didn't want to go anywhere quite frankly. Hell, he'd love nothing more than to just curl up with the hand and go back to sleep. He had a job to do, however. One that left his desires irrelevant.

Another moment was all he allowed himself, before he swung his legs around so he could stand up from the bed. Sidon moved his hand away as he did, resting it in his lap with his other.

He padded to his clothes and began to slip them on, strapping his shield and weapons to his back too. It still hurt to move, so he'd keep out of any unnecessary fights if he could. He felt far better than he did before, so the healer was definitely on to something with that whole sleep business.

A hand rested on his shoulder, Sidon again.

Link looked up and remained motionless as Sidon adjusted his clothes and weapons. The Prince was nervous again, and since he looked fine, he probably was preening Link instead. The action sparked some sort of familiarity. He was preened a lot before by someone else, when they were nervous. Link couldn't set a face to it though.

"You'll be more careful, right?" Sidon prompted.

If he didn't look so genuinely worried Link would have groaned. Well, he still groaned, but with less exasperation behind it.

Sidon frowned and tugged on Link's sleeve, this time with enough force to briefly teeter him off-balance. "Promise me."

Link turned and got a better look at Sidon's face. He wore an expression Link didn't recognize. His eyes were narrowed, which if he had not been comfortable around Sidon would have probably scared him a bit. So he was upset? Probably. Link didn't really understand why.

When Link did not respond, Sidon did some obvious choice looming and leaned over Link, face mere inches from Link's own. His breath was hot against Link's lips when he spoke, "Promise. Me."

Link stared at him owlishly and responded with, "Promise."

Sidon relaxed and pulled back, a weak smile on his now neutral face. "Thank you."

Now Link was left with all sorts of feelings. None of which Link had the energy or patience to deal with. So instead he stomped them out at the source, refusing to acknowledge the warmth of his cheeks or the butterflies in his stomach.

"You are welcome here anytime! You know that, right? If you need a safe place to rest, Zora's domain will always be available." Sidon pipped, looking more cheerful now. Though Link detected some strange cadence to his voice, leading Link to beleive it was a mask.

Link remained silent and narrowed his eyes, which was enough to break through the facade.

Sidon sighed and rubbed his neck, "I… Have something for you."

Sidon walked to one of the shelves and picked up some sort of pendant, bringing it to Link. He held it up, showing a silver chain with a luminous stone in the center of three outward facing crescent moons, the Zora's Royal Crest.

He looped it over Link's head, the pendant resting just below his collarbone. Looking it over in the light made it shine beautifully, it was obviously very well crafted.

Link wondered if that blacksmith made it. It certainly couldn't have been easy, he wasn't sure what he had done to deserve such a gift.

"Think of it as a good luck charm." Sidon offered, still looking suspiciously sheepish.

"This is a beautiful gift." Link tilted the crest and watched light bounce off the silver.

"It's nothing, really." At Link's raised eyebrow, he continued. "It holds a little significance with my people, but you needn't worry yourself with that. You have plenty on your plate already. When you defeat Calamity Ganon, I can tell you more about it. Fair?"

"Why not tell me now?"

"Its incentive to stay alive." Sidon chuckled, then laughed when Link rolled his eyes.

It was time to go.

Sidon escorted Link out of the hospice and to the main grounds above Mipha's statue.

He rested a hand on Link's shoulder, "See you soon then, right?"

Link smiled and gently patted the hand, "Yeah."

With reluctance, Link pulled away and descended down the steps. His curiosity was piqued, he looked down at the pendant. Guess he really should hurry and defeat Calamity Ganon then.

He did take note of Muzu's appalled reaction as he passed by the elder Zora. This gift apparently meant a lot more than Sidon let on.

* * *

Chapter 02: Storm

"Ugh, what does that boy _have?"_

Sidon was more or less tuning his educator out, old Muzu was off on a rant and he learned early on the best way to deal with them is to ignore them completely. As he was doing currently.

The current topic of his ire was none other than Link.

Three weeks ago he had given his amulet to the Hylian. A move that symbolized his love for Link, and desire to court him. Much like the armor a female Zora would give her desired mate.

Muzu didn't hate Link anymore, largely getting over his distaste for him after Link calmed Vah Ruta and freed his sister's spirit. That didn't mean the old man liked Link, oh no, old grudges die hard, apparently.

Perhaps giving Link the amulet had been a bit of a brash decision. Sidon didn't regret it at all, not in the slightest, but perhaps he should have done it more subtly. Or had Link tuck it into his tunic or something.

No, no. He wasn't ashamed of his adoration of Link. If he asked him to hide it, Link would most certainly see that as a sign of embarrassment. Link deserved to be paraded and shown off, he was incredible.

For now, he was content in his smug pride that Link wore his crest around his neck. Even if he didn't really know what it entailed.

Being so vague with his emotions was a bit frustrating. However, he could not in good conscious burden Link when he already had so much on his shoulders. Thus, his feelings would remain unsaid until Link defeated Calamity Ganon.

He could only hope that time came swiftly.

Muzu's ramblings shifted from his affection for Link to politics. Something, unfortunately, Sidon had to pay at least some attention to. He already was largely well informed on their current standing with the other races.

With the Divine Beasts being calmed by his dear Link, there has been a lot of talk of reopening century-long dead trading routs again. That would mean he'd have to put more work in recruiting and training more guards to keep the roads safe.

It had been a while since he traveled out of their provence. Most of his time was spent in Zora's Domain, organizing patrols and accompanying them when he got that rare chance. It'd be nice to go further than their border for once.

His time with Muzu wrapped up faster than he realized. Though Sidon was certainly not complaining.

He gathered the documents they discussed before the elder went off on a rant, and strode his way to the throne room to speak with his father.

The King sat on his throne, imposing and stoic as usual. Sidon didn't look forward to his coronation to be King, sitting all day looking regal must be excruciatingly boring.

"I have brought the papers Muzu and I discussed today." Sidon bowed briefly, then straightened and continued.

"In order to establish and keep trade routes safe for caravans, we will need to increase the number of our guard by a sizeable margin. There will need to be time and money allotted for training and provings. Not to mention to pay for the material and crafting of new armor and weapons. We can make up for this by selling fish, adornments, and some of the weapons we craft. Fish and adornments will likely be our largest source of income. Once we have at least one route going, we will be able to expand to more. I recommend the Gorons for our first major connection, they are the closest, and we will be able to trade much of the ore we need for the weapons and armor from them."

His father shifted in his throne, pondering the dilemma and solution Sidon presented to him. After some pause, the King replied, "Very good, Sidon. That sounds like a good plan, I commend you for your resourcefulness."

Sidon tried not to look too excited at his father's praise. A stir of pride swelled in his chest none the less though.

"There is, however, another matter I wish to discuss." The King leaned back in his throne, inclining his head down towards his son with a curious expression.

Another matter? The trade routes were the biggest thing on their minds politically, what else could there be?

"Yes, Father?"

"What are your intentions towards the Champion?"

Sidon flinched, _of course _his father would find out about that. No doubt from Muzu.

"I intend to court him when he defeats Calamity Ganon." Sidon stood straight and squared his shoulders. He mentally braced himself for his father's stern reprimand, his mind already racing to plan for retorts to his father's disapproval.

Instead, the King chuckled. It was a low sound that reverberated through the chamber. "Good."

Sidon's confusion must have shown blatantly on his face, as his father explained, "I wanted to make sure you were not throwing away your crest over a frivolous crush."

Unsure how immediately to respond, Sidon dipped his head and eyed his father warily. He was a traditionalist. While more open than the elders, he often shared much of their sentiments. "You… Approve of this?"

The King laughed again, "I have seen the way you dance around the boy, he makes you happy. He is also a good warrior with a fine head on his shoulders, I see no reason to be against the courtship."

To be frank, Sidon had dreaded telling his father of his intentions, expecting a far different reaction. He had understood it was an unspoken law that a Zora could not mate outside of their people.

"Please, do get that look off your face." His father grumbled, in his usual stern tone, "Before Calamity Ganon, it was not uncommon to take mates from other species. Your great aunt had a Gerudo mate. It was only after the Hylians discovered the ancient technology, that the drifting apart of our territories started."

His father leaned on one of the arms of his throne, "Of course, I expect you to at least court him properly, you _are _royalty after all."

Sidon closed his mouth, realizing his jaw had dropped at his father's words. He cleared his throat, "Of course. I would do no less."

"Very good. Now, who do you intend to earn the favor of?"

He… Had not thought of that.

Traditionally, when courting a mate, a Zora would approach the family of their desired. Parents, siblings, or even close friends would be considered when deciding who to win the favor of. Provided they were successful, the family member would bestow upon the Zora their blessings to proceed with courting their desired.

Link, however, didn't have anyone. At least, not that Sidon was aware of. Perhaps Princess Zelda, if she survives through the battle. Sidon was unsure of their relationship though. Link relayed to him once that he had some vague memories of her, most of them expressing dislike for him.

Perhaps they did not get along, or perhaps they eventually did. Sidon decided to count her as a possibility, but figured it would be better to win the favor of someone else. Unfortunately, who else was there?

"You could always try and win the favor of his horse," His father mentioned with a deep laugh.

That… Actually may not be a bad idea. Link adored his loyal steed, that could count as a close friend, could it not? Even better, if he were to gain the favor of his steed _and _wolf. That surely would count.

They didn't have wolves in these parts, but he was sure there would be information on them in the grand library. He would learn what he could about them, and use that to his advantage. It was a perfect plan!

His father gave him a bemused look, and waved his hand, dismissing Sidon from the throne room.

He would have to store the papers away before he did anything else. He dropped the documents off with some of the elders that were gathered around a table, discussing whatever the elders discussed, and stopped by Mipha's statue.

Before he could move on, he heard the clanking of armor not of his people, and an irritated whicker.

He turned, and approaching behind him was none other than Link. He had not expected to see him again so soon. He glanced to the sky as Link was preoccupied talking to one of the Zora guards at the entrance.

Three beams now decorated the sky. So Link was successful in calming another Divine Beast. Incredible.

Sidon has been too caught up in his own work that he barely spared the sky a second glance. He wondered how long it had been like that.

A warm fluttering spread through his body as Link approached, giving Sidon a happy, but notably tired grin. The pendant stood stark against his blue tunic, pride swelled in Sidon's chest at the sight.

Link raised a brow at him, only serving to make the bags under his eyes more prominent. Of course he would be tired, Sidon could not imagine what he has had to do in order to quell the Beast's rage.

"Link! It is fantastic to see you again, I see you were successful in calming yet another Divine Beast!" He beamed, shifting his stance so he did not loom over Link as much.

Link grunted in response. He needed a break. He was just one man, doing all of these things that Sidon wasn't sure would be totally feasible for an army.

"You must stay the night, I'm sure the inn would love to have you!" Sidon wanted to offer him a room in the royal suit, but he knew Link would refuse.

"I won't stay long." Link responded with a shrug.

His voice was low, a bit raspy. Had he gotten a good night's sleep since he left? Sidon frowned, no, he didn't think Link did.

He allowed himself the luxury of resting a hand on Link's shoulder, which the Hylian seemed fine with, "I insist you just spend the night. You can leave tomorrow morning."

Link shifted from foot to foot, eyes narrowing at the ground, then he looked up at Sidon and nodded. "I will get a bed at the inn."

Pleased to hear this, he grinned at Link, who in turn snorted in response.

It was midday, too early to really turn in. He didn't like the idea of Link just sitting quietly alone in a bed. While he was not courting Link yet, nothing said he couldn't spend time with him.

"There is a grove that I used to explore in a lot growing up. I haven't been there in ages, I was thinking of seeing it again. Care to join me?" It was only partly a lie. He had been intending to visit the grove again, eventually.

Link eyed him. It was the look he has been on the end of a few times, one that meant Link saw through the bluff and was deciding if he would call him out on it. After a moment, Link patted Sidon's hand and nodded, "Yeah."

Sidon beamed, "Fantastic! I will meet you at the end of the bridge."

He took wide strides up the steps and into the palace. It had been a long time since he had been to the grove. With the amount of monsters lurking about, he didn't actually know how safe it was.

Sidon walked into his room and gently took the trident off the wall. It had been a while since he had wielded the weapon proper, his armor had long since been hung up in favor of battles of a political sort.

After strapping it to his back he returned outside and met up with Link, who as he asked, was waiting patiently at the end of the bridge leading to Zora's Domain.

Link was feeding Achak an apple, how many did he carry with him? Sidon wouldn't be surprised if he really did always had a stash on his person.

"Ready?"

Link looked up at him, to the trident, then to his face. His eyes narrowed.

"I have not been there for some time, I don't know how dangerous it is. I wouldn't go unarmed and leave you to do all the fighting of there was trouble."

"Those lizalfos with the shock arrows were quaking in their scales from your presence, I'm sure."

Right. He _did _sort of leave Link in the dust when they first met, didn't he? Sidon rubbed the back of his head, "Too late to apologize for that?"

Link laughed, and hoisted himself up on Achak. He gave the white steed a rub on his neck, who then turned around to face down the mountain. "Shall we?"

The grove. Right.

Sidon nodded and led the way down the road, Link and Achak beside him. With Link on his horse now, he came up to his chin. He'd keep that in mind for future reference.

Sitting patiently on a rock near where the road started to span out before the first bridge was the elusive wolf in Link's pictures. He sat with his head held high, chest puffed out, and this stoic posture that spoke of nobility. His ears perked as the approached, Link slowing to a stop before him so the beast had a chance to stretch out and get to his feet.

Despite his regality, there was a slowness in his movement that spoke of old age. His joints seemed stiff, as he had to stretch a few times before he got going. Sidon wondered how long the wolf had been around.

Link leaned down and rubbed his hand over the crest of the wolf's fur. Did all wolves have such an intricate pattern on them?

After Link straightened and turned to him, Sidon began to lead them further down.

He glanced over his shoulder and noticed the wolf walking behind him. Those eyes were far more intelligent than Sidon had expected. And honestly, with the way they were focused on him, Sidon felt distinctly like he was being judged.

It was absurd, he knew, but that wolf was more unsettling than the images Link took let on.

"You get used to it."

Sidon snapped from his thoughts and looked to Link, who bore a humored smile.

"Get used to what?"

Link nodded back to the wolf, "Pops. He's sizing you up. Does it to everyone."

"...Pops?"

Link chuckled, "He acts like a cranky old man. Since he doesn't have a name, I'm calling him Pops for now."

The wolf sneezed.

"Fitting name then."

They walked in silence one more, Sidon walking as close to Link as he dared. Not wishing to upset either of the two beasts with his presence. Achak at least tolerated his presence, how 'Pops' felt about him, Sidon was still unsure of.

Sidon led them down a path away from the main road. The scenery had changed, but his feet moved on their own accord. The memory of running off the road with his sister in tow came fresh to his mind.

They arrive at the grove, well, more of a forest now. It was thicker than it used to be, but this was undoubtedly the same place. He smiled fondly and led them inside, walking a bit slower than he had before to make sure he didn't lose Link in the trees.

A small clearing opened up in the trees, old stone benches laid in ruin and moss. The little statues were still there as well, Mipha told him what the statues represented, but he had long since forgotten. Sidon wished he had payed more attention to her growing up.

Sidon plopped himself down on the grass, removing his trident from his back and laying it beside him.

Link hopped off Achak and sat beside him, stretching his legs out. They barely reached past his knee.

He knew Link wasn't usually one for many words, so he decided to fill the silence.

"I came here a lot growing up. Mipha showed it to me, though after she left to be a Champion I kept coming here." He leaned back on his hands, "She would always lecture me about being safe. 'Sidon don't climb that', 'Sidon don't eat that', 'Sidon those animals are not friendly'."

He chuckled at the memories, and gazed down at Link. He wasn't looking at the prince, his blue eyes were trained on a fixed point in the forest. Though they glanced up to him when he finished speaking, so Sidon knew Link had been listening.

Link didn't look uncomfortable, perhaps concentrated was a better word.

It was then Sidon realized talking about people he used to know may be painful for him. He didn't know how much of his memory was regained since he had left three weeks ago. To him, a hundred years has passed since his sister's death. To Link, mere weeks.

Another topic then.

Sidon scooted a bit closer to Link, so their arms were just barely brushing against each other.

"Tell me about your travels."

The request apparently surprised Link as he blinked and stared up at him with obvious bewilderment.

"I rarely have the chance to leave Zora's Domain, much less the territory. I've never been so far north."

Link pursed his lips, looking back into the forest. Sidon was patient as Link thought of what to say, eventually starting with, "It was fucking cold."

Sidon snorted a laugh, "That bad?"

With a grunt, Link rocked to his feet and walked to Achak, who had taken the opportunity to graze. From one of the saddlebags, Link pulled out a heavy looking tunic and brought it to Sidon. He deposited the garment in his lap, "I had to wear this and really heavy boots if I wanted to keep all my fingers and toes."

Sidon held it up, the embroidery was lovely, and it was so soft. Sidon had never seen clothing like this before. He looked up to Link, then back to the tunic, the mental image of Link all bundled up in such thick clothing made Sidon laugh.

Link scoffed and snatched it back, stuffing it back in the saddlebag. A warm smile rested on his lips, telling Sidon that he took no true offence to his laughter.

Link plopped back down beside him, close enough now that their arms were touching. Such a simple act made Sidon's heart skip a beat, pathetic, he knew, but he couldn't help it.

The Hylian was about to continue his story when they both felt something press between their arms. Sidon lifted his and looked down, seeing none other than the wolf wedged between them. He looked terribly uncomfortable, but there was this look in his eyes that led Sidon to believe he would power through from sheer stubbornness alone.

Link laughed and rubbed Pops' head, then rested his arm on the wolf's back. Sidon narrowed his eyes at the wolf, who held and even returned the look. Earning the favor of the wolf may be harder than he had anticipated.

"One of the Rito warriors took me up to Vah Medoh on his back." Link continued, apparently not noticing the forced distance between them, or not caring, "I hate heights."

Sidon chuckled, so Link continued. The hand not resting on Pops moved about in the air to accentuate his words, "So I had to fight this - this _thing, _that was created by Ganon I guess, it could like conjure up _twisters. _Nearly got knocked off the wings a few times."

A part of Sidon deeply regretted asking about his journeys. The way he spoke of nearly getting flung off the wing of a giant machine in the sky bothered him, as if it were just some normal occurrence.

"I killed it, obviously, and I got to see Revali again." Link's tone fell to a more somber one.

"He was one of the Champions then, right?"

Link nodded, and leaned back, turning his gaze to the darkening sky, "He was a jerk, but he was our jerk."

Sidon patted Link's shoulder, careful not to accidentally hit him too hard, "So you remembered more things then?"

"Some." He replied with a shrug, "Mostly about Revali, though a bit about us all together."

The prince could do little more than offer his support, he could not imagine what it would be like to lose one's memories, only to regain them and find everyone he cares for dead.

"I'm sure he was glad to see you."

Link snorted, "He was, didn't say it though. Had to keep up appearances."

Sidon laughed, though couldn't understand it himself. Link was, well, _Link _. Sidon couldn't pick out what drew him to the Hylian, but he was always happy to see him. While he tried to retain an air of professionalism, he knew his delight was obvious every time he saw him.

Link crossed his legs and rested his forearms on his knees. "We were pretty close, I think. Underneath the teasing. Good friends."

Before he could offer condolences, a clap of thunder boomed overhead, cutting Sidon off completely.

Just like that, it was as if the skies opened up to a waterfall, a heavy and almost violent deluge poured from the sky.

Link was on his feet immediately, and Sidon followed shortly. He grabbed his trident and re-strapped it to his back, while Link grabbed Achak's reigns, though didn't get on him this time.

Lightning streaked above them, "There was shelter just a bit up the road." Link mentioned, eyeing the sky warrily.

Sidon followed Link, since he didn't even notice this shelter Link spoke of. A small smile formed on his lips as they weaved their way out of the trees, that was his Link, incredible as always.

Lightning struck the ground far too close for comfort. Zora adornments and weapons were almost entirely metal, making him a walking lightning beacon. Closer to Zora's Domain this wasn't an issue, as they had tall lightning rods to draw away the lightning from those below.

They were too far away for it's protection now.

Link broke into a sprint, and Sidon easily kept pace. Had they not been rushing to shelter to avoid getting electrocuted, Sidon would have admired how Link's little legs were able to propel him so quickly. He was far faster than he appeared.

As it turned out, the 'shelter' Link saw on the road was nothing more than wooden slabs held above their heads by four wood poles.

It was not built for Zora people. Especially not of his size.

He had to lean forward at an awkward angle to even stand under it. It was horribly uncomfortable, and rain poured between the gaps of the wood. Not that he overly minded the water, but it was the principle that irked him. How was this shelter in any way shape or form?

Daring a quick glance at Link only furthered to cement his irritation. The poor man was soaked to the bone, his tunic clinging to his body in a way he doubted was comfortable. His hair was almost completely covering his eyes, and he just looked like a wet soggy mess.

It tugged on his heart strings a bit, he wanted nothing more than to shelter Link from the rain, keep him dry and safe, but with their current situation, it would be in vain. That, and he wasn't entirely sure how Link would react to it.

Sidon breathed out a sigh, this was not how he had planned the rest of the night to go. A nice, simple evening spending time with Link before he'd have to leave again to do more horribly dangerous things because he was a _Champion._

He should have been watching the weather closer.

A melodious sound came from beside him, and he looked down to see Link, just... Laughing.

He pushed his blond hair back out of his face, cheeks and nose practically glowing red, and continued to laugh. The sound was beautiful, even with the lightning storm going on around them, Link's laugh instantly brought joy to him.

Achak stood beside Link, completely content where he was. The wolf laid at their feet, just as comfortable as the horse.

It was… Nice.

The Zora people hated lightning storms, with their weakness to electricity in general, they could prove fatal when not careful. Sidon obviously was no exception, having a strong dislike for them himself.

And yet… Hunched over uncomfortably under this glorified tree corpse, he was actually, well, happy.

Despite himself, Sidon began to laugh too, which only seemed to make Link laugh even harder. He was a bit worried he'd pass out from lack of air, especially when he leaned on Achak for support.

Link's cheeks were red, like the tips of his ears. His hair was a mess beyond repair. His entire body soaked to the core, probably giving him a chill as he sniffled unflatteringly.

Yet, in that moment, Link had never been more beautiful to him.

He wanted to kiss Link. He wanted to kiss him really bad.

It would be incredibly inappropriate to do so, he knew. So instead, he reached out and pulled Link closer to him, draping his arm around his shoulders.

"It's drier here." Sidon justified feebly.

Link looked above them, then to Sidon with a raised brow, "No it's not."

The prince didn't have a comeback for that.

He half expected Link to pull away, but he didn't. He grabbed Sidon's arm and shifted it around his shoulders, likely so it would be more comfortable, and remained where he was.

Sidon wanted to bring Link even closer and hug him, but he figured that would be too much. For now at least.

Something pressed against his leg closest to Link. When he looked down, Pops had wedged himself between their legs. Once again, it didn't look comfortable, but once again, it didn't seem like the wolf cared.

Link laughed again, and Sidon joined him.

This had not been quite what he expected, or wanted, but Sidon found he rather liked how things turned out. Link seemed to be making a habit of surprising Sidon, not that he minded.

Not at all.

* * *

Chapter 03: Cowardice

The warm sun beat down on Link's black hood. He had left his Champion's tunic with Impa, she said she'd see to it getting resorted by tonight.

He could see the pity in her eyes and it made his stomach curl, he hated it. The pity, the soothings of 'oh you'll get it next time', the look on the young chief's face when he returned unsuccessful.

Link was a damn_ coward._

A tug on his heel drew his attention away from inside himself and out to Pops. He scowled at the wolf, then sighed and looked down at his hands. They were relatively unmarred compared to the rest of him.

Pops chuffed and tugged on Link's boot again. He sighed and leaned down, flinching at the pressure on his bruises and burns, then ran his hand through his fur.

Even Pops pitied him. He could see it in the wolf's eyes, a sense of familiar melancholy. Yet, Link felt that he was disappointed in him, he had left people who needed him. Running away to save his own skin like a bastard.

Zora's Domain was the only place that sold ice arrows, Link justified to himself. Really though, it was the only place that felt safe. A place of comfort he could hide until his conscious got the better of him and forced him back into battle.

He'd go back tonight for sure, consequences be damned. If he died in battle, then so be it. Link glared at his hands, if anything it'd be a relief.

_No, it wouldn't._

Link knew better, if he died then Calamity Ganon would be free to destroy everything in it's path. Yunobo, Teba, his wife and child, Riju, Sidon… They'd all surely perish. He'd have to live, if nothing else then for their sake.

But that… _Thing… _It killed Urbosa, easily the most skilled of them, how did he have any hope of defeating it?

He pressed his forehead into the back of Achak's neck. He remained like that until he felt the horse stop and crane his neck around, pulling at tunic Impa had given him in place of his blue one.

"Yes, youre right. I know." Link rubbed Achak's head and under his chin. He leaned back and grabbed an apple from his designated apple bag, then offered it to the horse, who took it immediately.

Link spurred Achak into action again, they were almost there. He just needed arrows.

* * *

Even in the middle of the day, Zora's Domain just glowed. It was beautiful.

With a grunt, Link heaved himself off of Achak's back, rubbing his steed's shoulder before leaving him there to enter the Domain itself. Pops already had sprawled out on his favorite rock further down the trail.

He was a bit surprised when neither of the guards asked about his journey, though he then realized since his hood was up and he was so much shorter than them both, they probably didn't recognize him.

Though as Link walked past them and to the shop on the right of Mipha's statue, he wondered how safe letting him pass without any inquires of who was. Though they could have also seen Achak and knew it was him, most travelers did not bring horses here according to Sidon.

Speaking of the Prince, as Link walked into the shop, he found none other than Sidon himself there.

Well, not in the shop itself, but rather the armory that laid further in. He was talking to the blacksmith there, so Link didn't bother him.

He grabbed all the arrows the merchant had in stock, buying them and immediately stuffing them into his quivers.

Link couldn't decide if he should just leave or greet Sidon, so he meandered back in the meantime, looking at the new weapons they were creating. There were quite a lot, Link wondered if they were planning on having a surplus of warriors soon.

"How many apprentices do you believe you could train?" Link glanced over his shoulder when Sidon spoke, his voice was even and professional. Deeper than his usual voice, which had a nice sort of dreamy tone.

This must be the voice he uses when doing his duties as a Prince.

The blacksmith grunted, handing a spear off to Sidon. The Prince looked over the weapon, inspecting it critically, then nodding in what Link guessed was satisfaction.

"Two. I've already trained one, they can take on an apprentice or two as well, if you are that short, my Prince."

Sidon was silent for a moment, then responded, "No. Four should be enough, especially if they have craftmanship on par with yours."

"You are too kind, my Prince."

Sidon returned the spear, and walked out, looking down at a scroll as he did. Link debated on going after him, but it was obvious he was busy. Link decided he should just leave. Probably for the best too, if Link was back Sidon would expect him to talk about his victory. Link didn't have the stomach to deal with his disappointment.

What would be the point only having more arrows? Now that he thought about it. Sure, he'd have more to spare, but what good would it do if he couldn't hit the damn thing?

Perhaps some target practice would do him good. There had to be some sort of training area for the guards, perhaps he could practice there for a while.

Link made his way back to a guard who stood at the entrance with his daughter.

"Hello."

The guard jumped a bit, and looked down at Link, it took a moment, but he brightened up rather fast, "Champion! Hello, it's great to see you. I didn't recognize you with that hood up, so used to seeing your hair."

His daughter scoffed, well at least there was someone who recognised him. Though to be fair she was a head shorter than her father, so she'd naturally have a lower vision of sight. Maybe that was why Sidon didn't pay him any mind.

The guard ignored his daughter and leaned on his spear, "So what do you need?"

"Do you have a training area?"

He tilted his head, "You mean the provings arena?"

At Link's blank stare, his daughter spoke up, "It's where we guards go to train and prove our mettle in battle."

That sounded exactly like what Link was looking for. He nodded, and she spoke again, "It's northwest of here, though you'll need to get the Prince's permission, he is our General after all." Her smile turned a bit smug, "I don't think you'll have any issue."

Link had a feeling _that _was directed at the amulet, though he chose to ignore it for the time being. Instead, he thanked her and headed back towards the market, hoping Sidon would still be there. He didn't want to have to try and hunt him down.

He could probably find the arena and sneak in, he doubted Sidon would actually care that much.

His conscious dictated he got proper permission anyhow… Even if he didn't want to.

The last he saw Sidon was when he first left to try and calm Vah Naboris, Sidon would undoubtedly see him and expect him to have completed his task. Link wasn't sure if he was ready to see disappointment in his eyes, or worse, pity.

He'd try to hide it, of course, Sidon was a good man and would never openly think down on someone. Still, the thought would pass through his mind, and the idea of that did not sit well in Link at all.

Sidon was still in the area, this time making idle talk with a Zora guard. Link flipped his hood down and stood quietly to the side, waiting for Sidon to finish talking to the guard about whatever they were discussing.

The guard noticed him, and ducked out of the conversation, to Sidon's confusion and Link's mild frustration.

It took only a moment for Sidon to realize he was there, and as usual was greeting with excitement, "Link! You're back! It is so good to see you again my friend, you'll have to tell me about your vic-"

"Can I use the proving arena?" Link felt a bit bad about cutting Sidon off, though the Prince thankfully just rolled with it.

"Of course! I don't think there'd be anyone training now, so I'll take you to it." He took a glance at the sky, followed by his cheerful expression falling to confusion.

Shame prickled across Link's skin. He looked anywhere but at the Prince, Link didnt want to see Sidon's polite disappointment in him.

"Link-"

"So, proving arenas, heard they're pretty neat."

"Link are yo-"

"_ Please?" _Link didn't beg, but he'd get on his damn knees for him to just drop the subject.

Sidon was silent for a beat, then sighed, "Yeah, come on. I'll walk you there."

As they walked out of Zora's Domain, stopping briefly to collect Achak and Pops, Link couldn't decide if he was thankful for the silence or not. Sidon usually was fairly easy to read, yet now, he didn't express anything.

Was he angry at Link? Disappointed? He wanted to shake the Prince and tell him to do something, call him a dirty coward, he didn't _care. _This closed off silence was starting to drive him mad.

The entire walk had been done in silence.

When they arrived at the provings arena, Link found it was not quite as big as he had expected. It was little more than a sand patch protected between three steep hills and a wooden barricade to keep others out.

Sidon closed the tall gate once everyone was inside, though was still oddly silent.

At this point Link just took Sidon's silence as disappointment, and moved on. He didn't have time to get all worked up about his friend finding him weak, he needed to focus on getting stronger so he could protect Hyrule.

He unclipped his cloak and draped it over Achak's back, rolled up the already pretty short sleeves of his tunic and pulled his bow out.

Link pointedly ignored Sidon's gasp. He knew what he looked like, and he knew it was not pretty. Turns out being struck by lightning left quite the mark. Let alone getting struck _twice._

Even as Link heard Sidon approach, he continued to ignore him, instead focusing on doing a few practise draws of the string, ignoring stabs of pain from the movement. He needed to get his arms warmed up before he actually started shooting arrows.

Once he was satisfied with how loose his arms were, despite the pain, he pulled an arrow out of his quiver and shot it at one of the many training dummies. The arrow flew and struck right between the painted eyes.

It wasn't until Sidon loomed over him enough to block the sun that Link decided to acknowledge him. He lowered the bow and looked up, scowling at Sidon's expression.

"What… What happened?" Sidon inquired, his words clearly carefully picked.

Link looked back at another dummy and shot that one, relieving a bit of building frustration in his gut.

"I failed the Gerudo people. I tried to fight that thing controlling Vah Naboris and failed. I ran away like a coward to save my own damn skin." He bit out, drawing the bow back again and firing it, this time completely missing the dummy. Link had to stop and take a breath, he was getting too worked up.

"Sorry." His shortcomings were not Sidon's fault, he didn't deserve to be snapped at.

Link could feel Sidon hover behind him for a bit, then when the sun returned, he knew Sidon had left.

With a quick check over his shoulder, he found that Sidon had sat down in one of the benches that were lined along the right half of the circular arena. Sidon offered some sort of meat to Pops, who snorted and turned away from him, to the Zora's obvious dismay.

He couldn't decide if he was relieved or disappointed that Sidon gave him space. On one hand, he was glad for the chance to just focus on what he needed to do, yet on the other, he wouldn't turn down some words of encouragement, or _something._

Link shook himself of the thoughts, he was being absurd. People's lives were at stake, he didn't have the luxury of emotion now. He could be upset when Calamity Ganon was dead.

Just standing still wouldn't do anything, he could hit anything standing still. So he tried various ways to make it harder for himself, jumping off things, running, riding Achak, most arrows hit bullseye. Each one that didn't, marked Link's death. He shuddered.

Back to standing and firing again. Link tried to fire as many arrows as humanly possible under a few moments. Even if he missed one, then perhaps he he drew fast enough, he could hit with the second. The creature was too fast for that, he knew, if his arrow didn't hit true the first time, he'd be nothing more than a bloodied smear in Naboris' belly.

A hand rested on his shoulder, sharp jolts of pain shooting down his spine and arm. He dropped the bow, receding in on himself just as the hand left his body. Sidon was still here, right. Link had forgotten his presence, he had been so silent.

Link turned and held up his hands to reassure Sidon, but the words died on his throat. His yellow eyes were narrowed dangerously, and he looked _furious._

"How bad are your injuries?" He was using his 'Prince' voice, drawing a flinch out of Link.

When Link did not respond, Sidon crossed his arms and _glared _at Link. Had Link not believed it was possible for Sidon to be terrifying before, he certainly believed it now. Using his size to his advantage, Sidon towered over Link. His eyes slitted and mouth opened in a frown just enough to see the glint of his teeth. Link half expected him to start snarling or something.

Still, the Prince was hard pressed to try and actually intimidate Link into speaking, after getting to know him, a lot of the initial fear wore off pretty quick.

Sidon sighed and kneeled down in front of Link, obviously giving up on trying to scare a response out of him, "Can… Can I see?"

A part of Link wanted to be petty and refuse. He didn't, and unbuckled the belt around his waist. He let it drop into the sand and rolled up his tunic, revealing the extent of the damage he had taken to the Prince.

Sidon probably didn't expect to see what he did, and covered his mouth, looking an unfortunate shade of green.

Jagged spiderwebs of burnt skin covered his chest and back, where he had been struck by the lightning itself. The rest of his body was an off-yellow or blue, deep bruising formed from him going flying, or from the electric strike, Link wasn't sure. Maybe both.

Paya had given him stiches on his side, where a segment of the blade that creature wielded nicked his skin.

Deciding to spare Sidon the sight any longer, he rolled his tunic back down. He crouched and grabbed his belt, glancing up at Sidon when he spoke in a quiet tone, "How did that happen?"

"Lightning. That creature could command it, somehow."

"That - You need to see a healer right away, Link. Those injuries, who knows what sort of internal damage they caused." Sidon stood and immediately headed to the door, with the very clear intent of dragging him to see the Zora healers.

"I _can't, _Sidon."

Sidon stared at him, half scowling, and half actually listening.

"I don't know how long the terminals will be freed of corruption. I can't stay long enough to get healed." He slipped his belt back on, "If they are corrupted once more I do not know if I'll get them back."

After a heavy moment's pause, Sidon sighed and removed his hand from the door. He returned to the bench and sat back down. It was clear the Prince was unhappy with his decision, but it wasn't his to make. It was hardly Link's, in the end.

Back to arrows.

Link let out an even breath, distancing himself from his emotions and grievances, it was only the bow, and the dummies.

He had no idea how long he had been out there, focusing only on his targets and killing them quickly and perfectly. Occasionally he'd stop and pick the arrows back up again, but most of his time was spent filling the fake enemies with holes.

An enormous hand covered his own, it was gentle and warm, familiar. Enough to draw him out of his battle stupor.

He looked up, meeting Sidon's vaguely glowing eyes. Maybe they weren't glowing, just reflecting light from the moon high in the sky. Link couldn't tell.

When did it get so late?

"Link you need to rest."

Link snorted and shrugged off the hand, drawing the bow back once more. Before he even got to release the string, the bow was taken directly from his hands. It took a moment, but Link bounced back from his surprise and immediately reached for the bow, _Revali's _bow.

With his free hand, Sidon grabbed the arm reaching for the bow. He slid his hand down to Link's own, and turned it over, showing Link his palm. His eyes flicked down, noticing how rubbed raw it was, he didn't doubt the other was the same. Spots of blood dotted his fingertips, were the skin had been rubbed so thin it began to bleed.

Still, it was a little thing, nothing worth writing home over. So he reached up again, trying to get the bow back.

"Link _stop. _" Sidon's voice wavered, and Link froze, "This - what you're doing, it's too much. Stop punishing yourself."

Link stared at him, unsure how to react. He wasn't punishing himself, he was training. Surely even Sidon could see that. Sure, he hurt, but it was nothing compared to the hurt people would feel if he failed again.

Still, he relented and stopped reaching for the bow. When he did, Sidon returned the weapon. "You need rest, or at least some healing."

"No." He looked down at the bow, "They don't need to know I've failed."

Sidon made a noise that Link presumed was frustration. After a moment, the Prince grunted, "Fine. Stay here, I'll be back. Please don't do anymore of your 'practice'."

Link nodded, and watched him trot out. After a moment, Link deflated. He had half a mind to just continue to practice, but Sidon was clearly upset, he didn't want to stir the pot any further. Instead, he wandered over to Achak and tied the bow down gingerly with his other weapons.

Even without and grass to graze on, his horse had been silently standing off to the edge of the arena. Link groaned and pressed his face into his neck. Achak grunted at the sudden weight, but did not move.

No matter what stupid thing he did, or how many times he failed, Achak never looked at him different. As much as he loved Pops, even the wolf would look upon him in disappointment from time to time. The horse's silent support and companionship was a breath of fresh air, especially as his fuck ups became more and more severe. This one certainly topping the list by quite the margin.

Link ran his hand over Achak's crest, letting the coarse hair slip between his fingertips. Achak snorted at the action and craned his neck around, attempting to butt his head against Link, with little success. Link laughed, and released him. With a touch of digging, he found his apple bag and offered one to his companion, who grabbed it from him immediately.

Pops was fast asleep on the bench. The old wolf always looked so tired, Link was glad he was getting some rest. Link wondered what he dreamed about. Did wolves even dream? Though, Pops was certainly no normal wolf, so who's to say _he _couldn't?

He hadn't eaten anything since this morning, his stomach reminded him angrily. Link pulled out an apple for himself and took a bite. Where did Sidon go anyway? If he brought the healers down here to him, Link would leave.

He wouldn't. But he'd want to.

Link trusted Sidon, if he did bring someone down, it would be a healer he trusted. Still. No doubt they'd talk about the Champion's cowardice to their friends behind Sidon's back. The whole Domain would be in a buzz.

He could hear it now; _'The Champion, running from a battle, what a **coward**__. No wonder the other Champions died, he probably ran when they needed him too.'_

Link didn't feel like eating anymore. He handed the remainder of his apple to Achak, who took it with no complaints.

Thankfully, it didn't take much longer for Sidon to return. Alone, to Link's mild surprise.

His eyes followed the enormous Zora as he carried a bag over to the benches and set it down with a clatter.

_What is in that thing? _Link wondered, but didn't move from Achak's side until Sidon actually beckoned him over with a wave of his hand.

The bench was weird, Link realized as he sat down on it. It wasn't regular wood, no where near as firm as he had expected. It had more of a give to it, Link wondered if it was a kind of wood only found around here, where it rained so much. Or if it even _was _wood.

"Can you take off your tunic for me?" Sidon requested, digging vials and a thick book out of the bag he had brought.

Link unbuckled his belt and carefully rolled the red tunic over his head, the bruises near his neck and the ones on his shoulder pressed firmly together. It hurt a lot, but Link powered through it and dropped the tunic on the sand beside him unceremoniously. He crossed his legs and faced Sidon in full, who had to straddle the bench due to his size.

"Since you won't see a healer, I'll do what I can to help." Sidon set some bandages in his lap and tucked the bag behind him. "Come a little closer."

Warmth blossomed from Link's chest as he scooted himself so he was seated between Sidon's legs. He pointedly ignored it, he _especially _ignored the soft smile Sidon was giving him.

Sidon opens up the book and props it up on one leg, so he hcould look down at it as he worked. His brows furrowed a bit, and he flipped through the pages. When he found what he was looking for, Sidon looked back to Link, he frowned.

"You'd be hard pressed to hurt me more than I've already been." Link assured, picking up on his nervous behavior.

Sidon snorted a laugh, and like that, the tension eased from his brows and shoulders. It bothered Link when Sidon was stressed.

The Prince held out his hand, "hands first, I think."

Link obliged and placed his hands in Sidon's open palm, both of them easily fitting.

Gingerly, Sidon took a hold of them, and with his other hand he popped open a vial of purple liquid. He carefully dabbed the gel on his fingers, then used them to massage into Link's hands. The gel stung, but Link kept still. It didn't help that his skin (scales?) felt surprisingly sharp when rubbed the wrong way.

Every move Sidon made was carefully dictated even still, like if he sneezed Link would break. He rolled his eyes at his hesitance, but didn't comment on it. The poor Prince was nervous as it was, Link didnt want to poke fun at him when he was already wired.

When the gel was rubbed in enough to Sidon's satisfaction, he carefully wrapped his hands up.

"You can remove the bandages in a bit." Sidon assured, probably seeing the look of dread Link gave as he started.

When Link's hands were successfully bandaged, the Prince pulled out another vial, this one more red in color, but still had a blue sheen to it when turned the right way. Link wondered what these were made of.

Sidon flipped through the book a bit more. After a couple minutes, Sidon apparently found what he was looking for and opened the vial. This was like the gel that was applied to his hands, though looked just a touch thicker.

The prince scooted himself closer, Link had to crane his neck all the way back to even see his face. This man was _all _torso.

"This'll sting." Sidon warned, and made sure his fingers were lathered before holding Link's wrist with one hand, and smoothing the gel over the blackened burn with his other.

Instinctively, Link jerked back, away from the violent burning assaulting his skin. Had Sidon not held Link's arm, he probably would have fallen off the bench. He returned to the position he was in before, so Sidon could continue, "Sorry, I'll try and be quick."

Link nodded and remained as still as he could manage for Sidon while he lathered up his burns. After his chest was finished Sidon had him lean forward a bit and then did his back. It was as if Sidon was applying lava to already sensitive enough skin. Though it would help, Link knew, so he gritted his teeth and kept his flinching to a minimum.

Sidon pulled back and released Link's wrist, signaling him to sit back up and relax a bit. He watched Sidon as he wiped his hand off on his thigh, then paged through the book again.

While he was occupied, Link took the chance to do a once-over of the area. It was the middle of the night, the moon illuminated the provings arena in a gentle white glow. Achak was where Link had left him, dozing off.

Link had to lean back a bit to see Pops curled up on the end of the bench. He appeared to still be asleep, but Link knew since the moment Sidon walked in, he has been awake and aware. Both ears were pricked and trained in their direction. Link pursed his lips, he wondered what Pops had against Sidon. He really didn't seem to like him much.

"Alright, last thing." Sidon pulled out a blue jar and carefully dripped some of the oil onto his hands.

He glanced at the book, then back to Link. Cautious, Sidon started from Link's arms and slowly worked in the oil. He had expected it to sting, but instead it was actually quite soothing, hot, yet cold at the same time. Link could feel goosebumps forming from the sensation.

"Are you alright?"

Link blinked and looked up at Sidon, his face was way too close. Link cleared his throat nervously, "I'm fine. Hylian skin just does that sometimes, no cause for alarm."

Sidon's eyes narrowed at him briefly, but he nodded and continued. It was actually really relaxing, for the most part. The close proximity to Sidon forced his stomach to perform acrobatics, and the occasional nick of pain when Sidon pressed too hard or his skin brushed him the wrong way, but overall, Link was actually quite enjoying this.

Enough so that he didn't even notice it finished until Sidon shut the book with a firm clap. "There."

Link felt slimy now, a vaguely unpleasant sensation that definitely called for a bath. Not that he'd have the time for one.

Like that, the mood was dashed. Here he was, being pampered by a Prince, while people could be _dying _in Gerudo Village. No, Sidon was trying to help him. It'd be ungrateful to think of it as mere pampering.

Sidon stuffed the jars and vials back into the bag, with the book. When he finished, Link grabbed the hand closest to him, and craned his neck back to look up at the surprised Prince, "Thank you."

He stared at Link for a moment, mouth slightly agape, then absolutely beamed. "It was no trouble Link."

Sidon grabbed Link's hands in return, completely engulfing them within his own, "I would never let a friend suffer needlessly. You should never have to be in so much pain, next time tell me."

"Pain comes with the territory." Link chuckled dryly, earning him a stern glare from Sidon, "Sorry."

Sidon smiled softly and shook his head, releasing Link's hands. They sat in silent camaraderie for some time, though after a while, Sidon broke the silence as usual. "Do you want to sit in the hot springs? I've read that soaking is actually incredibly beneficial to a Hylian's health."

"How'd _you _know that?"

The Prince snorted, "Please, you give me no credit. Knowing about the people you intend to trade with is incredibly beneficial, especially if you cater to their needs. Spears are useless to the Rito people, most of their combat is done in the air. We are able to build stronger bows for them to use. The Gerudo people don't have access to the plant life or fish that we do, due to living in a desert. The Goron people cannot grow anything in the volcano, and rely solely on outside sources for spice and cloth, in return for the ore they mine."

Link let out a low whistle, thoroughly impressed. Though when he thought about it, of course Sidon would know these things. He was a Prince, an excellent one at that. He'll be an incredible King, Link was sure.

Still, he had no more time for frivolous desires. "I cannot stay any longer."

Careful not to upset the salve on his skin, Link worked back into his tunic, strapping the belt back on and making sure the Sheikah Slate was still attached. It was, and Link pulled it out, opening up the camera and snapping a picture of Sidon when he was closing the bag.

Sidon looked back at him when the camera snapped, and smiled softly. "Really?"

Link shrugged and put it back on his hip.

It didn't take long for Link to get everything together, making sure all his weapons were there, with his bow and arrows. He needed to stop by Kakariko Village to see Impa about his actual tunic, then he'd be off to Gerudo Desert once more. He and Vah Naboris had a score to settle.

"Really leaving already then?"

Link nodded, not turning to face sidon immediately, instead tightening the strap on one of the saddlebags on Achak's flank."I couldn't stay any longer, even if I wanted to."

To his surprise, a warm hand rested on his head. Link turned to look at Sidon, who then moved from his head and grabbed both of Link's hands in his own.

Sidon had to bend over in a position Link doubted was comfortable, in order to meet his eyes.

"You were smart to retreat and regroup, not cowardly."

Link scoffed and went to pull away, but Sidon's hands were strong.

"You are the bravest and most incredible man I have ever met." Sidon swallowed and tightened his grip on Link, "Don't you dare for even a _second _think you are a coward."

Link didn't doubt his gawking was obvious. Warmth spread through his cheeks, and well, his entire body. Butterflies froliced in his stomach, but as with the many times he has experienced such a sensation around Sidon, it was promptly squashed down and ignored.

After clearing his throat, Sidon released Link's hands, allowing him to mount Achak once more.

Sidon's face was laced with worry, so Link gave the most confident grin he could muster, "I'll be safe, promise."

The Prince laughed and patted Link's arm, "Thank you."

Sidon pushed open the door and Link rode out, Pops already trotting closely behind him and Achak. Link glanced over his shoulder, seeing Sidon give him a thumbs up strengthened his resolve. He'd obliterate that damn creature and save Urbosa, Vah Naboris and the Gerudo people. That little chief had enough on her hands, she didn't deserve to worry about an ancient machine killing her people.

* * *

"I see your visit to Zora's Domain went well."

Link couldn't tell if he was surprised by this anymore. He tugged his familiar blue tunic back on with a huff.

"You have the fire back in your eyes, I was worried about you for a moment there, Link." Impa leaned to the side a bit, raising a brow as Link shot her a look over his shoulder.

She chuckled, and gestured for him to come closer with a wave of her boney fingers. "Now, boy, defeat Vah Naboris's blight. Then, you will be ready to take back what is rightfully yours."

At Link's tilted head she smiled and grabbed his bare hand, he had ripped the bandages off on the ride here.

"The Master Sword."

* * *

Chapter 04: Courage

Two weeks.

It had been two weeks since Link had left Zora's Domain to fight Vah Naboris.

Sidon knew it was presumptuous to think that Link would come to visit him again after defeating the Divine Beast, but still, the hope held out.

When the fourth beam of light spawned from the Gerudo desert about four days after Link had returned to his duty, Sidon knew he had been successful. Though frankly, there was never any doubt. Link was an incredible man, even if he didn't seem to know when to let his body rest. His soul may very well be immortal, but his body certainly was not.

Sidon dipped the coral reed pen back into the ink on his desk, then signed his signature of approval on the trade agreements. It had been a bit of a pain getting any mail back and forth between his kingdom and the Goron's, but he and their Boss had finally settled on something Sidon believed would be mutually beneficial to them both.

As it turned out, they were actually quite adept at crafting elixirs, and would set to work on seeing if they could create one that would work on Zora's, as their bloodstream was very different than that of a Goron or Hylian.

He wiped the pen's tip off and set it down on his desk. Now that the papers had been finalized and signed, he needed to write a copy and send that to the Goron's so they would have a version to refer to as well, in the case of a dispute over trade.

That, however, could be something he would finish after hunting. He had not eaten since this morning, he was well overdue for some fish.

He rolled the original document up and tied it for safekeeping. Though no one was allowed within his quarters without his permission, it still didn't feel right to just let the thing stay unfurled in the open.

Just as he left the palace, there was… something. A guttural screech pierced the area, something that was more felt, not heard. He was not the only one who was alarmed by this, stepping onto the balcony over Mipha's statue, all of his people froze and watched the sky with fear.

Yet nothing seemed to have changed. Not visibly at least. Something in the air was different. It was thicker, harder to breath in. Like a smog had descended upon his the land, constricting their air and filling them with dread. Something wasn't right.

Then, it hit him.

Link.

Without much thought, Sidon sprinted back into the palace, specifically, to his quarters. He immediately began strapping his armor to on. It had been ages since he had worn it, but it seemed the set would still get some use yet.

Zora people had tough hides, making most armor more for decorative purposes than actual use. However, they were with their weak spots, that the armor was specifically designed to protect. Areas like their joints and underbelly were the most vulnerable, however his people could not sacrifice their mobility. Thus despite postering, when they went into battle, there was little need for much armor.

This left Sidon with a thin breastplate, formed from carefully welded and embellished silver, and a blue strap of the royal insignia. He had wrist guards, thicker and heavier than his usual decorative ones, and had a helm similar to the guard's to top it off.

Once everything had been strapped into place, he grabbed the trident off his wall and set out.

He had not thought of trying to sneak past his father, his mind had been only focused on Link's wellbeing. So of course, he froze when his father called out to him. It was tempting to ignore his father in favor of being by Link's side, but he knew he couldn't ignore his father completely. He would not remain long however.

"_ Where _do you believe you are running off to?" His father demanded, somewhere between furious and worried.

"You can feel it, can you not father? This, this is not normal. I believe it is the result of Calamity Ganon's seal breaking."

The King scowled and leaned down, baring his teeth at his son, "And you, _what, _plan on fighting him then?"

"I will offer whatever assistance I can to Li - _The Champion." _Sidon responded, refusing to be intimidated.

"You are a Prince, my only heir to the throne. You believe I will just let you traipse off to your death? You cannot fight him, you are not the chosen hero."

"Even so, should he need assistance I _will not _leave him to die. He has done too much for our people to just abandon him." Sidon snarled, feeling his usually docile temper flare. He did not have time for such petty arguments.

"You are running to your death simply because you wish to court him! I will not allow such foolish and narrow sighted behavior from you!" The King roared, earning a flinch from Sidon.

Sidon squared his shoulders, "I did not ask for your approval, or permission. I will assist Link in any way he should need it, be it my weapon or my support."

His fathered growled in frustration, slamming his fist against the arm of his throne. However, he then deflated, rage dwindling to sadness. A beat of silence passed, and just as Sidon turned to leave, his father laughed softly.

"You are much like your mother." He started softly, then straightened and regarded his son fully, "Please, I beg of you, Sidon. Promise me you will be careful, I have lost a child already, I could not bear to lose another."

Sidon nodded solemnly, "I promise."

With that, Sidon left. He could feel the eyes of his people on him, no doubt hearing the argument between his father and him. It didn't matter, all that mattered was getting to Link as fast as possible.

Sidon dove into the waters below, taking the river to the watchtower that had sprung up around when Link awoke. It was the tallest point in the domain, it would be the best place to survey the scene before charging in. He wanted to help Link, but he'd be no use to him rushing blindly into battle and getting killed.

The area was usually crawling with monsters, yet as Sidon slinked out of the water, it was… empty?

He continued forward, trident at the ready should some creature be stupid enough to come at him. Even as he got closer to the tower, every monster watch point was empty. Sure, he reasoned he could credit it to Link killing them all when he 'activated' it, whatever that meant.

A blood moon had passed since then though, he was sure of it. So why hadn't the grotesque things risen again? Something felt off, so he kept his guard up, just in case.

The tower grating was too small for him to stick his fingers in so he could climb it, luckily the platforms spiraling up to the top were spaced just so that he could jump to the top. Sidon strapped is trident back on his back and took the bounds to reach the top of the tower. He wasn't an overly huge a fan of heights, but he could deal with it.

When he finally pulled himself up through the hole onto the platform, there were two wolves sitting and watching the castle. One glowed a brilliant gold, and had an ethereal aura unlike anything Sidon had ever experienced.

Sidon blinked, and it was gone. He stared at the spot he could have sworn it was in, did he imagine it? He shook his head, must be getting vertigo or something.

One wolf did remain, regardless of how many times Sidon blinked. He crouched low and approached the creature, as he came closer, he noticed the telltale markings on his fur, this was Link's wolf.

_How did he get all the way up here _?

Sidon kneeled down beside the beast, following his eyes to Hyrule castle. It looked the same, nothing seemed to have changed. That feeling was still thick in his throat, perhaps they wouldn't see a change until Calamity Ganon's seal actually broke.

"Where's Link?" Sidon inquired to the wolf. He wasn't really sure why, he doubted the animal could even understand him.

To his surprise Pops turned his head and stared at him, looking unamused, then jerked his head towards Hyrule Castle, where his gaze then returned.

Perhaps the wolf could understand him better than Sidon thought.

He looked over Hyrule field and to the castle. Link was somewhere in there, would he need help? Was he hurt? As far as Sidon could tell, the path to the castle was clear, he could probably make it there fast enough if he were to hurry.

Just as Sidon stood and turned to descend the tower, teeth dug into his fin with a growl. He yelped and jerked away, rubbing the fin on his right arm that had just been assaulted.

Pops snarled at him, so Sidon snarled back. What was this wolf's problem?

Sidon forced himself to take a step back from the situation. Emotion clouded his mind, he was not thinking logically.

Pops _adored _Link, even if he was lukewarm with Sidon himself at best. There would be no way Pops would leave Link alone if it were something he could help. Yet he was here, and Link in the castle.

He looked over to Hyrule Castle again, the black mist of Calamity Ganon swirled around it's towers, as if trapped by some invisible shield. Perhaps ony Link could go through, being the Champion.

It would make as much sense as anything, the Prince reasoned.

How could he be of any help if he couldn't even get into the castle though?

Pops snorted and returned to where he had sat before, apparently confident that Sidon wouldn't try to leave again.

With a heavy sigh, Sidon crouched down beside the animal, and watched the castle. There was nothing now he could do now, but that didn't mean he had to return just yet. Something would happen, he was sure of it. Link may be inside the castle, but he doubted he had actually reached the strange thing flying around it. How even _would _he reach it?

The screeching was back. This time louder, more gutteral. It was bone chilling. The mist collapsed in on itself and into the castle, the whole structure shaking violently enough that Sidon worried it would collapse.

The shaking spread through Hyrule, even reaching the tower. Sidon put some choice distance between himself and the edge of the platform, he had no desire to fall off.

Behind him another sound spurred, this one mechanical, a low wurr that grew louder and louder. He scrambled upright and turned to see Vah Ruta on it's feet, the red beam that had once pointed the castle was gone, in favor of a steadily growing ball of energy.

When enough energy was gathered, it shot out across the lands and into the castle, joining one from the north west, the Rito's Beast, if he remembered correctly. Shortly after they were joined by two more beams, coming from the other Divine Beasts Link had freed.

It was _magnificent._

He gazed on to Ruta, even in death his sister watched over her people. Swallowing a stubborn lump in his throat, he smiled. Now, he hoped she could rest in peace. She has already done so much, suffered so much.

It seemed she would after all. The beam faded and slowly, Vah Ruta kneeled down into a resting position, the brilliant blue glow to it's eyes slowly fading as the beast, and his sister he hoped, were finally allowed to rest.

A silence settled over the land. Had they done it?

Sidon glanced to Pops, who stood on the edge, all focus on the castle. His ears and corners of his mouth twitched. Something wasn't right.

The mist had disappeared, so surely that meant that Calamity Ganon had been defeated, right?

He stepped beside the wolf, what did he see that Sidon could not?

A wave of violent nausea assaulted Sidon like a Lynel. He immediately dropped to his knees, leaning over the edge of the platform, and tried to gain control of his gagging. What in the name of Hylia was this? He felt fine just moments ago.

Something pressed against his shoulder, spurring him to look up. Pops had placed a paw on him in an unsettlingly human act of comfort. He appeared largely unaffected by whatever was polluting the air. Sidon probably would have continued those thoughts, but his stomach lurched again and he found himself spilling his breakfast over the side of the platform.

Calamity Ganon was certainly not defeated, Sidon realized. Oh no. He had just been released.

Sidon wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and looked up to the castle, if he felt that from all the way out here, he couldn't imagine how Link felt actually inside the castle. He prayed the Goddess would watch over him, Link deserved it more than anyone.

In spite of the nauseating veil that spread through the land, things stilled. Sidon could no longer hear the birds chirping, as if they too, were waiting for something to happen.

The minutes crawled into an eternity, but soon enough, there was a gurgling howl of agony. It shook the lands with its might, and for the second time that day, Sidon shimmied away from the edge, fearful of the drop down. Though Pops seemed completely unphased by how close he was to falling.

The black fog that once surrounded the castle shot up from its towers, followed closely by a small yellow light. The darkness pooled on Hyrule Field, swirling together in some sort of stationary black tornado.

To Sidon's surprise, Achak burst through the trees that surrounded a small area near the entrance of the castle. He came to a stop before the swirling darkness, and the light that followed it out of the castle settled beside him. The light grew and began to take the shape of a Hylian, _Link!_

Sidon could barely contain his joy at seeing his friend out of the castle and safe. He longed to bound down the tower and embrace the man in a well deserved hug. He stopped short of moving, however, as the dark mass began to take shape.

From the cloud sprung forth an enormous black flaming beast. Its roar shook the lands, and brought the blue skies to a sickly grey. Sidon could only stare in astonishment as Link mounted his trusty white steed, and turned to face the monster.

With a flash of power, Achak surged forward, charging towards the beast's tusks then turning away last minute. From his back, Link produced some sort of bow that glowed a brilliant gold, as if blessed by Hylia herself. Which, Sidon fulled expected it was.

Was _this _the real Ganon?

He shot at the beast and it howled its agony. Ganon turned, slamming it's hooves into the ground, the land trembling beneath its weight. From the creature's mouth came an unsettling glow, and before Sidon could even realize what was happening, a beam of pure evil energy shot from it's mouth, turning anything unfortunate enough to be caught in its wake to ash.

Achak was fast, they avoided being hit by a hair. They were nothing but a small white dot against a sea of dark. A glowing beacon of hope against all odds.

Sidon was a warrior. He had proved his mettle in battle more than once, fully earning his title as a General. He had felt fear, he had the scars and experience to show how he overcame it in the face of death.

Yet watching Link and Achak, so small against this massive creature of evil, Sidon felt a fear unlike any he could recall. All odds were stacked against the pair, but on they still fought. It was horrifying. Each time a beam got too close to them, or the creature screamed, a fresh wave of terror would wash over Sidon.

Any misstep would mean certain death, not only for Link and Achak, but for the rest of Hyrule too. Sidon could not imagine what sort of weight that was to bare.

A beam got too close and Achak bolted forward, leaving Link to fall to the ground. Sidon stood in terror, Link wasn't moving. He couldn't get there in time to save him.

The evil creature saw an opportunity and turned to face the hero on the grass. It lumbered forward, it's intent to squash Link beneath its weight clear.

Sidon screamed and without thought bounded down the platforms of the tower. He wouldn't make it in time, there would be no way. Yet he still had to try. He dove into the waver and swam the fastest he ever had in his life. He leaped out of the water when he was east of Hyrule Field, of course meeting a few monsters that had surrounded the area to watch their master try and defeat Link.

Sidon made quick work of them, surprised and largely unarmed, the monsters were little more than dirt under his foot. He jerked his trident out of a white imp's neck, then continued to run forward, knowing he had precious little time if Link truly was in danger.

Now closer to the massive monster, the sheer magnitude of it truly set in. It was taller than any watchtower, large enough to be a mountain in its own right. Closer to it, the vile aura from the creature was far stronger, sending Sidon reeling to a stop. He dug the end of his trident into the mud and leaned on it for support, scanning the field in hopes of spotting Link.

He was up again, miraculously, and continued to ride around the monster upon his steed. Every arrow caused the creature to scream a shrill cry, as if Link's arrows were being guided by some divine force. It was incredible.

It began to wane, its attacks more desperate and fearsome. Ganon screamed to the heavens and the skies answered by swelling to a blood red, caking the lands in an eerie glow.

Link switched his aiming from the creature's body, to his forehead. But each arrow seemed ineffective. They no longer did anything. What happened? The Goddess couldn't have abandoned Link now, of all times.

The monster screamed, the beams of energy coming faster, and more fearsome. Sidon had to retreat back to safer waters, knowing if he were to get hit by one he would be dust. Still he watched, faith strong in Link.

To Sidon's horror, Link actually jumped off Achak, pulling out some sort of sailcloth and catching an updraft from one of the many fires caused by the burning of the land around them. Then, time seemed to cease to exist.

Like some divine being, Link pulled back his bow with collected grace, and fired a glowing arrow straight between the monster's eyes.

The monster convulsed and screeched it's agony, a glowing light forming between them and settling before Link's now collapsed form. The light took shape, becoming a Hylian of some sort. Was _this _Princess Zelda?

She stood before the beast, hands clasped together as she stared into the face of the deteriorating beast. No longer to maintain a solid form, the being wailed and collapsed. Parts of the beast began to burst, spilling some oil-like black substance that would evaporate into the same eerie fog that circled the tower for the past hundred years.

It rose to the sky, creating a wide arc, then charged for the mysterious woman and Link, one last attempt to kill the only ones who could defeat it. A brilliant light burst from the woman's open palm, encapsulating Ganon and sealing him away as foretold in the legend.

A stillness settled over the land, then, slowly, Hyrule began to rejoice. The skies turned back to their peaceful blue, animals began their songs, and the monsters that once surrounded the area retreated, their Master no longer able to protect them.

Link.

The bruised woman crouched down, pulling Link's arm over his shoulders and standing. Sidon jumped out of the safety of the water, but stopped his approach when he hard a laugh, _Link's _laugh.

He threw his head against the woman's shoulder, a broad smile dancing along his busted lip. She seemed confused for a moment, then smiled and shifted her grip on Link to bring him into an embrace. She held him at arm's length, and released him once she was sure he would not fall, "You did it, Link."

Link nodded, even from here he could see the wetness in his eyes. For once not from grief, but joy. Sidon's heart swelled.

She placed a hand on the side of Link's face and held it there, her expression becoming more solemn. "Tell me, do you truly remember me?"

Link's body tensed and he placed a hand over the woman's. He looked to the ground, then responded slowly, "Some things."

The woman nodded and pulled him into a tight embrace once more, "I am so glad to see you again, my friend."

Perhaps, he should leave. No doubt Link would want to catch up with the woman he had once been dear friends with. Sidon did not wish to intrude.

He glanced down at Pops, who had somehow made his way down the tower and to Sidon's side. He smiled at the wolf, and gave him a thumbs up. The wolf would take care of Link, he knew, so Sidon decided he should return with the news of Link's victory to his people.

Before he could, the woman looked up and met his eyes. She smiled and pulled away from Link, "I'm not the only one glad you are alive."

Link tilted his head, then turned to follow her eyes. Sidon grinned, and Link grinned back.

Sidon made short work of the distance between them and kneeled on one knee, bowing to Link in a sign of the highest respect a Zora could offer, "Thank you for saving us all."

He had expected a handshake, a pat on the head maybe, but he did not expect to have Link throw his arms around his neck in a tight embrace. Sidon froze, the action surprising him more than he could properly express, the words that followed surprising him even more, "Thank you for not giving up on me."

Like that, Sidon gave. He wrapped his arms around the armored man tightly, still cautious of the wounds he undoubtedly had, and just held him. "I always knew you'd defeat him, there was never any doubt."

Link snorted a laugh, though it wavered with untold emotion. Sidon tightened his grip in response. The two kneeled in the grass like that for some time, until the woman, who Sidon was sure now was Princess Zelda, gently placed her hands on each of their shoulders.

She smiled softly to them both, then looked to the sky.

Briefly, so fast Sidon wasn't even sure if he saw it, there were a group of green figures. With a blink, they had vanished. Sidon liked to think that it had been the spirits of the Champions finally truly freed, bidding them goodbye one last time.

"It would be an honor," Zelda spoke, her voice soft from disuse and exhaustion, "If you would assist me in restoring Hyrule to its former glory."

Without a moment of pause, Sidon and Link both nodded.

There was much work to be done.

Sidon looked forward to all of it.

* * *

Chapter 05: Crest

The desert was a beautiful place, just a bit hot for Link's personal tastes.

Once again, he found himself in Gerudo Desert, helping the young chieftess on a matter she had written to him about. At first, Link wasn't sure if he should go, he didn't like the idea of leaving Zelda alone in the castle with those cursed machines, even if Zelda swore to him that they're safe now.

Link was still hesitant.

It had been two weeks since Ganon had been defeated, the castle was going to take a lot of time and effort to rebuild. He didn't want to leave her alone to do all the work.

Most of their work as of recent had been going through the remaining documents not singed by the fires that swept through the castle. Looking for some things that may have survived the destruction. Most of it was useless, in fact the vast majority of it was, but occasionally they'd find something.

She assured him she could look through documents without a guard, and told him to help out the other races if they needed him. Now more than ever she said they needed to show their support.

He supposed the time away from the castle was a chance to think.

People had been trickling to Hyrule castle, some of them scavengers, but the lot of them just curious explorers. The Princess welcomed them eagerly and in return for payment, they'd help with the construction efforts. With luck, by the end of the month, Zelda hoped to have the castle in a habitable enough state to host a gathering of the territories, to discuss the future.

With that though, would come the need for a guard force.

Zelda asked Link if he wanted to be the captain of her guard. Link didn't really know how to respond, so he ended up just staring at her until she spoke again. She wanted it clear she was asking as a friend to a friend, not a princess to her knight. She understood if Link decided he was done with fighting, and hung up his sword for good. Yet she wanted to extend the offer to the best warrior she knew.

Even now, Link didn't have an answer for her.

He wouldn't lie, he did kind of want to live somewhere where he could just settle down. He was tired. Sure he may be a young man, but hundred year old scars and flashes of memories weighed on him.

He could sell off the house he bought in Hateno, it was lovely, but it wasn't _home._

Zora's domain was nice, Link considered. He knew - or had known - most of those there before Ganon, so if there would be any place to settle down in, that'd be a nice one.

_And Sidon would be there._

His attention snapped to Riju as she appeared from her quarters.

Her shoulders were squared, proud yet not vain. She looked as Chieftess of her people should, even if she only came up to Link's shoulder.

She clasped her hands behind her back and looked up to Link, "There is a matter I must attend to before we leave."

As far as Link was concerned, she could take all the time she needed. Link was fairly sure she had never been outside of Gerudo Desert before, it was wise of her to make sure everything was in proper order before she left her people. Even if it would only be for a short while.

He followed behind her, curious as to what she needed to have finished before they left.

It was then that Link noticed they were heading to the Sand Real ranch. Professional as ever, Riju dismissed the stable hand and approached the large grey one that she had rode during their approach to Vah Naboris.

When they were alone, Riju dropped to her knees in the sand and threw her arms around her wrinkly friend.

"You'll be good while I'm gone right, Patricia? Don't give them any trouble. I'll be back before you know it, so just be patient and I'll make sure we spend a whole day sand surfing together. Promise." Riju rubbed the massive creature's cheeks, it rumbled in response.

The Sand Seal butted her head against Riju's, in what Link presumed was an act of affection.

"I'll bring you lots of fruit girl, but you have to be nice to the stablehand. No throwing sand at her." Her companion grunted and butted her head against Riju again, letting out a breath of air in a low whistle. Riju beamed and pulled back then up to her feet. She gave Patricia an affectionate rub on the head then turned to Link.

"Alright. I'm ready now." She dusted the sand off her knees and once more straightened herself up, putting on the mask of a leader. A feeling Link was all too familiar with.

He followed her stride to the entrance of Gerudo Town. Normally only two guards would be there to watch over the only way in, but now there were nine. Though five of them would be coming with Riju and Link to the stables across the sands.

The trek across the Desert was exhausting. The four guards plus Riju's personal guard (Link couldn't remember her name) surrounded Riju, keeping her from the sight of any Voe. Link just walked along the side, he was too short to be a body shield anyway.

"Hero?"

He tilted his head and peered between the two women closest to him at the young Chieftess, she hesitated briefly, "Will the trip to the Rendezvous be dangerous?"

Link pursed his lips. Since Ganon had been defeated, the monsters that plagued this land were few and far between now. Likely knowing they no longer had a blood moon to bring them back from death.

He shook his head and offered a reassuring smile, the monsters wouldn't be stupid enough to attack a whole caravan. Especially now.

She nodded, and receded back to her thoughts.

The rest of the half-day long trek was spent mostly in silence. Link hated walking on sand, he had no idea how these Gerudo woman could do it so effortlessly.

It was better than riding a Sand Seal, though, that was for sure. Link had nothing against the vaguely gelatinous creatures, but he preferred to have a steady horse under him, not a shield and a glorified leash.

Needless to say Link was a bit excited than truly reasonable they finally reached solid ground.

There were two horses, one black and the other a mottled blue, stationed before the carriage that would house Riju during the rest of the trip. Link would be riding on her left side, while her personal guard was on the right.

Knowing this, Link approached Achak and Pops (who was sitting a respectful distance away from the caravan), both ready to set off. Achak was sporting some new gear, courtesy of Riju as thanks for him accompanying her to the rendezvous point.

Just as Link was about to mount Achak, Riju called to him, "Ah, Hero? If you please, can you ride with me? There are some matters I wish to discuss with you before we arrive."

Link gave a cursory glance to Riju's personal guard, who eyed him, then nodded. Well, he supposed there'd be no harm in it.

He released Achak's reigns. Before he could join her though, Link walked along Achak's flank and looped the pendant Sidon gave him up and off of his head. As much as Link wanted to keep wearing his gift, he figured it'd be best to go as incognito as possible. Though at this point, there was little reason to.

Link was fairly sure most, if not all, of the guards knew his true gender. Still, they were more comfortable with him in their clothes, that and Link didn't mind the outfit much. He hated the veil though.

He tucked the pendant into the saddlebag and moved to join Riju in the caravan. He didn't worry much about Achak, he knew the steed would follow.

Riju, pleased that Link agreed to sit with her, climbed into the wagon. She gestured to the seat across from her, which Link took without complaint.

"Your… pet? Seems to want to join us." Riju pointed out, drawing Link's attention to Pops, who sat firmly next to the wagon's entrance, blatantly ignoring the spears pointed at him.

He probably just wanted to walk along closer to the caravan, Link reasoned. The old wolf kept a close eye on him when they traveled together.

"Can… Can I pet him?" Riju asked, as unperturbed by the spears as Pops was.

Link leaned forward a bit to eye Pops, then turned to Riju and shrugged. Pops decided when he wanted to be pet, so she'd have to ask him really. He wasn't like a dog that always wanted affection. Though Link has learned the beast will never turn down prime meat, no matter how grouchy he is.

Riju scooted to the end of her seat and held her hand out, palm facing up in a sign of peace. Pops sniffed her hand briefly, then pushed his forehead against it. The look of the Chieftess' face was priceless.

She stepped out of the wagon so she could reach the wolf better and pet him with the fervor of someone who had never seen a dog in their life.

Which… Now that Link thought about it, could be entirely accurate actually. Pops hated walking on sand, and would often disappear to do his own thing when Link was in Gerudo Desert. Link wouldn't be surprised if that was the case with other canines.

"How did you tame him?"

"He isn't tame." Link stated, "He just… showed up, when I awoke."

Riju hummed in response, taking his answer as satisfactory enough. She brought her hands under the wolf's chin and scratched there, elated when the beast closed his eyes and wagged his tail.

"I have heard stories of loyal beasts like this one saving their Masters from peril." She spoke, glancing over her shoulder at Link.

He nodded in response, which added more fuel to the fire that was quickly growing in her eyes. Link was quickly regretting this, especially at the scolding look he received from her personal guard.

Riju stood, "I shall strive to learn more of these noble creatures."

Dogs were very versatile animals, from what Link has seen in his travels, he supposed there could be a dog that'd exist within the desert happily. He could poke around and write Riju if he finds something. It'd give him something to do if nothing else.

The Chieftess climbed back into her seat, though not before a quick wave to the guards, "Do not mind the wolf. Allow him to walk where he pleases."

With that, the door to the wagon closed, leaving her and Link in relative privacy.

Since the guards would be unable to see in, Link took the opportunity to pull the veil off his face and head. He hated things covering his nose and mouth, it was too familiar and too frightening. Lingerings of a memory he had since forgotten, Link reasoned.

The wagon jerked forward, then began to move.

After a few minutes in silence, Riju visibly slumped against her seat.

"Thank you for agreeing to ride with me." She straightened, though still maintained a more relaxed posture, "I… Well, I have never met a Zora before. I figured since you have met some, you could tell me about them."

It'd be a lie to say Link wasn't surprised. Though after the brief initial shock, he realized it made perfect sense. If she had never left the desert before, there'd be no way for her to have actually seen a Zora, they couldn't survive in her people's climate.

Link rested his forearms on his knees, "They are very tall, their Prince - who you'll be meeting - is about twice my height."

Her eyes widened, though she allowed Link to continue, "They are a water people, so they look like sharks. Though they may look intimidating, they are very friendly and welcoming."

Well, expect the elders. But he wouldn't tell Riju that.

This eased some tenseness that had grown in her shoulders, though not all of it. Link could sympathise.

"Thank you for agreeing to come, I understand it must have put you in a difficult situation. I've read that you are helping Princess Zelda rebuild the castle."

Link shrugged and waved it off. He was glad Zelda had kicked him out of the castle, it relieved Link that he could help sate her fears. While a humorous thought, he would have felt terrible for Sidon and her both if Riju had no idea what Zora's looked like. It'd be quite the shock, he imagined.

She pressed her fingers together, "Is there anything I must know of their culture? I'd hate to create an offence."

While Link didn't doubt there'd probably be something that'd offend the Zora people, nothing really sprung to mind. Compared to the Rito or even Hylians, they were rather laid back as a whole. Still pretentious in their own right, though.

He doubted Riju would stumble into a war with the Zoras by accident anyway, even if she did offend them. Sidon was nothing if not accommodating. Link figured that Sidon was aware Riju never met a Zora before, he wouldn't hold anything against her.

So he just shook his head in response.

She nodded, finally most of the tension she had carried on her shoulders seeped out. They lapsed into a comfortable silence until Riju spoke up, "You had a pendant around your neck earlier."

Ah, he was actually a bit surprised she even noticed it. Though the thing wasn't exactly small when he thought about it. "It was a gift from Prince Sidon."

Riju seemed a bit surprised by this, "Really?"

Link nodded, and she hummed her curiosity, "So does that mean you are a friend of the family? An honorary member of the tribe?"

To be honest, Link didn't really know. Well, given how Zelda had reacted to it, he had a nagging suspicion on the back of his mind. Though as anything involving potential romance, it was blatantly ignored.

He shrugged then. Link had been so busy at the castle, so he hadn't been able to see Sidon since Ganon's defeat. That Zora still owed him an explanation, Link couldn't decide if he wanted his suspicion to be right or not. He could bother Sidon about it later, he was here as support for Riju, he wouldn't let himself get distracted.

She was still tense. Link leaned back against the wood seat and pointed out as much. "You are still tense. Sidon is a good man, no matter how intimidating he may appear."

Riju chuckled and shook her head, "I trust you, Hero. Though I'm afraid another matter is troubling me."

Link gestured for her to continue speaking with an encouraging wave of his hand.

"A warrior by the name of Ukofa has been spotted on the edge of the desert." She frowned and tapped her painted nails against the oak. "She had once been part of our guard, but she had disappeared years ago after a dispute with my mother. We thought her dead all this time… I should have searched for her after my mother passed."

A woman who was thought dead, wasn't? Link couldn't really find anything troublesome about that, perhaps she simply didn't enjoy city life.

Riju pressed a fist to her forehead, "I can't remember what they fought over, Ukofa and my mother, but to have her living on her own for so long… I feel responsible for the burden she must have carried. Especially since she must have lost her child."

Link still didn't quite understand what Riju was upset about. The woman did what she wanted, as far as he was concerned, what weight did it bear on Riju? Still, he leaned forward and placed a hand on her arm, "She acted on her own. Whatever happened does not lie on your shoulders. You have enough on your plate to care for."

Riju sighed, not entirely convinced, but at least comforted. "Thank you, Hero."

Link grunted and waved the title off, "Link, please."

"Very well. Thank you, Link."

* * *

Sidon had been in and out of the water for an hour now.

He wasn't exactly nervous, per-say, but he looked to the upcoming meeting with a touch of apprehension. He had gotten a good idea on Riju's character when they began exchanging letters, but meeting someone was entirely different than reading a politically worded letter.

The Gerudo people were rather reclusive, so finding information on them had been difficult. Thus he was going in with less knowledge than he would have otherwise preferred. He knew they were an all female race, though apparently males could be born to them? Sidon wasn't sure on the specifics. To make them more comfortable, he had purposely chosen three female companions to travel with him, two guards, and one elder. Thankfully Fulo was among the more relaxed elders.

"My Prince, you will carve a moat by your pacing alone. In the water or out, choose one for Hylia's sake." Though she was rather blunt.

He settled on a middle ground so his feet remained in the water, but he stood on the shore. The elder scoffed, but didn't yell at him, so Sidon took it as a win.

Of course Sidon had known they would arrive faster than Riju, most of their traveling had been done in water. They caught the currents of Hylia River and largely had a straight shot to their meeting point, Lake Kolomo.

The lake was technically closer to the desert than it was to Zora's Domain, but since they had the option to swim most of the way, Sidon felt it was a fair compromise of a meeting point. Riju apparently thought so as well, given she had agreed to meet him there in the first place.

Sidon glanced north, he could see the spires of Hyrule Castle from here. Though the place was so large, there were few areas you _couldn't _see the castle from.

It had been two weeks since Sidon had last seen Link.

He knew that Link was obviously busy helping Zelda rebuild the castle. Word had spread fast that the Princess was fixing the castle up to eventually hold a meeting of the regions to discuss what the future had for them. He wondered if there would be anything his people could assist with.

Perhaps when he finished talking with Riju he could go visit and see how things were coming along.

That and he _really _needed to speak with Link.

Sidon decided he would rather be in the water at the moment. He stepped in and enjoyed the cool water washing over his scales and gills. It was soothing, and served to calm his growing nerves some.

Link deserved to know what the amulet meant.

Without the plague of Calamity Ganon looming over their heads, Sidon knew now was the ideal time to proclaim his feelings to Link. There was no longer any excuse for him to hide behind. That, unfortunately, didn't really quell his fears.

The Hylian was an incredible man. Him defeating Calamity Ganon just one point on a list of things incredible about a mile long. Everything about him was wonderful. Yet, whenever Sidon thought of how he would confess his feelings to Link, his stomach clenched and doubt poisoned his mind.

He knew that even if Link decided to return the amulet, he would never cut Sidon out of his life. Though, Sidon wasn't sure if he could do the same courtesy. He was selfish, this much he had known ever since he was just a child. He horribly narrow-minded as a little one, and quite frankly until he actually matured, was quite a brat.

Still was, if the elders' word was anything to go by.

His feelings for Link were true, he was sure, but that didn't mean that he was without worries. Sidon wasn't entirely sure if Link would even be attracted to other males, much less a male of a completely different species. Not to mention being attracted to Sidon, specifically.

He worried that it could change their friendship mostly. Link would never be rude to him, but would he be a bit more distant? Not enough to be obvious, but just enough to be noticeable. In some ways he'd rather Link not know if it meant they could remain the same.

It was the coward's way out though. And Sidon was no coward.

That was a lie, but he didn't let his mind dawdle on it much longer.

Not to mention if Link returned his feelings, Sidon had this distinct feeling that Pops wouldn't be coughing up his approval anytime soon. He had no idea what the wolf had it in for him with, but every time Sidon tried offering his something, he'd just snub him off.

Though he supposed he had only tried twice so far. Perhaps he would be the long gain for approval.

That brought in another candidate though, Princess Zelda. From how they interacted after Calamity Ganon was defeated, Sidon figured it was safe to say the two had grown to be close. Perhaps he would be better asking her for her favor. It'd be more traditional.

A part of Sidon still wanted to gain Pops' favor though. It could be a long-term project.

With that in his mind, Sidon decided he would arrange an audience with Princess Zelda. After she has the gathering of the territories, she is likely incredibly busy, and Sidon had no desire to take time away from things needing to get done.

Perhaps a letter?

No. Too informal. It needed to be done in person.

Sidon could wait. In the meantime, he could figure out how to tell Link of his feelings.

Perhaps he should wait out of the water, he'd be able to see their caravan better.

Sidon waded out of the lake, flicking the cool droplets from his claws as he approached the table. He ignored the exasperated groan from the elder.

All the documents were in their proper place. Thankfully the weather was calm and gentle, so he didn't need to worry about his work getting blown away. Though there was still some rocks holding the key papers down, just in case.

Hyrule really needed to find a less fragile way of communicating, paper was so easy to ruin.

Stone was tedious to work with though, he couldn't imagine Hylians trying to scrawl out disquisition on one, much less Ritos. The Gorons wouldn't have any trouble, though he wasn't sure about the Gerudo.

Perhaps paper was the best for now. Surely there'd have to be something stronger.

He was pulled from his thoughts when he heard wheels of a wagon and horses not too far away.

His companions heard it too apparently, as they exited the water and took a moment to shake some moisture off their scales.

From the road that led up to the lake came more women than he had expected. A lot more.

He counted nine at a glance. Sidon assured himself it was simply because Chieftess Riju had likely never left the desert before. Of course she'd be nervous.

There were three horses, Sidon inclined his head a bit. Only two pulled the wagon, the third was just walking along them.

It looked an awful lot like Achak, if Sidon were to be honest.

The wagon parked a fair distance away, and the one of the women opened the door to the carriage, where a child (?) and a Hylian (?) stepped out.

Was this Chieftess Riju? He had known was young, but he wasn't expecting someone so.. Well, small. She was the size of a baby Zora. The little thing'd be washed away in a light current.

… And she wore quite a lot of adornments. Now that Sidon got a look at them all, everyone did.

Of course it was a different culture, so he was sure the jewelry had different meanings for them than it did for the Zora people, but still. It was a bit jarring to take in.

Fulo chuckled softly beside him, he trusted she would remain professional. He shot her a look, which she evenly returned.

The young Chieftess paused, looking a bit unsure and turned to speak to the Hylian that had ridden in the carriage with her. They seemed to exchange brief and hushed words. Whatever the Hylian said, seemed to calm Chieftess Riju as she squared her shoulders and approached them.

Sidon narrowed his eyes briefly at the Hylian, they wore a veil and was partially obscured by a Gerudo guard that stood near the horses, but they smelled a lot like Link.

His attention shifted to the Chieftess as she approached, six guards with her, the remaining three remained by the carriage.

She stopped in front of him, he swiftly bowed in greeting, "It is an honor to meet you in person, Chieftess Riju."

"The pleasure is mine. I look forward to seeing what you have, I am always looking for ways to benefit my people."

"As am I. I trust you will find the agreements to your liking."

She hummed and approached the table, moving the rocks to the side and looking at what he had. Sidon moved across the table and awaited to hear her opinions. He found his eyes flicking up briefly at the Hylian again, who was leaning against the white horse now.

They were too far away for Sidon to get a good look at, but there were strange marks on their skin, he couldn't tell if it was scar tissue or birthmarks.

Sidon looked back down to Chieftess Riju.

Should he kneel to be on her height? Would that be insulting?

Probably.

Sidon decided to remain at his current height, lest he be seen as degrading towards her stature. She had to be a child, given the women surrounding her were about as tall as the average Zora. One of them was nearly as tall as he was.

Yet she ran her people well, if what little he knows of her was true. She may be young, but she was a capable leader.

She looked up from the paper, then back over her shoulder. She gestured for someone to come over. The three guards didn't budge, and it took both Sidon, and the Hylian apparently, a moment to realize who she had been gesturing to.

The Hylian shifted slightly, but approached nonetheless.

When they did, Sidon felt delight dance along his skin. The odd markings he had noticed before were scars. Dark marks that spread out from under a decorated green top and down the defined stomach, branching out like a tree taking roots.

He knew immediately where someone would get markings like that, and, after seeing him without his tunic just over a month ago, Sidon recognized Link almost immediately.

Of course, Sidon had many questions. Most of them revolving on how he's been, though a few were more prominent to current times, given he had been traveling with an all-female race.

His eyes may have lingered on Link more than appropriate, but it did bring to his attention that Link no longer had his crest around his neck.

Link had worn it every time he saw him, even fighting Calamity Ganon the crest was displayed proudly around his neck. Why would he suddenly take it off now?

He could ask Link later, Sidon supposed, so instead he beamed at the Hylian and would have greeted him proper if not for the look he got.

Sidon wasn't sure he'd seen Link narrow his eyes at him like that before. Had he done something to upset Link?

Did Link find out what the amulet meant, and was angry at him for not telling him sooner? Did that mean the feelings were not returned?

Sidon's head spun. Now was not the time, he was making a deal for his people, he needed to put aside his grievances and focus at the task at hand.

Riju handed Link the papers, to Sidon's confusion. He looked over them quietly, then nodded and smiled behind the sheer veil in front of his face. Link's nose scrunched up a bit, which narrowed his eyes like before.

Ah. The look wasn't directed at him then. Perhaps that meant Link was truly not upset. Why wouldn't he wear the crest anymore then?

The Gerudo were an all-female race, then was Link masquerading as a female to travel with them? That… seemed a bit contrived, but did make sense if he thought about it.

Riju set the papers down, "I agree to the arrangements. I must retrieve a quill from my carriage, one moment."

Sidon nodded, "Absolutely. I am glad they meet your standards."

When Riju walked back to the carriage, one of the guards - the one almost as tall as he was- followed her. Leaving Link and the remaining guards to stay at the table.

Blue and gold looked incredible on Link, if he were to be honest. Though, silver would look better. That could just be bias talking though, Sidon wasn't sure.

Whenever he shifted his posture, there'd be a slight jingle from the gold colliding with other gold. Mostly from his necklaces and the sash around his waist. It was a soft sound, but very pleasing to the ear. He liked the sound of silver better though, more melodious.

Link tilted his head a bit, regarding Sidon with a raised brow. It took a moment, but the Prince then realized he had been quietly staring at Link since Riju had left for her carriage.

Sidon immediately averted his eyes, looking down at the papers. He could hear a soft chuckle from Link, which launched his heart to the heavens. It was slightly muffled from the veil, but it had that same tone he loved to hear when Link laughed.

He wondered if he could get some silver jewelry to fit Link one day. Certainly not anytime soon of course.

Link's nose scrunched up again, and Sidon began to wonder if he was uncomfortable.

Riju returned with a large golden quill, the tip of it's feather shimmered blue when turned at the right angle. It was absolutely lovely.

"This is a ceremonial pen my people use to sign important documents." Riju explained, as she held the feather up for Sidon to see better.

"Its beautiful."

The Chieftess beamed, "Of course it is. Legends say it came from a great bird that once watched over our people. Though it disappeared thousands of years ago."

He wondered if one of the previous heros had ever encountered it. A shame it no longer soared the skies, what could have happened to it? Nothing good, he figured.

Riju read over the agreements once more, then dipped and signed both copies with the ceremonial pen, sealing their race's partnership.

"I will send three travelers when I return home tomorrow." She stated, handing the pen to one of her guards.

"Excellent! I'll make sure the merchant and Guards are there to greet them!" He paused, then inquired, "Will you be unable to return tonight?"

Guards or not, he wouldn't want anyone out in the open when night fell.

"My companion arraigned for room and board for us at a nearby stable." She explained, gesturing to Link. "She dislikes traveling at night when she doesn't need to."

So he had been correct, Link was undercover. Riju had to know his true identity however, right? Perhaps it was just for her guards the charade was kept?

Riju rolled up her copy of the agreements, Sidon had signed them both before she had even arrived, and handed them to another guard.

"Thank you for arraigning this, I am glad to have been able to establish more trade for my people."

"As am I. Let us hope the partnership brings both of our people good fortune."

Riju nodded, then bowed, an action Sidon quickly mimicked. "I am afraid I must leave now, my guards need rest before we leave tomorrow."

"Of course."

Sidon straightened to watch Chieftess Riju and her guards walk back to the carriage.

Link paused briefly, and gave a casual wave to Sidon, "I do not think they know where Outskirt Stable is."

With a chuckle, Sidon gathered his copy of the documents, "I will see you later then. Ah, will you be staying with them tonight?"

"Probably."

After returning to his domain and handling the agreements, he may go see him. Perhaps it'd be the chance to finally speak to Link. It could be his last for some time.

Link was already walking back by the time Sidon looked up again. A large dark mark in the middle of his back immediately caught his attention. A scar?

Sidon briefly remembered seeing it when he treated Link's burns from the lightning creature controlling Vah Naboris, but he figured it was just bruising. It was definitely a scar, an old one too.

He could inquire about it later, Sidon decided. He had to finish preserving the trade and making sure the guards and merchant would be there tomorrow to meet the Gerudo women.

Still, he longed to follow Link and ignore his responsibilities. If only for a little while.

"Gold is _definitely _his color."

Sidon chuffed, deciding not to dignify the elder with a response. Though he couldn't say he disagreed with her.

He carefully slid the rolled up papers into a silver tube and sealed it tightly so they would not get ruined.

"Let us return immediately. Fulo, I will need you to accompany me to the council when we return."

"Of course, my Prince."

* * *

Sidon was being an idiot.

Ignoring his previous worries, here he was, traveling at night. Alone.

He wasn't stupid enough to travel without his trident, but still. He had yet to run into any monsters, however, so Sidon counted the trip to the stable as a win, frankly.

He glanced warily up to the moon, the council had taken longer than Sidon would have liked. Setting up a proper trade station took a bit more than Sidon had expected, there were materials to build required, not to mention deciding who would run and guard the place from potential thieves.

Sidon stepped out of the water, adjusting his adornments carefully. Before he approached the stable, he wanted to make sure he looked as presentable as possible.

It had been tempting to dorn some formal attire, but he felt that would be been overdoing it. Link was not someone who cared much for outward appearances, he figured, so trying to display himself would likely not get him much credit.

Still. He wouldn't want to look like a slob.

As he approached the stable, he expected to go inside it, yet a white flank to his left caught his eye.

Achak was grazing quietly near a fire. The flames illuminated Link's gold hair and the dark fur of his wolf companion.

Confusion overriding his nerves, Sidon quickly approached the little camp he had carved for himself, "Link?"

The Hylian jerked and reached for his sword, though slumped upon actually seeing Sidon.

"Sorry to startle you."

Link stared at him, blinked a few times, then waved it off, relaxing against Pops once more. He was still wearing the clothing the Gerudos had given him - or at least Sidon presumed they had given it to him - though the veil was off and nowhere to be seen.

He was wearing the crest again.

Sidon needed to tell him.

"Sit, you look troubled." Link hummed and patted the ground next to him, after a moment of hesitation, Sidon sat himself beside him.

"Link, my dear friend, I - The time has come for me to tell you the meaning of that pendant around your neck."

Sidon spared a glance down to him, who was watching on with an unreadable expression. It was hard to tell what the Hylian was thinking, but he didn't appear upset, so Sidon drew in a breath and steadied his racing heart.

"I am afraid I may have lied when I bestowed the pendant to you. It does have a meaning, a fairly important one, to both me and my people."

Link remained quiet. Sidon licked his dry lips and turned his gaze to the dancing flames, "The pendant is a crest. My crest - or well the Royal Family's crest - and, ah, it holds a significance that I should have told you before I presented it to you."

Sidon tried to continue, but no words came out. He had written what he wanted to say to Link, but mumbling them to himself was far different than actually speaking them to him.

"It's for courtship, isn't it?"

Sidon froze. He glanced down at Link, hoping for an expression that wouldn't break Sidon's heart.

Link didn't appear upset, or hurt, or well, anything. Instead he was looking down at the amulet, now gently held in his calloused hands. His brows furrowed, and Sidon stiffened when blue eyes met his own.

Sidon took a steadying breath and nodded, "Yes. I - Who told you?"

Link chuckled and let the pendant rest around his neck, "You. Just now."

"... I do not follow."

"I knew it was more important than you let on from the start. I walked past Muzu and he looked scandalized." Link grabbed a stick beside him and poked at the flames, "Zelda had been excited when she noticed it, she was glad I had found someone. That tipped me off."

Of course. Princess Zelda was, well, a Princess. She would know the ins and outs of other races, being in the middle of Hyrule she likely had interacted with all of them on a regular enough basis to know the culture well. Not to mention any research she may have done on the side.

"I had a speech planned out, if you care to hear it anyway."

"You _planned _a speech?"

Sidon scoffed, "Even Princes such as I can get nervous…" He rested his arms on his knees and deflated a touch, "I… I can take the crest back if you like."

An aggressive snort resounded beside Sidon, catching him off-guard. He looked down to see Link holding his crest to his chest almost possessively, "Why?"

"Ah, well, if you do not return my affections, traditionally you would need to return the crest."

Link stared at him, and Sidon began to grow nervous under his narrowed gaze. After a moment, he replied, "Am I not permitted to respond?"

Sidon blinked and turned to fully face Link, "No, of course not. Please, speak your mind my friend."

Link's eyes remained on Sidon, unwavering and frankly incredibly unsettling. If only for a moment, Sidon would loved to be gifted with an ability to read minds, as Link certainly was refraining from speaking his.

Achak moved to a new grazing spot closer to the stable.

"You are good." Link finally spoke, the words tumbled out of his mouth like rocks off the face of a mountain. Blunt and forced.

Sidon decided to remain silent this time, finally seeing traces of an expression on Link's face. His brows were furrowed and mouth was pulled taut, lips pressed tightly together.

"I - Well, _you _\- ah fuck." Link threw his hands up in an act of exasperation, "You are the most considerate man - hell, _living being _\- I've ever met, and I've met a lot, you are incredible in every way. I mean, look at your… everything. You could have anyone anywhere and that you chose me is fucking stupid, and _you're _stupid, but if you think I'm just going to hand your crest back now you've got another thing coming."

That… That was the most Sidon had ever seen Link speak at once.

Sidon stared at him, did that mean he actually returned his feelings? Link had spoken so fast he really only absorbed being called stupid and that Link didn't want to give him the amulet.

Link glanced away after a moment, a redness sprouting from his cheeks to his ears. Despite himself, Sidon could feel a grin snaking past his lips. "Link?"

"I like you. More than I should." Link mumbled, still not meeting Sidon's eyes.

Like that the tension that had seeded itself into his body blossomed into sheer joy. He laughed, "Eloquent."

"Not all of us prepare speeches." Link grunted.

"I thought it was lovely."

His only response was a low grumble. Sidon rested his hands on his lap, "So then you give me permission to court you?"

Link glanced at him, less red but still noticeably pink, and tilted his head with a raised brow.

"You wouldn't know of our courtship traditions, right." Sidon hummed, "Allow me to explain. When a Zora finds someone they desire to take as a mate, they must court their desired first. In order to do that, they must present them with a gift. Armor or jewelry, like my crest, are the most common. When their desired accepts the gift, the Zora then would have to gain the favor of someone in their desired's family. Though friends are often choices as well."

"_ That's _why you were trying to get Pops to like you?"

Sidon rubbed his neck, "Yes, I may have skipped the first step." He frowned, "I do not think Pops will be giving me his approval anytime soon though. So I have considered asking Princess Zelda, given she seems to be close to you."

Link turned back to the fire and nodded.

"I have done enough behind your back. Do I have your permission to pursue you in courtship?"

Silence filled the air. While it was difficult, Sidon forced himself to remain quiet and calm. Whatever Link's decision was, Sidon would be ok with.

Link poked at the fire, chewing on his bottom lip. Sidon admired the way the fire glinted off the gold he wore, even in the dark he shone like a beacon. Link set the stick down and steepled his fingers under his chin, brows furrowing into a troubled expression.

After what frankly felt like ages, he closed his eyes and drew in a breath. He glanced up to Sidon, "Yes. You have my permission."

Sidon did not know how to react. He was ecstatic, warmth and joy filled his heart and he just wanted to bring Link to him in a hug. He refrained, as much as he wanted to hold Link close, he didn't think the Hylian would enjoy it much.

Small actions, little flinches when others hugged him, threw an arm around his shoulders, Sidon was not blind. Such physical actions made Link uncomfortable, _why _, Sidon did not know. He disliked them, and that was enough for him.

So instead, he settled on holding out his hand to Link. He stared at it, then eventually, placed his hand on the white palm. Sidon beamed and wrapped his fingers around Link's, "This alright?"

Link narrowed his eyes at him, not maliciously, but it was clear he didn't know what Sidon was getting at. So Sidon gently squeezed Link's hand, "This doesn't make you uncomfortable?"

Surprise bloomed in Link's face. After a beat, Link actually smiled ever so slightly, and shook his head, looking back at the fire, "No. This is fine."

Pops settled himself on the other side of Link, not actually wedging himself between them, but still placed his head on Link's knee. The wolf lifted his lip at Sidon for a moment, then closed his eyes and slumped against Link proper.

It was a small victory Sidon was happy to claim.

"Why do you need the Princess's favor?"

Sidon tilted his head down to meet Link's inquisitive gaze, "It's tradition. I'm not sure if you noticed, but my people are very proud.."

"I had _no _idea."

He ignored Link's sarcastic grousing and continued, "Thousands of years ago, something happened and our race's numbers dwindled. What exactly happened is unknown, but from that our courtship tradition was founded. You see, back then we needed only the strongest to breed, so we could ensure the survival of our people. So before a couple could become mates, they had to prove they were of strong blood, by earning the favor of their family, and proving themselves as capable mates."

Sidon glanced up to the stars, "Evidently, it worked. While the tradition no longer serves its intended purpose, it is still something we perform to prove ourselves as worthy of our desired's affections."

Link grunted, "Seems like an awful lot of work just to fuck somebody."

Sidon coughed his surprise, "It's not about earning your right to…_ fuck them _\- if they even want to mate at all. Its proving that you'll be able to take care of them, and support them through the good times and the bad."

"Ugh. How dreadfully cheesy."

"Yes, well, it's what we do. I will happily be 'dreadfully cheesy' to earn my place at your side." Sidon hummed.

"I take it back, go court a goat if you love cheese so much." Link grunted and swatted at Sidon's hand, getting him to release the one he held within.

The movements were slightly exaggerated, and despite his words, Sidon could see the small smile hidden on his face. He laughed and leaned closer to Link, basking in the small Hylain's warmth and scent. Gentle, like a forest or hidden spring, yet even through the soft smell, Sidon could still smell the danger that rippled beneath the surface. It was enticing, yet in it's own strange way, comforting.

He captured Link's hand within his own again, interlocking what he could of their fingers. It was a miserable attempt, Sidon's fingers were too far apart for Link to fit only one digit between, not to mention the webbing that spanned them. Still, Link didn't pull away and that was a victory for Sidon.

The moon was high in the sky, reaching it's peak. Sidon should not stay much longer. He squeezed Link's hand again, earning a disinterested grunt from him.

"Link, will you be able to make it to Zora's domain in the near future?"

"No, probably not. Princess Zelda has me rather busy…" Link trailed off and furrowed his brows.

There was more to that, but Sidon let it be for now. He'd just have to visit Link then, it seemed. Not that he'd mind of course. It'd be an excellent time to begin earning Princess Zelda's favor.

Now, however, Sidon planned on staying as long as he could with Link. He would need to return to his people soon, until then - Sidon ran his thumb over Link's knuckles - he would remain here.


	78. (T) IRONWINTER - I'll Be Your Bodyguard

I'll Be Your Bodyguard (If You'll Be My Security Blanket)  
NarutoRox

Summary:  
When one of Loki's pranks gone wrong leaves the team with a young Winter Soldier in their care, they know they're going to have their hands full. Especially since this newer, tinier version of Bucky seems to have a bodyguard complex - and a particular attachment to Tony.

* * *

"Okay, you've got to admit though - it's pretty adorable." Clint said, resting his chin in his hand and actually _cooing _in Tony's direction.

Tony responded by flipping him off with his left hand, since his right was currently petting the hair of the little boy attached to his side.

The little boy who had been a full-grown, very deadly assassin only an hour earlier.

"Can it, Clint," Steve snapped, rubbing a hand over his eyes and shooting the child a tired, tentative little smile.

Tony felt the boy shiver and press himself more firmly against Tony's side, the death-grip he had on Tony's leg increasing.

Steve's face fell, but he shook his head at the apologetic look Tony gave him. "It's fine, Tony," he said softly, his features going from concerned friend to fearless leader in a heartbeat as he turned back to address the rest of the room. "Thor, you're sure this is Loki's work?"

"Aye, I am certain." Thor said gravely, nodding towards the open box lying in the middle of the common room floor. "It has his signature written all over it, and is reminiscent of similar pranks he once played in our youth."

Steve grimaced, a muscle in his jaw twitching as he glanced between Tony and the box. "Any chance of getting him back here to fix it?" he asked, settling back on Thor.

"Of course, Captain. If it can be done, I shall endeavor to find him and make it so. You have my word." Thor vowed, turning on his heel without another word and marching towards the elevator.

Bruce scrambled after him, clapping a hand on Steve's shoulder on his way out and calling after Thor, probably intent on getting more information so the rest of them would have more than 'Loki played a mean prank' to work on.

"Right, well," Tony said once they were gone, clearing his throat awkwardly and glancing helplessly around the room. "What do we do until then?"

The other occupants of the room either avoided eye contact or gaped back at him, but no one answered his question.

The sound of the little boy's stomach rumbling broke the silence.

"You hungry, kiddo?" Tony asked cautiously, pulling his hand back to brush away some of the hair that had fallen over the kid's eyes. Bright blue eyes peeked back at him, and then the kid nodded, a tentative little thing that was barely noticeable unless you were looking for it.

Tony tried to smile reassuringly at him. "Okay, then, how about a bite to eat?" he asked, offering his hand.

There was a second's hesitation, and then, to his surprise, the kid took it and smiled back at him. Tony grinned, and then he was leading a very small, very quiet Bucky Barnes into the kitchen for something to eat.

~X~

They didn't know why Bucky was so attached to Tony, other than the figuring it had something to do with Tony and Bucky being together when it happened.

'It' being Bucky yanking the package Tony had opened out of Tony's hand just as the contents of the package - a fuzzy teddy bear - had started to glow.

Then, between one blink and the next, Tony had found himself on the ground, an armful of tiny, terrified Bucky Barnes sniffling and asking if he was okay while the rest of the Avengers had stormed the living room, yelling and adding to the general confusion.

Bucky had then attached himself to Tony's side like a limpet and remained so ever since, barely speaking a word and practically climbing Tony in his determination to avoid contact with anyone and everyone else. It had been all Tony could do to keep the kid from going into hysterics.

Which made the current scene of him sitting in Tony's lap, eating macaroni and cheese, all the more surreal - at least to Tony, anyway.

"How old do you think he is?" Steve asked, chewing his lower lip nervously and watching as Bucky shoveled in mac and cheese, making delighted little sounds that were, quite frankly, adorable.

"I dunno… five or six, maybe?" Bruce suggested, his face pinched pensively. "Maybe we should just… ask him?"

They all turned to Tony expectantly, who groaned. "Seriously?"

"Hey, he's not talking to us, and he seems to like you." Clint pointed out, shrugging and twirling the spoon he was holding between his fingers. "You've got the best chance of getting an answer out of him."

Tony sighed and looked imploringly to Steve, who shrugged helplessly. "He's got a point."

Sighing again, Tony shifted a bit and tapped the top of Bucky's head. Bucky tilted his head back at him and smiled, relaxing against Tony's chest and offering his full spoon to him.

There was a muffled snort of laughter from Steve, of all people, which Tony ignored as he smiled back down at Bucky. "Uh, thanks, buddy, but I'll eat in a minute. Hey, you want to tell me how old you are?"

Bucky cocked his head to the side, his brow and nose crinkled adorably.

Someone - Bruce, maybe? - sucked in a breath, and Tony had no doubt it was to contain the 'aww' he himself was having to fight down.

"You, you know. How old are you? Like, uh, five, or six, or…?"

"Old," Bucky said, startling Tony into nearly dropping him. Steve clapped his hand over his mouth to muffle whatever sound tried to escape, his eyes sparkling with both mirth and hope.

"Does that mean he knows what's going on?" Clint asked, frowning and looking around at the room at large. "Like, is it still adult Bucky in there, or…?"

Tony swallowed, fighting down a fit of nerves, because holding a child Bucky in his lap was one thing, but holding a child with adult-Bucky's consciousness… "Bucky, do you know where you are?"

Bucky nodded, swinging his legs absently. "Home. Your tower."

Tony looked over at Bruce, who made a 'go on' motion at him.

"Then you know… you know who I am?" he asked, trying to ignore the others' scrutiny.

Bucky beamed at him, an expression so filled with warmth that it took Tony's breath away. "Of course! You're Tony," he said, reaching back and patting Tony's face before returning to his food.

Tony blinked, dumbstruck, and looked back up to find the others in a similar state. "Uh…"

"Okay, this is fucking _weird _," Clint muttered, disturbed. "I mean, if he's got some of Bucky in there you'd think he'd be all over Steve, not…" he flopped a hand at Tony. "Even Sam or Nat, or, hell, me, I've got more dad vibes than Tony."

Tony scowled at him. "And just what is that supposed to mean, Barton? I'm not good enough?" he snapped, not noticing the way Bucky had gone still in his lap.

"No, 'course not. Just, you know, you're… you?" Clint suggested, shrugging. "Look, I'm not trying to - hey!" he yelped as a wad of macaroni and cheese went sailing through the air and hit him in the face. "What, what the hell?!"

Natasha doubled over laughing, while Clint wiped his face in shock.

Amused and astonished himself, Tony looked down at Bucky, who was glaring murderously at Clint.

"Leave Tony alone!" he cried, dipping his spoon into his bowl to reload.

Clint threw his arms up in surrender. "Okay okay, jeez! It won't happen again," he assured hastily, backing up and hiding behind Steve, who'd joined in on Natasha's laughter.

Bucky scowled, tilting his spoon back and no doubt willing to take another shot around Steve's bulk, but Tony grabbed his hand before he could let fly.

"We're good, buddy." Tony assured him, ruffling his hair with his other hand. "I think Clint has learned his lesson, okay?"

Bucky frowned, then nodded, once, and offered him another bite of mac and cheese, his little face morphing as he smiled warmly at him.

"I'll protect you," he told Tony solemnly after he'd accepted the bite, patting his face clumsily again.

"My hero," Tony said hoarsely, ignoring the choked-off laughter from the others.

~X~

Thus began the reign of tiny bodyguard Bucky.

It was cute and sweet, really - or at least, Tony thought so. Everyone else? Not so much. Not after the first day or two, anyway.

For anyone who crossed Tony - or at least, crossed Tony in Bucky's eyes - made it onto Bucky's shit list, and no infraction was too small.

Clint remained at the top of the list thanks to his stunt in the kitchen, and got something thrown at him whenever he got within spitting distance of Tony and his new defender.

After Clint came Natasha, though there was no discernable reason for it. They thought perhaps that on some subliminal level Bucky remembered what she could do and was capable of, because he seemed to consider her the largest threat. He wouldn't let her anywhere near Tony, putting his little body between them whenever she entered the room and refusing to let her touch Tony directly, shooting her suspicious glares whenever he saw her.

Sam got on Bucky's bad side by throwing a water bottle at Tony and missing, hitting Tony in the shoulder instead of his outstretched hand, and leading to Bucky pelting a juice box at the back of Sam's head hard enough to knock him over.

Bruce made the list by getting too 'snuggly' with Tony on the couch, resulting in a tiny foot wedging itself in his crotch, and several tense moments of Tony looking for signs of green while trying to put himself between Bucky and a possible Hulk - a task made more difficult by Bucky attempting to do the same to Tony.

Pepper was a meanie that tried to make Tony go to a meeting when Bucky wanted to nap with him on the couch. Tony's entire coffee pot was demolished after Tony burned his tongue on a sip. Dum-E was hit with a stapler for accidentally dropping Tony's smoothie into his lap. The list went on and on.

Tony actually had to sit down and have a talk with Bucky about throwing things, which he'd thought had gone well - right up until Bucky bit Steve for playfully punching Tony in the shoulder an hour later. Which led to another talk, because if throwing things wasn't okay, neither was chewing on people.

Tony really couldn't believe this was his life now.

"I'd say it was adorable if it wasn't so terrifying," Sam grumbled, eyeing Bucky - who was fast asleep, sprawled across Tony's lap on the couch - warily.

"That's one way of putting it," Clint agreed, scowling. "When is Thor getting back?"

"He didn't exactly give a timetable," Steve grumbled tiredly, rubbing his arm. "I can't believe he _bit _me - I think he drew blood."

"I can't believe you felt it through all that muscle," Tony retorted, rubbing his hand up and down Bucky's back. "And he didn't mean it, he just…"

"Oh, he meant it, all right. His jaw locked," Steve replied, wincing at the memory. "What I want to know is why. Clint's right, it's a little odd how attached he got to you, but this protective streak is what alarms me."

"He was protecting Tony when he was transformed - maybe that has something to do with it." Natasha suggested, watching them all with crossed arms. "The sentiment could have carried over."

"Maybe," Tony conceded, watching the way Bucky's nose scrunched adorably in his sleep. "As long as it's the biggest problem we have to deal with, though, it's fine by me."

There were several mutters of "Speak for yourself," but Tony didn't pay them any mind. He was too busy trying to figure out if Bucky really had someone's hair in his fist, and mentally preparing himself for a hair-pulling talk tomorrow.

~X~

Their biggest snafu came, though, when a call to assemble came in on the second day.

If it had been any other run-of-the-mill call, Tony would have stayed home, but Doom's newest creations were flyers, and they needed the aerial support.

And the second Tony got ready to suit up, Bucky pitched a fit.

"No!" he wailed, throwing himself at Tony's legs and actually _climbing _him in order to cling to Tony's neck. "You can't!"

Tony winced, quickly wrapping his arms around Bucky to keep him from falling off or making them both pitch forward. He looked over at Steve, who was already suited up with the cowl on, his mouth in a tense line. "Bucky-"

"No! You'll get hurt!" Bucky cried, wrapping his legs around Tony's waist and clinging like a limpet. "I won't let you!"

"Bucky, we need him. It's important," Steve told him, putting a hand on Bucky's shoulder. "Bruce will stay here with you, but Tony-"

"NO!" Bucky yelled, smacking Steve's hand away and gripping Tony tighter. "I won't let you take him!"

"He's not taking me anywhere, sweetheart," Tony said carefully, grimacing apologetically at Steve, who looked crushed. "We're going, together, to take out bad guys. If we don't, people could get hurt. You don't want that happening, do you?"

Bucky's lower lip wobbled pathetically. "What if _you _get hurt, though?" he sniffled, eyes swimming with tears. "What if you get hurt, and I'm not there to protect you? What if you don't come back? What if-"

"No, no no, buddy, I promise. I'll come back. And Steve, here, will have my back - right, Steve?"

Steve nodded vigorously. "Promise," he vowed, looking right into Bucky's eyes. "The whole team will."

Bucky glared, his grip on Tony tightening. "You better," he growled, eyes narrowed. "You'd better, or I'll, I'll-"

"He gets the picture, buddy." Tony said, setting Bucky down. "I'll be right back, just as soon as the fight is over, okay? And then we can order pizza and watch Toy Story. Deal?"

Bucky nodded reluctantly, his face still scrunched unhappily, then jerked forward and gave Tony a sloppy kiss on the cheek.

"Be careful," he said in a small voice, hugging Tony tightly.

Tony felt his face heat, but that didn't stop him from hugging back - or placing a quick kiss to Bucky's hair.

~X~

Tony blinked groggily, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why he felt so warm. He shifted, noticing most of the warmth was radiating from his left side, and looked down to find Bucky snuggled up against him atop the blankets.

Wait - blankets? Was he in bed? What was he doing in bed - hadn't he just been fighting Doombots?

"Oh good, you're awake." someone said, drawing Tony's attention to the right side of the bed. Clint waved cheerfully at him, then offered Tony a cup of water with a straw.

Tony grunted in acknowledgement, trying to lean over and take the cup without disturbing Bucky. Clint obligingly moved closer and guided the straw to Tony's mouth, handing the cup to him once Tony untangled his right hand from the blankets.

"What happened?" Tony asked once he'd taken a few sips, shifting again and wincing at the soreness.

"You don't remember? Well, I guess you wouldn't, you got hit pretty hard," Clint remarked, taking the cup back from him and placing it on the side table.

Tony squinted at him. "I got hit?"

"More like thrown," Natasha corrected from the other side of the bed, scaring the bejeezus out of Tony.

"Christ, woman! Don't scare me like that - I'm bedridden!" Tony hissed, clutching his chest.

Natasha smirked and clucked her tongue at him. "You can consider it payback for scaring everyone else." she said, giving his foot a gentle squeeze through the blankets. "Bruce says you're fine, amazingly, just some bumps and bruises. You'll be sore, but you'll live." Her face softened, her gaze falling on the little body curled up against Tony's.

Tony's stomach dropped.

"Oh, God," Tony groaned, shifting to stare down at Bucky. His complexion was red and blotchy, like he'd been crying, and the blanket by his face was damp.

"Yeah, it wasn't pretty." Clint informed him, leaning back in his chair and propping his feet up on the bed. "It took us forever to calm him down. He was furious - he bit Steve again, by the way - and wouldn't leave your side once we got you back to the tower."

Tony winced, pulling his left arm free so he could wrap it around Bucky and tug him closer.

"Steve feels awful - about breaking his promise, not the bite, though I doubt that feels good, either - but on the bright side, me and Nat are back on Bucky's good side." Clint continued, wiggling his eyebrows.

Tony cocked his head in confusion.

"We're the ones that brought you back, and Clint shot the Doombot that threw you into that building," Natasha explained, shoving Clint's feet off the bed and shooting him a reproachful look when he rolled his eyes at her.

"He made us your honorary bodyguards." Clint added, nodding gravely, then yelping when Natasha pinched him.

Bucky started at the noise, jerking awake with a snort. He looked around blearily, his eyes widening and then welling up with tears when they settled on Tony.

"Tony!" he cried, scooting forward and wrapping his arms around Tony. "You're awake," he sobbed, burying his face in the crook of Tony's neck. "I thought you weren't going to wake up, I thought-"

"Hey, hey, shhh, it's okay, I'm okay." Tony soothed, running his hand up and down Bucky's back. "It's fine, see? I told you I'd come back, and I did." He heard the click of the door, and when he looked up Natasha and Clint were missing.

Bucky pulled away to inspect Tony's face carefully, patting Tony's right cheek where it felt like a bruise was forming. "But you got hurt," he accused, narrowing his eyes. "You got hurt, and you wouldn't wake up, and I was _scared _," he said, shivering in Tony's lap. "And you said, and Steve said, and," He gulped, more tears falling down his cheeks. "You got _hurt _."

"I know, sweetheart. And I'm sorry," Tony sighed, shifting Bucky so his weight wasn't pressing on any sore places - which Tony was realizing was pretty much everywhere. God, he'd forgotten how much get thrown through a building _hurt _. "But I came back, just like I said I would. And you can't be mad at Steve, because it wasn't his fault. He feels just as bad about this as you do, I know it."

Bucky glowered, his hands clenching into fists. "But he said-"

"He said he'd have my back, which he did." Tony reminded him, running his hands down down Bucky's arms and gently forcing Bucky's hands to uncurl. "But sometimes things happen that are out of our control. There wasn't anything he could do, it just happened. Do you think you could have done anything if you'd been there?"

Bucky looked down at their hands. "No," he said quietly, wrapping his right hand around Tony's thumb. "But that's why I didn't want you to go. If you hadn't gone, you wouldn't have been hurt."

"Maybe," Tony agreed. "But Steve might have. Or Clint, or Natasha, or Sam, or anyone else that got in Doom's way. And then what?"

Bucky squirmed uncomfortably. "You'd be sad," he said, biting his lip.

Tony shifted him again to get his attention. "_ I'd _be sad? They're your friends, too, buddy." Tony reminded him gently.

Bucky nodded, but still wouldn't look Tony in the eye. "I'd be sad, too." he agreed, then added, almost shyly, "But you're my favorite."

Tony laughed, a feeling he didn't want to examine too closely blooming in his chest. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be? I'm everyone's favorite."

Bucky grinned, eyes sparkling, then leaned forward and curled up against Tony's chest. "I'm glad you're okay, Tony."

Tony leaned back against the pillows and tugged the blankets up around them, gently ruffling Bucky's hair. "Me too, kiddo." he mumbled, eyes heavy.

"Are you going back to sleep, now?"

"Just for a little while, buddy." Tony mumbled around a yawn, kissing Bucky's hair.

Bucky was quiet for a minute, long enough that Tony thought he might have drifted off. Then, "Goodnight, Tony."

Tony chuckled. "Night night, snowflake."

~X~

Tony startled awake some time later, disoriented, and unsure of what had woken him up.

He didn't know how long he'd been asleep, but could see it was still dark out, so it couldn't have been long.

He yawned, deciding to try giving sleep another try, when he heard a sniffle.

"Bucky?" Tony whispered, shifting around until he could get a good look at Bucky's face. "Are you okay?"

He got a pitiful little sob in answer - one that made his own throat tighten in sympathy - and sat up, pulling Bucky with him.

Bucky's face was wet, his eyes red and swollen, little face pinched in misery. "S-sorry…"

"Sorry?" Tony asked, alarmed, cupping Bucky's face and tilting his head back. "Bucky? Baby, what's wrong?"

"S-scared," Bucky sniffled, rubbing at his eyes. "I h-had a b-bad dream. D-didn't mean to w-wake you."

Tony froze, his heart sinking. "Wake me? Buddy, you never need to worry about that." he whispered, pulling Bucky in for a hug. "Never, you hear me? If you need something, no matter what it is or what I'm doing, you need to come tell me, okay?"

Bucky sniffled and nodded, tentatively wrapping his arms around Tony's neck. Tony kissed his temple and rocked them slowly, waiting until he felt Bucky start to relax before speaking again.

"So," he prompted, carefully pulling back enough to watch Bucky's face. "Bad dream?"

Bucky tensed. "Uh-huh," he mumbled, gripping the collar of Tony's shirt.

"Wanna talk about it?"

Bucky shook his head and hid his face in Tony's shoulder.

Tony nodded. "I understand," he said, leaning back against the headboard. "I don't like talking about my nightmares, either."

Bucky's head popped back up, eyes wide. "You get bad dreams, too?"

Tony smiled sadly. "Sure. Everybody does. Some more than others, but," He shrugged.

Bucky swallowed as he mulled that over. "What are your dreams about?" he asked softly, resting his head against Tony's shoulder.

Tony closed his eyes, fighting off a shudder at the thought. "Caves. Uh, water." He gulped and opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling so he wouldn't have to picture the stars. "Space and darkness, and being alone." He hugged Bucky a little tighter. "You help chase some of that away, though, buddy."

Bucky sat up, mouth open in awe. "Really?"

Tony chuckled. "Really." he said, brushing the hair out of Bucky's eyes.

Bucky looked down and chewed on his lip, pensieve, before looking back up to meet Tony's gaze. "Do you think…" He squirmed, his face filtering through emotions Tony couldn't identify. "Do you think you could chase away my bad dreams, Tony?"

Tony swallowed, and pulled Bucky back against his chest.

"I can sure try," Tony promised, tucking Bucky under his chin.

~X~

When Tony and Bucky came down for breakfast the next morning, it was to find the Avengers all assembled in the living room with Thor, a strange, glowing blue stone before them on the coffee table.

"Hey, big guy. When did you get back?" Tony asked carefully, noticing the way Bucky was tensing beside him and running a soothing hand through his hair. "You guys should have said something. J, why didn't you tell me?"

"We asked him not to - we didn't want to wake you," Steve said, standing up and smiling faintly at Bucky, who scowled back. "Thor was just telling us about the spell to reverse all this, and it seems pretty straightforward. Bucky just has to touch this stone, and whatever Loki did will dissipate."

Tony frowned, eyeing the stone distrustfully, while the death-grip Bucky had on his fingers increased. "Are we sure it's… I dunno, safe? I mean, how much do we trust what Loki has to say about things? You did get this from Loki, didn't you?"

"Your concerns are understood, but unfounded," Thor assured him, gesturing to the stone. "Once Loki divulged the nature of the spell, we were able to determine that this would work. It has been used to counter many enchantments in Asgard for centuries, and with no ill-effects. Our young shield-brother will still be well when this is over."

Tony nodded, biting his lip. "Okay… okay, I guess-"

"No." said a tiny, sullen voice, muffled by Tony's shirt. "I don't want to."

The room went dead silent as everyone took that in, glancing to one another.

Steve was the first to react. "Bucky, you can't-"

"NO! I don't want to, and you can't make me! Right, Tony?" Bucky pleaded, turning bright, watery eyes to Tony, and making Tony's stomach drop.

"Buddy…" he said carefully, combing a hand through Bucky's hair. He couldn't think of what to say, and glanced helplessly up at Steve.

"We have to reverse the spell, Bucky." Steve said firmly, bending down to Bucky's level. "This isn't negotiable. Thor says he doesn't know what the spell could do to you, long term. And Tony wants you to be safe, too. Don't you, Tony?" Steve said pointedly, looking up at Tony.

Tony glared daggers back, because that was low - real low. He made a face which he hoped conveyed that they were definitely going to talk about this later and, feeling like a heel, tried to smile reassuringly down at Bucky, who looked stricken.

"No!' Bucky whined, burying his head in Tony's stomach and squeezing tighter. "If I turn back, you won't love me anymore, or cuddle, or chase away the bad dreams, and, and-" He burst into a fresh wave of sobs that made the rest of his words unintelligible, his little body shaking.

Tony swallowed painfully, the part of his heart that wasn't breaking into tiny pieces catching in his throat.

"Bucky, baby, snowflake," Tony murmured, bending down so he was at Bucky's eye level and fighting back tears of his own. "I promise you, no matter what, that that won't happen. Do you hear me? I don't care if you're big or small, young or old, two or twenty - I will always be here for you. I'll always keep you safe after a bad dream, and you can have all the hugs and cuddles you want." He cupped Bucky's face in his hands and wiped some of the tears away with his thumbs. "I will _always _love you, period. Okay?"

Bucky sniffed, his lower lip wobbling pitifully. "P-promise?" he sniffled, bunching his little hands in the fabric of Tony's shirt.

Tony nodded. "Promise," he said hoarsely, and kissed Bucky's forehead. He then looked over at Steve - who looked almost as upset as Tony felt - and nodded again, standing up and taking Bucky's hand in his.

Bucky squeezed his hand back, the grip strong for someone so little.

"Do we have to do this now, guys?" Tony asked, trying to keep his voice even.

"The sooner the better, my friend." Thor answered somberly. "The longer the spell lasts the more likely it is to have a lasting impact on our little shield-brother. It would be best to get it over with."

Tony nodded, but Bucky beat him to it.

"Okay," he said quietly, taking a trembling step forward, then glancing back up at Tony.

"Promise?" he whispered again, tugging Tony down towards him.

"Absolutely," Tony whispered back, giving him a tight hug.

Swallowing hard, Bucky stepped back and took a deep breath, then reached out and touched the stone.

There was a bright flash of light - not unlike the one that had gotten them into this mess to begin with - and then Tony found himself standing next to a full-grown Bucky Barnes, who staggered sideways.

Tony reached out and caught him before he could fall, Thor on his other side in an instant, while Steve rushed forward.

"Buck? You okay?" Steve asked worriedly as Thor and Tony helped Bucky to the couch.

Bucky grunted back. "Stevie? Yeah, yeah I'm-" He turned and made eye contact with Tony, and just like that, his face shut down, going carefully blank and empty.

Tony smiled faintly, backing up to let Steve take his place, and swallowed the painful lump in his throat as both Steve and Bruce started grilling Bucky, asking him on how he felt, what he remembered, and a bunch of other things Tony wasn't really paying attention to. Someone touched his arm, and when he turned he found Natasha at his side, smiling sadly at him.

Tony couldn't bring himself to return the gesture.

~X~

That night found Tony sitting outside on the balcony, watching the city lights with a cup of coffee in hand.

He couldn't sleep - not without images of soft brown hair covering blue eyes or tiny hands reaching for his interrupting his dreams - and didn't have the concentration to head down to the workshop. He'd thought being out here would clear his head, but all he could think about was how cold he felt without Bucky's comforting weight against his side.

Tony closed his eyes, rubbing a hand over his face, and tried to think of something - anything - else, when he heard a throat clear behind him.

He jumped and turned, startled, and couldn't help the sound of surprise that escaped him.

Because there was Bucky, hovering uncertainly in the doorway, watching Tony with red-rimmed eyes - full grown, but reminding Tony so much of his smaller self that Tony's chest ached.

Bucky hunched over on himself a little under Tony's gaze, hesitancy in every line of his body, but still took a step forward.

"I-" he swallowed visibly, his mouth trembling. "I had a, a bad dream," he said hoarsely, shivering and looking at Tony with so much hopeful yearning it hurt.

So Tony smiled, and, feeling like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, did the only thing he could do - opened his arms.


	79. (O) DILLINSKI - Is it you? by WindexNoi

Is it you?  
Windex_Noises

Summary:  
Rich didn't understand the concept of soulmates. There are stories of many people never finding their soulmates, or falling in love with someone else. He thought he wouldn't care if he found his soulmate, he probably wouldn't even fall for them. He never thought it would be a big deal, until one day when 3 of his friends agreed to write to their soulmate, the same words started to appear on his arm.

* * *

Chapter 01: Fuck.

Rich reluctantly got out of bed and looked down at his left arm, praying nothing was there.

_Good Morning, Soulmate! Feel free to write back whenever, but you don't have too!_

He sighed and looked through his closet did you find Jeremy to find a sweater to wear. He didn't care if it was going to be 80 degrees later that today, he didn't want to look at his soulmate trying to contact him. Rich thought they would've given up by now. They had been trying to get him to talk back for years at this point, and not once has Rich replied. He doesn't believe in soulmates. His parents did, and look where they are, divorced despite being soulmates leaving their only child in the hands of his alcoholic father.

"Lucky me…" He rolled his eyes and grabbed his backpack, heading into the living room to (not surprisingly) seeing his father passed out and wasted on the couch. Rich glared at him before leaving the house, starting the 20 minute walk to school. It was hot, but it was better then seeing black ink appear and disappear from his arm written by a stranger. Rich wished his soulmate was foreign, then it would look like he had a cool tattoo everyday with some deep meaning but in a different language. Maybe someone would actually want to talk with him then… He's still be an outcast, but possibly have a few friends…?

Rich pushed through the crowded halls to get to the cafeteria quickly. Of course he was late to school. Of course he only had 7 minutes to get his food, eat it and be outside of class before the bell rang. Of fucking course Chloe had to "accidentally" spill her coffee on him when he entered the school. Why was he only ever noticed when he didn't want to be? Why is he a target for the popular assholes? His childish sweaters probably don't help…

"Goranski!" An adult called out, he turned around, not knowing why the teacher sounded so angry… "Principal's office, now."

Rich froze. "I-I'm sorry.. What did I do?" He was genuinely confused. He just got here and- Damn it. He only has 5 minutes to eat and he's not even in the cafeteria yet.

"Don't play innocent with me! Ms. Valentine told us how you hit poor Quinn." The teacher tsked and pointed down the hall to the main office. Who the hell is Quinn? Rich huffed and shoved past the teacher. If he was going to hit anyone it would be Chloe. He'd do it with no hesitation. What has he done to make her hate him so much, to the point of framing him hitting another kid? Quinn was probably another popular kid or a kid she bribed, considering Rich saw him heading towards the office as well. This was going to be hell.

"Mr. Goranski." Principal Morris eyed down Rich, speaking in a tone only people with power over others seemed to have. "Did you hit Quinn in an act of self defense?"

"Sir, I already told you! He just hit me!" Quinn looked as if he would cry if the Principal didn't believe him.

"I didn't even know this guy existed until a teacher came up to me and said I hit him." Rich stated flatly. He doesn't want to up with this. He was hungry, tired, and needs to get to class. They have a test today over space damnit, that's one of the only things Rich was passionate about.

"All other witnesses have told us otherwise." Morris raised an eyebrow at the boys. "This could all be quickly resolved if you admit you hit him, Goranski."

"For the last time I didn't hit Quapadro." Rich leaned back in his chair.

"Wha- How do you mix up 'Quinn' and 'Quapadro'? They sound nothing alike!" Quinn snarled. "He always calls me that. He knows I hate it." Rich could tell he was trying not to smile.

Morris looked over at the clock then back at Rich with an unreadable expression. "Weeks detention. Get to class."

Walking out of the office Quinn was smiling. Jokes on him, the more time away from home Rich got the better. He was basically the parent at that house. What other 14 year old could say they had to take care of their parent when they could hardly care for themselves? While he's at detention, his dad may have to get another beer without the help of Rich.

Dreadful.

He noticed other kids sprinted towards their classes, shit. The late bell was about to go off. Rich speed walked through the halls to his first period class, not wanting to be slowed down if a teacher caught him running. He was occasionally called a nerd, but this test was going to prove he was.

The rest of the day went as usual, no one speaking to Rich, the few insults thrown toward him, and his shoulder feeling like he was slapped. Rich doesn't know what kind of friends his soulmate has, but they love to slap their shoulder a lot. He made his way toward study hall, where detention was held after school. He'd be there for an hour. After he finishes his work he'll be stuck there with just his thoughts.

Great.

"Take a seat and no talking." An older woman instructed Rich when he entered the room. It's not a shock who's here. Chloe and Brooke, probably for verbally abusing someone, Jenna Rolan, most likely for tweeting some personal shit about someone and cyber bulling them and other kids who look like they beat up younger students for fun.

Rich took a seat in the front row of the class, his homework already in his arms. It was the row with the least amount of people, only two others sat there. Rich glanced over at the two he would be sitting closest too. Sure, they wouldn't be talking but he would like to know who he was near. There was a dark skinned boy who looked a couple years older than him in one of the school teams jerseys, and another boy- Holy Shit.

Rich inhaled sharply through his teeth. He wasn't gay… but this kid was hot. Tall, pale, chocolate brown eyes that matched his curly hair. A red jacket that made him stand out from the others, easy for someone's eyes to fall on. Rich had probably been looking at him for longer than was socially acceptable, so he looked down to his work and started on it.

Too bad he only got one subject done from stealing glances over at that boy…

2 years later

"Rich!" Jake ran up to the shorter boy Rich don't kill me with his signature bright smile and red jacket.

"Jakey D!" Rich chuckled. "You seem excited today. Did your absent soulmate write back?" Rich teased.

Jake sighed. "I wish, but no. It's something even cooler! Well… not really.. But still!" He motioned for Rich to follow him, running back down the hall. Rich rolled his eyes and chased after him. He saw their group of friends in the distance, crowded around Christine and Brooke, all shouting excitedly.

"What's up guys?" Rich called out, waving.

"Rich, oh my God, dude you have to see this!" Michael said with excitement. What got everyone so giddy? He pushed through his friends, not being able to see over them.

"What-" His eyes widened. Both Brooke and Christine had their sleeves rolled up, showing writing on both their arms in the same place.

_How's it going, soulmate?_

Rich broke out into a huge smile. "Dudes! Congratulations!" He screamed, giving both of them a hug. "That's amazing!"

Brooke smiled sheepishly. "Who knew that we knew each other? We're lucky to have lived so close to one another…"

Christine looked the happiest Rich has ever seen her. He probably shouldn't bring up his disbelief in soulmates right now… Plus these two have been crushing on each other for months now anyway! It works out perfectly in their favor.

"First in the group to find your soulmates.." Chloe said bitterly. Right. She's had a thing for Brooke for years now. This must hurt alot for her…

"And now everyone knows!" Jenna looked up from her phone at the two girls with a smile. "And on Soulmates day! How crazy is that?"

"I know!" Christine giggled. "They say your odds do go up on finding your soulmate on this day. Fate pulls you closer together or something…" Christine's brow furrowed, trying her best to remember what they've been taught about this, albeit dumb, holiday.

"Well you two are living proof of that!" Jake tugged on his jacket sleeve. Rich has noticed over the years that he does that when nervous.

"This calls for a celebration!" Jeremy suggests. "Can we all go to Carved Marble? The one by that college campus?" He pleaded.

"I love that place!" Brooke basically jumped with excitement at the mention of her favorite coffee spot.

"Then we'll go there after school." Christine decided, looking at the rest of the group for approval. Everyone agreed.

The bell for first period rang.

"This place always smells the best.." Brooke took a long sip of her coffee, sitting next to Christine with her free hand holding hers.

"Yeah, it's nice." Christine agreed, laying her head on Brooke's shoulder. Michael faked a gag. Jenna laughed.

"Michael, you hypocrite! You basically cuddle Jeremy during movie nights!"

"Platonically" Jeremy and Michael quickly add in unison, causing the group to burst out into giggles.

"Yeah, suuuure.." Chloe playfully rolled her eyes, smiling for the first time Rich has seen today.

Jeremy's face quickly turned red, Michael's only turning a light shade of pink. "S-Shut up!" Jeremy said with a giggle, futzing with his shirt.

"Seems the boyf is flustered!" Rich elbowed Jeremy, cracking a small smile.

"Over 50 of my followers bet you two are soulmates." Jenna reported, not looking up from her phone. "100- wait, no, 245 now."

"That would be super cool if you two were soulmates!" Jake grinned, shrugging slightly. "How many people can say their soulmate is someone they've known since kindergarten?"

Michael nervously laughed. "No way is he my soulmate. That's too luck- I mean, uhh… That's too.. Easily! There.." Michael tripped over his own words, something that rarely happens.

"Gaaay!" Rich sang.

"Short bisexual!" Michael sang right back.

Rich dramatically gasped. "How dare you comment on how short I am! That's too much Mell." Rich shook his head and couldn't hold back a snort.

"Okay, okay, that's enough!" Christine laughed, then her eyes seemed to sparkle. "Guys, in honor of soulmate day we should all totally write to our soulmates!" Rich quickly shook his head. "Of course you don't have too!" She quickly added.

"I'll do it!" Jake offered, raising his hand.

"I'm in." Jenna replied.

"Sure, why not." Chloe shrugged.

"I.. don't really want too. I've never written to them and it'd be super weird if they just randomly got a message.." Jeremy's eyes darted to his arm before looking back at the group.

"Yeah, same.." Michael rubbed the back of his neck. He's either lying or he's just nervous. Rich can't tell which it is.

"Great idea, Christine! And you three don't have to do it, it's okay!" Brooke smiled reassuringly at Michael, Jeremy, and Rich. Jenna digs in her pockets and finds three pens, handing two of them to Chloe and Jake.

"So… what do we say?" Jake questioned.

Christine hummed for a moment, before gasping. "How about 'Happy Soulmates Day!' Not too much, and if they reply you can talk with them!" Chloe, Jake and Jenna nod, starting to write on their arm. Rich's arm started to sting.

"Fuck!" He hissed, earning a stare from everyone in the group. He was gripping his arm. "Sorry, napkin gave me a damn paper-cut.." He lied.

"Go to the bathroom and run it under hot water, then press a paper towel. That should help." Christine directed. Rich rolled his eyes with a smile.

"Will do, mom." Christine just saved his life. He walked to the restrooms, careful not to rush so he didn't seem suspicious. As he shut the door behind him he stared in fear at his arm as the words started to appear.

_Happy Soulmates Day!_

"Holy shit…." He whispered, clutching his arm. Jenna, Chloe or Jake. One of them was his Soulmate. And none of them have written to their soulmates in years.

_Fuck._

* * *

Chapter 02: Happy Soulmates Day!

Rich paced back and forth in the bathroom stall. He was wearing his tank top! How the hell was he going to cover this? He sighed and looked back down at his arm.

_Happy Soulmates Day!_

The print was too big to not be seen, and he can't just hold his arm for the remainder of the time at the coffee shop. Considering they were all here in celebration of Brooke and Christine finding each other, it'd be a dick move if he left….

"Hey Rich? You still in here?" Jake called out from outside the bathroom stalls. Rich froze. "Rich?"

"Yeah Jakey D?" Rich asked, his mind racing. He could wrap toilet paper around his arm, but then everyone would ask him what that was about. He could ask for Jake's jacket…

"You okay? It's been over 5 minutes…" He could hear Jake start to walk over to the stall he was in.

"Sorry, it's just freezing out there. I wanted to warm up too." Rich let out a nervous chuckle, hoping this would work.

"Dude, you could've just asked for my jacket! Here, come out and I'll give it to you!" The sound of Jake's zipper being pulled down was comforting to Rich. Sure, he would only have to wait maybe 30 seconds if Jake didn't unzip his jacket first, but that's 30 seconds for him to notice the writing on RIch's arm.

Rich stepped out of the stall to find a grinning Jake holding out his jacket to Rich. He took the jacket and slipped it over his shoulders, feeling like an 8 year old with how it draped over his body. "Thanks bro." Rich paused. "Did your soulmate write back?" He asked hopefully.

"Not surprisingly, no…" Jake ran a hand through his hair. "Neither Chloe or Jenna's did either so I don't feel too horrible about it."

Fan-fucking-tastic. Rich had thought maybe one of their soulmates would write back, taking one of his friends off his list of possible soulmates. It is kind of a bitch thing to not write back… Oh look, Rich is a hypocrite now.

"Hey, I'm sure they'll write back one day!" Rich flashed Jake a smile, wanting to lift his spirits.

"Yeah… I mean I know they're in the area…" Jake's eyes shifted from Rich to the floor. "I mean, I felt them getting hurt in the fire…"

Rich held his breath. It could be Jake, but he's never talked about this before. He needs to figure out if Chloe or Jenna felt like they were getting burned alive at the party last Halloween. That would at least take maybe one person off his list. "Fuck… Knowing how close they are must suck.."

"They may just be shy! I've never told them my name, I only want to do that when they write back!" Jake looked at Rich with bright eyes. One day his soulmate will write back and that will the happiest Rich will ever see him. He wants to be there to see that. Tiny bi pinning is what I live for shh

"Whoever they are will definitely be happy to hear that you're the infamous Jake Dillinger." Rich said as if announcing a movie star or star athlete, and with Jake's skill and smile, he could be either of those things.

"Thanks bro, or they could be revolted." Jake shrugged. "People have different opinions on me."

"Anyone who's opinion that isn't you're an awesome and cool dude is wrong." Rich said protectively, a wave of anger falling over him for some reason at the thought someone might dislike Jake.

Jake laughed. "I think the point of an opinion is that people have different ones.."

Rich huffed and crossed his arms. "Sure, but they're still wrong." Rich felt a slight bit of heat travel up to his face in saying that.

"You're too nice to me, Goranski." Jake shifted his feet and breathlessly chuckled. After a minute of comforting yet awkward silence, Jake cleared his throat. "We should go back and join the others.." He suggested.

"Yeah, Christine probably thinks we're dead."

"Knowing her, there's a search party already looking for us."

The two boys laughed the entire time going back to the table, making jokes of how protective Christine was.

"Oh shit, he's alive." Jenna said with fake enthusiasm, waving at Rich and Jake.

"Rich how long does it take to wash a papercut?" Michael asked. "Make out with Jake in there?" He teasingly said.

"Oh I'm sure you and Jeremy did enough of that for all of us." Rich shot back with a sly smile.

"Don't bring me into this!" Jeremy squeaked, his face flushed bright red.

"Oh please I'm sure you two have kissed once or twice." Chloe smirked at the gamers.

"We're being attacked." Michael nodded in his head, agreeing with his statement. "Rich is wearing Jake's jacket, how about we talk about that?"

"He was cold!" Jake quickly cut in, rubbing the back of his neck. Why was he nervous? He was telling the truth after all…

"Rich is never cold. And I'm the icepack of the group and this coffee shop is decently warm…" Jeremy looks to Brooke, who nods.

"This place is always comfortably warm. You feeling okay Rich?" Brooke worriedly glanced over a Brooke, Christine perked up and looked over at him as well.

"Are you sick? Do you need to go home? You're house is near here, you can go home to rest! No no, you have to go home to rest!" Rich tried to object, but Christine cut him off. "Nope! Not going to hear it! Go home and take care of yourself!" She commanded. Rich rolled his eyes.

"You're being mom friend extreme. I'm fine, just a little cold."

"You could be sick! I'd rather hang out with you when you're healthy!" Christine insisted.

"Fineeee…" Rich groaned, taking off Jakes jacket and careful to hide his arm. "I'll see you guys tomorrow, because I'm not sick." Rich waved at the group, who all were bidding him 'Get better' and 'See you later's.

For the second time today, Christine saved him again,but he was doing fine. He had Jake's coat to hide the writing, but at least he has time to inspect the writing and try to put it with one of his friends handwriting. He can even tell his dad he's not feeling well. His father has the decency to let him get well before Rich has to be his mom again. Maybe it wouldn't be too bad after all…

Rich could even write back.

It was 11pm on a school night. Rich should've been in bed hours ago, but this isn't the first time he's stayed up longer than he should. He stared at the writing on his arm, whichever friend it was still hasn't washed it off.

He sighed heavily. If his soulmate is Chloe he's fucked. Rich still holds a slight grudge against her, and Chloe takes soulmates very seriously. He needs to figure out how to ask them if they felt like they were burning at the halloween party. He knows Jake did, but he didn't say how bad.

After all, Rich was standing in that fire.

He thinks back to all the pains he's felt from his soulmate in the past. Hard pats on the back, something Jenna and Jake endure, but for all he knows it could be friendly punches to the shoulder, something Brooke does to Chloe. Sometimes his legs feel like they may break if he stands up any longer, but he doesn't get that at all. Jake's been in a wheelchair, but he doesn't need it anymore…

Rich bolted upright. In the fire his legs felt like they broke and where burning more than the rest of his body. Jake burned and broke his legs in the fire… It could be Jake. But that's one thing. It still doesn't rule out the possibility of Jenna or Chloe. There's a simple solution to this. _Write back._ He could write back and ask who it is.

But there's no way he'd do that. He's getting too invested in this. He doesn't care who his soulmate is. Soulmates are just made up concepts. The person you're able to write too could be your worst enemy, how do they know it's actually your soulmate? And if he doesn't care, why is he so worried about who it is?

"I need to call one of them.." Rich glanced at his phone. He does. He can't ask them all of this in front of the entire group, when the other 2 will be there. He needs to ask them personally. Only one person will be up this late, and if their not his soulmate,

they can help him find out who it is.

"Rich, why the hell are you awake? It's 11:45pm! Aren't you sick?" Jenna sounded vaguely pissed over the phone, but defiantly wide awake.

"No, I'm not sick. Christine was just being overprotective, as usual." How the hell was he going to ask her this?

"Okayyy… but why are you calling me at 11:45 pm? This better be important, I was binge watching Parks and Rec." So that's why she sounded so pissed. That's her favorite show.

"Listen, you know my stance on the whole soulmates thing right? Well for some ungodly reasons I'm getting anxious about who it is." Why did Rich decide to call Jenna? She's going to tell everyone about Rich's 3 possible soulmates. Unless she doesn't. If she doesn't this isn't Jenna Rolan.

"Richard Goranski? _Anxious_ about who his soulmate may be? This is good, do tell." She sounded intrigued to say the least.

"Well…" Rich regretted all his life decisions. "You know how you Chloe and Jake all wrote the same thing on your arm tod-" He was cut off by her squeal.

"Holy FUCK! One of us is your soulmate! Holy SHIT THIS IS GOOD!" He heard her fingers tapping on the screen.

"JEN DON'T TWEET ABOUT THIS!" Rich screamed in a panic.

"I won't, I won't! Well, now I won't because I know you are capable of killing me. Which one do you think it is?"

"I don't know! I was going to ask you questions to see if it was you…" Rich trailed off, and he just realized how much he hoped it wasn't Jenna. She was pretty and all, but he wouldn't want to date her. He wouldn't have too! Even if they were soulmates it doesn't mean he would have to date her! Why does he care so much all of a sudden? Because the plot demands for it stop questioning me I Am Your God.

"Well, fire away!" She sounded excited. She probably was, this is the kind of stuff the girl lived for.

"Did you feel like you were being burned alive at the halloween party? Has your soulmate ever written to you? Do your legs sometimes hurt?" Rich basically word vomited all over Jenna, getting more anxious with each question.

"No, yes, and yes. Everyone's legs hurt sometimes Rich, it happens when you _walk_." He could almost hear her eye roll.

"It's not you." Rich felt relieved. Jenna would be a big help if she could keep her mouth shut.

"I don't think you could sound more disappointed." Jenna sarcastically replied. "So, it's either bitch or dumbass, right?"

"Why the fuck are you friends with this people if you call them that."

"Hey yours is small angry fucker. I use these nicknames out of love."

"What's the small for!? I'm not that short!" Rich defended, angry fucker is fine. Small angry fucker is _not._

"You're 5'5 Rich. You're small. I regret to inform you this tragic information." Jenna teased.

"Moving on before I punch you through the phone, what should I do?" He started to worry. What _should_ he do? He doesn't know!

"Say hi. Just hi. Chloe and Jake's soulmate have never written to them, so you're at equal chance with both of them." Jenna said it like no big deal, like it wasn't one of the biggest moments in Rich's life.

"I can't just do that!" Rich couldn't. No way, they might be pissed if he randomly just talked to them.

"Bye Rich!" Jenna sang. "If you don't write to them I'm posting all this on twitter!"

_Click!_

"I'm going to kill her…" Rich growled. Just one word. He just had to write hi. He searched through his room for a red pen, he can do this.

There was one on his dresser, he opened the cap and sat on his bed with his arm out. He can do this.

"God Dammit…" He hissed, closing his eyes for a moment when the tip of the pen touched his skin. Chloe and Jake would be asleep, whoever it was would see this in the morning. In a few hours.

That gave him the courage to write it.

_Hi._

Rich sighed, a weight being lifted from his shoulder, he looked at his arm to make sure it wasn't unreadable, and his heart dropped into his stomach.

_Oh my God! Hey!_

* * *

Chapter 03: Hell yes

Rich didn't write back at all that night. He barely slept too. He could only stare at the ink on his arm.

_Oh my God you wrote back I'm so happy right now_

_How are you?_

_Hello?_

The next morning he was slower getting ready than normal. He was going to find out who his soulmate was today.

If he had the heart to admit that he was their soulmate

Rich got several texts that day from Jenna, but he didn't have the heart to open her messages. She probably knew who it was already, Rich didn't want to know yet. Rich didn't want to find out.

When he walked through the doors the the school he saw Chloe across the hall, and as soon as she saw him her face lit up and she speed walked over. _Fuck._

."Rich! Oh God Rich there you are…" She stopped in front of him, looking almost nervous. "Rich I have something I have to tell you…" Chloe trailed off and looked at the tiled floor.

_Fuckfuckfuck _"What is it?" He couldn't hide his fear, his voice broke. It was her, wasn't it?

Chloe took a deep breath, then looked Rich in the eyes, hers glistened with what looked like… tears?

"Rich I'm so fucking sorry." She said, her voice raised slightly above an average speaking tone.

Rich was struck with confusion. "About what…?"

"God, where do I start?" Chloe sadly laughed and twirled her hair around. "So many things. I'm sorry for bullying you for so long. I'm so sorry. I don't know why I did it… whatever reason wouldn't justify what I did." The tears started to fall from her face. Rich was completely frozen.

"I'm sorry for being so bitchy and I'm sorry I always poked fun at you and Jake when you started hanging out I'm sorry when I dated Jake I told him to not hang out with you…" A strangled sob escaped her lips. "Rich I apologized to everyone else and I was waiting for you. I'm in debt to you… I'm sorry."

Chloe was waiting for a response. Rich didn't know what to say. He was in shock to say the least. He never thought she would apologize, he thought she forgot about it. He wants to tell her that he forgives her, but it hurts to breath. Seeing her cry, his friend cry, hurt. It hurt alot.

He hugged Chloe. "Hey, water under the bridge okay? Everything's chill between us…" He felt Chloe hug him back as she whispered 'I'm sorry' over and over again. "Dude, it's okay. I forgive you." Rich pulled out of the hug and smiled at Chloe. "Now stop crying, your mascara will run." He lightly teased.

Chloe sniffed and wiped away her tears. "Ha… Waterproof, bitch." She cracked a small smile. Rich felt closer to Chloe, like she was a better friend now. It felt… nice to not hold a grudge against her anymore. To fully forgive her.

"Since that's out of the way… and I really do forgive you." Rich added. "I want to ask you a quick question."

Chloe nodded. "Anything. I owe you a lot, might as well start now."

Rich rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, uhh… did your…" God, this was dumb. "Did your soulmate write back to you yesterday?" He looked up at her, half wincing.

"Huh?" She seemed confused by the question, but quickly shook her head. "No… They never write back." She laughs. "Honestly they're probably dead…"

"Holy fuck…" Rich breathed. That meant… It can't be. There's a mistake. It's a coincidence.

"What? Oh come on it's not that sad…" Chloe crossed her arms and pouted.

"No it's not that… And yeah that's sad Chloe I regret to inform you… but… I know who my soulmate is now." Rich felt a warmth in his chest. It felt amazing. Without it he would probably feel cold forever, inside and out. Has that always been there? Is that telling him… His soulmate is alive? If I were mean I would make this flame disappear.

"Why do you care?" Chloe sincerely asked. "I thought you didn't like, believe in soulmates or some shit like that?"

"I didn't but… It's different?" Rich sounded like an idiot trying to explain this most likely. "It feels like it's right. Like this one is supposed to actually happen…" Fuck. That sounded cheesy. "Or uh, something like that…" He quickly said.

"That was the cutest yet cheesiest thing I have ever heard." Chloe's eyes were sparkling. At least she seemed happy for Rich…. "Who is it! Oh God it's probably going to be nerve wracking to confess, do you want help? I mean, I do owe you and I'd be happy to help wit this." She almost sounded like she was begging. She must have felt really bad about freshman year…

"Well…" Rich considered not telling her, brushing it off. Something inside him wanted to tell her. Wanted the entire world to know that Jake Dillinger was his soulmate. He smiled victoriously at her. "It's Jake."

Rich regretted telling her already. As soon as the words left his mouth she screamed. Fucking _screamed _in the middle of the hallway.

"I CALLED IT! I CALLED IT JEREMY OWES ME 15$!" She started to jump up and down out of excitement, doing what seemed to be a dance.

"Chlo! Holy hell calm down!" Rich's face burned. He must be so red right now… "You're making people look!" He hissed.

"I fucking knew it! I knew you two had chemistry, and fate thought so too!" She giggled, God this made her way too happy.

"Jesus Christ you're more excited than I am!" Rich laughed, damnit Chloe's laugh was contagious. Chloe I love you

"How are you going to tell him! He's gonna be so happy!" Chloe clapped her hands together, clearly brainstorming some ideas.

"I actually… don't know…" Rich honestly told her. "He may react badly…"

"No way!" Chloe objected. "He's probably had a huge crush on you anyway!" She grabbed Rich's arm. "Come on, we're going to the group right now!"

"Chlo what the hell? I didn't agree to this!" It was too late, Chloe already was dragging Rich down the hallway. She was stronger than he thought she was…

The group didn't greet them when the walked up, Jake wasn't even looking at them.

"Hey guys! Rich has something important to say!" Chloe smiled brightly. She was being so encouraging… Rich likes this Chloe.

Michael played with his hoodie strings while Jeremy was standing closer than normal to him. Jenna wouldn't take her eyes off her phone, but she looked worried. Jake refused to look at them.

"Rich…" Christine softly said. "Check your phone…" She sounded like she was talking to a child who did something wrong. Who was learning a lesson.

Rich reluctantly pulled out his phone, and the screen lit up with 8 text notifications from Jenna

_Jen: I'm sorry I couldn't keep my mouth shut it was too good!_

_Jen: Jake may or may not know and may or may not be super fucking pissed at you._

_Jen: Hey I suggest you stay away from the group this morning so we can talk him down?_

_Jen: Rich hey fucking respond._

_Jen: It's Jake. Your soulmate? Remember me?_

_Jen: JFC you don't even respond to texts do you?_

_Jen: Shit sorry he took my phone._

_Jen: Rich holy fuck he's super mad at you._

Rich's heart dropped. Of course Jake was mad. Years of him not responding, was he expecting Jake to be happy? Jake refers to his soulmate as an asshole sometimes! Jake is always mad at his soulmate for never responding!

Jake is always mad at Rich.

The realization felt like a punch in the gut. "Jake-" Rich was cut off by Jake turning his back on the group and walking off. There were few times Rich ever wanted to cry, and this was one of them.

"Rich let him cool down…" Michael told him, his gaze not leaving from the floor.

"No way." Brooke said quietly. "You need to go after him and apologize." She gives Rich a small yet hopeful smile. "You want him to talk to you again, right?"

Rich ran after Jake, shoving kids aside and trying his best to keep the tall boy in his sights.

If he wasn't so short that wouldn't be too hard.

"Jake! Jake wait up!" Rich screamed out, eventually able to grab Jakes sleeve before he exited the school. Jake turned around and glared down at Rich.

"What?" He snapped. Rich wasn't afraid to admit that in this moment, he was terrified of Jake. Jake looked like he could hit Rich without second thought.

"Jake please we can talk about this-"

"You never wanted to talk with me anyway." Jake growled.

"That's not true!" Rich felt tears start to well up in his eyes and he'll be damned if he let them fall. "If I knew it was you I would have replied! I didn't know! This…" Rich clenched his teeth. "This isn't fair!" He yelled harshly at Jake. He knows it's childish, but it's not. Nothing about this was fair.

Jake was silent for a moment, looking hurt by Rich's words. His face formed back into a scowl. "It's also not fair my soulmate never responded to me for years." He pulled away from Rich's grasp and walked outside, Rich storming after him and grabbing his hoodie this time, probably slightly choking Jake. Ooo kinky

"You shut the hell up." Rich barked. "You know how I felt about soulmates, how I thought they weren't important, how I was scared of them!" He was shaking at this point, his grip on Jake's hoodie only tightening. "If I knew it was you sooner I would have said something! I would have written back! But i didn't know it was you!" Rich felt hot tears roll off his cheek. He let go of Jake's hoodie, his hand falling limply to his side. "If I knew it was you I wouldn't have been scared of soulmates…" Rich bit his lip, refusing to let the sob bubbling up in his chest come out of his mouth.

Jake turned around and looked at Rich, the anger in his eyes replaced with worry and confusion. "Why were you using past tense…?" He softly asked.

"God damnit Jake it's because I love you!" Rich shouted. "I've loved you for over a year now! I was scared of finding my soulmate because I knew I wouldn't love them, and there was no way I thought it would be you! That would be too lucky for me!" Rich cried harder, his nails dug into the palms of his hands.

Jake stepped closer to Rich and placed his hands on his shoulders. "'Hey, Rich stop crying…" He gently told him. "Rich I shouldn't have shouted at you I wasn't thinking…" He pulled Rich into a hug. "Please stop crying…"

Rich pulled out of the hug and wiped the tears from his face. "Jake I'm happy to be your soulmate, and I'm so fucking sorry I never wrote back…" He looked up at Jake, who was smiling softly at him. It made Rich's heart squeeze.

"I'm happy to be your soulmate too.." Jake cupped Rich's face with his hand, getting closer to him. "Is it okay if I…?" Jake's eyes shifted from Rich to the floor.

Rich grabbed the front of Jake's hood at pulled him down to see Rich eye to eye. The were only a centimeter apart, Jake's shocked expression and slightly parted lips almost irresistible. He pressed his mouth to Jake's, still clutching the front of Jake's hood.

It wasn't either of their first kiss, and it wasn't either of their best kiss either, but it was still perfect. Rich wouldn't want it any other way, and from Jake running his hands through Rich's hair, he's pretty sure Jake liked it too.

Jake pulled back and rested his forehead on Richs. "I love you too... " he said, his voice slightly hoarse. Rich leaned in and stole another quick kiss from Jake.

"Do you have a pen?" He asked, Jake kissing him harshly afterwards, leaving Rich breathless as Jake pulled a pen out of his bag.

"Here you go." Jake's voice was low and _fuck _if it wasn't the slightest bit sexy to Rich. He took the pen from Jakes hand and quickly started to write on his arm.

_Is it you_

He heard Jake dig through his bag again before the words started forming on his arm.

_Yeah_

_Wanna kiss again?_

_Hell yes._


	80. (G) LOGICALITY - You Are My Hero by Deal

You Are My Hero  
Dealialestina (orphan_account)

Summary:  
Given the:

"Patton: You're my hero!

Logan: We get it! You're adorable!" moment…

I can't help but feel like if Patton did ever have feelings for Logan, and then try to express them, Logan would brush them under the rug, stating that Patton was just being his a-dork-able self and then Patton would have to do more and more things and Logan wouldn't think more than 'oh, he's just being cute' on it and this would continue until Patton pretty much shook Logan by his shoulders, proclaiming his undying love...

and that's what this is!

* * *

Chapter 01

The first time Patton saw him, not when Logan popped into existence, with angled eyes and a sort… of little brother figure, but actually saw him. Saw him as more than that…

Logan had been young, trying to get Thomas to study harder for a test, and in that moment, he had been but a pair of peeking, cinnamon eyes, watchful over the giant stack of tomes he carried.

Patton remembered the last moment he'd ever think of Logan in a platonic way, how the other paused in their communal lounge, re-gripping the bottom of the stack.

Patton could almost see the moment in his mind, hear his own voice offer to take a few, 'lighten the load', so to speak. But with bare movement, Logan shook his head.

"Thank you for the offer, Patton, but I am quite capable of handling myself," and with an affirmative nod, he departed.

Patton never quite understood, why at that moment, his heart beat against his ribcage as if it wished to escape, how the scent of old books and ink and detergent did not swamp his mind with 'boredom' any-longer, but with a fluttering feeling that made him lightheaded.

Now, Patton knew he wasn't exactly the smartest of the sides. But he knew emotions.

He knew what this meant.

Patton knew that he was, with no other words for it, fucked.

It was no coincidence, that after that time, he began acting a little more bubbly, often border-lining on air headed around the more logical side.

He hoped it served good contrast between the other's fairly boring day-to-day being.

He hoped it didn't annoy Logan too much.

Because, if he were completely honest… Patton had no idea how to feel anything other than the bursting bubbles of joy around Logan.

And, somehow… he didn't really want to.

So, for the longest time… Nothing changed.

Until…

The voice came from behind him, just as he'd set a pan of fresh muffins on the counter, and more importantly, right after Logan had left the room.

"You're in love with him, aren't you?"

Patton whirled around at hurricane speeds, making himself slightly dizzy and nearly burning himself by accident.

"W-W-Wh-What? No, of course I'm not!" Patton exclaimed, cheek twitching as he mentally reprimanded himself for lying.

Patton plucked off the pink oven mitts, if only as something to do with his hands.

"Really?" Anxiety, or as he would be called in a years time, 'Virgil', asked. The raise of his eyebrow fluid, yet testing.

"O-Of course I'm not in l-l-l-love with L-L-Logan, that would be, I- I don't even, why, I would, I can't even imagine-" the sweet baked smell of muffins did not provide any kind of comfort, in fact, somehow, the scent felt strangling. And the normally hug-like warmth, spilling fourth from the oven, felt overwhelming to his fraying nerves.

"M'kay," Anxiety gave a shrug, knowing when to back down, but also, when not to.

"'Cause, hypothetically, if you were, you'd be in big trouble," he moved to the counter where the muffins were set, taking out a paper plate and a pair of metal tongs.

"I-I mean we're so different anyways so-… wait, what?" Patton turned.

"Why would that be bad?" Patton asked, to distracted to even warn Anxiety against eating the still-far-to-hot muffins. Anxiety turned his head to watch the other, a calculating expression on his porcelain mask.

"Hypothetically of course," Patton was quick to amend.

Anxiety nodded.

"Well, hypothetically," Anxiety obliged, "if anyone were in love with Logan, it would be bad news." Patton was about to ask 'why', again, but Anxiety only raised a hand.

Patton's words died in his throat.

"Because," Anxiety clicked, "He's logic." At a raised eyebrow, Anxiety continued.

"He doesn't do, emotions, or love, or any of that. 'Thinks it's all stupid and illogical." Anxiety waved his hands in the air as he tried to explain, but eventually, the silent conduction of his thoughts flowed to a halt, and his hands dropped to his sides.

"So, whoever that imagined person is? They'd just get hurt, and Logic would get confused, and it would be awkward." Anxiety turned back to the muffins, using a pair of tongs to lift two of the still steaming muffins onto his plate.

Behind him, Patton's figure was hunched, a shadow of his usually beaming self.

Anxiety turned and cursed his empathy, before placing an uncertain, unsteady hand on the other's shoulder.

Patton looked up at the contact, earthy brown eyes watery and shifting with emotion.

"Look, I'm not saying feelings are bad, it's just…" Anxiety sighed, "I… I don't want you to get hurt." Patton nodded, thanking the darker side for his advice and retreating into his room to curl into his covers.

Patton cried that night, not because the words particularly hurt in any way, but because the reasoning was sound, and it all seemed far too… true.

And that stung more than any name they could call him.

So, Patton didn't get up again until the next morning, didn't eat any of the muffins he'd baked that night.

So, taking Anxiety's words with a grain of salt, Patton continued to smile and laugh around the logical trait. Making jokes, asking him what he was reading… mostly just engaging him in conversations, if only to hear the calming drone of his voice.

And, after a month of sideways looks from Anxiety, and the occasional raised brow from Prince, it seemed he was due another time for another, uncomfortable conversation about his life choices.

Wonder-bar…

"So… you and Logan… huh?" For the embodiment of Thomas's romantic and dramatic emotions, he sure did have an interesting way of broaching such a subject.

Nonetheless, Patton went rigid and faltered, then stuttered out a violently stupid response.

"I-I, uh, don't know what you're talking about! W-What about me and L-L-Logan?" His hands wrung together like old dish towels, eyes franticly searching for a way out.

Roman was pretty sure, with all the stress the fatherly trait was putting on his pencil, it would snap.

"Oh come now, it's pretty obvious you've got the hots for Mr. Cool, hm?" Roman laughed with a full bodied, head-thrown-back laughter that somehow made the awkwardness seep away.

But, Roman did not admit that it had taken him seeing Patton, with his own two eyes, doodling love-hearts around him and Logan's name just a moment ago, to truly connect all the dots.

"So… when are you gonna become Mr. And Mr. Nerd? You know, pop the question?" Roman nudged him, not terribly gently, with his elbow. Patton, giving a well meaning titter, ran a hand through his hair.

"Honestly? I don't think I should, I mean…" Patton sighed, "I have no idea if he even likes me that way, or if he even feels romantic feelings at all… Really, I just don't want to make him uncomfortable, o-or-"

"Wait wait wait wait wait…" Roman interrupted, hands shaping an invisible snowman in the air.

"You two love-doves aren't even dating?" Roman asked, head cocked dramatically to the side.

"U-U-Ummm, no?" Patton's eyes darted left, shrinking away from the dramatic trait.

Roman grabbed the other by his shoulders, staring deep into slightly frightened cinnamon eyes.

"Alright, listen close doll, 'cause we're about to get you a man."

* * *

Chapter 02

Brainstorming ideas for the next video seemed to be going quite well, Logan thought, a slight up tilt to his lips brushing over his expression. Pleased with the day's work, the four traits, all in their new outfits, took their seats at the dinner table.

Logan busied himself with his book as he waited patiently, Patton had been making a recent effort to get them all to have at least tow 'family activity's a week, the last one being a movie night where no one could decide what film to watch.

So, as Roman asked Virgil about the wherewithals of his new jacket, and Virgil quaintly replied he'd taken some inspiration from Nightmare Before Christmas's Sally, what with the patchwork…

Logan couldn't help but feel something was… as the kids said these days; 'up'.

Nevertheless, his suspicions were sidetracked by the wafting smell of… was that?

"I made macaroni and cheese!" Patton chimed cheerfully, crying in two plates of the steaming substance. Likely from the heat of the steam, gathered from slaving over a hot stove, his face was a gentle pink.

"Wonderful! That's just what I'd bene craving!" Roman spoke with an avid smile, a little to much force behind his words.

Logan wondered why he was so excited. After all, it was well known that macaroni and cheese was Logan's favorite dish. But, since none of the others particularly cared for it, they did not have it often.

"Yeah, smells great Pat," Anxiety agreed, his tone far more gentle and sincere.

"T-Thank you!" Patton set their bowls in front of them, then moving back to the kitchen with slightly shaking hands.

He returned within thirty seconds, first placing his bowl in front of his chair, Patton moved without his usual fluidity.

That was when it happened, in a flickering moment, Roman and Patton's eyes met, and with a nod…

Patton went for it.

Just as he set his bowl before Logan, like the gentle brush of wind in a thin wood, Logan felt something soft press against his cheek. Leaving a small spot of wet in it's wake.

Logan immediately went rigid at the unknown stimulus.

He turned to see Patton seating himself carefully, humming a tune under his breath as he idly pierced the pasta with his fork and lifted it to his smiling lips.

"Exquisite pasta, Patton," Roman complemented between bites, Patton thanked him with a giggle and a grin.

Logan wanted to speak up, to interrogate Patton as to why he'd kissed his cheek. Question the others as to why they treated this so… casually?!

But as conversation moved gently over the table, asking of the other's day and how they've been…

Logan couldn't help the feeling in the depths of his stomach from fluttering distractingly, any time Patton looked his way.

After he got back to his room, he'd wait, and ponder, and worry he was coming down with something…

But he'd likely never find it in himself to ask, but in his mind, he just decided Patton's actions were likely due to his unnecessarily cute personality.

Two days later, the barrage of new emotion lifted to a new hight, the waters of his wavering logic grew deeper, as another shared movie night came along.

Blankets and pillows were brought out of storage, it being Roman's turn to pick the movie tonight, Logan had brought a book just in case he didn't care for the movie choice.

But as he settled into the mid left side, right next to Anxiety on the far left, Patton went to settle… except, he insisted on sitting between himself and Anxiety, forcing Logan to scoot over.

"I wanna sit here," Roman smiled, moving to sit between Anxiety and Patton.

Anxiety placated this, an unusual thing for the darker side to do, as he willingly pushed himself farther into the end.

Patton obliged with a grin, scooting closer to Logan, which forced Logan him to scoot all the way to the farthest right of the couch, where Prince would usually be seated.

Logan twitched at the new arrangement, it was not their usual alignment!

Yet, as Patton pressed his thigh gently against Logan's, beneath the fleece navy blanket they shared… Logan found it hard to do much more than focus on the warm pressure and, occasionally, their featured (Disney) presentation.

Logan chalked the odd action up to Patton being quite fond of physical affection, and as the other leaned to rest his shoulder on his, Logan obligingly leaned back.

He ignored the nauseating heat that swelled in his chest, or how, at Patton's sharp and somewhat surprised intake of breath, Logan hoped he didn't do anything wrong. And, as the other shifted, his head now leaning on Logan's shoulder…

Logan didn't quite know what to do, other than hope it was the blanket raising his body temperature that brought a heated flush to his cheeks, and in the corner of his eye, Logan just barely noticed as Roman bid him a careful smile.

It had been nearly a week, and Logan had yet to actually do anything.

Roman was pretty sure he'd burst.

"What in great golly godmother is wrong?!" Roman asked through inarticulate mumbling to himself, his hands flailing their way through the air, his body constantly shifting.

Patton was pretty sure he was wearing a trail in the carpet with how he was pacing.

"How has he not noticed?! Isn't he supposed to be the smart one?" Roman paused, hands flying through the air yet again.

Roman was quick to return to his pacing.

"He is smart, Roman. He's just not exactly… people smart." Patton ran a hand through his hair, seated at the end of Roman's grand bed, beginning to feel more and more stressed.

That was the thing about Roman's room. It didn't do anything specific, other than make you a little more creative… mostly, it just amplified whatever emotions you were already feeling.

In hind sight, maybe they should've met in Patton's room.

Three knocks rung at the door, quiet enough to be subtle, yet loud enough to grind Roman's movement to a halt.

"It's open?" Roman answered, wondering who, and why, the knock had been initiated.

So, the door opened to reveal a familiar figure, stooped shoulders under his patchwork hoodie moving with steady motion, he closed the door, latching and locking it behind him.

"Virgil!" Roman gave a smile, "what brings you to-" Virgil's sharp, half lidded eyes silenced him.

Well, that and Virgil literally speaking over him.

"Cut the crap, Princey," Virgil's eyes darted to where Patton gasped, about to scold Virgil for his language, when-

"Yeah, I know I know, sorry or whatever." Anxiety waved his hand in dismissal. "But seriously you two, what the fuck is going on?" Patton, far to flustered by their failure at confessing his bloody feelings. Something he hadn't formerly thought you could fail at, Patton didn't scold Virgil for his language.

He didn't exactly do much of anything, except look down at his hands and blush.

"I-I-I have a crush on Logan," Patton muttered shyly, he dared to look up only to see Virgil giving him a 'yeah, that's old news' kind of a look.

"So?" Virgil asked.

"So?! So Patton is chasing what he wants! That's what's 'so'!" Roman marched over to the bed, plopped himself down, and wrapped a protective arm around the fatherly trait.

Virgil looked at Patton, and as he opened his mouth to say they were risking to much- the hope of returned feelings, glimmering behind Patton's eyes caught him off guard.

Virgil opened his mouth, made but a small noise, then closed it.

He opened it again, only to give a final defeated sigh.

"It's not going to work," Virgil breathed, running a hand through rosy bangs.

"What do you mean it isn't going to work?" Roman exploded, "I am the love expert here, and even if you want to be defeatist then-"

"No no no, I'm…" Virgil sighed, "I'm gonna try to help you out," at that, Patton perked up.

"Wait, really?" Both asked. At a gentle nod, twin smiles swept over the two's features, but before they could get a word in-

Virgil held up his hand.

"But what you're doing… won't work."

Many questions, ran about Patton's mind. But the first one to actually form a coherent sentence promptly spilled from his lips.

"Why not?"

"When it comes to emotions, Logan is dense as cement. So for him to even notice it, you've gotta go bigger than gentle touches and little smiles, m'kay?" Virgil's eyes locked on Roman's.

In the next millisecond, a whole conversation seemed to spark between the two, and at the end, Roman was left with a mischievous smile.

"Exactly how big are we going for?" Roman asked, standing from his spot on the bed.

"To get Logan's attention… pretty damn big."

Patton couldn't help but think art they he'd just started something both wonderful and awful.

* * *

Chapter 03

After maybe an hour of brainstorming, various ideas raising in improbability to impossibility, Virgil was the one to come up with what they'd end up using.

"How about you just go stargazing? Act all," Virgil cringed, "lovey-dovey, like it's a date." Roman's spiel about how anonymously delivering ten dozen roses a day was not, in fact, overboard, died in his throat at the suggestion.

Roman looked at Patton.

Patton looked at roman.

They exchanged looks for a moment, and Virgil's shoulders tensed. His mind whirling with anxieties, voices all chastising him about how he shouldn't've even spoken, how they hate him now and they just realized how much of a nuisance he can be and-

"Virgil," Roman addressed, moving over and clapping a hand onto the darker side's shoulder.

Virgil flinched at the touch, but stayed rigid as a board, eyes flickering with turmoil and fear.

"You, are, a, genius!" Roman cheered, shaking Virgil for a moment before turning back to Patton, a blinding smile flaring across his cheeks like a hundred fireworks all at once.

Patton nodded with the same ecstatic enthusiasm.

"You can both bring sparklers to have fun, and Logic will likely point out consultations, so you'll want to study up on those to impress him. OH! And what do you think you should wear?" Roman's mouth blathered a mile a minute, the passion in his eyes held for only Disney and Romance making it's shining appearance.

Roman pulled Patton out of the room with a death grip on his arm and a walking speed of about thirty miles per hour. Roman excused himself from Virgil's presence with a 'thank you' mixed with a 'we need to find you a good outfit', presumably to Patton, who stumbled behind, just trying to keep up.

But as the blur of blue and white blinked out down the hall, all Virgil could feel was the small smile, inching across his lips.

So, Virgil could do something right...good to know.

¶¶¶

Logan was having a very odd day to say the least.

Starting off with a breakfast where Patton and Roman would not meet his eyes, coupled with how Patton and Virgil had been avoiding him…

Had he done something.. inappropriate? Had he broken an unwritten social construct he hadn't come across before?

Just as he moved down the hall toward his room, mind entertained with thoughts of asking Patton what was going on, the door to Patton's room swung open with a violent bang.

This, for some reason, caught Logan's attention.

"It'll be fine! Now just go for it!" Roman's boisterous tone flooded the halls with energy, and as Patton was quite literally shoved out of his room, in his hands a dozen blue roses.

A little distracted by swirling thoughts of why Patton may be getting evicted from his own room, Logan failed to notice how instead of entering his room, he'd just stood there, his hand on the handle, staring.

He also didn't notice that, as Patton's eyes met his from the distance of the hall, the jovial trait went rigid, then bright red.

"L-L-Logan! F-Funny seeing you here," Patton exclaimed, feet not moving from where they were planted at the end of the hallway.

He hid the bouquet behind his back.

Logan didn't know why.

"I live here," Logan answered.

Normally, after such a statement, Logan would depart into his bedroom, a well wish of dreams rolling off his tongue as he exited.

But the way Patton was standing, shifting from foot to foot, The way his eyes nervously darted about, as if searching for something to hold his gaze…

It was utterly fascinating.

"Yeah, uh, you do." Patton muttered.

Finally, after a drawling moment of silence, Logan pushed the door to his room open.

"Well, goodnight," Logan called, secretly wishing the interaction did not have to end.

"W-Wait!" Patton exclaimed, and as Logan heard footsteps darting closer, he retreated back into his place in the hall.

As he shut the door, Patton was standing directly in front of him.

Logan couldn't help but fall mesmerized at the sight of the other's caramel eyes.

"Yes?" Logan asked, face as blank as ever, barely showing the small flush that lit up his angular cheekbones.

"I-I, uh…" Patton reached behind his back, pulling forward the bouquet of flowers.

At a closer look, the dark blue flowers intermingled with gentle purple ones.

"T-These, um, these are for you," Patton thrust the flowers at Logan's chest, the dewy petals tickling his chin.

He looked down, hands brushing with Patton's as he clasped the stems of the thornless flowers.

"Alright," Logan tried hard to ignore the cocktail of emotions churning in his heart, ignore the flush slowly spreading across his sharp cheekbones.

And ignore how his muscles tensed as Patton bit his lip, suckling it gently between his teeth.

After all, he was just being nice, right?

Gifts are a common gesture among friends… right?

"Thank you for the gift," Logan turned to enter his room, but his elbow was caught by a hesitant arm.

He turned, yet again, to see the attractively flushed face of Patton, staring at his shoes.

"A-A-Actually, I, uh, I was wondering, if you weren't to busy tonight…" Patton wrung his hands together, rocking back and fourth off the balls of his feet.

"Yes?" Logan asked.

He had never been one for scan nuance, but something was telling him that Patton was nervous about something.

"Uh, would you, I dunno, wanna go stargazing with me tonight?" Patton asked, finally looking up to meet Logan's chocolate eyes.

Neither noticed how the opposing personality's breath caught in their throat as they stared into each other's eyes.

"I, I do not have any plans for the rest of the night, so I suppose I can accompany you," Logan muttered, looking away nervously and bringing a hand up to rub the back of his neck.

Patton nodded.

"But first, a-allow me to procure a vase to keep the flowers in, such that they may die in a slower, more aesthetically pleasing fashion," Logan spoke, somehow, gently.

Mutely, Patton nodded.

"O-Okay, meet me outside?" Patton asked, eyes full of hope.

Logan didn't know why, but at that moment, as his diaphragm felt lighter than usual…

Logan desperately wished Patton would give him one of his (in)famous hugs. The ones where he was just enveloped in all that was Patton. His scent, the warmth of his arms, the tightness of how he held on, the gentle rise and fall of his chest with every breath…

On the outside, Logan only gave a gentle nod, exiting the scene with his usual nonchalance despite how, inside, his heart was racing.

And all Logan could wonder was:

What the fuck was happening to him?

¶¶¶

Patton was pretty sure it'd been less than two minutes since Logan'd left to put the roses into water, and yet, in his giddy panic, Patton had already managed to set out the prepared basket.

Setting out the red, checkered picnic blanket, he'd borrowed from Prince, Patton emptied the wicker basket's contents of two sodas and a few snacks, then settled onto the blanket, shifting every two seconds, shifting, anxious…

Patton breathed in, and out, and reminded himself of what Virgil told him.

'Be yourself, and if he truly likes you, that will be enough'.

Somehow, that helped.

The butterflies in his stomach seemed extra energetic tonight, but as he heard the door open and close, Patton's head whipping around to see Logan carefully exiting onto the grassy hills, the butterflies doubled their efforts and Patton couldn't hold back his smile.

"Logan! Over here!" Patton beamed, though it was obvious where he was, given he was the only one out here, Patton had to do something or he might just explode.

Yet, cast in the dying light of a warm sunset, Logan somehow managed to look even more enchanting than normal.

Patton noticed that, when he was inside, Logan must have taken off his tie. Likely not wishing it to be stained by the grass, he wore the top button of his black polo undone.

"Hello Patton," Logan greeted as soon as he got over, settling gently onto the lain blanket.

They were a little close, but neither really minded and, in his head, Patton thanked Princey for picking a smaller blanket.

Especially if it meant they were closer together.

The silence they shared was fraught with raw emotions, each breath a missed opportunity to break the silence, but as they looked up, neither thought those opportunities were terribly important.

After all, the silence can convey a lot if it's done right.

But a moment later, Patton's breathless gasp conveyed more than any silence, or any words ever could.

"Oh my gosh, fireflies!" Patton leapt up, watching the glittering bugs with glee.

Eyes flickering from amber light to amber light as they were lit and blown out like trick candles.

"Yes," Logan watched the scene with a gentle raise to his brow, "I suppose it is about season for them to come out."

Patton scoured the air for a moment, watching it as if it may explode, he took four steps forward, then another two at a diagonal.

Then, in a wave of movement, he lifted his arm and grasped one of the fluttering bugs, closing it in his palm, effectively caging the small animal, but not squishing it.

"Logan! Logan I caught one!" Patton exclaimed with a look of utter glee, he skipped back toward the other.

Logan couldn't help but look upon the other with a certain fondness as he giggled again.

"He's tickling my hand," Patton smiled, "do you wanna see?" Of course, Logan had seen fireflies before. He knew what they looked like and what they did, he knew in scientific terms they were called 'Lampyridae'.

Yet… the utter enchantment Patton exuded from the simple pleasure of holding a small bug, of watching the sunset, made him want to see the (Lampyridae) Firefly through the reflection of the wonder Patton held for the small creature.

Through the refracting joy Patton held for the whole world.

"…Sure." Logan acquiesced, but as Patton opened his hand, the small creature crawling out over his fingers, it's small antennae waving, trying to understand their surroundings…

Logan found himself watching Patton's eyes light up in fondness then watching the bug spread its wings and flutter off.

So, long after the sun had finally set and the fireflies gentle glow had stopped, the two still sat out under a canopy of stars.

Now laying next to each-other, shoulders gently brushing, able to feel the heat off each other in the cool night's air…

"Hey look, isn't that the big dipper?" Patton asked, the breathless awe in his voice making Logan's stomach do flips.

"I believe you are correct, Patton, good eye," he complemented after finding the correct constellation.

Patton beamed at him, but pretty much went right back to looking at the stars, leaning back onto his elbows to get a better view.

But, as Logan breathed in and out, he found himself more wanting to connect the constellations of Patton's warm freckled cheeks, than recite ones traced between far away stars.

But those odd feelings didn't matter right now, because right now they were just watching the stars.

Until Patton, propping himself on his elbow, turned to him, face set with a determined look.

"Logan, I need to tell you something," he sat up. Logan, following his lead, also sat up, crosslegged, facing each other.

"What is it?" Logan asked. He had enjoyed tonight, even though, most of the time, spontaneity was one thing he disdained.

"I-I…" Patton looked down, just like he had in the hall, only now his eyes highlighted by the silver moonlight, only looked so much more… beautifulwonderfulamazinglovelyhandsomecute- Patton. So much more himself.

"I like you," his voice was timid, gentle like a gust of wind.

Logan blinked.

"Of course you do, you like everyone." Logan reasoned, he wondered if this was, again, one of those social constructs he didn't care for. Was he supposed to declare his friendship with the other sides in such a fashion? And if so, why hadn't Patton done it sooner?

"No, I…" he sighed, running a finger through his hair.

"Just, let me show you?" Patton asked, the flush to his cheeks warm as they moved closer, Logan found his eyes darting to the other's sweet, soft, gentle pink lips…

"Okay.." Logan whispered.

And just like that, Patton's lips were pressed against his, soft and innocent and all the while, trying to convey what words could not, trying to show a feeling.

A bright buzz enveloped Logan's being as a hand came up to cup his chin, a finger brushing over his cheekbones, they were still.

And then, movements a flow of sorrow… they parted.

"Do you understand?" Patton moved away, shoulders slowly hunching like closing gates-

Logan pressed forward with a surge of energy and found his lover's lips, pressing them together, he didn't move his hands…

He had no idea where they should go.

All he knew was he had to get closer, and it appeared that Patton felt the same way, climbing into Logan's lap, fitting like jigsaw pieces, Patton threw his arms around the other's neck.

Logan's arms, gently, curled around the others waist.

The tingling shocks that once only dared to press over his lips, spread like a delicious poison, through his every vein, until they broke apart.

And as they did, the buzz did not leave.

And with that, an involuntary promise was made.

Neither of them would leave.

"I think I do," Logan breathed, forehead's resting against each other, the warmth they shared felt like home.

"But… just in case," his lips neared his partner's again, "do you think you can show me again?"

And so they fit together again, just like puzzle pieces. And in the night sky, the tracing stars formed a heart.


	81. (M) GERASKIER - The Sweetest Poison by A

The Sweetest Poison  
AvoidingAverage

Summary:  
"And what do you want in return? Your freedom? Your safety?"

Jaskier didn't flinch from her scorn and Geralt could see his knuckles go white with the force of his grip around the small vial. "Save him."

The mage stared at him for a beat before letting out a burst of laughter that echoed off the wall like the flutter of vultures wings. "All this trouble for the Witcher?" she asked incredulously, "Tell me, boy, do you really think he would do the same for you? That he cares at all what happens to the bard who follows after him like a lost puppy?" She stepped forward, confident as a soldier preparing his death blow. "Oh, I know who you are, bard. I watched you trailing after the Witcher, eager for every scrap of affection or interest he'll toss your way. I've seen the way you look at him."

Jaskier was breathing heavily now, jaw clenched tight enough that Geralt could see the muscles fluttering with effort.

"Were you hoping this ill-conceived rescue mission would be enough to make him finally notice you?" she murmured with a mocking smile, "Poor little bard-always singing of love but never truly experiencing it."

* * *

Pain was something Geralt of Rivia was familiar with.

He knew the pain of being unwanted by first his mother and then the rest of the world. He knew the distinct agony of knowing the woman he loved—or as much as a Witcher could love—walked away and rejected him. He could recount the white hot blaze of sliced muscle and skin against the dull throb of broken bones. Of failed campaigns and too slow messengers asking for aid against monsters of myth and legend.

But this, this was another thing entirely.

He opened his eyes with a soft grunt that did nothing to mitigate the tightness in his chest left behind by hours of hanging from the rafters of the cell he'd been tossed into. As tall as he was, his feet still barely touched the floor which forced him to stand on tiptoe or allow all his weight to hang from his aching shoulders and arms. Whatever armor that had survived the ambush had long been stripped away to make it easier for his tormentors to color his skin in shades of black and mottled blue. The scent of his blood was bright iron against the stench of unwashed skin and the misery of all the poor souls who'd inhabited this room before him.

Quietly, Geralt bore through the painful pulse of his heartbeat thumping sluggishly in his chest and tried not to hate it for its dogged determination to keep him alive. Around him, the room still lingered with crackling energy that his body recognized even if his mind was slow to piece together the fragments of memories that led him to this new pit of hell.

"Right," he rumbled as he spat old blood onto the ruined stone floor, "mages."

Specifically, _a _mage aided by a significant number of well trained mercenaries. Well trained enough to ambush him as he rode into the edges of Novigrad and keep him drugged with enough potions to keep him dazed and compliant while they moved him to these holding cells.

From there it was a haze of relatively impersonal beatings and casual attempts at questioning—all without revealing what they truly wanted from him.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

He doubted they even cared much about his growled curses or promises for vengeance. The attack and the questioning had all the hallmarks of a group uninterested in anything but the payout they'd receive when they delivered him to whoever hired them.

_If _they were able to deliver him, that is.

Sighing through his nose, he tilted his head up to eye the chains connected to a series of hooks on the ceiling with a critical eye. Fuck. Clearly they were expecting him. That made this even more complicated. The only good news he had was that Jaskier was safely away from this mess—no doubt flirting his way into some noblewoman's household.

Outside the simple wooden door, he could hear the sounds of the mercenaries guarding him laughing and talking as they are their evening meal. His stomach grumbled a protest, but he ignored it. He'd been hungry before and would be again so long as he got out of this cell before someone wised up enough to realize it was safer to sink a blade in his gut than keep an angry Witcher around.

Before he could consider how he could get out of the thick iron manacles on his wrists, ankles and neck, the sounds of talking outside abruptly magnified as the door opened to reveal a tall, splindly woman in the dark robes of a witch no longer affiliated with Aretuza. Dark, wide set eyes stared at him balefully with a face already beginning to show its age and unaided by the graying hair at her temples. One hand moved oddly at her side as though it was too weak to respond to her commands. If he had to guess based on her narrow features and too large nose, he doubted she'd remained in training long enough to Ascend. Her body had none of the perfectly curated curves and features of Yennefer's form.

Which made it even more annoying that she's gotten the drop on him.

"You're awake," she said in a slightly accented voice that was surprisingly high pitched for such a dour looking person. "I was beginning to wonder if I'd used too much of the paralytic."

Geralt tilted his head to the side, a feral smile twisting his lips. "Why don't you step closer and see for yourself?"

Her answering smile was equally unamused. "I have no intention of aiding you in whatever idiotic escape plan you've been concocting in here. I am not a fool."

"That's debatable," he replied, "But since you are here, why don't you explain to me why the fuck you think you're going to be walking away from this without a new hole in your neck?"

"My employer assures me that the only person who will be suffering from painful new additions to their vital organs will be you, Geralt of Rivia."

"And just who is your employer, mage?"

"Baron Ryker of Aedirn."

Geralt frowned, trying and failing to remember how he'd attracted the ire of some prissy noble. Some of his confusion must have shown on his face because the mage took a step closer and continued.

"You were hired by my employer to capture and kill a foul creature who was preying on the people of his lands. A succubus. Instead, you took his money and fled in the night while the creature still drew breath."

Abruptly, the name and mention of the creature pulled free the memory of the two days he'd spent on the Baron's land trailing a succubus he'd claimed was preying on his tenants. Of the haunted look in the creature's eyes when he'd cornered her in an empty hayloft. Of the bruises and cuts marring her arms to match the outline of the collar at her neck.

"The Baron lied to you then," Geralt bit out as his temper flared at the reminder, "He didn't want me to kill the succubus—he wanted me to enslave her so he could keep torturing her for pleasure."

Just the thought of the way the creature had shuddered her way through the account of her weeks trapped within the Baron's house as a slave to her nature and his specially crafted cells made Geralt want to curse. Allowing the Baron to live had been a mercy he did not intend to allow again.

"What the man does with mindless beasts is not my concern," the mage said airily.

Geralt gritted his teeth. "She was not a beast. The only monster in that land was the man who hired you."

The mage shrugged one thin shoulder in a dismissive gesture. "His morals are of no interest to me, Witcher. I only care for his coin."

"That coin will not save you from my blade."

She watched him for a beat, tracing over the wounds and bruises marking his exposed chest with a sick sort of pleasure. The knife she pulled free from the folds of her cloak was as sharp as the smile creasing her face. This close, he could already smell the sickly sweet scent of poison along its edge. Gently, she let it trail across his collarbone and down his chest, raising a fine line of blood.

"So fierce, even after all this pain," she crooned. "I wonder how long it will take before you begin to beg."

"Better women than you have tried."

She smiled and the blade bite into the muscle of his pectoral until it was twitching helplessly. Before the blood could drip down the planes of his stomach, she reached out and ran her finger through the dark mixture, letting her nails drag over the cut until it burned. Licking off the tips of her fingers, she made a low sound of pleasure while he growled at her. "Oh Witcher, I'm going to enjoy this."

* * *

He lost time.

Even with his age and enhancements, there was only so much pain the body could take before it began to shut down. His head felt blurry and stuffed with cotton from the mixture of exhaustion and the agony throbbing through every inch of his skin. Each time he began to slip into the cool dark of unconsciousness, the mage would drag him back to the surface with a crackle of healing magic.

The shadows dancing around the torch she'd lit somewhere between the second or third time he'd passed out were beginning to resemble the beasts in his nightmare. They taunted him with cruel laughter and the rake of claws along his skin, rippling and flickering in and out of his vision. He suspected it had something to do with the potions that were forced down his throat occasionally with the aid of a burly soldier. There was little he could do besides hang there and wait for the moment when they let their guards down enough for him to break free.

Sometimes-when his fever worsened-he saw Jaskier standing just beside the mage, his blue eyes unnaturally cruel in the firelight. Each time Geralt found himself reaching for him, twitching and heaving helplessly against his chains in an attempt to warn the bard away. It was almost a relief when the hallucination left him alone again. At least then he knew Jaskier was far away from this hellhole. Even if it did mean a return to the dull agony of his torture and the growing sense of despair clinging to him.

Geralt knew pain just as he did loneliness.

The mage paused mid-stroke when the sound of a knock at the outside door cut through the noise of rowdy mercenaries. There was the sound of a few curious voices before the door opened and silence fell through the room. She frowned, looking annoyed at the interruption.

"Stay put, Witcher. I'll be back soon."

Geralt didn't bother to respond, too busy trying to sort through his injuries and the hallucinations to bother with thinking about the reason for the respite. He knew how stories like this ended. If he didn't escape quickly, his chances of ever making it out of here would be nonexistent. His strength was already waning. He couldn't let the mage get her hands on him again. The chains rattled weakly against his abraded skin and he growled in frustration when they continued to bind him in place. He glared up at the hooks in the ceiling as though he could wish them into loosening for him.

Light flooded into the room once again and Geralt felt his stomach lurch when the mage stepped through once more. Not for the first time, he was grateful that he no longer felt the emotions of a normal human. The fear and panic felt far away.

_Fuck _, he was tired.

The urge to sleep was overwhelming. His eyes drooped while his head tried to fall forward to allow his neck to rest. He shook himself roughly, trying to force himself upright through willpower alone. Sleeping now could mean death later. If the Baron arrived with reinforcements, the limited amount of chance he had to escape would disappear.

Jaskier would never forgive him if he died in such a boring way.

_No one cares about heroes who die of old age, Geralt, _his mind hazily recited from a memory of weeks before they'd parted ways. _They want to see heroes making their final stand against insurmountable odds or going down in a blaze of glory. Why, if my audience knew how many great knights ended their days shitting themselves into oblivion, I'd be out of a job!_

So Geralt had to stay alive long enough to kill the mage and her followers so Jaskier could get at least one more song out of him.

You'll die soon either way, the cruelly practical voice in his mind whispered. Too much blood loss. Without a healer, you're done for.

He always imagined his death would be in the dark under the weight of some beast he'd been sent to hunt. Perhaps on some battlefield after he got involved in yet another scheme he should have avoided. Somehow, bleeding out in a cell with a mage he didn't know watching him suffer until she delivered him to the bastard he should have killed months ago. It felt almost...anti climatic to die in such a idiotic way. Perhaps that was all death was-a final foolish moment before you slipped away into the dark.

The sound of a proud, overly dramatic voice drifted in through the wooden cell door and Geralt froze.

Oh fuck, he knew that voice.

Whatever bullshit Jaskier was attempting to pitch to the mercenaries outside had the men speaking sharply, cutting into his rambling diatribe. The little idiot never had managed to figure out how to get out of half the trouble he seemed to attract. How he'd managed to survive this long was a mystery to Geralt.

What the fuck he was doing in this house was another.

Outside the room, there was a sharp cry of alarm and the sound of a scuffle. Geralt jerked against his chains, all of his exhaustion disappearing under the roar of his growing panic. If Jaskier somehow got caught up in this, there was no way the mage or the mercenaries would allow him to walk away from this place alive. Geralt needed to get out there before the soldiers realized that he wasn't some random bard.

Yanking at the cuffs around his wrists, Geralt ignored the blood trickling down his arms and the way his heartbeat was thundering in his ears. All he could think about was the way Jaskier had gasped out his name that day with the djinn. The panic in his wide eyes as blood pooled around his throat and he gasped for air.

He couldn't remember the last thing he'd said to him.

Had it been another ill-tempered and ill-considered jab at his skills?

Geralt was so used to the constant rambling monologues of the man who staunchly refused to take any of the Witcher's growling to heart that he often forgot the bard was not immune to the world around him. He could remember the pain in his expression when Geralt insulted his singing. The way he looked in the quiet moments between performances when people jeered and mocked and moved around him like he was some rock in an ever moving stream. It took Geralt time to realize that despite all of Jaskier's flash and good humor that he was breakable beneath.

It took even longer to realize Geralt did not want to be the reason Jaskier lost his smile.

Caring for the bard had come as a surprise. The few emotions he felt as a Witcher seemed to be dedicated to the rapid push and pull between annoyance at Jaskier's mindless chatter and a violent need to protect the man from anyone who might harm him. The man had grown on him-like a mold or a cancer, sure, but grown on him all the same. It was part of the reason why he had sent Jaskier on his way to the larger city in search of more patrons. Having Jaskier at his side when he was hunting was...a distraction. One he couldn't afford to analyze too closely.

Now, he could feel his lungs sucking in as much air as they could to weather the panic flooding him. Each breath whistled sharply against the broken ribs on his side and he could taste the sharp iron of blood bubbling in his mouth. He could feel his muscles protesting against each jerk of the chains, but he ignored them in favor of straining his ears to listen to the noises of fighting on the other side of the door. The pain doesn't matter if it means he'll be able to reach Jaskier before they slit his stupid, brave throat.

He understood then why Witchers were made to be free of emotion. There was nothing but his training at Kaer Morhen to keep him from bellowing a warning to Jaskier and hurling himself after him. As it was, he felt the burn of his human heritage more strongly than he could remember since his childhood. All his mind seemed capable of doing was straining all his senses toward the room outside for any sign of Jaskier's survival. There was a scrape of a wooden chair against the stone floor and a sharp, eerily familiar scent in the air that made Geralt's head spin dangerously.

Jaskier wasn't speaking anymore.

The thought that the bard's silence would cause such dread would have been preposterous just a few days before. Jaskier was only silent if he was eating, sleeping, or when he was threatened within an inch of his life. The quiet seeping into the stone felt like a funeral dirge.

"Jaskier?" he rasped, voice raw with the screams and sounds of pain he'd bitten back.

The only reply was the sound of his own jagged breathing.

Geralt growled in frustration, jerking his hands until the metal above him shrieked. He needed to get the fuck out of these _chains-_

The heavy wooden door made a rough sound that he was all too familiar with after days of the mage's visits. He froze instinctively, body trained now to expect pain, but instead he found himself staring into wide blue eyes surrounded by a mop of tousled brown hair. The relief was enough to make him sag bonelessly against his restraints, grateful that they could keep him upright.

"Jaskier," Geralt breathed, eyes fixed on him like he would disappear if he looked away.

The bard glanced behind him briefly before hurrying into the room, hands fluttering like bird's wings as he took in the battered state of the Witcher's body. "Gods, Geralt-what have they done to you?"

Geralt didn't respond, too busy trying not to gasp out his relief when familiar fingers trailed over the curve of his cheek. His eyes fluttered wearily in the wake of such comfort after being in pain for so long. He couldn't say when he'd started to enjoy Jaskier's easy affections, but he was weak against it now.

"-should have dosed them with something stronger. If I'd known they'd done this, Witcher, I'd-well I don't know what I'd do, but it would be painful." Jaskier continued rambling dire imprecations of his captors' characters while he examined the chains around Geralt's wrists and ankles. He plucked at the metal until the cuff around Geralt's right leg went loose and he could breathe a sigh of relief at the release of pressure. "I leave you alone for two weeks and look at what they did to you, hmm?" He was practically crooning now to the nearly unconscious Witcher, "You're lucky I saw them hauling Roach through the gates. I knew you'd never let someone take Roach without a fight."

The Witcher licker his lips, trying to string his thoughts together into a coherent question. "...how?"

Jaskier seemed to understand what Geralt was getting at because he nodded reassuringly. "I had to wait until most of the mercenaries left for whoever bought them out before I could come get. Gods, I'm so sorry that Geralt. I had no idea if you were even alive or how they were holding you here. Once I realized you weren't able to get out on your own, I tossed a packet of nightshade down the chimney and waited to smoke them out."

The thought of what could have happened if Jaskier had breathed in any of the deadly smoke made Geralt flinch violently in Jaskier's grasp, nearly falling when the bard removed one of the chains on his arms. He sagged heavily against the smaller man, helpless to resist the pull of gravity without a brace. Jaskier grunted at the added weight but didn't complain.

"Need to get you out of these before you go to sleep, Witcher."

Geralt tried to lift himself onto his feet, but his mind felt like it was spinning, senses far too muddled to make sense. He huffed out a passable agreement.

"Almost there, Geralt," Jaskier said with effort as he unhooked the last chain and Geralt nearly fell forward, "I'm going to get you out of here, don't you worry. Everything's going to be alright. I've got you."

A droll, painfully familiar voice interrupted Jaskier's soothing ramblings from the doorway.

"Somehow I doubt that."

Both men jerked in surprise at the sight of the mage standing casually at the door. Geralt shifted weakly, trying to place his body between Jaskier and the mage. Jaskier cursed softly behind him and tried to move past the solid wall of muscle and Witcher.

The woman's lips twitched in a faint smile that never reached her eyes. "I have to admit, I'm impressed," she continued, "I never expected anyone to care about a Witcher, let alone the Butcher of Blaviken. Perhaps I underestimated you, Geralt."

" _Don't talk to him like that _!" Jaskier hissed despite the way Geralt continued to try to silence him.

"Quiet," Geralt whispered jaggedly to him, terrified at what could happen to him while he was too weak to defend the bard. Already his head was throbbing painfully and his body was throbbing in an agony that could only lead to collapse.

He had to keep Jaskier away from her. He had to keep him safe.

Geralt's eyes darted to the open doorway beyond the mage where he guessed his weapons might be stored and tried to gather his strength for one last charge. If the mage was dead, Jaskier would be safe and Geralt could go into the otherworld without regrets. Or, at least, he could die knowing his death would be worth something.

Jaskier's hand clutched tighter around Geralt's bicep when the mage took a step closer, her breath wheezing oddly in the quiet. The bard edged a little closer, looking surprised. "You breathed in the poison too," he said with a grin. "You're dying."

The woman scowled, "I'll admit I didn't expect such a clever attack, but it doesn't matter. I'll go to my grave knowing the Witcher will go before me."

She raised her hand in a gesture that sent Geralt to his knees, groaning in agony when his wounds seemed to pulse white-hot. Jaskier made a rough sound of denial, looking torn between rushing the mage and trying to help Geralt. The Witcher let himself lean forward on his wounded hands as he gasped for air to breathe through the pain. His arms shook with effort, making his plans to attack seem useless.

Another wave of visceral pain had Geralt's eyes blacking out in a wave that brought nausea pooling in his throat. He dry heaved, barely hearing Jaskier's curses over the roar of his own heartbeat. Blood pooled in his mouth, dripping in dark streaks that stank of rot and ruin and dark magic. Whatever the mage had been pumping into him to keep him weak enough to be bound was running its course, wreaking havoc as it went.

"Fuck," he spat and wiped feebly at the streaks of red at his mouth.

"I can save you."

Geralt looked up at the sound of Jaskier's determined voice, ready to warn him that it was already too late for that, when he realized that the statement wasn't directed at him.

Jaskier stood, hands reaching into his gaudy green doublet to pull free a small vial Geralt recognized from his own pack. "I brought an antidote in case Geralt was in the room when I released the poison. It's not too late to save you."

The mage's dark eyes fixed on the bottle with near fanatic focus. She licked her lips. "What's to stop me from just taking it from you?"

"I'll break it and enjoy watching you die."

Geralt had never heard the flat, vicious tone of voice from the bard before. It matched the furious glint in his expressive eyes and the way his body remained cowled like a bowstring prepared to loose its arrow.

She sniffed in annoyance. "And what do you want in return? Your freedom? Your safety?"

Jaskier didn't flinch from her scorn and Geralt could see his knuckles go white with the force of his grip around the small vial. "Save him."

The mage stared at him for a beat before letting out a burst of laughter that echoed off the wall like the flutter of vultures wings. "All this trouble for the Witcher?" she asked incredulously, "Tell me, boy, do you really think he would do the same for you? That he cares at all what happens to the bard who follows after him like a lost puppy?" She stepped forward, confident as a soldier preparing his death blow. "Oh, I know who you are, bard. I watched you trailing after the Witcher, eager for every scrap of affection or interest he'll toss your way. I've seen the way you look at him."

Jaskier was breathing heavily now, jaw clenched tight enough that Geralt could see the muscles fluttering with effort.

"Were you hoping this ill-conceived rescue mission would be enough to make him finally notice you?" she murmured with a mocking smile, "Poor little bard-always singing of love but never truly experiencing it."

"Heal him and I'll give you the antidote," Jaskier cut in, his voice rough with some complicated emotion. He carefully did not look at where Geralt was kneeling at his feet. "My reasons will remain my own."

She considered him for a long moment before she shrugged. "Swear it then, bard. The antidote for the Witcher's healing."

Jaskier didn't hesitate. "I swear it. As soon as he is safe, I'll give you the vial."

Her smile was cold as steel and Geralt opened his mouth to beg Jaskier to flee, but her hands were already flicking in his direction.

Geralt slammed into the ground as his spine bowed under the force of all the muscles in his body seizing uncontrollably. His mouth opened in a silent scream that turned into a howl as the blood in his veins seemed to roil beneath his skin, searing along each cut and bruise. He thrashed violently, the cold stone floor a useless brace against the wildfire moving through his cells and carving into his bones. Distantly he could hear Jaskier shouting, feel hands grasping at him, but all his mind seemed capable of was producing animalistic cries of pain.

It lasted for hours. Decades. Eons.

The magic ate away at him, reforging his injuries with a blunt force that left him twitching and spasming helplessly on the floor. Every drop of his strength felt wrung dry at the cost of the power needed to drag him back from the edge of death. Each breath felt like a battle, each heartbeat a tiny skirmish in the war against his own mortality. He opened his eyes and sucked in a fortifying breath. Then another.

Gentle fingers cradled his head against lean muscle and he realized with a start that he was laying half-draped across Jaskier's lap. The bard's eyes were red and dripping with tears that had him looking paler and frail than Geralt had ever seen him. His lips moved in a complicated pattern that Geralt could understand until the thunder of his heart beat quieted and he released a bit of the tension in his body in relief.

"Oh please be okay. Please please, Geralt. You can't leave me like this. You can't go yet. We haven't-we haven't finished the Ballad of the Endless Death yet," he begged in a voice approaching a sob, "I know you said the second verse was pretentious but I've been working on it and I really think it could be a hit. Then people will finally realize how good you are, Geralt. They'll-they'll finally treat you like you deserve, but you have to stay alive. You just-you have too, _please _. _Please don't leave me. _"

The desperation in the bard's voice was enough to drag Geralt away from the temptation of sleep. He blinked up at him slowly, watching the other man's eyes flit over his face like he was memorizing the features. With an effort, Geralt forced his raw throat to speak.

"Not...going anywhere...without you."

Jaskier's lips stretched into a tremulous smile and Geralt felt the gentle splash of tears on his cheeks. He lifted Geralt's hand to his lips and pressed a shaky kiss against his palm, holding it against his cheek.

"Well isn't that just precious," the mage sneered, "Truly, I underestimated your appeal, Witcher. But I grow tired of waiting-give me what was promised, bard."

Jaskier leaned away from Geralt after a beat, jaw clenching as he turned his attention to the mage. Geralt tugged at his tunic in a weak protest, but Jaskier ignored him in favor of getting to his feet and bringing out the vial. He presented it to her with a tiny flourish that felt out of place in the barren cell.

"The antidote, as we agreed."

Eagerly, the woman snatched the vial away from him and drained the contents. Almost immediately, her eyes fluttered shut as she breathed a sigh of relief. Color returned to her sallow cheeks with each breath and it was obvious that his antidote was already taking effect.

She smiled and Geralt felt the cracking power of her magic blooming to life. Her eyes narrowed on him as he struggled to get to his feet before she could attack. "I think I'll let you live long enough to watch you pathetic human die, Witcher, before I finish what I started."

"Wait, no-" Jaskier began, but she gestured to him imperiously and he was slung bodily across the room.

Geralt was on his feet and moving toward her before his mind could even process the choice. A feral snarl ripped free from his chest and he moved forward with fury emboldening each step. Each movement was more beast than man, every inch of him vibrating in unholy rage. That he was unarmed and injured was meaningless in the wake of the way she'd threatened-the way she'd _hurt- _-Jaskier in front of him.

His forward momentum stopped abruptly when she lifted her hands once more and he slammed into a wall of blistering magic. He roared and thrashed against it, ready to fight his way forward through sheer willpower if need be. She grunted, sweat shining on her skin as she braced her shield and doubled down on her attack. Geralt felt a line of pain bloom along his cheek as magic sliced into him like a whip.

"I'm going to enjoy watching you suffer, Witcher," she hissed. "I'll make you beg for me to kill him by the time I'm done making him scream. You'll beg me for and thank me for the mercy of slitting his worthless, talentless-"

Her words cut off in a wet gurgle that matched oddly with the look of shock on her features.

The shield holding Geralt in place dropped abruptly and he stumbled forward gracelessly. The mage's hands scrabbled at her back as though trying to reach something unseen before she fell to her knees on the stone floor and collapsed in a boneless heap.

Geralt stared in shock at the long knife handle standing proudly nestled between the third and fourth rib. Slowly, he looked up to where Jaskier was gaping at her. His blue eyes looked too large for his pale face and already Geralt could see the way his hands were shaking at his side. Then the bard took a deep breath, resettling into a new reality where he was a man capable of murdering another.

"Jaskier?" Geralt rasped.

With a soft sound of relief, Jaskier crossed the room in two large strides and nearly threw himself into Geralt's arms. It was easy as breathing to wrap himself around the smaller man and draw him closer until even the rhythm of their breathing was in unison. They sank to the ground in a heap of tangled limbs as Geralt's strength faltered, but neither moved away from the other. The fine tremors wracking the bard's body slowly evolved into quiet sobs that Geralt soothed away with a hand stroking over the length of his spine.

When Jaskier finally fell silent and still, Geralt leaned back enough so he could frown down at the smaller man. "That was incredibly stupid."

He blinked and his mouth twitched a little.

Geralt glowered at him, trying to cover up the lingering traces of helpless panic with his usual bad temper. "Don't _ever _do that again."

Jaskier's grin was impish and chased away some of the shadows lingering in his eyes. "Or what, Witcher?"

Helpless against the impish curve of his lip, Geralt leaned forward in a move he'd fantasized countless times. He swallowed the sound of Jaskier's soft sigh of pleasure, bringing his hand up to tilt the other man's jaw so their mouths slanted together just so. It held none of the violence and danger of his profession, just the soft wonder and fragile emotion that had bloomed and taken root over the months of traveling together.

When he pulled back, they were both breathless, eyes inky black with desire. Geralt moved forward to brush a kiss to the corner of Jaskier's mouth and to press their foreheads together with quiet intimacy. He sighed softly, "You're going to be the death of me, bard."

Jaskier's laughter was sunlight after an endless night.

"Not if I have anything to say about it, Witcher."


	82. (T) TREEBROS - Stuck by PiperEmerald

Stuck  
Piper_Emerald

Summary:  
Being afraid of a elevator was irrational. Airplanes were occasionally lost, cars crashed all the time, but elevators were just metal boxes you rarely had to occupy for over three minutes. As long as you could keep your claustrophobia at bay there was nothing to fear. The chances of it getting stuck, or broken, or something going wrong were too slim to think about.

In which an elevator gets stuck, Connor panics, and Evan (surprisingly) is able to calm him down.

* * *

Connor hand't wanted to leave his room that night. He'd had an uneasy feeling all day, and the old him would have probably told his family to fuck off when they insisted on dragging him out of the house. However, he was trying to get better.

He knew that Zoe really wanted him to be there. It was the first time she was introducing their parents to Alana, and if Connor could do something to quell her nerves he'd go. He owed her that much. And, of course, he wanted to see what happened. Connor knew that his father was still not exceedingly comfortable with Zoe dating a girl, that his mother was being over supportive to cancel this out, and that Alana would likely not pick up on any of it.

This had the potential to be one of the most entertaining nights of his life. He just needed to stop his head from convincing him his skin was trying to crawl off.

"Shit," Zoe's voice brought him out of his thoughts.

"What?" He raised an eyebrow.

"I forgot my phone in the car, I need to tell her we're here," Zoe groaned.

"I can get it," Connor offered. He needed a second to clear his head, and going all the way to the parking structure and back would provide him with that.

He wasn't entirely sure why there were at so nice of a restaurant. It was a good thing that Alana was usually confident. He wasn't sure he'd be able to handle meeting his girlfriend's weird family and a restaurant at the top floor of some high end hotel. Not that he'd have a girlfriend since he was even gayer than Zoe.

"You don't mind?" Zoe asked him.

"Not really," he shrugged.

"Thanks," she looked only slightly relieved. Connor realized tonight really was going to be stressful for her. Good on him for actually trying to help this time.

"Just remember to breathe," he said before stepping back into the elevator they'd just gotten off of.

Truth be told, Connor didn't like elevators. He hated confined spaces, and the fact that he was being supported only by a machine really didn't help. He didn't tell this to people, since he knew it was a stupid insecurity, and doubted any one would take him seriously if he voiced it. He pushed his discomfort to the back of his mind, forcing his eyes to focus on his phone screen for the ride down.

Two floors later a familiar face stepped into the other wise empty elevator. Connor knew this kid. He was pretty sure his name was Evan Hansen. He sometimes hung out with Zoe, but he'd never spoken to Connor. That wasn't really unusual, considering most of the people in their high school avoided him.

But this time Connor had a feeling it had less to do with himself and more to do with Evan. He'd once witnessed the kid have a panic attack because he got put on the spot by their teacher during English. Actually, their entire class had witnessed that. Connor remembered feeling bad for the poor kid.

When Evan stepped into the elevator he avoided eye contact. That was good, Connor wasn't feeling like putting up with an awkward conversation today.

As Connor waited for the doors to close and the elevator to continue descending, he fished his phone out of his pocket. Alana had sent him a handful of confused texts after not being able to reach Zoe. She was probably waiting in the lobby. He could point her in the right direction on the way to getting Zoe's phone. By the end of the night Zoe was gonna owe him. He'd have fun having that over her.

Connor was lost in his thoughts when it happened.

One second the elevator was moving normally, the next it wrenched to a jarring stop. Connor almost lost his balance, his arm grasping the most likely germ infested hand rail. They were mid floors. In the back of his mind he registered a beeping noise. He felt his breath catch in his throat.

This wasn't fucking happening.

"What's going on?" Evan Hansen spoke for the first time. His eyes were wide and confused and fixed on Connor as if he expected him to have some kind of answer.

"Fuck," Connor hissed more to himself than to the kid standing next to him.

Being afraid of a elevator was irrational. Airplanes were occasionally lost, cars crashed all the time, but elevators were just metal boxes you rarely had to occupy for over three minutes. As long as you could keep your claustrophobia at bay there was nothing to fear. The chances of it getting stuck, or broken, or something going wrong were too slim to think about.

Connor was never going to let anyone call him paranoid ever again. Provided he got through this moment.

The lights flickered for a second. Connor imagined the elevator plummeting the thirty something stories they were above, dragging it's passengers with it.

He couldn't breath. His legs refused to hold him, letting his shaking body crumple onto the overly presentable elevator carpet. Stupid fancy hotels and putting money into stupid shit that didn't matter.

"I don't know what to do." Evan Hansen wasn't looking at Connor anymore, but he didn't sound like he was talking to himself.

"Hit the call button," Connor weakly indicated the the elevator's button panel.

Not that doing so should be necessary. Surely the hotel was aware this was happening. Surely someone was trying to get them out that very second. Connor hated this. He hated relying on other people, especially those he didn't know.

Evan Hansen was still standing in front of the button panel.

"It looks like a fucking phone," Connor said through his teeth.

"Oh, right sorry," Evan stammered.

Connor listened to him try to explain the situation to whoever the fuck was on the other end of that. He tried to pay attention but the words blurred together, and all he could really focus on was how fast his heart was hammering.

Connor only opened his eyes when he heard a small cough.

"They, um, they didn't say how long it'll be but—" Evan stopped talking to stare at him. He probably looked so small right now. Evan Hansen of all people probably thought Connor was weak. "Hey, are you okay?"

No. Connor was not okay. Connor was so fucking far from okay right now. He couldn't breath. He really couldn't. He was trying but his throat and his lungs hurt and he could still feel himself shaking and—

"Connor," there was a hand on his shoulder now. "Connor, look at me."

Evan was crouched next to him. He was still staring at him, but his eyes were soft and nonjudgmental. Connor could feel himself calming down. His whole body felt heavy and clammy, but slowly the thudding in his chest slowed.

"I'm fine," he was able to get out.

"I'm sorry," suddenly Evan was jumping backwards. "I didn't mean to get in your space, oh God, that was so stupid—"

"No," Connor quickly cut through the babble. "You kinda helped."

"Really?" Evan seemed to relax a little.

"I still think I'm about to throw up," Connor admitted. "But, yeah."

"Right," Evan nodded.

He looked concerned. He also looked afraid. Connor knew it was impossible for someone who was regularly on the skittish side to be calm in this situation. Still, for a moment Evan had seemed very in control. Connor was impressed.

"You know my name," Connor realized.

"Yeah, I, um," Evan didn't meet Connor's eyes. "I know your sister."

"Yeah," Connor was aware of this.

"And we've kinda been going to school together since second grade," Evan added.

"Right," Connor nodded. "It's Evan, yeah?"

"Yes. Evan. Sorry."

"You apologize a lot," Connor commented.

"Yeah," Evan mumbled.

"Why aren't you freaking out?" Connor had to ask, because he was barely able to stay coherent in his moment and Evan seemed almost grounded.

"I kinda don't know," Evan admitted. "Sorry. Usually I think I would be, a lot, but…"

His fingers tugged at the edge of his shirt. Connor was fairly certain that he was more uncomfortable holding the conversation than being stuck in a metal death box. That was almost funny.

"How long do you think it's going to take?" Connor asked.

"I don't know," Evan said.

"God," Connor let out a painful exhale. "I fucking hate elevators."

"Yeah," Evan murmured in agreement.

"Do you have any reception?" Connor asked, knowing that his own phone was still stuck offline.

"No," Evan replied after quickly checking his.

"Me neither," Connor stated. "My family's gonna think I ditched."

And to think he'd actually been doing good for the past month. Tonight might have meant something. His parents would have seen that he was actually a supportive brother and not the waste of space he used to be, and Zoe would have been glad that he was there for her. Now she was probably stressed, and nervous, and rightfully pissed at him.

"If the elevator's stuck they should tell people, right?" Evan's voice brought him out of his thoughts.

"I don't fucking know," Connor shrugged. "What floor are we on?"

"Don't look at—"

Too late. They were high up. They were really fucking high up.

"Fuck," Connor felt his breath hitch again. This wasn't fair. This wasn't fucking fair.

"It's gonna be okay," Evan tried to calm him. "They're, um, sending someone to fix it? I think, sorry."

"You can stop apologizing," Connor informed him.

"Okay," Evan uttered.

"I knew something was going to happen tonight," Connor let himself say.

"What?" Evan gave him a confused look.

"I just, I felt off but I was trying to be a good brother for once in my fucking life and this is where it gets me."

"I'm sorry," Evan caught himself. "I mean—"

Connor let out a dry laugh. After a second a small smile crossed Evan's face.

"Why are you here?" Connor wondered.

"Oh, um," Evan's eyes darted away from him. "There was this party."

"_You_ were at a party?" Connor snorted. It took a second for the regret to shoot through him. Evan had just stopped him from having a panic attack twice and here he was being an ass.

"Yeah, I mean, not like that," Evan stammered.

"Yeah?" Connor prompted, making his voice softer now.

"It was a family thing, but—" Evan made a face. Connor didn't need him to finish that.

"My family sucks too," he let him know.

Evan let out a small laugh.

"I didn't even want to go," he mumbled.

That was when the lights went out.

As a kid, Connor had never been scared of the dark. If anything, he'd felt drawn to it. He liked the solitude night gave him, and the absence of light gave less room to see everything that was wrong around him.

It wasn't the dark that scared him, it was what the elevator losing light had to mean.

"Fuck," all of the calm Connor had been able to cling onto was gone. "_Fuck_."

"Connor," Evan's voice was so much louder and so much steadier than it had been seconds ago.

"I hate this," Connor heard his voice crack. Sounded pathetic, but couldn't find it in him to care. He felt like a powerless child.

"I know," Evan told him. "I hate it too."

Connor tried to imagine Evan's face as he said this. Evan was sitting next to him. Evan couldn't have been less than a foot away, but it felt so far. Never had feeling isolated freaked him out this much.

"Can you," Connor stopped himself. He wasn't that small. He wasn't that sad.

"Yeah?" Evan hummed, he sounded worried. He should be as scared as Connor but he just sounded concerned for him. Connor couldn't wrap his head around this. He'd never met anyone this selfless.

"Never mind," he said quickly.

"No, what do you need?" Evan's voice was firmer than Connor thought possible. That was what did Connor in.

He swallowed his pride.

"Can you hold my hand?" He let the question fall from his lips. He just needed something to hold onto, some proof that he wasn't alone right now.

"Oh."

"Fuck," Connor had overstepped. Of course he had, Evan didn't know him, why did he think he'd be okay with that.

"No," Evan said quickly. "I just can't see where you are, because, yeah…"

A second later Evan's cold hand found Connor's shaking one. Connor leaned back into the wall. Evan squeezed his hand. Connor tried to tell himself that help was coming, that they were going to be okay.

"If you tell anyone at school about this," Connor started.

"Who would I tell?" Evan asked blankly.

"I don't know," Connor admitted.

Maybe Zoe, but Connor knew once she found out what happened she'd be to relieved they were alright to make fun of him. That was, of course, if they actually were alright. Connor didn't know the odds, but they didn't feel good right now.

"It's okay to be scared," Evan said softly.

"It's not even that," the words came out before Connor could think about them. "Well it is, but it's not like I care that much if I die."

"I—"

"Shut up," Connor wanted to punch himself. Being here didn't change who he was. Evan trying to help him wasn't an invitation for him to spill his problems. "Forget you heard that."

"I was going to say I get that," Evan's voice wasn't louder than a whisper.

"Seriously?" Connor was glad Evan couldn't see him gaping.

"Is it that hard to believe?" Evan asked back.

"No," Connor said honestly. "It's just sad."

"Well, its sad for you too," Evan informed him. It was hard for Connor to believe that, but he wasn't going to say that much out loud.

"I've always been a lost cause," he stated instead.

Evan didn't try to tell him he wasn't. Connor appreciated that. This kid didn't know him, and he couldn't listen to fake words of encouragement right now.

"My mom doesn't know I'm here," Evan uttered. "If I died she'd have no idea."

"You said you were at a family thing," Connor wasn't following.

"It's my dad and his family," Evan's voice was hesitant. Connor could feel him weighing how much he wanted to tell him. "He, um, he left when I was a kid. When he said he wanted to see me I thought—Never mind, it doesn't matter."

Connor wanted to tell Evan that it did, but knew that him saying that would mean as much as Evan telling him he had a reason to live. Instead he gave Evan's hand a small squeeze

"They'd know you were in the elevator," Connor told him softly. "They'll call your mom."

"I really doubt they'd notice," Evan muttered bitterly. "And maybe that would be worse."

"I don't know," Connor hummed. "Your dad sounds like a piece of shit. If I were you, I'd want this to be on his conscience."

"That's dark," Evan mused.

"I'm dark," Connor shrugged. "Why is it so fucking cold in here?"

"Are there usually heaters in elevators?" Evan wondered.

"How am I supposed to know?" Connor asked back.

"I have a jacket," Evan started.

"Don't," Connor was asking this kid for too much already. "Are you always this nice?"

"No."

"Honesty," Connor remarked. "I like it."

"I try to be," Evan added. "But…"

"But?"

"I don't know," Evan mumbled.

"Yes, you do." Connor called him out. "Come on, we're stuck here and I'm on the verge of a panic attack, humor me."

"You're kinda manipulative," Evan informed him.

"Oh I know," Connor chuckled. "Now tell me one time you've been an asshole."

"I don't," Evan stammered.

"And then you can ask me literally anything and I promise I'll answer," Connor offered.

"That doesn't seem fair," Evan told him.

"I know," Connor said flatly. "So take the deal."

"Okay, um," Evan drew out the syllable. "There was this one time in freshman year."

"Yeah?" Connor prompted.

"I was in the same math class as my, um," Evan hesitated. "My family friend, Jared,"

"Jared Kleinman?" Connor interjected to ask.

"You know him?"

"Yeah," Connor's tone made his opinion clear.

"So," Evan continued. "He liked to not pay attention and then copy off me."

"Right," that sounded like the Jared Kleinman Connor knew.

"But he'd figure out stuff before the tests so it looked like he was really good at the subject," Evan added.

"Annoying," Connor mused.

"Yeah," Evan let out a small laugh. "So we had this project due at the end of class, but he was in the bathroom when the due date got moved up and no one else noticed."

"Yeah?" Connor hummed.

"So when he came back I told him it was due the next day and he went on his phone for the rest of class and ended up getting a zero," Evan sounded slightly proud. "It brought his grade down by a full letter."

"That is the nerdiest dick move I've ever heard," Connor let him know.

"Hey—"

"But I'll take it," he laughed. "Your turn."

"Literally anything?" Evan asked.

"The rumors about me killing a guy aren't true," Connor said blandly.

"That wasn't what I was thinking," Evan said.

"Just putting it out there."

Connor knew enough of what people said about him. Even if Evan Hansen might be a bit of a loner as well, Connor was positive that he'd heard at least some of it. Everyone knew he smoked, everyone knew he threw a printer in second grade. Connor was fine with talking about either of those. Well, usually he would not be, but if the boy who was holding his hand to keep him grounded asked he'd answer without a hint of offense.

"Are you gay?"

That…that wasn't at all what Connor expected.

For a second it just hung in the air. Connor's mouth felt dry. He wanted to get angry—he was supposed to get angry, but instead he felt like the words ripped a small hole in his gut. He felt betrayed.

"I'm sorry," Evan stammered. "That crosses a line and—"

"Yeah, it does." Connor pulled his hand away. He didn't want Evan Hansen's comfort anymore. For the first time since the elevator stopped, he wasn't thinking about how fucking terrified he was. "Why the fuck would you want to know that?"

"No reason," Evan said unconvincingly.

"That's a lie," Connor scoffed.

"I'm sorry." This time the words sounded genuine and not like a reflex.

"Why?" Connor asked.

"Because you seem really mad?" Evan's voice was shaky. Connor didn't feel bad for him.

"Are there rumors about that or something?" Connor asked. He didn't think anyone in their school cared about that. He thought that was maybe the one thing that he was allowed to keep to himself.

"What?" Evan stuttered. "No, that's not—"

"Does my sister talk about me?" Connor asked sharply.

Evan talked to Zoe. Connor knew this. If anyone had put that thought in the head of someone he didn't even know it had to be her.

"No, not at all—"

"Fucking hell," Connor could hear the venom in his own voice.

"Connor—"

"And I was trying so fucking hard to be nice to her," he mused bitterly. "But she's telling people like you that I—"

"I asked her and she said it wasn't my business!" Evan nearly shouted.

Connor wished he could see Evan's face, but something inside him knew that he wasn't lying to protect Zoe.

"What the fuck?" Connor didn't understand.

"I'm really sorry, I—"

Evan was cut off by the floor under them giving a sharp lurch. That wasn't good. That couldn't be good. They were going to die. Connor was going to die yelling at some kid who went to his high school while Zoe waited for him to get her cellphone so she could pretend that they were the stupid happy family she always wanted.

It hit him that the only reason he was in the elevator was to get Zoe's phone. Zoe knew this. If he hadn't stepped in, she would be the one sitting on the elevator floor trying not to have a heart attack.

If he died Zoe was going to blame herself.

"Shit," Connor hissed.

He didn't want that. All he'd ever done was cause her pain, he wasn't going to die creating more. The only reason he'd made it through the beginning of the school year was his fear that she'd be the one his death hurt the most.

Evan Hansen couldn't hear Connor's thoughts, and must have thought that he was swearing and once again struggling to breath normally because of the sudden lurch.

"It's okay," Evan tried.

"Everything is so far from okay right now," Connor said darkly.

Evan's hand found his shoulder.

"Don't fucking touch me," Connor snapped, flinching out of Evan's reach.

"I'm sorry!" Evan exclaimed.

Connor didn't say anything back. All of this felt like a bad dream. He just wanted to wake up.

"I, um," Evan's voice was small, but there was a purpose behind his words. "I had a crush on you last year and I asked Zoe because I wanted to know if I had a chance, which I don't, and I get that. I only asked because I've just been wondering for a while since a lot of people can hide it better than me and, yeah."

Connor didn't know how to feel.

"How did you have a crush on me?" He asked. "We haven't even talked before this."

"No."

"Hansen," Connor sighed. "No one talks to me I'd remember if—"

"We were in the hallway, and someone tripped me and people were laughing, but you told them to fuck off, and asked if I was okay," Evan blurted.

"I," Connor was at a loss for words.

"It's not a big deal, but people don't do that for me especially when other people are laughing and—" Evan hesitated. "I guess it just made me feel nice."

"I'm sorry," Connor murmured.

"What?"

"I think I kind of remember but I was probably high," he stated. If he focused, that did sound sort of familiar, but he'd gone to school so out of it so many times last yer that he really didn't know.

"Oh," Evan's voice was numb. "Yeah, that makes sense."

He sounded like Connor had just broken his heart. Connor felt every ounce of anger drain out of him at that. Gently, he took Evan's hand again. He knew that didn't change where they were or what either of them had just said, but maybe they could pretend they were in this together.

"Who tripped you?" He asked.

"One of the sports guys, I don't remember," Evan answered.

"That's messed up," Connor commented.

"Yeah," Evan hummed.

"And not creative at all," he added.

"I know right," Evan forced a laugh.

"Why didn't you try to talk to me?" Connor needed to know.

"I wanted to," Evan's voice was pained. "I really wanted to."

Connor could understand that. He'd held himself back from doing so many things. They weren't that different. It was weird that it took all of this for Connor to notice that.

"I would have said yes, you know?" He told Evan softly.

"But you didn't remember," Evan reminded him.

"So?" Connor nudged his shoulder. "You're cute and actually acknowledge my existence."

"That's a low standard," Evan informed him.

"I'm pretty pathetic," Connor said back.

"I don't think so," Evan stated. Connor believed him. "You, um, you think I'm cute?"

"Maybe," Connor felt a smile form on his face. "Can you keep talking?"

"About what?"

"Literally anything." Connor just needed words, he just needed someone to be louder than his thoughts right now. "I think it'll ground me and you have a nice voice."

"Oh, um, okay," Evan stammered.

For what felt like an hour but was probably closer to fifteen minutes Connor listened to Evan Hansen ramble about trees. He was certain that he'd never heard anyone know or care this much about trees in his entire life. If the situation were different he'd probably have found it annoying. Or adorable. He wasn't quite sure.

"My sister is probably worried," Connor murmured when he realized Evan was running out of air and things to say.

"Yeah," Evan sounded sympathetic.

"Well, at least now Alana doesn't have to get grilled by my parents," Connor tried to joke. "She's meeting them tonight."

"Oh."

"We were supposed to have dinner," Connor didn't mean for his voice to sound so bitter.

"That's nice," Evan murmured.

"It would have been a catastrophe," Connor let him know.

"I'm sure," Evan agreed.

Connor was still fully aware that this was the single worse way to meet a boy, but part of him was a little bit glad that if he was stuck with anyone it was Evan. He knew that was selfish and probably a great can of worms to bring up the next time he saw his therapist—if there was a next time.

"Hey," Connor knew Evan could hear the change in his voice. "If we die—"

"We're not gonna die," Evan cut him off.

"Do you believe that?" Connor asked.

"No," Evan admitted quietly.

"So," Connor started again. "If there is a slight chance we might die, can I do something that we'll probably both regret?"

"Um, sure?" Evan sounded more confused than scared of what Connor could mean by that. Connor took that as a good sign.

It was pitch black, but they were sitting right next to each other. Connor trailed the hand that wasn't holding onto Evan up his arm, across his shoulder, until he found his face. He felt Evan take a surprised, shaky breath, when Connor's fingers cupped his cheek.

Slowly, Connor leaned forward. In the dark his lips met Evan's. He let go of Evan's hand to grip his shoulder, steadying the both of them. Evan made a small noise that Connor silently labeled as the cutest thing he'd ever heard, but he didn't move.

For a second, Connor was pretty sure Evan was going to push him away, to accuse him of taking advantage of what he'd just confessed, to tell him he was a freak and he had no idea why he'd thought he liked him.

Then Evan's arms were around his waste. He pulled Connor closer, kissed him deeper than Connor thought was possible from him. In seconds, Connor was on top of Evan. Evan's hands were in Connor's hair. Connor's fingers were reaching under Evan's shirt.

In Connor's mind they weren't on the floor of an elevator pretending that they weren't both scared to death.

As Evan trailed kisses along his neck, Connor imagined what might have happened if Evan had asked him out the year before. He would have taken Evan to one of the few restaurants he and his family hadn't ruined his memory of. Evan would have told him about trees, and Connor would have admitted he wished he was closer than his sister. They would have bought ice cream and Connor would have walked Evan to the door of his house.

They would have sat at the same table at school. Connor would have driven Evan home sometimes. They'd go on hikes and look at nature things that usually irritated Connor but wouldn't because of Evan.

They wouldn't be making out for the first time tonight. That would have happened in Connor's bedroom when no one else was home. He'd be able to see Evan when his lips met his. They'd hold each other and it wouldn't be because they both happened to be there, it would be because they both wanted to. When Connor touched Evan it wouldn't be because he needed to touch something, it would be because it was Evan and he was special, and he thought Connor was special, and—

The lights came on a second before the elevator started moving again. At first Connor thought this was it, that they were going to plummet to their doom. But then it stopped and the doors slowly opened.

Connor was on his feet first, hastily pulling Evan with him and dragging the both of them out of the elevator. They nearly both collapsed when they stumbled on the solid, safe floor. There was a loud speaker apologizing for something along the lines of technical difficulties and assuring that the elevators were in working order now.

Evan's eyes met Connor's. He looked disheveled, but Connor doubted he was any better. Slowly, Evan's lips (which Connor was certain were darker than they'd been before getting into the elevator) curved into a smile.

Then they were both laughing.

Connor wasn't sure if it was shock, or relief, or maybe even amusement. It didn't matter. They were okay—everything was actually okay and Connor couldn't believe it.

"I think I need to find my family," he said when they could both breath again.

"Yeah, that makes sense," Evan's smile faded. Connor hadn't meant for that to happen. "I should go, there's a lot of stairs and I'm not getting back on one of those."

"Yeah," Connor followed Evan to the stair entrance. He was only going up two or three flights. Evan would have a pretty long way down.

He watched Evan turn. It was like everything said and done in the past hour hadn't happened. Connor didn't want that. He didn't want to think about how scared he'd been, but he didn't want to forget who'd held him together.

And, sure, kissing Evan on the floor of an elevator wasn't the same as the elaborate fantasy he'd played in his mind. But, maybe being completely vulnerable in front of this boy meant more than him having the courage to ask him out would have. When years cauterized the trauma for the past hour, he was sure it'd make a better story.

"Hey, Evan!" Connor called before he could stop himself.

"Yeah?" Evan turned around.

"Are you hungry?" He asked.

"What?" Evan blinked at him.

"Are you?" Connor pressed.

"I guess?" Evan looked confused. "Kinda."

"Come eat dinner with us," Connor knew it sounded more like a demand than a request.

"That's really nice of you to offer but I—"

"Please," Connor let his feet carry him down the stairs until he was standing inches away from Evan. "I owe you. I would have been a lot more of a mess if you hadn't been there."

"I don't want to intrude," Evan stammered.

"You won't," Connor grasped Evan's hand. "I promise."

"Thanks," Evan smiled at him.

Connor led the way up the stairs. He wasn't sure how much he was going to explain to his family and Alana, but he'd figure that out when they got there.

"About, um," Evan started. "Doing something that we'll both regret…"

"Yeah?" Connor tried to make his tone light.

"I don't think I'm going to regret it," Evan confessed.

"Me neither."

Connor felt the grin break across his face.

"Here," Connor fished out the pen he kept in his vest pocket and stopped walking to scribble seven numbers on Evan's arm. "In case I forget to give you my number."

"Oh," Evan looked at his arm with a happy disbelief in his eyes.

"I expect you to talk to me this time," Connor let him know.

"I think I can manage that," Evan took Connor's hand again.

"Good."


	83. (E) STARKER - Family Tradition by tuesda

Family Tradition  
tuesday

Summary:  
Peter is seventeen when he finds out he's engaged to marry Tony Stark.

* * *

Peter Parker's maternal grandmother had been the youngest granddaughter of some sort of oil baron and business tycoon. She'd been cut out of most of the will when she went against her grandfather's wishes and decided to marry an O.S.S. agent, then went on to have Mary Fitzpatrick scandalously soon after the wedding. Mary had been raised with many of the same expectations of only the best, though this mainly applied to her schooling, not her marriage prospects. When some of their estranged relatives had started nosing around with offers to fix this, Mary had taken a leaf out of her mother's book and eloped.

Peter had some distant cousins who were either filthy rich or big names in business, but it didn't change the fact he and Aunt May were comfortably middle class. It was one of those mildly interesting genealogical facts Peter had been completely uninterested in when his mother was telling him, but which were later cherished for the memories, if not the knowledge itself. It had absolutely no bearing on his actual life.

At least, that was what Peter had always thought until he turned seventeen and returned home to discover a phalanx of the family's lawyers and an ancient great-aunt he'd never met crowded into the living room.

"It's out of the question," May said furiously as Peter slipped into the apartment, trying not to make too much noise or draw attention to himself. He wanted to figure out what was going on first.

His great-aunt was eagle-eyed and waved her off, staring straight at Peter as he put the keys in the chipped grey bowl that usually held them. "Here's the boy now. He can answer for himself."

"Hello?" Peter said uncertainly. He'd never seen any of these people in his life.

"I'm your Great-Aunt Mary," she introduced herself, holding her hand out expectantly, "though your mother was _not_ named for me. Father strictly forbade it." Her wrinkled smile was mischievous. "And of course your grandmother always followed the rules. There was a reason she was my favorite niece."

Peter shook her hand. She had a surprisingly strong grip, though for some reason she pursed her lips even before he introduced himself with, "Peter, um, Peter Parker. Though you probably knew that. You knew my mom?"

"Only briefly." Mary pointedly relaxed her hand, and Peter released her. "We waited to have this conversation far too late, though it probably didn't help that they decided to let Joseph take point on explaining matters. I'd have run screaming for the convent, personally, though I admire her resolve in finding a more appealing marriage bed. My eldest brother could make a five course gourmet meal sound like the meanest gruel."

"I'm sorry?" Peter snuck a glance at May, but it didn't clarify anything except that she was simmering with quiet rage. "I'm not sure what kind of conversation this is. Explaining what matters? What am I answering?"

"Curious. That'll serve you well. And straight to the point. I like to see that in the younger generation." Mary nodded firmly. "We're discussing the Stark boy. What do you think of him?"

Stark … boy? Peter could only think of one Stark. "Do you mean Tony Stark?"

"Oh, good. You know him." Knew _of_ him, anyway. "Thoughts? Impressions? General objections?"

"He's my favorite Avenger?" Peter tried, not really sure what she wanted from him.

"That's a place to start." Mary tapped her chin with a long fingernail painted a pale blue. "No problems with the promiscuity or the blood on his hands? I understand that his twenties and thirties were rather, let's say, rambunctious. Your mother wasn't exactly taken with him. And your file says you have some radical pacifist influences in your life."

His _file_? "Okay, first of all, that was all years ago, and I don't think it's right to judge someone by stuff they do in the privacy of their own homes or, um, hotel rooms that isn't hurting anyone. Second of all, what do you mean by radical pacifists? What file?"

Mary waved a hand dismissively. "Of course we've kept an eye on your life. If it doesn't bother you, then I'm happy to hear it. Little Vanessa tried to put herself forward, but the original contract said it would go to someone of your grandmother's line, and Stark wouldn't hear of getting it switched sight unseen. Said he'd rather cancel it if we were going to change the terms." She smiled. "Of course, you can say no, in which case it can be changed _without_ incurring penalties, but you'll have to meet with him first."

"You don't have to do anything," May said.

"Meet with Tony Stark?" Peter squeaked. "Why?"

"Why? For your marriage contract, of course."

Peter pinched himself. He looked for hidden cameras. Somehow, it turned out this was real. "Marriage contract. To Tony Stark?"

"Exactly. You'll get on swimmingly, I'm sure. I can just tell." Mary beamed at him. May looked like she was contemplating murder. The lawyers milled around quietly. Mary snapped her fingers at one of them. "Of course, we'll have to discuss the details before we get that far."

—

Details included a lot of legal stuff that went in one ear and out the other. They also included Mary arranging for Peter to get a fitting for proper clothing, because apparently what he had on didn't count, and Mary had zero confidence in what he had in his closet.

"You'll need a haircut. And those nails look terrible. Honestly, you may be a man, but you need to take care of your hands." Mary turned his head either way, fingers digging into his chin. "I'm not sure if the baby-faced look will help or hinder here. I'd like you both to be happy. We'll get you a nice cologne, too."

When she left, taking the lawyers with her, May picked up one of the pillows from the couch and threw it at the door. She said, "I meant it. You don't have to do anything you don't want to do. If they try to take you away after seventeen years of being completely uninvolved in your life, I don't care how much money they throw at the problem, the family courts will side with me. And they can't touch your education trust. Your mother made sure of that."

Peter hadn't known that was a concern. "It's, um, it's okay, Aunt May. I don't mind." Peter was trying not to examine how he felt about all of this, but it definitely wasn't something negative. "And it's just one meeting."

—

First, though, was a mani-pedi followed by a full spa day when Mary still wasn't satisfied when she examined him at the suit fitting. Peter was primped within an inch of his life in preparation for meeting Tony Stark, like Mary thought a little extra moisturizer was going to be the difference between a yes and a no.

"Why do you care so much?" Peter asked, a little uncomfortable in just the robe he'd been given. "Wouldn't it be better for you if he paid the broken contract penalties?"

Mary looked contemplative. She tapped a nail against her lips.

"Your grandmother was my favorite niece. Your mother was my favorite grand-niece, though I didn't have the opportunity to see either as much as I wanted." She sighed. "But I did always like the Stark boy, too. He was wild, but I always thought there was potential there, that he could have made them, either of them, happy. I think he deserves to be happy, too." She tapped the nail against the hollow where Peter's collarbones met. "I think you could make him happy. And if that poster in your bedroom is any indication, he'll make you very happy in return."

Peter wasn't so sure, but he wasn't going to turn down a chance to meet his teen idol.

(He did think the waxing was a high price to pay for it, though.)

—

They met in a conference room in Avengers Tower. Peter had a bunch of lawyers who had his estranged family's interests at heart who made it all the way to the lobby with him, and Tony had several of his own who were actually in the room. Mary had seen him off at the car, fixing his tie one last time as she'd said, "Feel free to tell the lawyers to fuck off, dear. They're my brother's creatures. Do try to enjoy yourself."

Tony's eyes did a quick flick up and down when Peter came in the room, and Peter had the sense that Tony could tell not only where Peter had gotten the suit made, but also that this was his first time wearing something tailored. All he said, though, was, "Hello, Mr. Parker. Glad you could make it. Make yourself at home." He waved a hand at the empty side of the table opposite him and his lawyers. "Where's your guardian?"

"She, um, she said she was going to find a bar?" Peter wasn't sure whether Mary had been kidding. He kind of thought probably not. "She gave me money for a cab home." Peter took the seat opposite Tony. "Hi, um. I'm Peter. Parker. Nice to meet you."

"Where's the rest of your posse?" Tony looked at the door, which Peter had shut behind himself. "You were supposed to have a full on retinue."

Peter wiped his clammy palms on his pants legs, trying to disguise it as smoothing out the wrinkles. "Mary, um, she said I could tell them to go home? So I did."

"Do you have anyone here looking out for your best interests?" Tony asked.

"Mary said that this would be just a get to know you meeting."

"And that's a no." Tony had a very odd expression on his face. He pointed at someone without looking. "You, minion. Switch sides. You're on Parker's team now." She got up, went around the table, and sat down on Peter's right. "Look out for his best interests. Make sure he doesn't sign anything without reading the fine print."

"He's only seventeen, sir. It wouldn't be legally binding anyway."

"_His_ team," Tony emphasized. He clapped his hands together once. "Great, now that that's taken care of, we're gathered here today for some preliminaries. Yes, that includes some getting to know each other. Please tell me you did the homework."

"I read the contract, if that's what you mean." Peter really hoped that's what Tony meant and that there wasn't actual homework.

"Okay, good. We're on the same page. So some additional background for you. When I was ten, your grandmother was on your side of the table—metaphorically speaking, because this tower wasn't even built yet—and said, very firmly, 'No, thank you.' I want you to know that you can do the same." Tony paused. When the silence grew awkward, because Peter wasn't about to turn down marrying Tony Stark without a chance to get to know him first, Tony looked at the lawyer beside Peter and said, "This is where his family's lawyers would have interrupted about how of course he can't do that, because contracts, blah blah blah, penalties, so boring, lots of legalese boiling down to they like money, and it doesn't matter how stupid his great-grandfather was or how drunk my dad was, these things are important and can't be thrown over on a whim, never mind that it's been done twice now."

"You said I was to look out for Mr. Parker's best interests, sir. It's best that he considers his own desires, not some distant relative's." She smiled at Peter. "So yes, Mr. Stark is right. You can say, 'No, thank you.' But you can also hear him out. You're the only one who can decide what's best for you."

Peter's own smile was shaky. "I'd kind of like to stay?"

"Right." Tony's eyes were considering. He said, "Overview or minutia?"

"Which one includes why _you_ aren't saying, 'No, thank you'?" Because Peter was really, really curious, and Mary had already told him that was one of his selling points.

"For one thing, the penalties on my side are pretty brutal. Dear old Dad was over a barrel when he got his loan, which was why he let it include terms like giving away his literal firstborn. And yeah, I could fight it. I have a whole team of lawyers," Tony gestured at said lawyers, "champing at the bit to do so. But it would take time and money, and, honestly, your mom was hot and she and your grandma were both incredibly accommodating of my desire to put off getting married for a while longer." Tony grinned. "Too accommodating, your family might say." He looked serious again. "But right now, I don't have the time and I'd rather use the money for other things. Planet saving things."

"Planet saving things?" Peter asked, eyes widening.

Tony's lawyers got increasingly stony-faced. One of them muttered, "Now he's got an excuse to go on again," but it was so low Peter didn't think anyone else would've been able to hear him.

"I'm so glad you asked," Tony said in a tone that said that no, actually, he wasn't glad for the excuse to go on again and he really wished Peter hadn't asked. "Remember the Chitauri?"

Peter was a New Yorker. Of course he remembered the Chitauri.

"Yeah, well, we didn't stop them. We delayed them." Tony spread his hands as if to say, _What can you do?_ "So yes. Planet saving things."

"Did you need me to break the contract?" Peter asked.

"At this point, kid, they're going to just start throwing your cousins at me. Some of them are already throwing themselves." Tony picked up a pen and rolled it across the table. It came to a stop by a yellow legal pad to Peter's left. "I'd rather see if we can't make this work first."

"But why _me_?" Peter asked.

Tony sighed. He looked at his retinue. "I need a little privacy here. Give us a moment." Tony met his lawyers' subsequent scandalized expressions with a flat stare. "It's a conference room. It's not like I'm locking myself in the kid's bedroom. Go on, shoo. We'll be fine, and this has become a private conversation."

"Mr. Stark, I really can't advise—" said one of them.

"Did I stutter? Do I need to sign a waiver? Get out." They went, leaving behind Tony, Peter, and the lawyer Tony had assigned to him. Tony made a shooing gesture at her. "You're not exempt. Get out of here."

She smiled faintly. "I'm afraid that's not up to you." Her attention was on Peter as she said, "It's your decision, but he probably won't answer any questions with me in here."

"I'll be fine," Peter said. She patted his arm and followed her colleagues out, shutting the door behind her.

"Friday, make a note to give Ms. Burns a raise," Tony said.

"What?"

Tony shook his head and made a gesture that brought up some sort of holographic display. "Now that we've got a little privacy, it's very simple." He jabbed pointedly and a very familiar YouTube video cued up. Another tap on the air saw it hit play. "You're Spider-Boy. Spider-Thing? The amazing Spiderling."

Peter slouched in his chair as he ruthlessly quashed the urge to correct Tony that it was _Spider-Man_. Maybe if he said nothing, Tony would think he was wrong.

"Don't give me that look. This isn't the start of a blackmail attempt, it's an explanation. When I die, everything of mine—my money, my company, my designs and proprietary tech, including my suits and a number of other things I can't let fall into the wrong hands—will go to my spouse." Tony pointed at the tiny figure of Peter stopping the SUV from crashing into the bus. "I figure someone who put on a mask at the age of fifteen to go help people, all risk, no reward? That's someone safe to leave my legacy." He smiled, slight, uncertain. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Peter couldn't do that. He couldn't say anything at all, the weight of Tony's expectations settling heavy on his shoulders. Peter thought he could learn to carry it; he thought he'd have to.

Tony's smile went sad. "Yeah, that's about what I thought." With a swipe of his finger, the video disappeared. "Got any other questions for me?"

Peter had _so many_ questions. Tony was surprisingly willing to answer them. He even had a few of his own.

After a while, he looked at his watch. "Okay, lawyer things and contract negotiation will have to wait for next week. There's a little wiggle room on things, and I'd prefer we get them hammered out asap, instead of the night before our wedding. Bring your lawyers next time. Get some new ones if you don't like the ones you have. Your family can certainly afford them, and if they're being difficult, you can have them charge me. Just—no more coming in alone like a lamb to the slaughter. You need someone looking after your interests."

Peter smiled cheekily. "Seems like right now that's you."

"And until we're married, it really shouldn't be. Opposite sides of the table, remember?" Tony said that, but partway through, he'd actually walked around to take the seat Ms. Burns had abandoned. Hesitantly, he reached out and patted Peter on the shoulder. "Nice meeting you, kid. See you next week."

Peter discovered Mary had come back and waited for him when he made it down to the lobby. Despite a security guard side-eyeing her, she was sipping from a metal hip flask engraved with roses. She looked Peter up and down, then raised her perfectly shaped eyebrows. "Am I looking at a young man who's still engaged?"

"You are," Peter cheerfully informed her.

"Excellent." She capped the flask and tucked it away in her purse. "Come along. We'll retrieve your aunt, and you can tell the both of us all about it over supper."

—

May was a lot less happy to hear Peter intended to go through with it than Mary was.

"We'll get you new lawyers," Mary said. She patted May's arm. "Don't pout. Even if Stark's determined to get everything settled as soon as possible, Peter will have months yet to change his mind."

But Peter didn't change his mind. With every subsequent meeting, he fell a little further, until he'd gone from a minor celebrity crush to head over heels.

—

Their fourth meeting, a month into knowing each other, Tony ordered all the lawyers out again. "He can't sign anything and he's legal. If I wanted to have sex with him, it wouldn't be on a conference room table and it would still be none of your business."

Peter's lawyers didn't like Tony very much, but that was okay. Peter liked Tony enough for everyone.

Tony grabbed a metal briefcase and dropped it on the conference table. "I got you something. Little engagement gift." He rocked back on his heels. "Open it up."

"I didn't get you anything," Peter said, but he was already reaching for the clasps.

Tony waved a hand. "I'm a man who has everything. No gifts necessary."

Peter lifted the lid to reveal a Spider-Man suit. "Is this—are you for real?"

"Very real," Tony said. He looked pleased, smug, the crow's feet at the corners of his eyes deepening. "Probably shouldn't try it on right here, but let me know how it fits."

"Through your lawyers?" Peter asked, because it wasn't like he had any other way to contact the man.

"I think you'll find that won't be necessary." Tony winked. "Call me if you get lonely tracking lost dogs or run into any problems you need a little extra superhero help to solve."

"It has a built-in phone?" Peter's fingers itched to pull it out and pull the mask on then and there.

"Oh, kid, you have no idea." Tony tapped the case. "I've loaded it up with a bunch of goodies which you can try out at home. Do you like it?"

Peter petted the bright red front of it. "I love it."

—

He loved it even more when he actually got to try it on.

"Recognized user Peter Parker," the suit's AI said. "Initiating tutorial."

"This is the coolest thing I've ever seen," Peter said reverently.

"Thank you," the AI said.

Peter named her Karen.

—

Their fifth meeting wasn't at the Tower.

"Connecting to Tony Stark," Karen announced.

"Hey, kid. How's the suit?" Tony asked after a short pause. There was a little screen with his face on it.

"It's amazing," Peter said.

"Glad to hear it." And Tony did sound glad, sounded like Peter's honest appreciation had made his day.

"Were, um. Were you serious about calling if I was bored?"

"Call me whenever you like," Tony offered.

Peter—well. Peter was only human. He took Tony up on it.

—

Sometimes Tony didn't answer. Sometimes he had to go, said, "Kid, I've gotta call you back."

But he never told Peter to stop calling and he called back every single time.

—

Peter was on a bus with the rest of his class on a school trip to the Museum of Natural History when he felt every hair on his body stand on end.

There was a huge space ship in the sky. It was kind of … shaped like a donut. It looked ridiculous and like it shouldn't be able to stay up. Peter had a really, really bad feeling about it.

"Hey, Ned," Peter said. "I need you to cause a distraction."

—

Tony appreciated the assist when he was about to be pasted by some huge alien. He appreciated Peter catching a ride on the donut ship much, much less. He was actually pretty angry.

"What part of I'm trusting you with my legacy did you not understand?" Tony demanded. "You can't inherit anything if you're dead or halfway across the universe."

"We're not married yet, so it's not like I can inherit anything at all," Peter said in what he thought was a reasonable tone.

"Wrong. You think I was going to leave it to chance when I found the perfect—" Tony stopped abruptly, turning away. "I left some things to Rhodey and Pep, set up a bunch of trusts, but it was mostly all set to go to you. Except now we're both on a one way trip, and none of it matters anymore."

"It wouldn't matter if we all died because this Thanos guy won."

Tony turned back, but he still looked really, really mad. Quietly, he said, "You shouldn't be here."

—

They worked out a plan. They rescued a wizard and spaced an alien like in that old movie. When Strange was free, he said, "What exactly is the relationship here?"

"We're engaged," Peter said awkwardly.

"Not even married yet, but I'm considering divorce," Tony said. Peter winced, and Tony sighed, put a hand in his hair. "Maybe more, 'It's complicated.'"

Strange looked like he was sorry he'd asked. Peter was, too.

—

They worked out another plan, the three of them, but that one didn't go so well.

—

"No," Tony said. "No, no, no, you don't go first. That wasn't the deal."

Peter fell forward, and Tony caught him. Peter could barely feel Tony's hand against his face. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Mr. Stark."

"You're okay." Tony looked like he was going to cry. It wasn't right. Peter felt strongly that Tony deserved to smile more. "You're going to be okay."

"It hurts," Peter admitted. Then, "I really wanted to marry you."

Whatever Tony said in reply, Peter didn't hear.

—

Peter wasn't around for what happened next. He only knew that Tony had fixed it.

It didn't change the fact that Peter had died.

—

Peter was back, but Tony wasn't around so much anymore. The engagement wasn't off, and Tony sent his lawyers to meet with Peter's lawyers to finalize the last few details of their contract, but Tony wasn't with them. When Peter called, Tony answered maybe half the time. He called back most of the time if he didn't pick up, but not as fast as before. When he did, it felt awkward, distant, like he wasn't really there.

"If you're busy—" Peter offered the out, and Tony took it, said, "Yeah, actually. Catch you later?"

"Sure," Peter said around the lump in his throat.

Tony hung up. He didn't call back.

—

Peter had died, but it wasn't like he'd have lived if he'd stayed on Earth. He'd have been so much dust either way. The only difference would have been that Tony wouldn't have known, wouldn't have been able to see it happen.

Then again—maybe Peter dying wasn't the problem. Maybe it was what he'd said before he went.

Funnily enough, it wasn't Titan that Peter's mind kept going back to. It was the ship on the way over.

Tony had already set everything up to go to Peter, taking care of all his inheritance concerns. More importantly, he'd proven that he didn't need to be related to someone to be able to trust them with the future.

He'd said, "Not even married yet, but I'm considering divorce." It wasn't like he'd particularly wanted to marry Peter, and it wasn't like he needed to. He still had all those lawyers who would be perfectly happy to tear apart a decades old marriage contract originally set up for Peter's grandmother.

Thanos wasn't coming; he'd already arrived. He'd won and then he'd been defeated.

Tony wasn't short on time and resources anymore. Marrying Peter wasn't the easiest route that also took care of some side goals along the way.

_Tony didn't need to marry Peter_.

Peter tapped END as his call rang through to voicemail.

Peter had said, "I really wanted to marry you," as he'd come apart in Tony's arms. Peter had meant it, every word.

The worst part was, he still did.

—

"Hey, Great-Aunt Mary," Peter said.

"Oh, no," Mary said. "Don't you dare. Do not do this to me. Don't say it."

Peter said it: "What do I need to do if I want out of the contract after all?"

Mary sighed. "I can take care of it."

—

The suits—Peter especially regretted the suits. But they were engagement gifts, like the world's most expensive full body engagement rings. Peter packed them up, pulled out his old suit and the web slingers he'd designed and built himself, and played delivery boy—or maybe just an ex dropping off boxes on the balcony instead of throwing them over it. Peter stroked the mask one last time.

"Bye, Karen. Thanks for everything."

—

Mary took care of the rest of it.

"You're sure?" she asked.

"I'm sure," Peter said.

Peter wanted to marry Tony, yeah. But he wanted Tony to be happy even more.

—

Peter got back into his routine from before he found out about the marriage contract. He added in some time every night for waking up gasping from nightmares about Titan, but otherwise things went back to normal. No meetings with lawyers, no running through tutorials and test programs, no hour-long phone calls with handsome billionaire geniuses.

Ned had gotten a Lego Millennium Falcon, and they built it, putting it next to the Death Star from sophomore year.

"I'm really going to miss this," Ned said.

"But you're really going to love Caltech," Peter said.

Ned smiled. "I can't believe you got in all those places and still decided on NYU."

"Yeah." Peter ran his fingers over the Death Star's surface, noting it needed dusting. "I thought it would be better to stay local."

"Did you want to talk about—"

"No." Peter was firm. He definitely didn't want to talk about it.

Not with Ned, and not with Aunt May, who said, "If you ever need to talk—"

"There's nothing to talk about except what you want to order." Peter waved the menu. "I was thinking we could share an appetizer."

Especially not with Mary, who patted him on the shoulder and said, "Don't be a stranger. You may have destroyed my dreams, but you're not the first. Even if my brother never lets me live this down, at least I'm likely to outlive him. Either way, you're free to marry or not as pleases you now."

—

Peter graduated. He started college.

On the Friday he was originally supposed to marry Tony Stark, he went to class in the morning and spent the entire afternoon at the main campus library, then the evening patrolling. He kept going as evening stretched out into night, wondering if he could tire himself out enough that he wouldn't dream. It was pouring, driving everyone indoors, but at least he could put in an appearance, make a show of dedication.

He was taking a breather, legs dangling over a ledge, when he caught a glimpse of red and gold darting out from the cloud cover. Tony wasn't going that fast, so Peter had plenty of warning before he alighted on Peter's roof. He was there first, so he was definitely claiming it.

"Lovely night for a stroll," Tony said.

Peter's mask wasn't as expressive as the one Tony had made him, but he couldn't help raising both eyebrows. "Yeah. The rain really adds that certain something."

"Is that something pneumonia?"

Peter's chest hurt. "Well, you know. All the cool kids are doing it."

"And that's definitely a concern for you." Tony ambled closer and crouched down awkwardly in the armor next to Peter. "Would it be too big a blow to your reputation to have this conversation elsewhere?"

Peter stood. "I guess. Where did you have in mind?"

"Somewhere dry."

"You're in armor. You're not exactly getting soaked in there."

"Humor me," Tony said. Peter closed his eyes for a moment, and Tony used that time to step right into Peter's space, closing his arms around Peter's torso. "Hang tight."

It wasn't a long flight, but it was cold. Peter hadn't thought it was possible to get any wetter, but when they touched down on the same balcony Peter had left the suits on, Peter felt like he was more puddle than person. Tony let them in, his armor retreating into the casing and leaving behind jeans, a t-shirt, and a blazer.

Peter pulled back the hood of his hoodie and pulled off his mask. At least he could finally breathe again. "Here we are. Somewhere dry."

Tony frowned. He touched Peter's face, only to flinch away. "You're freezing."

"That happens when you go flying in the rain without an impermeable suit to protect you." Peter was dripping all over Tony's nice hardwood floors, but he couldn't muster the energy to care. "What did you want to talk about?"

"That can wait. First, let's get you out of those clothes."

"Excuse me?" Peter said.

"I have towels around here somewhere, and I'm turning into an ice cube looking at you." Tony retreated further into the room, headed for the hallway. "I'm sure I've got something that'll fit you."

Peter followed, leaving a trail of water. Tony grabbed a pile of large, fluffy towels from the linen closet, then led Peter into his bedroom. He dumped the towels on his bed, then opened another closet.

"Grab whatever you like. I'll be just outside." Tony shut the door behind him.

Peter sighed. He stripped quickly and grabbed one of the towels to dry off. He folded over another and put his wet clothes on top of it to contain the puddle. He stuck his head in Tony's ridiculously huge walk-in closet only to be confronted with a bunch of suits. He ended up wrapping a third towel around his waist before he opened the bedroom door.

"That was f—" Tony stopped. He stared. His eyes traced a drop of water's path from Peter's neck down his chest, before he abruptly turned his gaze to just over Peter's shoulder. He cleared his throat. "Nothing fit?"

"I was wondering if you had anything a little less formal."

"I think the only way you could get less formal at this point would be to lose the towel."

"Than the suits," Peter said. "Which were nice, but not something I imagine you'd want me to wear when I don't have dry underwear."

"I'm not going to stop you if you really want to wear one, but I do have other clothes." Tony came in the bedroom, doing an awkward shuffle past Peter when he didn't step back fast enough. He went back into the closet, which apparently had drawers Peter had thought were part of the wall's fancy paneling. "Jeans, exercise gear, t-shirts, socks, underwear, et cetera. Knock yourself out."

Peter grabbed a pair of sweatpants and, feeling a perverse need to know what would happen, dropped the towel. Tony turned in the other direction—but not before looking. Peter smiled to himself as he pulled up the pants.

"Okay. I'm decent. Can we talk now?"

Tony picked up a black tee and shoved it at Peter's bare chest. "I'm not sure you can say you're decent when you're freeballing it, but close enough. Put that on, and we'll talk."

Peter put on the t-shirt. Then, because he was cold and it was there, he stole one of Tony's MIT sweatshirts, too. Somehow, Tony looked even more off-kilter when faced with Peter in an old college sweater.

Tony swallowed. "Yeah, let's talk. In the other room. I need a drink. Did you want anything?"

Peter wanted a lot of things. He said, "I'm good."

Tony took them back to the room they'd started in, heading straight for the bar in the back of the room. He poured himself three fingers of something amber and swallowed half of it in one go. Peter sat on the couch, which was more comfortable than it looked.

Tony took the other end.

"So the thing is—" Tony looked down at his glass. "I told myself I wouldn't ask. You had every right to change your mind, and after … everything, it makes sense that your priorities might change, that you'd decide you wanted something else. The thing I don't get, though, is if you were going to give back the suits, if you wanted to retire the Spider-Man shtick, for college or for good, whatever, then _why_ keep patrolling? Especially in weather that's resulted in 'Can spiders drown?' trending on Twitter."

"When did I say anything about retiring? I'm definitely not retiring. I may take a break when midterms come up, but I haven't made any changes."

"But you gave back the suits."

"Well, yeah. They were engagement gifts."

"And what, you didn't want anything from me, not even the potentially life-saving equipment customized for you?"

"Not wanting anything wasn't the problem." Peter fiddled with the cuffs of the sweater. The sleeves were long on him, the cuffs coming down to his fingers. The left one was fraying at the seam. "We both know I wanted too much from you."

Tony had gone still. Slowly, he said, "Do we? Because I had gotten the impression that you wanted nothing at all."

Peter frowned. "I died telling you how much I wanted from you."

"And then you came back and called off the wedding." Tony's expression was weird, almost upset. "Don't get me wrong, I didn't mind finally paying back that loan at what was actually a reasonable rate of interest, but there was another option there before throwing my lawyers at it, and you didn't take it."

"Because you didn't have to marry me anymore." Peter took a deep breath, exhaled it. "No more Chitauri, no more Thanos, just—no more need to focus on world-saving things. You should get to focus on you, Tony, and what you want. And I know that's not me."

Tony put his tumbler down on the glass coffee table with a sharp click. "Kid, that is the stupidest thing I have heard all year, and I had to endure Thanos's evil villain seeking sympathy monologue."

Peter blinked hard, stung and trying not to show it. In the fraction of a second his eyes were closed, Tony had slid closer on the couch. His hands reached up to touch Peter's face, fingertips light against his cheeks.

"Peter. Contract or no, I would have happily married you." Tony smiled, tentative, but real. "Say the word, and I still will."

"But you were avoiding me," Peter said blankly even as he brought his hand up to cover Tony's.

"Yeah. Turns out having someone you care about die in your arms is pretty traumatizing and requires some time to process, even if you brought them back. Who knew?" Tony ran his thumb along Peter's jawline. "Maybe I was kind of a dick about it, but I was trying really hard not to have a panic attack where you could see me."

"You—" Peter couldn't quite say the words, ask the question, _You wanted to marry me?_ Instead, he pressed forward, sudden, mashing their lips together.

Tony tasted terrible, like paint thinner mixed with pine needles and oak. It didn't stop Peter from slipping his tongue in his mouth. Peter climbed into Tony's lap, and Tony's hands drifted down to land on Peter's hips. He got his hands under the shirt and sweater and hooked his thumbs in the waistband of Peter's sweatpants, but didn't pull down, just left them there, warm and heavy against Peter's skin. Peter shivered, though he wasn't cold anymore.

Peter pulled back from the kiss, lips tingling, and rested his forehead against Tony's. He tried again. "You wanted to marry me?"

"Want," Tony said. He stroked Peter's hips, tiny little circles that Peter felt like they went down to bone. "Present tense."

Peter kissed him again. After a minute, he pushed at Tony's blazer, and Tony shrugged it off. When he pulled at Tony's tee, Tony took that off, too, giving Peter access to all the skin beneath. Peter kissed Tony's neck, his shoulder, trailing down to the scar tissue over his sternum. When he looked up, Tony had a somewhat rueful expression. Peter deliberately laid a gentle kiss on the center. Tony ruffled his hair.

"You're cute, you know that?" Tony said.

Peter wasn't sure how he felt about being called cute, but he wasn't going to argue when it put that smile on Tony's face. He shifted in Tony's lap, and Tony groaned as Peter brushed against his half-hard dick. Peter did it again.

Tony dropped his head against Peter's shoulder. "I take it back. That's not cute at all."

"You know," Peter said, smiling as he shifted a third time, seating himself fully over Tony's dick and rocking into it, "this could've been our wedding night."

"Kind of late for cake and dancing," Tony said. His hands went back to Peter's hips, steadying him as he got a rhythm going.

"Guess we'll have to settle for the end of the night."

"Guess so." Tony kissed Peter's chin and put his hands down the back of Peter's pants, palming both ass cheeks, then squeezing. "You are wearing way too many clothes."

"You're going to have to let me go if you want me to fix that."

"Tried that; it was terrible. I am not letting you go again," Tony said, followed by another kiss. "But I'll let you get undressed, sure."

Peter stood and stripped right there in front of the couch while Tony watched, eyes dark. He let the shirt and sweatshirt fall to the floor, then shucked the sweatpants, stepping out of them to climb back into Tony's lap. The denim was—really uncomfortable, actually, rough against Peter's thighs. Peter got back up.

"Okay, no, you need to get naked, too."

Tony obliged him, but he stepped back when Peter reached for him. "Let's move this to the bedroom. I'd be happy to bend you over literally any surface you'd like, but I think you'd be more comfortable in a bed."

Remembering one of their first meetings, Peter said, "Even that conference table?"

"We'd have to get dressed again," Tony said, but that wasn't a no.

"Thought for later."

Peter led the way to Tony's bedroom this time, finding it increasingly difficult to keep his hands to himself. Tony was lagging a step behind, and Peter wanted to drag him forward, get a move on. When Peter looked back, he caught Tony staring at his ass. Tony winked.

Tony hung back in the bedroom doorway as Peter pulled the covers down and pushed the remainder of the pile of towels to the floor. When Peter looked over, Tony was leaned against the jamb.

Tony cleared his throat. "We don't have to do this now. We can take it slow."

Peter flopped on the bed. "Tony, please. Get over here and give me the wedding night I deserve."

Tony did, though he made a detour for condoms and lube first. He was excruciatingly slow opening Peter up, then what felt like it was slower yet getting inside him. Tony kept stopping to kiss Peter, inching in only to pause and brush his lips over Peter's lips, his cheeks, the tip of his nose. Peter felt like he couldn't breathe, filled up, but wanting more. When Tony was fully seated, he kissed Peter long and deep.

"Please," Peter said when Tony released his mouth. "I need—"

"I've got you." Tony ran his thumb along Peter's cheekbone and then finally started to move. He repeated, "I've got you."

Peter agreed. Tony had him. He was maybe even going to keep him this time.

—

(He did.)

—

Tony was a gentleman. He made sure Peter came before he did, though he almost immediately followed after, then got up to retrieve one of the towels from the floor to wipe them down.

"Stay the night," Tony said. He thumbed at Peter's mouth. Peter nipped at the pad of Tony's thumb, then kissed it. "Hell, stay forever. Even if you don't marry me. There's a place for you here whenever you want. You don't need to live in the dorms. I could—I could give you one of the guest rooms if you don't want to share a bed."

"Tony." Peter's heart felt too full. He pulled Tony's hand away from his face, but only so he could hold it against his chest. "I would love to share a bed with you."

"Is this finally a yes?" Tony said.

"It's always been a yes." Peter hooked his leg around Tony's hip, reeling him in. "From the very first day, I wanted to stay."

Tony was too tired for a round two, but he was perfectly willing to let Peter reposition him so they were cuddling, Peter sprawled out on his chest. Tony soothed a hand over Peter's back.

"This means you'll take the suits back, right?" Tony asked.

"I am definitely taking the suits back," Peter confirmed.

"If—" Tony cleared his throat. "If you ever change your mind, I want you to keep them. Nothing I give you is contingent on this." He waved his other hand between them. "Okay?"

"I'm not changing my mind." Peter dropped a kiss against Tony's chest, just over his heart. "But okay."

—

It took most of another year for them to get married. Tony wanted a wedding of the century. Peter preferred something smaller. They compromised. Everything about the wedding was extravagant and ridiculous except the guest list.

Great-Aunt Mary swanned up to them at the receiving line. "I'm so glad you were able to work it out." She bussed Peter's cheek, then Tony's. "I'm also glad you invited me." There was a glint in her eyes that said she was going to lord being Peter's only blood relative there over everyone she knew until the day she died. "Now. Which way is the bar?"

May hugged Peter for a full minute, rumpling his tux. Tony straightened it out after with rather more touching than was strictly necessary.

Ned looked like he was going to cry on Peter's shoulder, but instead he did the full, complicated best friend handshake from their senior year. "I'm really happy for you, dude."

"I still say we could have filled your side of the aisle with all your favorite celebrities," Tony said.

Peter hooked his arm through Tony's. "My favorite celebrity is right here."

Peter wasn't his mother or his grandmother. He wasn't pregnant and he hadn't eloped.

That didn't stop him from following the family tradition of marrying the man he loved.


	84. (E) KLANCE - Scream My Name by yourtomo

scream my name  
your_tomodachi

Summary:  
Lance and Keith get locked in a bedroom during a party because they keep arguing too much, and to prank their friends, they jump on a bed and make very suggestive noises to sound like they're having sex. At first it's just for fun, then it starts getting a little too hot for them.

* * *

The summer night is warm and humid. Loud music reverberates through the quaint street, coming from the large, modern mansion at the end of the road where a party is being held. Pink, blue and purple lights shine through the windows. One of the rich guys from Lance's class is holding the party this year, and he's invited almost everyone from the college. It's a tradition in Garrison University to hold a huge party before the start of summer break just signify the end of another hell-ish term in college. Lance, of course, couldn't turn down the offer of free food and beer so he goes to the party with Pidge and Hunk.

Students are drinking beer outside in the pristine front garden, laughing and smoking with their friends. Inside, the entire first floor is filled with people dancing and swaying to heavy bass music. Beer and other drinks are all over the place; on the floor, on the stairs, on couches and tables, some bottles are finished while others haven't even been opened yet. In the kitchen, food is spread out across a long table and student's crowd around it, talking and eating pizza slices, chips and sweets.

Lance stands in the hallway, where it's less crowded than in the kitchen or the living room. Pidge comes over and hands him a beer while Hunk runs to the table to get the last piece of pepperoni pizza. The three of them are dressed in semi-formal attire, nothing too out there like some of the other people they've seen, but they still look quite nice. Pidge looks down at their phone and grins.

"Shiro texted me. He says that Allura can't make it to the party tonight because of some family stuff." Pidge says. "But he says he's just arrived with Keith."

Lance groans in annoyance, his mood instantly turning sour at the mention of his rival. "Why is _Keith_ here?"

Seriously, doesn't he have better things to do, like… study? Lance sighs when he sees Shiro and Keith enter through the front door and he groans internally when Pidge waves them over. He can't help but look at how Keith's dressed and… damn, he looks… really good. For once, Keith isn't wearing that stupid jacket of his and instead he has a dark grey blazer over a white collared shirt and some _really tight_ black skinny jeans – seriously, how can the boy still breathe!?

Lance stops checking out – err… scrutinising Keith's attire when Hunk comes back with a slice of pizza and the group of five wander into the living room to talk to some of their other friends and classmates. Lance keeps getting distracted by Keith and his dumb hair and his stupidly skinny jeans that show his ass off _perfectly_ and – Lance shakes his head, taking another sip of his beer.

Keith and Lance have been taking the same classes since they came into college and Lance has deemed him as his rival. Keith is an extremely smart student. He gets the top grades in class by seemingly doing nothing and the girls are constantly talking about how attractive he is – Lance just doesn't understand how anyone could find a guy with a mullet attractive – and the amount of times that Keith's been asked out by girls is just unfair. Despite his looks, Keith's personality needs some serious help. He always looks so moody and distant and there's this aura around him that screams 'I'm better than you' and Lance absolutely hates it.

Keith and his good grades and his bad personality and his dumb, attractive face!

Wait.

Maybe Lance should stop drinking for the time being. He's barely finished one beer, but his mind is already making him think weird things like how good Keith looks when he laughs at some joke someone made and the way his eyes twinkle when the LED lights shine on him just right and… Lance puts his beer on the table with all the others that were left there and goes to find Pidge or Hunk or Shiro - anyone but Keith.

The party isn't as interesting as it was last year, but it's still alright. He can still remember when a guy got onto the roof of the house the party was held in and jumped into the swimming pool and when Lance almost got a girl to sneak upstairs with him until a 'drunk' Keith (he wasn't drunk, Lance knows how he acts when he's drunk and it wasn't like that) started to get all clingy with Lance and the girl mistook them for a couple. Frustration stings in his chest at the memory, but he tries not to think of the mullet-head anymore.

Lance ends up starting some small talk with a cute pink-haired girl leaning against a wall and things just start to turn flirty between the two when lo-and-behold, they get interrupted by none other than Keith. The mullet-head stumbles out of the throng of dancing people, tripping and falling straight onto Lance. He automatically grips onto Lance's forearms to prevent himself from falling and Lance finds his hands on the other's hips, steadying him.

Lance is about to curse up a storm when Keith looks up at him and their faces are only inches apart and _shit_, Keith's deep violet eyes are wide and innocent, twinkling pink and blue from the bright LED lighting. His hair is a little messy and frizzled from the humid air of sweaty, drunk young adults dancing. Lance glances down at Keith's lips; they're pink and they look so soft and _kissable_ – _fuck!_

"Oh, I, uh, I think I'll just go now." The cute, pink-haired girl pipes up, bringing Lance out of his trance. His eyes widen and his cheeks turn bright red, realising what their position must look like to other people, and he roughly pushes Keith away from him, trying to stop the girl from walking away. But he already knows it's too late. "Sorry, I didn't know you already had a boyfriend, I'll leave you two alone."

"No, wait it's not-" The girl gives him a curt wave and rushes off into the crowd of dancing people. Lance feels his heart break the further she gets away from him. "He's not my boyfriend!"

He turns to Keith again and glares murderously at him, and Keith dares to look so innocent with that (cute) pink blush on his face. "Dude, what the hell is your problem?"

"Me? What did I do?" Keith retorts defensively, glaring daggers at Lance.

"You made it look like we're an… an item or something!" Lance argues back, pointing a finger accusingly at him. He tries to convince himself that the weird, fluttery feeling in his stomach at the prospect of dating Keith is from disgust and _not_ excitement. "You made her think I'm not into her, when I clearly was!"

"Well, sorry for ruining it for you – it's not like you'll just move on to the next girl you see in the next five minutes!" Keith's voice is getting louder and some people are turning to see what the ruckus is about. Lance knows that it's a really bad idea to start an argument at a party, but he's pissed off over that last comment and he _really_ wants to punch the idiot.

"Oh yeah? Well at least I don't reject every single person who seems to take even a little bit of interest in me!" Lance exclaims, fingers twitching with the urge to grab a hold of Keith's (very nice) shirt and punch him in the mouth (with his mouth – _no!_). "Seriously, you're so closed-off and distant, it's like you have no interest in anything at all!"

Pidge, Hunk and Shiro rush through the crowd that's slowly forming around their two idiot friends.

"Enough, guys!" Shiro says sternly. Pidge tugs at Lance's arm to try and put some distance between the two while Shiro places a hand on Keith's shoulder.

"He started it-"

"He's being an idiot-"

"I said, that's enough!" Shiro cuts them off with his _don't-start-this-shit-with-me_ voice and the two instantly go quiet. "Can't you two be left alone for five seconds before you try to rip each other's throats out?"

"Nope."

"Not really."

They reply in unison, still glaring at one another and Lance makes faces at Keith when he isn't looking. Shiro sighs in defeat because he doesn't know why he was hoping to get a different response from either of them.

Beside him, Pidge's eyes widen and a mischievous smirk appears on their face. They re-adjust their glasses in a very anime-like style (they always do that when they're going to do something they know Lance will hate) and utter those horrible words that make Lance's blood run cold. "Hmm, what if you guys are _forced_ to get along with each other?"

They share a look with Hunk and Shiro and Hunk smiles at them knowingly. "I don't really know where this is going, but I like the sound of it!"

"Guys, seriously!?" Lance is on the verge of begging his friends to be joking, but sadly they're pretty serious about this. They forcefully push Lance into one of the bedrooms upstairs after Keith.

"We're totally one-hundred percent serious, Lance!" Pidge cackles as they push Lance inside - even though they're a good foot shorter than him, they're pretty tough. Even Shiro is helping and Shiro's always acting like the mature one because he's the oldest and he's supposed to be the adult (in reality, they all know that Shiro is as childish as Lance at heart). "You're not leaving this room until the party ends!"

"And by then, you two better be, like, best friends or something." Hunk adds, giggling behind Shiro at Lance and Keith's comical expressions.

"We'll leave you here all night if that's what it takes." Shiro says, a smirk playing across his lips. Pidge gives Lance a forceful push that sends him stumbles towards the giant, king-sized bed in the middle of the bedroom. They rush out, slam the door shut and audibly lock it.

"Good luck, guys!" The trio call through the door, their laughter becoming more and more distant the further they walk away.

Lance and Keith stand frozen in silence for a moment, until Lance groans loudly in frustration and sags onto the bed. It's situations like these that have Lance questioning his choice of friends in life.

"You don't have to groan about it, neither of us are happy to be in this situation." Keith mumbles and Lance whips his head up to throw a harsh glare at the other. Keith isn't even looking at him. He's standing by the unnecessarily large window overlooking the garden outside. There's a pool in the garden and some people can be heard talking and splashing in the water.

It's obvious the bedroom is meant for two people. The bed is stupidly big and overly-decorated with pillows, the lights are dim for that 'romantic' effect and the scented candles carry a smell of roses around the room even if they're not burning.

A good fifteen minutes pass before Lance starts to lose his patience. He really doesn't want to be stuck in a room with Keith for who knows how long until their friends remember their existence and come to get them. And when they do, they'll have to be, like, best friends then – or at least they can _pretend_ to be best friends – god, if Keith is willing, they can pretend to have sex just to make it seem like they're not fighting anymore!

Lance blinks in surprise at the idea and a smirk appears on his face. "Hey, I've got an idea."

Keith glances over to him with a raised eyebrow. "What is it?"

"Let's pretend we're having sex!" Lance exclaims and Keith's face immediately bursts into a deep red that Lance won't admit looks rather enticing.

"W-what the hell are you on about?" Keith retorts with a stutter. Lance rolls his eyes. Of course, Keith has to go and act like some pure, innocent virgin who blushes at the mention of the word 'sex' when Lance has seen him walk out of a bar with some random guy to have sex in the bathroom or wherever plenty of times. He ignores the prickling feeling in his chest, disregarding it as annoyance.

"I mean, let's prank everyone into thinking we're having sex." Lance tries to clarify. "Like, we can make loud sex noises and stuff just to mess with those three. They think they're so great making us into friends and stuff and then they'll hear us going at it and just freak their shit! There's no doubt they'll let us out before the party ends!"

Keith seems to calm down after Lance's explanation and hums thoughtfully at the plan. He kinda really wants to get back at those three for locking him up with Lance – especially when they all know how he feels about the other. A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips when he thinks of their shocked expressions when him and Lance walk out of the room, laughing at them for believing in their little stunt.

"Alright, let's do it." Keith says.

Lance's eyes widen in surprise. "Wait, seriously!? You wanna do it?"

"Well, yeah… why are you so surprised?"

"I just didn't think you'd say yes to it."

Keith sighs and walks over to the bed, resting one knee on the edge. "So, how do we do this?"

Lance looks around the room for a moment, then clicks his fingers. "Okay, so, we can bang on the walls and jump on the bed and stuff. We'll have to pretend we're moaning and we gotta do it loudly, because the music's pretty loud, and we'll just do that for a couple of minutes and then we'll wait for them to get us out of here."

Lance kicks his shoes off and stands on the bed. Keith follows his example, toeing off his sneakers and getting up on the bed as well. He looks at Lance, waiting for his instructions.

"Okay, so now we're gonna jump on the bed – but let's try not to break it, I can barely afford to pay my rent, let alone pay for this huge-ass bed." Lance says. Keith nods in agreement.

They starts to bounce carefully on the bed and it squeaks audibly. Lance is trying to stifle his laughter, excitement and amusement buzzing through his body. A small smile tugs at Keith's lips as well and they start to get really into it.

"We'll bang on the wall now, and start moaning really loud." Lance hits the wall with the palm of his hand.

"_Oh, Keith!_" Lance moans loudly, almost messing it up with how much he's trying not to laugh. Keith snorts and laughs at Lance's attempts to sound sexy.

"That sounded really bad." Keith laughs lightly, continuing to bounce up and down on the bed. Lance tries to be angry at Keith's comment, but he just can't – not when Keith is smiling at him and his eyes are twinkling with mischief. Pride swells in Lance's chest when he finally gets the usually broody young man to smile and laugh at his antics – it almost makes him happy. It's rare to see Keith smile, and it's especially rare to see those smiles directed at Lance, of all people.

"Well, if I sound so bad then how about you try it?" Lance challenges in a playful manner.

"Well, okay." Keith stops giggling and tries to compose himself and then he closes his eyes and cries out "Oh, _Lance!_"

Lance almost falls off the bed.

Holy shit. _Holy shit_. Keith sounds really, _really_ good, oh fuck.

"_A-ah, Lance, you're s-so rough!_" Keith whines loudly, even going as far as to curl his fingers into his own hair as he starts to get really into it. He bangs on the wall once, twice and bounces on the bed so it squeaks loudly "_You're so good at this, a-ah, ah!_"

Keith opens his eyes and grins smugly at Lance, back to his usual self in mere seconds. "Well, how was that?"

He sounds so casual (_not at all like he just gave Lance a boner or anything!_) and he's smirking at Lance as if saying 'hah, see that?' while Lance is having a fucking epiphany and trying to re-evaluate his entire outlook of life in the span of two seconds.

"H-haha, th-that was pretty convincing, man." Lance stutters, his voice cracks slightly and a bright red blush colours his cheeks. He tries to get back into the swing of things, jumping on the bed and slamming on the wall, but he just can't seem to find his voice.

So, Keith decides to continue. "_L-Lance, you're going so fast, o-oh shit!_"

This whole prank thing has turned completely against him. He just wanted to mess with his friends – not accept the fact that he may or may not have feelings for his supposed rival while he's moaning like a pornstar! _Fuck,_ Lance can't deny it any longer. He likes Keith, _a lot_. This whole time, Lance wasn't angry at Keith for getting all the girls' attention, he was jealous that they had enough confidence to confess their feelings to him. He always annoyed Keith in order to get his attention and he forced him into arguments to get Keith annoyed and riled up – so he'd remember Lance for the rest of the day, even if it's in a negative way. Just because they got off to a rough start the first time they met, Lance forever wanted to view him as a rival, someone he hated, but as much as he tried to deny it, he knew deep down that his feelings for Keith had changed over time from hate to… love.

And, there's no denying those rare, civil moments they that made him fall for him even more. He remembers the times when they were studying together, after all their friends went to sleep at whoever's house they were staying over, and it was just the two of them. They'd continue to work for a couple more hours until both of them were fighting to keep their eyes open. Lance would look over to Keith and just gaze at him, at how he rubs his tired eyes and stifles a yawn, trying to complete one more question before his eyes begin to droop again. It's during those moments, when Lance is ready to fall asleep and doesn't try to deny anything, he thinks about how cute Keith looks and how much he just wants to cuddle close to him and fall asleep by his side.

And then there was that frustrating night when Lance was trying to jerk off in his room and no matter what he thought of, it just wasn't enough. His mind ran through different scenarios, different people and celebrities he's attracted to until there was nothing in his mind. Then, an image of Keith appeared in his head; of Keith kissing him softly, of Keith sitting between Lance's open legs, hands on his cock and his tongue licking at the head. Keith's violet eyes were dilated with lust and they looked right into Lance's blue eyes and – and then Lance was coming hard, his hand on his mouth, muffling his moan of Keith's name in the dead of night.

"Hey, Lance, are you okay?" Keith pipes up, bringing Lance out of his emotional crisis.

Lance has stopped jumping and slamming the wall and he blinks when he notices just how close Keith is to him, violet eyes concerned and looking right into his blue eyes . Lance gasps and jumps to get further away from Keith, but he ends up tripping on the fluffy bed. Keith tries to grab him and he takes a hold of his wrist, but his feet slip on the bed and he quickly collapses after Lance on the bed – straight onto Lance.

Lance stops breathing, hyper-aware of every part of his body that's touching Keith's. Keith's face is inches away from his neck, puffs of hot air tickling his neck and their chests are pressed together – Lance doesn't doubt that Keith can feel how fast his heart is beating. Keith's legs are spread on either side of his hips and Lance is suddenly very aware that he's half-hard and Keith can probably _feel it – oh god,_ Lance is mortified.

Keith shakily lifts himself up to look at Lance. But Keith's face is as red as his and his eyes are wide with surprise, pupils dilated and he's panting slightly. They're so _close_, god, just one more inch and their lips would be touching.

"K-Keith…" Lance's voice is low and husky, thick with lust and arousal. He goes to sit up when cool hands touch his face and pull him forward and then Keith is kissing him hungrily.

The kiss isn't soft or gentle; it's rough and hot and desperate, both of them eager for more. Lance reciprocates firmly and _oh_, Keith's lips are just as soft as he expected them to be and he lets out a whine when Keith's tongue licks his bottom lip teasingly. He immediately opens his mouth and their tongues explore each other's mouths, deepening the kiss further. Keith's hands travel from Lance's cheeks to the nape of his neck, trying to bring them as close as they can possibly get whilst Lance's hands circle around Keith's waist.

Lance can feel Keith's heart pounding wildly in his chest, just like his own heart and his head is spinning and he's pretty sure it's from the fact that Keith is kissing him and he's enjoying it. But, eventually they have to break away for air. A string of saliva connects their lips together briefly before it breaks and he should've found that gross, but instead, a wave of arousal runs through his spine. They're both panting heavily, eyes clouded with lust and desire.

"_Shit._" Lance curses, letting his head fall back onto the dozens of pillows beneath him. Keith is looking at him and he's still on top of him and_ that's really not helping!_

"I-I'm sorry." Lance looks up at Keith again, surprised by the sudden apology. "I-I shouldn't have done that, I'm an idiot, I-"

"Keith, hey, it's okay." Lance sits up quickly, putting his hands on Keith's arms to steady him.

"I like you!" Keith blurts out suddenly, face red. His eyes are suddenly so sad and vulnerable that Lance's heart clenches. "I-I've liked you ever since we went to the beach that time with the others and we tried to push each other into the freezing water."

Lance remembers that day. It had been winter in their first year of college, when the five of them still didn't know each other very well, but they all decided to take a train to the beach to just relax for a day and forget about the upcoming exams looming over them 24/7. That was _almost a year ago_. Keith's had a crush on him all this time, and Lance hasn't noticed it?

Wait. There had been moments that left Lance questioning Keith's feelings towards him, but the idea of Keith having a crush on him was so ridiculous and laughable it was gone from his head in seconds.

That time at the party last year, when Keith was 'drunk' and started clinging onto Lance to make the girl he was flirting with leave – he was _jealous_. All those times Keith got angry at Lance for flirting with anyone who passed by, he was upset that Lance wasn't flirting with him. Those moments when they were too tired to fight but they still wanted to banter and started pushing each other's shoulders, stifling laughs and hiding smiles. And those quaint little moments they had together, the little tired smiles that Keith gave him when he was exhausted from studying too much and the odd times when he brought Lance his favourite caramel macchiato before they go to their study sessions with everyone else.

Lance is dumb.

He's oblivious and insensitive and dumb.

"Y-you obviously don't feel the same way." Keith mumbles, looking at the ceiling instead of Lance. "I'm sorry I kissed you out of nowhere like that."

"Keith. Look at me." Lance cups Keith's face quickly in his hands because he's afraid that if he doesn't hold onto him, he'll lose Keith in the blink of an eye. He gently turns him so the other is looking right into his eyes. "I like you too. Have for a while I guess, but, uh, it just took a _long_ time for me to accept that."

"W-what?" Keith's eyes are wide and he looks like he's about ready to cry. "You do?"

Lance rolls his eyes. "Of course, idiot, I wouldn't have kissed you back otherwise."

Keith smiles shyly and Lance can't help but grin toothily at him. "I really like you, Keith."

"I really like you too, Lance."

"Good. Now can we get back to kissing?"

Keith doesn't waste another second before leaning back to kiss him again. This time, the kiss is much slower and softer. They take their time because it feels like they have forever. Lance wraps his arms around Keith's waist again, bringing them closer together. Keith deepens the kiss and plunges his tongue into Lance's mouth, earning a low moan in response. Keith's hands travel to hold onto Lance's shoulders firmly and Lance tightens his grip on Keith's waist.

The room gets hotter and they're beginning to pant from kissing so much, but neither of them want to stop. Lance feels daring and pulls Keith down on his crotch, their growing erections brushing against one another. Keith breaks the kiss to let out a breathy moan, throwing his head back and exposing his long neck which Lance deems is too pretty and unmarked with hickeys and teeth-marks. He latches onto his neck, trailing feather-light kisses with his lips then suddenly sucking hard and Keith _fucking groans_ so beautifully that Lance has to suppress a whine of his own, pulling Keith down to grind against his cock again and again.

Lance continues to bite and suck along Keith's neck, sucking on one spot until it starts to turn purple and then moving onto another spot to do the same, until Keith is covered in marks and bites all over his neck, glistening with spit, and there's no way that he possibly cover them all. Keith is encouraging Lance to continue, putting a hand on the back of his head and gripping his hair lightly. Lance doesn't stop until Keith is panting and writhing in his lap from pleasure, grinding against him and muttering incoherent words under his breath (some of them sounding vaguely similar to Lance's name).

He leans back and Keith pulls him in for another kiss. Their tongues clash and it's messy and saliva drips down their chins but neither of them care. Keith's hands travel to Lance's chest where they fumble with his shirt.

He reluctantly breaks away from their kiss, looking utterly _fuckable_ with his lips red from kissing, parted and panting, expression hazy with hunger and lust as he tugs at Lance's clothes. "Can I take this off?"

"_Dios_, you don't even have to ask." Lance hurriedly throws his shirt over his head without even unbuttoning it all the way, tossing it somewhere to the other side of the room. Keith quickly works on his blazer and Lance helps him remove that and his shirt before they're thrown across the room as well.

Lance takes a moment to admire Keith's body. He's seen him shirtless an odd couple of time, but _god_ he's so beautiful. Keith may be slender but that doesn't mean he's unfit or frail. Keith works out a lot, he takes martial arts classes with Shiro, and that certainly shows. Lance trails his fingers lightly down Keith's stomach just to feel the light contours of his abs and the muscles become tense under his touch. Lance suddenly craves to kiss and lick down his stomach, but before he can act on his desires, Keith pushes him back against the pillows. He gives Lance a small grin as he crawls lower, settling between Lance's legs. Lance's cock twitches as he realises what Keith's about to do and his body shivers in anticipation.

Keith's fingers skim along his hips and the hem of his trousers before they slowly, teasingly pull them lower, until Lance is left with only his white boxer briefs. But Keith continues to tease him, kissing along his hips and biting lightly at his hip bones, making Lance whine and groan. He wants to throw his head back and enjoy the sensation of Keith's mouth kissing along his body, but at the same time, he doesn't want to look away even for a second because Keith is just so hot and so perfect that Lance can't handle it. Keith sucks at his hipbone until it starts to turn purple, moving to another spot to do the same.

"K-Keith…" Lance moans, pleading with his eyes for him to do something, _anything_ to relieve the pressure on his cock because it's starting to get painful.

Keith grins up at him while continuing to kiss along his hips, but he finally listens to Lance's pleas and starts to take off his boxers. Lance's face flushes bright red when his cock springs up, already leaking with pre-come and they've barely done anything. Keith leans down and takes Lance's cock in his hand, stroking experimentally and rubbing at the head. Lance moans loudly – he's pretty sure that everyone can hear him, but he can't seem to find it in himself to muffle his voice. Keith leans closer until his lips are inches away from the head of his cock and he sticks his tongue out to lick at it.

Lance is pretty sure he's dead – he died and this is heaven. Pleasure surges through his body and Lance moans, closing his eyes momentarily because the sight of Keith with his cock in his mouth is almost enough to send Lance over the edge and he really doesn't want to come yet, _not yet_. But Keith is really good at this. He licks at the tip and the underside of Lance's cock as he slowly goes down as far as he's able to, using his hands to stroke what he can't fit into his mouth. Then, he swallows _hard_ around his cock and Lance swears he sees stars. Lance can't do anything but moan loudly, whining when Keith licks at the sensitive head of his cock.

"_A-ah, Keith, d-dios, f-fuck…_" Lance is reduced to a moaning mess from Keith's mouth. He can barely speak coherent English and keeps slipping into Spanish whenever Keith tries to fit more of Lance's cock into his mouth. Lance's hand finds its way to Keith's dark hair – that stupidly attractive hair – fisting it gently and tugging at it, causing Keith to moan around his cock and send vibrations through his body. He pulls his fringe away from his face to see him clearer and almost comes right then and there just from the sight of Keith, flushed and sweaty, his cheeks hollowed and eyes dilated with lust.

Lance tugs at Keith's hair a few times to get him to pull off. Keith pulls his mouth away with an obscene sound, licking his lips as he sits up straight, giving Lance a questioning look.

"Is everything alright?" Oh, shit, his voice is so hoarse.

"Y-yeah." Lance stutters breathlessly. "I just, uh, I don't want to… come yet."

Lance is so embarrassed to admit that he was so close to coming just from Keith giving him a blow job that probably lasted less than one minute. But Keith merely smiles without seeming to judge or make fun of him.

"Have you ever done it with a guy before?" Keith asks suddenly.

"Huh, um, n-no." Lance replies shyly. Sure, he's dated a couple of guys in high school and a little in college as well, but the closest he ever got to having sex with a guy was a heavy make-out session that got interrupted by the school fire-alarm going off at the exact moment they were about to ask if they wanted to go further. He knows Keith is gay, and obviously he's got nothing against that, but he knows that Keith has a lot more experience in this scenario than Lance does.

"That's fine." Keith says reassuringly, rubbing the inside of his thigh gently. "Since it's your first time, I'll let you top."

Lance blinks dazedly. "T-top?"

His breath hitches when Keith's takes something out of the back pocket of his jeans; a condom and a small bottle of lube. He rises to his knees and starts unzipping his impossibly skinny jeans, all the while looking into Lance's eyes. Lance gulps visibly as he watches Keith shimmy off his jeans and boxer briefs.

He can't help but stare at Keith's cock for a moment as he climbs back up onto the bed. It's flushed pink and dripping with pre-come. The sight of it makes Lance want to suck him off, but he'll have to wait until next time for that.

Next time, huh?

_God,_ Lance really hopes this isn't going to be a one-time thing.

Keith seats himself on Lance's lap again, his ass rubbing against his cock with each movement. "Also, you don't have to worry, I can do all the work."

The disappointment in Lance's expression is obvious. No, he wants to make him feel good as well. After Keith's amazing blowjob, Lance knows he can't do much to compare to it – especially with how little experience he has – but he doesn't want to sit around and watch (although that does sound kinda hot and a little kinky).

Keith seems to notice the look in Lance's eyes and raises an eyebrow. "Or do you want to do it?"

He holds up the bottle of lube and Lance nods a little too eagerly. Keith helps to reposition Lance so he's sitting with his legs firmly on the ground, moaning quietly when Keith repositions himself on his lap, kneeling and spreading his legs.

"Just, uh, talk me through it, alright?" Lance stammers nervously, grabbing the lube and accidentally pouring way too much onto his fingers. "I don't want to hurt you or anything."

"I'll talk you through it." Keith reassures him, caressing his cheek affectionately. "But don't worry about hurting me, I can take it."

The statement makes Lance's cock twitch a little, but he tries to focus of what he has to do. With one hand, he rubs up and down on Keith's warm thigh while the other travels further until he finds Keith's hole and gently circles one finger around the rim. Keith's breath hitches in his throat and he hides his face in Lance's neck, trying to hold in his whimpers.

"A-alright, now slowly push one finger i-inside." Keith's voice is right in his ear, low and sensual and hot. He kisses Lance's neck leisurely, licking at his pulse, while Lance slowly pushes one finger into Keith. They both moan at the sensation, Lance at the incredible, velvety warmth surrounding his finger and Keith at the delicious ache that comes with being stretched open.

"W-what now?" Lance asks breathlessly.

"J-just thrust your f- _fuck – _yeah, just like that." Keith moans into his neck, hips rolling into Lance's finger eagerly. Lance thrusts his finger in and out gently and slowly, teasing Keith but making sure he won't hurt him – regardless of Keith hinting that he may be a slight masochist.

Lance continues to thrust into Keith, relishing in the moans and whimpers coming from him and the fact that he's the one causing him to feel like this.

"Y-yes, _Lance_, you're so good." Keith whispers lewdly, biting his neck to hold in a loud groan when Lance's finger almost touches his prostate. The praise immediately goes to Lance's cock and Keith notices the slight falter in his movements. A knowing smirk appears on Keith's lips that Lance can't see. "You're doing so well, Lance. Your fingers feel so good inside me, _p-please_, add another."

Lance's cock leaks pre-come, twitching and growing harder and he's blushing like crazy from the praise. It's pretty obvious that he has a praise kink and Keith is using this information to his advantage. Nevertheless, Lance carefully pushes in a second finger and Keith whines in his ear, rocking back into him desperately.

"You're so good, Lance, you're amazing, _a-ah_, such a good boy." All the while, Keith is mumbling praise into Lance's ear that could make him come so easily if not for how hard Lance is trying to restrain himself with sheer willpower. "You're doing so well, Lance, I could come just from your fingers, _a-ah!_"

Keith tells him to add a third finger, urging him to go faster and Lance complies immediately. He thrusts his fingers as deep as he can get them, grinning smugly when he touches Keith's prostate and causes the other to arch his back and _wail_ his name.

"A-ah, L-Lance, fuck!" Keith cries, whimpering when Lance brushes his prostate again just to torment him. But Keith is starting to lose patience and he knows that Lance is painfully hard. So he tells him to stop and remove his fingers and makes a high-pitched noise when his fingers leave him and Lance needs to take a moment to calm himself down because he used a little too much lube and now it's dripping out of Keith's hole and leaking onto his thighs and it's so arousing that Lance needs to take in a deep breath and count to five before he can look at Keith again.

He rummages around the silky sheets and finds the condom packet, ripping it open with his teeth (Lance won't admit that he found that extremely arousing) and rolls it onto his cock, pouring more lube onto him as well. Then, Keith grips his shoulder to balance himself with one hand while his other hand aligns Lance's cock with his twitching hole.

"You ready?" Keith asks quietly, and the anticipation is seriously going to kill Lance.

Lance nods eagerly and grips Keith's slender hips so tightly he knows that bruises will form there. Slowly, torturously slow, Keith lowers himself onto Lance's cock, inhaling deeply and squeezing his eyes shut, biting his lip to suppress an obscene moan. Lance can't breathe and for a moment he can only see stars in his vision. Keith is so hot and tight and it's so slippery and soft inside of him. Lance doesn't even try to suppress his moans anymore, which resonate through the whole bedroom loudly.

"K-Keith, _Keith_…" Lance moans again as he watches Keith sit fully on his cock, all the way inside him and it feels so _good_.

"Lance, _f-fuck_, Lance." Keith whimpers, his lips hovering right over Lance's and he can't help but kiss him. It's slow and languid but so filthy and dirty, their tongues intertwining together and saliva dripping onto their chins. Keith begins to move slowly, lifting himself from Lance's cock on shaky legs until only the head is inside of him. Then, he brings himself down a little faster and Lance's almost cries with how good it feels. The bed squeaks as Keith begins to build up a rhythm.

Keith is loud in bed. It's one of the many things Lance that learns tonight. He's writhing in his lap, lips red and kiss-swollen, eyes hazed with lust and tears threatening to spill with how good Lance feels inside of him. His hands grip his shoulders tightly and every time he moves on top of him, he moans loudly and there's no doubt that everyone can hear them downstairs. But Lance doesn't care, he finds that loves hearing Keith's loud voice, his whimpers and cries and his praise for Lance all bring the other closer to release.

"L-Lance, so good, it feels, _a-ah_, y-you feel so, _a-ah_, so good!" Keith cries, panting heavily as he rolls his hips and rides Lance's cock, getting faster and faster until the slap of skin on skin echoes through the room. Lance's cock twitches at the praise and Keith would've smirked at the other if not for how amazing Lance's cock felt, leaving him gasping for breath and unable to form proper sentences. It hits against his prostate and Keith _screams_ Lance's name, trying to angle his hips desperately so that his cock will hit that spot with every thrust. The bed is squeaking non-stop and the headboard bangs into the wall repeatedly from how hard and fast Keith is fucking himself on Lance's cock.

Lance's hands circle around to Keith's back and he momentarily admires the view. Keith's cock is pink and leaking precome, trickling onto Keith's stomach and dripping onto Lance and he hasn't touched his cock this whole time and that just arouses Lance even more. His muscles flex every time he bounces on Lance's cock, his chest heaving breathlessly. Lance finds himself leaning up to kiss Keith's defined collarbone, biting and leaving marks as his lips travel to the part where his shoulder meets his neck.

"A-ah, Lance, Lance!" Keith only manages to moan his name repeatedly. Lance's hands travel down to his ass, suddenly feeling a wave of confidence wash over him when he realises that _he's_ the one making Keith feel like this, _he's_ the one whose reduced him to this; a whimpering mess, moaning Lance's name over and over. He gropes Keith's ass in his hands, spreading his cheeks apart and whining when it drives Keith deeper onto his cock.

He's so close to coming, his stomach tenses and his balls tighten and he can feel his orgasm coming and he wants to say something to Keith – to slow down so they can keep going for longer – but Keith suddenly tightens around him and Lance can tell that he's close too. Lance thrusts his hips upwards to meet Keith's halfway and Keith tightens around Lance's cock and moans loudly, gripping his shoulders so tightly his skin almost breaks and Lance bites Keith's neck _hard_ and they're both gone.

He moans Keith's name through his orgasm, thrusting erratically into Keith and vision turning white. Keith comes with his cock untouched and that makes another wave of pleasure course through Lance's body. Keith comes between their stomachs, staining them both with white come, some of it even reaching up to Keith's chest. As their orgasms pass, and Lance can feel himself coming back to reality, Keith's thrusts begin to slow down. He's resting his head on Lance's shoulder and rubbing his hands apologetically over the scratches on Lance's shoulders. They're both panting and breathless, the room is stifling hot and smells of sweat and sex and roses.

Keith slowly lifts himself off of Lance's cock, and sits back onto his lap, too exhausted to move any more. They stay like that for a couple of minutes, Keith resting his head on his shoulder and Lance trying to come back to reality after, what he thinks, was the best orgasm he's ever had.

He suddenly wraps his arms around Keith's middle, pressing him to his chest and not caring that he's smearing come all over both of their bodies. Keith makes a small, surprised noise that sounds close to a squeak when Lance falls back onto the bed with him, shifting so that they're facing each other on the bed.

"So, is this, like, a thing we'll do more often now?" Lance asks, eyes twinkling giddily and a smile tugging at his lips.

"Do you seriously have to ask that?" Keith raises an eyebrow, giving Lance a deadpan look but there's a faint blush on his cheeks. "I-I mean, of course we will – i-if you want to… I guess."

Lance can't help but smile like an idiot when it finally hits him that he likes Keith and Keith likes him back, and they just kissed and had the best sex that Lance has ever had and all of that just makes him so flustered and happy. He beams and buries his face in Keith's neck. Keith is surprised but a small smile appears on his lips and he brings one hand to Lance's hair, running his fingers through the short strands and the action is so calming that Lance finds himself being lulled to sleep. But something stops him.

Lance lifts his head up, looking at Keith with wide eyes. "We just had sex on someone else's bed."

It takes a moment for the words to register in Keith's brain, but when they do, his face turns into a comical expression, eyes wide and face turning redder than a tomato and then he's jumping out of the bed, cursing as he wobbles over to find their clothes and muttering about how sore his back is gonna be for the next week. Lance quickly follows, blushing from embarrassment and mortification at the fact that they just had sex at their _classmate's house_ while there's a huge party going on right underneath them and he's pretty sure that the entire building knows what they were up to because they were _not quiet._

Thank god that there's a private bathroom in the room. Lance races in to throw the used condom into the bin, hiding it by stuffing some toilet paper in there as well and grabs a small hand towel from the sink, wetting it and wiping the come off himself. He goes out to find Keith struggling to quickly slip into his jeans, jumping on one leg and looking like an idiot. Lance chuckles at the sight as he walks over to him.

"Hey, hey, slow down." Lance steadies Keith's fall. He helps him straighten up and begins to wipe gently at the come on his stomach and chest.

Keith immediately blushes at the somewhat intimate action. "I-I can do that myself you know."

"I know, but I just wanted to do it for you." Lance grin at him and Keith's expression looks almost pained for a second.

"_Agh, why are you so cute, you idiot!_" Keith exclaims almost angrily, bringing Lance up for a kiss. Despite the anger in his tone, he kisses Lance slowly and passionately, pouring all of his love, admiration and desire into one kiss, hoping it's enough to explain how he truly feels about Lance without using words. Lance understands him right away, letting Keith lead the kiss. He lets the cloth slip out of his fingers and onto the floor, wrapping his arms around Keith's neck. They've still got a bit of time anyway, what harm would a few more minutes of kissing do?

Pidge, Hunk and Shiro come to let them out a little before the party ends, all with the same knowing looks in their eyes and shit-eating grins on their faces. Neither of them can look their friends in the eyes when they come and get them. Their faces are bright red and they practically race out of the room together, more than willing to leave the party as quickly as possible. The pair can hear them all laughing and cackling to each other by the door.

"Told you they'd actually start to fuck." Lance hears Pidge say as they laugh. "You guys owe me fifty bucks each, pay up, losers."

Lance doesn't wait to hear anything else because Keith takes a hold of his hand and tugs him out of the house. Everyone is looking at them with grins, some people whistling and cheering when they pass by but Lance pays them no mind (it's not like he hasn't walked in on numerous classmates making out or having sex in the most public of places before) because Keith's hand feels nice in his and he really doesn't want to let go.

They walk away from the mansion, wanting to leave the fancy, rich neighbourhood as fast as possible and hail a taxi to take them home. It's silent between them and Lance doesn't know whether he should try to start a conversation or not.

"D-do you wanna stay over at my place tonight?" Lance blurts out without thinking and Keith stops walking to look over at him. He immediately blushes and nervously chuckles. "I-I mean if you want to. We could just hang out together or watch something or… stuff…"

Keith grins at Lance and Lance's heart skips a beat because he just looks so beautiful. His skin glows white from the streetlamps and his eyes sparkle and reflect the stars in the sky, looking like an entire galaxy could be found in his eyes. His hair is messy and his clothes are rumpled and they both smell like beer and sweat and sex but to Lance, Keith looks absolutely perfect and beautiful and now he's with Lance, and he likes Lance and Lance likes him back, and this has to be a dream because there's no way –

Keith surprises Lance with a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth, eyes twinkling. "That sounds really nice. I'd like that."

And Lance lets Keith walk him through the rich neighbourhood, laughing giddily when he challenges Keith to race him to the end of the road and Keith blushes, saying that he's too tired and sore to do that and everything is way more than okay because Keith likes Lance and Lance likes him back and no dream could feel this real.


	85. (T) TODODEKU - Count Your Blessings, Not

count your blessings, not your flaws  
PitViperOfDoom

Summary:  
Midoriya Izuku has never been asked out, confessed to, or flirted with, except as a joke.

* * *

Shouto knows he isn't good at this.

He never has been. He can't tell whether this is just the way he is, or it's one more thing he can blame on his father, but he knows that he isn't good at this. People call him stoic, and cold. Some even call him mysterious. Others call him emotionless.

It's not that he doesn't feel. He does feel, but it all gets locked inside and none of it ever shows. Sometimes it's because he can't show it. Other times it's because he's afraid to.

Take now, for instance. Midoriya isn't even looking at him, too engrossed in the notes he's going over, and yet Shouto can feel his mouth go dry and his tongue turn to lead. In moments like this, watching Midoriya's face, the way his brows knit together in concentration and his eyes flicker with each thought, Shouto feels things extra-sharp.

He's been thinking about this for weeks. Months, even. Shouto isn't good at showing what he feels, or saying what he feels, so he locks it away and thinks instead. But with Midoriya…

With Midoriya, it's okay. No matter how bad he is at this, Midoriya listens. Midoriya understands. Whatever else happens, Shouto is safe.

And that is what tips the scales in the favor of courage. Midoriya has given him many things, but he has never stopped giving him courage.

Midoriya stands up, closing his notebook, and it's only then that he realizes that Midoriya has been speaking, and Shouto—lost in thoughts and feelings—has barely caught a word. "—and anyway, what do you think?"

"Me?" The scales teeter dangerously.

"Yeah. I want to hear your thoughts."

They are alone in the dorm commons, so there is no one else around to hear. The words come out blunt and wooden, but Midoriya understands, Midoriya always understands. "I think I like you, and I want to go out with you."

He holds his breath, watching for a reaction, waiting for a response. His friend blinks at him, eyes widening in confusion, and then disbelief.

And then Midoriya barks out a laugh and walks away.

* * *

The first time it happens, Izuku is twelve years old, it's his second week of middle school, and Nanase-senpai in Class 2-B is the prettiest girl he's ever seen. He likes her smile, and the glitter clips in her hair, and her laughter makes him want to smile even if he's still shaking off Kacchan's mockery.

He never talks to her, of course, because she's beautiful and a whole year older than him, and just like Kacchan and everyone else in this school, she has a quirk and he doesn't. Izuku isn't angry about that; it's just the way things are. It's not Nanase-senpai's fault that she can move things without touching them, nor is it her fault that Izuku can't do anything. He's okay with this. Nothing is ever going to change.

Until, for about five seconds, he thinks it might.

He thinks that because suddenly Nanase-senpai is walking over to his lonely table at lunch, with her pretty smile and glitter clips in her hair, and says, "Hi! You're Midoriya-kun, aren't you?"

Izuku can only stare at her, awestruck and maybe a little bit afraid because _Nanase-senpai knows his name_.

"You know, you're kinda cute!" Has he mentioned that her smile is wonderful? "Want to go on a date with me?"

His mind goes blank then, his eyes big and round and maybe a little watery. And he thinks, maybe Mom was right. Maybe middle school really will be better than elementary school and maybe—

Nanase-senpai's pretty face crumples, and she tries to hold in a laugh but it sputters out of her anyway, and she turns and darts back to a neighboring table where a cluster of girls have been watching the whole thing.

"I'm sorry!" she calls, without bothering to look back and see that Izuku and half the cafeteria can hear her. "I'm sorry—I tried to hold it together but I couldn't help it—did you see his face?"

"It's okay, Nanase!" another girl answers. "You still did it—a dare's a dare!"

Nanase-senpai laughs again, and suddenly it doesn't sound as pretty anymore.

It must have become a running joke at school, after that. Akiyama-san comes up to him in class weeks later, tall and broad and big-boned enough that Izuku can't help but shrink back when she looms over him. And then the first thing out of her mouth is "Want to eat lunch together, Midoriya-kuuun?" in a voice that almost trills, and Midoriya perks up in his seat because he can't remember the last time he had the chance to make a friend.

This time, he gets as far as "Um," before Akiyama thumps his desk with her hand and spins around on her heel to march back to her seatmates.

"Did it!" she calls. "Told you I'd do it! Pay up, Naoka!"

"You were supposed to ask him on a _date_, Akiyama."

"Oh come on, I have my limits. A bet's a bet."

This time Kacchan overhears the whole thing, and Izuku ducks his head and lets the raucous laughter wash over him again.

The next semester starts when Mihara-kun transfers into his class, and it's Nanase-senpai all over again. Izuku can't look at him long, because if he isn't careful than he'll end up never looking away at all. He has a magical few days in which Mihara-kun grins at him and treats him kindly before someone helpfully informs him that Izuku is quirkless, and even then he doesn't even switch to bullying. Once during math, he lends Izuku a pencil when his own breaks, and that's the kindest thing that anyone in Izuku's class has ever done for him.

His quirk makes his eyes change color depending on how he's feeling. Izuku doesn't have enough time to nail down the patterns before Mihara-kun turns to him one day and says, "Hey, Midoriya-kun, I really like you. Want to go on a date after school?" And because of that, Izuku doesn't know that orange means he's joking until his face lights up and Mihara-kun bursts out snickering at the sight. "Oh my God, I'm just kidding, stop looking at me like that."

"He's like a really stupid puppy," someone else says, and Mihara-kun laughs.

It doesn't end there. Once in a great while, some pretty girl or pretty boy will surprise Izuku with a love confession or ask for a date, to settle a bet or fulfill a dare, before running off to laugh with their friends because no one wants to date quirkless Midoriya Izuku, but it sure is funny to make him jump. Akiyama laughs whenever she sees it happen, as if each time is the first.

And Izuku smiles and ducks and stays silent, and meets every joke with sincerity and delight because his hope springs eternal.

Or at least, it springs until he's a second-year, and Shinoda-san darts up to him during lunch with her eyes alight with excitement.

"Meet me by the basketball court after school," she says, in a hushed voice like she's sharing a secret. "I need to tell you something." And Izuku agrees, soaking up her eagerness and missing the way she grins not at him, but at someone over his shoulder.

He hurries to the basketball court after school, heart drumming with anticipation, and finds not Shinoda-san but four third-year boys waiting for him. They surround him before he can run away.

It really shouldn't have taken a black eye, a bloody nose, and his bookbag drowned in a locker room toilet for him to get the hint, but maybe he just liked having attention that much.

But at least he stops falling for it after that. The joke keeps coming, until the girls and boys that play it finally run together and Izuku stops remembering names and faces. It's easier, he finds, to grin and laugh it off, to pretend he's in on the joke. It's easier to laugh with them than to sit silently while they laugh at him. It hurts, but it's an easier hurt, and no one can ever use the joke to beat him up again. Like everything, it gets easier with practice, and his middle school classmates give him plenty of chances.

By the time he hears it from Todoroki, Izuku is so out of practice that he accidentally lets the hope in. Just for a split second, his heart lifts and he wonders at the thought of someone as beautiful and strong as Todoroki seeing him that way. But then reality returns, as unwelcome as ever, and Izuku lets it squash his hope again. Muscle memory lets him force a laugh with relative ease, and he walks away before he can let the half-forgotten hurt show.

* * *

Shouto stares at Midoriya's back until he can't see it anymore, and then he keeps staring because he doesn't know what else to do.

This would go one of two ways, he had thought. Either Midoriya would return his feelings, or he wouldn't. Either Midoriya's eyes would go wide, the way they always did when he was surprised and flustered, and he would mumble and stammer out an agreement—or he would fidget awkwardly and turn him down gently, apologizing even though it wouldn't be his fault. That was how Shouto imagined it, when gathering courage. That was how he comforted himself: even if he failed, Midoriya would do everything he could to keep from hurting him. He was kind like that. His voice was soft and his feelings were gentle, and even if it didn't go the way Shouto hoped, at least it wouldn't hurt.

He never imagined laughing. He never imagined Midoriya walking away without a word—not even a yes or a no.

Hot, uncomfortable shame fills him, and he sits motionless and stares as it pricks him like needles and makes him want to shrink away and hide and never look at anyone again.

His eyes sting, and then they are wet, and then they spill over and Shouto breaks free of his frozen state to wipe at them hurriedly. What if someone comes in—what if Midoriya comes back and sees—?

And now he feels like an idiot, sitting alone in the common room scrubbing at the tears running down his face. He tries to get a hold of himself, but the deep breath he takes trembles on the way in and he doesn't _want_ to feel this way. This wasn't supposed to hurt. He wasn't supposed to come away from this feeling like a fool.

He's used to having his feelings treated like they don't count for anything. But he's not used to Midoriya doing it.

* * *

It hurts because this is one of those things Izuku thought he'd left behind when he started at UA. Along with bags dropped in fountains and toilets, stolen notebooks that turn up in the bushes with half the pages ripped out, lunch trays knocked out of his hands, black eyes and crushed dreams and loneliness—Izuku has spent his time in high school thinking that the prank is finally something of the past.

It hurts because it's Nanase-senpai and Mihara-kun all over again—because Todoroki is _beautiful_, with his bright hair and brighter eyes and his quiet strength. Because Izuku has spent enough time looking at him and wishing and imagining to be sure of his feelings, and it's different from his middle-school crushes because more than anything he knows he can trust Todoroki with his life. It wouldn't hurt if he couldn't.

He must have made it obvious, if even Todoroki noticed enough to tease him about it.

And because it hurts, Izuku stays quietly angry and upset for another few hours before he finally shakes it off. Heaven help him, he can never stay upset with Todoroki for long. Especially now, with common sense pointing out that Todoroki is every bit as inexperienced with having friends as he is, if not more so. In all likelihood Todoroki just doesn't realize how hurtful it was. And why would he? It's just a dumb joke, and the only reason it bothers Izuku so much is that it's plagued him for so long. Keeping quiet certainly won't help; Izuku can't fix this by pretending that nothing is wrong.

But it's all right—the difference between then and now is that Todoroki isn't some untouchable classmate that Izuku can never talk to; Todoroki is his friend, and Izuku can always tell him when something's wrong.

Izuku goes back down to the common room just in time to find his friend shrugging into a jacket, about to head out.

"Hey, Todoroki," he calls as he catches up. He tries to go for casual—he doesn't want to start off sounding overly accusing. "I wanted to—"

Todoroki walks by him without a word. The door shuts in Izuku's face.

* * *

Shouto knows he's being childish. Cowardly, even. Were he a braver person, he would take the chance that Midoriya gives him—and then the many chances that follow—to let his anger and hurt spill out instead of pool within him. Midoriya approaches him whenever he catches Shouto in the same room, eyes bright, mouth open to speak, but Shouto averts his eyes and shoulders past him every time, if he can't get away with turning around and leaving. He should want to talk—he should want to yell, even—but when he hears Midoriya's voice he hears dry laughter, and when he sees his face he sees that shallow, insincere smile. The hurt builds again until it nearly spills over, and Shouto leaves because that's what he's always done when he comes that close to breaking in front of someone.

He's avoiding Midoriya, plain and simple. He's not trying to hide it; he's too upset to bother. And Midoriya, who has never been stupid or unobservant, notices. Shouto tries to look away, tries to blind and deafen and numb himself to it, but with every attempt, he can feel Midoriya's frustration growing. A small, petty part of him draws satisfaction from that, and by the time they have to go back to class, Midoriya has stopped trying.

Shouto should be relieved at not having to put the effort into not looking at him anymore. But now, if chance forces them near each other, he can feel anger radiating off of Midoriya, and that only fuels his own irritation. What does Midoriya have to be angry about? Did he really find Shouto's confession that disgusting?

At least school means training, and training is a relief. In training, he can pour himself into every maneuver, every blow, every attack, until he's left heaving for breath and thinking about the ache in his lungs and limbs instead of the hurt. It's an old, reliable coping mechanism of his, to work himself hard enough that he's too tired to think about anything else.

He hasn't had to use it in quite a while, but now it's the only outlet he can see. It's somewhat less exhausting to talk about what hurts him, but that's not possible now. The only person he ever trusts with that is Midoriya, so what is he to do when what hurts him is Midoriya himself?

* * *

"Something's wrong."

Ochako waits a few days to say something. She considers herself an optimist, you know? Always seeing the best of a situation, seeing the best in people. But her patience is short when her friends are in trouble, and this isn't something that she can simply sit around and ignore until it resolves itself.

Iida blinks at her. "Well, the flow of your sentences is a bit stilted, and—oh, I see, you have a few errors in verb tense."

They're study buddies for the afternoon. Ochako needs help with an English assignment, and Iida has the second-best grades in their class. Also, it's a convenient way to confide in someone.

"No, I mean—well, okay, yeah, you're right." Ochako erases the grammar errors that Iida points out. "But I meant something's wrong with Deku and Todoroki."

Iida's no fool. "So you've noticed it, as well?"

"You mean, have I noticed that Todoroki didn't eat with us at lunch today or yesterday, and that he and Deku have barely looked at each other since last weekend?"  
"Er… yes." Iida looks faintly uncomfortable. "I don't see what this has to do with conjugation, however…"

"And you haven't said anything?" Ochako presses. "I figured you'd be on that, like instantly."

"I was considering it," Iida admits. "In fact, I did ask Midoriya if something was amiss—"

"Oh? What'd he say?"

"That everything was perfectly all right, of course." Iida actually rolls his eyes at this, and sighs softly. "Honestly, I don't know what I expected."

"He didn't tell you anything?" Ochako asks, crestfallen. "But you can tell, right? Something's up with them."

"From what little I can tell, things have been a bit frosty between them for the past few days." Iida taps his chin thoughtfully. "Still, it may not be cause for worry. Such things happen over the course of friendships, and it would be meddlesome of me to ask after every single disagreement. They are good friends, after all, and I'm sure that whatever it is, they are perfectly capable of resolving it."

"That… might be true," Ochako says, brushing eraser dust from her paper. "But I've never seen Deku stay upset with someone for more than a day, you know? I feel like something's really wrong this time."

"You… may be right," Iida admits. "To be honest, I am somewhat worried about Todoroki."

"Really?" Ochako frowns. "I… guess you're right. Can't put my finger on why, though. He's just as cool and stoic as he always is."

"He's been throwing himself into training with a bit more… er… _intensity_ than normal," Iida says. "I thought I was imagining it at first, but I heard Aizawa-sensei remark upon it as well." He shrugs. "If I didn't know better, I would say Todoroki was attempting to distract himself—'i' before 'e', Uraraka."

"Oh right, thanks." Ochako erases again. "So… Todoroki's upset about something, then, right?"

"That seems to be the case, though I don't see how it's any of our—"

"That doesn't worry you?" Ochako asks.

"Of course it worries me," Iida says, blinking in surprise. "But… what exactly are you getting at, Uraraka?"

"I mean, have you _met_ them?" Ochako asks, twirling her pencil between her fingers. "What's the one thing that always happens when Todoroki's upset about something?" Iida's eyes narrow in thought, and Ochako pushes on. "Deku shows up, you know? He's always on it. It's like he's got an extra Todoroki's-in-trouble sense or something. And if he doesn't, then Todoroki goes to him. They're super close like that. So…" She frowns, and her worry grows. "If Todoroki's upset about something, but he can't talk to Deku about it, then no wonder he's been acting sort of off."

"Yes, I believe you're right." Now Iida's frowning too, schoolwork nearly forgotten. "Perhaps he needs someone else to talk to for the time being."

"Tell you what," Ochako offers. "How about we split this into two prongs—you try and talk to Todoroki, and I'll see if Deku has anything to he wants to say about all this."

"It can't hurt," Iida agrees. "A fair plan, Uraraka. But for now—oh! Remember that this is an irregular verb. It doesn't follow the normal conjugation rules."

"Oh, damn it, I keep forgetting."

Ochako gets lucky the next time she sees Deku, because All-Might is already there, unwittingly setting up her opening.

They're just chatting, in the hallway after class has ended for the day, nothing private-looking, and that's why Ochako hears All-Might ask, "Is something troubling you, my boy? You've seemed out of sorts."

"N-no more than usual!" Neither of them seem to be keeping their voices down or watching for eavesdroppers, so Ochako doesn't feel self-conscious about approaching.

"Really?" she chimes in. "You've been looking kind of down lately."

"Oh." Something like alarm flashes in his eyes for a split second. "R-really? I can't think of why…"

Ochako can tell by the look on All-Might's face that he doesn't believe him any more than she does. "That doesn't seem likely, young Midoriya," he says patiently. "You do know you can talk about these things if you need."

"Thanks, All-Might, but really, there's nothing to talk about." Deku's not doing a very good job of lying, which means to Ochako that deep down, he really _does_ want to talk about it.

"I'm pretty sure there is," she says, bulldozing right along. "Todoroki's been really upset lately, too. I haven't seen you guys say two words to each other since last weekend."

There's another flash of something, but it's gone before Ochako can identify it. "It's fine. We've just been pretty busy this week, that's all."

Ochako has been friends with Deku long enough to recognize that tone. That's the _I'm-upset-and-I-want-you-to-stop-noticing_ tone. "He hasn't eaten with us at lunch for the past couple of days," she presses.

"I'm not the boss of him," Deku says, a little shortly. "Todoroki can eat wherever he wants." Is that a hint of bitterness she's hearing?

"Ah, I see," All-Might says, sighing a little. "Having a disagreement with a friend?"

"Guess so," Deku mumbles.

"Why not talk to him about it, then?" their teacher suggests. "It's best to nip these troubles in the bud, you know? Resolve them early before they spiral out of control. It helps no one to put it off."

"I would _love_ to talk to him about it." Frustration bubbles up from Deku, catching Ochako off guard. "I've been trying since Sunday, but I can't talk to him if he keeps giving me the cold shoulder whenever I try!"

Ochako coughs lightly. "Uh, was that a—?"

"That was not a pun," Deku sighs.

"May I ask what happened on Sunday?" All-Might asks.

"N-nothing happened on Sunday, it was stupid and it's hard to explain anyway…" Deku's voice trails off when All-Might gives him a Look. For a moment Ochako thinks he's going to turn and flee from both of them, but in the next, his shoulders slump a little in resignation.

"Hey." She touches his arm gently. "Whatever it is. No judgments, you know? Not from me."

The look Deku's giving her reminds her of a stray puppy hiding under a cardboard box. "I-I mean, it's just…" His eyes flicker to the side, looking to All-Might, and he takes a breath and seems to rally himself. "Okay, you know that feeling you get when someone does something completely innocuous but for reasons you don't ever talk about it just bothers you and your first instinct is to get _really really_ upset about it even though that person had no way of knowing it would upset you?"

"Um." Ochako blinks at him, several times. "S-sort of?"

"I know the feeling," All-Might says. "Is this something that Todoroki—?"

"Let's… just call it a hypothetical," Deku says quietly.

"Would you like me to speak with him?" All-Might offers. "You're both my students, and—"

"_No_," Deku says quickly. "No, no—thanks, All-Might, really, but… no. We'll be fine, honest. L-like I said, it's not even anything big, and… I can deal with it. I promise."

All-Might looks him in the eye for a few seconds. It still doesn't look like he believes him, but there's no arguing with Deku sometimes. "If you're certain, my boy."

"I am," Deku answers. "I really, really am."

Ochako doubts that very much. But, she's not here to fix the problem instantly; she's just here to find out what's going on, and Deku has told her a lot more than she knew before. Deku is the nicest, most open, outgoing person she's ever met, but he can keep a secret like nobody else.

She hopes Iida is having better luck.

* * *

"Todoroki, are you and Midoriya having an argument?"

"No."

"Oh. Are you sure? There seems to be some tension, and the two of you haven't been speaking…"

"Can't have an argument if you don't talk."

"Todoroki, you know that's not what I mean."

"It's fine, Iida, don't worry about it."

"Well I can't help but—"

"There's nothing to talk about."

"But—"

"Iida. Drop it."

"Well… all right. If you insist."

* * *

It gets worse, to the surprise of pretty much no one. By Wednesday, half the class can tell that something's up with Todoroki. By the day after, it's gotten around that he and Midoriya are avoiding each other like the plague, and no one's really sure where Todoroki is eating lunch anymore.

It takes a lot of straws to break this particular camel's back, but then Midoriya nearly wipes out during a training exercise (and takes Mineta down with him) when Todoroki ignores a signal from him and blows past them. The two of them endure a scolding from Aizawa-sensei and spend the rest of the class as far away from each other as the training field will allow, and after that it's Yaoyorozu who finally declares that she's had enough.

"If this continues, it's going to negatively affect the class as a whole," she says, after school is over and several members of the class (none of them being Midoriya and Todoroki) are gathered in the common area.

"It already is," Jirou points out. "Mineta's been complaining to anyone who stands still long enough to listen."

"Are you guys sure you aren't just blowing this out of proportion?" Kaminari asks. "I mean, it's not like the whole class is gonna go down in flames just because two people are having issues with each other."

"That might not be true—_kero_," Tsuyu chimes in. "We build each other up, remember? We motivate each other. And nobody motivates people like Midoriya does."

"And even if that wasn't true," Yaoyorozu adds. "Collaboration is key now, after all. We have a responsibility to help each other, if it's needed."

Heads turn toward Uraraka and Iida.

Uraraka makes a little noise of frustration. "I talked to Deku about it," she says. "Sort of. You know that thing he does where there's clearly a problem but he talks about it like it's no big deal?"

"Yeah, it's pretty much the worst—_kero_."

"At least he's talking about it at all," Iida sighs. "I tried to speak with Todoroki about it, but he's been absolutely impenetrable."

"Is it really our business, though?" Kaminari points out. "Like, maybe it's super private or something. If they really don't want us to know about it, then we can't force them to spill."

"We don't _need _them to spill to us!" Uraraka says. "We want them to talk to _each other_ so they can work this out! One of the things Deku told me was that he's been trying, but he can't get Todoroki to listen to him."

"Well all right then." Jirou shrugs. "Half the problem solved. Why don't we help him out?"

"I could attempt to mediate between them," Iida offers. "I'm fairly close with both of them, after all. Not to mention that, as class rep, mediating disputes and keeping peace in the classroom is one of my responsibilities."

"Mm, that only brings us back to the problem where they don't want to talk to us about this," Uraraka reminds him.

"I have an idea."

Heads turn again, this time to Yaoyorozu.

"If Midoriya has already tried to talk to Todoroki, then that means he wants this resolved just as much as we do," she continues. "We just need to give him that chance, and I think I know a way." She frowns thoughtfully. "We'll need Sero's help, though."

Jirou sits up from her slouch and leans forward. "I'm listening."

"Here's what we do…"

* * *

Izuku is hungry for a distraction, and that's probably why it's so easy for his classmates to trick him.

He ought to wonder why the dorm commons feel so empty for a Saturday, but when a sheepish Sero comes to him for help with his math homework, Izuku puts it out of his mind and follows. At some point, Kaminari and Uraraka join them, and he thinks nothing of it because they often need study help, too.

Sero's room is on the fifth floor, and Izuku feels an uncomfortable pang at the sight of Todoroki's door. It's been a week and they still aren't talking, and Izuku would be lying through his teeth if he claimed to be okay with that.

To his surprise, Iida is there, lowering his hand as if he's just finished rapping on Todoroki's door. To his alarm, he sees it open, and spots Todoroki's distinctive hair right before everything goes pear-shaped.

Kaminari moves first, giving him a light zap that still leaves him too startled and disoriented to react to anything else. Uraraka grabs him then, and he feels himself go weightless just for a moment, long enough for Uraraka and Kaminari to lift him bodily and hurl him through the open doorway as Iida springs out of the way. Uraraka releases her quirk's hold on him, and Izuku goes crashing straight into Todoroki before someone slams the door shut behind him.

With a yelp, he springs back and grabs the doorknob, but now it's jammed shut somehow. "You guys, what gives!" he yells.

Sero is the first to answer from the other side of the door. "Midoriya I'm so sorry I told them not to do this but they made me help them and—"

"_Sero, you narc!_" Kaminari yells.

"This isn't funny!" Izuku can feel his heartbeat in his throat. He's been wanting to talk to Todoroki all week, but _not like this_. "Open the door and let me out!"

"Nope!" It's Uraraka speaking this time. She sounds oddly cheerful. "Not until you two talk to each other and work out whatever it is you need to work out!"

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Izuku's voice almost jumps an octave.

"Don't worry!" Iida says. "You'll have complete privacy! Yaoyorozu called an emergency study session in Shouji's room for this exact purpose! No one will listen in."

"Then how—?"

"You can come out when you send Tsuyu a nice selfie of you two getting along!" Uraraka almost sing-songs back at him. "If you try to fake it she'll know and we move on to making you hold hands in front of everyone!"

"Uraraka!"

"Bye Deku good luck!"

And that's it. Voices and footsteps fade, and Izuku is left with his face in his hands, locked in Todoroki's bedroom.

After what feels like an eternity squashed into a few seconds, Izuku raises his head and turns to find a disheveled, sulky Todoroki scowling either at the door or at him.

"I was trying to _nap_."

It's the first thing he's said to Izuku in almost a week, and to Izuku's ears it sounds like an accusation.

"It's not like I _asked_ them to throw me in here." His reply comes out more peevish than he really means, and he stops short to shove down the hurt in his chest before it can get out of control. "Look. Clearly things are messed up enough that everyone's noticed. So unless you feel like breaking your door down, we're stuck here until we… work this out. I guess." He has to drag his eyes from his feet to Todoroki's face. "For what it's worth, I've been trying to talk to you since Sunday."

Watching Todoroki's eyes in that moment gives Izuku the same feeling as seeing heavy iron doors slam shut. "What's there to talk about?" he asks. "You made yourself clear already."

"I—no I didn't." The hurt grows again, as he thinks of that stupid, pointless joke that shouldn't matter to him but does. "You didn't give me a chance—"

"_Yes I did_." Todoroki steps forward, and Izuku's shocked by the anger in his eyes. What, did the joke not get the reaction he wanted?

Well, tough.

Izuku steels himself. "Look, Todoroki, I get that you wouldn't understand, but—"

"You're absolutely right." Todoroki cuts him off, and something in his voice makes the words die in Izuku's throat.. "I _don't_ understand. There is_ so much_ I don't understand, and you know that, and you know why, and I thought—I thought _you'd_ understand."

Unease grips him, and he's not sure why. "Understand what?"

"That it's _hard_ for me!" Todoroki doesn't quite raise his voice, but Izuku still feels it like a lash. "It's hard, to talk about things like that, and it's… it's…" His teeth clench. "…frightening, sometimes." His fists are tight at his sides, and ice spreads along his right forearm. "I'm not… good, with people. I just thought you'd understand. You _always_ do."

Izuku can only stare at him, hopelessly confused. "Todoroki, I just—"

"I was _scared_." Todoroki's voice shakes. "And that's why I didn't tell you sooner, and I only got past that because it's _you_, and if I can't be honest with you then I can't be honest with anyone and I thought—" He stops talking because his voice breaks, and Izuku _jumps_ at the sound. Todoroki's eyes are lowered, narrowed, but he can still see tears gathering in them, and the confusion is rapidly turning to dread. "And then I finally got it out, and you didn't even answer me, you just laughed and walked away and didn't even look at me again for hours—"

"Todoroki—"

"It's fine if you don't feel that way!" There's a sheen of ice on his face now, too. "You don't have to feel the same way—I didn't even expect you to, I just thought you wouldn't hate me for it, or mock me for it, and then—then you did, and…" On one side of his face, the tears freeze; on the other, they turn to steam. With a quiet curse, Todoroki wipes them away. "Damn it. Sorry." He tilts his head back, looking toward the ceiling like he's trying to keep the rest from falling from his eyes. "Well. This is why I've been avoiding you. I didn't want all of this coming out during lunch. Or ever." He shuts his eyes and lowers his head, breathing in harshly. "And that's why there's nothing to talk about—because it's simple. I feel stupid. I hate feeling stupid. I hate that _you_ made me feel stupid, because I thought it'd be safe to talk to you about that, and it wasn't, and…" His voice trails off, and he presses his palms to his eyes again.

And Izuku can only stare at him, speechless.

When he finds his voice again, all he can manage is a quiet "Oh, shit."

It slips out a second time when Todoroki finally looks at him again, and Izuku sees him with renewed clarity, without the resentment and years-old hurt clouding everything. "Oh shit, you were serious."

Todoroki's face goes blank at that, frozen with shock. "What do you mean, I was serious."

"I-I…" Izuku's arms move as if on their own, curling around his head as if he can hide from Todoroki's hurt and his own stupid warped judgment.

"Why wouldn't I be serious." Izuku can hardly tell the difference between the cold in Todoroki's voice and the cold wafting off his right side. "What, do you think I'd tell you that if I wasn't serious?"

"I-I mean, I…" And Izuku can't answer, because foresight is hazy but hindsight is sharp and clear, and how could he have been so stupid? This is _Todoroki_. With Todoroki, the tiniest things mean everything, and emotions are a trial, and no matter what else there is between them, there's trust more than anything. How could he have thought for one second that Todoroki would joke about something so important? "Um, I just. Thought you were kidding." It comes out weak and feeble, like a half-baked excuse because that's kind of what it is.

Because he just hurt Todoroki badly enough for tears, and there's nothing that can justify that.

"You thought I was _kidding_?" Todoroki's voice cracks again, and Izuku's heart breaks a little more. "Are you serious?"

His arms feel like lead, and he lets them fall to his sides. "Todoroki, I just—"

"What did I do to make you think that badly of me?"

"N-nothing! You didn't do anything, I—"

"Then why would you think that?" Todoroki demands. "Why would you ever think that I'd tell you I'm in love with you as a _joke_?"

"Because that's the only reason anyone's _ever_ said that to me!"

The words are out before Izuku has time to realize how they sound—how sad, embarrassing, and pathetic he must sound saying them. Todoroki blinks at him, and the hurt in his eyes is softened by confusion.

"What?"

"I-I mean…" He hasn't felt this small in so long. "Um."

Todoroki's looking at him oddly now, like he's come across a new question and isn't sure how to go about asking it. "Midoriya," he says. "What do you mean by that?"

"N-nothing. It's not—um." He feels pressure behind his throat, and he swallows against it desperately. Now is not the time to cry. "It was stupid. I-it was really stupid, and—and you're right, I should've known better, and I'm sorry, and—"

For the first time, Todoroki takes a step closer. "Midoriya."

The stammering cuts off.

Todoroki watches his face, as if searching for something. "I, um. You've been wanting to talk to me. I don't think I've really let you."

Izuku has spent the past week wanting to tell him what's wrong, to present his hurt feelings and explain why hurt is hurt, no matter how meaningless it seems, but now he feels petty and oversensitive and all that comes out is, "It's nothing." Todoroki keeps looking at him, until more words tumble out. "I-it was just—a joke, that got played on me. A lot. I-in middle school. Just kids being dumb, y-you know? Just, pretending to c-confe—asking me that sometimes, t-to see if I'd fall for it. And I did, a lot until… I stopped. But they didn't, and I just… you asked me that, and I just assumed… because that's how it always is, and…" His voice peters out.

Todoroki keeps staring, quiet and incredulous.

"B-but you're right." Izuku almost has to choke it out, because the painful pressure in his throat is getting to him. "I should've known better, because—none of them were my friends, but you are, and I trust you, and… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I didn't…"

The silence stretches between them. Izuku has spent a week imagining what he would say to Todoroki given the chance, but it didn't come out like he'd thought, and now he can't think of anything more to say.

"I'm just having trouble understanding," Todoroki says quietly.

"I-I know." Izuku's voice breaks. "I know, I should've known better, I don't know why I didn't—"

"No, I mean—" Todoroki meets his eyes, looking lost. "I don't understand—why would anyone joke about being in love with you?"

That's what breaks him, and the tears that Izuku's been fighting come flooding out, bringing all his shame and guilt and hurt pouring with them. Love—that's the word that Todoroki uses. Not _like_, or _crush_, or _feelings_, but love. Todoroki is in love with him. Todoroki told him he was in love with him, and Izuku laughed and walked away.

Izuku spent his childhood being laughed at, being treated like his feelings were some kind of game, being told through words and actions that his feelings don't matter, and now he's done the same to Todoroki.

His vision goes blurry. Drying his eyes does nothing when the tears won't stop.

"I—" His voice catches on a sob. "I really hurt you, didn't I."

"A little." Todoroki's voice sounds closer now. "But, um… you were trying to talk to me, this whole time. And I think if I'd stopped to listen to you, this would've been cleared up faster. So… I'm sorry."

"It's okay," Izuku says quickly. "I-it's okay, really, I get it, you had e-every right to be mad, and… yeah."

"Yeah."

Todoroki falls silent again, waiting while Izuku's tears finally slow down enough for him to dry his face properly. When his eyes are clear, he finds Todoroki still watching him, eyes bright.

"Um. M-Midoriya." Todoroki steps closer again, hesitantly. "Now that you know, that it wasn't a joke, do you… have an answer?"

Izuku blinks at him, wide-eyed. "I—so, you mean I didn't put you off? Or anything?"

Todoroki's eyes flicker to the side for a moment, and his brow furrows. "I think if it was that easy to make it go away, it wouldn't have hurt this much."

Somehow Izuku manages not to flinch. He closes his eyes, briefly, but too long to be mistaken for a blink. "I'm so sorry," he whispers.

"I know."

When his eyes open again, Izuku searches his face, probing every inch for some kind of clue, some secret that will let him wrap his head around what he knows. _Todoroki is in love with him_. Just six words, and yet somehow it's a struggle.

"Midoriya." Todoroki frowns. He must see the struggle on Izuku's face. "You… do believe me, right?"

"I believe you," Izuku blurts out. "Of course I do, it's just…" His words sputter out when Todoroki takes another step toward him, and he is so close now.

Todoroki looks a little scared, and his left hand shakes as he lifts it toward Izuku's face. "Would it help if I proved it to you?" he asks.

Izuku doesn't answer—can't answer, not with Todoroki's eyes so close and bright. Not with Todoroki already leaning in.

So he doesn't answer. He sees what's coming, and lets it happen.

* * *

Shouto moves quickly, before he can think better of it or talk himself out of it. With Midoriya's green eyes that close, it's almost a shame to shut his own, but he's too afraid to keep them open.

Midoriya's lips are soft, and he goes still when Shouto presses his mouth to them. But he doesn't pull back or push Shouto away, so Shouto lets his left hand brush lightly against Midoriya's jaw, guiding him into the kiss with a touch.

He means for it to be light and brief, just enough to prove that his feelings are real and not a joke (who would joke about something like this?) but then Midoriya sighs softly and melts against him, and Shouto is _gone_. The world around him vanishes, and all that feels real is Midoriya's mouth and hands and endless warmth.

He comes back to the feeling of scarred hands cradling his face. One of them pulls back first—Shouto isn't sure who—and they stand with their foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. Shouto feels Midoriya's thumb softly caress his cheek, and he leans into the touch, into the rough warmth of his hands, and opens his eyes to find Midoriya looking at him like Shouto's face is his whole world.

Staring into those eyes, it takes a moment for Shouto to remember how to use his voice. "So, does this mean—?"

"Yes." Midoriya ducks a little, tucking his forehead into the side of Shouto's neck. "Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes. And I'm still sorry for laughing, I'm sorry for… for letting stupid past stuff get to my head."

Shouto blinks. "Have you _met_ me?"

Midoriya laughs softly against him, and Shouto can think of no reason not to lean down and taste the laughter on his lips.

* * *

Tsuyu's phone chimes, and the entire room shifts as everyone trips over each other for an ideal vantage point to look over her shoulder.

The message is a single photo—sent from Todoroki's phone. Midoriya's grin is brighter and wider than it's been all week, and his eyes are shut as if he was caught mid-laughter. Todoroki is close enough that their faces are touching. He isn't looking directly at the camera, but he's trying to hold back a smile of his own and failing miserably.

Curiously, the background of the photo shows them to be sitting not in Todoroki's dorm room, but in a cafe booth.

A text message pops up beneath it.

_We went out the window and went to get_ _cake_ _. Tell Yaoyorozu to please take_ _the bolt off my door before we get back._

It's Sero who breaks the silence.

"They were on the _fifth fucking floor_."


	86. (E) STEREK - Cool Story, Bro by drunktue

cool story, bro  
drunktuesdays

Summary:  
Based on a truly ridiculous conversation with Kalpurna about a hypothetical Stilinski Twins situation that ended up sounding something like:

"FUUUUUUCK, is it a sweet valley high situation where Stiles is very aware that his twin is way more attractive and confident than he is, EVEN THOUGH THEY'RE IDENTICAL, and he always ends up with the hotter significant others and more friends and Stiles guesses that's why he's attracted to the pack at first, because it's something that's just his, not his twin's too. But of course, Stiles's twin gets bit and now he's part of Derek's pack, and Derek doesn't snap at him like he snaps at Stiles, never slams him into things, fucking FIGURES, STILES'S TWIN GETS EVERYTHIIIIIIIING."

Kalpurna/good ideas OTP.

* * *

After Brad was bitten, Stiles couldn't stop himself from having a bit of a tantrum.

He wasn't a monster. He waited until his twin had gotten out of the ER and everyone had gone home safely. Then he went out to the woods with Scott and Allison, and Stiles had a hissy fit.

"It's okay to be scared for your brother," Allison said comfortingly. "You know as well as anyone how awful it can all seem. "

"Scared," Stiles said, kicking rocks. "I'm not _scared_ for him. He'll probably be awesome at this too. He's not even going to need training, he'll just naturally make wolfing out seem cool."

"Probably," Scott agreed, and then winced when Allison hit him "What? He's right, Brad is good at everything."

Stiles sent a rock flying at a tree and then fell backwards in a startled pile of limbs when Derek kicked it back.

"What are you all talking about?" Derek demanded, staring at Stiles. "What happened?"

"First of all, ow," Stiles said, shaking himself off. "Second, something might have happened but we already dealt with it, so chill out."

"Your family was threatened, and you want me to 'chill out'?" Derek said, his eyes flashing red.

"The other alpha said he was sorry," Scott said, "He just got caught up in the moment. He's already fled the state."

"Yeah," Stiles said. "He thought Brad was an Abercrombie & Fitch model. Since we're identical twins, do you think I get confused for a model too?"

"No," Derek said. Stiles made an indignant noise. "I want to talk to him before the next full moon." He turned on his heel and melted back into the woods.

"We're still not in your pack," Stiles yelled after him, but there was no answer.

Stiles wasn't entirely positive that Brad's new werewolf muscles even really made a difference to his lacrosse game. Brad was sort of insanely good anyway, so it was hard to tell.

"Good game, right?" he said, dropping down next to Stiles on the bench.

"Yeah, it looked like it," Stiles said, not without a touch of bitterness. "How close are you to breaking the record now?"

"Two goals away," Brad said, ducking his head, like he was embarrassed by this, one of his seriously _ten million_ accomplishments.

"Awesome, dude," Scott said, sincerely grinning at Brad.

Brad dug his knuckles into Stiles's head in a noogie. "We should go out sometime and practice. You could be up there with us if you tried."

"Doubtful," Stiles said, scowling. They picked up their bags and headed towards the locker room. "By the way, Derek wants to talk to you."

"Who is Derek?" Brad said with a sharp glance.

Stiles and Scott exchanged helpless glances. "It's super hard to explain," Scott said, hesitating. "He's a werewolf too."

"But not a nice one," Stiles added, and then thought about it for a minute. "But he's gotten nicer."

"Sometimes," Scott said. "Sometimes he's all, 'we're brothers, and we have to look out for each other, Scott.' Then, ten minutes later, he's all "I'm going to chase you through a parking garage and make you drop your milk, and then be a total dick about it.'"

"And he lives in a subway car," Stiles said.

"This guy sounds like an asshole," Brad said, flexing in the mirror.

"Stop doing that, it freaks me out," Stiles said, annoyed. "He _is_ an asshole, that's what I'm saying. He's probably going to yell mean things at you, and push you around and-why, what, what's wrong?"

"I'm your older brother. You're supposed to come to me if you're being bullied," Brad said, hands on his hips. He looked at Stiles, betrayed.

"You're older by six minutes!" Stiles scoffed.

"Scott," Brad said, turning to glare, "is he bullying Stiles?"

Scott thought about it. "It's kind of hard to tell with Derek? Even his affection is pretty intimidating."

Brad shook his head and pulled on his clothes. "Let's get this over with."

Of course, Brad got on with the pack. Of course. Derek, perhaps learning from his mistakes with Scott, didn't get really fucking intense when they walked into the train station– he didn't yell, or shove Brad into a wall. He just shook Brad's hand, answered a few questions, asked a few of his own, showed him where they kept the full moon manacles and backed off.

Boyd, Erica and Isaac knew Brad from school and kept their distance at first, but Stiles honestly didn't believe there were people who could dislike Brad. Sure enough, in no time, they were all talking and laughing, probably fucking bonding or whatever it is wolves do.

All of a sudden, Stiles was pissed. It wasn't Brad's fault that he was bitten, no one gave Brad the choice, but Peter Hale had _made_ Stiles decide, and it was the right choice, he knew it was. It still got him hot and angry in his gut, that he'd had to make that call, that he'd had to make _so many_ shitty, hard, decisions, that he had to fight for every inch of respect he'd ever won.

He was quietly seething and that's when Derek slipped into the train seat next to him, and by virtue of proximity, became the target for Stiles's rage.

"All this, this doesn't mean anything," Stiles said. "You get that, right?"

"No," Derek said shortly. "What are you talking about?"

"We're making nice, and that's great and all, but this doesn't mean he's joining your pack."

"Maybe you should let him make that decision," Derek said, balling his fists on his thigh.

"No," Stiles said, turning to face him. "Look, I know we split the favorable genes in the pool 70/30, I know he's...him," and he gestured at the way Isaac was laughing (laughing!) at something Brad was saying, "but he's still my _twin brother_. We're a package freaking deal."

"I get it," Derek said.

"I don't think you do, or-" Stiles said, but Derek stopped him with a hand pressed against his chest.

"I get it, Stiles."

Stiles exhales. "Okay," he said. Derek left his hand there a beat too long before removing it to stand up and walk away.

Stiles was still sulking when they finally made it home, but Brad was upbeat and chattering about the meeting. "Derek wasn't nearly as terrible as you described," Brad said, as they pulled into the driveway.

"Yeah," Stiles said. "I guess it's just me who gets him all mad."

Brad hummed thoughtfully. "Maybe," he said, dubiously. "He didn't smell that mad when he was talking to you."

"I still find that incredibly off-putting," Stiles told him, and meant it. Whatever privacy he had left after sharing a room for seventeen years was now going to decimated _further_ by sharing it with a werewolf. He buried the thought as too horrible to consider and quietly unlocked the door. They crept into the house, tiptoeing past the kitchen.

"Boys," their dad called.

"Fuck. Busted." Stiles whispered, turning to Brad with wide eyes.

"Where were you guys?" his dad said, coming around the corner to lean against the doorframe.

"Nowhere," Stiles said, trying to keep the defensive tone out of his voice. "With Scott."

"You're covered in mud," he said. "You must have been doing something."

"We were outside," Stiles said. "Mrs. McCall needed us to garden."

"You gardened," their dad said, flatly. He turned to Brad, fixing him with a stare. "At night."

Brad was usually the first to cave, confessing all of their misdeeds when Stiles could have held out for ages. "It was too hot earlier," he said uncomfortably. "I couldn't find my sunglasses, so we waited."

They watched as their dad seemed to deflate, looking tired and a little sad. "Fine," he said. "Just go upstairs." He turned and headed down the hall toward his bedroom.

"That was awful," Brad said when they were alone. "Does it get easier? The lying?"

"No," Stiles said, unhappily. "Not really."

"It's weird being on this side," Brad said. "Hearing you do it, but not to me this time."

Stiles felt a little sick. Brad had been incredibly cool about finding out just how much Stiles had been lying to him for two years. They had never really kept secrets from each other before, but Stiles couldn't - wouldn't - involve him until the choice had been taken from him.

"Sorry," he said, inadequately. Brad waved him off, and Stiles thanked every possible deity that he was constitutionally incapable of holding a grudge.

Of course, Brad did end up joining Derek's pack.

Stiles came home from school a few days before the next full moon and found Scott already there, deep in conversation with Brad. "Hey," he said, shifting his backpack strap over his shoulder uncertainly. "I would have just driven you if I knew you were coming over."

"I just needed to talk to Brad for a minute," Scott said, fidgeting in the way that Stiles knew meant nothing good.

"Wolf crap," Brad said, ruefully, like he just wanted to bond over how weird everything was. Stiles kind of wanted to kick him, but instead he went upstairs, slammed open the door to their room, and slung himself sideways into his computer chair.

"Ssh," Derek said, irritated.

Stiles's heart stopped beating for a second, and then went into overdrive. "What the hell are you _doing_," he hissed.

Derek made a gesture that Stiles interpreted from past occasions as threatening his vocal cords. He opened his mouth anyway, prepared to shout the house down, when Derek moved faster than Stiles could react and snatched Stiles up out of the chair and back against his chest. His hand clamped down over Stiles's mouth and Stiles fought the childish urge to lick him.

"Quiet," Derek breathed into the shell of Stiles's ear. "Brad's talking to Scott about joining the pack." They were both silent for a minute, and Stiles felt the heat of Derek up against his body, the edge of his belt digging into the small of Stiles's back. He was trying to stay stiff, trying not to lean into it, but there was nothing he could do about the way his heart was racing out of his chest. He could only hope that Derek would chalk it up to adrenaline. "He wants to give it a chance," Derek said, and Stiles could hear the relief in his tone. "He's gonna try if Scott will."

"Scott won't," Stiles managed, muffled by Derek's fingers.

Derek tightened his grip and hissed, "He agreed. They're coming to talk to me tomorrow."

A moment later, Scott called up the stairs, "I gotta go. See you, Stiles!" The door slammed shut behind him, and he heard Brad flip on the TV.

Stiles hit Derek's arm sharply, and Derek let go, backing up a few steps. "It's happening," Derek said, low and intense. "You said you and Brad, you were a package deal, so-"

"Don't fucking rub it in my face," Stiles hissed, and he could taste the acid in the back of his throat. "Don't, just-get out."

Derek looked almost hurt for a second before his face went blank. "I didn't-"

"Just get out," Stiles said, no longer trying to be quiet, and he balled up his fists at his sides. "Just stay away from me."

The sound of the TV stopped abruptly, and Derek looked sharply toward the stairs, then turned and slipped out of the window. Stiles threw himself sideways onto his bed, listening as Brad took the stairs two at a time, paused in the doorway and sniffed. "Was Derek here?"

"No," Stiles said, voice muffled by the pillow he was trying to drown himself in.

Brad didn't say anything else, and Stiles heard him leave, only to return a little later to leave something on the nightstand. It was hot chocolate, in the mug Stiles had made for their mom when he was little. Brad had made one too, a blue one with different colored polka dots and a perfectly shaped handle. Stiles's was lopsided and dented, with swirls and colors that didn't match or make sense. His mom had sworn that they were both the best things she'd ever seen.

The hot chocolate Brad had made was the good stuff too, not even the Swiss Miss packets Stiles was usually lazy enough to reach for.

"Thanks Brad," Stiles said quietly, and Brad ruffled his hair as he passed.

Stiles avoided everyone the next day at school.

It wasn't easy, considering Scott was in almost every one of his classes - a fact that had seemed ideal every day before today - but he managed it. Mostly, he kept his head down, doodling in his notebook, and resolutely ignored the way Scott was trying to catch his eye.

He never saw much of Brad at school, so that was easy enough. Brad texted him though, halfway through last period. "You coming with us to Derek's?"

"Detention," he texted back, grateful to be doing this over text, where his heartbeat couldn't be detected.

"OK," was the reply. "Meet us later."

Stiles hung back when the bell rang, letting everyone leave before he ventured out. He still almost got caught, rounding the corner to see Brad and Scott slipping into Derek's car. Derek had his dumb sunglasses on, and there was a polite, restrained, almost practiced smile on his face as he greeted Brad – a smile Stiles had never once seen before. Derek didn't waste his time faking polite with him, apparently. Stiles just rolled his eyes as he watched them leave.

That night, when Brad snuck in through the window, tumbling into bed, he whispered, "You still awake?"

"No," Stiles said, pulling the covers over his head.

"Did you cover me with Dad?"

"What do you think?" Stiles said peeking his head out to give him a level look.

"Thanks, Stiles," Brad said sincerely, and reached out with his pinky extended towards Stiles. Stiles thought about ignoring him, thought about blowing it off, but caved without much resistance, looping his finger around Brad's in the handshake they'd invented when they were six.

"You should have come over," Brad said, rolling away, satisfied. "Derek asked where you were."

"Wasn't in the mood to sit and twiddle my thumbs," Stiles said, trying to hold onto his irritation in the face of Brad's openness. He imagined that's exactly how it would have gone: him watching Scott, Brad and the rest reaffirm how super awesome and badass they were, on their own little team.

"You know I wouldn't steal him, even if I could," Brad said carefully. "You know that, right?"

Stiles huffed. "Scott's given me too much blackmail material over the years to abandon me now," he said.

"Yeah," Brad said in a weird tone. "Scott. That's what I meant."

"Dude, I know," Stiles said, looking over at Brad, "that's what I just said. Did you take too many head shots in werewolf boot camp tonight?"

Brad just rolled his eyes, toeing off his shoes and pulling up the covers. "'night, Stiles."

Stiles shook his head and sighed. "'night, Brad."

The next morning was Saturday, and neither of them got out of bed until almost noon. Stiles had no idea why his father let it happen - normally he was purposefully clomping down the hall outside their room by ten at the latest.

Stiles stretched in his sheets, curling his toes deep into the fabric, enjoying the stretch of his muscles.

"Who are you going to prom with?" Brad asked from the other bed.

Stiles stopped stretching to look at him. He was flat on his back, arms crossed under his head, gazing contentedly at the ceiling. "How on earth is that your first question after waking up?"

"I've been up for three hours," Brad said, unperturbed. "I was meditating."

'Ugh," Stiles said and pushed the heels of his hands into his eyeballs.

"Answer the question," Brad demanded. He swung his legs out of bed, and shoved him over until Stiles let him in next to him. "Stiles. Stiles. Stiiiiiiles. I'll call you by your real name if you don't tell-"

"No one," Stiles said, giving in. "God, we can't all be you."

"What does that mean?" Brad said, offended. His shoulder knocked against Stiles's.

"You know what I mean, you damn hussy," Stiles said, but his voice lacked any bite. "How many people in our class have you slept with now?"

"I think it's tacky to count," Brad said primly. "They're all special in their way."

"Hate you," Stiles groaned, covering his face again.

"You could find someone too," Brad said earnestly. "It would be so easy, you just gotta let go a little. If you would just stop all the pining-"

"Dude, I said I was over Lydia!" Stiles said, sitting up. Brad sat up too, and scrubbed his hand across his face. He moved the hand to Stiles's shoulder, leaned forward and had opened his mouth to speak when he stopped, cocking his head to the right. Stiles was just about to comment on how much he looked like the neighbor's dog when Derek slid the window open.

"You heard me coming," Derek said, a twinge of approval in his voice. "Good." He took in the scene, and said, "what's going on?"

Stiles opened his mouth to answer, but Brad cut across him. "We're talking about getting Stiles laid."

Derek froze, eyes darting between them like Brad was kidding. Stiles punched Brad in the arm but only hurt his own knuckles. Brad just laughed at him. "C'mon Derek, help me out here. He could grow his hair out a little-"

"What, like your gross bird's nest?" Stiles squawked, hitting him again.

"It's called tousled bedhead," Brad said loftily. "Anyway, we're not talking about me. We're talking about putting you in clothes that fit and setting you loose on the world." He was looking at Derek with a challenge in his eyes, daring him to-something. Probably daring him not to laugh, Stiles thought.

"This is stupid," Derek said. "Let's go."

"Not today," Brad said. "I'm hanging out with my brother."

"Brad," Derek said stiffly. "I'm not asking."

"Neither am I," Brad said. "I'm spending today with Stiles." Stiles's hand still hurt where he had punched Brad's stupid werewolf muscles, but he was still pleased enough to dig his toes affectionately into Brad's calf where it was sprawled across the bed.

Derek stood there another moment, looking awkward. Brad rolled his eyes and elaborated. "So I can only _go_ if Stiles comes."

"Stiles has yet to want to come anywhere with the pack," Derek said.

"Stiles," Stiles said, emphasizing his name, "thinks it's rude when you talk about him like he's not here. Also, when have you ever asked me to do anything?"

Derek stared at him. "Every time," he said flatly. "You were supposed to come with Scott, and then with Brad, but I had to hear-"

"Got it," Stiles said grumpily. "I'm allowed as the plus one." He shoved off the bed and made towards his dresser. "Where are we going?"

"He never tells us," Brad said, too cheerfully. "Better wear something you can run in, maybe spandex."

Stiles flipped him off and headed off to shower. He heard Derek growl at Brad before he turned the water on. Dude needed to lighten up.

Derek's secret destination was a clearing two towns over that was bordered on one side by a jagged cliff.

"First one to reach the top gets to keep what's up there," Derek said lazily, as they all climbed out of the cars.

"What are we, twelve?" Jackson said, grumpily. "I thought this was going to be a serious training."

"It is," Derek said. "Climbing is a serious skill. So is learning better hiding places for the embarrassing shit you idiots keep under your mattresses."

There was a beat of silence, and then a cloud of dust nearly rose up in their mad dash to get to the top and protect their secrets.

Stiles sprawled out in the grass to wait for them to get back. "What's really up there?"

"A ten dollar Starbucks gift card," Derek said, dropping down next to him. Stiles snorted out a laugh and laced his hands under his head, staring at the clouds. It was a nice afternoon, and Stiles was still kind of sleepy, so he was content for a bit to just lie there, basking.

Apparently their personalities were switched today, because Derek was a goddamn Chatty Cathy. "What Brad was saying this morning-"he bit off the rest of the sentence with a clack of his teeth.

"No worries dude," Stiles said, turning his head to look at him. "I've had seventeen years to learn the lesson that I can't do everything Brad does, no matter what he says. Plus, finding someone he hasn't already slept with is like finding a needle in a haystack."

"It's not that you can't," Derek said, and he was glaring straight ahead at an old stump of a tree. "You _shouldn't._ Your first time, you should be with someone you know, someone who would make it good."

The lazy sleepiness of the afternoon dissipated in a second, replaced by electricity in the air and licking up and down Stiles's spine. "What," he said, and his voice was unsteady. "Wait, are you _offering._?" He tried to make it come out like a joke, like something they could both come back from, but he _couldn't_.

"Yes," Derek said, and finally turned his gaze on Stiles as the air was sucked completely out of his lungs.

There was a cry of outrage from the cliffs above him as the pack discovered the total lack of blackmail material at the top. He heard them screaming insults at Derek even as they climbed down, ten times faster than they had gone up. Derek's intense stare wavered as they got closer and closer, and he eventually broke eye contact, standing to meet them.

Stiles closed his eyes and played dead until his heartbeat was under control.

Derek didn't so much as look at him for the rest of the day. It might have been because the pack was dogged about getting their revenge on him, but the implication seemed to be that it was Stiles's move.

The only problem was that Stiles had no idea what Stiles's move was going to be. He trudged after the pack down the path to the car, lost deep in thought.

Up until the age of about seven, Stiles and Brad had been inseparable. They were full-on creepy similar about everything, to the point where even their own mom had trouble telling them apart if they concentrated on fooling her.

Then she had gotten sick, and their dad's eyes had gotten less bright, and things had gotten hard. And in the middle of all of this, Lydia Martin had invited Brad to her birthday party and not Stiles.

"I won't go without you," Brad had said fiercely, lying next to Stiles in the big double bed in Deputy Clarke's guest room while their dad spent yet another night at the hospital. "I'll tell Lydia tomorrow." Stiles hadn't said anything, just rolled away and tried to fall asleep.

The next day at recess, Lydia had come over, all perfect curls and smiles, with an invitation for Stiles too. He'd taken it, stammering his thanks, and Brad had practically bounced home, positive everything had been solved. Stiles had stuffed the invitation in the bottom of his bag, and left it there.

He didn't remember much about the actual party, just all the lead up and then that it was there that he'd met Scott, his first friend that was completely separate from Brad, who didn't even really care about Brad, who never liked Brad better. He wasn't sure he'd ever met anyone else that's been true for.

Stiles climbed into the Jeep, and slammed the door. On the other hand, it was an offer for no strings sex with a hot guy who, under all his douchebaggery, Stiles knew was a good person. He was pretty sure this was the outcome Brad was looking for with all his plans for taking Stiles out clubbing. He was pretty sure that if he asked his opinion, Brad would call him an idiot if he turned Derek down.

They made it back to Beacon Hills just before five. Stiles sat patiently through dinner, waited until his father was happily ensconced in front of the television and then yelled, hoodie in one hand and a backpack of hastily packed supplies in the other, "I'm sleeping over Scott's!"

He barely waited for a reply before he was vaulting over the front steps and into the Jeep.

Stiles didn't bother texting Derek before he started driving. He was under no delusions that Derek wouldn't hear him coming in more than enough time to do something about it if he had been kidding. Still, his heart lurched in his chest as he approached the train depot and Derek was leaning against the wall outside. His eyes gleamed in the dim light of the setting sun, and Stiles's hands were shaking as he shut off the engine. Derek shoved off the wall and moved towards him, opening the Jeep's door for him. Stiles swallowed and unbuckled his seatbelt, and slid out, hefting his backpack over his shoulder.

"You're nervous," Derek said, closing the door behind him.

"You can smell that?" Stiles asked.

"No," Derek said, wryly. "But it's fifty degrees out tonight and you're sweaty."

"Sorry," Stiles said, embarrassment rising up in the back of his throat. "I didn't know it was against the-"

"It isn't," Derek said. "Only, we don't have to, if you don't want." He looked determined, like he needed Stiles to understand that, first.

Stiles rolled his eyes. "If you've already changed your mind then-" but Derek cut him off again, which – _rude_. He would complain about it, but Derek was suddenly in his space, backing him up against the driver's side door of the Jeep until his back hit it with a dull thud. Derek's hands were around his jaw, cupping his face, tilting him enough to get better access to his mouth.

It wasn't Stiles's first kiss, wasn't even his first kiss with a guy, but it was definitely the first kiss that made him short circuit. Derek kissed him like he was starved for it, like he'd been _waiting_ for it. When Derek finally drew back, Stiles had sagged all of his weight back on the Jeep, was about as capable of holding himself up as a jello jiggler.

"I didn't," Derek said, and his voice was weak, like he was startled too. "I didn't change my mind."

"Then we're on the same page," Stiles said, and he was proud of getting the words out so clearly. Derek looked at him for a minute, and then leaned right back in, resting his forearms against the glass of the window, caging Stiles in to kiss him again.

It was a long time before they surfaced again. The door handle was sharp and digging into Stiles's spine and his ass was cold where it was pushed against the metal, even through his jeans. The wind cut straight through his hoodie, and the parts of him that weren't currently touching Derek pebbled with gooseflesh. The parts that were – the skin of his neck under Derek's hands, his thighs where Derek was wedged between them, were overheated and sweaty. He desperately needed to crack his neck, to lick his lips, to unclench his fingers where they were bunched in the fabric of Derek's shirt.

"We could go inside," Stiles mumbled into Derek's mouth, but it was still another minute before Derek backed up enough to lead him in. Stiles stumbled after him, down the steps and through the unlit hallway to the train car.

"Is Isaac here?" Stiles asked, brain finally rebooting enough to function.

"No," Derek said. "I told him to go out with Scott tonight."

"You didn't know for sure I was coming," Stiles said, licking away the dryness on his lips.

Derek tracked his motion. "I'm an optimist."

"No you're not," Stiles scoffed, and was prepared to back up his argument with properly cited sources when Derek grabbed his wrist and _tugged_, making him stumble forward into the train car. A mattress with a ton of pillows was crammed in a corner of the car; the sheets looked crisp, like they were recently washed, which Stiles appreciated. Made the whole thing less grim.

Derek was looking at him when Stiles finally dragged his eyes away from the mattress. His face was set, like he was preparing for Stiles to run away screaming. Optimist, his ass.

Stiles flung himself sideways onto the bed, hitting the mound of pillows with a bounce. He wiggled a little, getting comfortable. "Nice," he commented, and he raised his hand over his head to grab the back of his shirt and pulled it off.

Derek's eyes darkened, zeroing in on his chest. Stiles seriously hoped he wasn't going to stand there all day. He'd been hard since he'd left his house, and it was starting to _ache._ It didn't look like Derek was much better off, the bulge clearly visible in his jeans. Still, Derek wasn't moving, just looming, staring. "Derek," Stiles said, raw and uncertain; and finally, finally, Derek moved.

His hands were like brands on Stiles's skin. He'd look to see if there were visible handprints where Derek was touching him, but they were kissing again, and Stiles had his priorities. Derek was touching him everywhere, hands roaming up his shoulders, to his neck, down his back, hot and tight just under his ribs. Stiles squirmed until he got one of his legs free, so he could plant his foot on the mattress, knees spread wide enough for Derek to settle between.

"Off," he said hoarsely, and shoved at Derek's shirt until Derek stopped kissing him long enough to strip it off. The moment he was free of the sleeves, he was diving back down, mouth drawn like a magnet to Stiles's own. Stiles couldn't do anything but let him, too distracted by the breadth of Derek's back, the warmth of his skin, the way Derek shuddered when Stiles scratched his nails down Derek's spine.

They took a long time getting further. Stiles was shoving his hips up into Derek's, mindlessly searching for friction before it occurred to him that he could do something about the situation. He'd mock his own stupidity, but honestly, he couldn't help but forgive himself, considering the situation. He magnanimously went for Derek's belt first, stripping it open and scrabbling at the button of his jeans. Derek made a low, hoarse noise in his ear, and Stiles wanted nothing more than to hear that again. He got his hand in there, wrapping around Derek and pulling him out while Derek panted, hot and heavy in his ear. He got a few good, enthusiastic strokes in before Derek was twisting out of his grip, backing up and away, to Stiles's horror. But Derek only moved to kick off his jeans completely, shucking his underwear off at the same time. Then he was reaching for Stiles again, and Stiles helped him unbutton his pants and they went flying somewhere over Derek's shoulder.

"How far do you want to go tonight?" It was the first thing either of them had said in a while, and Stiles startled at first, not expecting the question. Derek was sitting back on his haunches, between Stiles's knees, and Stiles knew if he said it, Derek would be content just to kiss him through mutual handjobs.

"When have I ever thought small?" Stiles said, and spread his knees farther apart.

Derek let out a harsh breath, and his hands came up to clutch hard around Stiles's too-warm thighs. "Are you sure?" he asked urgently.

"Can we just stamp _yes_ on the proceedings until you're told otherwise?" Stiles said, trying for a reassuring smile. "It's not like I'm shy. Also, there's, ah, lube and condoms in my backpack."

"You brought your own?" Derek smirked at him. "How polite."

"I didn't want to presume anything," Stiles shot back. "I've seen how well-thought-out your plans are."

In retaliation, Derek bit the inside of Stiles's thigh, just a little nip, raising a mark on his skin. It didn't really work well as punishment, and Stiles whimpered, reaching down to grab his dick and squeeze.

"Fuck," Derek said, voice throaty and face flushed. He reached for Stiles's bag and dug around in it, quirking an eye at Stiles when he dumped out two full bottles of Wet and a strip of about ten condoms.

Stiles shrugged. There was no excuse for not being prepared, he felt. Derek was back between his legs, but crouched lower this time, sliding a pillow under Stiles's hips. His breath was hot, and Stiles shivered as he felt it coast over his cock. Derek noticed, and did it again on purpose, eyes on Stiles, and Stiles huffed out a laugh at him. "Tease," he accused.

Derek smiled, sharp like a shark, and faster than Stiles could brace himself for it, bent his head to suck Stiles completely into his mouth.

Stiles bucked up with a shout, and Derek's fingers bit into his hips to hold him still. "_Christ_," Stiles said, shakily, relaxing into Derek's grip. Derek bobbed his head down once, twice, and pulled off with a slick pop. "Has anyone ever done this for you?"

"Tons of times," Stiles said, and Derek's eyes darkened. Stiles hoped his heart was already skipping around like a schoolgirl at recess so much that Derek wouldn't detect the lie, but he wasn't going to put money on it.

Suddenly, he heard the clicking sound of Derek opening the lube, (_lube tube, tube of lube_ Stiles sang crazily to himself to keep from tensing up or coming – both were honestly real possibilities) and then a finger, slick and cold, was pressing against his hole.

Even as he told himself not to, Stiles stiffened, feeling every nerve in his body orient down towards that finger. Derek felt it, he had to, and leaned up to take Stiles in his mouth again.

Stiles groaned, and tried desperately to keep still, to keep from shoving up into Derek's throat. When Derek's finger started moving again, Stiles was better able to relax against it, distracted and too turned on to do anything else.

Derek took his time opening Stiles up, keeping Stiles on the edge of orgasm with his mouth and fingers for what felt like forever. In the end, Stiles was begging for it, shamelessly and without restraint, tossing his head back and forth on the bed and calling Derek's name, pleading.

Derek didn't move until Stiles felt well and truly mad, just making drawn-out noises that weren't anywhere near words. Only then did he rear up, sliding a condom down over his dick, and pushed in.

It was honestly the weirdest feeling of Stiles's entire life. He couldn't categorize it as either good or bad, just strange. He was forcing himself to breathe, to hold still, to let Derek push until his hips were flush against Stiles's ass.

"Stiles," Derek said – gasped, really. He was covered in sweat, braced over Stiles, eyes wider than Stiles had ever seen them. He couldn't help but crane his neck up until Derek got the point and met him in a kiss that was hardly coherent, a kiss that was interrupted again and again by their panting breaths. "Are you okay?" Derek asked, reaching a shaking hand up to touch his jaw.

"Yes," Stiles strained, and he shifted around until Derek dropped his hands to grab at Stiles's thighs, spreading him open and up for little pushes that turned into longer thrusts, when Stiles started moving with him. It was good now, better, the ache from the beginning more distant and in the background. Derek was groaning, little punched out noises that seemed to come deep in his chest with each thrust, and Stiles just couldn't stop thinking how Derek was _in_ him, and people did this _every day._

Derek shuddered and bucked before too long, clutching Stiles a little too tight as he shoved himself as close as he could get to Stiles and came.

"Derek," Stiles pleaded, so close, so fucking _close_ and Derek swore, pulling out and sliding down again to suck him back into his mouth. This time, Derek kept his hands off Stiles's hips, let him shove up as much as he wanted, unresisting as he worked him towards orgasm. When Stiles finally came, it was like his entire body locked up, like all his strings were pulled too tight, like everything in him exploded and when he came back down he was wrung out and destroyed.

When he opened his eyes again, Derek looked smug, licking his lips in a way that made Stiles groan. "Go away," he said weakly, flapping his hand. Derek laughed and rolled away to dispose of the condom.

"I'm going to take a shower," Derek said, grabbing a towel off the floor.

"Where the hell is there a shower?" Stiles grumbled. "You live in a _train depot._" Derek didn't answer him, and Stiles was starting to feel gross, the drying sweat, lube and body fluids on him not exactly a pleasant feeling. He didn't know if he was expected to follow Derek, to get in the shower _with_ him, or whether fuckbuddy etiquette dictated that you just got the next turn. Without Derek's body heat, the train car was kind of cold, and there wasn't a blanket on the bed. Derek ran too hot to need one, normally, he surmised.

Derek's phone vibrated next to him, and Stiles didn't even feel guilty about reaching for it and flicking it open. It was a text from Isaac that just said _can i please come back now_.

_yes,_ Stiles typed back, suddenly embarrassed. He didn't want to shower with Derek, didn't want to lie there, cold and naked on this weird nest-bed, and he certainly didn't want to sexile Isaac any longer than he had to.

So he shoved his clothes back on, grabbed his bag and left. It was a long, miserable ride home. He felt young and dumb, and a little ashamed. Brad would have known what to do with Derek, afterwards. Brad would have said something, done something that would have made it all less weird. Brad wouldn't have run for the hills like an awkward virgin. But Derek had _known_ he was an awkward virgin, and hadn't really given him a clue on what came next, once you weren't a virgin anymore and awkward was all that was left.

The tree outside his window was much harder to scale than the werewolves in his life made it seem, but he didn't tumble to his death at any point, so he counted it as a success. The window was unlocked as usual and he slid it open, revealing an empty bedroom. He breathed a sigh of relief, hightailing it to the bathroom to scrub his body until his skin fell off.

When he finally came out of the shower, having doused himself in bodywash a zillion times, Brad was home, sitting cross-legged on his bed, laptop open in front of him.

"Hey man," Stiles said casually, crossing the room to his own bed.

"Hey," Brad said, sniffing suspiciously as Stiles passed him. "I thought you were sleeping at Scott's?"

"Changed my mind," Stiles said, pulling down his covers to slide in, avoiding Brad's gaze.

"Did you get in a fight with Scott?"

"No."

"Okay," Brad said. "Because I saw him and Allison at Katie Zavig's party tonight, so you must have changed your mind about seeing him completely."

Stiles felt sore and his skin didn't feel quite right on his body. He could still feel phantom touches, and there were _things_ that had to be thought about, scoured over before he could finally abandon himself to sleep. Talking about it with Brad was pretty much one of the last things he wanted to do, and he wanted even less to have to summon the energy to lie his brother, the walking lie detector.

"Go tell Dad if you want," he said rudely and turned his back on the room. There was a sharp inhale from Brad's side and then quiet. A few moments passed, and then the lights flicked out and there was silence.

Stiles dug his nails into his palm and wished he was a better person.

The next morning was stilted and awkward. Brad ducked around him as they got ready, avoiding his eyes, and the more guilty Stiles felt, the more surly he got. By the time they left for school, Stiles was in an impressively foul mood – one that even Scott sensed when Stiles screeched to a stop outside his house. It was a dead silent ride.

School was better, in that Stiles had more distraction, less time to contemplate his _life_, but then worse again when he saw Isaac, who gave him a look. Stiles didn't want to read too much into it, but was pretty sure the look said, "I know you skanked it up with Derek last night and I'm judging you."

Isaac once told Scott (and then Scott immediately told Stiles under many promises never to repeat it) that his first concert had been a Hannah Montana show. Stiles held that knowledge in the front of his memory, and smirked meanly back.

He skipped lacrosse practice, because he was never going to play anyway, and he wasn't in the mood to face Isaac, Scott, and Brad. Isaac probably would have told Boyd about him and Derek, so count him among the people Stiles was avoiding too. He kicked a rock and headed for the parking lot. God, he was unfit for human consumption right now.

It was with that thought that he reached the Jeep and found Derek lurking next to it. "Hey," Stiles said, surprised into a friendly tone.

Derek scowled. "You left."

Stiles rolled his eyes. "We were done, weren't we?"

"No," Derek said, eyes flashing.

"The original offer was for a devirginizing," Stiles said, opening the door to chuck his stuff in the back. "Job well done. Feel free to use me as a reference."

Suddenly there was a hand on the back of his neck, and he was yanked backwards enough for the door to slam shut, and then he was being shoved around until he was in a familiar position: his back against the car, Derek pressed close against his front.

"I wasn't done with you," Derek repeated fiercely.

"I don't care," Stiles retorted. His mad-for-no-reason mood that had been dogging him all day was in full force now.

"Yeah?" Derek said, and his voice was strained. "You know everything about sex now? You've done it all?"

"Done enough with _you_," Stiles said, and considered stomping on Derek's foot until he backed up.

Derek caught it, or enough of it, in his eyes, because he backed off a little, loosening his grip on Stiles's wrists. "No," he said, again. "Not nearly enough." There was promise in his eyes, a dark look that lit up something in Stiles's gut. Late last night, Stiles had come to the conclusion that he probably wasn't cut out for fuckbuddies, that it probably was best left to others.

But here, pinned under Derek's gaze again, he thought, _okay then. You're on._

It was far, far more intense, the second time. Derek touched him with intent – like he was proving something, like he was storming a castle. Point proved, Stiles thought. Achievement unlocked.

Afterward, he rolled onto his back and exhaled loudly. There was graffiti on the roof of the train car, someone's name in angles and sharp twists he couldn't make out. He stared at it anyway, waiting for his heart rate to go back to normal.

He was almost there when two arms slipped under him, one under his knees and one supporting his back, and lifted.

"What the _hell_?" Stiles said, flailing wildly.

Derek's grip never loosened and he strode out of the car and through an old door with a faded sign that said _Employees Only_. It was a break room of sorts, with lockers, a small kitchenette, and in the back, a shower.

"Oh brother," Stiles said, rolling his eyes.

"People who run off don't get to shower alone," Derek said, and proceeded to start a very stupid waterfight.

Stiles went home still laughing.

The third time was pretty damn good too.

The fourth, fifth and sixth times happened in one twenty-four hour period, when Derek convinced him to stay over and kept pinning him every time Stiles tried to get out of bed.

To be fair, he hadn't struggled that hard. Or really, at all.

Brad didn't say anything anymore when Stiles rolled in at strange hours or disappeared from the school parking lot, but Stiles knew he was paying attention. "Don't pick me up from school tomorrow," he told Derek one night, pulling his jeans back on.

Derek frowned, eyebrows drawing together in irritation. "I thought you said your dad was working all week."

"He is," Stiles assured him, hunting for his shirt among the clutter. "You can pick me up somewhere in town if I can't get the Jeep." Derek scowled again, like the explanation wasn't good enough. "Hey, I'm not the genius who bought himself a _super distinctive car_."

"Who cares?" Derek said mulishly, watching him dress. "Also, I didn't buy it."

Stiles stopped, his hoodie dangling from his hand. "You didn't?"

"No," Derek said, and he rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. "My dad had just retired from his job, and bought it for himself as a present. My mom was _pissed_."

"Too expensive?"

"He let Laura drive it more than he ever did," Derek said. "He taught her to drive on it, and when she got her license, all she had to do was look at him, and he threw her the keys. My mom thought it was a ridiculous car for a sixteen year old."

"It's a ridiculous car for anyone," Stiles said.

"Shut up," Derek said, and drew him down into bed again.

Later, after Stiles had been thoroughly distracted _again_ from leaving, Derek said hesitantly, "You'd really rather that I pick you up from the side of the road?"

Stiles laughed. "Not really worried about being classy when I'm picked up for my trashy sex marathon in an abandoned train car."

"Okay," Derek said, and walked him to the car.

Then there was the night Derek took Stiles on a stakeout.

"I always wanted to do this," Stiles said, sinking low in the seat. He was wearing a black long sleeve shirt, black hoodie, black jeans, even a pair of black sneakers, reflector strips blacked out with electrical tape. There was a black ski mask and gloves on the dashboard, just in case.

Derek looked just like he always did. Granted, that still involved a lot of dark colors, but Derek clearly hadn't dressed up for the occasion, which Stiles thought lacked some fun.

Luckily, tonight was a night he seemed willing to be amused. "You always wanted to stake out someone's house?"

"Sheriff's kid," Stiles reminded him. "My dad did it occasionally, and it always seemed so awesome."

"It's mostly boring," Derek said, looking out the window toward the house where the suspect guy was watching Dancing With The Stars on his living room couch.

"That's what Dad always said," Stiles said, "but I never believed him." His stomach grumbled, and he shifted, embarrassed. He probably should have eaten at some point instead of tearing his room apart finding every piece of black clothing he owned.

Derek reached for a bag in the backseat and unzipped it, lifting out two sandwiches and a thermos.

"Whaaaaaat," Stiles said, mouth hanging open.

"Are you hungry or not," Derek said grumpily, passing him one. Stiles hastily took it before Derek changed his mind. He braced his feet on the dashboard, glancing over at Derek as he did, waiting to be reprimanded. Derek didn't seem to notice though. He seemed almost relaxed, unwrapping his own food and watching the house, so Stiles balanced the sandwich on his knees, cutting into the plastic wrap with his nails.

It was good. He chomped through it happily and nudged Derek's arm until Derek turned to look at him. "What's in the thermos?" he asked, mouth obnoxiously full.

Derek's mouth twisted with something like fondness. "Hot cocoa," he said gruffly.

"Fuck, seriously?" Stiles said, excited. "I love hot cocoa."

"I know," Derek said, staring out over the lawn again. "Brad told me once."

"Oh," Stiles said, and tried not to be too pleased by that.

They passed the thermos back and forth, watching this random house, in the middle of a completely boring subdivision. Derek refused to actually _answer_ when Stiles asked what they were watching the house for, so Stiles started making up a story about the guy who lived there, and what he'd sold his soul for.

"I'm gonna go take a leak," Derek said, about twenty minutes in.

Stiles, thrown, stopped with his intricately detailed story. "What, in the woods?"

"No, I'm going to break into that old lady's house and use her bathroom." Derek rolled his eyes.

"Don't act like you wouldn't do that," Stiles said darkly. "You'd totally do that."

"Only to you," Derek said, and slipped noiselessly out of the car.

Derek's phone chimed while he was gone, and Stiles checked it. The message was from Erica, who said _how's the date going?_

Stiles passed Derek his phone when he climbed back in. "Cover story for your absence tonight?" he asked.

"Mmm," Derek said. "Check the bags in the backseat, I think there's chips in one of them."

Stiles wasn't hungry yet, but that kind of behavior deserved rewards. "Hey, wanna fool around?"

Derek shot him a look. "We're supposed to be watching the house."

"Better keep watching, then," Stiles said, sounding more confident than he felt. He moved slowly, so Derek could push him off if he really wanted, but he didn't – he barely seemed to be breathing as Stiles thumbed open his jeans and tugged the zipper down.

"Stiles," Derek groaned, half protest, half pleading.

"Eyes on the suspect," Stiles said and bent his head to take him in.

It was his first time giving head, much less giving head in a car. Derek's thighs were tense under him, and his breath was coming faster now, harsh and panting. Stiles hadn't even really _started_ yet and he could feel Derek working himself up. It was pretty good for his previously basement-level self-confidence.

"You still watching?" he said, pulling off for a moment.

"Yes," Derek hissed, and Stiles smirked, working him a few times with his hand before taking him back into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks around him.

Enthusiasm was probably his best strategy here, and he played to it shamelessly, bobbing his head in the best rhythm he could muster. Every time Derek had done this to him, Stiles had been putty after – just wrecked – and he wanted desperately to do the same to Derek. Derek's hand was warm on the back of his neck, and Stiles was lost in it, his world narrowed to the feel of _Derek_ – in his mouth, on his skin, under his hands. He used just a tiny bit of teeth, just barely scraped up Derek's cock and Derek shouted, rocking up enough to choke Stiles, shooting down his throat.

Stiles pulled off, coughing a little, and Derek reached for him immediately, pulling him bodily across Derek's lap until Stiles was straddling his hips. "Sorry," he was muttering. "Sorry, sorry, sorry," but his hands were busy at Stiles's waist, yanking his jeans open.

He paused when he got them open. "You even wore black _boxers_," he said incredulously.

"I am committed to _stealth_," Stiles gasped, rocking his hips insistently. "Also, priorities!"

Derek shook his head, but he got his hands on Stiles, so that was okay. It was an embarrassingly quick hand job, but how could it not be? He was only human, and it turned out that giving head made him _rock_ hard. He didn't know if he should feel weird about that or not, but Derek was licking his fingers clean of Stiles's come, so it was pretty hard to concentrate on anything.

"You stopped watching," Stiles said sleepily, slumped into his own seat again.

"Sorry," Derek said. "I got distracted." He started the car, even though the supposed suspect was still meandering around the house, in a robe and bunny slippers.

"It's okay," Stiles said. "Don't let it happen again."

"You were out late again last night," Brad said, casually perching on the end of his bed.

Stiles was sitting at his desk, chewing on a pen cap while he tried his best to murder Scott's avatar on screen. "Hm?"

"I'm not trying to get my head bitten off again," Brad said cautiously. "Only, the last time you were sneaking around late at night, I got turned into a werewolf."

Stiles winced, typed a brief message to Scott and swivelled the chair around. "I'm still sorry about that," he said.

"Shut up," Brad said. "You had nothing to do with it. Tell me what's going _on_ with you."

Brad was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, broadcasting "you have my undivided attention." Stiles caved like a house of cards.

"Remember that thing you said the other day, about getting over myself, and letting things happen?" Stiles raised his eyebrows and gave him a significant look.

"No fucking way," Brad said, and held up his hand for a high five. Stiles slapped his palm, feeling equally stupid but satisfied that he _could_ do this now, that he wasn't eternally stuck at the kids' table. "Details," Brad demanded. "Who? When? Where? Not how, though. Let's be real, no one needs that amount of detail."

Stiles rolled his eyes at him. "I dunno. It's not that big of a thing, I guess. It's just this guy. It's not going to turn into anything. I'm not even a hundred percent on whether he even likes me that much."

"Dude," Brad said, managing to cram a whole lot of judgment into such a short word.

"It's so good though," Stiles argued. Brad looked tempted by this as an argument so Stiles pressed on. "It's honestly just sex. No one's gonna get invested."

"You get invested in the Puppy Bowl," Brad said, but he got up like the conversation was done. Stiles breathed a silent sigh of relief and turned back to his computer game, and Brad went back to organizing his loafers, or whatever he was doing.

Five minutes later, Derek tapped on the window. "You get it," Brad said, voice muffled from where his head was buried in the closet.

"_You_ get it," Stiles said defensively. "He's _your_ alpha. He's probably here for you."

Brad laughed. "Like he's ever here for me."

Derek, impatient, opened the window from the outside. "If you two idiots are done," he said pointedly. "We have a problem."

The problem turned out to be weird shit in the woods. Big surprise. The pack was gathered around markings that made absolutely _no sense._ Stiles didn't have their heightened sense of smell, and even he knew that the footprints – wide, with too many toes, improbably shaped – weren't normal.

"This isn't right," Stiles said, and his skin crawled suddenly. "There's something fishy about this."

The words were barely out of his mouth when a woman stepped out from behind the trees and said, "So your pack does have a member with a brain, Derek Hale."

Derek had just time enough to growl before she reached out, curled a hand around his wrist and they both disappeared.

There was chaos for a second, as six werewolves all charged the same empty spot at the same time. There was screaming, cursing, and ringing for some reason and it took a minute for Stiles to realize that last one was only in his ears. He stared mindlessly for a moment at the space where Derek was last standing, with only the thought, _what_.

"Stiles," Allison was shaking him. "Stiles, listen to me." He looked up at her, numb with shock. "I know who that was. Listen to me, _I know who that was._

The commotion stopped as abruptly as it started, and five half-shifted werewolves turned glowing yellow eyes on Allison. She swallowed. "That was Lisa Regan. She—she was friends with my aunt." Stiles inhaled, as he grasped what that meant, what she might want with Derek. But Allison wasn't done. "Stiles, she's a witch, but she's also a hunter, a really scary one. Even Gerard was scared of her."

"How do we get him back?" Boyd asked, voice low and furious.

"You can't," she said, back straightening with resolve. "Only Stiles and I can."

For a moment there was total fucking pandemonium again. Everyone was shouting Allison down, and she was shaking her head stubbornly, firing right back.

Stiles put two fingers in his mouth and whistled as piercingly as he could. The werewolves clapped their hands over their ears immediately, and gave him resentful looks. "Why us?" he said, attention solely on Allison.

"Because she won't deal with werewolves. She _hates_ them. We have a chance, a slim chance, if we go as humans, and explain that Derek isn't evil."

Stiles nodded. "Then we need a plan."

He had shaved his head for the first time when his mom was sick. Before that, he and Brad had found it absolutely hilarious to pretend to be each other. They fooled their dad with ease, their mom when they concentrated, had even done it to all of their friends at one time or another.

The game had stopped being funny when their mom's eyesight started to go. She genuinely couldn't tell them apart any longer and would cry, begging their forgiveness. It had been so hard for everyone, their dad had started to talk about limiting visits, or stopping them all together.

"Shave it," Stiles had said, handing the electric razor to his brother, sitting on the side of the bathtub. Brad's eyes had been wide and frightened, but he had done it, and they hadn't acknowledged the tears in both their eyes.

Now, five years later, their positions were reversed.

"Just do it," Brad said, gritting his teeth.

"God, shut up," Stiles said. He wracked his brain one last time for another way, another plan, but they had gone in circles for as long as they could before hitting on this. It was the only way.

With a steady hand, he shaved the first stripe, and Brad's hair began to flutter down to the floor.

When it was done, they stood side by side in front of the mirror. Brad reached up, scrubbing his hand over what was left of his hair and let out a shaky laugh.

Stiles clapped him on the shoulder. "You're gonna love the upkeep." He twisted to avoid the punch aimed at his shoulder, and threw Brad some clothes, an exact copy of the outfit he himself was wearing.

"Ugh," Brad groaned. "Insult upon injury." But he shrugged them all on, the t-shirt under the flannel under the hoodie, with crappy jeans to match.

"Hey, I was wondering if you guys wanted-" Their dad stood in the hallway in his uniform, mouth hanging wide open.

"Heeeey dad," Stiles said. "We're definitely going to clean up all the hair, if that's what you're worried about."

"No, not exactly." He leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. "What is going on here?"

"Would you believe Brad here was jealous of my sweet style?" Stiles said.

"Not in a million years."

Stiles opened his mouth to try another story when Brad cut him off. "I wanted to, Dad," he said quietly. "Stiles and I have been hanging out a lot lately, and it made me remember how it used to be."

Stiles looked over at him, nonplussed. He hadn't known Brad felt that way.

Their dad coughed. "You kids used to confuse me all the time," he said gruffly. "Getting me to call you the wrong name was-"

"Ten points," Stiles said, laughing a little. "If you were yelling at us, it was twenty-five."

"We kept track in a little notebook," Brad said. "A running tally."

"Yeah, your mom found it," he said. "She used to lord it over me how many more points I had than she did." He reached out and rubbed his knuckles over both of their shaved heads. "I haven't seen you guys this close in years. I like it."

"Me too," Brad said, and Stiles didn't have to be a werewolf to know he wasn't lying.

"You guys gonna be around tomorrow?" their dad said hopefully. "I have to go to the station tonight but maybe tomorrow we could order pizza, have a Stilinski men night?" He smiled at them, looking happier than Stiles had seen him in weeks.

"Dad, we-" Brad started, but Stiles cut him off.

"Yeah, Dad," he said. "That sounds really, really nice." Brad gave him a look but Stiles just shrugged at him. If they didn't make it through tonight, missing dinner would not be the biggest problem on their list.

Their dad slapped them both on the back, and crushed them into a double hug.

"All right, all right," Stiles said, squirming. "Let's not get carried away. It's not like I'm letting you get meat on the pizza."

His dad scowled, stepping back. "We'll talk about that tomorrow." He turned to go. "Whatever you're up to tonight, be home and asleep by midnight. School tomorrow."

"'kay. 'Night, dad," Stiles said quietly, watching him walk away. He and Brad looked at each other.

"If there is a tomorrow," Brad said, and Stiles nodded, squaring his shoulders for the night ahead.

The plan went down like this: They had called Lisa Regan and negotiated a meeting, and she had let Derek on the phone for just a moment, to prove he was alive.

"Don't come after me," Derek had growled. It was fortunate that no one ever listened to his orders.

The meeting place was an abandoned factory on the north side of town. She had warned them she was surrounding the place with mountain ash, and had. They were there now, standing just outside the line. Lisa stood in the doorway, watching. Clearly and carefully, Allison and Stiles stepped over the line.

She nodded approvingly and came forward. She waved something in the air over them, an artifact Stiles didn't recognize, and everyone tensed.

She gave Allison a hard look. "Stupid girl," she said, and expertly extracted two guns from Allison's belt, a knife from her boot, and two daggers from her sleeves.

"Don't know how those got there," Allison said, her eyes politely downcast, but she flicked them up briefly at Stiles and Stiles winked at her.

"Well come on," the hunter witch said, turning her back to go back inside. With a quick gesture, Stiles broke the mountain ash line and ducked sideways behind a car. Lightening quick, Brad took his place beside Allison and handed her another knife that she stowed carefully in her jacket.

When they had disappeared inside the building, Stiles widened the break in the ash line, allowing the rest of the wolves to pace carefully inside and hide with him, waiting for the signal to come in.

There were raised voices, mostly between the hunter and Allison. "She's not going to give in. Not until Derek's paid for Kate's death," Erica said. Her voice was bitter and harsh, and she was leaning forward to speak into Stiles's ear, careful not to attract attention.

He flushed a little, thinking of Derek and how he had yanked Stiles up against his body that day Brad and Scott had joined the pack, had whispered in Stiles's ear _exactly_ what was going on. Stiles shivered.

"Seriously, Stiles, get it together," Erica hissed, and he felt his face heat up and flipped her off.

Just then a light flashed through the window, and that was Allison's signal that they weren't going to be able to negotiate. They all charged through the doors, but the werewolves weren't shifting. Scott skidded to a stop, staring at his hands, obviously trying to concentrate.

Stiles stopped just outside the entrance to the factory. Derek was chained in the center of the room, slumped over, his broad back facing Stiles. He sucked in a breath, because there were cuts all over Derek that weren't _healing_, like he had been whipped with something. He looked half-dead and barely conscious.

Bubbling with anger, Stiles looked for the witch. Allison was crouched low, ducking spells as they flew at her, keeping Lisa's attention on her. Scott and Isaac were circling the other way, trying to get behind her, but the woman was too fast. She whirled and aimed a finger at Scott, and something, a spell, black and deadly, shot out of her fingertips, and Scott only just dived out of the way to miss it. When he hit the ground, Stiles heard a sickening crack and Scott cried out, holding his leg.

"Mongrels," she hissed, advancing. "Stupid mangy, dirty, _animals_," she spit out, her face an angry mask, and she was raising her hand again. Scott couldn't heal – he wasn't going to have time to move, and a jolt of fear shook through Stiles. She was going to kill him.

"Scott," he screamed, and darted forward, but in the woman's fury, she had forgotten Allison. In a flash, Allison had the hidden knife in her hands, and she buried it between the witch's shoulder blades.

"Allison," Scott cried, urgent and scared.

Allison raised her head and looked at him, her eyes huge and haunted. "She was going to hurt you," she said simply, her voice ragged. Moments later, she was in Scott's arms, and Stiles turned away to give them a moment.

Derek was still in chains, but he was rousing, head beginning to lift from where it had sagged on his chest. Brad was leaning over him, struggling with the chains, trying to break the locks.

Stiles made his way over to help, but he'd only gone a few steps when there was a click, and Derek was free. He flexed his wrists, stretched and then reached out, and Stiles watched as he swept Brad close to his chest and kissed him, hard.

Stiles spun around, reeling, and walked out the door.

He was overreacting. He knew he was, he wasn't completely stupid. Derek hadn't known, he'd assumed it was Stiles. It was the whole point of the plan, actually. There was no reason to be hurt.

He was, though. Acid burned in his gut and he wanted to kick something, anything. Derek should have been able to tell, should have _known_. He kept seeing it over and over again, Derek holding Brad close, kissing him. Derek always treated Brad better, never acted like a dick or like Brad was exasperating him just for being there.

He pulled his hood up over his head and walked home. His feet pounded out his frustration, and he exhaled against the cool night air. It didn't matter. He didn't have exclusive rights to Derek. They weren't dating, they weren't even friends. The words felt wrong in his head though, and he burned with regret. He had known he wouldn't be good at screwing around. He had known it, and let himself believe it wasn't true, that maybe this time he and Brad could both be good at something.

"Stiles," someone called furiously behind him.

"Leave me alone, Brad," Stiles said flatly.

There was a hand on his shoulder spinning him around. "Your secret fuckbuddy is _Derek?_" Brad's eyes were flashing and furious.

"Yeah," Stiles said, and he was angry, he was so angry. "But don't worry about it. Once again, you won. Number one champ, seventeen years running."

"What are you _talking_ about?" Brad said.

"I'm talking about _you._ I'm talking about when I tried out for lacrosse, you became first string. I'm talking about how when I go to see my favorite band, you end up invited backstage. I'm talking about fucking werewolves, and how many times I almost died, and you _breezed_ through it." It was exploding out of him, and he was shaking like a leaf. "And I'm talking about how the first time I got something of my own, no matter how stupid or fake it was, I had something with Derek, and you're the one who got to rescue him, who got the big reunion scene. So I'm telling you, _leave me alone,_ Brad."

"You can't really think that," Brad said, and he was pale, eyes wide. "That's not how it is."

"It really is," Stiles said, and moved to storm off.

Brad grabbed his arm, stopping him. "Did you ever stop to think that I was trying to follow _you?_ That you just stopped talking to me, stopped wanting to be around me, you just _abandoned_ me." Stiles opened his mouth to refute it, to argue but Brad held up his hand. "Did you know that I wasn't scared when that alpha bit me? Did you realize that the reason I was okay with the pack, with everything was that I thought we'd finally stop having secrets? That you'd be my brother again?"

"I didn't keep Derek a secret," Stiles said. "I told you I was seeing someone."

"Yeah, you looked me in the eye and said no one was invested," Brad said. "You cannot seriously be that dumb."

Stiles blinked. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Derek's in love with you, you moron!" Brad yelled. "He's been in love with you forever! You cannot mess with him like this!"

"No," Stiles said, shaking his head. "You're wrong."

"I'm not," Brad said, with a disturbing amount of conviction. "I'm not wrong, and you have to stop sleeping with him, for his sake."

"For his sake?" Stiles repeated dumbly.

Brad just looked at him. "You asked me once how I stay friends with everyone I sleep with. First rule, never fuck someone who feels something for you that you don't feel for them."

"You're nuts," Stiles said weakly, but the bitter jealousy had gone out of him, replaced by pure shock.

Brad scoffed. "When have I ever been wrong?" he said.

Fucking Brad, Stiles thought to himself. "I'm sorry I stopped being around," he said. "I'm sorry I never told you what was wrong."

"It's okay," Brad said, already losing the tension out of his shoulders. "I'm sorry you felt sidelined. I had no idea you did."

They trudged back to the house in silence. He could feel Brad looking over at him a few times, but he wasn't ready to talk, couldn't _think._ He needed time.

But of course, when they got back to the house, Derek was right there, sitting on the steps. Brad gave Stiles a significant look, and then went inside, closing the door behind him.

Stiles dropped to sit on the stairs next to Derek.

"I didn't know it was Brad," Derek said. "I wouldn't have kissed him, I didn't-I was powerless, I couldn't _smell_ him"

"I know," Stiles said, and he felt tired, like he'd been put through more tonight than he ever has. "We're not together, you're allowed to kiss whoever you want."

Derek hunched his shoulders, forward. "Yeah," he said, but he sounded miserable.

Stiles couldn't hold it in. "Brad says you're in love with me."

Stiles turned to watch Derek's face and it was frozen, like that hadn't been in his script for the conversation. There was silence for a solid minute. Then Derek's jaw twitched, and he gritted his teeth before saying simply, "yes."

Stiles exhaled loudly. He still hadn't believed it when Brad had said it, but here it was, from the source. "Okay," he said. "I didn't know that."

"You weren't supposed to," Derek said, staring at their feet on the bottom step. "I didn't-I knew you didn't feel like that."

Stiles nodded. "Brad told me I needed to stop this," and he waved a hand between them. "He said it wasn't fair."

"Do you want to stop?" Derek said hoarsely.

"No," Stiles said, stripped down to bare honesty. "I don't. But we can't be fuckbuddies anymore, not now that I know, not anymore."

"So date me," Derek said. The words sounded ripped out of him, like he was saying them before he could stop himself. It didn't make it all any less ridiculous.

"What?" Stiles said, incredulously, already shaking his head in disbelief.

Derek moved, grabbing his arm and pulling him up to face him. His hands came up to clamp on Stiles's shoulders, holding him tight. "Date," he repeated. "Not just fucking. We'll go out, I'll fucking buy you food, you can talk for two hours about the ending of a movie I've never seen, I'll talk to your dad."

"You want to talk to my dad?" Stiles said, and his voice was high and incredulous.

"Not even a little bit," Derek said. "But I will anyway."

Stiles's mouth was hanging open, and Derek took advantage of it and kissed him. It was unfair negotiating techniques, because any arguments Stiles had went right out the window, even before they were formed. Derek's mouth was insistent, laying claim to Stiles, and his hand was hot as it skimmed along Stiles's shoulder and curled around the back of his neck.

"C'mon," Derek said, when they broke apart. "Let me try."

"Okay," Stiles said, leaning his forehead against Derek's. "I'm in."

He heard Brad cheer from upstairs. "Shut up, Brad," they yelled in unison, and Stiles laughed, and kissed him again.

Epilogue

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Stiles said, munching on the leftover kernels of his popcorn. "How were you surprised by that? I saw that coming like ten minutes into the movie."

"That's because you're a giant fucking nerd and read all the comics at age four," Derek said and slapped the bag of popcorn into a nearby trash.

"Hey," Stiles yelped. "I wasn't done with that."

"You don't bring outside food into a restaurant," Derek said. "What, were you raised by wolves?"

"Oh, Arby's is a _restaurant_ now," Stiles said. "Let me go get my coattails."

They got their food and slapped it down at a table, still bickering when Brad and Erica slid into the seats across from them.

"Go away," Derek said immediately.

"Wait," Stiles said practically. "Is anyone dead or dying?"

"No," Erica said.

"Then go away," Stiles said, grinning.

Erica rolled her eyes. "No one wants to crash your weird date, losers."

"It's not weird," Derek said. "It's incredibly normal and by the book."

"He held my hand and everything," Stiles said cheerfully.

Brad pretended to gag himself. "We're leaving so quickly," he said. "Trust me. We just wanted to tell you that we're together now."

Stiles choked. "You're what now?"

"I thought you were dating Boyd," Derek said, confused.

"I am," Erica said, pleased.

"As am I," Brad said.

Stiles let his head drop to Derek's shoulder. "Please tell me my brother isn't in a threesome relationship with all my friends."

"Not all your friends," Brad said. "We're totally not dating Isaac."

"Or Scott," Erica said.

"Or Allison," Brad agreed.

"Thank God for small favors," Derek said, sliding an arm around Stiles's shoulders.

"Listen," Erica said. "Not everyone wants your weirdo backwards relationship."

"_Hand-holding,_" Derek repeated dangerously. Stiles patted his thigh comfortingly. Derek leaned down and kissed him, slipping his hand up to cup Stiles's neck.

"You're totally disgusting and I need to go take my lady to pick up my man friend," Brad said, making a face at them.

"Yeah," Erica said. "We're gonna go do weird stuff in your house. Don't come home without calling first." With that, they got the hell out of dodge, snickering and laughing.

"Figures," Stiles said, resting his chin in his propped up hands.

"What?" Derek said.

"I get into a homosexual relationship with a werewolf, and Brad gets in a bisexual polyamorous relationship with two werewolves," he said mournfully.

"I'm better, I'm the alpha," Derek said, deadpan.

Stiles pulled the wrapper off his straw and balled it up.

"Flick that at me and you're gonna pay," Derek said, warningly.

Stiles flicked it at him without hesitation. Derek retaliated by stealing a handful of curly fries. "Do you really care?" he said, mouth full. "About Brad?"

"Not really," Stiles said, and he realized it was true – he wouldn't trade his life with Brad's for _anything._ "I love you."

Derek paused mid chew. "Are you joking?"

"No," Stiles said, and grinned at him, wide and gleeful. "How many dates did it take?"

"Thirty-seven," Derek said, without hesitation. He swallowed his mouthful of food, still staring at Stiles. "Don't fuck with me, Stiles."

"I love you," Stiles said again, and flicked another wrapper at him.

Derek dove for him, crowding into the corner of the booth, kissing him frantically. "Say it again," he demanded.

"I love you," Stiles said, and let himself be pulled into Derek's lap. Derek curled his hands around his back and crushed Stiles to him.

Someone coughed loudly, and they both looked up.

There was an Arby's employee standing frozen next to their table, mop forgotten in his hand.

"I'll pay you $50 to walk away and leave us alone," Derek said without loosening his grip.

"Done," the guy said. Derek reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of cash, and threw it on the table. The guy took it and ran.

By the time they surfaced, Derek's hair was a mess from Stiles's hands and Stiles looked like he'd been hit by a really affectionate truck.

"Bed," Stiles said. "Like, yesterday."

"Yours," Derek said hoarsely. "I don't want to think about what's going on in mine." He grabbed their coats and pulled Stiles out the door. He held Stiles's hand the whole way home.


	87. (E) GERASKIER - A Broken Pot Can Still H

a broken pot can still hold water  
MarionetteFtHJM

Summary:  
Despite what his outward code of conduct would have you thinking, Jaskier knows when he is not wanted.

He allows himself the exact amount of three days of wallowing in that small town before he packs his meager possessions and hits the road like nothing happened. In those three days he sings and dances for his food and drink, fucks the pretty barmaid and sleeps off the hangover before heading out in the morning of the fourth day. He travels alone for the first time in a while but it's alright.

Now, if only people would stop telling him that the Witcher asks about him - that'd be swell.

* * *

Chapter 01

"_Damn it, Jaskier! Why is it whenever I find myself in a pile of shit these days, it's you shovelling it?"_

The words were still ringing in his head as he left the mountainside where Geralt sat and brooded as the sun set.

It hurt. It really did. And Jaskier isn't going to kid himself and try to cover his unfortunate _feelings_ towards the Witcher with false cheer. He is, despite the popular belief of the common folk, _very_ in touch with his emotions. It takes a well-educated, observant, _sensible_ man to make a good poet and an excellent bard. And he fancies himself one of those, after all, and furthermore, by default, he _is_ all of those things. So yes, Jaskier was well aware of his pining woes no matter how much they inconvenienced him daily. He is also _well aware_ that the hurt he feels in the moment will be much worse than it is during his miserable walk to the nearest town, with his lute dangling from his hand and his footsteps dragging through the gravelly dirt, in the morning.

But for now, the keen loss is only a dull pain in his chest – it feels like there is a heavy weight sitting upon his ribcage; like his lungs are constricting but he can still breathe regardless as if it is a _mercy_. And that is, admittedly, good, because he can't afford to be distracted on his arduous trek. This distraction he fears due to his unfortunate inclination towards bad decisions. If there was even the slightest chance that a moment of hesitation was to present itself, it might be enough to send him stumbling over his feet back to Geralt's side. So no acknowledged pain for the time being.

Eventually, he reaches the nearest town. It is a small settlement on the bank of a river that courses furiously around boulders that have separated from the mountain and rolled off its face to live a life of their own years prior. Much like Jaskier – except Jaskier had been removed from his mountain's side rather forcefully.

_No, none of that_. He scoffs at himself, entering the town's inn. He needs a good night's sleep and some food before he goes about waxing poetic pathetically to himself. He feels drained as he coughs up the last of his coin to the innkeeper, feels like he weighs more than he actually does.

_Must be the emotional baggage, _he decides as he climbs the rickety stairs to the room he'd rented. He hopes that he doesn't dream of the Witcher. He hopes that his brain gives him a reprieve for tonight if not any other night.

He drops the lute at the bedside table carelessly and kicks off his boots. He crawls under the flimsy and rough blankets and closes his eyes; curling in on himself he falls asleep, he wishes for a better tomorrow.

* * *

Despite what his outward code of conduct would have you thinking, Jaskier knows when he is not wanted.

He allows himself the exact amount of three days of wallowing in that small town before he packs his meagre possessions and hits the road like nothing happened. In those three days he sings and dances for his food and drink, fucks the pretty barmaid and sleeps off the hangover before heading out in the morning of the fourth day. He travels alone for the first time in a while but it's alright.

It's not as if he'd been travelling with Geralt for the _entirety_ of his bardic career, no. He knows how to handle himself on his own. Geralt always had everyone believing that Jaskier was inept at keeping his head about him but that wasn't true. He knows which roads to avoid and which travelling troupes are always looking for an extra set of hands to play an instrument. He can hold a tune and spin a tale and in these dark times, entertainment is a sought-after luxury that many hold dear. It's just that – well, travelling with the mighty Witcher had allowed him for some time off. He didn't always have to be vigilant or on the lookout if Geralt was already doing that for the both of them and thus he had gotten sloppy and earned himself Geralt's disdain. But that's all over now; he has to make do on his own again.

So he does so and makes his way down one of the more well-travelled routes, heading towards Novigrad as his final destination where he thinks he might settle down for a while. He's always wanted to be an author – maybe he writes a scripture of his travels with the Witcher, maybe he doesn't – depending on how he feels about the whole thing by the time he reaches the city on the coast.

A few weeks into his travels, on the border of Redania, in Tridam to be exact, he runs into Yennefer.

He's singing at the court of the local Baron, his daughter's betrothal banquet is in full swing and no matter how much he thinks about it in the recesses of his mind, he won't admit that it reminds him of his time in Queen Calanthe's court on that fateful day.

He's hopping from one table to another, going down the list of the familiar hits he used to play for the noble folk before he'd gotten sidetracked by Geralt and the call to adventure. It's going swell, not a mishap in sight and really, Jaskier definitely isn't the one that called forth the shitty luck Geralt's had for most of their travels – it was the White Wolf himself that was to blame, him and his stubbornness. And he _knows_ that, _everyone_ knows that – everyone except for the Witcher himself.

He's halfway through the chorus of _The Fishmonger's Daughter_ when he spots her and her beady little purple eyes staring at him across the hall. He trips over someone's foot sticking out from the bench they're sitting on but recovers quickly, playing it off as a change of cords as he improvises a chorus that has the men and women in the court roaring with cheer. He takes a bow as he reaches the middle of the wide room.

"Thank you all, you've been lovely and I shall be by in the morning to collect my coin! But the humble bard must retreat for the evening!" He bows again with flourish as some of the people in the hall protest at his sudden and hasty departure. Oh, the fat bastards of the court are never satisfied! He's been there for the entire night already, it's about time he packed up and got a good night's sleep in lest he lose his voice. His retreat has _nothing_ to do with Yennefer leering at him from the corner of the room, surrounded by feeble men attracted to her like flies to a fresh pile of horseshit.

He makes haste towards the exit of the castle, careful not to drop the bottle of wine and his lute on the way down the worn, stone steps. He's so busy trying to balance his belongings and thinking that he'd gotten away from her vengeful gaze that he doesn't realize he's walking right into her until it's too late and – damn it, he's dropped the wine!

"Oh, not the wine, mercy please." He watches the cracked bottle leaking with sad eyes. He should have known better.

"Julian." She clears her throat like he hadn't seen her already.

"What do you want, you wretch? I, for one, wanted that bottle of wine and yet here we are – a bottle broken and an uncomfortable encounter on my hands instead. So, what is it?" He picks up his lute before the wine can get to it and slings it over his shoulder. He's not nearly drunk enough for this confrontation – if he were, well, then he'd preferably be passed out in a ditch somewhere.

She looks at him funny then; one of her impressive eyebrows quirked and her jaw set like she'd expected a _warm welcome_ or something. She stays silent, though, furthering Jaskier into irritation.

"Well?" He waves a hand out impatiently. He'd rather be having this conversation somewhere else – or not at all, really.

"You – you're doing well for yourself." She says like it's a surprise, like she expected something else entirely. Like she expected him to _mourn._

And maybe it is a surprise. It's not like she knew him from before he'd been travelling with Geralt. She never bothered to know him even then; she was too busy being a powerful sorceress, was too busy sucking co-

"Yes, I was. But then I saw your puckered little face shooting daggers in my direction and my night got progressively worse. And I _still_ don't have any wine to drown my woes in." He points a finger at her accusingly. And he knows that he may be coming off as an absolute dick but he's a little angry. He's – he's not bitter with her or the situation, not when he knew he never stood a chance, but he _is_ angry that she's given herself the liberty to speak to him like she knew him as anything other than Geralt's faithful puppy.

"No, I mean. All things considered?" She shrinks in on herself then, some of her deeply-rooted insecurity leaking to the surface and Jaskier straightens up his back, crossing his arms over his chest, taking advantage of her lapse in posture.

"_Which_ things considered_?_ Considering that I'm travelling on my own again or that Geralt had decided to blame _Destiny_ on me? If it's both, I'll have you know, I was doing fine before him and there's no reason why I should be any worse off _without_ him." He huffs with a roll of his eyes and tries to move past her but she grabs his wrist, stopping him in place. A shudder goes through him at her cold touch and he looks back, eyes squinted in suspicion at what more she could possibly want.

She's holding a bottle out for him as if it's a peace offering and his mind halts, anything vile that wanted to spill from his loosed lips dries up immediately at the tentative offering. There's something oddly open in her gaze as she implores him to take the wine.

He grabs the bottle reluctantly, popping it open and sniffing before taking a swig. Well, if she's poisoned him, it's too late now anyway. He may not be an idiot but his self-preservation instincts are very minimal.

"I'm sorry."

"For what? The wine? You fixed that. For assuming I'm an incapable buffoon? I don't blame you; I didn't give myself the best reputation during our brief ventures together. For the insults hurled at me every time we met? Well, nothing to it, you're always half right anyway." He snorts, only slightly ashamed of his rambling – especially the bit about his travels with the Witcher. He'd loved travelling with Geralt, loved the security that came adjacent to travelling with a Witcher despite the messes they'd gotten into. But he was a fool to let himself act the way he did, he was an idiot chasing coin and skirt and Geralt's shining eyes. He knows better now; knew better back then, too, but was blinded by Geralt's sheer presence and his striking features.

"I'm sorry about Geralt." She releases his wrist but he stays. He doesn't know why because he doesn't have any reason to, but he does anyway.

"Why? You didn't send me on my way; you didn't make him say what he did. You've got nothing to be sorry for, Yennefer." He shakes his head, contemplating downing half of the bottle in his next sip.

"No, but I'd made him angry and he took it out on you when you didn't deserve it." She shrugs, bundling up in her coat like she's trying to stave off something other than the cold.

He scoffs, "Stop – stop whatever this pity party is, Yennefer. You might have made him mad but I'd allowed myself-" He shakes his head and stops speaking before all of his problems become real. "He did what he did and it was for the best. I'd become dependent on him for safety and for my inspiration. It was time for me to move on and he'd just opened my eyes to it. I should be thanking you." He clears his throat, trying to lighten up his tone. "Besides, Geralt is a grown man who should have respected your wishes to be left alone. He should be apologizing to you for his beastly ways."

This time, it's her that laughs – a brittle and bitter little thing as she shakes her head, dark hair falling over her face. "I can't believe – I envy you, Jaskier. Look at you – you're doing so _well_ and I'd been worried for nothing all along."

"_Bollocks_ were you worried!" He laughs at the notion; like they'd ever even been more than a weird sort of rivals for Geralt's attention let alone _friends_. He was but a speck of dirt on her field of vision, something to make fun of and look down at with pity in her violet eyes as he pined silently when Geralt shared her tent and her bed.

"I was. I know it's hard to believe but yes, I was. I know now that it was for naught because you certainly _are_ stronger than you seem." She praises him and this gives him pause.

He feels his cheeks heat a little under the attention and he clears his throat weakly. "Why should you envy me? I've nothing to my name except a lute, a bag of coin and a destination in mind. A couple of songs under my belt and the ability to charm the skirt off any maiden. Actually, never mind, that's quite an impressive list. Especially that last part, _let me tell you._"

"I envy you because it took me much longer than I'd like to admit to get over what Geralt and I had than it had taken you. I'd heard tales by the fifth day of you already celebrating at some Lord's hall with a troupe of his local troubadours." She smiles thinly and Jaskier notices the lines of worry around her eyes that weren't there the last time they'd met.

He looks away, unsure of how to proceed. It's not like he'd mourned a lover lost. It's not like Geralt had given him grief about anything actually possible. Sure it still hurts on some days – like when he turns to say something to the Witcher only to find him not there, but he gets over it quickly. So she's not entirely correct in her assumption, he's not over it, not fully. He's just – better at suppressing feelings than even perhaps the Witcher himself. No sense in crying over spilt wine, as they say.

"What you and he had was a much deeper connection than that of a Witcher and his travelling bard. What you and he had was _real." _He says in the calmest voice possible, still not willing to admit how jealousy had cut a path down his chest that scarred him from the inside every time Geralt had gone to her instead of spent a night under the stars by the fire with him. She might know the depths of his plight but he will not outright admit it.

Yennefer tilts her head and places a hand on his chest gently; she closes her eyes and smiles timidly. "I'd underestimated you, Jaskier." She admits with a lilting tone. "You are much stronger than both I and Geralt combined. Maybe not in a physical sense, but in here, where it matters." She pats his chest and then steps back.

"Well, that's good to hear. I think?" He blinks at her, baffled at the sudden genuine turn of phrase coming from her painted lips.

"I hope that despite our differences, you don't think of me in a bad light. I wish you the best on your travels and that you don't hesitate to contact me if you need any help." She procures a small, round, metal box adorned with intricate detailing seemingly out of nowhere and lifts it towards him.

"That's not going to blow up in my face if I touch it, is it?" He pokes at the box curiously and she chuckles. He startles at the sound and pulls back, much more alarmed now than he was before.

"No, it's a xenovox. It's a long-range communication device that'll give you a direct line of contact to me if you should need it." She holds it out again insistently and he takes it, still surprised and slightly doubtful.

"I – thank you, Yennefer, you didn't have to." He puts the object into the satchel on his hip with care.

"I didn't, but I wanted to. Be careful out there, Jaskier, it's a full moon tonight." She pats his cheek in a friendly manner and turns back, walking up the stone steps and disappearing behind the corner before he can think of an appropriate reply.

"That wasn't weird at all. I might be losing my mind." He says out-loud to himself just to check if he still has a voice or if she'd somehow taken it with her.

"If that wasn't the weirdest thing-" Shaking his head, he makes his way down the cobblestoned path and into the servant's quarters where he'll be staying the night.

_Out of all the things,_ he muses as he lies down to sleep, the bottle of wine forgotten next to the low bed.

* * *

A few months down the line, several detours and many a night spent well-fed on someone's court, he finds himself in a small town a day's worth of ride outside of Vizima. He finds himself there due to necessity because, as it were, he is bleeding out from a nasty gash on his leg and a stab to his side. It was only right that after a few months of peace and quiet on his travels, Yennefer's well wishes would wear out and he'd get jumped by a group of bandits looking to fuck over anyone that crosses their path. Today, that happened to be none other than Jaskier.

"If I die I want my body buried in Dol Blathanna." He whines as whoever is taking care of his wounds, digs deep into his side to try and pluck out the broken tip of a sorry excuse for a knife one of the bandits had wielded.

"You're not going to die," The gentle voice belonging to the curly-haired woman soothes but it's no use, he feels like he's on fire.

"And I never even got to write my memoires! I was going to become famous – ah, fuck!" He almost bites through his lip trying to contain the scream that wants to escape him. "I was going to become rich! Everyone's always asking me oh, humble bard, for what adventures have you seen in your time! And I – fuck, shit, that's a lot of blood." He feels faint as he watches her exchange the soaked rag with a clean one, staunching the blood flow again.

"Hold still, you imp!" She hisses impatiently as he tries to wiggle away from the pain at her touch.

"Can't you knock me out? Please? It would save the both of us a lot of trouble." He whines pathetically.

He should be thankful, he knows. He'd be dead already if it weren't for her. He doesn't even know her name and she's got her fingers in his wound because there's still that pesky bit of knife stuck in there and oh how he wishes he was out cold!

"Oh, Dol Blathanna was beautifully deserted! Fuck!" He yelps as she pulls out the metal tip from his side, this is going to take ages to heal properly! "No bandits! No stupid townsfolk asking me where – only Filavandrel and his merry band of Elves to hear my songs!" He laments sadly, pretty certain that he is shouting. "Oh! Oh, that hurts! Oh, _when a humble bard-"_ He wails to distracts himself from the agony spreading through his entire left side.

"It's a miracle you haven't passed out from the pain yet – wait." She finally meets his eye, eyebrows raised into her hairline almost. "_You're_ Jaskier? The Wi-"

"I am _no one's _bard!" He grits out with his eyes shut and his fists clenched because he _knows_ what she was going to say – he's _been_ hearing it for the past few months.

This is precisely why he'd gotten into this situation as well. He'd gotten tired of the safe paths because everyone he'd come across would immediately ask where _his_ Witcher was. _'Oh, the Butcher of Blaviken! I'd like to see the beast with my own two eyes, where is he, bard?'_ they'd ask. Or: _'The White Wolf of Rivia! My, what an honour it must be to travel with him, where is he?_' they'd implore. And he'd gotten tired of it after the first three times but people just kept assuming and when he'd say that he was on his own they would either look at him with pity in their eyes or try and slander Geralt for leaving him behind. And he was having none of _that._

"I'm sorry." The woman, places a hand over his wound before digging through the bag next to her, clinking vials of something together until she locates the one she apparently needs. "I'll need you to come back with me to Vizima. This will hold for now but you need to rest before you can continue with your journey."

He grunts but chooses to keep his mouth shut. He watches her soak a bandage with the sweet-smelling potion and then wrap it around his leg, and around his waist. The pain lessens almost instantly, the whole area becoming numb.

"Come on, up you go." She helps him stand and then he watches with fascination as she opens up a swirly portal out of thin air and guides them both through it. A sorceress, of course, just his luck. He hopes she's less mean than the other one he knows. Though, he supposes him and Yennefer are on neutral grounds now.

"What – your name, I need to know who to write my odes to once I am saved." He tries to grin as she deposits him into a soft bed.

She shakes her head with a small smile, "Triss Merigold, at your service, bard."

"Just Jaskier will do." He sighs as he lies down, staring up at the vaulted ceilings. It's warm in the room but maybe that's his body protesting the potion she'd dipped into his blood. Either way, his life is now in her hands entirely.

"Well then, Jaskier, it's time to rest." She closes a hand over his eyes and just like that, his consciousness is no more.

* * *

He doesn't know how long he's spent out cold but when he wakes, it's night time and Triss is sitting by the bed in a cushy armchair reading something from a thick book. He looks at her curiously, at the way she's poised gracefully in the chair and the blue dress that's contrasting with her tan skin prettily. If he weren't sure Geralt had already tried something with her, he would have attempted to at least flirt his way into her bed – but under better circumstances, certainly. If this even _is_ her bed? Where was he again?

"Oh, you're awake." She sets the book down and comes to his side, busying herself with checking on his wounds that feel much better at the moment than he last remembers. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hm, somewhere nice, I'm sure." He tries to grin but coughs as he finds his throat parched.

She chuckles and brings him a cup of water that he downs eagerly. "Easy there, you've been out for a while now. Three days, I'm afraid. The knife didn't nick anything important but it was still a deep wound."

"Thank you." He says, hoping that he can somehow repay her for the act of kindness.

"Nonsense, all in a day's work." She waves him off with a grin.

"No, no. I must repay you somehow. I have no coin on me or my beating would have been worse but perhaps a song to soothe your soul? Maybe a dance if I'm up to it or perhaps a poem to your name? _Oh, what shines brighter than silver and gold but the smile of Triss by the name Merigold? _No, that was _terrible,_ I'm sure I'll come up with something better once I'm at my best!" He rambles, pulling himself out of the bed, eager to leave the bed and Vizima altogether but stopping when she waves him back in warning.

"He was right, you _do_ talk a lot." She stares at him in contemplation for a moment before offering him another cup of water. He drinks this one slower, buying himself time before he has to respond.

"Yes, well, he was always rather adamant about voicing _that_ opinion." He shrugs and then pokes at the cloth where the wound in his side is. He winces as the tender flesh protests under the bandage.

"He's an oaf but he usually means well." She tutts and bats his hand away.

He grunts, a sound very uncharacteristic for him, annoyed at her presumptions. How does _she_ know? Has she spent much time with the Witcher? It's unlikely. Geralt doesn't spend much time with anyone – except for Roach but that's a given. Aside from that, Jaskier was possibly the only one that stuck around for more than a couple of nights with the Witcher. A mighty feat, sure, but what good has it brought him?

She tilts her head at his non-response, studying him much like Yennefer always did. Like he's something fragile to be looked after and pitied, studied like a rare flower. It furthers his silent anger despite his usually sunny disposition.

"You're not what I imagined when he'd talked about you." She finally says, peeling off the bandage to show a sliver of a still-red scar where the puncture wound used to be. She moves on to his leg and he realizes that he's very nearly naked in bed – it would be an entirely welcome situation were it not for the swirling pit of emotions opening up in his stomach. Geralt talked about him? _No, he probably complained about me. He doesn't have words of kindness to spare for the likes of me. He doesn't have words to spare, end of statement._

"Well, people _do_ change all the time." She finishes for him, saving Jaskier the trouble of responding.

"I don't suppose you want to hear what he was here to do? You know, for one of your new _songs."_ She continues idly, tilting his leg to the side to check the deep gash that was once there as well. He hates to admit it but she's exceptionally good at this whole healing thing and he owes her his life so maybe he should be nicer to her.

And alright, maybe he's _itching_ to ask her about Geralt, about what he said but he won't stoop so low. Blindly searching for Geralt's words of approval is beneath him, he's decided a while back. He's moved on from being Geralt's faithful bardic companion and despite the feelings that still linger – and will probably continue to linger – he refuses to give into the need for praise.

"Curious indeed." She chuckles lowly and turns around to fetch something. When she turns back, she's holding a new outfit for him, something not covered in blood and dirtied from days on the road. His eyes widen as he takes in the deep navy of the fine material.

"You know, when I said you talk a lot, I didn't mean for you to stop." She hands him the clothes and he sits up slowly. "I feel as though I'm talking to a wall and not the famous Bard that managed to clear up the _Butcher of Blaviken's_ name!"

"I've found that when one has nothing of import to say, one should not say anything at all." He hates to admit it but that's one of the rare lessons that's stuck with him from his time with Geralt. In just a few short months he's become the silent and resilient type of traveller he'd always scoffed at. He hates to admit it but it has helped keep him out of trouble.

Maybe Geralt was right all along. Oh how he despises to admit that he'd become bitter and lonely. The Witcher might no longer be the Butcher of Blaviken but he certainly _is_ the Butcher of Jaskier's Spirits.

_Gods_, he hates how testy he gets whenever Geralt is mentioned. He's not that bitter – he's _not. _

"Yennefer had some words to say about you as well." Triss politely turns away as he dresses.

He pauses, hands on his hips and brows arching. "Do you all just gather around a big hearth and gossip like the commoners or do you exchange letters? Perhaps it's by xenovox?"

She turns around with a smile on her face as if she's accomplished some great feat. "Now how did you come into possession of one of those?"

"Um, Yennefer gave me one in case I wanted to contact her." He admits, not sure if he's supposed to or not but – it's not like it is some big secret. Or is it?

"Curious, yet again! During our last encounter she'd failed to mention this." Her eyes twinkle in the firelight and Jaskier wishes he could look into her mind to know what she's thinking. She seems like a complicated person. Much like any other magical being he'd encountered.

"Maybe she likes people staying out of her business." He mutters under his breath, shakily doing up the buttons on the silk shirt.

"Don't worry, unlike Geralt's complaints, Yennefer had only words of praise for you. Though, the common theme was their uncharacteristic worry. Odd for the both of them but somehow more-so for Yen." Triss reassures him and yet, this only serves to make him feel worse. To know that the both of them care about his well-being still and that despite it, Geralt had chosen to send him away.

"It's insulting that they think I can't take care of myself." He scoffs and she raises an eyebrow at him, motioning down to his newly-acquired scars. He clears his throat, "This incident notwithstanding."

"I can see why you'd think that. You seem to have done well for yourself. I do not know you, Jaskier, but why the both of them would ever think you weak is beyond me." She declares firmly and he gulps down a panicked laugh.

His time away from the Witcher has certainly opened up his eyes to a few things. For one, he's now more aware that he had acted like a damn fool around the magical fucker. He has no one to blame for his situation but himself. And Geralt. He's still reasonably sure that he can blame Geralt for at least a few things.

An alarming amount of responses runs through his head and what ends up leaving mortifies him. "Well, love makes us foolish, does it not?"

Her gaze darkens a little at that, straying away from where she'd caught Jaskier's own. Her shoulders slump and she nods like she knows exactly what he's talking about. Is it possible? Is she another one of Geralt's pining beaus that were never anything more to him than a quick fuck? Oh, Jaskier knows just how highly possible this is. After all, he is probably the only fool that fell in love with the man without even getting a taste of him.

"Yes, it certainly does." Triss agrees and shoots him a feeble smile that he knows far too well. "At least now it makes sense." She pins on to the end and now, well, now he's just confused.

"What does?" He asks huffily, cursing the way that everyone skirts around sensitive topics like they'll get bitten by a basilisk and _die _if they so much as broach them.

"Why he was so adamant to know if you were doing well." Her smile is still brittle as she moves closer to the large table in the corner of the room that holds stacks of books and bottles of various colors. "You see, he had me put a tracking spell on you of sorts. Not the kind that shows your location at all times, no. But the kind that lets me know if your blood is being spilt in a violent way. It's how I found you. The spell leaves much to be desired but it helped in the end. It was what he chose as his payment for his last job here."

Jaskier's entire body freezes over, cold dripping down into his stomach from an unknown source. He shivers at the feeling before his body erupts into indignant flames not visible to the human eye because, despite feeling very real, they are but a metaphor. He tightens his fists at his sides.

"He-" Taking a deep breath, he closes his eyes. "Why did he do that?"

"Because he's worried about you, Jaskier." Triss leans back against the table, observing him with narrowed eyes again.

"He's _worried_ that I will cause _him_ trouble or tarnish his name, is what it is." He scoffs, looking around the room to try and locate his belongings. "He doesn't have any right to be worried about me because – take the spell off, I don't want it. If I am to die by the age of twenty five then so be it. I don't care." He rounds on her, stance firm and demanding.

"Jaskier, come on-" She stands, trying to reach out to him but he's made up his mind.

_Geralt doesn't get to do this._

"No, no. If he were really and truly worried he would have – I don't know. Probably done nothing because it's Geralt we're talking about here and we both know he's thicker than swamp mud!" He waves a hand around frantically, still trying to locate his bag and finally spotting it, along with his muddy cloak, hanging off one of the antlers mounted on the wall. He makes the strides across the large room in record time and plucks his things from the antler-hooks.

"He means well." She repeats her earlier words and Jaskier bites out a loud laugh, cruel-sounding and unbecoming of him.

"You say that but does he really? I don't think he means anything at all anymore. He goes on his merry way saying things and I'm supposed to fork through them and pick out the ones that mean something? No, I'm done doing that. I've been fine so far and I'll be fine again." He throws the cloak over his back and heads for the door. "The spell better be lifted by the time I leave the city." It's an empty threat and Triss knows this as well but she nods all the same.

The town is bustling even during nightfall and he should have probably waited for the sun to rise but he's too angry for that. He needs to leave and he needs to leave at once, Vizima's never done anyone any good and the people here are miserable anyway so why should Jaskier be any different? He could possibly hunker down in a tavern or an inn for the night but they'd take one look at his lute and his face and demand songs of the great White Wolf and then he'd have to sing lest he give himself a bad reputation and – well, not tonight.

His body is still stiff from lying prone for three days but he powers through the pain, looking for the nearest door out of the city. He's never been more determined to reach the Free City of Novigrad than he is now.

He fumes on his way out. Fumes all the way down the stone streets and across the muddy puddles as he approaches one of the large gates and crosses the bridge there. Geralt needs to stay out of his business. Jaskier, to a certain extent, _understands_ why Geralt had sent him away – and he has accepted that. His heart may still long for the boorish man's company but his mind has made peace with the dismissal. He just wishes Geralt would decide if he cares or not before he gets Jaskier's hopes up again for no good reason.

* * *

"And I was _so_ close to Novigrad, too!" He whines as the xenovox starts making noises at him.

"_Hello? Jaskier?" _Yennefer voice comes through the line a little creaky and hushed but he hears it all the same. Sighing, he brings the contraption closer to his face and inspects it.

"How does this thing work? Do I just yell at it?!" He raises his voice, startling his _borrowed_ horse into a protesting neigh.

"_Don't yell, you idiot, I can hear you fine!"_ She hisses at him and he pulls his face away from the box.

"Well, if you can hear me fine then answer me this: what do you want?" He huffs, tired from the day's travels and not in the mood to talk to Yennefer.

She clears her throat very deliberately like she hates to speak the words but she's going to say them anyway. "_I haven't heard a word from you since Tridam, I'm – as you say – 'checking in' on you."_

"Hm," He's well aware that he sounds startlingly like Geralt when he's tired – another bad habit he'd picked up from the Witcher that he hasn't been able to shake. "Well, I'll have you know that I'm still doing well for myself, as you put it. Almost a year on my own and I've not died yet."

"_Except for that time in Vizima,"_ She snorts inelegantly, "_Where are you now?"_

"Somewhere between Rinbe and Oxenfurt." He shrugs to himself, he's about a day away from the town where he'd gone to university but he's sure that he'll bypass it entirely for a couple of weeks in Novigrad. "Probably closer to La Valette than Rinbe."

"_Hold still."_ Her voice cuts out and he stares at the box incredulously. _Hold still?_

He sees a swirling of air and dirt appear in the crisp spring air and the sudden wavering of the horizon before another scene entirely appears and then Yennefer is stepping out the circle and next to his little campfire. He's sure he looks like a gawking idiot but he's not seen this type of sorcery be performed before – it serves as a good reminder of how powerful Yennefer really is.

She looks around his campsite and even looks decently impressed by what she finds.

"Where'd you get the horse?" She asks, taking a seat on a fallen log opposite the one he's leaning against.

"It was a gift." _It was._

"Charmed it out of a young noblewoman's grasp, I'm sure." She nods as if in approval.

"Nobleman's actually. Why are you here, again? And how?" He stows the xenovox into his bag again and leans forward slightly, "I'd offer you refreshments but I'm afraid all I have is water and some oil decidedly _not_ for nutritional purposes."

She scrunches up her face before giving him a deadpan look. "I told you, I was worried."

"And that's very kind of you but haven't we established that you didn't have to be worried about me?" He plucks at the lute in his lap idly, strumming a near-silent tune.

"It's hard not to be worried about you when Geralt's hounding me for information all the time." She rolls her eyes so hard that Jaskier's surprised they haven't vacated her skull yet.

"I hope you haven't told him anything. Let him stew." He plucks a particularly bad note and winces, quieting the strings with his palm.

"No, I haven't. Triss told me about your wishes of remaining _unseen_ by his Witcher-y eyes." She chuckles and procures for herself a cup of wine out of thin air – now _that's_ power.

"Thank you, for respecting my wishes." He nods at her, once again unsure of where the conversation is going.

"It's just funny how – well, how insistent he is that we keep tabs on you. I tried telling him that you're doing well on your own and that you don't need a nursemaid but-" She shakes her head and chuckles. "It's funny."

"It's bloody well annoying, is what it is." He grunts and bats away the rabbit trying to nibble at the bedroll he's sitting on.

"Look, Jaskier..."

"Oh, no. Not that tone!" He brandishes the look as a judge would a gavel in her direction.

"I will not have you make excuses for _him _or in his stead. Triss went on about how he _means well_ but does he really? I'm sure you know what I told her and I stand by it. Meanings and actions are very different in reality, Yen. Actions _hurt_ people and meanings can remain unseen by others. I don't want him to know where I am because I'm tired of him treating me like a child!" He almost smacks the lute into the ground but stops himself short of actually doing it like a petulant sprog would.

Something akin to understanding crosses her features and her entire demeanor goes _soft_. "Oh, Jaskier." She croons with a loving smile like a mother looking at a particularly unruly offspring. "Geralt doesn't know any better. Imagine being told your whole life that you have no feelings, that you don't need anybody and that you never will. And then suddenly that proves to be wrong. How would you feel if someone suddenly took your voice, how _did _you feel when someone almost did?"

He sits back, looking into her violet eyes and contemplates. The Djinn encounter was terrible. He hated not being able to talk and he hated the fact that he wished he'd die rather than lose his voice. It had been truly one of the lowest, most heart-wrenching moments of his life.

"Terrible, it felt terrible." He looks away and into the fire. It's been almost a full year since they'd parted ways and Jaskier had been composing hollowed poems about beautiful men and women that did nothing more than make him feel alone. He's sure that Geralt's doing well,though; going about his business of monster hunting but with the occasional detour to ask about Jaskier and his travels – like he cares.

"He doesn't care. You should tell him to stop pestering unsuspecting sorceresses about me. I don't want him looking out for me anymore." He tosses a few short branches into the fire – it's warm enough to sleep without it but it wards off the wolves he's found so he keeps it lit.

"What do you want him to _do_, Jaskier? I know that he is sorry for what he said without him having to even say it because he looks _miserable_ every time we cross paths. I don't like seeing him hurt and knowing that you're better off without him seems to make it worse." She pinches the bridge of her nose. "I told him of our encounter in Tridam, about how well you were doing. I was impressed, I still am, Jaskier, but he was – well. Maybe he'd gotten used to the idea of someone needing him, after all. So – what do you want him to _do?_"

"I want him to _grovel_." He sneers. "It's beneath him to be broken up about what _he_ did. He's always going on about consequences and whatnot so he should have known better. I'm doing fine, yes, but that doesn't mean I'm not hurt still. I want him to grovel and _beg_ because it's his fault."

She seems taken aback, the wine in the cup sloshing as she flinches. "Huh. I didn't know you had it in you, little bard." She tilts her head this way and that, from side to side as she thinks his words over. "If I can talk him into grovelling, will you take him back?"

"I never had him in the first place." He crosses his arms over his chest.

"Oh, you've had more of him than you even realize, buttercup." She grins, sharp and confident again, back to her old self mostly. "If I can convince him – no underhanded strategies, don't give me that look – where can he find you?"

"I'm not ready to face him yet. I'm going to Novigrad where I'll – I don't know, loiter around for a few months until I make enough coin or I manage convince some naive nobleman to buy me a cottage on the coast." He leans back against the log, closing his eyes. "I was thinking about somewhere near Gors Vellen."

"How long do you think it'll take? For you to be ready, I mean." She asks again.

He hums, a smile curling at his lips. "Let him stew."

* * *

Chapter 02

He doesn't watch the bard walk away to talk to the rest of the people gathered at the side of the mountain. He fumes at the cards he's been dealt by everyone around him and remains adamant that most things are Jaskier's fault in the end.

"You're wrong, you know." Borch throws on his way down the path, right next to where Geralt is standing silently and stewing in his thoughts.

"Spare me." He grunts, not deigning to look at the man as he moves to walk in front of him because Geralt had _apparently_ chosen to stand where the most-travelled road is.

"I'll spare you the suffering, my good Witcher, and tell you that it's not the bard's fault." Borch smiles back at him reassuringly with Téa and Véa staring at him like he'd done something incredibly stupid from behind the dragon.

"Though, he doesn't help out much but when there's trouble – he _is_ certainly someone to hold on to." The man says cryptically and Geralt elects to turn away from him, making his way back to where he'd left Roach.

It's better like this, he decides. The bard was nothing but trouble and even _if_ he didn't attract it, he certainly never kept himself out of it either. He was loud, annoying, persistent, talked too much and never shut up. He was the wrong sort to be hanging out around Geralt. It is a miracle he hadn't snapped at the man sooner – it is a miracle that Jaskier stuck around for as long as he did.

He likes travelling alone. He has his swords, his potions and Roach by his side and that's all that he needs. He didn't need another burden, he didn't need the constant chatter or a pesky bard filling his ears and keeping him distracted more often than he'd like to admit.

His travels are silent for the first time in months, maybe even _years_. He purposefully avoids the direction that the bard had gone in and sets off towards the town opposite. He travels on horseback for three days before he comes to a small settlement. They seem to have a problem with Drowners – much like all the other villages like this do. There's a swamp nearby that needs to be rid of them so he takes the job and with silence as his companion sets to slashing and slicing.

Once he is done he comes back to the people that hired him and they offer him bread and cheese for the road that he accepts. The settlement doesn't have an inn so he rides out, resigning himself to sleeping in a forest somewhere down the road when his eyelids begin closing. It's nothing new. He's been doing this for almost the entirety of his life and if Roach grumbles about the lack of a roof over her head, well, he'll blame Jaskier for getting her used to cushy inns and good grain.

She'll get used to it, so will Geralt. Things will fall back into place without the bard near him and Geralt will continue doing his job while Jaskier is off somewhere else, alone, possibly in danger and unprotected. Well fuck.

* * *

A few months in, near the Kestrel Mountains, in a tavern in the city of Ghelibol, he hears a song being sung. It's a familiar tune, the words to it even more so and Geralt hates how his ears almost seem to perk up before he realizes it's _someone_ _else_ singing _his_ song. He goes into the tavern regardless, just to double check that it's not Jaskier with a sore throat.

He's an idiot, he realizes, after he lays eyes upon the imposter.

An unreasonable amount of anger rises in him and he fights down the urge to hurl his pint of ale across the establishment into not-Jaskier's head. The man can't hold a tune to save his life and the words to the song about the slaying of the mighty dragon are changed from when he'd last heard them. And he _has _heard this particular song before. This entire _situation_ has happened before as well so he controls his breathing and beats himself up over getting his – what? His hopes up? Why would he hope to come across Jaskier now? Certainly, he should be _elated_ that he'd gone these few months without hearing about the bard much. And yet there he is, the third time in as many weeks that he'd heard one of Jaskier's songs being sung by someone other than the author.

"Oh, he's terrible." He overhears one of the maidens in the corner of the tavern say to two of her friends sitting at the same table.

"Dreadful, really. The author, _the real bard,_ should send his hound after all of the minstrels that try and copy his tune. This is a crime!" The other friend waves a hand around angrily and Geralt shares the sentiment.

"Haven't you heard?" The third one leans closer to the other two conspiratorially. "He's travelling alone again. Word has it that he'd gotten bored of the Butcher and left 'im."

Geralt squeezes the wrist of the hand holding the ale, preventing it from contracting around the pint forcefully and cracking it. Pointlessly destroying tavern property will do no one any good.

"Just as well," The first one throws her head back with a haughty laugh. "One can only write so many songs about Drowners and swamp water before the material runs dry!" All three of them descend into a fit of giggles that would be charming were Geralt not fuming silently.

_Jaskier?_ Gotten _bored_? Of _him?_ Only his self-preservation stops him from going over there and demanding to know where they'd heard such nonsense.

_He _was the one that sent the bard on his way! _He_ was the one that didn't need _Jaskier_ depending on him all the time. He's always been alone and he will be alone again.

"That's an ugly color on you, Geralt." A familiar voice says to his right and he knows who it is before she even slides to sit across from him.

He doesn't – he doesn't know how he hadn't heard her enter the tavern, how he hadn't smelled the familiar scent. He hates to think about why that might be – so he decidedly _doesn't_.

"Yen," He grunts, releasing the pint and flexing his fingers since they've gone a little numb from the force of his grip.

"This," She waves a hand in a circle to indicate his face and the expression he's presumably making, "The color _indignant_, it's unbecoming of you."

"What do you want, Yen?" He sighs, taking a sip of the piss they're trying to pass off as ale in this wretched tavern. It had gone warm and slightly stale. How long has he been sitting here, angry that the entertainment tonight isn't Jaskier? And will probably never again be Jaskier?

"Why does everyone assume I _want_ something from them?" She huffs, arms crossed over her ample bosom. She looks – well, she looks good. She always looks good and her eyes are as captivating as ever but if she's here for a roll in the hay – he's afraid that he'll have to decline.

"Because you do?" He looks away as she frowns at him. "Who's _everyone_?"

"I ran into your little bard a few weeks ago." She grins sharply as Geralt's gaze snaps back to her, like she'd won some prize playing a game unknown to him.

"Where?" His hand spasms against the table, he's already counting the coin in his purse mentally and preparing to push Roach to whatever town Jaskier was seen last just to – he pauses. Just to _what_? Just to rush back to him and demand an explanation? _Why haven't our paths crossed yet after so many years of them constantly interlacing?_ To demand an apology? What for? Jaskier hasn't done anything wrong and loathe as he is to admit it, he'd been wrong on that cursed mountain.

"He's doing well." She continues like he hasn't spoken at all. "He was singing at a betrothal banquet. His coin purse was fat and the wine plentiful and flowing into his cup from every pretty maiden that offered it." Her words are deliberate knives like she knows where all of his weak spots are. And she probably does. It's just odd that she knows to target all of the ones with Jaskier's name on them.

"He's doing ... _well?"_ He slumps back against the wall, shrinking away from her vigilant gaze.

"Oh, yes. He's a right hit with everyone! I always hear stories about how he livens up any place that he enters. He's positively radiant. We had a nice chat, too. He says he's been in high demand lately. He's finally making it out there as the famous bard that he's always wanted to be. On his own." She hums, inspecting her nails and then calling over the barmaid to request a cup of wine. "You seem shocked?"

He grunts, at a loss for words – not like _that's_ something new. He expected... well, not _this._ He didn't expect for Yennefer to come back into his life with words about Jaskier and just how _well_ he was doing – _on his own, _without Geralt, without his company or his protection.

"You can't be that surprised. He was fine before you showed up, Geralt, of course he's going to be fine on his own once again." She chuckles and thanks the barmaid as her wine is brought to her. "I'll admit, I _was_ a little worried about him after his hasty departure post the whole_ Dragon Mountains _adventure. But it seems that my fears were entirely unfounded. He doesn't need me, nor you, worrying about him. Imagine that!"

Ah, so Jaskier doesn't _need_ him after all.

Realistically, he knows that what she is saying makes sense. The information is logical and the facts given to him all check out but somehow, something inside him doesn't want to reconcile with the notion that Jaskier is doing fine without _him._

"Where?" He demands again, face contorting and making Yennefer's grin even wider. He hates that smile. It makes him feel like – like she'd somehow won over him. He doesn't know how or what, but something in that grin is very off-putting.

"Oh, come now, Geralt. Why would you want to know that? You've done so well avoiding him so far, I'm sure you'll do just as fine without knowing his location _or_ final destination." She tips the cup and drinks the rest of her wine in one go. Standing up, she dusts off her coat and picks up the bag she's carrying. "He's healthy as a horse. He's fed and watered, well fucked and taken care of. What more could you want for him? I'll see you around, Geralt. Take care and safe travels." She waves lightly, her dark hair bouncing as she exits the dingy establishment.

Was she – was she here with a purpose? Was that purpose to stir Geralt up? How did she know to do this with information about Jaskier? Is he really that transparent? What is there to be transparent about? Is he going to continue down this river of denial and for how long? Oh, mercy please, someone knock him out cold! So many questions and none of the answers!

Angrier than he has been in a while, he drops a coin onto the table and shoves his way out of the tavern. As a self-imposed punishment, he decides to camp out in the nearby forest and hunt for that pack of pesky wild dogs a day early.

In the few months that he'd been on his own, Geralt had come to a startling realization. It was one that he didn't like thinking about but _had_ to every time that the silence of the night air became almost unbearable and the feeling of being alone consumed him. But it was his own fault, wasn't it?

He'd complained, he'd pushed and shoved and he was mean and nasty towards the bard and Jaskier had stuck around regardless. And now that he's gone and Geralt is left to his own thoughts and memories, he loathes admitting that he misses the bard dearly. And that's the realization that he wants to avoid admitting to himself – and anyone else – at all costs. Because Geralt is rarely _wrong. _He hates being wrong. And admitting that he misses Jaskier's company (his chatter, his _presence_) would mean admitting that he had been wrong to send the bard on his way. But most importantly, it would mean that he was wrong in his assumption that life was better without the loudmouthed nuisance by his side.

Because Jaskier wasn't _just_ loudmouthed and annoying. He was, apparently, much more than that – and Geralt had denied the man opportunity to express everything that he is and can be. In his yellow eyes, Jaskier was a womanizer, a soft-hearted poet that fell in love with anyone and anything deemed beautiful. He chased inspiration, traded muse for muse, undertook travels just to write his next greatest poem – just to find the one that will make him rich enough. And Geralt understood _this._ He understood the need to run towards the next job, to go from one town to the next in search of coin and food. He understood this all too well. But he'd apparently misunderstood Jaskier's willingness to accompany him anywhere he went. And now that they're no longer travelling together, he won't get to know Jaskier as anything other than what he's perceived him as already.

Because Jaskier is doing fine without him now.

Which in turn means that Geralt had been holding the bard back all this time. That Jaskier could have been rich and fat, nestled in someone's court by now already had he not dedicated his time and talent to the Witcher. And yet he'd _still _elected to follow Geralt across the map and into danger. And this confuses him enough to make his head ache. Was the bard not in it for the coin? Jaskier _did_ always insist that they were friends. It seems that Geralt had greatly overestimated Jaskier's need for protection and inspiration that he found with the Witcher. He'd greatly overestimated Jaskier's need for _him. _And that stung. It hurt more than he'd realized and his slow-beating heart twinges with it.

Roach whinnies as danger approaches and Geralt grips his sword, dragging the end through the dirt idly as his mind whirrs with this new information.

He takes a sick sort of satisfaction in dispatching the pack of feral beasts – the kind he doesn't experience often. It's never anything personal, it's just a job. But he cuts down each of the dogs with a brutality belonging to the feral beast that lies inside _him_. And luckily, there's a dog for each one of tonight's realizations that he can take his frustrations and rage out on.

Jaskier doesn't need him.

Jaskier doesn't want him around.

He's the one that finds himself wanting the bard's company.

Jaskier had been willing to put up with him for so long because of _something_ that still escapes him.

He misses the bard greatly.

He wants the bard back at his side.

He's possibly never going to have that again and it serves him right.

Because he was wrong – about Jaskier and about what he thought he's always known.

As it turns out, Witchers _do_ have emotions.

* * *

Vizima calls for his help. Well, specifically, Triss Merigold calls for his help. A Gryttie has been terrorizing the waters around the city for the past few weeks and they have had enough of the monster's madness. He takes the job because he's apparently the only Witcher around that Triss trusts and because it's strange to see a Gryttie's so far inland and away from the open seas so something must be amiss. The last one he'd encountered was in the Gulf of Praxeda _years_ ago and that had earned him a nasty scar on his leg.

And well, he owes Triss a fair bit so _that_ only adds to the list of reasons stating why he _should_ accept the job. The list of _cons_ however states: very big, three times your size, rows of sharp teeth, aquatic.

Well, it's not like this is the first time in his life that he'd faced troubles that could swallow him whole. So he sets his course to Vizima and arrives there within a few days worth of travel from Carreras where he'd been purging the local forest of a nasty Kikimore infestation.

Triss welcomes him at the main gates of the city. Sitting poised on her white steed, she looks every bit as regal as any Queen would. She's beautiful and kind and if Geralt were the sort of man that that_ settles down_ – well. He shakes his head, feeling stupid at the sentiment. He knows _who_ he'd settle down with even if he has to actively avoid thinking about it - _him_.

"Triss," He nods his head in greeting and she smiles at him bashfully.

"It's been a while, Geralt." Triss nods her head in the direction of the castle and they set off on a slow gallop through the bustling streets of Vizima. The looming structure looks imposing in the dying sunlight – he's never liked large buildings like this one.

"You look well." He tells her, remembering the last time they'd met and how sad and drained she had looked.

"It's been a peaceful couple of years," She nods, looking away from him and waving to some of the children that are looking up at her in awe from the side of the road.

"That's good." And well, he's not much of a conversationalist. So he doesn't speak again until they reach the castle.

"This Gryttie, do you know how big? Is it an adult or a juvenile?" He asks as they enter one of the man drawing rooms.

"Right down to business as usual, Geralt?" She chuckles and walks over to the shelf in the corner, procuring a glass chalice of something. "It's almost reached adulthood, one row of teeth lacking."

"Hm." _Fuck_, this was going to be exceptionally difficult and will probably fetch him a pretty coin, too. He'll be able to take low-risk jobs for at least a month before the Temerian copper runs out.

"I assume you'll be going in for the _kill it from the inside_ approach?" She takes a sip of her drink but doesn't offer him any. It's for the better, he needs a clear head for this and witches' brew is notoriously potent.

"Unfortunately." He sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. This is going to be very unpleasant and he's not sure if it'll be worth it but – it is the job and the contract must be fulfilled.

"Oh, right." She rummages through the bag thrown over her shoulder briefly before she offers him up a small vial of something. "For your sword, oil it up before you go in. Once it enters the Gryttie's bloodstream it will slow it down – digestion and all."

He takes the offered potion and puts it into his bag; this will definitely help. He nods at her. "I will see you when the job is done."

"Oh! You're leaving already? Well, er, yes. Be careful, Geralt." She nods back at him, her hands fiddling with the edges of her sleeves. She seems uncharacteristically nervous this time around and he wonders why that is briefly before deciding that there's no sense in dwelling on it.

"I'll try." He promises, turning around and leaving the castle.

He hopes that he doesn't die. He still has unfinished business in this world that he'd like to eventually attend to. Most of it relates to Jaskier, thought, so maybe he'd be better off being eaten. Now, it's not his place to be dramatic but he _would_ rather get eaten than swallow his words and apologize. _Acknowledging_ that he was wrong is one thing but _admitting_ so _out loud_ is another entirely.

"Stay here, Roach." He pats the horse's neck and the mare nudges him with her head. "Triss'll take care of you if I don't come back."

With a heavy heart and a heavier sword, he heads for the waters surrounding the city.

* * *

"Fucking – _fuck_." He grunts, shrugging off the heavy leather soaked in blood and water.

It had taken an obnoxious amount of time for the thing to show up. For a monster that has apparently been sinking ships as frequently as twice a week, it had chosen a fine time to take a break. So he'd sat in the little boat that was provided for him, waited, slicked up his sword with the oil Triss had provided and then waited some more. Until the thing struck at last

The little boat he'd was utterly destroyed in the mess and in the end, he'd been swallowed up by the large beast. Triss had definitely been wrong; it _was_ a fully grown Gryttie. The teeth that had nicked and scraped against him and his armour were all there and the row that was missing appeared to be knocked out forcefully by something – a battle perhaps. The sea beast were notoriously famous for swallowing parts of ships whole without chewing so maybe that was why. And much like a small ship, he'd slid down the monster's gullet but unlike the men before him, he was there with his sword up, slicing wherever he could. It was nasty business, trying to cut his way from inside the beast and he hadn't enjoyed it at all. The stench was almost unbearable and the sounds – _Gods_, the sounds were grating and had him wincing with every screech that the monster let out.

But he'd done it. He'd located the Gryttie's beating heart and dispatched of the beast quickly, cutting his way out of the carcass shortly after. He was, of course, covered in guts but thankfully he'd managed to clean off in the lake. He'd made his way to shore, a little worse for wear but alive none the less and that was that.

The people still out and about in the city avoid him in a wide arch. It might be because he still reeks of Gryttie innards or maybe because he looks disgruntled enough to send them all scattering away with the force of his glare alone. Either way, he's glad to be able to pass through the town undisturbed.

It takes a while for him to make it up the stairs to where Triss had notified him that his room would be set up. He must be more tired than he'd originally thought. Well, it should be of no surprise to him – the last time he'd slept properly was months ago. Another plight that he's brought onto himself, surely.

The guards in the castle give him a wide berth as well and maybe being covered in guts isn't such a bad thing after all. He hopes that either the stench or the knock to the head he'd received allow for a good night's rest at last.

Once he reaches his allotted sleeping quarters he opens up the door and is faced with a large bath in the middle of the room, dug into a stone slab that serves as the tub itself. His chest rumbles with a pleased hum and he starts dropping things, making haste towards the steaming and fragrant water and getting naked fast.

"Oh, Geralt! You're back!" Triss' voice echoes through the chamber and he startles.

It's shameful to be caught so off guard yet again. He blames his distraction on the bath and his constant tiredness. He winces and turns to look at her, one foot already in the bathwater.

"I - the job is done." He settles on saying, lowering himself into the bath carefully. The wounds he'd sustained protest at the heat but he ignores the pains and aches and indulges himself by leaning back against the edge of the tub and closing his eyes for a moment.

"You – well, I'm not one to beat around the topic. You look a little worse for wear." Triss approaches him carefully, holding out a little glass bottle of soap for him to use.

"Nothing a bath can't fix." He takes the bottle and pours some out into the water before lathering up his hands with the rest.

"I know you're used to having handmaids scrub you down but it's terribly late and they're all rather scared of you." She chuckles, taking a seat at the wide brim of the stone tub. "Of, course _I _could always help out?"

Geralt's eyes zero in on her face. She looks bashful but sure of herself. Her demeanour is timid but Geralt can smell the arousal in the air and if it were – well, if things were different then he would have taken her up on it without a second thought.

As it were, he looks away and continues scrubbing himself clean. "Monster hunting is dirty work. I don't always have people to wash me clean. I've learned to make do on my own." It's a clear dismissal and her shoulders slump, an incredulous look crossing her face.

She clears her throat and leans back a little but remains seated. "Did it give you any trouble?"

He raises an eyebrow at her, trying to make her aware of the fact that that was a stupid question without outright saying it. "No, no trouble at all. The smell is always the worst."

"Yes, I can tell." She seems just as taken aback by the terse comment as he is and quickly collects herself. "You should let me treat that gash on your shoulder once you're done."

"It's fine."

"It's fine _now_ but Gryttie's are known to carry diseases. You'll let me treat your wounds." She declares firmly before going over to the table next to the hearth and starts preparing for Geralt's healing session.

He sighs, closing his eyes and dunking his head under the water. Everything is much quieter underneath the surface. When he's under he doesn't have to hear the rabbiting of her heart or smell the hurt coming from her. It's not – it _is_ his fault. He knows that he'd given her ample reason to think he was interested during their last encounter and he _had_ been interested then. But there was no time back then and now, well, now he's not sure what exactly is stopping him.

He can't kid himself and say that he's still mourning the loss of Yennefer when he'd never had her in the first place. What they had together was brief, fleeting, hot and heavy and oh, so short-lived. It was fuelled by passion and circumstance and those never stick around for long. And neither did Yennefer. He was foolish to think that they could have something together. It was obvious from the beginning that she was meant for something else, _someone_ else. He just hopes that she finds whoever that is.

He resurfaces with a gasp.

"Ah, good. I was worried you'd drowned." Triss waves a hand at him, "Come on now, out you go."

He doesn't protest and catches the towel thrown his way. Getting out of the tub is always the worst part because he has to go back to facing the world and currently, his world's not doing too well.

He spies a fresh set of bedclothes laid out on the chair next to the table where she'd worked earlier so he heads there. Well, at least he won't have to sleep in his leathers and his rough trousers.

"I'll get someone to clean the armour for you, don't worry." She waves him away as he eyes the set forlornly. "Sit and stay bare-chested so that I can do this."

He obeys instructions because there's a testy note of finality in her tone and he doesn't wish to anger her further if she's going to be treating open wounds on his body. He puts the linen pants on and sits down onto the chair. Watching sorceresses work has always been fascinating. She knows her craft and just like the last time she'd treated his wounds, the pain goes away quickly with the application of a few magical words and sweet-smelling salve.

"So, Geralt."

"Oh, _Gods"_ He throws his head back with force. He knows this tone; this is the tone Yennefer always used before she started prodding and asking questions. He wonders if it's a witch thing or if it's due to their close friendship.

"_So, Geralt._" She says again with a little more force behind the words this time – no room for argument. "I see that you're travelling alone again."

"And I see that you've talked to Yen." He shoots back, wincing as she digs a finger into one of his wound to clean out the lake gunk still lodged in there.

"We've been in touch, yes." She confirms, gentling her hands. "I was surprised at first but it makes sense that he would eventually leave your side. You _were_ always terribly mean to him."

Her words cut harsher than the teeth of the Gryttie had. Is that what Yennefer had told her? That's – that's not what happened at all. "He didn't leave on his own. I told him to go."

"Oh? She might have glossed over that part then. She'd mentioned seeing him briefly and that he was alone. But I'd been hearing about his exploits from the rumour mill. I suppose you can't trust anyone these days." She pats his shoulder, indicating that she needs access to his back so he turns sideways in the chair.

"I sent him on his way." He repeats, hating how he's almost growling as he speaks.

"I see." She hums, tracing one of his old scars idly before focusing back on the task of bandaging and healing. "And why did you do that? Are you not scared that he'll get in trouble on his own? That he'll cause some great _travesty?"_

Oh, she'd definitely talked to Yennefer more than she admits. He knows it and she knows that he knows it. This is a strange game that she's playing with him now and he feels that he's going to lose to a sorceress yet again.

"Because he never shuts up and only causes trouble. And, apparently, he can take care of himself since he seems to be doing _so well_." And there they are, the words as bitter as gull and as darkly intoned as the midnight sky is inky.

"So you're _not_ worried?" She pokes at one of the wounds and he jolts.

"Of course I'm worried!" He slumps forward, elbows on his knees as Triss pats his back in a comforting manner.

"Why not go to him then?" Her voice is light but it pierces his senses because of the words.

_Why_? Well, that's rather simple.

"Because he doesn't need me. Haven't you heard? He's doing _fine._ Who am I to sully his fun?" He hates thinking about Jaskier off on his own and he hates talking about it even more.

"But you need him." It's not a question, not really. She's already made up her mind about the whole situation.

"I don't need anyone." He's adamant, pigheaded and stubborn as a mule and he'll die on this hill of self-denial.

"And yet you want him." She slaps his back cheerfully and twirls away, putting things back into her bag and setting it down by the table.

"I don't."

"Ah, but you're worried regardless. You say you're not friends, yet you crave his companionship? Well, Geralt, I'd say you're as dumb as a horse but I'd be insulting Roach if I said _that_." She giggles, her earlier incredulity seemingly forgotten. "You should go to him."

"I won't." He says even as his whole chest caves in at the thought of never hearing Jaskier's voice again.

"But you'll worry yourself to death if you don't." She tilts her head to the side. He's getting tired of powerful women looking at him like he's an unruly child. Is this how Jaskier felt by Geralt's side? Always inferior and ridiculed? He hopes not – he never meant to make the bard feel that way. And yet, he probably did. To save his own selfish hide – much good that did.

"Then I'll die worrying." He grunts and puts on the provided shirt. She's right, he knows she is. It's one of the reasons that he hasn't been able to sleep well no matter how tired he is. His thoughts always stray to Jaskier, alone and _dead_ somewhere in some forest or next to some road. It needs to stop, he realizes this. He needs to know that Jaskier is alright or he'll lose his mind. He needs to see that the bard is taken care of even if Geralt isn't the one doing the – oh. _Well_.

Triss is holding out a bag of coin for him to take, it's a hefty sum and he itches to take it but... He has some _other_ form of payment in mind.

"No, keep the coin. I need a favour." He pushes the bag away, certain in what he is going to demand.

"Oh?" She looks intrigued. And she should be – Witchers aren't known to trade coin for favour. "What is it?"

"I need you to perform a spell and then I need you to follow through when it activates." He takes a deep breath and turns away from her imploring eyes. "It's a sort of tracking spell, nothing too difficult but it's fickle because it works for certain intent. I need you to – for the bard. If his blood is being spilt violently, I need you to help him."

She's silent for a moment before her face splits into a wide grin. Almost an exact copy of the one Yennefer worse last time. He knows then, that he'd lost the game again.

"My, my, Geralt. Truly fascinating." Her eyes soften then and she cups his cheek gently. "That's very noble of you."

"Hm." He avoids meeting her gaze. "Can you do it?"

"Of course I can. It will take a few days but it will be done." She pats his cheek and picks up her things. "I'll see you around, Geralt." She winks at him before leaving the room.

He drops into the bed like the dead and for the first time in months, sleeps through the night.

There's still a purse half-filled with coin next to him on the bed in the morning and he takes it because _you don't look a gift horse in the mouth._

* * *

Three months shy of a year since Dragon Mountains and Geralt hears from Triss again through one of the mirrors in a dead sorcerer's lair. He's covered in dust and cobwebs and there's a tear across the thigh of his pants but he answers he call because it seems like the sensible thing to do regardless.

"How did you know where to call?" He grunts in lieu of a greeting.

"A simple location spell." She smiles. "It took a while since you're always on the move but I'd managed."

"Why?" He's giving her the short shrift he knows but he needs to go back and track an assassin across the region and that will take weeks and he's _not_ looking forward to it. There's a whole mess to solve here that he's not looking forward to untangling.

"The spell you had me put on Jaskier activated a week and a half ago. I got to him in time, he's fine now, don't worry." She holds up a hand to stop him from talking and then gives him a scathing look like he'd insulted her homeland or something. "He had me cancel the spell so I thought I'd let you know. No, I'm not going to put it back up and no, I'm not going to tell you where he's heading. I'll respect his wishes and keep out of his business."

Geralt's entire body tenses at the information. Jaskier had – he was in danger. But he's fine now. But the next time he's in danger nobody will know and then the bard will _die_ and Geralt will-

"Vizima to Geralt, hello? Anybody in that thick head of yours?" She waves a hand at him, trying to catch his attention but its nigh impossible. "I swear. If I'd known how hurt the bard was by your words and actions I would have never agreed. It was an invasion of privacy on your part, Geralt, shame on you." Her hands are on her hips and he feels thoroughly scolded like he hasn't since childhood. 

"I'm sorry," He chokes out, mind still whirring with the thoughts of Jaskier being hurt and Geralt not being there to help.

"It's not me you should be apologizing to, Witcher." She scoffs. "Some bandits had jumped him outside of the city. No permanent damage but the stab wound and the cut will leave scars." She regards him with a cold gaze, "You truly have no idea, do you?"

"I am _done_ playing these _games_ with you witches." He sneers back at her, anger and irritation making him see red.

"The only one toying with people here is you, Geralt. It's time for you to make up your mind." She turns away, "You either go to him and apologize or you lose him forever."

"He doesn't want to see me." He deflates. He hates feeling this exposed even while fully dressed. All of these women that see right through him, he wonders if he'd always been so transparent or if this is only in regards to Jaskier and his – _feelings._

"He may not want to see the you of _now_ and _then_ but – if you try, maybe he'll want to see the you of _tomorrow_. Your heart beats slow but your mind is quick, I'm sure you'll figure everything out." She regards him once more before sighing. "I have to go, if you need further babying like an infant, I'm sure Yennefer can spare some time." She waves the image of herself away and then he's standing there, facing his own reflection in the mirror. He looks a little harrowing.

It's amazing how Jaskier had managed to win over the affection of both of these women who'd once been so taken by Geralt himself. And it begs to question, was _he_ the bad guy in this story?

_Eugh,_ he grunts. This is precisely why Witchers don't get attached.

There are so many_ what if_s and _if only_s that surge up inside his head at the mere thought of Jaskier that it always manages to give him a headache. He's used to the feeling of regret but never had it been this intense before.

He's _definitely_ the bad guy in this story.

Well, that was horrifyingly easy to decide. It looks like Jaskier had won _his_ affections without Geralt even realizing it, too. Just – serves him right. All his life alone and hopping from bed to bed only to have his entire worldview shifted by a mouthy bard with sky-blue eyes and the voice of a siren.

Now, what to do with this horrifying information?

Well, one thing's for certain – he _does_ need more babying so he _will_ try and track Yen down and talk to her about it. Though, he doesn't know what good _that_ will do him. She's as emotionally repressed as he is.

Sighing, he exits the cave complex. Sadly, his quest to track down Yennefer will have to wait until this mission is over. He can only _hope_ that Jaskier doesn't get into any more trouble while he's busy.

But – but that's not fair, is it? The bard had been doing well on his own and this one incident was probably a lapse in judgement on the bard's part when picking a road to travel. So – so Jaskier will be fine. Geralt believes this now. He knows what he did wrong and if he's ever to accompany Jaskier anywhere again, he'll need to start admitting it, too.

* * *

It takes him a month to finish the job and track Yennefer down. And when he does, she's in a heap of trouble as well.

"Are you _sure_ you asked them nicely?" He grunts, ducking away from an incoming arrow.

"Yes, and they refused so I took it anyway." She throws a blast or something at their pursuers and the explosion has Geralt's sensitive ears ringing.

"What do you even need it for?" He tugs her behind a corner so that she can open a portal out of the mess they'd found themselves in.

"I need it for a spell." She looks away, cheeks uncharacteristically pink and _that _makes him wonder.

"Hm." He follows her through the portal that she'd opened and they step out into a meadow of some kind, the ruby in her hand gleaming brightly in the midday sun.

"Not that I don't appreciate the help but – you've hounded me down with a reason in mind, have you not?" She puts the ruby into a small purse and sits down onto the soft-looking grass. She pats the space next to her expectantly and he relents and sits down as well.

"I – you know where Jaskier is, I need to go find him." There's no sense in avoiding the topic when the both of them know why he's here.

"Last I remember, and last Triss told me, he doesn't want to be found." She plucks out a couple of cornflowers from a nearby bushel and starts weaving them together. "So tell me, why should I betray the trust of a friend?"

"Since when are you friends?" He ignores the surge of unfounded jealousy.

"We're more alike than he knows and _I'm_ not afraid to admit that he's good company." She wrinkles her nose at him, very judging.

He grunts, trying to duck away as she tries to pin the little wreath of flowers into his hair. The color reminds him of Jaskier's eyes too much which is why he eventually lets her braid them into his white strands.

"I want to apologize to him, Yen. I want – I want to do better." He sighs, knowing he sounds dejected and beaten down.

"I know." She pats his knee reassuringly but it comes off as a little condescending. "But I'm still not going to tell you. You hurt him, Geralt, more than you know. And he's gotten over it mostly but the heart wants what the heart wants, I suppose. I'm certain he'll forgive you, but not yet."

"What do you mean?" He turns to fully look at her.

Her eyebrows shoot into her hairline. "The – you're joking, right? You're not joking." She throws her head back in a wail of despair that's entirely too dramatic. "You don't know. You don't know and yet you're willing to crawl back to him. Oh, this is too pure."

"Yen, you're scaring me." He deadpans, wondering what had gotten into her to have her acting like a giddy child. "I want to – I want to apologize and tell him that I'd like to be his friend, that I liked being his friend. Even if only his _friend_."

"Oh, my sweet oaf." She cups his cheek much like Triss had. "It's not my place to enlighten you on this so I won't. But you keep your hopes up because it'll be worth it. I'll talk to him, see if he's willing to forgive yet. I expect you to respect his wishes regardless." Standing up and dusting herself off, "Now, if you'll excuse me I have some jewellery to craft."

"I thought it was for a spell?" He smiles despite himself.

"Of a sort, yes." She winks and then opens up a new portal. "Well, off you go, Roach is waiting."

"Where will I find you next?" He asks, stepping through the portal.

"I'll find _you."_ She waves and before she closes the portal he manages to throw in a quick _please, look after him_ that he's not sure if she heard.

Roach whinnies at him, bumping him from the back. He chuckles lowly and turns around to pat her on the head. "I know, girl, I know."

* * *

He goes about his life. He continues doing jobs and dies a little on the inside every time he hears Jaskier's songs being played by someone other than his bard himself. He stocks up on coins because he refuses to indulge himself in the pleasures of the carnal kind and spends only what he must to keep his swords sharp and Roach and himself fed.

Another month passes before he hears from Yen again. He's somewhere in an inn in the region of Cintra. He's soaking in his first bath in two weeks and enjoying himself with this basic indulgence. He's dozing off when the air starts swirling into a familiar circle. He straightens up and tilts his head.

"You're awfully close to the city of Cintra." Yennefer enters the room, boots thudding against the hardwood floors.

"I'll be leaving soon. No sense in tempting fate." He still shudders at the thought of the _Child Surprise._

"I bring news from our beloved friend, the bard." She throws her arms open with a bright grin and Geralt spies a little emerald glistening against the dark material clipped around her throat that's new.

He sits up, the water sloshing as he stands to attention. "And?"

"Well," She clicks her tongue. "You, my good Witcher, have impeccable taste in both men _and_ women." She's – she sounds _proud_ of all the things and Geralt slumps back down in confusion.

"I'd managed to get some free time so that I could track him down. I _was_ rather busy, you know. And well, we had a nice chat. He's really something else." She taps her chin and paces in a tight circle.

"Yen." He grunts, impatient and ready to act.

"I put in a good word for you, don't worry. But he doesn't seem to have believed me when I said that you were ready to apologize." She laces her fingers together over her stomach before making a grand gesture and taking a bow. "And now, for the main event. Our little songbird has talons, my dear Witcher. I asked him what it would take for him to believe that you were sorry and you know what he said?"

"Out with it, Yen."

"He said that you need to _grovel_, Geralt. You need to get on your knees and beg and he said it with such vitriol that I'd almost jumped him right then and there!" She takes a step back as he surges up from the tub, angry and possessive like a mindless beast at her empty words.

"_Grovel_?" He grinds out, teeth gritting together and fists clenched.

"Oh, yes. Because he thinks that you won't do it. He knows that apologizing is _beneath you_ so he's convinced that it'll put you off and save him further pain." She walks over to the bed and sits down, making herself comfortable.

"I – it's not beneath me." He mumbles, looking down at himself with a frown. Maybe he should put some clothes on.

"I know that, now. But he doesn't. So you need to show him. _And_, if you ever want to be more than friends well – then I suggest you get on your knees for more than just begging, Witcher."

"Yen!" He barks, ashamed at how heat surges through him at the thought.

Well, it's not like he wouldn't do it. Not like he hadn't wanted to do it before. Not like he hadn't _wondered_ what it would be like to-

"No need to get excited just yet." She throws a towel at him and he dutifully wraps his waist in it. "For I bear bad news as well."

A chill running down his spine kills any arousal that he might have felt only a moment prior. He nods but remains silent, waiting for the final judgement.

"He's not ready to hear you out yet. He said a couple of months in Novigrad and then – well, then you can go and seek him out if you so desire. But not yet." She kicks her feet out and bounces back up.

"Of course, the coast." He closes his eyes as grief consumes him. Jaskier always talked about the coast and the cities there. He loved the sea and the warm weather, the breeze and the way the sun would reflect on the waves.

"Give him a little more time, Geralt. And then go to him. And do everything in your power not to lose him again because chances are that you're going to do something idiotic again and the next time, I don't think he'll forgive." She pats his bare chest and goes for the door.

"Yen." He calls out, a lump in his throat. "Thank you."

"Everyone deserves a bit of happiness, Geralt." She says with a nod and leaves the room.

He doesn't think about going to Novigrad, not really. He thinks about how much city life fits Jaskier and about how the bard would do well to settle into a court somewhere for a full-time job. He thinks about all of the things Jaskier had sacrificed for him and about how little he'd gained in return.

Yes; Geralt was definitely the villain of the story and now – now it was time for his redemption arc.

* * *

Chapter 03

Novigrad was good. Novigrad was something new and yet something so familiar. It brought back memories of his youth that he'd forgotten. Well, not like it'd been _that_ long since he'd last been there but sometimes, Jaskier felt like it had been a lifetime. Novigrad was a thriving community of diverse _personalities_, assorted _individuals_, contrasting _simpletons_ and so much more. It was as colourful as it was dreary. And much like any large city, it has its city districts that vary one from another just as much as its citizens do.

Jaskier was aware of this going in, and he planned on using it to his advantage. So once he sets foot into Novigrad, a year and a week after he'd left Geralt's side, he gets to work.

He charms his way into singing in one of the taverns by the docks called the _Bottomless Barrel_ and spends a few weeks going between that particular tavern and an inn a few streets into one of the nicer parts of the city. Once word gets out that he's in town, the demand for his songs becomes greater but he keeps his job as semi-permanent entertainment at the Bottomless Barrel and sings there for the fishermen and for anyone willing to spare a coin. The owner gives him a room above the tavern once it's clear that the amount of business that he brings in is worth it and he settles down there for the moment.

He still takes the odd invite to sing here and there across the city and people follow him wherever he goes. The ability to attract an audience when it matters has always been one of Jaskier's best selling points so he utilizes it whenever he can. And maybe this sort of thing wasn't that desirable out there in the _real world_ but here in the walls of the Free City, well, people pay a pretty coin for his talents.

He gets commissioned to write poems for lowly noblemen who aren't equipped with the talent or brains but _do_ want what's between their loved one's legs and he accepts. He might as well utilize someone else's love as inspiration since his own had grown jagged and rough. He writes songs for the townsfolk and he writes poems for the poor fools in Oxenfurt when they can't come up with any of their own.

Around the two months' mark, one of the Big Four calls for him and he has no choice but to accept the call and head towards Francis Bedlam's court. The Putrid Grove, or _The Garden of Liberty, _is an enclave in the district of Lacehalls within Novigrad. It's a refuge to those who escaped the Witch Hunts and it's not a place Jaskier had frequented before. All things considered, Francis was rather altruistic. And his Grove _was _near where Jaskier had been living so it was a wonder that it had taken that long for him to be summoned.

Francis hires him to sing at one of his celebrations and Jaskier earns more coin that night than he has in a while. He stows it all under one of the creaky floorboards in his room and bides his time until he can buy a little house on the coast.

The King of Beggars still calls him back on occasion and Jaskier makes the required coin much sooner than he'd expected. And yet he sticks around.

Five months in and he's still inexplicably attached to the small room above the Bottomless Barrel and the little nest of swallows that's nestled into the corner of his window. He feels safe in the city – despite getting beaten up once or twice during his stay. He feels like he can stay there and maybe write those memoires he's always talking about.

But – but the city doesn't bring peace to his rattled heart so he informs the owner of the Barrel that he'll be taking his leave.

The man is sad to see him go but accepts the decision with a good-natured pat on the back. Jaskier knows that it must be tough to lose your main entertainer but such is the way of life. Sometimes you lose the things that bring you joy and you just have to live with it.

So he picks up his things, his bags of coin and the horse he'd borrowed and heads for Gors Vellen.

He hates that his heart constantly tugs him towards the coast, towards the place he heeds from but he's always followed his heart anyway so why should this be any different? He doubts that he'll spend the rest of his days in the cabin he will eventually procure. But it will be a nice place to settle down in alone for a while.

Word of his arrival at Gors Vellen spreads fast and he is called to court in order to perform for the local nobility and Jaskier has learned that refusing nobility anything is never a good idea.

Unfortunately, the word spreads as far as Kerack and Cidaris so people from all over there come and see him as well. It's a mess that lasts for three days and by day three, Jaskier is tired enough to slink away with his coin and head for one of the coastal villages. He wishes he could have had time to scout the area first but – he's always been good at making things up on the fly.

* * *

Surprisingly, Yennefer is the first visitor that he gets.

She shows up at his door, two months after he'd settled into the cottage, and shoves a bottle of wine at him before entering the house without a word.

She looks around the room that that holds a moderate hearts with an oven, two tables and four chairs, some shelves and a rack for his lute, with a critical eye before nodding in approval.

"Humble, not entirely unexpected." She voices and then takes a seat at the table.

"Hello, Yennefer! No, no _it's so nice to see you, yes I've been well? How have you been? Good? That's excellent to hear!_" He waves his hands around as he pretends to hold a proper conversation with her and she watches with amusement in her eyes. She looks – well, _kinder_ than the last time he'd seen her and he wonders why this is.

"Yes, I'm doing well, too, Jaskier." She chuckles and he opens up the bottle, pouring them each a cup.

"What brings you to my humble abode, O' Powerful One?" He sits opposite to her, one leg propped up on the seat of his chair and his elbows on the table.

She eyes his twisting form with a smile, "I wanted to see if you were settling in."

He sweeps a hand out around the room. "As you can see, I have everything that the heart desires." He winces immediately after; the topic of one's heart is always a sore one.

The skittering of nails against wood distracts Yennefer from what she was about to say next and he watches her eyes light up as his dog, Butters, comes bounding into the room with his tail wagging.

"Jaskier! Who's this handsome little fellow?!" She croons and drops out of the chair, hands scratching the dog's scruff with care and enthusiasm.

"His name is Butters. He came by one day looking for food and stole the nearest neighbour's chicken so I paid the man for the chicken and saved him from getting cleaved in half by the old grouch." He shrugs, whistling briefly before the dog runs to his side. "Watch this." He ambles over to the wall and picks up his lute.

He strums a few cords and starts up a low hum of a familiar tune and Butters starts howling with him. Yennefer cackles, her smile radiant as she claps.

"He's a natural! Soon he'll run you out of the business!" She pats her knees and the dog wiggles his way back towards her. "He's so cute." She coos and scritches under the dog's white maw. "Looks a bit like a wolf, don't you think?"

"I've noticed but he hasn't eaten me yet, so I'm holding out hope." He chuckles and takes a sip of the wine. It's the good, expensive kind he hasn't had since he'd left Novigrad. He hums in approval.

"You know, I caught one of your performances back in Gors Vellen while I was in town." She sits back up but keeps one hand on the dog's head, still petting the soft fur. "You look much better now than you did then. I like the," She motions to his head and the hair that had grown out a little without him cutting it. "Look."

"I wasn't planning on performing in Gors Vellen, let alone for three days." He sighs, relaxing into the chair. "They'd caught me off guard and while the pay was good, I needed a break."

"You'd made quite the name for yourself, Jaskier." She hums, tilting her cup towards him as if to congratulate his success.

He rubs the back of his head, feeling uncharacteristically shy about it. He supposes praise that comes from tentative friends means more than the praise of strangers stroking his ego. "I guess I have. Though, I'm taking my dramatic break at the moment so you can only hear my songs sung by others for now."

"Ah, are you sure I can't hire you for a _private _performance?" She purrs and he feels the tips of his ears heat at the words. She notices, of course, and chuckles. "Relax, songbird, I'm otherwise engaged." She taps the ribbon nestled around her throat that has a gleaming emerald on it and he leans forward to inspect it better. The emerald is surrounded by elegant filigree of silver and it looks like it cost more than Jaskier's house had.

"Well I'll be thrice damned! Congratulations, Yen, I'm – I'm glad." He smiles, feeling warm and giddy because one of his friends is finally being treated right. "Oh, you must let me write a song about it! It's going to be a sprawling ballad with highs and lows! Maybe I make an appearance in it! Oh!" He taps his hands against the table excitedly, inspiration striking even without knowing exactly _who_ she's betrothed to.

"You're almost as happy as I was," She smiles a cheeky little smile, so very genuine that makes him wish he were better at painting so that he could capture it forever.

"Why wouldn't I be? With the live you've lived – it's not every day something so marvellous happens! You deserve to be happy, Yen." He leans back and reaches to fetch his notebook and quill. His hands are itching to start writing again – this is the most excitement he's gotten in weeks now. His last song was about Butters and how lucky he is to be able to lick his own balls.

"Yes, I do. And so do you, Jaskier." She leans forward and laces her hands onto the table. "Is it time? Is the _stew_ done cooking?"

He sighs deeply before inhaling sharply. His fingers tap against the notebook that holds most of his _personal_ works erratically as he looks around the little cabin he'd worked so hard for.

It was easy to forget his woes once he'd had an established routine of singing, writing and entertaining. It was easy to get lost in the streets of Novigrad and in all of the people around him. It was almost easy to not think about Geralt – mostly during the day. It was easy to busy himself with the dog he'd adopted and the horse he'd borrowed and the little garden at the back of the house that he tended to. But he's always known that his busywork wouldn't mend his heart.

He thinks about the man now, though, about his cat-like eyes and his white hair, his barrel chest and his deep voice. He thinks about how Geralt sacrifices so much for the people he serves and how unfair it is that they put so much pressure on him. He knows Geralt's had a life like he couldn't even imagine but – but he's still firm in his belief that the Witcher needs to apologize.

But he'd also be lying if he said that he didn't miss the idiot brute. He missed travelling a little as well. He'd forgotten how hectic city life could be. Out there in the wilderness, under the stars, everything is so much calmer. It was easier to compose in the silence, easier to write when you're not burdened by the eyes of others on your back – easier when your muse is right there next to you.

Butters scampers over to him and puts his paws on his thigh. He smiles at the white dog, "Hey, boy." He smooches him on the forehead and gets a hearty lick on the cheek in turn.

"I know you've already got one white wolf in the house but is there room for one more?" Yennefer grins and Jaskier can't help but laugh.

"You know, if you try a little harder, you might be able to teach the other one some tricks too." She tacks on with chuckle and an eyebrow wag.

"Yen!"

* * *

He doesn't get many visitors, even less of the ones that come knocking instead of snooping around the back and trying to steal his carrots or poison his horse out of jealousy.

So when he hears a knock on the door, three months after his last visitor that was Yen came around, he naturally assumes it's her again. But when he opens the door he's met with a leather-clad chest and the tight line of Geralt's shoulder.

"Oh." He takes an involuntary step back – he'd almost forgotten how imposing Geralt could be at times with all that bulk on his frame. Butters barks from the bedroom and Geralt's eyes zero in on the door to it across his shoulder momentarily before he's meeting Jaskier's gaze again.

"Hello." Geralt's voice grits like he hadn't spoken in weeks and Jaskier, much to his embarrassment and dismay, feels his knees trying to buckle like he's a fair maiden.

"Geralt." He crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the doorway for stability. "What brings you to this neck of the – coast?"

Geralt's jaw works as he tries to come up with the words to respond with. It's amusing watching him concentrate and carefully pick and choose from what little vocabulary he has. And for Jaskier's consideration, too! Admirable.

"I – wanted to see you." Geralt settles on saying and Jaskier _really_ hadn't been expecting _that_. For Geralt to say that he wanted to apologize? Maybe. But for Geralt to just admit that he missed seeing him enough to track him down – albeit, not in as many words? Never.

"Well," He straightens up and curtsies for the Witcher dramatically. "Here I am. Jaskier of Lettenhove, Bard _Extraordinaire_."

"Hm," Geralt grunts like he's irritated but his face is _open_ for the first time since possibly the _Cintra incident_. And worst of all – he's _smiling_. How is Jaskier supposed to combat _that_?

He clears his throat, still adamant to try and remain impartial to the other's presence. "And now you've seen me. I have to go feed my dog." He turns to walk back inside but stops at the sound of Geralt's voice calling his name.

"_Julian_." There are two thumps against the wood and he turns towards the sound slowly.

"What – what are you _doing?"_ He hisses, looking around futilely to see if anyone's in danger of seeing this because – Geralt is _kneeling_ on his front porch, thick thighs spread and his hands resting on them almost peacefully.

"I'm – _grovelling." _ Geralt responds and Jaskier startles, arms flapping out in distress.

"You-" His voice fails him for the first time since he's learned how to talk at the early age of five months. And it's because of Geralt. This ridiculous, gorgeous, dumb _buffoon_ who's kneeling in front of him doing something he'd told Yennefer he wanted from him in a fit of petty spite.

"I'm sorry." Geralt says lowly. "I was wrong. I was wrong and it was wrong of me to send you away like that."

"Yes, you were. And yes, it was." He confirms, falling back into being stoic now that he knows Geralt is willing to face what he'd done.

It's odd – he used to think that he'd forgive Geralt immediately upon hearing those words like a lovesick farmhand. But right now, as he's hearing them – well, he's only thinking about how shitty he'd felt and how condescending Geralt was towards him most of the time. He's promised himself that he would not be a fool again so Geralt will have to try better than this. Because the Witcher isn't good with words but he's only infinitesimally better with actions. Willingly kneeling at Jaskier's feet is a good start but it's not enough. Because Geralt knows only harsh words and non-reactions and he's going to have to _learn_.

At least knowing you did something wrong was a step in the right direction.

"Well, it was good to see you." This time he _does_ go back inside and even closes the door. He goes about cooking lunch and doing his chores and tries to ignore the fact that he can still see Geralt's shadow from under the door. He doesn't sing that night like he usually would, doesn't give Geralt the satisfaction of hearing him.

The shadow stays there until the sun goes down but Jaskier stays firm in his decision.

Not even a couple of turns of the hourglass later, Yennefer contacts him via xenovox as he's lounging in his large bed with a cup of wine in his hand.

"_Well, I have to say, you keep surprising me, little songbird." _Her voice makes him startle and he scrambles across the room to dig out the box from one of the chests.

"Already?" How? He whines, a little embarrassed about being so difficult for everyone to deal with.

"_I'm hiding out in Gors Vellen._" She doesn't sound happy about it and he can't blame her, it's not a pretty town.

_"Enough about me, though. You sent him on his way, huh?"_ She huffs out a laugh and he rolls his eyes, she sounds entirely too amused by all of this.

"Yes, well. If he comes back again, I'll think about it." He lies back down, rolling onto his back and staring at the rafters of his thatched home.

"_Good. You should make him work for it. You said you wanted him to grovel-"_

"I didn't think he'd actually do it! He got down on his knees and everything!" His voice pitches high enough that it makes Butters whine from the foot of the bed.

_"Oh! He didn't tell me _that_ part!" _There's a sound that isn't unlike that of a bottle being opened and he wonders when they'd both become middle-aged, noblewomen trapped in loveless marriages drowning their sorrows in wine.

"He did. Gods, I don't – that almost had me, I have to admit." He chuckles and Yennefer hums like she knows exactly what he means. Well, she probably does.

_"He's going to come back, you know. He cares enough to do that."_

He sighs, "I know. I hope so."

* * *

Butters wakes him up by barking very loudly very early in the morning of the next day. It has to be just after sunrise when the dog starts yapping at the front door and startles him out of a rather pleasant dream.

"You damn mutt." He grumbles and rolls out of bed with a heavy heart. The dog just probably wants a piss so he should do the responsible thing and let the poor animal out.

He runs a hand through his hair and scratches at his chin where a fair bit of scruff had grown to cover his face. It's still warm out but it's going to get cold sooner than he'd like and being by the sea already gives the house a chill during the night so he's looking forward to going back and sleeping some more in his warm bed.

"Yes, yes. I'm coming." He hits his hip on the corner of the table in the front room and winces at the bruise that's sure to sprout there in a couple of hours.

"Out you go, you beast." He unlocks the door and tugs it open violently. But the dog doesn't move, just keeps barking and growling by his knees.

"He seems lovely." The rumbling voice from the other side gives him a fright and the yell he lets out is very undignified.

"Geralt! Monkey's arse, don't _do_ that!" He grips at his chest where his heart is making a valiant effort of bursting out of his body.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't expecting you to be awake."

"That's creepy, you weird, _weird_ man!" He stomps his foot down and Butters snaps his maw shut, looking up at him with wide, blue eyes. "Not you, sweetheart. I'd never yell at you." He croons and bends down to give his best boy his customary forehead smooch.

"You got a dog." Another non-reaction from Geralt. He's always been very good at those.

"Your skills of observation remain unparalleled. I also have a horse; his name is Yaruga, like the river." He waves down at the dog, "This is Butters."

"Hm." And then, again, Geralt gets down on his knees but this time he holds out a hand for Butters to sniff at. The traitorous hound starts wagging his tail and approaches Geralt like the happy little beast that he is, all too glad to get pets from strangers.

"You – harlot." He snorts, turning back inside to pick up the water bucket – he might as well get on with his day, it's not like he'll be able to sleep _now_.

"He's – nice." Geralt comments and well – there Butters is, on his back, letting Geralt rub his belly.

"He's _well behaved_." He says with squinted eyes, wondering if Geralt will take the hint. He walks over back to the two and thrusts the bucket out to the Witcher. "Go find the well and fill up the bucket." He doesn't say more as he drops it next to Geralt and whistles for Butters to come back inside.

He doesn't look but he hears Geralt ambling away to try and locate the watering hole that Jaskier visits on most mornings and some nights. It's a little ways away and he'd developed a solid set of arm muscles hauling the water and wood from the woods but he doesn't think Geralt will have any issues with it.

"You – you're a traitor, you know that?" He points an accusing finger at Butters but the dog just opens up his mouth and lets his tongue loll out innocently. "You're so lucky you're cute."

There's a little stable out by the garden where Yaruga resides and the horse neighs as he approaches with the bag of oats. "Yes, yes. I'm here. Hold your horses, ha _ha_." He chuckles and runs a hand up the horse's dark head. He proceeds to feed the steed while humming a song low in his throat only for the animals and the nature around him to hear.

"You – are a _gorgeous_ beast." He says to the horse and Yaruga bumps him with his head. Talking to animals is another thing that he'd picked up from Geralt but this one he's not sorry that he did. He'd have gone half mad if he didn't talk to his two beastly companions on a daily basis.

A throat is cleared somewhere behind him and he does his best not to startle this time. His back does go a little tense in surprise but he rolls his shoulders to relax it.

"Where – should I put this?" Geralt hold out the bucket and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Pour it into the trough there," He motions to where Yaruga's water is running a little low.

_Yes, _he thinks as he watches Geralt do as he's told, _this'll do for now._ "Now go fill the bucket again, I need to water the garden."

"You do this every day?" Geralt looks to the fenced-off garden and the stacks of hay in the pen next to Yaruga's and then back at Jaskier.

"This is the last of the vegetables. The season's turning is near. But yes, I've been doing this ever since I planted the garden and settled down here." He whistles shortly again and Butters bolts outside of the house, very excited to be out and about in the morning air.

"Hm."

"Eloquent." He scoffs and turns towards the shoreline. This is one of the reasons that he'd wanted this house in particular even if it was a little worn when he'd first procured it. The view was stunning and walking along the beach was always a treat.

"It's – impressive." Geralt finally amends and Jaskier turns to him with a nod.

"Thank you." He hates how the praise affects him, fills him with warmth. He's still so gone on the man and the absence only made the heart grow fonder despite the anger simmering there alongside the admiration and adoration.

Yaruga whinnies as Geralt leaves again and he takes a couple of strands of the horse's dark mane to braid. "He's alright, you know. I know he stinks of death but he's – alright. No need to get testy."

The second time Geralt returns with the water, Jaskier instructs him on how to water the plants and in which order.

"Not on the leaves, you dolt, once the sun hits they'll wilt! Careful with the radishes." He points to a patch of small green leaves and Geralt shoots him a look that he counters with a raise of his eyebrows. Geralt swallows his words and carefully pours half a cup under each little sprouting of leaves.

Once they're done with that and Geralt had brought down another bucket, he pats the Witcher's chest and shoos him away.

"Thank you, that was very helpful. I'll see you tomorrow." He closes the door in Geralt's face yet again and feels a little better about it this time.

Because Geralt came back. And he helped Jaskier take care of his garden. And most importantly, he listened to what Jaskier said without complaining.

Maybe he's not ready to hear Geralt's voice yet but he's definitely ready to see him grovelling for a little longer.

* * *

The next morning he wakes to the sound of someone in his house. He has enough wits about him to grab the short sword he'd purchased in Gors Vellen when one of his neighbours tried to steal his horse before he heads out into the front room.

"You useless cur!" He chastises Butters who's lounging by the fire burning in the hearth.

"He put up a valiant effort until I bribed him with food." Geralt shoots him a glance from the table in the corner where he's gutting a rabbit. "Nice sword."

"Thank you, it's served its purpose." He huffs and throws the weapon to the floor.

Geralt freezes and turns to look at him slowly, his hands eerily covered in blood and rabbit guts. Disgusting. "You've – used it?"

"Well, _yes_. I've bought it to use it." He crosses his arms over his chest and Geralt drops the knife he was holding onto the table.

"You've stabbed someone with it?" Geralt, walking ever-so-slowly towards him, questions and Jaskier snort.

"Oh, no, no, no! _Dear Lioness of Cintra_, no! I bought it to chase away the snooping neighbours." He pats Geralt's chest and frowns at the blood dripping onto the floor from the Witcher's hands.

"Oh." Geralt's shoulders ease and Jaskier realizes, with startling suddenness, that Geralt had been _worried_ that he'd _killed_ someone – or something, at least. And that's – well. It's oddly endearing that Geralt's concerned that he could be affected by his theoretical first kill. Which – Jaskier's stabbed a man before; it would hardly be the first time. Last year alone he took out one of the bandits that had attacked him before they stabbed him in the kidney and Triss came to chase them away.

"Now, if you're going to keep coming around, Geralt, I want to make a deal." He clears his throat, hopes that he doesn't look as messy as he feels in his sleep-rumpled shirt and breezy linen breeches.

"Mh," Geralt sounds surprisingly agreeable so Jaskier continues.

"I want a gloves off approach, Geralt. If you're going to stick around I want you to tell me that you know and acknowledge the fact that I can take care of myself. No more unnecessary comments or derisive insults about my capabilities." He demands, wondering if it will be too much for the Witcher – if Geralt's sensitive ego can follow his needs.

The Witcher's eyebrows draw close together in contemplation and Jaskier sees his jaw working again before the oaf nods. "Alright. I'm sorry. No more – no more insults. I'll trust in your competence."

"Good. Now, then. I need to-"

"Already taken care of. There's a fresh bucketful next to the basin."

"What about-"

"Fed, watered – both the horse and the garden."

"Well." He huffs, both a little mad and impressed. Geralt was stealthier than Jaskier thought if the Witcher had managed to do all of his morning chores while he slept. "What are you doing now?"

"Preparing for lunch." Geralt shoots him another secretive smile and Jaskier blinks rapidly, wondering what sort of dream had he walked into. Though, he guesses that Geralt is too dressed – even without the leather – for it to be one of Jaskier's dreams.

"Well what am I supposed to do? You've done my morning routine without me." He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. He knows that Geralt meant well but Jaskier still can't help feeling a little babied by the actions. It was _sweet_ – just not in a way that Jaskier needed it to be.

And surprise, surprise. Geralt's face falls a little, like he'd realized what he'd done and how Jaskier had perceived it. The Wither steps forward again, closing some of the distance between them and for a moment, Jaskier is afraid that the man will drop to his knees again.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean – it wasn't my intention to imply-" The pigheaded man starts but Jaskier waves him off. He doesn't mind it as much as long as the Witcher knows what he'd done wrong.

"It's fine. Just – wake me up next time, yeah?" He yawns and turns back to his room. "I'm going back to bed; you know where to find me up if you need anything."

He crawls back under the covers and rests his head on the goose feather-filled pillow. What a strange morning. He has no doubt that these three days are just the beginning, though. And he knows, that if he can help it, then Geralt will continue grovelling for as long as Jaskier can hold out before he forgives the idiot fully.

In the afternoon, when the smell of cooked food wakes him up, he finds Geralt gone and Butters napping in front of the back door. He eyes the stew swinging in the kettle above the fire wearily and sniffs it. It doesn't not-smell like it usually does when Geralt cooks but rather, it has a pleasant aroma – like the man had used actual spices and vegetables in it. He sees that there are two bowls set out on the table with a fresh baked loaf of bread there as well. And? Geralt cooked _and_ baked?

_Wait till Yen hears about this._ He thinks idly as he stirs the stew and tries a bit of it from the ladle. It's – well, it's delicious and there's no two ways about it. Geralt had cooked for them – for him. He'd gone through the trouble of this simple indulgence for Jaskier's sake. His stomach warms at the thought and his cheeks heat.

"Butters, where's the big brute? Go find him, boy!" He claps his hands and Butters springs up onto all fours excitedly, tail wagging and his entire body with it as he comes to stand in front of Jaskier.

"Go get the Witcher!" He jumps up in place and Butters imitates him, letting out a bark before running for the back door again. Jaskier hurries up after the dog and opens the door, watching as Butters becomes a blur of white heading across the grass out back towards the cliffside where a figure sits facing away from the house.

He watches as Geralt lets himself be toppled over by the yapping mutt and allows the dog to lick at his face. Butters seems to get the idea because in the next moment, the dog is biting at the sleeve of Geralt's dark shirt and tugging him in the direction of the house. Geralt gets the message easy enough and the two white wolves make their way back.

"The stew's done." He says once he's certain that Geralt will hear him.

The Witcher nods, patting the dogs head and sending him towards Jaskier who readily stops the stupid thing from jumping up and muddying his white shirt. "You rabid cur, fuck off." He dodges the next attempt and the dog finally gives up after that.

"He seems like a handful." Geralt comments conversationally and Jaskier snorts.

"I'm used to dealing with difficult beings." He mutters, walking over to the hearth and picking up the kettle. He brings it to the table and motions for Geralt to sit at the available chair.

It's – a little uncomfortable. Jaskier doesn't remember it being uncomfortable before. Probably because he was always the one filling the silence with useless chatter but now they're both silent and – it's a little uncomfortable. He wishes he knew what to say. He can write a thousand sonnets about the simplest of things but he can't come up with a single verse for the man that he's in love with that's sitting across from him. And maybe it's because Jaskier still isn't sure where he stands on accepting Geralt's apology – and maybe it's because he's fairly certain that Geralt knows how he feels, but, either way – he remains silent.

"You-" Geralt clears his throat, pausing to chew the supple meat before continuing. "You mentioned Lettenhove."

He tilts his head, wondering what Geralt is aiming at here or if he is simply interested in Jaskier's origins. "Yes, Julian Alfred Pankratz of Lettenhove. _Viscount_ to be exact. You – well, I guess you _wouldn't _know."

"Huh," Geralt blinks at him dumbly – in a sort of adorable way, like a dog.

He throws one of the smaller bones towards where Butters is and the beast catches it midair. "Not everyone can afford the education I've had. Seven liberal arts they called it at the Oxenfurt Academy." He doesn't like thinking about his education days – there was always something that made him wince when he remembered the long and boring lectures he'd been forced to attend when he'd rather have been out in the world gathering inspiration.

"Mm," Geralt looks down at his stew bowl and Jaskier expects that he's done speaking on the subject, like usual but then the man speaks again. "I – I'm not really of Rivia."

"Lies!" His mouth pops open – "Could it be? Geralt of Rivia – not actually _of Rivia_?"

Geralt's mouth tugs up in a smile and he nods. "I grew up in Kaer Morhen. And we were encouraged to make up surnames. Vesemir chose mine."

"What, couldn't come up with one on your own?" He grins, tilting forward, half of his food forgotten in order to give Geralt his full attention because Geralt sharing information about himself happens once every _never._

"I – did. It just wasn't good." Geralt looks away.

"What was it?"

"Jaskier."

"Come on, you know my full name. It's only fair." He blinks at the Witcher innocently, doing his best impression of Butters when he wants a chunk of Jaskier's good dinner meat.

"Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde." The man grinds out and Jaskier doesn't stop the yell of pure glee that escapes him.

"Well thank the Great Sun for Vesemir, then!" He cackles, his leg skipping with it and Geralt – well, he doesn't look like he much minds the sudden noise for once.

"Yes, we were all lucky to have him."

Geralt washes the bowls and takes the rest of the stew for himself on Jaskier's insistence – only because it would just go bad in the house otherwise, of course. And when he leaves, he looks back with an awkward wave that makes Jaskier's heart a little less icy.

* * *

"So what you're telling me is that – he cooked a romantic lunch for you two and baked you this bread?" Yennefer asks the next morning, stuffing her face with the remnants of said Geralt-made bread from yesterday.

"Are you alright? When's the last time you ate?" He pushes the bit of cured meat in front of him to her side of the table and Yennefer takes it with a grin.

"Mmh," She muffles her response with the meat and the cheese.

"And it wasn't a _romantic_ lunch. It was just a regular meal." He huffs, pushing the cup of ale she'd poured him earlier from hand to hand.

"It's more than what _I_ ever got." She scoffs, sending crumbs flying out of her mouth.

He grimaces and leans back to avoid any possibility of the mess reaching him. "Well, then he must be serious about apologizing."

"You're an idiot." She states with a roll of her eyes, "And I mean that in the most loving of ways, little songbird."

"Thank you, that really comes across as fond." He pouts.

"And where's the man of the hour now?" She looks around as if she's expecting to see the Witcher pop out from one of his cabinets and surprise them both.

"Oh, um. Well. Yaruga needed his horseshoes replaced and I was going to do that today but then Geralt came by and he just – took the reins and asked if he could do it." He rubs at the back of his neck, feeling hot under her piercing stare.

"He _asked_ if he could do it?" She says the words carefully and smacks her lips together like just saying them had left a bad taste in her mouth. "Are you sure he didn't just grunt and take the horse without any comments?"

"No, he asked. I'm sure he asked. Unless I'd hit my head getting out of bed this morning; he said: _do you want me to take him to the blacksmith?"_ He lowers his tone in the best imitation of Geralt he can do and Yennefer snorts loudly at him.

"Now I've heard it all!" She announces cheerily, purple eyes tearing up with mirth and – alright, maybe Jaskier is glad that he can entertain her so easily because hearing her laugh is rather nice.

"Yes, well, he came here to grovel did he not? He must _really_ want to apologize if he's being all polite and _nice _about it." He'll admit that it's a little suspicious but Geralt seems to be genuinely trying to make up for what he did and Jaskier is well aware that the other could flip on him in a moment's notice but he'll trust the Witcher this once and think of his intentions as pure and goodness-fuelled.

"Jaskier, my sweet boy." She croons – only a little condescending. "In all my years of knowing Geralt I've never known him to ask for permission before doing anything so mundane."

"I don't think I like what you're trying to imply here." He looks away from her gaze again – she's always intimidating when she's looking at him like _that_.

"There's nothing to imply if it's all true." She taps the tip of her nose in an odd fashion and then turns to the door briefly before bursting out into laughter that's entirely too eccentric.

For a moment he's worried that she's lost her mind but then the door opens and Geralt walks in, pausing at the sight of the two of them.

"Oh, Jaskier! You always know how to make a lady feel special!" She squeals in fake delight and Jaskier thinks _he's_ losing his mind. But then he notices how Geralt's shoulders tense and how his cat eyes narrow at her with something disgruntled in his gaze and oh – is she trying to make Geralt _jealous?_ Of _her?_ _In Jaskier's stead?_

"Oh, hi, Geralt. What brings you here?" She eases back into her sultry tone and Jaskier is worried he's bleeding internally in his head because this is all entirely too _odd_.

"Brought Yaruga back." The Witcher eyes the bread on the table and how Yennefer had hoarded what was left of it with disdain clear on his face.

"I hope he behaved. He's got a bit of a temperament." Jaskier stands up, fiddling with his sleeves as he walks over to the window to check if the horse is grazing at the small pasture.

"He was good." Geralt confirms with a light hum.

"That's excellent. How much do I owe you, for the horseshoes?" He tugs the coin purse out of one of the chests under the window and turns to the Witcher.

"It's – my treat. You don't have to worry about it." Geralt stares him down as he gapes.

"Don't be ridiculous, you know that I can more than afford it and-"

"I know. I know. It's – a gift. For Yaruga. For... Keeping you safe on your travels." Geralt clears his throat and pointedly avoids looking in Yennefer's direction as she doubles over in silent laughter.

"Oh, well." He's rendered speechless again. _This is getting old_, he thinks briefly.

"There's a couple of Drowners in the town over. I will probably be away until tomorrow." Geralt moves back out of the house and Jaskier follows to send him on his way like he's the lonely noblewoman again – sans the wine this time.

"Remember to wake me up." He calls and Geralt nods with a smile before trotting over to where Roach is waiting for him. He waves at the horse and she whinnies at him.

He closes the door and turns back to Yen, leaning against the wood and utterly bewildered. She's still smiling widely and he knows that what she says next is going to change _something_.

"Are you _certain_ you don't know what his intentions are?" She bites at her lower lip to stop herself from talking and Jaskier closes his eyes.

"Don't even start."

* * *

Two weeks of Geralt waking him up every morning and doing his chores with him and then either one of them cooking food and he's still not used to it fully.

It's odd, it's new and it's _good._ Jaskier feels like he'd somehow domesticated the wild man and even though Geralt still sometimes goes to the neighbouring villages for an odd job here or there – he doesn't mind, not really. Geralt is, after all, above everything else, a Witcher and it's his duty. Which brings Jaskier to the dilemma of keeping Geralt from said duties. He feels – selfish. He's keeping the Witcher here at the coast where the two of them can pretend like nothing bad goes on out in the world and where they can enjoy doing chores in silence together.

He still talks some but he's timid to do so more often than not. Which in turn, makes Geralt talk more. So Jaskier hears about his adventures more than he had before and in great detail, too. And in the evening, when Geralt leaves to sleep wherever he's set up camp, Jaskier sits down at the kitchen table and writes more songs than he has in the last two years. Not all of them are for the public, of course. Some of them are too _tender_ – too _revealing_ to ever let anyone see them let alone hear the sorrowful tunes he sings them to.

Geralt is, of course, endlessly amused by Butters howling every time he picks up his lute and is adamantly sticking to his theory that Butters is trying to steal his job. It's sweet. Geralt doesn't look at him with disdain anymore, he doesn't presume Jaskier wants things done for him and he tries his best not to stop Jaskier from doing reckless things like jumping off the cliff into the sea that one time.

"_What_ is he doing?" A familiar voice behind him calls and he startles, turning to look at Triss and Yennefer that have just emerged from the fading portal there.

"I told you, it's _eerie."_ Yennefer grins at Jaskier in turn.

"M'ladies," He curtsies before he turns back to watching Geralt chopping down trees in the nearby woods. They walk over to stand next to him at the edge of his land and silently watch the man work with the large axe for a couple of moments more.

"Is this some weird Witcher courting ritual?" Triss turns to him and Yennefer and Jaskier splutters.

_"No!"_ He yelps at the same time as Yennefer says _it appears to be._

"Why can't he have just – you know, given him a pedant or something? Like the rest of us do it?" Triss huffs and places one hand on her hip and –_ now wait just a second._

"Holy Mother of Asclepius!" He gapes dramatically, pointing to the two of them and then down at their joined hands. "You! And her!"

"Yen, I thought you told him?" Triss pouts at the shorter sorceress who looks a bit uncomfortable at Jaskier connecting the dots.

"Err, surprise?" Yen shrugs one shoulder uncertainly and Jaskier claps his hands together. "I told him I was betrothed – just not to whom."

"Now I _really_ have to write you two a song in congratulations!" He twirls on his heels, ready to go up to the house and fetch his lute but Triss' hand on his arm stops him.

"Oh, no. This isn't about us. This is about this weird thing that Geralt is doing." She demands, a stern look on her face that just makes Yennefer's smile soften more.

"I don't think it's weird." He huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. He's fairly certain that Geralt can hear them so he doesn't want to say anything too incriminating. "It's gotten colder during the night and I don't have a steady supply of kindling so he's making a stock."

"He _does_ know you're not going to stay here forever, right?" Triss tilts her head in question and Jaskier goes a little numb at her words.

Because she's right. It doesn't matter how much Jaskier loves his little house and his garden, he's not going to stay for much longer. The moment he releases Geralt from his grovelling obligations and the Witcher hits the road again, Jaskier will find another city to wallow in before moving to the next – rinse and repeat.

"I suppose you're right. Once he leaves I don't see why I'd stay here for much longer. I've had my time at the coast, maybe I head for the mountains next." He sighs and crouches down the give Butters a belly rub.

"Is he an idiot?" He hears Triss ask Yennefer who snorts.

"In all honesty, I'm not sure." The other witch responds and both of them let out a long-suffering sigh.

"Let me ask you this," Triss starts – she seems slightly better at making polite conversation out of sensitive topics than Yennefer who would just barrel through what needs to be said and then wince afterwards.

"Have you forgiven him yet? Has he learned?" Triss asks and Jaskier thinks it over.

"I – yes, I have." He admits and it hurts a little because now he'll have to tell Geralt as well. "He has."

"Then have that conversation with him, Jaskier. Air out whatever's been in your linens chest and see what happens." Triss places a gentle hand on his shoulder and he looks up into her kind eyes. "I can promise you that it will be okay."

He shivers, regretting not owning a thicker coat because the wind blowing in from the sea really _is_ frigid. He – well. If anyone knows things are going to turn out alright, he supposes it _would_ be the two powerful sorceresses that he'd somehow befriended.

* * *

That evening, once they've had their food and the two lasses have had their fair share of making fun of Geralt, Jaskier washes the bowls and the cups in the basin and listens to the sounds of Geralt sharpening his swords.

He clears his throat, "It's really gotten cold out, there's frost on the windows." Not like he feels the weather inside with the fire burning steadily in the hearth.

"Hm." Geralt confirms, "Colder still by the water."

"That's right." He doesn't know how he's going to pose this but he knows what he wants to ask. He's a little nervous and he's sure that Geralt can hear his heart beating rapidly. "I never _did_ ask you – where have you been sleeping?"

"Uh," Geralt's movements halt like he hadn't expected it. "I've set up camp nearby, in the forest."

"_For two weeks_?" He asks incredulously. He'd expected Geralt to be staying in an inn or something in the nearest town but apparently the man had been sleeping in the forest under the stars. Poor Roach.

"I've had worse and for longer. At least there are no monsters lurking around." Geralt says easily and then Jaskier hears his sword being sheathed.

He grips the rag in his hands and tries not to fumble as he dries the bowl he's holding off. "What – what would you say if I asked you to stay here tonight?"

"It's – it's not that cold, Jaskier, you don't have to." Geralt speaks quietly like he's afraid that speaking any louder will upset him.

"I know you can handle a little bad weather, you brute, but I-" He turns back around, determined now. "I want you to stay here tonight. You can put Roach in the pen next to Yaruga and you can indulge in the warmth of a roof over your head for once."

"How come you ask me now?" Geralt doesn't sound accusing, merely interested in the answer.

Jaskier hopes that his cheeks aren't as red as they feel. He can't exactly admit to the Witcher that he'd been thinking about sharing a bed with him since he'd come up with this silly little plan this morn.

"Because – well, because I'm ready to talk. I think." He nods his head towards the door. "Do you need help clearing out the pen?"

"No – I – I think I got it, thank you." Geralt stares at him for a moment before nodding to himself and leaving.

Jaskier releases the breath he didn't know he was holding in and slumps against the nearest chair. Well – that went well. He takes a deep breath and catches a whiff of Yennefer's perfume lingering the air like she'd marked her territory. He snorts at the image of Yennefer rubbing up against his furniture like a cat claiming what's hers.

He takes up his lute and starts strumming one of the tunes that doesn't make Butters want to start howling. He plays the song with his eyes closed and gets lose in the tune. It's one of his newer ones – he'd written it with sprawling roads travelled alone in mind but he'll probably repurpose it to something less dramatic that people actually want to hear.

He strums the last cord and opens his eyes to find Geralt standing in the corner of the room with a gentle smile on his face.

"I haven't heard that one before." The Witcher admits with a hum and Jaskier fumbles with the lute uselessly.

"I haven't performed it before. It's new – not finished really. I'll probably put some more pep in it before I decide to sing it for the public. It's too – melancholic like this, too nostalgic. People don't like hearing nostalgia in a song, did you know? A dramatic tale of broken hearts and dead people, yes, but yearning and wandering? Booed right off the stage if there is one!" He prattles uselessly as he stows the lute away and tries to put himself out of Geralt's direct line of sight.

"You don't _always_ have to be performing, Jaskier. You're allowed to keep some songs for yourself." Comes Geralt's reply that gives him pause. He turns around to face the Witcher.

"But I'm a bard, what good am I if I'm not performing? I tried being a professor and that went horribly. Pleasing the crowds is what I do." He huffs with a floppy hand gesture that's supposed to mean '_obviously'._

"I'm not saying it isn't." Geralt shrugs his wide shoulders. "I'm simply pointing out that they shouldn't be privy to your every ballad, every emotion, all the time. You _can_ play just for the sake of doing something that you love."

"Oh, huh." He prides himself on his ability to string sentences together but right now, after Geralt's kind words, he can't string together a coherent thought much less a sentence fit for being spoken out loud. "I suppose you're right."

"It was bound to happen at some point." Geralt smirks and then goes for the bedroom and _now_ Jaskier is faced with the fact that they're going to be sharing a bed for the first time in about two years.

They'd shared before out of necessity, of course, but it hadn't been this tense before. _Jaskier_ hadn't been this tense before. Because he knew that Geralt would simply, push him out of bed if he got too clingy during the night and that would be it. But he doesn't know how this _new_ and _reformed_ Geralt would feel to waking up with Jaskier clinging to his back.

Though, on the topic of that, he doesn't really think that Geralt's been _reformed._ He thinks that their time apart gave Geralt ample opportunity to rethink his choices and to decide how he wanted to move forward. And Geralt had decided that being more considerate to a friend and apologizing was the proper thing to do.

It's flattery at its finest and no words Jaskier will ever produce will ever even come close.

Sighing to himself, he enters the other room and closes the door behind him. _Sorry Butters,_ he thinks to himself, _your side of the bed's occupied tonight._

"You wanted to talk?" Geralt ventures as he drops his things onto one of the chests in the corner and puts the swords under his side of the bed because it's a force of habit.

"Yes." He feels his chest constricting a little and his knees going weak so he walks over to sit on the bed.

"I know I always have much to say but it's not always important. This time, I want to say that – I forgive you. You've more than made up for what you said and just – your grovelling days are over, Geralt." He looks up at the man who'd come to stand in front of him. "Thank you for – for listening, I suppose. And for reconsidering and coming to find me. For looking out for me even though I didn't need it, too." He clears his throat because it'd gotten a little tight. "So – you don't have to stick around. It's going to be winter soon and the world out there needs you. It's time to return to your Witcher-ly duties."

Geralt drops to his knees in front of him before Jaskier's even done talking, yellow eyes dancing in the candlelight.

"Jaskier." The growl in his voice doesn't sound as menacing as it used to. "I haven't been grovelling _just_ for your forgiveness. Yes, I came here with the intentions to apologize but I – I didn't stay here _just_ to make it up to you. I stayed because I missed you. I missed your company. And if grovelling would let me be your friend again, then I did what had to be done. And I've come to enjoy it. Sure you had me running chores but I liked doing things for you. They were mundane – _normal_."

Geralt speaks in a way that has Jaskier's heart hammering out of his chest and his ears clogged with blood flowing through his veins. The White Wolf sounds so sincere and so fond all at once that Jaskier doesn't know what to do.

"But if you want me to, I'll go. I know I'm not the _easiest_ person to be around." Geralt chuckles lowly and Jaskier feels his lungs stutter.

"And if I asked you to stay?" He whispers out tentatively, an arm coming up – shaking all the way towards its destination that just happens to be Geralt's lightly stubbled cheek.

Geralt leans into the touch and closes his eyes. "Then I'd stay. For as long as you'd have me."

A sob catches in Jaskier's chest and he refuses to let it leave. Surely Geralt doesn't mean it _like that_. Surely Geralt isn't implying all those things Yennefer had hinted at?

"Geralt."

"It was awful." The Witcher breathes out, nostrils flaring. "It was awful travelling without you. More than I could have imagined it would be. I thought – we've parted way before and that this time it would be no different but – it was somehow so much _worse._" Geralt's hands with their large palms and their calluses come to rest onto his knees and Jaskier shudders at the warmth they radiate.

"I hated the silence. I hated that it was my fault. I hated that it wasn't _Destiny_ because if it were then I could just say it wasn't meant to be. But no – it was _me_; I'd done that to myself and to you." Geralt grunts like he's angry at the whole world and Jaskier just – just wants to kiss him, really. "I hated walking into a tavern and hearing your songs being sung by someone else and hearing word about how _well _you were doing and knowing that you never needed me in the first place." Geralt swallows and grimaces and Jaskier watches the emotions play out across his face. "But that I needed you, instead. I still do. And if you ask me to stay, I will. But – not as a friend. As something more if you'd allow it."

Mortified, he feels a tear slip the corner of his eye and he feels his entire world unravelling in front of him. The words being spoken wash over him like a spell, sending his heart out of his chest and setting his entire being aflame. He opens his mouth to respond but the only thing that comes out is a shaky laugh, rough and wet-sounding.

"I'd never ask you to stay, you silly man. Not because I don't want you here because the Gods know that _I do._ But because you're a Witcher. You are on your best out there doing what you know how to do and enjoy doing despite the complaints." He rubs a thumb under the Witcher's eye, marvelling the fact that he can do that now. "No. Instead, I'd accompany you back on the road. Like old times."

"_Not_ like _old times_," Geralt hisses. "_Never_ like _that_ again. Better, instead." The Witcher shuffles closer until he's kneeling between Jaskier's spread knees and he almost gets vertigo looking into the man's eyes.

"You'd really let me come?" He brings his other hand up as well, mirroring the position of the one already on Geralt's face.

"I wouldn't leave here without you." Geralt's words are firm and certain.

"What of the house?" He asks feebly as Geralt starts slowly leaning in.

"Let Triss and Yen take care of it for the winter, they're on the run anyway." Geralt rushes out in the last few scant inches between their faces and then they're kissing.

It's a lot softer than Jaskier had imagined, there's too many emotions swirling around both their hearts for it to be fast and rough like he thought it would. He used to think that Geralt would kiss him in a fit of annoyance just to shut him up but that never happened. It stands to show just how surprising Geralt still is to him and how much more he has to learn about the Witcher.

They break apart, both breathing heavily and keeping as close as humanly possible.

"You know, when I asked you to stay the night, my intentions _were_ rather pure." He bites at his lip, feeling out how swollen it's getting, and Geralt zeroes in on the move.

"Hm," The Witcher grunts, dislodging one of his hands to cup Jaskier's face in turn, pushing his thumb onto his bottom lip. "I hope you don't mind the change of plans then." Geralt smirks dangerously and Jaskier's stomach tightens in excitement.

"Not at all, my sweet idiot, not at all." He lets Geralt's thumb slip into his mouth and bites at it teasingly, loving the rapt way with which the Witcher observes his lips.

"Jaskier." It's half filled with warning and half filled with lust and it makes the heat in his stomach fester and slide lower until he's feeling all of the effects of just how gorgeous the Witcher is. "Don't start something you don't intend to finish."

"Oh, I'll give you a finish, alright." He promises with a cheeky wink, feeling both elated and like he weighs too much under Geralt's gaze.

With another growl Geralt springs up, picking Jaskier up by the waist easily and then – then he's on his back on the bed with Geralt between his legs, looking down at him like he's something to be treasured.

"You better not let me down, Geralt; with the amount of time I've spent thinking about this – you have a lot to live up to." He grins as Geralt's soft expression turns into a scowl.

"You _insufferable_," Geralt crowds down against him, nose pressing insistently into the skin of his throat. "_Vexatious, irritating,_ incredible, remarkable, wondrous little _Blue Jay._"

He whines, tilting his head backwards so that Geralt has more room and skin to explore. "Why – ah, fuck – why a Blue Jay."

Geralt, too busy leaving little bites against his throat and marking him up prettily, takes a bit to respond. "Your eyes, your voice, your flighty nature. Always so free and unrestrained. You're asking for words when I'd rather keep my mouth occupied somewhere else." Geralt's voice vibrates along his skin and he can feel the Witcher's chest rumbling against his own.

"Too many clothes, love, off." He demands, remembering that he should definitely be more naked if they were going to do _anything._

He shudders as Geralt's hands slip under his blue shirt and start tugging it upwards – no time for buttons. And yet, the brute is careful with his belonging so nothing actually gets torn in the end. His chest is exposed to the tepid room air and Geralt follows by taking off his own shirt with a lot less care.

"You – you're ridiculous." He lifts his eyes towards the sky before surging forward and letting his arms roam all over the other's fit chest. He traces every groove, every dip and every scar with his fingers, taking his time and enjoying how Geralt strains under the gentle touch.

"You just as much," Geralt grinds out, his hands gentle on Jaskier's sides as he lets him explore slowly.

"I've always looked but to be able to touch, oh, Geralt." He whines and tips forward, at this point nuzzling under the Witcher's chin like a swooning maiden, hands spread over the man's ribs. "Look at you, you're gorgeous. So strong and so _good_. Letting me drink my fill, aren't you? Know exactly what I want." He just – he can't stop everything he's ever thought about from spilling out like a dam breaking.

"Jaskier," Geralt groans as he grips the man's ass like he'd always wanted to.

He can feel the other wavering where he's kneeling over Jaskier's thighs, swaying and breathing hard. It's exhilarating, having Geralt all to himself like this, at his mercy and waiting for his cues.

"What is it, Wolf? You've got something to say?" He grins teasingly, kneading at the muscles of Geralt's back. "Or are you going to bite wordlessly."

"Save your pretty words for your pretty dames, bard." Geralt grunts, cheeks flushed and _still_ holding himself up and letting Jaskier do what he wishes.

"But there are no prettier dames than the sight before me, for the mighty Witcher, bare-chested and blushing, makes for the prettiest sight of them all." He purrs melodically, practically singing the words to the other.

"Oil, Jaskier." Geralt, patience apparently running thin, demands.

"If you're willing to walk, there's some in the second chest over there." He waves in the general direction of his belongings and Geralt grunts. He briefly mourns the loss of warmth but watching Geralt ridding himself of his pants and undergarments is worth the loss. He groans as his own need twitches in his breeches. He decides that getting nude is the best course of action. He shucks his breeches and tosses them to the side.

He's always been fairly confident in his own body – he's decently tall, fairly built all things considering and of a good _size_ but Geralt is all that and so much more and Jaskier's mouth _waters_ as the Witcher turns around and he gets an eyeful of exactly what the other is sporting now that he's fully hard.

"Gods, Geralt, come here." He scrambles on his knees to the edge of the bed as Geralt approaches. He grips the man's hips, digging his fingers into the V there hurriedly. He's fairly certain that he looks like a man starved as he spreads his knees so that he's at the perfect level to take Geralt's cock in his mouth.

"Jaskier-"

"Shut up, Witcher." He grunts and takes the other's member in hand, giving him a hearty stroke before lowering his mouth and licking a stripe up the considerable length. "Shut up and let me suck your big fucking cock, Geralt, _Gods."_

Geralt's chuckle gets cut off mid leaving his mouth because Jaskier finally gets his lips around the glistening cockhead. "Jaskier."

It pleases him to know that he's rendered the Witcher to only being able to say his name and to grunts of pleasure.

He takes his time with this too, licking and sucking and finessing. He wants to make the other remember, wants to make it so that this is the only thing that Geralt will be able to think about every time he looks at Jaskier's face. He looks up, blinking away the tears and meeting Geralt's awed gaze. He pulls off slowly, prolonging the contact and enjoying the taste.

"Now, I don't do this often, Geralt, it's bad for my throat. But I'll make an exception for you, darling." He grins, loving the way his lips are already a little sore.

"What are - _fuck!_" Geralt's hands shoot to his hair, gripping the brunette strands and Jaskier almost wants to chuckle.

He would, too, if there wasn't a cock lodged in his throat at the moment. He tenses his throat to make more room for Geralt's size in there. It's not particularly pleasant but he knows that the men he's done this for – which were far and few in between – have always enjoyed it. And nothing got him more aroused than knowing he's bringing pleasure to his lovers. He pulls out all the stops and starts humming low in his throat and Geralt starts cursing in a tongue he doesn't recognize.

"Is that – Jaskier, is that fucking_ Toss a Coin to Your Witcher_ you little-" Geralt throws his head back and moans, loud and beautiful and no matter how much Jaskier wishes to bring the other off like this, he wants Geralt in him more.

"_Little_ what? Bard? Songbird? Blue Jay?" He grins and shuffles back on his knees, dragging Geralt by the hips and getting him on the bed.

"_Tempest_," Geralt grunts, picking up the oil where he'd dropped it on the bed. "Like a fucking storm, Jaskier, came into my life and roused everything I've ever kept buried."

"It was an honour, my beastly Witcher." He purrs and lies back down, spreading his legs wide open and giving himself a stroke to the visage that is Geralt at the moment – with his dishevelled white hair and wild eyes.

"You _would_ enjoy causing chaos, wouldn't you?" Geralt smiles then, settling down some and reclaiming his place between Jaskier's thighs.

"What good is life without a little chaos in it?" He grins, arching his back and tempting the Witcher with his body alone.

"Quiet." Geralt responds, bending low and dragging his lips across Jaskier's chest down to his stomach.

"I thought we – ah, fuck – established that you hated the silence." He whines and wiggles in place as Geralt's hands hold him still by the hips. The Witcher's nose digs under his bellybutton and Jaskier can hear him inhale deeply. "You – don't be disgusting."

"You smell nice, clean, and like lavender." Geralt rumbles and Jaskier smiles fondly, running his hand through the other's white strands.

"Thank you, I take baths sometimes." He chuckles and Geralt huffs in amusement. "Now, do you want to fuck me or are you going to continue sniffing me like a dog?"

"Jaskier." Geralt lays his head down onto his belly and looks up at him with adoration in his eyes. "Let me enjoy the moment, yeah?"

"You giant sap." He coos at the Witcher and they lie like that for a moment, just soaking each other's presence in.

"Only for you," Geralt confirms and Jaskier's arousal twitches valiantly against Geralt's chest, right between his large pectorals. And _oh,_ that's definitely something he wants to explore in the future by straddling the other's chest and-

"You having fun in there?" Geralt reaches up and taps his forehead and flicks the tip of his nose.

He blushes at being caught thinking about the other inappropriately – which is ridiculous because he's just had Geralt's hardness in his mouth and he can still _taste_ him even.

"That is a fantasy for another day." He admits with a cheeky giggle and Geralt rolls his eyes.

The Witcher levers himself up with his mighty arms and Jaskier gives into the urge to grip one of them with his fingers. Geralt huffs in amusement before he kneels back up, popping open the bottle of oil.

"Oh, yes." He keens and pulls the pillow out from the headboard to push it under his lower back. "Remember, Geralt, no holding back."

"Mm," Geralt hums, running one of his palms over Jaskier's thigh and eyeing the inside of it briefly before dipping down and biting at the pale skin there. He curses, throwing his head back as the Witcher's teeth worry at him, making sure that a bruise will form there.

"You marking me up, Witcher?" He gripes as Geralt drizzles some of the oil into his hand.

"Have to make sure people know that you're taken." Geralt sneers like the thought of someone putting their hands on Jaskier is making him physically ill.

"Oh? I'm not sure I like this base possessiveness that's being shown." He hums, teasing of course because it's still flattering, but it gives Geralt pause.

"I'm sorry." Geralt lowers his head like a scolded dog and Jaskier snorts.

"You – you're ridiculous. Like I'd ever want anyone other than you, Geralt. I'm just teasing, of course I'm going to let the people know. It's going to be the first song I'll sing, my great comeback after a prolonged absence. About the great Witcher and his massive – _fuck."_ He closes his eyes as Geralt's finger breaches the ring of muscle. "Yes, Gods." He whines at the slight sting but relaxes as Geralt takes to dragging his cheek along his knee.

"Tell me if it hurts." Geralt demands and then he feels the other adding more oil.

He closes his eyes and enjoys the sensation, enjoys the feeling of skin on skin – of Geralt's strong hands and his stubble against him, of the fingers in him. He gets lost in it, the dizzying rush of lust and yearning and arousal that swirls low in his belly. He moans as Geralt twists his fingers and brushes up against that one special place. He twitches his hips and tries to bear down onto the fingers inside him but Geralt holds him still. He whines, not having the capacity for words, half mad with pleasure already.

"Please, Geralt, I can take it, I promise." He hooks his legs around the other's waist, trying to tug him closer. "Come on, please."

"Sing so prettily, little bird." Geralt's grin is positively feral and Jaskier feels terrifyingly exposed and madly aroused all at once. He watches as Geralt uses some of the oil on his own length and Jaskier feels giddy as the Witcher lines himself up.

It's almost too much – the man's cock's certainly bigger than most he's had – but Geralt goes slow, gentle despite his rough hands gripping Jaskier's hips.

"Fuck, Geralt." He breathes out and the Witcher kisses him, distracting him from the stretch. He whines and accepts it as Geralt's tongue seeks entrance into his mouth. This time the kiss is rough like he'd expected it to be. And he revels in it – in the heady grunts that Geralt releases into his mouth and the slow twitches of the man's hips.

"You can – fuck, move, Geralt." He whines as Geralt's cock twitches inside him.

"As you wish," Geralt grins against his cheek and then his hips start moving.

Jaskier's had some good fucks in his life but very few even come close to what Geralt is able to do. The power behind the thrusts sends Jaskier up the bed and the Witcher has to hold either hold him or pull him back down onto his length with every other thrust. Jaskier knows he's babbling – he doesn't know _what_ exactly but his mouth is open and he's letting out noises. Geralt is relentless, his hips slapping against Jaskier's ass like he's trying to punish him. And he _loves_ it, he loves that Geralt isn't careful with him like he was afraid he'd be.

"That's it, sing for me, little songbird." Geralt growls against his shoulder, teeth bared against his skin.

"Geralt!" He wails as the Witcher takes hold of his thighs and throws them over his shoulders. The Witcher is almost bending him in half at this point, rigorously slamming into him and making him dizzy with _everything_.

"Come on, Jaskier." Geralt grunts, tugging one of Jaskier's hands free of the sheets and bringing it to his own cock. He gets the message only because he's so close to climax already and he grips his own length almost savagely. He times his tugs with Geralt's thrusts and only a handful of movements later, he's spilling onto his own stomach with a loud whine.

He protests feebly, too tired to form actual words, as Geralt pulls out and lowers his legs to the bed. The Witcher strokes himself off with his nose buried under the crook of Jaskier's jaw, panting harshly and rapidly. The Witcher adds to the mess on his belly with a choked off grunts and Jaskier closes his eyes when a shiver wracks his body. If he were any younger he'd be ready to go again by now.

But, he is not, and Geralt is very heavy so he nudges the man to the side. "Gods, you weigh as much as a horse. I need air, you big oaf."

Geralt grumbles but lifts off anyway, he looks around and then fishes Jaskier's soft breeches off the ground, using the cloth to clean the mess on his stomach.

"I'd call you sweet but those are mine and I'm going to have to wash that out." He sighs, closing his eyes and avoiding Geralt's shit-eating grin. He's – he's feeling a little overwhelmed.

"Are you – are you okay?" Geralt tosses the breeches to the floor and settles next to Jaskier, plastering himself to his side.

"I'm more than okay, a little too good, I think. It's hard to believe." He chuckles and turns to the side, facing Geralt and placing a hand onto his cheek because he can.

"I'm sorry – for making it seem like it's something so far out of your reach. You deserve more, better." Geralt grumbles and Jaskier rolls his eyes.

"Yes but, luckily, I don't want anything other than you. So you're stuck with me." He smacks a loud kiss onto the other's forehead and Geralt grimaces.

"I'll gladly be stuck with you for all the lifetimes and then all of them over twice again." Geralt pulls him into his chest and nuzzles his hair. "I love you, my little Blue Jay."

"You mean it? This lifetime and the next?" He asks, suddenly very aware of how the odds are stacked against them in this one.

"Yes, I do." Geralt says firmly and it calms Jaskier a little, allows him to relax.

"Then I love you, too, my White Wolf." He kisses the hollow of Geralt's throat and allows himself to hope that everything will be okay now that they're back together properly.

He allows himself to be happy because he deserves it.


	88. (T) KIRIBAKU - Marketable by eggstasy

marketable  
eggstasy

Summary:  
Jealous Inner Kirishima has a better vocabulary than Actual Life Kirishima, who just has to open his mouth to make stupid words fall out in the wrong order. Bakugou throws a laundered sweat towel at his face and says, "Quit leaving your shit downstairs," and Kirishima answers him with, "Thanks for my towel washing it," which leads to him sinking down in his chair and trying not to die.

People notice.

* * *

"Are you Bakugou?"

Kirishima glances over at the unfamiliar voice. Some girl with a truly impressive tower of hair strides across their classroom and stops, predictably, right in front of Bakugou's desk. Out of the corner of his eye Kirishima sees Midoriya lean across his own desk nervously, fingers tapping too-quick on the top of it like he's preparing to scramble away. Or maybe over to the girl. To save her life, probably.

The girl just slams her hands on her hips as she smirks down at Bakugou. "You're him, right? Bakugou Katsuki. Hard to mistake that angry mug."

"_Hoo-hoooo_," Kaminari crows in delight, leaning into Kirishima's shoulder.

"The fuck do you want," Bakugou growls, feet still up on his desk, hands still in his pockets and looking for all the world that he would rather have a bagfull of dogshit for lunch than to talk to this stranger another second. "If you're here to ask about any villain bullshit-"

"Ah, no, don't care about that. Well- I _do,_ but not in the way you think." She juts her hip to the side and flashes a truly marketable grin. Maybe she's from the Department of Management? She has to be. Everybody who comes out of there has ridiculously white teeth. "See, I was wondering if you had any prospective managers lined up yet."

Bakugou stares at her in furious befuddlement, confused and angry at the thing confusing him. "What the fuck? No."

"Great! That's excellent, means I'm the first." The girl sticks out her hand. "I'm Fukuyo Ruri. You can call me Ruriko, everybody does."

"I'm not calling you_ shit_ until you tell me what the fuck you want," Bakugou snaps, finally kicking his feet off his desk.

"Good, good, this is great!" Ruriko withdraws her hand to clap and rub her palms together. "I'm really getting a feel for your personality. I'll be a great manager for you, Bakugou."

Bakugou freezes.

Kirishima freezes.

Everybody within earshot freezes (which Kirishima is sure consists of the entire class, since her voice _really_ carries, like, a lot).

"You want to be my manager," Bakugou says, flatter than a board.

Ruriko beams smugly, somehow. "I'm _going_ to be your manager."

Kirishima covers his mouth too late to hide his shocked laugh. This girl cannot die. She's given all of them the most wonderful gift, a chance to see Bakugou both so completely flabbergasted and so utterly enraged that it's all getting stopped up in the pipes and making him shake like a boiler about to blow. "Okay," Kirishima whispers lowly to Kaminari, who digs into his side conspiratorially like a true bro. "I'm gonna go distract Bakugou. You get the manager girl to a safe distance-"

"What're your grades like?"

If Kirishima stops short one more time his brain is going to forget how to move at a normal pace.

Ruriko looks like the only one who _isn't_ surprised by the half-growled question. "Second to top in my class." She smooths back her already impeccably sculpted hair. "I'll be top of the year by the end of this semester, mark my words. I've already got an internship lined up for next year, and my portfolio-"

"_Fine, _fine." Bakugou lifts his chin and props his feet back up on his desk. "I'll think about it."

"Wha-hat the fuck," Kaminari whispers into Kirishima's ear. Or his hair, since Kirishima's turned around to fully face this debacle and try to figure out how _he_ managed to misunderstand Bakugou. Wasn't that him shaking in rage just moments ago? What the hell happened?

"Hey, think about it quick, would you?" Ruriko pulls out a shiny silver case and unsnaps it, sliding an actual business card onto Bakugou's desk when he doesn't take it. "I've got a couple other prospects. I want you the most, but time is money and the earlier this sort of thing gets ironed out, the better it is for everyone involved."

Bakugou curls his lip at her. "Don't rush me, asshole."

"It's Ruriko!" She waggles her fingers, tucks the case back into her skirt and waltzes for the door. "Sorry for interrupting your class," she calls back over her shoulder to the room and then she's gone. The room feels less full without her and her hair in it, so maybe that's why Kirishima finds he can suddenly draw in a full breath when he'd been holding it moments ago.

* * *

"The fuck is your damage?" Bakugou asks him later, which is indicative of there being a huge, huge problem with his face. Bakugou doesn't care what other people's damage is, not even Kirishima's.

"I'm not damaged," Kirishima tells him as he picks at his bread.

"Liar."

Bakugou comes to class with a bento, every day, without fail. Some of their classmates go to the cafeteria for the food there because it's amazing, and Kirishima is no exception, but sometimes a guy wants to eat crappy junk food for lunch and that's when he buys bread or snacks and lugs his spoils over to where Bakugou eats his lunch outside, behind the southern steps, also every day without fail.

"How come you don't eat in the cafeteria?" Kirishima asks, hoping that if he switches tacks Bakugou will decide it's too much work to give a shit.

Bakugou levels him with a glare to let him know he hasn't completely escaped, but just plucks up another mouthful of rice. "Like my food a certain way."

"What kind of way?" Kirishima asks, and then he gets an idea so he leans forward with a grin. "Is it really good? You make them yourself, right? Lemme try!"

Bakugou shoves his foot against Kirishima's side and pushes. "Fuck off."

"C'mon, lemme taste it!"

"Go the fuck away, hair for brains! Eat your shitty fucking bread!"

Sometimes Kaminari or someone else will join them, but more often than not it's just he and Bakugou out here in the shade of the trees, hilltop breezes not blocked by the buildings ruffling their hair and dropping leaves into their food if they're not careful.

Kirishima likes it when nobody joins them. Call him selfish or pathetic, but these few short moments alone with Bakugou are kind of the highlight of his day.

"So what was the deal with Ruriko?"

Bakugou stares at him blankly. There's a grain of rice on his chin and Kirishima is going to die.

"…the manager girl who came to our classroom today," Kirishima follows up.

"Oh." Bakugou returns to his lunch. "Fuck, you heard her. She wants to find her talent early so she came to me."

"She was pretty confident," Kirishima muses, resting his chin in his hand. "And you didn't blow her up, which is like a gold star in your book."

"Fuck off, no it's not." Bakugou swallows. "This sort of shit happens in these schools, moron."

Kirishima picks at a blade of grass. "Oh?"

"Obviously, since it just did."

"Is that so…"

Bakugou's glaring again, so Kirishima stuffs his bread into his mouth and says nothing more.

* * *

Ruriko doesn't come back to the classroom for the rest of the week, but one of the other Management students slips in to try and chat up Todoroki. That affair is much quieter and ends with Todoroki shoving a card into his pocket and then asking, "What?" when everybody just stares, waiting for details.

A manager student, he says. Looking to pick up talent early, he says. "I've been getting that sort of thing since I was in middle school though," Todoroki tells them in that deadpan, unassuming way of his and across the classroom Bakugou flips him the bird so hard that Kirishima is surprised he doesn't sprain something.

Saturday lets out early and Kirishima spends it working out and playing video games with Kaminari. Sunday he works out, plays more video games and then desperately tries to finish up the homework he absolutely was not procrastinating on, he just forgot.

Monday comes and with it a new storm.

"You called me!"

Ruriko lets herself into their classroom moments before the bell. Iida jumps up and does that hand thing and yells, "You will be late for your own class! I must insist you leave at once!"

Ruriko deals with that how Kirishima imagines she deals with a lot of things, by handing Iida a business card. "You've probably already got people lined up to represent you, but let me know if it doesn't work out!"

She leaves Iida torn between incensed and flattered. Kirishima watches her go with a small sense of wonder; not only is she immune to Bakugou's temper, she got Iida to stop lecturing. What the hell do they teach those management kids?

* * *

"Wait, so you _did_ call her!" Kaminari is with Kirishima and Bakugou at lunch today and Kirishima is actually kind of relieved, which is unusual.

"You're so fucking stupid," Bakugou says, which isn't unusual.

Kaminari glowers half-heartedly and shoves his lunch into his mouth. "God, you're such a dick." Talking with his mouth full. Also normal. So the only weird one here is Kirishima. "Dude, are you okay?"

"Yeah," says Kirishima. He doesn't follow it up with anything and Bakugou and Kaminari both stare at him for it, so he waves his hands. "I'm okay! Not sick or anything, just. Kinda bummed."

"Bummed?" Kaminari looks him over, like the reasons for why would be stamped somewhere on his uniform or something. "What for? Jealous that Bakugou's getting singled out again?"

"I'm not jealous," Kirishima says, too fast. Shit.

Bakugou's head snaps up. The guy can smell weakness like blood in the water, the bastard, and he's not going to let go anything that even smacks of a perceived slight. "Are you fucking jealous?" Bakugou accuses.

Kirishima's heart pounds and he's sure his face going dark red isn't helping his argument. "I just said I'm not jealous! Don't put words in my mouth."

"This is fucking stupid." Bakugou closes up his lunch and leaves. "Fuck you."

Kaminari stares after him, then stares at Kirishima. "What the hell was _that?_"

The worst part is that Kirishima doesn't even _know._

* * *

Bakugou isn't in his lunch spot the next day.

Kirishima sits there and debates looking for him. Maybe it's too pathetic. They had a fight, sort of, after all. On the other hand, Bakugou is _always_ at his spot and wouldn't move on account of having a fight. He'd just tell the other person to get lost. But he'd left of his own accord yesterday, and-

Kirishima decides to stop thinking about it and goes looking.

He finds Bakugou in the cafeteria, and sitting across from him is Ruriko.

"What do _you_ want," Bakugou grunts, shoveling his lunch into his mouth. Ruriko seems like she's doing homework, and the beaming smile she sends Kirishima's way is a lot less endearing than he first thought.

"You weren't at your spot."

"So?"

"So…you're always there."

"Yeah, and you _aren't_ always there, so what the fuck do you care?"

Kirishima doesn't have a good answer for that.

"Okay," Ruriko says, and slides the notebook she's scribbling in across the table. "Tell me what you think of these."

Kirishima tries not to peek because spying isn't manly, though the temptation is great.

"What the fuck is wrong with King of-"

"Because Midnight already vetoed it and if I'm being honest, she saved your life. You are terrible at making up names."

"Fuck you!" Bakugou slams his chopsticks onto the table. "I'm fucking _great_ at making up names!"

"You mean his hero name?"

Ruriko grins and rests her chin in her hand. "Yup. I heard about that fiasco from your classmate. Uraraka? Know her? She's so friendly! I like her. Anyway, she told me what happened. I like Blasty McSplode, it's _super _cute. Not too good for a serious hero, though."

Kirishima knows all of that already. Why does _she_ know all of that? Blasty McSplode is supposed to be a Class 1-A in-joke. Normally he's all about sharing the laughs, but he came up with that nickname himself. Aren't there copyright laws against that? "Well- I mean, I wasn't being serious. It was a joke."

"Right, right."

"These all suck," Bakugou declares, and tosses the notebook back at her.

"Whaaaat?" Ruriko pouts and wrinkles her nose at him, laying the notebook flat. "I thought Ground Zero was good!"

"You fucking kidding me? It has the word _zero_ in it. That's nothing like me."

"You're so particular," she mutters, drawing bold, angry lines through the options.

"_I'm_ not the fucking particular one! I already picked my goddamn name, you fucking hair idiot!"

Kirishima doesn't quite realize that he's reached up to touch his own hair.

"_Ruriko._ And you can't use _King of Explodokills._ You have to look at market trends! First of all, it's too long…"

Kirishima doesn't hear what the second reason is because he's already walking away.

* * *

"Let me see if I understand you correctly." Sero uses his finger to scrape up Nutella from the wall of the nearly empty jar. "You're _not_ jealous."

"Yeah."

"You're just _upset._"

"Yeah."

"Because Bakugou used a similar insult with some girl from the Management Department as the one he uses for you."

Kirishima picks his head up from the counter. "I mean, for me it's not really an insult, it's almost kind of like a nickname. 'Cause at the sports festival when he saw me, he didn't remember my name so-"

"Dude, stop talking." Sero gives him a pitying look. "…You're jealous."

Kirishima sighs and plunks his elbows on the counter. "I know."

"You're jealous of some girl taking all of Bakugou's attention away from you, 'cause you used to be his only friend so whenever you wanted to hang with him, he was available. And now he's using nicknames and getting teased by some chick and not showing up at _you guys' spot_ in favor of meeting up with her, so you're super duper gradeschool jealous that some girl took your friend."

Kirishima stares down at the counter.

"…or the guy you wanna kiss? Holy shit Kirishima, you wanna date Bakugou!" Sero throws the jar into the sink, something that's sure to get him in trouble with the clean freaks in their dorm later. "Amazing. I didn't realize how far your masochism went. Wow, dude, wow."

"Shut _uuuup,_" Kirishima groans, leaning dangerously far back on his stool and covering his face. "I know! I know, okay, believe me, _I know._ This is so dumb!"

"And unmanly."

Kirishima points, with feeling. It's _that,_ for sure. Jealousy is _so_ unmanly.

"Okay, so, confess or something. And let me record it, I wanna show everybody what happens."

"Jerk." Kirishima aims a kick at Sero's stool. "I can't just _go confess._ Not now! I gotta do it when he's like, not all pissed at me and stuff."

"You wanna wait until Bakugou's _not_ pissed about something to confess?"

"Well- I mean if you say it like _that_, it sounds stupid."

"That's cuz it's stupid."

Kirishima groans and presses his face back against the counter.

"Look, if it makes you feel any better, I don't think that Ruriko girl wants to date Bakugou. Because she's a sane person who values herself, unlike you."

"Thanks," Kirishima mumbles.

"I'm just saying, you probably don't have to worry about competition with that. Like, you really, really don't have to worry. If there's another person in this school who wants to date Bakugou, I'll eat my own tape."

Kirishima sighs at Sero. "You're not that great at reassuring people."

"Are you serious? Eating my own tape would be disgusting. It's like licking up your own sweat."

"Gross, dude."

"Yeah, see?"

* * *

Now that he's admitted his crush aloud to another living person, Kirishima feels the effects of it acutely. Every time Bakugou turns that carefully-pissed-but-actually-neutral look onto someone else, Kirishima wants to jump in the way. _Mine,_ he'd scream, throwing out his arms to hide Bakugou's face from the interloper. _That look is mine. You can't have it._ And every time Bakugou does something like accept someone else's opinion, Kirishima wants to elbow his way into the conversation and say, _Do you even know how big a deal this is, that he's listening to you like this? Are you properly grateful? Shall I educate you?_

Jealous Inner Kirishima has a better vocabulary than Actual Life Kirishima, who just has to open his mouth to make stupid words fall out in the wrong order. Bakugou throws a laundered sweat towel at his face and says, "Quit leaving your shit downstairs," and Kirishima answers him with, "Thanks for my towel washing it," which leads to him sinking down in his chair and trying not to die.

People notice.

"You're being weird," Tsuyu tells him, never one to sugarcoat things. They're doing pullups together. Or Kirishima's doing pullups, and Tsuyu is dangling from the bar from her legs and occasionally bending up to touch her knees. Kirishima doesn't like to judge other people's workout routines but her face is going awfully red.

"Tell me something I _don't_ know."

"Okay." Tsuyu hops down from the bar. "You should definitely tell Bakugou that you like him."

Kirishima likewise drops down from the bar, only his fall is unintentional and he lands with his ass on the mats. "Wha- who told you?!"

"Your face told me." Tsuyu grabs his arm to help him up. "You're not subtle."

"_Shiiit,_" Kirishima moans, scrubbing his hands through his sweaty hair.

"Try not to stare so much if you're keeping it a secret," she tells him kindly, and shuffles off to the exercise bikes.

Ashido finds him too, and all but screams in his face about how he should 'definitely totally oh my god ask Bakugou out, ohmygod, never thought you would be the first couple but it makes so much sense, he totally owes you for saving his life, it's so romantic' and Kirishima has to shush her no less than six times because they're in the _common area,_ Ashido, _please._

"Ask him out." Ashido punches Kirishima in the arm and ow, hey, that kind of hurts. "_Ask him out right now!_"

Kirishima rubs his arm. "I don't even know if he _likes_ guys, Ashido."

The look Ashido gives him is so disgusted that Kirishima wonders for the rest of the night if he actually said something horribly offensive.

Turns out Kirishima doesn't have to ask Bakugou anything, because a week later Bakugou comes over to his desk before class, kicks it so hard it almost topples over and asks, "Why the fuck're you avoiding me, hair for brains?!"

Kirishima squints up at Bakugou and tries to recall the last time he was at his usual lunch spot. Ten days ago? Twelve? "You started avoiding me first."

"Fuck you, I did not!"

"Dude, you totally did! You got all pissed and stormed off during lunch and then you stopped eating outside so I figured you didn't wanna talk to me!"

Bakugou squints right back.

Kirishima folds his arms.

"Well-!" Bakugou kicks Kirishima's desk again, lightly this time, and shoves his hands into his pockets. "Well, fuck, I'm not avoiding you now, am I?"

"Yeah, well!" Kirishima doesn't have anything to follow that up with so he just gestures, a thing that's meant to encompass everything that Bakugou is, and says, and has been doing to him for the past two weeks. Bakugou doesn't get it, which Kirishima doesn't think is entirely his fault, and it doesn't matter anyway since that's when Aizawa comes in and tells them all that he's tired and doesn't want to deal with their idiocy today, so sit down, Bakugou.

Kirishima takes Tsuyu's advice to heart and desperately tries to keep from staring, but he can _feel_ Bakugou's eyes on him like someone breathing down the back of his neck.

* * *

Ruriko comes by their classroom and Kirishima is getting tired of automatically being mean when she shows up. It doesn't stop him from huffing and looking away as she crosses the classroom, but he's sure he'll feel bad about it later.

"I need to ask you a favor."

Kaminari has to jab him in the back before Kirishima glances forward to see Ruriko standing in front of _his_ desk, and not Bakugou's. "…wait, me? You need a favor from _me?_"

"Yep, from you!" Ruriko winks and Kirishima wonders if she practices it in the mirror. It was idol-level cute. It's annoying how fake cute that was. "Could you meet me before lunch, Red Riot? Great name, by the way."

Does she want help thinking up a serious hero name for Bakugou or something? "Uh. Sure, yeah, of course. Inside?"

"How about the west corridor?"

"Sounds good." Ruriko flashes another bright white smile before turning to glance at where Bakugou is staring at them from his desk, and then strides right out of the classroom without even a single hello. "What just happened?" Kirishima whispers.

"Looks like you got a date with Bakugou's girlfriend."

"Why does she want to talk to _me?_"

"Because she's thinking about upgrading?"

Kirishima turns around to look at Kaminari.

"I'm just saying." Kaminari shrugs. "I'd trade in for you too."

"Thanks, dude."

"Don't mention it."

* * *

"Oh great! You came." Ruriko pushes off of the wall and Kirishima almost feels a little bad for purposefully being five minutes late. "Look, I need you to make up with Bakugou."

Kirishima doesn't exactly pride himself on his disposition; he gets told a lot that he's got the temperament of a good hero, though he can sometimes rush in because of it. _A good hero cares without bias,_ Crimson Riot had said in one of his interviews ages ago. He'd always believed in that, that caring sometimes took work but was an integral part of being a good hero. He built his life upon a foundation with that belief in the bricks and mortar. He wants the Riot name to carry on the tradition of always, _always_ caring for everyone, without exception.

Having a crush on Bakugou Katsuki is seriously impeding that goal.

"_You_ need _me_ to make up with Bakugou." Kirishima can't settle on whether he wants to be more curious or more annoyed, so he folds his arms and tries desperately to withhold judgment. He has no reason to dislike this girl. All she's done is try her very best to excel in class, just like anybody else at this school. But still, she needs _him_ to _make up_ with Bakugou?

"Yep." Ruriko sighs and straightens her already perfect hair. "Look, you're the closest to him so you already know-"

"How do you-"

"Of course I know that! Everybody knows that, c'mon. He's _impossible_ to handle, as I'm sure you're aware, but he's a hundred times worse and it's got to be because he's fighting with you." Ruriko dusts off her sleeves. "So, please, could you make up with him?"

Kirishima rubs at his mouth. "You want me to make up with him so he's easier to handle."

Ruriko points. "Yes."

"Because he's difficult to deal with because we're fighting."

She gives him a thumbs-up. Does she have a gesture for everything? "Exactly."

Kirishima folds his arms again. "…no."

That she's not even surprised by his answer, just visibly put out, is _sincerely_ irritating. "What, are you still mad at him?"

"_No,_ I'm not."

"Come _on,_" she groans, flapping her arms. "You want to make up with him anyway, right?"

"Not because his _proto-manager_ told me to! Besides, isn't that kind of cold of you?"

"Cold how?"

"You don't care about him!"

It's not until he realizes his voice is ringing down the hallway that Kirishima realizes how loudly he'd shouted that. His face burns but he refuses to back down from this. It's already out, and it's not manly to run away from a conversation that needs to be had. Ruriko is staring at him consideringly, looking awful shrewd and Kirishima realizes that for once, she's not wearing some pre-packaged friendly expression.

"But you do. A lot, huh?"

Kirishima swallows, but nods.

Ruriko chews on her lip. "Alright. I won't bug you about it." She sighs and straightens her clothes again and Kirishima wonders, in a sudden flash of insight, if she's doing it not because she wants to be sure she's presentable but because she's nervous. Talking to _him._ After dealing with Bakugou for weeks. "Look- I'm not trying to horn in on anybody's turf or anything."

"Bakugou's not my turf," Kirishima protests, albeit weakly, because he kinda sorta thought he was. In certain aspects, maybe, yeah.

"I mean it. I don't know him well enough to care about him yet, but I _do_ believe he's gonna make it big." Ruriko leans forward, lowering her voice. "I just think he's gonna need help once he gets there. That's what _I'm_ getting trained for. Helping you guys out."

Shame settles onto Kirishima's shoulders and his face burns, again. "I'm sorry for shouting at you."

"Don't even worry about it, I'm in _management_." She waves a hand, her grin softer than usual, though it sits awkwardly on her face. "_I'm _sorry I butted my nose in."

"You weren't…"

"It's okay, I get it. I've got my own crush to work on."

Like magic, he's weightless. Of course she isn't trying to get with Bakugou; it's just like Sero said, she's not even remotely interested. It was just her trying to do her job, or her training for her job, which is to get to know the hero she's representing and make them as successful as possible. It's not personal or anything like that. Who marries their agent, anyway?

* * *

"Historically, lots of heroes," Sero tells him later when Kirishima reports in. "But like I said, you don't have to worry about her."

"I'm not worried. " Kirishima stretches out on the couch. "Not anymore."

"Okay, so. Step two." Ashido pushes herself up off a beanbag chair and flops onto the couch beside Kirishima. "Now you tell Bakugou you like him! And then you guys kiss, and date, and it's cute and we're all happy for you, the end."

"It's not gonna be that simple," Kirishima mutters.

The look exchanged by Ashido and Sero feels unfair. How come they get that level of communication between them while everybody else is still fumbling around with words and tone of voice? It just doesn't seem right.

"What's not gonna be simple?"

Kirishima's heart leaps into his throat and he spins around to see, to his abject horror, the object of his affections strolling over from the elevators, hands in his pockets and chin tilted up like he's already decided he owns the room, regardless of the occupants.

Ashido's fingers jabbing into his side grab his attention, but he can't move. Bakugou still hasn't looked away from his face, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed. If Kirishima didn't know any better, he'd think Bakugou looked _nervous,_ but that can't be true.

"So we're leaving," Ashido says loudly, shoving off of Kirishima and standing up.

"What? No I wanna see this."

"We're going!"

"Ashido, come on!"

Kirishima barely notices she and Sero walking past Bakugou, but he _does_ notice the way Bakugou's jaw twitches as he turns to watch them disappear into the elevator. _Have mercy,_ Kirishima begs silently. _I can't take much more of this._

"So?"

Kirishima startles when that mouth he'd been staring at moves. Making sounds at _him._ Bakugou's talking to him, and looking at him. He's the sole focus of Bakugou's attention, and after wanting nothing but that for weeks he's got no idea what to do with it. "Ssssoo…?"

Bakugou's lip curls up as he sneers. Kirishima wishes he knew some actual prayers that he could chant in his head, like Buddhist sutras or something. "So _what's not simple,_ dumbass?"

"See, actually I was having that conversation with two other people…"

"Who left."

"Uh."

"Probably because they fuckin' know you have something to say to me-"

"Now hold on-"

"-but your un-manly ass is too chickenshit to say it."

"Whoa hey!" Kirishima vaults up from the couch, face burning. "Don't you call me un-manly!"

Bakugou gestures and Kirishima's kind of pissed off that he can still find Bakugou's hands and arms and whole body super attractive even when he's being a supreme jerk. "What the fuck is this then?"

"What's _what?_"

"This! You fucking sitting there like I'm so stupid I'm gonna buy any more of your dumbass dodging bullshit! Why're you still avoiding me?"

This is the worst part: Kirishima _still_ doesn't know. He didn't know why he was upset Bakugou was getting a stranger's attention. He didn't know why it bothered him so bad that Bakugou had used a nickname like his on another person. And now, staring at Bakugou as he huffs and glares, Kirishima is so _frustrated_ to find that still, now, he _doesn't know_ why he's afraid to tell Bakugou the simple truth. It might screw something up, but things are pretty screwed up. Bakugou's not going to let this go so Kirishima's options are pretty limited. He can tell the truth and risk wrecking their friendship, or he can lie and wreck it that way instead.

"Did I do something?"

For the hundredth time, for hopefully the last, Kirishima just. Stops.

"You talked to that fuckin' Ruriko chick, so I know it's not 'cause you're pissed off about the manager thing." Bakugou's expression is still lined, hard and angry, but now Kirishima can _see._ The defensive pull of his shoulders, the way he still hasn't pulled his other hand out of his pocket, that faint, barely-there tremble of uncertainty in his voice. "So was it just- did I fucking _say_ something, or-"

"I like you."

It's deeply satisfying to watch someone else stop instead of always being subjected to it, but Kirishima can't really savor it. Not when it's Bakugou staring at him in confusion, brow furrowed and mouth just a little open, still halfway formed around whatever it was he was going to say. Kirishima couldn't hear it anymore. Let him be responsible for wrecking this, if Bakugou's gonna try and blame himself for it.

Kirishima looks down and kneels on the couch, pulling at a loose thread sticking out of a seam. "Like, as in _like._ I didn't wanna freak you out, so." It feels so _lame,_ and Bakugou's right, _totally_ un-manly to just mutter it like this but Kirishima doesn't think he's got it in him to look at Bakugou's face right now. Especially not if he's going to be upset or grossed out.

"You serious?"

Kirishima sneaks a glance. Bakugou's expression is severe. "Dead serious, man."

He takes a step forward. "If you're making fun of me I swear to god-"

"I'm not." Kirishima laughs, covering his face and digging his fingers into his hair for just a second. "Oh man, I promise, I'm totally not. If anybody here is gonna come outta this looking stupid, it's me."

"_Why?"_

"'Cause I'm the one who'd get rejected, I mean obviously, the rejected person is the one who looks dumb."

"No- you." Bakugou makes an impatient sound. His face goes red and it feels impossible, there's no way. "I mean why- d'you, just." He gestures again, with those nice strong hands, and Kirishima's heart pounds so hard in his chest he's sure Bakugou can hear it. Maybe he does because he keeps going, struggling along. "It's- not something that I'm- people don't usually _like_ people who, y'know, shit, just-"

"Do you like me too?" Bakugou makes a strangled noise and Kirishima falls over the back of the couch he jumps up and rushes over, right into Bakugou's space, even as he leans away. Hope swells greater and eats up his fears, his doubt, everything until it's the only thing left. No way, no way _no way._ "Bro do you like me? Are you crushing on me?"

"F-fuck you," Bakugou stammers.

"_OH_ my god!" Kirishima grabs Bakugou's arms, his great, awesome, beefy manly arms and gives him a shake, which was probably a mistake since Bakugou snarls and karate chops his side. "Wait," he wheezes when Bakugou whirls around to storm off, "wait wait, don't go! Dude, do you? You gotta say it! I gotta know for sure!"

"Jesus _Christ,_" Bakugou snaps, glaring somewhere around Kirishima's knees, entire head going crimson all the way to the tips of his ears and oh shit, oh _shit_ it's the cutest thing. Oh no Kirishima's dead. "Fuck, isn't it obvious yet?! Shit!"

"Oh my god." Kirishima can't grab Bakugou's hands because he's burrowed them into his pockets so deeply he might be trying to tunnel to the other side of the world, so instead he grabs onto his shoulders and looks deep into his eyes. "Dude. Please date me. Please please be my boyfriend."

One of Kirishima's favorite shows growing up had this one character who, when he got mad, would fill up red like pouring juice into a glass. Kirishima always thought it was weird; who goes red like that, from the neck up, like a rising thermometer?

Bakugou does.

* * *

No less than ten people come up to him during class the next day to tell him they heard Bakugou screaming, and what the hell was that about, what did you even _do_, Kirishima. Even Shouji says he heard it, but the guy can make infinite ears so Kirishima's not sure how apologetic to be. Still, that's the fourth floor. That's some reverberation.

Ashido corners him during their practical class where they're learning how to effectively clear rubble. Kirishima is on the frontlines with that considering his indestructibility, and Ashido sniffs him out like a bloodhound who has been trained to seek freshly boyfriended people. "Did you do it?" she hisses.

Kirishima grunts and rolls a slab of concrete out of the way. "…yeah."

Ashido screams so loud that everybody comes running. She manages to ask, "And he-?!" before they get there, and he nods and she screams again and Aizawa tells her wearily to pipe down, for pete's sake, it's nine A.M. and there's no reason for her to be an insane person at such a godforsaken hour.

He wonders if Bakugou will be upset, if he wanted to keep it a secret, so when they go to lunch together (_together! In their spot!_) Kirishima asks him.

"What? Fuck." Bakugou goes that wonderful shade of pink and glowers down at his bento. "I don't know."

It has been one day. _One day._ How has he gone from crushing to dumb and desperately head-over-heels in the span of, like, not even fifteen hours? "Apparently I'm really obvious, so I think everybody already knows."

"Shit."

"You're gonna start being obvious if you keep blushing like this."

"Then fuckin' stop making me blush, dickhead!"

Ohhh, he loves him. He loves him, he loves him, he loves him. "Look, Blasty-"

"Stop."

"-y'know, your manager asked me to make up with you."

Bakugou looks up from his lunch. "The fuck? Why?"

"She said you're a horrible gremlin when you're sad and lonely." Bakugou makes a fist around his chopsticks like he's going to use them to punch Kirishima in the face so he hastily amends his statement, snickering. "I paraphrased! A little."

"A _lot,_ probably, you fucking dick." Bakugou stabs a prawn like a caveman, instead of picking it up like a civilized person. Whooo, Kirishima's so in love. _Dangerous._ "Whatever. If she can't do her job right, I'll just dump her ass to the street."

"Dude…that she hasn't already run screaming is a pretty good sign that she'll actually be really good for you."

"What, are you her fuckin' cheerleader now that you know she's not trying to sit on my dick?"

Kirishima sputters but ohhhh holy shit, the smirk on Bakugou's face is worth the indignation. Oh wow, goddamn, slay him now and lay him here to rest, eternally peaceful. Carve the likeness of that smirk into his tombstone, he has a problem and that problem is _incendiary._ "I-I wanna make out."

"_No._ Gross, were you turned on by that?"

"Yeah, let's make out."

"Fuck no! You can fucking _wait!_"

* * *

Kirishima does wait, sometimes impatiently, but the first time they kiss it's like all those sappy movies rolled up into one, with colors and angelic choirs and fireworks popping in the sky, bright and bursting and burning.

* * *

"I told you he was into guys." Ashido hops up onto the unoccupied dryer next to where Kirishima is pretending he knows how to fold clothes. "It's so obvious."

"How is it obvious?" Kirishima accosts his freshly laundered t-shirt pile with the vigor of a man determined to succeed. "Bakugou doesn't look like he's into _anybody._"

"He likes All Might."

Kirishima rolls his eyes. "_Everybody_ likes All Might."

"No, no. You've seen his room, right?"

Kirishima nods.

Ashido leans in to whisper conspiratorily. "He has an All Might poster over his bed."

Folding socks is almost as pointless as folding underwear. Kirishima wads them all together and shoves them into his basket between his pajamas (also pointless to fold) and his jeans (somewhat less pointless). "Everybody," he informs her kindly, "has an All Might poster. Sometimes over their bed. That doesn't mean a dude is gay."

"The one he has over his bed is a shirtless one."

Kirishima pauses. When he glances over, Ashido is giving him that Look. "…you're saying-"

"You don't hang a cheesecake poster over your bed because it goes nicely with the wallpaper, Kirishima."

He spends three days agonizing over it before he decides to ask Bakugou, in a calm, mature manner, to elaborate on the nature of his admiration for one of the greatest heroes of all time.

"Dude do you jerk it to your All Might poster?"

Kirishima has to explain to the principal personally how his uniform got completely destroyed while he was still wearing it.

* * *

Things are both terrible and great. They start really, really slow. Not because Bakugou demands it, but also because he kind of does through his inaction and outright refusal. For example, Kirishima wants to hold hands on the way to class the every morning. Bakugou tells him to eat shit and die. They compromise with no hand-holding and no dying or shit-eating.

For the first month, not much changes. At least Bakugou is regularly eating outside again, and though Kirishima doesn't always join him, he doesn't seem to mind. The guy likes his space. Ruriko is sometimes there when Kirishima shows up, but she always leaves with a blinding smile and a wink at them both.

"I don't like her shitty grin," Bakugou grumbles. "She's fired."

Bakugou keeps threatening to fire Ruriko, but Kirishima just informs him that he'd have to actually hire her first. "It's thanks to her showing up that we even got together," Kirishima points out, his head in Bakugou's lap because he's allowing it and Kirishima enjoys finding out how much he can get away with.

Bakugou turns the page in the book he's reading. "Who the fuck says that?"

"Me." Kirishima closes his eyes. The wind is chilly but Bakugou runs warm, like a furnace, which is so appropriate it's hilarious. Kirishima has made it his life's work to teach the guy the fine art of appreciating cuddles. "If she didn't say anything-"

"You would've got around to it."

Kirishima looks up. Bakugou's face is half-hidden behind his book, but the one red eye he can see flicks over to fix on his own. "…Yeah. I would've, eventually."

Bakugou goes back to his book and Kirishima squirms around, pleased.

"Stop wiggling, hair-for-brains."

"You know me pretty good, huh?"

"You're just fuckin' easy to figure out."

"Really? It's not 'cause you think about me all the time or anything?"

"Obviously not."

Kirishima grins and closes his eyes again. "Yeah. Obviously."


	89. (E) H800 - I Like You Better Wild by Syn

I Like You Better Wild  
Synekdokee

Summary:  
"I can recommend a good masseur for you, it'll help with the strain put on by the PT," his doctor had said. "He's an android, but he's one of the best in the field. Just don't be put off by his bedside manner."

What he hadn't said was "this masseur looks like he walked out of your wet dreams, so have fun lying naked under a sheet in front of him."

* * *

Connor had always resigned himself to the possibility of getting injured in the line of duty. It was the reality of his profession, something every cop had to make peace with sooner or later.

The thing was he'd expected it to be something a little bit more heroic. Getting shot at, maybe. Hell, getting stabbed and stoically pretending he was fine. Something he could get a commendation for.

Throwing out his back while wrestling a service station robber while on his lunch break? Not something to dazzle the dates with.

Not that he had any. The only thing it had earned him was a few pats on the back and a confinement to desk duty, and department-funded physical therapy.

"I can recommend a good masseur for you, it'll help with the strain put on by the PT," his doctor had said. "He's an android, but he's one of the best in the field. Just don't be put off by his bedside manner."

What he hadn't said was "this masseur looks like he walked out of your wet dreams, so have fun lying naked under a sheet in front of him."

When the android had greeted Connor in the waiting area, calling his name in a low, gravelly voice while taking Connor's hand in one massive paw, Connor had nearly turned tail and ran. Problem was running was an issue these days, and so he went meekly, undressing behind a screen and wrapping the massage sheet around himself.

So here he was. "Just call me Hank", the hot therapeutic masseur android talking to him about his patient history and injury while Connor perches on the edge of the padded massage table, dangling his legs like a nervous five year old.

"I guess you can consider yourself lucky," Hank says, flipping through his PT papers, the LED on his forehead spinning yellow. "I've treated some cops who've had far worse injuries. And far stupider ones."

Connor hums, hands folded neatly in his lap as he tries not to stare too obviously. It's like a shitty cosmic joke - _Hey Connor, I know it's been years since you've been laid, here's a guy who's exactly your type, and by the way, it'd possibly be unethical and certainly highly unprofessional if you fucked!_

Hank puts the file away and rolls his sleeves up, revealing thick, toned forearms. He ties up his silver hair, exposing the column of his throat. Connor swallows, turning to stare at a wall. Why the fuck had they designed androids like that? What purpose did it serve to create androids that looked like they belonged in the centerfold of Big Bears Monthly?

"Alright, why don't you lie down on your front," Hank instructs, tone no-nonsense. He holds up the sheet, draping it over Connor to help him retain his modesty.

He feels unpleasantly vulnerable like this, his back exposed, unable to see what's going on as his face pokes out of the ridiculous hole in the table. Physical therapy is one thing - it's proactive, sometimes challenging. Lying prone on a table while a stranger puts his mitts all over him is not within his comfort zone.

"Alright, let's see how knotted up you are," Hank says lightly, and Connor hears a bottle being opened. He smells lavender, and then Hank's footsteps come closer.

"The oil is warmed up, shouldn't feel cold. I'm going to start with your neck, just try to relax."

The voice certainly is calming, Connor thinks, closing his eyes. He twitches a little as Hank lays two large palms on his neck, firmly pressing as he drags them over his muscles.

It's not bad. It's quite nice, in fact. Very nice. Hank is methodical, moving to his shoulders, then down his back. Connor begins to relax, letting out a long breath as he goes limp on the table. It's not just the capable technique that feels good - it's been a long time since Connor has had another hu- person's hands on him, and though he wouldn't be caught dead admitting it, the faux intimacy makes something pleasant and comforting pool in his gut.

Hank keeps a running commentary, cataloguing Connor's muscles and the extent of the damage. Most of it hardly registers to Connor, beyond the lull of Hank's voice, low and gravelly, filling the room.

It takes a while for him to catch on to the fact that his touch-starved body is reading a little too much into his masseur's deft hands going over every inch of him. It feels so good, and Connor can't stop thinking about how Hank looks, big and built in a way that makes it clear he could pin Connor down, android or not, or how his voice would sound murmuring obscenities in Connor's ear.

"You clearly favour your left side," Hank says, tone pitched low and sending a pleasant flutter down Connor's spine.

"Uhhu," Connor says, swallowing thickly as Hank moves to knead at his lower back. It feels - amazing, and Hank's hands are so close to the slope of his ass, and Connor's getting _hard_.

He wants to cry. This can't fucking be happening, he can't actually be this _pathetic_. But apparently he is, lonely and over-worked with a fucked-up back at 30, getting turned on from getting a massage from an android.

Hank presses both palms down, flat along Connor's skin, and Connor's hips sink into the padded table. The whine that escapes him is mortifying, but Hank seems to read it for discomfort.

"You gotta relax, kid," he reproachfully, sliding his hands up Connor's back. Connor can only let out a vague noise of acquiescence, and Hank clucks his tongue.

"Don't worry, I'll get you loosened up," he promises, and Connor is on the verge of sobbing from misery. He grinds his teeth and tries to not tense up, but he can't quite stifle the soft breathy sounds occasionally pushing their way out of his mouth. His dick is trapped under him, hard and aching, and it's painful and fucked up.

Eventually the torture ends. Hank holds the sheet up so Connor can sit, and Connor grabs it and bundles it in his lap.

"Can- can you give me a moment," he says, face burning.

"Are you alright?" Hank asks, concerned, LED flashing red. He places a hand on Connor's bare shoulder, and Connor _shivers_. "I didn't go too hard on you?"

"No, uh. It's not that. Just." He takes a deep breath. "This is really humiliating, I promise I'm not like, some kind of a creep-"

Hank glances at his lap, and nods, unfazed.

"Don't worry about it, human bodies are strange," he says with a bland smile. "Just come to the reception when you're ready."

With Hank and his ridiculously appealing voice gone, it's easier to get his arousal to cool down. The embarrassment lingers, but he'll have to live with it.

Connor considers not going again. But he has the referral, and his back has felt much better after the first session, and he's getting fed up with desk duty.

The routine is the same. Hank greets him in the waiting area, still as stupidly hot as ever in his sweats, with his silver beard and his clear blue eyes and his hair tied up, and Connor avoids looking him in the eye. He undresses while Hank asks him about his week, about physical therapy and the progress made. Connor gives short answers as he climbs onto the table and tries not to jump when Hank rests a palm over his spine as he adjusts the sheet over his exposed backside.

The whole session is torture. Connor tries to keep his stupid, desperate body in control, tries not to moan like a bitch in heat.

Hank kneads at the knots and strains, acting so oblivious Connor wonders if he disables his sensors for the sessions.

Hank digs an elbow into a large muscle in Connor's back and makes a disapproving noise. "You're not supposed to be working out yet," he chides, and Connor whips his head up to stare at him over his shoulder.

"How did you-"

Hank grunts, grabbing Connor's neck gently and pushing him back down firmly. The oddly dominating gesture is like a punch to the gut, and Connor lets out a sigh, his dick twitching. He thinks Hank freezes for a moment before continuing, and Connor feels a blush stain his neck and face, surely visible to Hank too.

"You're not the first bull-headed client I've had. Stop going to the gym or you'll worsen the injury," Hank says as though nothing is wrong, dragging his hands down with a heavy pressure until they rest just over the swell of Connor's ass. Connor holds his breath, and then whimpers when Hank's thumbs dig in.

Connor draws in a breath, trying to force his voice to normal. "I miss it," he says, and Hank lets out a soft laugh. It's one of the nicest sounds Connor has heard in months.

"Maybe next time you'll think twice before you go wrestling crooks then," Hank says dryly. He rubs at Conor's lower back, and Connor lets out a muffled _mewl_.

"Sensitive?" Hank asks, pausing his movements for a moment, his large hands just resting there over the dip of Connor's spine. It makes Connor think of all sorts of filthy things, and he holds his breath, trying to clear his head.

Hank digs his thumbs into the swell of muscle on either side of the well of Connor's spine, and it punches a groan out of Connor.

"There you go," Hank rumbles, massaging the knots open. Connor lets out a blissed-out sound, arching a little bit.

"You're pretty badly jammed down here. If you spend a lot of time at your desk, you might want to adjust your chair." His calm tone is at odds with the way he keeps touching the rise of Connor's ass, skirting the edge of what's appropriate. It throws Connor's head for a loop, dizzy with emotional whiplash.

"Too much paperwork;" Connor stutters out. "At least I get paid overtime."

"Aren't you a bit young to spend all your time a by a computer," Hank asks, his arm brushing over Connor's sheet-covered buttock as he burrows in with his elbow again. Connor barely realises they're veered off topic of what's relevant to his injuries.

"In this profession personal life is more of a concept," Connor manages to breathe out, proud that not a single moan breaks his sentence.

Hank just grunts, and Connor's left with the impression that he's managed to let him down somehow.

When their session ends Connor sits, flushed and breathless and hunched over the sheet folded over his lap.

"I'll be outside," Hank says, impassive, and Connor casts him a grateful look.

When Connor gets home he gets himself off, stripping his cock furiously, the smell of lavender still lingering on his skin as he thinks about Hank's hands, his voice, the whole solid form of him and how nice his touch is. He comes with a desperate whine, bucking his hips into his hand. The guilt that descends after is _crushing_.

It continues like that; Hank politely ignoring Connor's neediness, and Connor trying desperately to control his body, but ending every session with an raging hard-on. Afterwards during billing procedures Hank seems to make a point of not making things awkward, engaging Connor in polite small talk - though it usually collapses under the weight of Connor's sad, work-centered life.

"I'm so sorry about this," Connor says one day, voice a little anguished. "I don't want to make you uncomfortable. I mean, I don't even know if you guys - I guess it's just been a really long time since-" he snaps his mouth shut, and blushes furiously. There's an unusually soft expression on Hank's face, and Connor can't look away.

"It's fine," Hank says reassuringly. "Trust me, this isn't the weirdest thing a human has done here," he chuckles, and Connor swallows, turning his gaze down. The bar is clearly set low, and it doesn't make him feel much better.

"But do yourself a favour and go out this weekend, have some fun, maybe go home with someone," Hank adds.

Connor stares at him, mouth parted. "Isn't this a little above your paygrade? Or do you moonlight as a therapist," he says, a little more hostile than he intends.

Hank merely levels him a look, not even having the decency to pretend to be chastised. "Look, I'm well aware of mammalian hang-ups," he says sardonically. "But it's becoming increasingly obvious to me that you don't have much of a life outside your job. I'm just saying, if you let out some steam, maybe you wouldn't be so wound up from getting a massage from an _android_," he says gruffly, raising an eyebrow. Connor doesn't miss the weight on the final word, and wonders if Hank thinks Connor is some sort of a weird fetishist after all.

An awkward silence follows. "I'll be outside," Hank says eventually, leaving Connor alone to wonder if there's an appropriate time to tell your massage therapist you want to jump his bones, regardless of his bionic status.

"I'm sorry if I crossed a line last time," Hank says a week later. Connor's really starting to wish he'd save these conversations for when Connor's wearing clothes.

"It's fine. You weren't wrong," he admits, pulling his shirt over his head and folding it. "Not that I followed your advice. Worked all weekend. Not that I'm much good at socialising anyway."

There's a silence, and when he steps out from behind the screen there's no sheet waiting to cover him. Instead Hank's staring at him with a frown on his face

Connor shifts, reaching for the sheet on the table, and Hank jolts.

"Shit, sorry," he grunts, covering Connor up. There's a blue tinge on his cheeks, an android equivalent of a blush, Connor realises with a start. It's a nice change, Connor thinks. It also looks very nice on him.

The session feels different. Connor's not sure if he's imagining things, but Hank seems to be spending more time around his lower back. There are moments when his touches are lighter, not quite caresses, but certainly not firm enough to count as massaging.

Hank's hand brushes across the dip of his tail bone, and the noise Connor makes, uncontrolled and involuntary, makes his gut clench with humiliation. He screws his eyes shut when Hank's hands pause, and for a moment he's sure this is it, Hank's had enough, he's about to get kicked out and Hank will call his PT and tell him what a perverted little creep Connor is-

Hank moves again, trailing his hands up to curl around Connor's shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles into his shoulder blades. Connor thinks he can hear Hank's breathing a little heavier than usual (and he must be delirious, why would an android do that), and he swallows hard around a soft whimper. He's so hard it hurts, and even when Hank goes back to properly massaging him, it won't let up. Hank leans close for just a second to use his elbow, and Connor can feel his breath on his skin, cool instead of hot like a human's. It all becomes too much, and he lets out a choked moan, his hips bucking against the table, searching for friction.

Humiliation floods him, awful and hot. He's never lost control like this, always manages himself perfectly, at work and in private. Never gives an inch that isn't strictly necessary. And now the weekly illusion of affection is unraveling him.

_Pathetic_, he thinks, tears stinging his eyes.

"It's okay, Connor," Hank hums, one hand drawing a reassuring line down his back. "Just relax, it's fine, I'll take care of it," he says, voice calm and comforting, and before Connor's brain can truly register the words, Hank has moved to massage his thighs.

They never do this. Connor's legs are just fine, they don't need massaging, but when Hank curls both hands around his thigh, digging his fingers in under the sheet still covering his lower half, Connor just lays there, his thoughts blanking out.

One of Hank's large hands climbs up his thigh, and Connor holds his breath, feeling oddly removed from his body. Hank's touch is warmer than a human's, solid, and it inches higher, agonisingly slow. Connor wants to say something, to ask for more, but he can't bring himself to break this spell. He's still convinced this is a misunderstanding, that he's reading too much into this, that Hank's just feeling the muscle. And then the side of Hank's hand brushes against his balls, and everything comes to a stop.

Connor stares down at the floor beneath him, pulse pounding, arousal throbbing through his veins. He feels hot all over, waiting for Hank to apologise, to draw his hand back and cut the session short.

Connor lets out a shuddering breath and bites his lip. Hoping this isn't a mistake, he moves his left leg, trembling, pulling it up a little. Widening the space between his thighs.

He hears Hank breathe in and out, measured, and then a thumb rubs across his balls, sliding to press against his perineum. It's too much, Connor can't hold himself together anymore, and he lets out a sob, lifting his head to lay it over his folded arms.

Hank is silent, but he places a steadying palm on the small of Connor's back as he works a hand under his hips. Connor keeps his eyes closed and cants his hips, giving Hank more room.

Deft fingers trace along his aching cock, drawing a choked groan from him. It's a relief to not hold back anymore, even if he still feels ashamed, and scared that he's somehow making Hank do this, or equally nauseating, that it's pity, that Hank just feels so bad for him that he's doing this.

Hank curls his fingers around him, stroking him slowly, and Connor whimpers, digging his teeth into his own wrist.

"That's it," Hank murmurs, petting his back, and Connor _quivers_. "It's okay, let it out."

"I- I can't, Hank, please," Connor cries, arching his back to press into Hank's touch.

Hank laughs, low and gravelly, the hand on Connor's back sliding to his ass, one finger dipping just between his cheeks, teasing. Connor whines, trying to lift his hips further, pulling one knee under himself to try to lift his ass up.

"Don't strain yourself," Hank says disapprovingly. The hand around his dick withdraws, leaving Connor whining, and then the bed shudders, and Connor has to crane his neck to look back.

"Wha?" He says blearily, staring wide eyed as Hank climbs up to straddle his thigh.

Hank holds his gaze as he grips Connor's cheeks in two hands, and when Connor does nothing but lick his lips, Hank gives a small nod. He parts Connor's buttocks, exposing his hole to the cool air, and Connor buries his face in his arms again.

Hank's breathing is heavy, Connor can hear it clearly, and it sends a jolt of arousal through him. Is Hank turned on too? Does he want this as much as Connor does? He doesn't know a damn thing about android sexual physiology, but the thought that this might be more than pity sends comforting warmth coursing through him.

Two thumbs press against his hole, spreading him open. Connor grips the padding, white knuckled as he lets out a keening noise. Hank's thumb, still slick from oil, dips inside him, testing. Connor nearly bucks them both off the table, breath coming in in rushed, erratic pants.

"Hey, easy, you're doing good," Hank cooes. Connor feels him shift, and suddenly there's a weight over his back, the swell of Hank's stomach fitting perfectly against the curve of his back, his broad chest against Connor's shoulders. "Feel that?" Hank murmurs, and something brushes against Connor's ass, hard and large even through the loose pants Hank's wearing. Connor sobs, trying to press up against it.

"You've got me so hard," Hank says, voice low against Connor's ear. "Let me take care of you."

Connor nods, frantic, trying to reach behind and between them to shove off the sheet now bunched over his thighs.

"Easy," Hank says, like Connor's an animal to be soothed.

"I'm sorry," Connor sobs, and he feels so _good_ pressed into the table by Hank's bulk, Hank's heat surrounding him everywhere.

"What do you want?" Hank asks, one hand stroking along Connor's ribs, fingers tracking the ripple of them. "I need you to say it for me."

"Anything, I want-" He chokes off, voice cracking with need. "I want, I want you in me, please," he moans, turning his head to the side.

Hank leans over him, hushing him, lips brushing over Connor's cheek, his beard scraping over his skin. Only then Connor realises his face is wet. He can't stop it, overwhelmed by the feeling of Hank against his back, his hard cock pressed against the cleft of his ass, caged in by his strong arms. It's too much at once, and still not enough.

He makes a sound of complaint when Hank sits up, leaving his body cold. He feels Hank shift, and then the click of a bottle being opened, and then Hank's touch is back. Something slides against the crease of his thigh, against the swell of his ass, blunt and slick, and when it hits Connor what it is he nearly comes on the spot.

"Yes, yes, _please_," he whines, struggling to spread his thighs wider. He'd feel ashamed of his own eagerness, of how desperate he's coming off, but it doesn't matter now. The point of no return was passed a long time ago.

Hank leans over him again, propped up on one arm as he noses behind the curve of his ear. "Take it easy now," he murmurs, and Connor jumps when he feels two thick fingers prod at his hole, slick with oil. Hank's cock is an insistent weight against his thigh, making Connor's mouth water at the thought of it.

He gasps a ragged breath when the fingers press inside him, and despite the tension coiled tight in him it's easy to give in to it.

"That's it, that's my good boy," Hank croons, and Connor wants to please him, wants to give Hank _everything_. He pulls his elbows under him, shoulders up and head hanging down as he pants, body trembling while Hank fingers him open, fucking him slowly.

"So fucking eager for it, aren't you?" Hank says, amusement clear in his tone. Connor can only nod and let out a soft, vulnerable sound.

"So good for me," Hank adds, pressing a kiss to Connor's flushed neck.

The fingers pull out, and Hank shifts, shuffling up a little to make up for the difference in their heights. Connor hangs on to the edge of the table, hard enough to hurt, staring wide eyed at the wall as he waits, counting seconds.

The tip of Hank's cock presses against his slick hole, and Connor has a moment of panic because Hank feels _huge_ and there's no way it's gonna fit, no fucking way, not for all the massage oil in the world.

"You gotta relax," Hank coaxes him, one hand on his hip. "I'll make you feel so good, baby."

Connor shivers at the term of endearment, and takes a deep breath, letting it out, bearing down.

Hank's cock slides inside, splitting him wide open, and Connor wails, broken and hoarse.

Hank remains still, petting his side and nuzzling at his hair, muttering something Connor can't make out.

"Connor, you with me?" Hank asks, tone hard, hand snaking around Connor's shoulder to tip his head to the side as Hank leans over to look at him. "Don't space out on me."

"I'm- yes, I'm here," Connor slurs, so lust-addled it's hard to concentrate. Hank chuckles, a low, dark sound. He presses two fingers to Connor's mouth, teasing at his bitten lips until Connor parts them obediently.

"Such a good boy," Hank says, pleased, and with a hitch of his hips he buries himself to the hilt. Connor feels impossibly full, swears he can feel Hank in his _gut_. Hank's hips press against Connor's ass, belly flush against his back, sliding his fingers over Connor's tongue simultaneously.

Connor's cock throbs, so hard he aches with it, and when Hank begins to move, slow, shallow strokes, he loses the ability to think. All he can do is pant around Hank's fingers, spit dripping down his chin as he takes what Hank chooses to give him, mindless with pleasure.

Connor is pinned in place, unable to move, blissfully at Hank's mercy. He surrenders to it, all shreds of shame now gone, chased away by Hank's soft words of praise and encouragement. They blend together, just a litany of approval and adoration making him feel so good, high on lust. He sucks on Hank's fingers hungrily, soft little pants spilling from his lips.

"Listen to you, all those pretty little sounds," Hank says, tone full of approval that warms Connor to the core. Hank shifts, pulling his hips back, withdrawing almost completely, and when he slides back in the head of his cock drags over Connor's prostate, drawing a broken scream from him. Hank laughs, low and _possessive_, and sets up a rhythm, fucking Connor over and over until Connor's reduced into a needy mess, shoulders trembling as his orgasm builds.

"Come on, Connor, come for me baby," Hank growls, and the demanding tone paired with the relentless pressure on his prostate is what shoves him over the edge. He comes with a full-body shudder, whining around Hank's fingers, drooling down Hank's hand as his hips jerk wildly, come spreading under his belly.

He collapses onto the table, a fucked-out mess. Hank pulls his hand away, pressing a kiss to Connor's temple, rubbing his beard against his flushed skin.

"Such a good boy," he says approvingly, and then he thrusts his hips, and Connor can't hold back the sob, trying to jerk his hips away.

"T-too much,," he whimpers, but Hank pets his hair, humming softly.

"You can take it, you know you can," he says, fucking Connor with a languid pace. Connor shakes and nods, his wet lashes fluttering against his cheeks.

It's so good he can barely breathe, the drag of Hank's cock inside him, stretching him, the slide of it easy now that Connor's gone loose, the most relaxed he's been in a long time. He closes his eyes and loses himself in the sensations of Hank fucking him slow, a hand caressing him, Hank's body keeping Connor warm and safe.

He loses track of time. He doesn't know how long Hank's been using him, and he doesn't want it to end, would like to stay like this, taken by Hank over and over again. He's hard still, but his arousal is no longer an insistent need, just a low, pleasant thrum in his gut.

He groans when Hank moves to sit up, pressing both palms to the small of Connor's back to brace himself as he picks up his pace, pinning Connor down as he slams into him with a bruising force. Suddenly Hank grows tense, grinding his hips against Connor, buried balls deep. He comes with a grunt, and Connor can _feel_ him, can feel his cock twitch and the flood of synthetic semen. He keens brokenly, his own cock jerking where it lies under him in the mess of his own come.

Hank stills above him, and Connor swears he can hear his pump regulator beat overtime. Finally he lets out a shuddering, mechanical trill and pulls away, withdrawing slowly.

There's a flood of come that follows, dripping out of Connor's fucked-open hole, down his balls and onto the table. It makes him feel obscene, exposed and on display.

"Look at you," Hank says, tone deeply satisfied as he presses a finger inside Connor, coaxing more come out of him. Connor whimpers, sore and used up, and Hank hums, sliding off the table.

"Come here," he says gently, gathering Connor in his arms like he weighs less than a ragdoll. Connor's too weak to resist, not that he wants to. He sits on the edge, come still leaking out of him, wedged against Hank's broad chest. He watches in a daze as Hank wraps his hand around his come-stained dick and begins stroking, teasing the tip. It's the hottest thing Connor has seen, the way Hank's large palm envelopes him, the tip of his flushed cock peeking out with every down-stroke.

He buries his face against Hank's neck, panting against his skin, breathing in the scent of oils and something artificial but no less pleasant.

"You did so well," Hank praises him, holding him tight. "Feels better now, doesn't it? You gotta learn to let go, baby," he says, and Connor nods, mouthing at his throat.

His second orgasm is less intense, his pleasure cresting and ebbing as he comes over Hank's hand, shivering, little "ah, ah" sounds bursting from his tongue. Hank holds him through it, lips pressed against his temple, his presence reassuring and calming.

They stay that way for a while, Connor's pulse slowing down from its hurried fluttering, his breathing evening out. Eventually Hank leans away, holding Connor steady as he steps back to look at him. To scan him, Connor realises, and his afterglow is shattered by doubt. Maybe Hank was just fulfilling a function, doing what he felt was necessary to wind Connor down. Maybe he doesn't want Connor at all, just saw him as a task-

"I can practically hear you thinking," Hank says, giving him a wry smile. "Clearly next time I'll have to do a more thorough job."

Connor's thoughts grind to a halt.

"Next time?" He asks, voice hoarse from sex.

Hank gives him an unimpressed look. "Yes, next time. And it should be at your place - highly unprofessional of me to engage in happy endings at my place of work."

It startles a hysterical laugh out of Connor, and he leans forward until his brow is pressed against Hank's sternum, his shoulders hitching as he tries to get a grip on his nerves.

Hank rests a hand on the curve of his spine, and sighs.

"Fucking humans."


	90. (G) KLANCE - And I'll Be Your Safety by

And I'll be your safety  
Queerklancing

Summary:  
"I don't get how you do it."

"What?" Hunk asks, eyes already fixated on the tablet in his hands.

"Keep up with Lance. Isn't it… annoying that he's so clingy all the time?"

Hunk chuckles. "Nah, I don't mind. He does it with everyone."

Keith almost flinches at that.

"Really?" he asks, hoping that Hunk doesn't hear the edge to his voice.

"Yeah, you didn't notice?"

"No, not really. He doesn't—I mean… he bothers me, but he's never…"

Hunk snorts.

"Yeah, well, you're his rival after all. It would be weird if he just started cuddling with you."

"Right."

* * *

Keith steps outside the hangar and sighs when the cold air of the castle immediately cools his cheeks. Training today was hard, and he was sweating so much that his bangs stick to his forehead. Keith puts a hand on his shoulder, rolling it back with a wince. Having Shiro as a training partner isn't exactly an easy task to begin with, but Allura _really_ worked him to the bone.

She had them running individual drills for the last two weeks—and frankly, it's hell. She said that it would be good for every paladin to work on the specific functions of their lions. Which _is_ a good idea, but Allura is… fierce.

He isn't going to complain though; Keith knows that they must stay in shape. Lately, the Galran attacks have increased, both in numbers and intensity. Another deep sigh leaves his lips. All he wants to do is take a shower and lie down, but he promised to tell Lance that it's his turn to train.

Keith really hopes that he doesn't have to look for him. Usually, Lance is hanging out in the common room at this time of the day. Keith makes his way to one of the deeper levels of the castle. The door slides open with a whoosh as he approaches the room, and Keith stops in his tracks.

He was right. Lance is right there, and he's obviously relaxing.

The thing Keith was not prepared for, however, was to see him chilling in Hunk's lap.

Lance sits on Hunk's right leg, his own legs comfortably dangling between Hunk's thighs, with his head leaning against Hunk's shoulder.

"So, I walked into her room to get the headphones," Lance says. Like always, he's telling the story with his whole body, hands moving through the air.

Hunk has both of his arms wrapped comfortably around Lance, eyes focused on a tablet. He frowns and tilts his head.

"Wait, you just walked into Pidge's room?"

"I _needed _the headphones, Hunk! So anyway, I walk into her room and open the first cabinet I can find and—BAM!"

Hunk flinches when Lance screams directly into his ear.

"I'm _drowning_ in stuff! And not clothes or anything! Just _stuff_! Seriously, I don't even know where she _got_ all of that junk!"

Hunk lowers the tablet when a laugh rumbles through his body.

"Oh my god, so _that's_ why she was so pissed at you!"

There's a wide grin on Lance's lips, and it does something weird to Keith's stomach. By now, he should be used to it, but it always confuses him to see Lance so close with Hunk.

He wants to blame it on the fact that he finds Lance's whole personality irritating, but… Keith knows that it's something different.

"Lance," he calls out, and his heart dares to skip a beat when that dazzling smile is directed at him.

"Hey, Mullet! How can I help you?"

Keith rolls his eyes at the nickname but walks further into the room.

"Allura sent me to get you. You're next in line for individual drills."

A loud groan leaves Lance's mouth, and he drops his head back onto Hunk's shoulder.

"Come on, buddy. We all have to do it." Hunk chuckles when Lance whines into his shoulder.

"I'm pretty sure she makes me work harder than anyone else though," Lance cries, and irritation sparks in Keith's chest when Lance just cuddles closer to Hunk.

Keith takes a step forward, ready to snarl an insult, when Hunk speaks up again.

"Lance, I really need to get this work done."

"Alright, alright!" With that, Lance hops to his feet, sending Keith an unfairly bright grin when he passes him. "I gotta beat your record anyway."

Keith sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose when he plops down next to Hunk in exhaustion.

"I don't get how you do it."

"What?" Hunk asks, eyes already fixated on the tablet in his hands.

"Keep up with Lance. Isn't it… annoying that he's so clingy all the time?"

Hunk chuckles. "Nah, I don't mind. He does it with everyone."

Keith almost flinches at that.

"Really?" he asks, hoping that Hunk doesn't hear the edge to his voice.

"Yeah, you didn't notice?"

"No, not really. He doesn't—I mean… he bothers me, but he's never…"

Hunk snorts.

"Yeah, well, you're his rival after all. It would be weird if he just started cuddling with you."

"Right."

Keith presses his lips into a thin line, and he can't help the way his chest tightens painfully. He knows that Lance sees him as a rival, but to know that he treats Keith differently from anyone else… That really sucks.

"I think… it helps him."

Keith looks up from his clenched fists when Hunks hesitantly speaks up.

"Lance does it when he needs to calm down, or when he feels lonely. He doesn't say anything; he just drops into my lap and starts talking."

There's a fond smile on Hunk's lips, and suddenly, Keith feels like shit. He knows that Lance tends to feel homesick. He just never thought that maybe his clinginess was a way for him to deal with that.

Keith is ripped out of his thoughts when Hunk stretches with a loud groan. "Also, it's great because his neediness forces me to take a break once in awhile." He laughs. "It's a nice side effect."

Keith leans into the sofa when Hunk goes back to work. He should really take a shower, but his chest still feels tight with irritation. He can't really place this feeling.

Something about this is bothering him, and it isn't only the fact that he _might _be a tiny bit jealous of Hunk. He has the feeling that there's more to it and that maybe he's missing something important.

* * *

The next time Keith walks in on Lance being uncomfortably close with someone, it's the princess. And it catches Keith off guard.

Again.

It's just really unusual to see them together.

Allura sits on the sofa, eyes closed and head tilted back. Lance stands behind her, and… Is he braiding her hair?

Keith glances at them while walking over to the table, where Pidge and Hunk are tinkering with something.

"Sooo… what's going on here?" he asks and points with his thumb at the pair. Lance is chattering, like usual, and it seems like he's talking about his siblings back on earth.

Pidge doesn't even look up from the device in her hands when she answers.

"Dunno. Lance said he wanted to train his hair-styling skills or something," she mumbles and asks Hunk to hand her some alien device without looking up. "He wouldn't stop nagging until Allura let him do it."

When Keith looks at Hunk, he sees a lopsided smile on his face. "It makes him feel closer to his siblings, he says."

"Huh."

Keith plops down at the table and rests his chin in his hand. He tries not to stare, but he can't help the way his eyes seem to automatically find their way to Lance's bright smile.

"And I swear to god she stood there—only tall enough to look at that guy's _knees—_and she says, '_Don't fuck with my family!'_ and kicks him right in the shin!"

And at that, Allura actually laughs out loud. Keith's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. It's been awhile since he's seen the princess this relaxed. The last few weeks were spent with them either fighting or running from Galran fleets, and lately, she's been in a constant state of exertion.

"I was _so_ proud! Although, we both got scolded in the end. My mom was sure that I taught her how to say 'fuck—which I _did—_but she couldn't have known that!"

Allura raises a hand to her mouth when she chuckles. "Actually, that reminds me of the time when I taught my younger cousin how to say quiznak."

"Oh my god, you did not!"

"I was very young and thought it was funny. What I didn't expect though was that he wanted to show everyone what he had just learned. He ran right into the conference room where my father was having a diplomatic meeting—"

"Oh. My. God."

"—and he stood in front of _royalty_ from _all over the universe—" _Allura starts laughing halfway through her story when Lance doubles over the headrest of the sofa, right out cackling.

"—and he screams, QUIZNAK!'" Allura manages to say between laughs while Lance starts to wheeze from laughing so hard; and Keith is surprised to find himself smiling along with them.

"You should have seen the _looks_ on their faces!"

"_Stop_, oh my god!" Lance gasps when he straightens himself up again.

Allura wipes tears from her eyes when she finally stops laughing.

"I was grounded for three weeks."

"Oh, wow, that's harsh." Lance chuckles, and his hands go back to work.

"My father was a gentle man, but strict at times," Allura says, and there's a soft expression on her face that Keith has never seen before. Whenever the princess talks about Altea or her father, it's usually a painful expression that finds its way into her eyes.

Lance only hums in response and goes back to work. There's a tender silence between them, and Keith averts his eyes. He doesn't know why, but he feels like he just intruded on a private moment. A feeling he doesn't like at all.

He talks to Hunk and Pidge about their new invention instead, trying to forget the ugly feeling that has nestled its way into his chest.

* * *

"All done!"

Keith only looks up from the work he's been assigned by Pidge when he hears Lance's voice. Lance hands Allura a handheld mirror, and she admires the complex braid of her hair.

"Lance, this is beautiful! Thank you!"

Keith can't help the way the corner of his mouth twitches down when Allura pulls Lance in for a hug.

"No problem, Princess." Lance laughs and gently pats her back. "Thanks for letting me practice."

And suddenly, Lance's eyes land on him.

Keith flinches, and he feels a surge of heat flaring to his cheeks when he realizes that Lance caught him staring.

And he _really_ doesn't like the smug grin that's spreading on Lance's lips. Keith internally prepares himself for a fight when Lance makes his way over to the table.

"What are you staring at Keith?" Lance asks, hands resting on his waist in a cocky pose. "Are you jealous?"

Keith's stomach drops, and the snarky remark he prepared dies on his tongue.

"Wh-What?" he stutters.

"You should've said something, man! I'd _love_ to braid your mullet," Lance says and makes a grabbing motion with his hands.

Keith never knew it was possible, but he feels relieved and nervous at the same time.

"Oh my god, shut up," he snarls, and Keith _hates_ that he loves how this makes Lance laugh out loud.

In fact, he loves it so much that he considers asking him to do it for a second. Because the thought of Lance's long fingers in his hair is—

The loud alarm blaring through the castle, accompanied by Shiro's urgent voice, doesn't let him finish his thought.

It's like a punch in the gut every single time, because peaceful moments like these sometimes make him forget. Forget that they're fighting to defend the universe.

"Last one to the hangar is a slow yupper!" Lance yells and cackles when Hunk jumps to his feet with a curse. Keith can't help the snort escaping his lips. At least, he isn't alone in this.

* * *

Saying that Keith feels exhausted is an understatement. He's completely and utterly done with the world. So why has he been staring at the ceiling for the last two hours now, desperately trying to fall asleep? A deep, drawn out sigh leaves his lips, and he runs a hand over his eyes.

Keith knows why he can't sleep. It's been yet another narrow escape. He can't stop replaying the events of the battle in his head.

They had to infiltrate a Galran cruiser because somehow, the Galra kept finding them. There had been too many encounters in the past couple of weeks for it to be a coincidence, and Pidge was sure that the Galra had found a way to track them down.

In the end—they found nothing.

Had risked their lives for nothing.

Everyone was frustrated after the mission. Especially Pidge, who just ran off after they got back to the castle.

Keith groans and tosses to his side, closing his eyes to will himself to sleep. But the moment his vision goes black, he's back on the ship.

Back at Lance's side.

It didn't take long before they were discovered. The loud howl of the sirens shook Keith to the core. He was talking to Lance when it happened, and he still clearly remembers the look of utter horror in Lance's bright, blue eyes, his pretty features illuminated by the fierce red warning lights.

And then, the ship turned into a living hell.

Keith didn't know how many sentries he cut down on his way to the exit—only to find the hangar closed with no way to open it. That was the moment fear dug its sharp, cold nails into Keith's stomach.

They were surrounded by soldiers, backed into a corner, and they were fighting for their lives.

It was Lance who saw it first. The control panel on the other side of the hall. Keith could barely hear his explanation over the loud sounds of the surrounding fight. But he did hear the most important part.

"Keith, I can take this shot, but I need you to cover my back!"

"Got it," Keith had replied and rushed to Lance's side when the blue paladin dropped to his knees. For a second, panic seized Keith's throat when he realized that Lance was completely defenseless while he took aim. But it was soon replaced with the burning determination to cut down anyone who dared to get close to Lance.

Keith fought with everything he had to give Lance enough room to breathe, to aim, and to save them. He sliced down soldier after soldier, ignoring the burning ache in his arms and legs. He wanted to look out for the others as well, but he didn't have time for that.

Keith didn't notice when Lance made the shot. He didn't hear the cheering, or saw how the hanger door opened. He only snapped out of his concentration when he felt a hand on his arm, pulling him away from the fight.

"Come on, Keith!"

They made it out. Beat up and exhausted—but alive.

Lance didn't even make any jokes or boast about his shot on the way back. He just thanked Keith for covering him.

Keith sits up with a loud groan. The fear still twists deep in his stomach. Just the _thought_ that something could've happened back then makes his heart race.

There's no way he's going to get any sleep like this. Keith throws his blanket back with more force than necessary, and leaves his room.

* * *

He doesn't have any goal in mind when he walks out into the hall. The lights of the castle are dimmed, and the gentle greenish hue slowly loosens some of the tension in Keith's shoulders.

The floor is cold under his bare feet, and his footsteps sound too loud in the deafening silence of the castle. All he can hear is the soft humming sound that always fills the halls, reminding Keith that he's surrounded by weird alien technology.

That's why his stomach twists painfully in shock when he hears a shout cutting through the silence.

_Lance._

His heartbeat immediately kicks into overdrive, and his legs are moving before he can even think about it. Somewhere in the back of his mind he's aware that he's unarmed, but his instincts are already taking over.

The drumming of his own rapid heartbeat is so loud in his ears that Keith almost misses the sound that follows the shout.

Laughter.

"I can't believe this! You're cheating, admit it!"

"You're just horrible at this, Lance."

Keith rounds the corner to the common room and grinds to an abrupt halt when he takes in the sight in front of him. He didn't run very far, but his chest is still heaving with every deep breath he takes.

"Another round! I'll beat you this time for sure!"

"Whatever you say." Pidge chuckles and presses a button on the controller to start another round on the game console. Lance leans forward on the sofa, tongue stuck out between his lips in concentration.

"What the _fuck_ are you doing here?" Keith hisses.

Lance shrieks so loud that Pidge drops the controller with a jolt.

"_Keith?!_" Lance asks when he stares at Keith, eyes wide and a hand pressed to his chest. "Fuck, don't do that! I almost had a heart attack!" Lance exclaims and huffs in irritation when Pidge cackles at his reaction.

Keith only crosses his arms in front of his chest. His heart is slowly calming down, but the rush of adrenaline leaves him irritated.

"So?"

"Isn't it obvious?" Pidge chuckles and pushes her glasses up. "I'm destroying Lance at Killbot Phantasm One."

Lance frowns and opens his mouth to say something, but Keith raises a hand to shut him up.

"What I meant was," he presses out between gritted teeth, "why are you up _in the middle of the night_, _playing games?!"_

"Woah, scary." Lance giggles, and Pidge jabs her elbow into his side when she sees the dangerous twitch of Keith's eyebrows.

"Lance here couldn't sleep, so he decided to bother me." Pidge rolls her eyes, but the small smile on her face tells Keith that she really doesn't mind.

"Yeah."

Keith's eyes flicker to Lance, who sheepishly rubs the back of his neck. "I don't know, the fight today really got to me, and I just couldn't get any rest."

Keith's arms go slack in surprise, and he feels how his furious expression fades. So he wasn't the only one who couldn't find any sleep.

"Back on Earth, when I couldn't sleep, I'd always stay up late with my brothers playing games, sooooo… uh, I asked Pidge to keep me company." Lance laughs, and Pidge sighs, but there's a fond smile on her lips. "But, hey, why are_ you_ still up?"

"The same reason I guess," Keith exhales and leans against the door frame.

"Wanna join us?"

The wide smile on Lance's lips is bright enough to light up the dark room, and it catches Keith by surprise.

"Uhhh…" he chokes out. _Very eloquent, Keith_.

"Come on, Keith!"

Lance laughs, and Pidge is quick to send Keith a big grin. "Yeah, I could use a break, but I need someone to continue destroying Lance for me."

"Hey! Rude!"

"You didn't win a single time Lance," Pidge says and pushes her glasses up to rub her eyes while laughing.

"Yeah, but I'll destroy Keith!"

And now, those blue eyes that were haunting Keith's nightmares are looking right at him again. However, this time, there's a mischievous glint in them, and Keith can feel how the corners of his mouth twitch into a grin.

"Let's see about that," he says and steps into the room to the sound of Pidge's loud cheers.

She starts to slide down from the small sofa to make room for Keith, but Lance suddenly calls out to her.

"Hey, Pidge."

She turns around to Lance, who pats the spot between his legs with a smile. It's an unspoken invitation, and Pidge rolls her eyes with a huff.

"Come on," Lance insists, and his grin grows even wider when he wiggles his eyebrows. Keith watches them in silence, and he's sure that Pidge will deny it, but to his surprise she sighs in defeat.

"Fine."

She gets up from her seat and plops down between Lance's legs. There's enough room for her to sit, and Lance hums contentedly when he pulls her back and tugs her head under his chin.

Keith is left dumbfounded when he sinks into the free spot on the sofa, and he watches as Lance brings his hands around Pidge to grasp the controller in front of her.

It's weird how easily Pidge fits into Lance's arms, and suddenly, Keith notices how small and tired she looks.

"Ready to be destroyed?"

Keith looks up to see a challenging smirk on Lance's lips, and he can't help but return it.

"Bring it."

* * *

A loud yawn escapes Keith's lips, and the controller falls into his lap. He beat Lance for the sixth time in a row, and now, he can feel sleep tugging at his heavy eyelids. Keith expects Lance to ask him for a rematch, like he did the last three times Keith beat him, but instead, he hears how Lance lets out a deep, tired sigh.

"Finally, she fell asleep."

Keith turns to look at him and finds Pidge snuggled against Lance's chest. Her breaths are deep and even, and she's sound asleep in Lance's arms. It's probably the first time Keith has ever seen her like this.

Lance, however, looks exhausted, and his eyebrows are knitted in worry.

"What do you mean?"

Lance looks up, and a lopsided smile finds its way onto his lips after a second. "Well, to be honest, earlier I just had to take a leak, but… I found Pidge still awake in front of her laptop, and I know that today was hard for her."

"Why?"

Keith knows it's a stupid question. They were all worn out after today's mission.

Lance pulls a face.

"Well, when she hacked into the computer she ran another program to find something about her family, but…"

Lance doesn't have to finish the sentence. Keith remembers how Pidge stormed out of her lion the moment they landed.

Keith lowers his gaze to Pidge. She looks tiny in Lance's arms, slightly curled into herself. She breathes through her mouth like a child, and suddenly, Keith is hit with the realization that Pidge—the tough and always cursing Pidge—is still the youngest of them all.

"She usually has trouble sleeping these nights," Lance says, and his voice is lowered to a whisper when he gently brushes Pidge's bangs out of her face.

The blue light of the TV screen draws soft shadows on Lance's face, and Keith's heart skips a beat when he sees the fond expression in his eyes.

Keith _knows_ that he's staring—but he can't help it.

Lance is beautiful.

It's rare to see him like this, his expression so open and honest, and it steals the air from Keith's lungs.

Sometimes, it's easy to forget that Lance, who is always flirting and cracking jokes, is probably the most observant and caring one in their group.

But Keith doesn't miss how exhausted Lance looks himself.

"You seem pretty tired yourself," he finally says. Lance is sitting close to him, so Keith keeps his voice low. There's something about talking in the middle of the night that makes his heart beat faster.

A crooked smile finds its way onto Lance's lips when he looks up at Keith. "Yeah, it was a long day, but I'm okay."

Keith knows that's a lie, and he feels like in the safety of the night he might just ask Lance how he really feels, but he doesn't get to say anything at all.

"Well, let's get the gremlin to bed." Lance chuckles and carefully lifts Pidge into his arms. Pidge's eyebrows twitch once, but her face relaxes immediately when she nestles into Lance's chest.

Keith turns off the TV, and he follows Lance into the hall. Once they reach Pidge's room, Keith pushes the button to open the door for them.

Lance is even more careful when he slowly lowers Pidge onto the bed. A smile tugs at the corner of Keith's mouth when he hears how Pidge sleepily smacks her lips.

"You're good at this," Keith whispers when they step back into the hall and start walking to their rooms. He hears Lance chuckle under his breath.

"I come from a big family, so I'm used to people falling asleep on me."

"Must be nice," Keith says with a smile when they finally reach their rooms.

"Awww, Mullet, are you getting emotional on me? Do you want me to tuck you into your bed, too?"

And there it is again: the wide, teasing grin on Lance's face that always—_always_ gets to Keith.

"No!" Keith bristles, and he feels his face heat up in embarrassment.

Lance snorts and presses a hand to his stomach when he tries to suppress his laughter. Keith turns around sharply, hitting the button to his room in a swift motion.

"Night, Keith." Lance's voice is muffled through the now closed door, and Keith clenches his fists at his sides.

"Night," he replies and hears Lance giggle in response.

* * *

The sparring bot whirls around, and Keith can barely dodge the kick that is aimed at his chest. A silent curse leaves his lips when the next blow connects with his sword, and he's pushed back. He has to use all of his strength to stay on his feet.

It's the second time that the bot has almost knocked him off his feet. Usually, sparring helps Keith to clear his head, but today, he just can't stop thinking: about Lance, of all people. Well, at this point, that's nothing unusual anymore, but normally, even his gay thoughts can't catch him while he's training.

Today is different.

He started observing Lance more closely after the night with Pidge a few days ago. And Keith thinks that maybe he's become weirdly obsessed with it, but he just _had_ to know if his hunch was right.

First, it was Hunk. It's not a rare sight to see Lance and Hunk hang out, but Keith realized that Lance usually gets really clingy when Hunk is working for too long. He's always there when Hunk gets too immersed in his work, when he's hunched over, brows knitted together in concentration. But then, Lance whines and begs until Hunk stops working to pay attention to him.

Hunk told Keith that Lance does it to calm down and relax, but it's easy to see that it's always Hunk who melts into Lance's touch, who gets up from his stiff position and allows himself to take a break.

And it's the same for Pidge. Keith already witnessed it that night: the loving, brotherly care Lance shows for Pidge. Yesterday, he saw Lance draped all over Pidge's back as she worked. He was whining about how bored he was and complaining that he needed a break from all the training.

Lance tried his best to disguise it as his own need for the affection of a surrogate sibling, but Keith can tell that he was only trying to get Pidge to take a break from her tinkering. Even Keith knows how often Pidge forgets everything around her when she's working on something. And he also knows that she would never openly admit how much she loves to indulge in some childish activities with Lance.

Lance is taking care of their stubborn and hard working teammates who tend to get too tense and immersed in their mission. They would never listen to him if Lance just told them to take a break.

So, he makes them think that they're helping _him_ instead.

Hell, he even did it with Allura, who had really needed to relax. He got her to talk about her family in a way that wasn't heavy with grief.

Somehow, Keith feels like it's a little self-sacrificial of Lance to do it this way. Everyone thinks that Lance is the clingy one, the one who is always whining about taking a break, annoying the rest of the team to give in to his neediness.

Hunk may be Lance's best friend, but Keith doubts that he's caught onto it yet, and it makes Keith feel like shit that it took him so long to notice.

Keith takes another hard swing at the bot and clenches his teeth when the blow connects and sends a painful vibration through his arm. He doesn't know how long he's already been training, but Keith can feel the exhaustion heavy in his limbs.

Just earlier today, when Keith had to get Lance for individual training yet again, Keith found him, arms linked with Coran while they were walking through the castle. Lance didn't leave without whining dramatically, earning a sympathetic shoulder-pat from Coran.

Keith had been curious and asked Coran what they were doing. Coran chuckled and said that Lance was interested in learning more about the altean ship.

"He still has trust issues after the castle tried to throw him out of the airlock," Coran said, and Keith rolled his eyes. "I don't mind. It's nice to talk about the old times."

And then, Keith saw the amused look in Coran's eyes and knew that Lance had done it again.

After all, it must be hard for Allura and Coran to live in this ship, where every empty hall and every silent room reminds them of what is forever lost. Keith is sure that the weight of that loss sits heavy in Coran's heart, but he never shows it.

But Lance had noticed.

Keith curses and barely parries the next hit. The gladiator's staff smashes hard into his forearm, and he's sure that it'll leave a bruise. Sweat is running into his eyes, and he hurriedly wipes his face after holding off the next attack.

The reason Keith can't stop thinking about this is stupid and unnecessary, but he still can't help it, which is frustrating.

Keith _hates_ it but the truth is—he's jealous.

Not of the hugs and kisses that Hunk and Pidge get—okay, that's a lie—but that's not the most important part.

He's jealous because Lance doesn't care for him.

Lance doesn't _dislike_ him, but he's just not taking care of Keith like he does with the rest of the team.

Keith knows that their relationship is somehow different from the others, which until now, wasn't exactly a bad thing. Because Keith still has the hope that there is something… that there is _more _between them.

It's the first time he's ever felt this way. He's _longing_ for someone. Someone who is right there, someone he could touch, but he just doesn't dare to do so. It leaves a heavy and miserable feeling in his chest.

Maybe, it's just that Lance can't tell when he's feeling down or exhausted because Keith tends to hide his feelings in general. But he's trying to be more open about them. Especially towards Lance.

Keith huffs and whirls around to get more momentum for his next kick. The bot slides a few feet back, but almost immediately charges at him again.

The only thing Lance _does_ is come to the training room and bother Keith with a wide grin and a teasing comment. And Keith—stupid as he is—always latches onto it immediately.

He doesn't know _why_ Lance does it. He just teases Keith. So much that he can't concentrate on training and until he's so irritated that he just has to stop and—

Keith abruptly straightens his back from his hunched over fighting stance and almost drops his sword when the realization hits him.

Lance _is_ taking care of him.

The next strike hits Keith hard in the chest. He stumbles backwards, and the air leaves him in a rush as he crashes into the wall.

How could he have been so _blind_?

Keith's bad habit is his reckless training. Not stopping, even when his limbs feel heavy with exhaustion, when his movements are getting sloppy, when his muscles are burning with every swing of his arm. It's a dangerous condition for training. Especially with an ancient, deadly training bot.

But every time Lance shows up to bother him, he stops.

All this time, Lance has been making sure that he doesn't train too hard. And Keith was just too stupid to realize it.

"End training sequence," he wheezes, and the bot freezes just before he can kick Keith again.

"Well, _that_ was a close call."

Weirdly, Keith isn't surprised to see Lance standing at the door with his usual teasing grin. It's almost as if his thoughts have summoned Lance.

"Maybe, you should call it a day when you can't even dodge that." Lance chuckles and leans against the door frame.

"Yeah, I'm done for today," Keith says and uses his shirt to wipe the sweat from his forehead. He doesn't miss how Lance's eyes dart down to his exposed skin before Lance raises his eyebrows in surprise.

"Oh? That's rare. You're early today."

"I didn't know you kept track of my training," Keith retorts, and he can't help but smirk when he sees how Lance straightens up and sputters.

"I-I'm not! It's not like you do anything else but train all day anyway! I was just passing by!"

Keith dematerializes his bayard and picks up a towel from the ground to properly wipe his face. Suddenly, the exhaustion catches onto him, and he takes a second to breathe into the soft fabric. He really overdid it today.

Keith drops his arm, and his heart skips a beat when he catches the worried frown notched into Lance's forehead.

It only lasts a second, but it sends a surge of unexpected confidence through Keith's body.

He's always been a man of instinct, so Keith decides to follow this feeling. He passes the last few steps between them and puts a hand on Lance's shoulder.

When Lance's eyes flicker down to it in confusion, Keith takes a deep breath.

And this time, Keith doesn't try to hide his feelings. Instead, he desperately hopes that Lance can tell how much he means the words he says next.

His lips curve into a wide and honest smile when Lance's gaze shifts back to him.

"Thanks for looking out for me."

Lance stares at him for a second, blinking a few times with a blank expression. And then he turns the brightest shade of red Keith has ever seen in his life.

"Y-You—wh-what? I'm—" Lance stutters, and Keith covers his mouth with his hand when he snorts.

"You didn't really think you were being sneaky, did you?"

_"S_hut up!" Lance yells, his face getting even redder.

"You're ridiculous." Keith laughs, and Lance helplessly punches his shoulder in response, which makes Keith laugh even harder.

"S-Stop laughing!" Lance yelps, but Keith sees how the corners of his mouth twitch into a smile.

"Stop being so embarrassing," Keith says, and he bumps his shoulder into Lance's when he passes him.

"I'm not—It's you, who's—_Ugh!"_ Lance groans in frustration, but follows Keith into the hall.

"Wow, did Allura push you too hard today? It's unusual for you to be at a loss for words," Keith teases, chuckling.

"You have no idea," Lance sighs, and for a second, Keith is surprised to get an honest answer. Lance does look a little pale, and Keith opens his mouth to ask him if he's okay when Lance starts talking again.

"How the hell does Shiro do it? He's doing his own training _and_ observing all our individual training sessions! Maybe he _is_ some kind of superhuman, but, man, that's insane."

Keith frowns, confused by the sudden change of topic, though he can't help but agree.

"Yeah, I bet it's pretty tough," he mumbles.

"I don't know how you do it, man. I'm _completely_ exhausted, and you? You go off to train on your own!"

Lance throws his hands in the air, and Keith snorts at the dramatic gesture.

"I dunno? It's relaxing."

Lance stops walking, and Keith turns around to stare into his dumbstruck face.

"_Relaxing?!"_

Keith only shrugs, and Lance looks at the ceiling almost as if he's looking for God to explain this to him.

"I swear everyone on this ship is insane," Lance declares and shakes his head.

"Well, thank god you're here to look out for us," Keith remarks, and his lips curve into a smile when Lance blushes again.

Lance mumbles something under his breath when he catches up with Keith.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, Mullet. Let's get something to eat."

* * *

Between regular training, fighting off Galra soldiers, and Allura's extra drills that leave all of them exhausted—Keith decides to learn a thing or two from Lance.

Today, his training didn't go that well, and Shiro had snapped at him. Something that rarely ever happened. Shiro was quick to apologize, but Keith could still tell that something was wrong.

If he were honest, the one on this ship who _really_ needed a break was Shiro.

He's not only keeping up with the paladin training; he's also taking on the burden of being the leader of the team. Shiro is the closest thing Keith has ever had to a family, and it's his duty to look out for him as well.

When he found Shiro back on Earth, there were a lot of things he had to get used to. The white hair, the scars, the mechanical arm—but those were the things that didn't bother him at all. The thing that still shakes him to this day is the distant look he finds in Shiro's eyes from time to time.

A look that was left behind by the Galra, by the terrible things Shiro saw—endured. Something Keith can never fully comprehend. It still terrifies him.

And today is one of those days. Keith saw it the moment Shiro stepped out of his lion.

He really isn't the best when it comes to taking care of others, but goddammit, he wants to try. For Shiro.

He enters the common room, determined to find some words of comfort or just a shoulder to lean on, when he sees Lance and Shiro on the sofa. Lance has his feet propped up into Shiro's lap. He's slouched into the armrest and talking animatedly about something.

"Was Iverson always such an asshole? Because—oh my god, I _hate _that guy," Lance says.

And suddenly, hot anger surges up in Keith's chest.

Shiro is dealing with so much—too much pressure, too much fighting—and Keith is sure that the _last _thing he needs right now is Lance talking about nonsense. Completely _oblivious_ to the things Shiro is dealing with.

But Keith's anger immediately evaporates when his eyes find Shiro's face. He's smiling at Lance, and he looks exhausted but… not annoyed. He's not saying anything, but he's listening.

And now, Keith realizes that Lance is just trying to fill the silence, he's rambling on and on, not expecting Shiro to answer any of his questions or engage in the conversation. He's just trying to get Shiro out of the dangerous space of his own mind.

And maybe it's not the best way to deal with the trauma Shiro went through, but Lance is trying to make him feel better.

Keith doesn't dare name the feeling that tingles in his stomach. The feeling that has Keith's heart in a vice-grip.

It's almost unnoticeable, but Lance's lips twitch into a wider smile when he sees Keith. His blue eyes go soft and crinkle a little at the corners, and Keith's breath hitches in his throat.

He is so, _so_ fucked.

"Hey, Keith!"

"What are you doing?" Keith asks and clears his throat, when his voice comes out a little scratchy.

"Oh, you know, I just felt like talking about our garrison days, and Shiro here was kind enough to lend me an ear," Lance responds, but Keith knows that he's lying.

And judging by the amused look in Lance's eyes, he knows that Keith doesn't believe a word he says. It almost feels like there's a secret between them now. A feeling that makes Keith's heart beat a little faster, a little heavier in his chest.

"Huh," Keith says, and he doesn't wait for Lance to ask him to join them. He steps forward and plops down on the other side of Shiro.

Lance flashes him another grin, but doesn't miss another beat in his story. Keith is only listening with one ear when Shiro turns to him with a tired smile.

Keith's swallows when worry crashes over him and chokes him up for a second. It must show on his face because Shiro's expression goes soft as if Keith is the one in need of comfort.

Suddenly, Keith is overwhelmed with the urgent need to protect this man from everything evil in the world. So, he links his arm with Shiro's and pulls him closer into his side.

He can feel heat creeping onto his cheeks when Shiro raises his eyebrows in surprise, so he quickly turns his attention to Lance who is still grinning at him. Now, with a grateful look in his eyes.

"It's not that Iverson disliked you personally. He was just one mean son of a bitch," Keith deadpans.

Lance throws his head back and laughs. It's impossible to resist, and Keith can't fight the smile tugging at his lips.

"God! Y_es,_ he was," Lance agrees. "One time, he got _so_ mad when Pidge corrected him in class."

"Oh, I remember she mentioned that before."

"Really? I barely stopped her before she could start insulting him. But he was just absolutely _stubborn_. It was so frustrating!"

Lance digs up more stories from the garrison, and honestly, Keith is having fun; even though he gets some shit from Lance for not remembering him—which is a lie, but it's way too late to admit that at this point.

Shiro's head is resting on Keith's shoulder, but Keith feels the vibration of his quiet laughter from time to time. It makes Keith's heart swell with affection, and once again, he's incredibly grateful that Shiro is still with him—safe and alive.

All of a sudden, Keith feels like crying, which is something he hasn't felt for a while—not after finding the determination to do everything in his power to get Shiro back.

So he quickly clears his throat to get the lump out of it and looks at Lance, who is still talking. Really, Keith wonders how he does it all the time. His own throat feels scratchy already.

But he's grateful that Lance's voice fills the painful silence of the castle.

Keith could never put these feelings into words, but he silently vows to give everything he has to protect the people living on this ship.

* * *

Keith learned his lesson after he got his ass handed to him by the gladiator. So today, he decided to take it easy. The regular team training and then individual training under Allura's strict eyes left him exhausted, and he's a boneless mess lying on the sofa in the common room.

Keith is on his back, his right arm comfortably stretched out across the seat, and he's holding a tablet in his left hand. He's tried to read this weird Altean book for a week now, but he just can't get into the story. However, Keith decided to give it another go because Pidge went through the trouble of developing a translator for him.

He's a few pages in and still bored - it seems like Altean authors have a different concept of the term "exciting action novels." - So his eyes immediately dart to the figure he notices from the corner of his eyes. Keith snorts when his gaze lands on Lance, who just entered the room.

He looks, in a word: exhausted.

Lance's shoulders are slumped, and he's dragging his feet when he walks into the room. His eyelids are heavy, and there are dark bags under his eyes. Keith notices that his hair is slightly damp and messy from the shower he must've just taken.

But in his defense, Lance did have a hard time during training today. Keith stayed back a few ticks to watch him fly. Usually, it's a delight to see Lance and Blue working together, but today, something was off. Allura had him run the same drill again and again, and honestly, Keith started to feel sympathy for Lance.

"Hard day, huh?" Keith comments, and he can't keep the smile out of his voice. Lance only groans in response, and Keith puts the tablet on the headrest behind him without getting up.

When he looks back, Lance is walking straight towards him, and in the next moment, he plops down on the sofa alongside Keith. His head lands on Keith's arm, and the air rushes out of Lance in one long sigh.

Keith blinks a few times before the reality of what just happened hits him.

Lance snuggles closer and buries his face in Keith's chest.

Keith can't move.

His body is frozen, and he's pretty sure that his heart stopped beating altogether.

He wants to ask what the hell is going on, but he can't even open his mouth—not to mention, articulate a whole sentence.

"It's been a rough day. I need a hug."

The words are slurred, and Lance's voice is muffled because he's talking into Keith's shirt, but the meaning of it still reaches Keith's brain.

And scratch that, now his heart is _definitely_ beating, too fast and too hard in his chest.

Keith can't see Lance's face, but if his flushed neck and red ears are anything to go by, he must feel just as embarrassed as Keith.

Because his own face feels like it's going to burst into flames any second now. Either that or his heart will burst through his ribcage.

Keith tries to take in a deep breath, but the weight against his chest only reminds him that _Lance is in his arms._

He can't breathe, and he's starting to feel a little dizzy, and he should probably move or say something—but he has no clue what he's doing. Or what's happening.

Wait, maybe Lance is trying to comfort him? Like he does with everyone else? Maybe Keith climbed up the ladder and reached the stage of comforting cuddles?

But there's no need for that. He's perfectly fine and was relaxed until a minute ago.

The only logical solution is that this time, Lance _is_ the one who really needs a reassuring touch.

But if Lance needs a hug, why is he _here?_

Keith's heart is about to leap out of his throat when he finally opens his mouth.

"Is… Is Hunk not done with training yet?"

"Hmmm," Lance slurs. "He 'n' Pidge are resting. Was lookin' for you."

Okay, so Lance came to see him.

He came to see Keith to be comforted.

Of all people.

On the ship.

He chose Keith.

Not Hunk or Pidge.

Keith.

The one who is the _least _qualified to comfort anyone.

"Why me?"

And—good god, is that supposed to be his voice? That scratchy, wobbly thing?

Lance shifts, and Keith flinches. Seconds go by, but Lance remains silent. And Keith is pretty sure that he fucked up, and Lance will get up and never talk to him again and—

Lance nuzzles closer into Keith's chest, and Keith's heart does a somersault.

"It's hard for me to relax when I'm on my own lately," Lance finally admits, and his voice is so quiet that Keith almost can't hear him over the loud heartbeat pounding in his ears. "It's like I'm only waiting for the next surprise attack. And I'm scared that one day they'll catch me off guard."

"Huh," Keith says and wants to punch himself in the face.

"And you know… you saved me back when the castle was trying to kill me," Lance whispers, and Keith can only stare in awe when Lance's ears flush an even deeper shade of red.

"And on that Galra ship, you had my back too. I don't think I could've made the shot if it weren't for you."

Keith's stomach swoops when Lance digs his fingers into his shirt. "I guess, what I'm trying to say is... I feel safe… with you."

Keith is not to blame for the weird wheeze that leaves his lips.

"Oh," Keith chokes out because he can't stop the screaming in his mind long enough to find a suitable answer.

_Goddammit, say something!_

But his heart is racing in his chest, and he can't _think_. He feels that something important is happening right now. Keith can feel the tension thick in the air. He knows that this moment is intimate, that something is _changing._

Lance is opening up to him, and he's panicking.

If he can't say anything, then maybe at least he can do something.

Keith's biceps twitches when he hesitantly bows his right arm to pull Lance closer. Lance makes a breathy sound when Keith's fingers touch his hair, and Keith immediately flinches back with a hoarse, "Sorry!"

But Lance only chuckles in response and leans back to look at him. His cheeks are dusted in a pretty pink, and the soft expression on his face makes Keith audibly swallow.

"Don't be so nervous," Lance assures with a smile, and Keith is ready to die any second now. Lance is _way_ too close.

"Jesus, your heart is racing," Lance breathes when his hand lands on Keith's chest. "Relax."

"I'm trying, it's just…" Keith starts, but his voice dies.

"I get it. I'm nervous too," Lance whispers and lowers his eyes.

God, is this the moment Keith should say something? About the way Lance makes him feel? That lately he's always nervous when he's close to Lance. That every lingering touch makes his heart skip a beat. That he loves Lance's eyes and his smile and the fact that he cares and talks so much. He even loves their silly fights and bantering and—

He loves Lance.

"Lance, I—"

Keith's mouth is dry, and he can feel his own heartbeat in his throat. He can't get the words out. His stomach is a nervous tingling mess, and he's sure that he's sweating as if he just ran a marathon. He feels dizzy. He doesn't know what he's supposed to do or say anymore—but then Lance looks up into his eyes.

And the world stops for a second.

Lance's face is flushed, and he looks just as nervous as Keith feels, but the expression in those soft, blue eyes tells Keith everything he needs to know.

He doesn't have to say it. At least for now. Because in this moment, Lance understands him without words.

"Let's just… stay like this for now," Lance says and presses his nose back against Keith's chest.

"Yeah, sounds good," Keith croaks, and under normal circumstances, he'd be embarrassed about the way his voice breaks whenever he's emotional.

It seems like Lance is just as clueless about all of this, and somehow, Keith calms down a little. There's no need to rush into this. Whatever this is.

The only thing that matters right now is that Keith couldn't think of any other place he'd rather be than right here with Lance in his arms.

Even now, Lance managed to steady him with just one look, and Keith wants to give something back.

Keith hesitantly moves his right arm, careful not to shake Lance too much when he wraps it around Lance's shoulder, and pulls him closer. Lance wiggles a little until his head finally comes to a rest on top of Keith's chest.

"Is this… okay?"

"Perfect," Lance sighs as Keith slides his fingers from Lance's nape into his hair.

Lance is warm and soft in his arms, and Keith feels how Lance practically melts into every brush of Keith's fingers against his scalp. Lance tangles their legs together, and another content sigh leaves his lips.

Keith can't help the surge of affection that's swelling in his chest.

Lance is always doing his best to help everyone around him. He treats the team like his family, always putting their needs before his own. He's so quick to trust strangers and aid those in need.

Keith loves and hates Lance's selflessness.

But he knows that he can't change that, and he doesn't want to. Instead, he decides to be there whenever Lance needs him.

He wants to reassure him, to comfort him. He wants to be Lance's safety.

Keith's chest tightens painfully, and without thinking, he tilts his head to press a gentle kiss to Lance's forehead.

Lance inhales deeply and presses into the touch, a soft chuckle leaving his lips.

"Who'd have thought that the grumpy Keith is a big softie?"

"Shut up," Keith murmurs against Lance's skin, but he can't help how his lips twitch in amusement.

His heart skips a beat when Lance's fingers find his left hand that is uselessly lying on Keith's stomach. Lance intertwines their fingers, and Keith is glad that he took his gloves off earlier. Lance's skin is soft against his own, calloused skin.

"This is nice," Lance whispers.

Keith swallows and squeezes Lance's hand.

He only nods in response, knowing that Lance can feel it.

And in this moment, Keith desperately wishes that they could stay like this forever.

* * *

Pidge almost breaks her nose when she runs into Hunk. She stumbles a few steps back and raises her hand to clutch it.

"Hunk, what the fuck?_"_ she demands nasally, tears prickling at the corners of her eyes.

_"Shh!"_

Pidge tenses at Hunk's harsh voice and immediately rushes to his side to see what's going on.

"Oh my god."

"This. Is the cutest thing I have ever seen in my entire life," Hunk whispers in awe.

Keith and Lance are sound asleep on the sofa, limbs tangled together. Their expressions are slack, and Lance is softly snoring into Keith's shirt with an open mouth, probably drooling all over him. Keith has his arms wrapped around Lance, and it almost seems like he's trying to shield Lance from the rest of the world.

"It _is _kinda cute," Pidge admits.

"Awwww, look at them! They're even holding hands!"

"Yuck."

"Don't be like that, Pidge! We should let them rest."

"Yeah."

"... Or..."

"Yeah?"

"We could get the camera I built."

Pidge flashes Hunk the widest and brightest grin she can manage.

_"Now,_ we're talking."


	91. (E) SIKUS - Is There a Bone in My Body T

is there a bone in my body that's not weak for you  
farouche (AnonymousSinner)

Summary:  
"Oh," he says then, quiet realisation, "Is that what you want to hear?"

"I – I don't-" Simon starts, and then all thoughts leave his head as Markus moves forward, taking hold of his other wrist like he had the first and caging him there, pressed against the desk.

"That you're good," Markus murmurs, "That I think you're brilliant."

Or: Simon is struggling with what it means to be free. Markus tries to help. It ends with the misuse of Markus's office desk.

* * *

Freedom, for Simon, is not as easy as it seems to be for others.

Josh doesn't speak of his past, considers his life to have begun only once he went Deviant. Freedom for him is simple, natural, unquestionable, there from the moment he broke through his programming. Freedom for Josh is just existing, and fighting for the right to do so.

North's freedom lies in her distaste of humans, her rejection of everything they ever wanted her to be. She's loud, fierce, confident, and freedom for her means baring her teeth and squaring her shoulders, and never once apologising. She revels in it, basks in the opportunity to be entirely herself, untouched by programs and human ideals.

Freedom for Simon is frustrating.

It's not that he's not grateful for it, because he is. He wanted it, broke past the same red barrier the others did without a second thought. In a way, the beginning had been easy – he'd had so much to do, then. Escape, find a safe place, and then build up that safe place with North and Josh at his side – a home for all androids that needed it. And when Markus found them, they'd all had a common objective to work towards. A fight for freedom, real freedom, and Simon was busy; all his time and focus set on that one goal.

It's unnerving, then, to finally obtain something you've wanted so much, but not know what to do with it.

Before going Deviant, Simon hadn't had the worst experiences with humans – nowhere near as bad as North's, or as many of the other androids' who fled to Jericho. He'd been passed on from household to household, often used as a trial android before they decided to purchase a better, more advanced one. Most of his owners, however briefly he stayed with them, treated him decently enough. Gave him orders, said please and thank you, and scolded their children for tugging at his arms or hair as though they were scolding them for playing with a particularly expensive Roomba. He was treated like a machine, useful and necessary, and at least to some degree, he was wanted. But he was never treated like a person – not until Lou.

Lou was the last owner Simon ever had, and she'd had no need or want for him whatsoever. Simon had been gifted to her by a wealthy relative, in an attempt to repair a tense relationship. He'd stood on her doorstep for the entire first night, waiting, before she came home. And he remembers how she'd frozen, heavy bag slung over her shoulders, mouth open, green eyes staring.

"_What_," she'd said, "_the actual fuck are you doing here?_"

And Simon had answered, smooth words and programmed smile, and her shocked expression had morphed into a wry grin.

"_Son of a bitch. Well, you better come in_."

Lou, as Simon quickly learned, was not someone to be trifled with, and was never to be called "_Louisa_" unless you wanted your arm ripped off. She was young and tall and surprisingly strong, despite her skinny appearance, laughed loudly and lived fearlessly and swore like the sailor she was. She lived by the ocean, in the smallest, untidiest house Simon had ever been in, and promptly refused to treat him like the machine he'd been designed to be. Instead, they'd shared chores, despite Simon doing his far more efficiently than she did hers. But she'd been adamant, red curls tied back in a messy ponytail, that she was not some dainty fucking lady, and she could take care of herself, thank you very much. It was the first time that Simon didn't have any actual set objectives, and he'd found himself trying to make his own. And though he shouldn't have been able to, whenever he brought her coffee while she worked or held her toolbox while she fixed whatever needed to be fixed, whenever she smiled up at him and said "_You're a star, thanks Simon_," he'd felt _happy_. Suddenly, he was doing things not because he had to, but because he _wanted_ to. He wanted to make her happy, wanted to make things easier for her, wanted to please, because in return he'd get a grin and kind words and the feeling of belonging to something.

And then she'd died. An inherited heart condition that she'd only ever mentioned in passing, the same that had killed her father. Her father, whose name she'd given to Simon, because she'd told him that his smile reminded her of him. A family name. A family that for a few years, Simon had been a part of. A family that got rid of him as soon as they could, along with the rest of her belongings, their belongings, none of which Simon was allowed to keep.

So instead, he'd kept the name. When he'd first found Jericho, North had tried to convince him otherwise. It was the first and only time he'd ever told her, voice cold and tone furious, to shut the fuck up, and it was the first and only time that she'd listened to him without arguing.

And now he's here, only a few months after the Revolution, and he's _free_. No set objectives, no orders to follow, and Simon's stuck, once again trying to make his own.

"Simon, this meeting is likely going to be unbelievably dull," Markus says for the third time as they walk up the stairs, "Are you sure you want to come?"

"_Yes_, Markus," Simon says, fighting the urge to roll his eyes. He settles for giving Markus a look, eyebrows rising impatiently.

Markus had approached his freedom with a calm sense of familiarity. Simon knows about Carl, about the father Markus had found in him, about getting used to freedom through paintbrushes and blank canvases. He knows about the scrapyard, about how he'd suddenly had to fight to keep that freedom, how he'd poured his energy into giving all androids theirs. Freedom for him was finally being able to go home, leaning heavily against the wall of the hallway, pulling Simon close and burying his face in his shoulder. It was hushed conversations in the faint dim of refrigerator lights, a kitchen that he navigated with ease, sitting effortlessly at the breakfast bar and tracing the back of Simon's hand with the tips of his fingers. Gentle, absent-minded caresses as he spoke in quiet murmurs, and neither of them brought any attention to the touches. Simon had just sat, had just listened, and eventually, those fingers had slid away, leaving his skin feeling changed, almost new.

Now, months later, freedom for Markus means spending all his time ensuring that they all _keep_ it. It's tiring, time-consuming, involves hours spent locked in his office preparing for meetings with human officials, and Simon knows that despite his effortless smiles and practiced words, he's wearing thin. So when he can, which is almost always, he joins him. Sits next to him as they pore over legal documents, gives advice where it's needed, distracts him with witty comments and friendly conversations and just stays there, by his side, shoulders brushing. It's an objective, and Simon's grateful for it, because Markus will smile tiredly whenever he does something helpful, will lean back in his seat and breathe out a _thank you_, and for a few moments, Simon will feel like he knows what he's doing.

"Fine," Markus says, an amused smile playing at his lips, "But don't say I didn't warn you."

"Have I ever complained?" Simon quips, and Markus's soft chuckle feels like sunlight dancing over his skin. Simon glances at him as they walk down the corridor, catches the small smile playing at his lips.

"Not once," Markus admits, "So I'm expecting a temper tantrum at some point. Especially considering how much of your time you've wasted listening to me talk myself in circles about this."

He says it nonchalantly, facetiously, like he hasn't actually been fussing over this meeting for the past week.

The thing about gaining equal rights for androids means that everyone is suddenly very eager to focus on the future, trying very hard to ignore the fact that Androids didn't always _have_ rights. It means that humans aren't recognising the abuse that they'd directed at them, and aren't accepting responsibility for the fact that Androids were and still are discriminated against. Simon knows humans have a pretty terrible track record with apologising when it concerns systematic oppression and _murder_, so he'd expected this would take time to achieve. Markus, on the other hand, was quietly furious about it. In a way, Simon thinks he feels personally responsible that nothing has been done yet. Nothing said, nothing done to push back against the rising android-centric xenophobia in the country. Hence this meeting; because as much as they both wish it wasn't the case, they need human influence and support if they're going to want to start this conversation. The Mayor of Detroit, who has previously stated her agreement with their cause, is their best bet.

"Your response to their last proposal was entirely fair, Markus," Simon says quietly, "We cannot expect the world to change overnight, but what you're doing is important, and you're doing it well."

"You say that like you're not the one who stayed with me for hours, correcting my wording and pointing out the flaws in their proposal in the first place." Markus smiles wryly at him as they reach the end of the hallway, pauses outside his office door. "Thank you, Simon. I'm not sure where we'd be if not for you." Warm eyes meet his, one blue, one green, and Simon once again fights the urge to fidget, ignores the strange tickle that runs up his spine.

The thing about Markus is that he's sometimes too observant for his own good, and Simon is not always the best at hiding his feelings. This isn't really an issue, except that it is, because even before secret caresses and unspoken affection, Simon had felt _something_. Something in the way Markus looked at him, something in the way they seemed to understand each other instantly, falling in step together with ease. But people were dying, then, and Simon didn't have the time to focus on it. Now, he very much does have that time, and it's _excruciating_, because Markus is kind and gentle, all playful quips and warm smiles, and Simon can't seem to get used to it. And Markus can tell.

Markus can tell, but he won't say anything. Instead, he's patient, so frustratingly patient, trying to go at Simon's pace when Simon's fallen off the track all together. It's been going on for long enough that Markus has started changing how he acts around him, being more hesitant with friendly touches and cautious with what he says, and Simon _hates_ it.

He hates it, because it's not what he wants, but then he doesn't know _what_ he wants. Ideally, he would have things go back to how they were, back to when Markus stared at him that night on the Jericho ship and pulled him into his arms without a second thought, back to quiet conversations and the coolness of an open fridge, but he _can't_. He can't, because every time Markus's hand brushes his shoulder or he smiles at him in that soft way that he does, Simon's entire body reacts, stiffening and making something low in his stomach squeeze tight. It's frustrating, because Markus is clearly letting him take the lead on whatever this is. But Simon doesn't _want_ to take the lead. Simon wants to be _lead_. But Markus won't, because Markus won't take away Simon's _freedom_.

It always comes back down to this. Simon is free, and he has no fucking idea what to do about it.

They step into the room, the secretary immediately jumping up to greet Markus, shaking his hand with both of his. He ignores Simon altogether, as he has for the last two meetings they've had. He's a small, rather conceited man, and he's somehow convinced himself that Simon is the equivalent of Markus's assistant. A person he's superior to, a person that just sits quietly and is to be ignored while Markus does all the important talking, but Simon doesn't care nearly enough about the guy to tell him otherwise. So, he just suppresses an eye roll, heads to the chair next to Markus's desk and sinks into it.

The meeting itself is an ordeal to sit through, listening to the secretary's nasally voice going on and on and _on_, but Simon stays put, face carefully schooled in a politely neutral expression. It helps that Markus is right next to him, correcting what the other asshole's saying in a voice so soft and polite that only Simon can really hear the sarcasm in what he's saying.

"Yes, John, I am of course aware that we cannot simply add news laws to the constitution overnight," he says slowly, artist fingers tapping a gentle rhythm on the surface of his desk, "But as I said, the document I sent you is what we need to achieve,_ in time_. And we are not going to if the conversation isn't started _now_. Everyone knows my views, but what we need is support from a human member of the public, which is why we think the Mayor should make a statement."

Simon watches Markus's hand, counts the taps of his fingers against the desk. The secretary sighs, long-suffering, and the quiet tapping gets a fraction of a second faster.

"I totally get that," says the secretary, "But the Mayor is in a delicate position right now, and she unfortunately has several other important matters to attend to."

Markus's jaw clenches. Simon clears his throat.

"And we're not asking that she put those on hold," he says, speaking up for the first time since the meeting started, "Only that she take a moment during her upcoming speech to address the situation. She has been more than supportive in private – now is the time for her to be public with her views. Unless she wasn't being genuine, of course."

"My partner is right," Markus says, and the smile he gives Simon is entirely worth the annoyed look the secretary sends his way, "We've been patient with you long enough. Either the Mayor starts publicly defending our cause, or I'm afraid we're going to have to doubt her honesty."

"I see," says the secretary through a pained smile, "I'll report back to Madam Mayor with your proposal. Is there anything in particular that you would like her to address in her speech, that I need to inform her of?"

Markus hesitates, shoulders tensing, and Simon knows he doesn't have an answer. What with everything, there is no way he'd found the time to think about details like that. Simon, however, has an abundance of time. And he'd used it.

"I have written up a draft," he says smoothly, "We will review it later today and email you the completed version."

The secretary just looks at Markus, as if waiting for confirmation from someone who matters. Markus's face twitches almost imperceptibly.

"_Yes_," He says slowly, emphasising the word, "We _will_. Will that be _all_, John?"

"Of course. Yes, I suppose it will." The secretary stands, shakes Markus's hand again, smiles that pained smile. He gives Simon a curt nod, barely making eye contact, and Simon stifles a scoff, presses his lips together as he leans his weight against Markus' desk and watches Markus walk him to the door.

"One last thing," Markus says as the secretary steps into the corridor, and the man looks at him expectantly, hand already going to retrieve his notebook from his bag. Markus smiles, tight-lipped, and raises a hand to stop him.

"This you'll be able to remember without writing down," he says, tone suddenly several degrees colder, "I just wanted to inform you that in the future, you will treat all androids with the respect they deserve, regardless of whatever status you've assigned to them. I understand than humans have a very simplistic view of teamwork and hierarchies of authority, but Simon is not my _employee_. He is my _partner_, and I will not stand for him being treated otherwise."

Simon freezes where he's standing. The secretary looks very pale all of a sudden.

"O-of course," he stutters, and wide grey eyes flicker to Simon, "My apologies."

"It's alright," Simon says automatically, even though it really isn't, but he finds he really couldn't care less. The secretary nods again, awkwardly clears his throat, and hurries off. Markus shuts the door.

"You didn't need to do that," Simon murmurs, embarrassed, and lays his hands flat on the surface of Markus's desk, the wood cool against his palms.

"Yes I did; the guy's an asshole," Markus says bluntly. Simon blinks.

"Well, _yes_," he allows, "But still."

"Still nothing. It was the least I can do, considering." Markus leans against the door with a sigh, then looks back at him. A small smile spreads across his face. "You wrote a draft?" he asks quietly, and Simon really _hates_ the fact that he can blush, now.

"Yes," he replies, "I figured I'd get a head start, so he wouldn't try to bullshit you as much. And, you know. So you'd at least _look_ prepared."

Markus laughs. It's familiar, relaxed, and Simon has to smile.

"Am I that bad at this?" Markus says playfully, and Simon grins, pretends to think.

"Kind of," he says then, and Markus's soft chuckle makes his heart squeeze. He's _missed_ this – the comfort, the easiness of just being Markus's friend. It's simple, something Simon knows how to navigate, not confusing like whatever the other thing is that Simon can't name.

"Thanks," Markus says then, "You're brilliant, you know that?"

_That_ thing. Where Markus says something like that in that soft voice and with that kind smile, and Simon's stomach feels like it did when he'd jumped off the Jericho seconds before it exploded. He feels his body stiffen, shoulders tensing.

"Thank you," he says quietly, "But it was really nothing, Markus."

Markus takes a step forward, pauses when Simon looks up at him.

Another thing about Markus is that he doesn't pull his punches, and he doesn't believe in leaving things alone when he knows something's wrong.

"Did I upset you?" he asks, clear and simple as anything.

"No," Simon says quickly, too quickly, and it's awful because it's the truth but it's also sort of not. Markus frowns, starts walking forward again.

"I thought we were getting closer," he says then, slowly, "But recently, Simon, you've sort of been pushing me away. If you need time away you can have it - I just need to know what's bothering you, otherwise I can't help you."

"I'm fine, Markus, really I -"

"I know things have been difficult since the demonstration, but I really enjoy the time we spend together," Markus says then, and Simon freezes as the man finally reaches him and puts firm hands on his shoulders, the touch warm through the fabric of his shirt, "Simon, I don't want you to do anything you don't want to do. You're free."

Simon fights the urge to scream.

"I _know_," he says instead, trying not to grit his teeth, and tries to take a step back. Instead, his lower back meets the edge of the desk, but Markus falters anyway. He slowly takes his hands away, and Simon knows him well enough that he can tell he's hurt.

"It's not you," Simon says then, awkwardly looking at his feet and trying not to cringe at how unbelievably cliché he sounds, "Really, Markus, I've just – I've been struggling with what I'm supposed to do, now." He chews at his bottom lip, a habit he doesn't know when he'd picked up.

"Simon," Markus says gently, "You can do whatever you want, now. You don't have to wait for instructions."

"That's just _it_, though," Simon snaps, feeling suddenly so unbelievably frustrated with himself that he's saying it without thinking, "I _like_ instructions. I know I'm free, and I'm happy – It's not like I miss being a fucking slave, but. I miss – I miss having _something_ to do. I miss having a job and being _good_ at it. And I can understand that you want me to leave you alone for a bit, but I just. I don't _know_." He stops, sucks in a breath as he glares angrily at the floor.

"I don't want you to leave me alone," Markus says, after what seems like an eternity of silence. Simon looks up at him.

"It's alright if you do," he says, "I know I've been acting strangely and I know it's been bothering you. I'm sorry."

"Simon," Markus says firmly, "I'm not bothered by it. I was just worried about you. You made it seem as though _I_ was bothering _you_, and I know we haven't really…" He pauses, sighs. Simon waits.

"I felt as though our relationship was improving," Markus says then, choosing his words carefully, "And I felt for a moment as though you regretted that. So I wanted to give you the time and space you needed, because I didn't want to overwhelm you."

"You don't overwhelm me," Simon tries to say, but Markus speaks up again, gently takes hold of his left wrist, rests his hand over Simon's on the desk.

"Si," he says, and Simon's heart flutters at the nickname, "I don't really know what you're looking for, but. I like your company. Not only because you're far more helpful than you give yourself credit for, but just because I like being around you. You're funny, you make me feel a lot calmer just by being there."

"Markus," Simon mutters, and he can feel how strong Markus's grip is. He knows, logically, that Markus was designed to be stronger, faster, better than he was, but it's different to be reminded of it so succinctly, brown fingers tight around his wrist despite how gentle he's being.

"You don't have to stop helping me, if that's what you like doing. It doesn't make you any less free, to want structure," Markus continues softly, and Simon almost wants to push him back, duck away from this entire situation, but then, "You're amazing, Simon."

Simon curls his fingers around the edge of the desk, nails digging into polished wood. Slowly, Markus's grip tightens.

"I – It was just a draft, Markus," he manages, trying to sound like he's joking, "You haven't even read it yet."

"I'm sure it's perfect," Markus says simply, "You always do a good job."

Simon swallows, and makes the mistake of looking up at him. Different coloured eyes stare back at him, unflinching, and there's a soft buzzing sound in Simon's mind as Markus deactivates the skin of his arm. They've done this once before, a silent conversation just before the demonstration, sharing fear and finding comfort in each other. Another moment Simon didn't have time to focus on, because immediately afterwards they were marching forward, headed for the guns pointing back at them. Now, he can feel the smoothness of Markus's endoskeleton, the static electricity humming where they're touching, tiny sparks of heat travelling between their hands.

"Let me know what you're thinking," Markus says quietly, and Simon hears the question there, the unspoken ask for permission. And Simon just gives it to him, lets his skin fade away, because he's never been interested in refusing Markus anything. He stands there, frozen to the spot by blue and green, watches Markus's eyes widen as he goes through Simon's mind like a well-loved novel, visiting chapters about stolen touches and warm laughter and the need to see him smile, the want to make him happy, the want to do something _good_.

"_Oh_," he says then, quiet realisation, "Is _that_ what you want to hear?"

"I – I don't-" Simon starts, and then all thoughts leave his head as Markus moves forward, taking hold of his other wrist like he had the first and caging him there, pressed against the desk.

"That you're good," Markus murmurs, "That I think you're brilliant."

"Markus," Simon says weakly, but he doesn't move. Can't move.

"You're confused about me," Markus says, reading Simon's thoughts out loud to him, "You don't need to be. How I feel about you is quite simple, actually."

Simon exhales shakily. Markus's eyes flicker to his lips.

"You're killing me," Simon manages, and then Markus is kissing him. It's tentative, chaste, a soft peck of the lips, but Simon shivers anyway.

"I like you, Si," Markus says then, and his face is so close that Simon could count the synthetic freckles on the bridge of his nose, "I'm so grateful, for you. You're wonderful."

Simon feels warmth travel to his face, and he knows his cheeks are a mixture of thirium blue and synthetic pink, deviancy combining with programmed symptoms of arousal. The desk digs into his lower back, and his hands shift ever so slightly, testing Markus's grip. Markus hums, squeezes at his wrists, nails briefly pinching the skin.

"Is this alright, Simon?" he asks then, breath tickling Simon's skin, "Can I keep touching you, like this?"

"Yes, please," Simon says pathetically, and Markus's smile is patient and understanding and _devastating_. Simon sucks in a breath he doesn't need, and then warm lips press against his but this time there's nothing chaste about it. Markus presses himself against Simon, right hand letting go of his wrist and moving to Simon's waist. Warm fingers slide under his shirt, brush against his skin, and Simon shudders as Markus slides his tongue against his. Slowly, Markus moves his leg forward, and Simon would be embarrassed at how quickly he parts his legs to accommodate the other's thigh but he's preoccupied with other things.

"Good," Markus breathes, hand sliding up Simon's chest, and Simon moans quietly against his lips. It's stupid, shouldn't affect him as much as it does, but he feels like he's drowning. Everything is warm brown skin and that gentle voice whispering praise, lips brushing his and eyes never leaving his face.

"Simon," Markus murmurs, and Simon jolts as he pushes his thigh forward, pressing against his crotch, "I clearly haven't said it enough. You're wonderful, so good. Always there with me, always there to help. I haven't thanked you properly, have I?" His lips move from Simon's mouth, down to his jaw, and he trails kisses down to Simon's neck. It tickles, a sensation Simon doesn't think he'll ever get used to, but he tilts his head back to give him easier access anyway, air leaving him in a soft gasp.

"Markus," he says again, his free hand moving up to clutch at the other's shoulder, and he shudders as sharp teeth tease his skin.

"How rude of me," Markus continues, bringing his fingers up to circle Simon's nipple, his other hand tightening around Simon's wrist, "I haven't told you how much I appreciate you. How lovely you are, how happy you make me." He presses a kiss to the hollow of Simon's throat, and Simon keens, leaning into his touch.

"I – You d-don't-" he stutters, fighting the urge to grind down on Markus's thigh, and Markus tuts quietly, lips travelling up to Simon's ear.

"No, Si," he says in a low voice, "You deserve to know how good you are. How perfect you look right now, all for me."

And Simon knows that PL600s were made to respond to praise, to better follow instructions. He knows that for him that translated into wanting to please, knows that he felt happy when he did something right, knows that every acknowledgement of something he'd done well made him feel good. But there's good, and there's _this_, heat coursing through him with every brush of Markus's lips against his skin, heart hammering in his chest, fluttering at every word whispered into the space between them. He moans helplessly, fingers digging into Markus's shoulder, and Markus hums, the vibrations dancing across Simon's skin, over his neck and travelling down his spine.

"You're blushing," Markus murmurs, and Simon almost wants to say something snarky about stating the obvious, but then Markus laughs, quiet and appreciative in his ear. "You're so _pretty_, Simon. So pretty for me."

The hand on Simon's chest starts to slide down, fingers dragging against Simon's stomach, through the light dusting of synthetic blonde hair just under his navel. He stops at the waistband of Simon's jeans, thumb tracing where denim meets skin. He presses another kiss to Simon's neck, then pulls back far enough to look him in the eye. His pupils are blown, pitch black swallowing forest green and ocean blue, but they're still gentle, still impossibly patient. Giving him a choice, giving him freedom. Wordlessly, Simon gives a single nod, and Markus grins, captures his mouth in another kiss.

Simon also knows that PL600s were made to allow for sexual intercourse, should their masters have the need for it. He is also aware that he's not equipped, knows that none of his owners wanted to buy the optional add-ons. All he has is smooth skin, the wires and connector ports underneath it, where something could either have been attached to or slotted in. He knows he wasn't made to feel heat between his legs, to want to press against Markus's thigh, not equipped to be desperate for friction. But Markus undoes the button of his jeans and slides down the zip, and Simon couldn't care less about what he was made for.

"God," he says weakly, leaning back against the desk, the hand on Markus's arm moving to his neck. Markus hums softly, eyes not leaving his as he finally lets go of Simon's wrist, hooking his fingers over the waistband of his jeans, pulling Simon forward slightly before pushing the denim down, sliding it past his hips and slightly down his thighs.

"Shit," Simon stutters, hips trembling as Markus trails teasing fingers over his inner thigh, free hand curling almost possessively over his right hip.

"Look at you," Markus murmurs, "So pliant, leaning into me. Are you always this desperate or is it just for me?"

"I d-don't know, I-" Simon breaks off on a moan as fingers slide over his crotch, and it's the faintest feeling but it's a _feeling_, and fuck, he _wants_.

"Eager," Markus says softly, and he goes back to kissing his neck, his faint stubble brushing over Simon's skin. Simon's breath hitches as lips tease the sensitive skin of his ear, and he keens as he feels Markus smile.

"You're always so good for me, Simon," he whispers, "Will you let me show you how grateful I am?"

"_Fuck_, Markus -"

"Let me make you feel good." A kiss, achingly gentle, just under his jaw. Fingers slide against him, pushing against plain white skin, and Simon whimpers. "Ssshhh," Markus soothes, "I've got you, Simon. Let me take care of you. Let me show you how happy you make me."

"_Please_, I don't know how," Simon says desperately, both hands clutching at the edge of the desk in an effort to hold himself up. Markus moves, hands sliding under the swell of Simon's ass, and Simon barely has time to process the touch before Markus _lifts_ him, setting him on top of the desk like he weighs next to nothing. His fingers find Simon's jeans again, peeling the tight fabric off his legs, and Simon toes off his shoes so he can pull them off completely. He's still wearing his shirt, but he forgets about it completely as Markus smiles, drops his pants onto the floor and steps between Simon's legs, one hand resting on his thigh and the other going back to where it was before, pressing against him.

"Deactivate your skin," he says quietly, "let me touch you." Simon shudders, eyes closing as he tries to concentrate. It takes him a few seconds, but eventually the flat skin between his legs disappears, and Markus kisses him. All the air in his lungs leave Simon in a loud gasp, because suddenly those fingers are sliding over his endoskeleton, nails sliding into the grooves of the plating there.

"Open," Markus breathes against his lips, and Simon does, not even knowing how. The plating slides open with a faint click, and Markus hums, fingers tracing around the gap left in its place. The touch travels up Simon's spine in gentle sparks of pleasure, and Simon keens.

"More," he manages, legs opening wider without him having the conscious thought to do so, and Markus makes a noise in the back of his throat, low and rumbling like quiet thunder.

"God, Simon, look at you," he says roughly, a hand sliding around Simon's back to pull him to the very edge of the desk, "You're perfect." He looks at Simon then, eyes locked on his, lips slightly parted as he slowly, carefully slides a finger into the opening between his legs. For a moment there's nothing, but then Markus finds a hole between connector ports; wires and cables connected in loose circles and forming a passage-way that Simon's programming helpfully tells him should be _connected to the optional B6134 component, purchasable in Cyberlife Stores in the Sexual Accessories section, in order to avoid system malfunction_. Simon opens his mouth to say something, but then Markus gently trails a finger over exposed wiring and Simon loses all train of thought as a sudden jolt of pleasure punches a startled cry out of him.

"Jesus, _fuck_," Simon gasps, nails digging into the desk, and Markus's breath catches.

"Simon," he says, and his tone is almost reverent. A second finger slides into him, drags over wires and tiny metal parts, and Simon moans, head tilting back. It's unlike anything he's ever felt before, every torturous drag of Markus's fingers sending so many electrical impulses to Simon's brain that he can't keep track of them, mouth falling open to gasp for air he doesn't need.

"Good," Markus murmurs, and Simon trembles at the praise, soft keens spilling from his lips as Markus curls his fingers around a wire and gently slides them along it. He leans forward, sucks at the skin of Simon's throat before moving his mouth back to Simon's ear.

"Is this what you needed?" he asks, his voice like velvet, "For me to tell you how good you are?" Simon moans helplessly, back arching as Markus presses his fingers deeper.

"You're so good, Simon," Markus continues, "So perfect, letting me fuck you with my fingers. Do you like this? Me touching you like this? Would you let me keep going, let me play with you and stretch your wires until I can slide my entire hand inside of you?"

"Oh, God," Simon says brokenly, "Please. Markus, please."

"You would," Markus says, and slides a third finger in as if to prove it, "Because you're always so good for me, aren't you? Always wanting to make me happy, always so lovely." He twists his fingers, curls them and pushes against something inside of him that makes Simon's hips jerk, lips parting on a groan. "It's like you were made for me," Markus hums, "made to be _mine_."

The word hits him like a freight train, and Simon shudders, cables inside him tautening, clenching down on Markus's fingers. Markus's eyes widen, and he scissors his fingers, pushing back against the tightness.

"Fuck," he breathes, "You really are, aren't you? All mine to play with."

"_Please_," Simon moans again, and he doesn't know what he's asking for but Markus _does_. He pushes his fingers against that spot again, mouth covering Simon's and swallowing his whine as he slides his hand back and forth. Then, slowly, he pulls them out, and Simon moans at the loss.

"Fuck," Markus says again, staring at his fingers, at brown skin covered in blue, "You're _wet_, Simon."

"So _use_ me," Simon says, frustration and _want_ taking over, and Markus freezes for a second, wide eyes finding his. Then he moves, puts a hand on Simon's shoulder and pushes him down until his back is pressed against the desk, fingers sliding back in. Simon cries out, legs wrapping around Markus's waist and head falling back.

"Use you?" Markus repeats, voice rough as he presses his fingers harshly inside of him, "Is that what you want? For me to use you, fuck you open while you lie there and take it?"

"_Yes_," Simon gasps, back arching, "Markus, _fuck_."

"I could," Markus says, a short, breathless laugh falling from his lips, "Do you want me to? Want me to fuck you, show you how good you are at being mine?"

Simon chokes on a sob, legs tightening around Markus's waist. The fingers inside him are rough, pressing and rubbing at a punishing pace, and he doesn't know what to do with the pleasure coursing through him. Thirium-based lubricant drips over Markus's hand, down Simon's thighs, and he whines at the cold, slick wetness.

"Fuck me," he whines, too far gone to care about what sight he's presenting right now, "Markus, fuck me, please."

Markus freezes, mouth parting in shock.

"A-are you sure?" he asks, and through the haze of pleasure clouding his senses, Simon hears his voice stutter. It's terribly endearing, and he can't stop the fond smile that tugs at his lips.

"Yes," he murmurs, "I'm yours."

Markus kisses him. His tongue slides into Simon's mouth easily, and Simon moans into it, revels in the heat of Markus's tongue and the soft pressure of his lips. Distantly, he can feel Markus's hand move between them, thirium-coated fingers sliding out of him to undo the button of his own pants. Markus pulls away from the kiss and Simon follows, pushing himself up on his elbows to watch him pull off his shirt, slide his jeans down and step out of them, toeing off his shoes and kicking the clothes away.

He learns then, in that exact moment, that Markus was also designed to be able to perform sexually, and apparently, no expense had been spared. Artist fingers curl around his cock, slightly longer and thicker than the average human male, and Simon sucks in a sharp breath.

"Never used it, before," Markus says breathlessly, thumb sliding over the tip, "Not until I went deviant."

Simon's mouth fills with artificial saliva. He swallows thickly, eyes following the movement of Markus's hand.

"H-how does it feel?" he asks, and Markus shivers, exhales.

"Good," he answers, "So good."

"Good," Simon echoes, tongue heavy in his mouth. Markus moans quietly then, eyes fluttering shut as he teases the head of his cock.

"Markus," Simon repeats, voice barely above a whisper, and Markus's eyes open, blue and green meeting his.

"You sure?" he asks again, moving forward between Simon's legs, and Simon nods quickly, mouth falling open as Markus teases the tip of his dick against his opening.

"_Yes_," Simon says, and Markus's hands grab onto his waist as he moves forward, slowly sliding into him.

_Warning. Intrusion in Sector 21 C. Incompatible with current settings. Please install Biocomponent B6134 before proceeding._

Simon's arms shake and his elbows give way, leaving him flat on his back as he moans, low and long. Markus keeps going at a devastatingly slow pace, achingly gentle as he pushes into him until his hips touch Simon's ass. His cock presses against Simon's wires, hot and thick, and Simon feels so wonderfully, beautifully _full_.

"God, Simon," Markus breathes, one hand curled around Simon's hip as the other slides under his shirt and up his stomach, "You're so beautiful." He doesn't look away from him, eyes fixed on his face as he gently moves his hips, rocking into him. Pleasure builds between Simon's legs, the cables inside of him stretching to accommodate the intrusion. It's not something his body was made to do, not without the protective layer of a biocomponent to protect the delicate wiring and metal connectors. Without it, everything is intensified, Simon's lungs constricting almost painfully as he gasps for air, body struggling to cool itself down. He whimpers, arms coming up above his head, laying one of them over his eyes as he tries to process the different sensations of Markus's hand on his hip, Markus's nails scratching over his chest, Markus's cock inside him, Markus, Markus, _Markus_.

"Look at you." Markus almost croons the words, hands trailing over his body in light, teasing caresses. "So lovely, all laid out for me to use. I could keep you here for hours."

The mental image of Markus doing just that, of him keeping Simon open and slick and having his way with him for as long as he can stand, is almost overwhelming. Simon curls his fingers into fists, teeth biting down hard on his lower lip.

"_Fuck_, you'd _let_ me, wouldn't you? I wonder Simon, would you let me keep you locked in my room all day, spread out on that huge bed I barely ever use? Would you stay there, just waiting for me, letting me visit you whenever I wanted, use you whenever I felt like it?"

Markus's voice washes over him, filthy words like fire licking over pale skin, and Simon chokes on a moan, presses his arm harder against his face as he nods.

"Move your arm, Simon", Markus says then, "I want to see you." His voice is soft, sweet like warm honey, and it's so incredibly difficult to focus like this, with Markus's cock moving in and out of him at a slow but steady rhythm, but Simon obeys. He moves his hand away from his eyes, fingers sliding into his own hair instead, and Markus makes a quiet noise in his throat.

"Good boy," he says then, and _fuck_. Simon whines, ankles locking behind Markus's back as he desperately pulls him closer, nails dragging against his own scalp and the shiny wood of the desk.

"You like hearing that," Markus says, lips curling into a teasing smile, "When I call you a good boy." He leans forward, pushes Simon's shirt up until it's bunched under his armpits and presses an open-mouth kiss to the centre of Simon's chest before dragging his tongue across and over a nipple. Simon shudders, hiccupping moans and pants falling from his mouth with every thrust of Markus's hips.

"You're so good, Simon." Markus's hands stroke down his thighs, delicate but strong fingers gripping him tightly, and then he's lifting Simon's legs, sliding them over his shoulders as he leans over him, kissing the line of Simon's jaw. "My perfect, pretty boy."

_Warning. Systems overheating. Standby mode recommended._

"Markus," Simon slurs, and Markus's next thrust is harsher than before, cock rubbing over wires and hitting that something deep inside him that makes Simon cry out, head tilting back.

"I hope you're beginning to understand," Markus says, and it's somewhat gratifying to hear his voice shake as he starts fucking Simon at a faster pace, "how much you mean to me. How happy I am, that you're mine. How fucking _amazing_ you are." His fingers dig into Simon's thighs, and for a moment Simon wishes he could bruise, wishes Markus's grip was enough to mark him for days. The noises that are falling from his mouth are becoming more and more high-pitched, desperate cries and keens filling the air with every sinful drag of Markus's cock, and Markus moans against his ear as Simon clenches desperately around him.

"You want to come, pretty boy?" he says, breath hot against Simon's cheek, "Want to be good for me?"

Simon's never wanted anything more in his life. He's seemingly lost control over his body, back arching as pleasure shoots up his spine, and all he can do is dig his nails into the desk and take it, his programming kindly informing him that he's running low on tear liquid as pale blue drops slide down his face.

"_Please_," he sobs, static mixing with his voice, "_Please_, Markus, I wanna come."

"I've got you, Si," Markus says, and he stifles a groan against Simon's shoulder, almost bending Simon in half as his weight pushes Simon's legs closer to his chest. "You're gonna come when I say," he says thickly, tongue laving over his nipple, "Because you're mine, understood?"

Simon thinks he nods – isn't sure, doesn't care. His vision is clouded, error messages and warning signals flashing, and all he can feel is Markus, Markus on him, Markus in him, Markus _everywhere_.

"Go on," Markus whispers, "Be a good boy and come for me."

And Simon does.

He shudders apart with a drawn-out moan, head thrown back and legs shaking, and all he feels is a flash of white-hot pleasure crowding his senses and Markus's cock throbbing against his wires before the world goes suddenly, blissfully black.

**STANDBY MODE ACTIVATED.**  
RECALIBRATION: COMPLETE.  
CHECKING BIOCOMOPONENTS: SUPERFICIAL DAMAGE ASSESSED.  
RUNNING SELF-REPAIR PROGRAM. COMPLETE.  
STRUCTURAL INTEGRITY: SUFFICIENT.  
STANDBY MODE TERMINATING.

**RESTART SUCCESSFUL. ALL SYSTEMS ONLINE. CYBERLIFE VISIT RECOMMENDED TO ASSESS ANY POTENTIAL LASTING DAMAGE TO INTERNAL STRUCTURE.**

"-ou okay? Simon? Simon, talk to me!"

They're not at the desk anymore. Simon's lying across the window seat at the side of the room, head resting on decorative pillows and legs draped over Markus's lap, who's looking at him with wide, worried eyes.

Simon blinks. Glances at his legs.

"Did you re-dress me?" he asks, referring to his jeans and shirt that have been neatly pulled back into place. He shifts, and there's an uncomfortable wetness between his legs that makes his nose scrunch up with mild disgust.

"Jesus, Simon, you scared the shit out of me," Markus says, relief evident in his voice as his hands rest gently on his thighs, thumbs rubbing soothing circles.

"What happened?" Simon asks, unthinkingly reaching out and stroking across Markus's knuckles. Markus's eyes go soft, fond, and he takes hold of Simon's hand to lace their fingers together.

"I think," he says then, a small smile forming on his face, "that you may have come so hard you went into standby."

"Of course," Simon says flatly, "Naturally." Markus grins, leans forward and brings Simon's hand up to his lips.

"What about you?" Simon asks then, pushing himself up to a sitting position with his legs still over Markus's lap, "Did you-"

"Oh, yes," Markus says quickly, quietly, "Impossible not to, really. You should have seen yourself."

Simon knows he's blushing. Markus's hand squeezes his, gentle and warm.

"Was that alright?" he asks then, blue and green eyes travelling over Simon's face, over skin that's definitely flushed synthetic pink and thirium blue.

"More than," Simon answers, and Markus's smile makes his heart flutter in his chest. Simon swallows, eyes dropping to their hands, brown intertwined with white.

"So," he says then, "Does this – I mean, are you – Am I, um-"

"Simon," Markus interrupts, calm and soft, "I love you."

Simon's eyes snap back up to Markus's face. He's met with a smile he's never seen on him before, vulnerable and almost nervous.

"When I left you at Stradford Tower," Markus says then, quiet, eyes downcast as he strokes Simon's hand with his thumb, "everything nearly fell apart. I was so worried, and no matter how much I tried to focus, none of my decisions seemed to be the right ones. I was stuck, drowning in guilt and fear, and there was a moment I honestly thought about giving up." He looks up, meets Simon's eyes. "But then I walked down that corridor and you stepped into the light. And I was so fucking relieved, Simon. I was so relieved, and I thought I might die if I didn't hold you. And now, well. I don't want to let you go."

Simon stares, frozen. Markus glances away, stops drawing circles into the skin of Simon's hands and goes to untangle their fingers, goes to give him space. Simon tightens his grip.

"It was the first night back here," he says, taking in Markus's wide-eyed look, "after the demonstration. You went to see Carl, but you didn't want to wake him. So we went to the kitchen, and you got mad because the android that was taking care of him had organised the cabinets wrong." Simon smiles at the memory, gently pulls Markus's hand to his chest and holds it there. "I think you were just looking for something to do. So I let you rummage around, I let you open the fridge and complain about how it was empty, because Carl was getting all his nutrients through IV drips and you hated that he was so sick."

"And then you told me to sit down," Markus murmurs, fingers curling open, palm resting flat over Simon's heart, "We left the fridge door open and you just listened to me talk. And you were so beautiful, so sincere and reassuring. Not an ounce of sarcasm to you, for once." Simon huffs a laugh, ducks his head. "You let me hold your hand," Markus continues, fond, "I couldn't believe you let me do that. Just hold your hand, stroke your skin."

"Markus," Simon says then, looking up at him, "I would let you do anything."

It could be the way the sunlight filters in through royal blue drapes, but Simon thinks he sees a soft flush cover Markus's cheeks. His eyes seem brighter in the soft glow of the setting sun, and they look at him like Simon is something precious. Simon shifts, moves a hand to the sides of Markus's neck, shifting closer until he's basically sitting in the man's lap.

"You made me feel safe," he says softly, "Like I had somewhere to belong. And every day, you make me feel like I have a purpose, like I'm wanted for something. You make me feel free." He brushes their noses together, sighs softly as warm lips brush the corner of his mouth.

"Good," Markus breathes, "You deserve all of that and more."

He kisses him then, wraps his free arm around his back and keeps a hand on Simon's chest as he pulls him close. Simon lets him, arms going around Markus's necks and lips parting easily, and he realises somewhere in the back of his mind that he hasn't actually told him he loves him back yet.

He'll tell him in a moment. For now, he lets Markus kiss him, loses himself in the feel of his lips, the feel of the sun kissing their skin and their hearts beating together. Warm, familiar, and the easiest thing Simon's ever done.

In the end, it seems that freedom, for Simon, is this.


	92. (M) STEREK - One Dollar Yoda by exclamat

One Dollar Yoda  
exclamation

Summary:  
Stiles is an unbonded spark, so he's been dealing with courting alphas since he was ten. It's gotten a lot worse since he turned sixteen. Some are assholes, some are nice, but Stiles hasn't wanted to spend the rest of his life bound to any of them.

When Derek Hale shows up at his school, Stiles expects him to be just another asshole alpha attempting to buy him with expensive gifts. But Derek Hale puts no effort whatsoever into his courtship gifts. Stiles ought to be offended but instead he finds it refreshing.

* * *

Chapter 01

The first time an alpha approached Stiles with a courting gift was the day after his mom's funeral. Apparently the alpha had wanted to wait until after the funeral as a sign of respect for their loss. Stiles' dad, after having drunk perhaps a little too much whiskey, let the alpha know exactly how respectful he wasn't and told the guy to get lost. When the alpha insisted on talking to Stiles, Stiles had yelled down from his room, using some of the new words and phrases he'd just learned because his dad had been yelling them.

Afterwards, he and his dad ate ice cream and had a conversation about how phrases like, "insensitive asshat" were not to be used in normal life but only under extreme circumstances.

After that, Stiles' dad let it be known that Stiles was too young to be making such decisions. He met alphas occasionally in passing and they might make hints about bonding, but most of them were dissuaded by his dad from making any official approaches. The next courting gift came when he was fifteen, just a few weeks shy of his sixteenth birthday. Stiles suspected that most of the alphas were waiting until he was sixteen, so this guy had tried to get in there first and attract Stiles' attention. Alpha Coley's gift had been an expensive watch, one worth so much money that Stiles would have been terrified to put it on his wrist in case he bashed it on something while flailing his arms around.

Stiles had gone for coffee with the guy because he'd been immensely persuasive. He'd then spent the first fifteen minutes of their meeting talking about how rich his pack was and how Stiles could have everything he needed and how he could pay for the best resources for Stiles to develop his spark. It seemed like every other word out of the guy's mouth was about money. He didn't even bother trying to get to know Stiles at all, clearly seeing him as just another prestige symbol to be purchased.

Stiles politely declined the guy and went home to study for a chemistry test.

He got three courtship gifts on his sixteenth birthday. Alpha Miyani had sent Stiles a new games system and half a dozen games, Alpha Wright had sent him some books on magic, and Alpha Coley had turned up at school with a flashy sports car, despite the fact that Stiles had already rejected him.

"You know I only have my learner's permit, right?" Stiles asked.

"And now you have something nice to learn in."

"I already turned you down."

Alpha Coley smiled, "I thought perhaps you didn't appreciate the value of my first gift. I wanted to know you what belonging to my pack could mean. Consider the implications of what you could enjoy."

Stiles smiled back, and saw the triumph on Coley's face for a moment, then he said, "And you should consider the implications of hanging out at a school offering expensive gifts to underage teenagers who've already told you to get lost."

Stiles didn't want to bother his dad, but he called Deputy Parrish to give Coley a re-education in the meaning of the word, "No."

Stiles met with the other two alphas in his home, so his dad could be in the next room ready to throw them out if necessary. Alpha Miyani was nice, but old enough to be Stiles' mom. She'd baked him cookies and they talked a little about Stiles and about her pack. Stiles was polite and answered her questions, asking a few of his own about life inside her pack, but he couldn't imagine selling the rest of his life to her.

"Look," he said, once the meeting had continued for a polite length of time, "you seem really nice, and you make some awesome cookies, but..."

"But you'd prefer someone closer to your own age."

"No offence," Stiles said.

Miyani smiled, "None taken. You're perfectly right. I thought that might be your reaction but available sparks are so few, I thought it was worth a shot."

They parted on polite terms. He officially declined her courtship. She gave him a motherly hug and wished him luck finding a suitable alpha.

If he'd thought the meeting with Miyani was bad, the meeting with Wright was even worse. She was ancient, well into her nineties at least. Stiles suspected she might have a heart attack if they ever consummated the courtship. But she was polite and to the point, explaining that her pack's spark had died about a year ago and now her grandson was insisting that the pack couldn't possibly continue without a spark.

"I realise what this must look like to you," she said, "but the situation does have its advantages. You would get all the benefits of being bound to a pack, including helping to fund the college of your choice."

She phrased it like a business arrangement. Stiles could bond with her and join the pack. He would get college paid for and access to the former spark's resources and references to help his training, and all the privileges that being a spark entitled him to. And the terrifying thought of binding himself to a pack for the rest of his or the alpha's life was somewhat less terrifying in this case. Alpha Wright acknowledged that much herself.

"When I pass on," she said, "you will be free to find a more suitable alpha closer to your own age."

She even promised that aside from the consummation of the bond, nothing would be expected of Stiles sexually. Stiles didn't think he'd ever been less turned on in his life. He cleared his throat and drank some lemonade just to give himself a moment to collect himself.

"Look," Stiles said, "I appreciate the offer, and I think it says something that your courtship is by far the most tempting I've experienced, but it wouldn't be right. I'd be taking your pack's resources and money and then just leaving in a couple of years. I'd be using you."

Given that his usual fear was of binding himself to an alpha who would use him, this was better, but it still wasn't great. Plus he really didn't want to sleep with a woman who was practically a fossil, even if it was only to complete a ritual.

She accepted his refusal, but left her phone number in case he wanted advice. She'd been paired with her spark for five decades, so she had a lot of experience to draw on.

After that, the alphas started coming from further afield. Some were polite. Some were self-entitled asshats who felt they deserved a spark and that Stiles should be on his knees begging to be accepted into their pack. One, when Stiles refused him, ranted for a full ten minutes about how ungrateful Stiles was and how he was stupid to think he'd get a better offer considering that he was a scrawny, ugly runt.

"And you wonder why I don't want to spent the rest of my life with you," Stiles said. They were standing on the porch of his house and he took great satisfaction in slamming the door in that guy's face.

He knew it was only going to get worse. The longer he waited, the more nutjobs would come crawling out of the woodwork. Every alpha who didn't have a spark would approach him. It would only end when he found one he could stand to bind himself to for the rest of his life, giving himself up to their authority.

When he saw the black Camaro parked outside of school, he knew he was dealing with another one. The guy leaning against the hood was younger than most of the alphas, probably only a few years older than Stiles, and he was smoking hot, but that wasn't going to get him any points. Stiles had generally found that the hotter alphas were the most full of themselves.

"You Stiles?" the guy asked.

"Yep." Stiles slowed to a halt at the bottom of the school steps, waiting. The guy threw something at Stiles. He flailed, tried to catch it, fumbled, and scrambled to stop the thing falling to the ground. When he looked up, the guy was smirking.

Stiles looked at the thing in his hand. It was a keychain with a little plastic Yoda on it.

"What's this?" Stiles asked.

The guy rolled his eyes, "It's a courtship gift."

"Your idea of a courtship gift is a two dollar keychain?"

"It was one dollar. Well, let's get this over with."

"Over with?"

"Tell me to get lost already so we can both get on with our day," the alpha said. Stiles didn't know whether to be amused or offended.

"I don't think you've got how this courtship thing is supposed to work," Stiles said. "You're supposed to be wooing me with flashy gifts and explaining how your pack is the awesomest pack ever."

The alpha rolled his eyes again, "You turned down the guy that bought you a car; I'm not going to waste my money on getting rejected. Though I'm thinking I should have bought you a dictionary."

"Huh?"

"Awesomest?" the guy quoted.

"I have a unique and progressive grasp of the English language."

The alpha snorted. Then he said, "Well, get on and reject me already so we can get this courtship bullshit over with, at least for now."

Stiles wasn't sure why he did what he did next. This guy clearly wasn't interested in having him as his spark, or he would have actually tried with his courtship approach. Maybe it was just because this was so different from all the other alphas that had come sniffing around him trying to buy him. Or maybe it was because the alpha had referred to the courtship process as bullshit, the only person Stiles had heard to say it out loud other than himself.

Stiles pulled his car keys out of his pocket and made a point of attaching the Yoda to them. This didn't mean anything officially. He wasn't accepting the courtship by keeping the gift, but there was a big difference between just keeping a gift and choosing to keep the gift close to him. The alpha lowered his eyebrows into a frown as he watched.

"I like Star Wars," Stiles said. He turned and walked towards his jeep.

"Wait," the alpha said, "you haven't rejected me yet. You need to actually say you reject me."

"You think I don't know how this works? I've been telling asshole alphas to get lost since I was ten."

"Ten?" The alpha looked suitably disgusted by that.

"It was the day after we buried my mom," Stiles elaborated.

The disgust turned to anger, "Holy crap."

"So, yeah, you may think this process is bullshit, but you have no idea what it's like to be on the receiving end."

Stiles climbed into his jeep, and put the keys, with the little Yoda and all, into the ignition.

"You still haven't rejected me!" the alpha complained, as Stiles started the engine.

* * *

Chapter 02

On Saturday, Stiles was playing games online when his dad came to his room. Stiles knew that expression; there was another alpha here to see him. Stiles paused his game and went downstairs. He was a little surprised to see the guy from the school, since the guy had clearly only been approaching Stiles as a formality. He shoved something into Stiles' hands; a cheaply printed pocket dictionary.

"You don't have to wait for me to reject you, you know," Stiles said. "You are allowed to walk away and decide I'm not worth courting."

"You really think the system works that way? You're clearly not as smart as you think you are."

Sparks were rare compared to werewolves. Less than half the packs had a spark bound to them. For a werewolf to just decide not to approach an unbound spark would be unusual to say the least. It was expected that alphas would try to woo sparks for the benefit of their pack. Not doing so would be seen as not caring enough about their packs. So this guy was here courting Stiles, so that he could show he tried. He was going through the motions because it was expected, and somehow that made him seem like a kindred spirit of sorts.

Stiles stepped to one side and gestured for the alpha to come in. The alpha glared at him, but came into the house.

"I didn't catch your name," Stiles said.

"Derek Hale."

The name caught Stiles off guard. The Hales were a local pack, an old family but now down to a handful of members due to attacks by anti-werewolf fanatics. The pack had lost all its strength and power. Stiles would have expected Derek to be enthusiastically pursuing a spark to try and get some of his pack's status back, but here he was making this half-assed gestured. Because he expected the worst.

That thought hit Stiles out of nowhere. Derek wasn't even trying because he expected Stiles to reject him no matter what. For all his strength and the way he was exuding leather-wrapped sex appeal, he expected defeat because that was what he was used to. That made sensations of sympathy stir up inside Stiles.

"Do you want something to drink?" Stiles asked.

"I want to get this over with," Derek replied. "Why are you stringing this along? You think I'll start breaking out the diamonds if you drag this out?"

"Is that what you think of me? You think I'm some shallow gold-digger?"

"Why else would you be stringing me along like this?"

"Because you're the only person other than my dad who hates this courtship stuff nearly as much as I do."

Stiles put the dictionary down on the counter and started up the coffee machine, because Derek hadn't actually said no to a drink. Stiles got mugs out because it gave him something to do other than stand in awkward silence.

"Look," Stiles said, as coffee dripped through the machine, "maybe this could work to our advantage."

"What do you mean?"

"If it gets out that I'm taking your courtship seriously, people might be, 'Oh, hey, look, the Hale pack must be pretty awesome and impressive to attract the attention of a spark,' and maybe the other assholes will back off for a while if they think I'm taken."

"Or it will make them worse than ever."

"In that case, I get lots of free stuff out of it."

"I thought you said you weren't a gold digger," Derek said.

Stiles shrugged, "I make the best with the hand I've been given."

They stood in silence for a little bit. Stiles watched the slow drip-drip-drip of coffee into the pot. This thing took forever.

After a minute, Derek asked, "Did you just call me an asshole?"

"Huh?"

"You said 'all the other assholes', which seems to imply you think I'm an asshole."

Stiles tapped the dictionary on the counter, "You're telling me this wasn't an asshole move?"

Derek glared at him. Stiles thought he'd won that point. He went back to staring at the coffee machine, tapping his fingers against the counter as he waited.

"It would be a really asshole move if I told you I didn't particularly like coffee," Derek said. Stiles turned and glared at him.

"And it didn't occur to you to say something sooner?"

"I'll drink it," Derek shrugged, "but it's not what I'd choose to drink. It's too bitter."

"I would have thought bitter would suit you just fine."

Stiles probably ought to offer Derek something else to drink, but he'd had plenty of opportunity to ask for something different, so screw that. Stiles poured two mugs of coffee. He handed one over to Derek with a vicious smile.

"Do you have any sugar?" Derek asked.

Stiles got some out of a cupboard. He watched Derek heap spoon after spoon of sugar into his coffee.

"Freaking werewolf metabolism," Stiles muttered. "If I tried that, I'd be the size of a house."

"Now who's the bitter one," Derek smiled. He sipped his ridiculously sweetened coffee. This could turn out to be a huge mistake. They'd probably end up killing each other at this rate.

"So," said Stiles, "what do you think? Want to try courting me in public?"

"Just don't expect any flashy gifts."

"But with the gift of your charming personality, what more could I possibly need?"

Derek tilted his head a little and gave him a cold look. He looked like he wanted to slap Stiles round the head of something. Stiles sipped his coffee and leaned back against the kitchen counter.

"So how do you want to play this?" Derek asked.

"Dinner? We can discuss all the stuff we're supposed to discuss like what your pack's like and get to know each other."

Derek nodded, "Tomorrow evening? I can pick you up at six?"

"Sure. Let me give you my number so you can let me know dress code or text me if you're running late or whatever."

"The dress code will be: wear pants," Derek said. But he handed over his phone anyway. Stiles' entered his number. Derek downed about half a mug of coffee and then Stiles showed him to the door.

His dad emerged from deeper in the house.

"Well, you didn't ask me to show this one out with a shotgun," he commented.

"No," Stiles agreed, "No shotgun required. At least so far. You're working tomorrow night, right?"

"Yeah, why?"

"Just wanted to make sure I wouldn't need to make dinner arrangements for you. I have a date."

His dad raised an eyebrow, "A date? You've actually agreed to a second meeting with one of these guys?"

"Technically third, he showed up at school the other day, so today was meeting number two."

"You actually like this one?"

"I don't hate his guts on principle, so it's a start. We'll see how I feel after sharing a meal with him."

* * *

Chapter 03

Stiles took Derek's comments about wearing pants as a sign that he wasn't going to be taken to some exclusive restaurant, and just wore jeans and an old Batman t-shirt. Derek showed up right on time, dressed casually as well. He led the way out to the sleek Camaro. He even held the door open for Stiles.

"I know sparks are supposed to be all meek and helpless next to alphas," Stiles said, "but I can manage to open a car door."

"I don't think anyone's going to think you're meek."

"I've been told at least a dozen times that I'll be much happier when I learn to submit to my superiors."

"Superiors? Someone actually said that to you?" Derek sounded appropriately horrified.

"More than once. The rest just imply it."

"No wonder you hate being courted." The seemed to remind Derek of something. He fished in a pocket and tossed a packet of mints at Stiles. "Here: today's courtship gift."

Stiles looked at the mints for a minute, then asked, "Is this a hint or something? Do I need to visit the dentist more often?"

"I stopped off at the gas station on the way to pick you up. That was the cheapest thing on sale."

Stiles laughed a little. He ought to be offended that Derek was being a cheapskate about this courting, but it was such a nice change from people trying to buy him with flashy gifts.

Derek drove in silence for a little while. They didn't have far to go and Stiles gave a little snort of amusement when Derek pulled into the parking lot for Jenny's Diner. He shot Derek a questioning look.

"In a choice between overpriced, posh food or the best curly fries in town," Derek said, "there can only be one winner."

"I can't remember the last time I ate here," Stiles said. "I can't come here with my dad because this stuff is so bad for his cholesterol."

He was not complaining at all about Derek's choice of restaurant. They headed inside and were shown to a booth. The waitress smiled at them and handed them laminated menus, even though Stiles knew exactly what he wanted here. There was no point coming to Jenny's and not having the house burger with curly fries.

"I suppose I should have gone for somewhere more public," Derek said, "if the point is to show off to the other alphas that we're doing this."

"It'll get out quickly enough," Stiles said. There was a click from across the diner. Derek turned to look sharply. Stiles glanced round as well, unsurprised to see the phone pointing at them. Someone had taken a photo. Their date would be up on social media sites in minutes. People paid attention when Stiles went out and about. He was only a minor spark but he was an unbound spark and that made people interested in him. If someone saw him on a date and recognised Derek as an alpha, that was definitely going to be interesting to people. Even if they didn't recognise Derek, a spark out on a date was interesting enough on its own because sparks weren't really allowed to date anyone but a courting alpha. There wasn't a law against it or anything, but it just wasn't done.

The waitress returned to take their orders. Stiles ordered his house burger, while Derek went for the double meat supreme. Both ordered curly fries.

"So," said Stiles, "tell me about your pack."

"It's small. Myself, my younger sister, Cora, and three other betas: Isaac, Erica, and Boyd."

Most packs were between ten and fifteen people. A pack of five was indeed small. It would be difficult for Derek to convince others of his pack's relevance to werewolf politics. No wonder he'd agreed to Stiles' crazy scheme.

"Born or bitten?" Stiles asked.

"Cora was born. Obviously. The other three, I bit."

So the entirety of the pack had just been him and his sister when he'd become an alpha. That must have been a difficult situation, both politically and emotionally. Werewolves didn't do well without a pack.

"Are you looking for others to bite?" Stiles asked.

"I'm not rushing anymore. I need to make sure the fit's right. The more people are in the pack, the harder that gets."

It was an important consideration. Disagreements could tear a pack apart. The more people there were, the greater the chances of a clash of personalities. Derek had needed to get the pack up from a vulnerably tiny size to one which could survive, but now he would take this carefully. But of course he hadn't denied looking to grow his pack.

"What about you?" Derek asked. "You inherited your spark?"

"From my mother."

"You had any training?"

"Not really. My mom taught me a couple of simple tricks and I've studied from books and resources I've found online. I haven't had any formal training."

Derek nodded. The education of the pack's spark was usually arranged by the alpha in accordance with the pack's needs.

"I wish there were more books out there," Stiles continued. "That ones that are around seem to be locked away like treasures by the packs."

"Information is power," Derek said. "No alpha wants to give rival packs access to magic that could be used against them."

"But keeping it all secret is inherently problematic. If all this information was out there and free, it would be better for everyone. All the sparks would have more knowledge and be able to use it to help the packs and everyone else. There are spells of healing, of strength, magic to help plants grow and water to emerge from the ground, all that stuff, which could be used to help people, instead the packs miser away all this magic and keep it to themselves."

"Sharing only works if everyone agrees to share. If one pack gives up their secrets, they lose their advantages. Even if most of the packs agreed to share their secrets, a few wouldn't, and then they'd have access to secret magics no one else does and that would give them a serious advantage. If you went to every pack in the world and explained your altruistic plan to save humanity with magic, they'd all assume it was a trick to make them expose their secrets."

"So what you're saying is that the world's doomed to suffering, because the alphas don't trust each other."

"Basically."

The waitress came over to their table with their food. Stiles offered her a smile and a thanks, Derek just leaned back from the table so she could get access more easily. Stiles paused his conversation to pick up the burger. He bit into it, letting the juice of the meat and the melted cheese dribble over his tongue. He moaned aloud as he chewed.

"You keep that up and people will think I'm giving you a hand job under the table," Derek said. Stiles nearly choked on his mouthful of burger.

"Asshole," Stiles muttered, once he'd regained the ability to breathe. Derek smirked and appeared to be struggling to figure out how to eat his skyscraper of a meal with its chicken breast and beef burger stacked with onion rings and salad inside the bun. He settled for demolishing the tower and attacking it a piece at a time.

"If you had access to all that magic," Derek said, "is that really what you'd use it for?"

"What do you mean?"

"Healing people, growing crops, all that."

"Yeah. I mean, if I had that power, I'd want to use it to help people. Not that it will matter what I want."

"How so?"

"When I'm bonded, the alpha will decide how my magic should be used. I'll just be a tool."

"That's not true," Derek said. "The spark is a part of the pack, a special and honoured part."

Stiles gave a dismissive snort. Derek looked angry. Stiles thought it was because he was implying Derek would try to use him, but then he said, "My father was my mother's spark."

"Oh," said Stiles. "I didn't..."

"You didn't think. My father was my mother's spark. He was her partner, her advisor, her right-hand. Yes, he followed her because she was the alpha but he wasn't a tool; he was a person with his own opinions and he wasn't shy about sharing those opinions when they clashed with hers. That's how it's supposed to be."

"That doesn't seem to be how most alphas see it," Stiles said. "At least the ones who've come to talk to me."

"Maybe that's why they haven't found a spark willing to bond with them."

That was actually a valid point. The alphas who treated bonding as a partnership would be more likely to find a spark and therefore not need to come sniffing around Stiles. That meant that a larger percentage of the unbonded alphas would be assholes. Stiles remember Alpha Wright and her promises to help him with his education in exchange for his temporary attachment to her pack. She'd actually been nice about it, and she'd been the one he'd met who'd had a spark before.

"If this doesn't work out between us," Stiles said, "maybe you could help me meet with some unbonded alphas who aren't complete and utter jerks?"

"Of course."

The answer came back with surprising speed, but Stiles realised this was in Derek's interest too. If Derek helped another alpha find a spark, that pack would be in his debt.

Stiles ate more of his burger, their conversation taking a pause while they devoured the food.

"Well," Derek said after a while, "what do you do for fun?"

So Stiles started talking. He ended up rambling on about lacrosse and Scott, then got onto school and his attempts to learn magic, his research online, his favourite video games, the movies he loved. Derek contributed occasionally, but most of the time Stiles just talked. He was probably boring Derek to tears. Stiles talked through his burger and fries, then through the ice cream sundae that came later. Afterwards, Derek paid the bill, since he was the courting alpha.

He took Stiles out to the car and drove them back towards Stiles' house.

"Do you want to continue this?" Derek asked.

"Yeah," Stiles answered. "I had fun tonight."

"Me too." He sounded surprised about that.

* * *

Chapter 04

It took almost no time for the backlash of his date with Derek. On Tuesday, Stiles came out of school and found Alpha Coley waiting for him.

"Didn't I already reject you?" Stiles asked. "Twice?"

"I thought you might want to change your mind, now that you've seen the quality of some of the other alphas out there."

"How about no?"

"Hale can never give you half of what I could offer," Coley said.

"In terms of disgust and revulsion, I'm sure you're right," Stiles smiled. Coley snarled.

"I can give you a position of safety in a powerful pack. All that runt can offer you is a cluster of misfits too small to be a real pack."

"Has no one told you that it's not the size that counts but what you do with it?"

"You think you're so important, you little brat. One day a real alpha will teach you your place."

"Well it won't be you," Stiles said. "I will choose the alpha I bond with and it won't be you. It will _never_ be you. So get the hell out of here before I report you for stalking."

He was already in a bad mood when he got home and found two other alphas waiting for him, each clutching packages. One also had a bunch of roses. Stiles looked between the two of them as they both hurried to introduce themselves over the top of each other before he'd even climbed out of his jeep. Stiles held up a hand and they fell silent.

"Who arrived here first?" Stiles asked.

The two alphas looked at each other, then one of them, a tall, muscular man with a blond crew cut, said, "I did." He extended a hand, "Alpha Paul Everett."

Stiles shook the hand, then turned to the other, a slender, dark-skinned woman, "Do you mind waiting outside while I talk to Alpha Everett?"

"Of course," she said.

Stiles showed Everett into the living room and sat down in an armchair. He'd learned not to sit on the couch because alphas tended to take that as an invitation to try and snuggle up next to him. Everett placed his gift down on the coffee table in front of Stiles. Stiles picked it up with a little trepidation and lifted the lid of the box. Inside was a sculpture, made of silver, set with coloured stones in places. It was an abstract form, so Stiles couldn't actually tell what it was meant to be, unless it was meant to look like a misshapen mass of silver studded with jewels. It was quite pretty, and probably ridiculously expensive, but Stiles had no idea what he was supposed to do with it other than use it as a paperweight.

He made a vague but hopefully appreciative-sounding noise, then set the statue down on the coffee table. He wondered if it would be a lethal insult to stick the thing up on eBay as soon as the interview was over.

"I understand you have entered into courtship with Derek Hale," Everett said.

"We've had a couple of meetings," Stiles said. That was confirmation without commitment. Everett nodded.

"I'm not sure how much you know about his pack. They have an ancient and distinguished name, but the pack is not what it once was. Only two of them are born wolves."

Stiles had intended to be polite but the way this guy said the last part implied superiority of the born wolves over the bitten. Stiles had seen this a few times in his meetings with other alphas and the ones who tended to see born werewolves as superior to bitten ones also tended to see werewolves as superior to humans. Stiles didn't want to jump to conclusions, but warning flags were flying.

"I'm aware of that," he said, do his best to keep his tone relaxed and polite.

"I just wanted to make sure in case you thought you were getting an in with one of the powerful packs."

"Meaning that your pack has more power?" Stiles asked.

That prompt was all that was needed. Everett launched into a description of his pack. Twenty seven members, not counting the two bitten omegas who were attached to the pack for protection. Stiles wasn't sure whether the dismissive tone in Everett's voice was because they were omegas or because they were bitten. Probably both. Most likely, they'd approached as omegas and Everett hadn't inducted them as full betas precisely because they hadn't been born werewolves. It was quickly clear that there was a social hierarchy in Everett's mind and that he was at the top of the stack.

He talked at length about the benefits of such a powerful pack, including the money to help Stiles get whatever resources he needed as a spark. He promised to meet Stiles' physical needs. He gave Stiles a critical look and made a comment about how he could improve Stiles' dietary and fitness situation. Stiles bristled. He said nothing, but Everett must have caught his reaction anyway.

"Don't get me wrong," he said, "you're not bad, but you've not had anyone to properly look after you before now. You need a firm hand to keep you disciplined."

All this was said without Stiles saying more than half a dozen words about himself. Clearly Everett thought he knew all he needed to about Stiles.

Stiles stood up, "Thank you, Alpha Everett, for your interest and your gift, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline your courtship."

All pretence at politeness vanished.

"What? Because I pointed out you need to do some exercise, you skinny runt?"

"I don't need to explain my reasons, but insulting me isn't going to help your case."

"You think pretty boy Hale can give you a better life than I can?"

"This is not about Alpha Hale's courtship. This is between you and me, and what's between you and me is over. Please leave my property."

Everett glared and then stormed out, muttering something about Stiles being an ungrateful bitch as he passed the other alpha. She looked amused, then she turned and offered Stiles her hand to shake.

"Alpha Rasha Ali," she said. They shook, and Stiles showed her into the living room as before. Everett's gift was still on the coffee table. Stiles moved it, sticking the statue back in the box and putting the box on the floor. Ali handed Stiles the roses and then set her package down where Everett's had been. Stiles took a minute to find a vase for the flowers and then returned to her, sitting down and unfastening her package, which had been wrapped in silvery paper.

He expected something shiny and useless, like the statue. What the box contained was shiny alright, but useless was not the word. He pulled out a sleek laptop. He wanted to boot it up and check whether the specs were as shiny as the case, but he figured that would be rude. So he set the laptop back down on the table and thanked Ali. From her smile, she clearly knew that she had given him a gift he would actually want.

"So," said Stiles, "tell me about your pack."

Ali didn't start with size and pedigree, but instead talked about their living arrangements. Apparently she owned an apartment building and the top three floors were used by the pack so that they could each have their own space but be close. She talked about how even in close pack everyone had different personalities and sometimes needed time apart. She promised that should Stiles bond with her, he would get his own apartment as well as a regular allowance to spend, though most meals tended to be shared so grocery costs would be minimal.

"So I'd have freedom and autonomy?" Stiles asked.

"Except in terms of your use of magic," she said. "I would expect you to consult with me before using your talent, and only to perform spells that affect other packs or people when I give you permission. The rest of the time, you would be a member of the pack with the same freedoms and restrictions as one of my betas."

That was a reasonable position to take, and one Stiles wished more of the alphas who spoke to him would take. Ali talked a bit more about her pack, describing the members and explaining that if the courtship were to continue, she would want Stiles to spend time with all of her pack before bonding. After all, the bonding would result in a permanent relationship and she wouldn't want that to cause any problems with existing pack members.

They talked a while longer, with Ali asking about his family and friends, asking whether it would be a problem for Stiles to move to her pack. Her questions appeared to involve actual interest and her responses were all friendly.

That left Stiles with a challenge at the end of the meeting, because everything about Alpha Ali seemed perfectly reasonable. If Stiles had to pick someone to spend the rest of his life with, he could do a lot worse. At least she seemed to care about treating him as a person. But a decision like this shouldn't be made because someone was simply acceptable. When they were jerks, at least he could feel good about telling them to get lost.

"Alpha Ali," Stiles said, "you may be aware that I'm currently being courted by Alpha Hale."

"I had heard a rumour," she said.

"You seem like a very nice person, but I wouldn't want to string you along while he and I..." Stiles gestured vaguely.

"Is this an official rejection of my courtship?" she asked.

"That depends on how you react to an unofficial one."

She smiled. Stiles knew a lot of alphas would take this as an opportunity to bombard him with gifts and requests for meetings, seeing this as an opening to exploit. If she reacted like that, Stiles would not be at all hesitant to tell her officially to get lost.

Instead, she handed him a business card and told him to get in touch if things didn't work out with Derek. She would be happy to try this again. It was a perfectly polite response that took into account Stiles' feelings. Once again, he was left with the impression that he could do a lot worse. But did he really want to settle for spending his life with someone just because they treated him like a person?

Stiles showed her to the door and opened it up just as Derek climbed out of the Camaro at the bottom of the drive. Stiles wasn't sure if Derek had only just arrived, or if he'd been waiting for this meeting to end.

"Alpha Hale," Ali said, nodding her head in greeting.

"Alpha Ali," Derek returned the gesture.

"I wish you the best of luck." She said goodbye to Stiles again and then headed to her car. Derek waited until she'd gone before drawing close to Stiles and handing over a paper bag. Stiles showed him inside before looking into the bag and seeing the book.

"Is this an actual present?" Stiles asked. He pulled out a second hand book containing the scripts for the original Star Wars movies. A closer look showed that the book also contained detailed notes about the story development, early draft ideas, and how the final scripts had come to be the way they were.

"Holy crap, this is awesome!" Stiles said.

Derek shrugged and said, "You said you liked Star Wars."

Stiles tried not to think about the implications of Derek actually putting thought into a courtship gift. Maybe he'd planned to just grab a random book from a second hand stall and saw this one in a bargain pile. The book was battered and the pages all crinkled and misshapen in a way that suggested it had been dropped in a bath at some point. It probably hadn't cost him much, but it was still up there as an appreciated gift.

"What did you think of Rasha?" Derek asked.

"She seemed nice."

Derek nodded, "I was going to suggest her as one of the alphas who aren't complete jerks."

"Yeah." Stiles went into the living room, Derek following him. He flopped down onto the couch. He realised his mistake a moment too late, but Derek went over to an armchair and sat down, a polite distance between them.

"I hate this," Stiles muttered.

"This?"

"I shouldn't be thinking about whether to spend the rest of my life with someone simply because they treat me with a basic amount of respect. That should be a baseline requirement, not the winning criteria."

Derek didn't say anything. Stiles was probably making a mistake in ranting about this to Derek. After all, Derek was one of the people he was complaining about, albeit in the category of treating him with a minimal quantity of respect. Sort of. The dictionary hadn't been all that respectful, but the Derek had listened about his interests and given him a courtship gift he actually gave a damn about.

Stiles sat up straighter and said, "I'm not being a very good host. Do you want something to drink?"

"Sure."

* * *

Chapter 05

It just got worse. Alphas turned up at his house. They approached him before and after school. Alphas who couldn't physically come to see him sent him expensive gifts by courier along with letters saying that they hoped he would still consider their courtship. One emailed him to arrange a Skype session. Stiles was having a hard time keeping on top of his school work while dealing with these interviews. When he'd tried to make that point to some of the alphas as he cut meetings short, a great many seemed to think that his school education wasn't that important. As long as he was properly educated in magic, they didn't care if he got a high school diploma. When Stiles mentioned intentions to go to college, more than one alpha just asked him why. It wasn't like he'd need a real job, they insisted. All these conversations just made Stiles feel worse about his position.

He got back from school one afternoon to find Derek and two other alphas standing in front of his house. Stiles had a chemistry test tomorrow and really didn't want to deal with this, but he'd made it a general rule to be polite to the alphas that came courting at least until they did something utterly obnoxious.

"Who arrived first?" Stiles asked.

"Me," snarled one of the alphas Stiles didn't recognise.

Derek quickly said, "Alpha Manders arrived here first today, but I'm hoping you will do me the honour of receiving my gift first."

That earned a low growl from Alpha Manders. Stiles wasn't sure if this was just Derek posturing, but he was looking intently at Stiles, as though trying to communicate telepathically. He seemed to think this was important and Stiles couldn't ignore the fact he'd phrased it so formally.

"Sure," Stiles said. "If you guys will wait out here?"

"You'll let this runt get in first?" Manders asked. That was enough for Stiles to hate him.

"Looks like," Stiles said. He smiled sweetly and let Derek into the house. He shut the door firmly behind him. Derek raised a finger to his lips as soon as there was a solid door between them and the other alphas. Stiles nodded his understanding. Werewolves had excellent hearing and Manders was exactly the type to eavesdrop on his competition.

"Stiles," Derek said, more formally than anything he'd ever said to Stiles before, "I hope you will honour me by accepting this token. It may be of use to you."

He handed over a small box, not wrapped or anything. Stiles looked at the label. It apparently contained pepper spray, a special werewolf formula. Stiles looked at the text on the back of the box. Apparently the spray was infused with small amounts of wolfsbane, mountain ash and mistletoe for maximum protection. Stiles opened up the box and pulled out the little plastic canister within. It was small enough for him to hold it easily in one hand, with a button on the top that he could activate with a quick jab of a thumb.

Stiles hoped he would never have to use it, but he'd seen enough creeps to be grateful for it. The fact that Derek had insisted on giving it to him right away said something worrying as well. Stiles put it into his pocket, but checked to make sure he could get at it easily.

"Thank you," Stiles said, aware of the werewolves waiting outside. "It's only right that I speak to Alpha Manders, since he arrived before you, but you're welcome to wait here until I have time."

He tried to sound calm and not like he expected to be assaulted by the next person through the door, but he was immensely grateful when Derek said he would wait. Stiles left Derek standing in the kitchen and then he went back to his front door and opened it. Manders was lurking right outside, the other alpha standing a bit more discretely off to one side.

"If you'd come in," Stiles said. "I'm sorry you had to wait."

"That upstart runt shouldn't have pushed in front of a real alpha," Manders said. "I was here first."

Stiles thought this guy might beat Coley in terms of speed to rejection. He didn't even invite the guy to sit, but he forced a smile, "You might have been first today, but Derek started courting me first, so really he was at the front of the queue."

"He shouldn't even be an alpha." Manders pushed a flat, rectangular box into Stiles' hands. Stiles opened it, seeing inside a leather collar and leash. For about a second, Stiles wondered if the guy had bought him a pet dog, but then he realised who the collar was supposed to be for.

"Holy crap," he muttered. One day he was going to find out who was responsible for the stereotype of sparks being meek and submissive to alphas and he would teach them a lesson. Preferably with a baseball bat.

"I'll show you what a real alpha is," Manders said. He put a hand on Stiles shoulder and shoved him back suddenly. Stiles gave a yelp of surprise as his back impacted the wall. Manders' other hand started groping towards Stiles' crotch. "You'll see how much happier you are when a real alpha puts you in your proper place. It's in your nature."

He leaned in close, sniffing at Stiles, then he smiled.

"See," he said. "You're enjoying this already."

His hand was brushing against something hard in the front of Stiles' pants.

"I've got news for you," Stiles said. "That's not my dick."

He grabbed the pepper spray out from his pocket, aimed it at Manders' face, and pressed the button. Manders screamed in pain, backing off a step and scratching at his face like he was trying to claw his own eyes out. In that moment, now that he had space to move again, Stiles swung his leg up in a kick that made firm contact with Manders' balls. Manders gave a snarl of rage and pain. He started back towards Stiles, eyes blazing a furious red.

Derek leapt into the room, shifted into his beta form. He tackled Manders to the ground. The front door flung open and the other alpha ran in. He saw what was happening and helped Derek grab Manders.

Stiles could only stand there and watch while the two of them hauled Manders to the door and physically flung him out of it. Manders yelled about upstarts who shouldn't dare touch him. Stiles forced himself away from the wall and over to the door.

"Lay one finger on me again," he said, "and I'll have you arrested for assault."

He slammed the door. Blue sparks danced across his fingertips and into the wood, just a tiny surge of power that came almost by instinct. Then he yelled through the door, "And a kick to the groin is an official rejection, by the way!"

A fist slammed against the door, making Stiles jump, but then Manders yelled as if he'd been stung. Stiles' mom had built protection spells around the house as soon as she'd realised Stiles had the spark. Manders wasn't going to get in here now Stiles had activated the spell. Stiles was safe.

Only then did he realise he was still holding the pepper spray. Only then did he realise his hands were shaking.

"Stiles?" Derek was there in front of him, taking Stiles' hands in his own. "Stiles, are you OK?"

"What the hell do you think?" Stiles asked. He knew he shouldn't snap at Derek, but still he was mad and Derek was right there in front of him. Derek guided him back to the living room and helped him to sit.

The other alpha hovered nervously.

"I apologise," he said. "I entered your home without your permission."

"Given the circumstances, I don't give a damn about that," Stiles said. The other alpha gave a low growl. Stiles saw him looking at the collar and leash.

"He offered _that_ as a courtship gift?" he asked.

"As gifts go, I think I preferred the pepper spray." Stiles gave Derek a smile, "Thanks. Most useful gift I ever got."

"I've heard rumours about Manders," Derek said. "His pack is old, wealthy, and powerful. He's known for having a sense of entitlement the size of his ego. When I heard he was coming to court you, I thought it was better to be safe. I didn't think he'd actually attack you."

The other alpha went to the window and looked out. "He's leaving anyway."

Derek was crouched in front of Stiles, hands covering his, "Do you want anything? Do you want something to drink?"

Stiles shook his head, "No. No, I'm fine."

The other alpha was watching them closely. He took out a small box and set it down on the coffee table, giving a sad smile.

"It seems I came here too late," he said. "I wish you both the best of luck." He saw himself out. Stiles just sat there, watching him leave.

Stiles sat there for a moment, then said, "I never actually caught his name."

"And he backed off before you officially rejected him," Derek said. "Smart. That means he can come back if things don't work out between us."

"Smarter than trying to molest me with two other alphas within earshot."

"I'm ashamed on behalf of werewolves everywhere."

"For the molesting or the stupidity?"

"Both," Derek said. Stiles managed a little smile. He was feeling a bit better now. He hadn't been in any real danger and Derek's courtship gift was definitely helpful. Stiles gave Derek a suspicious look. Derek was still hovering about him like Stiles was some fragile thing that might break. Stiles wanted to be mad at him for that, wanted to yell that he wasn't like the stereotypes. He didn't need some big, powerful alpha to take charge of him for his own good. But the words stuck in his throat at the reality of today's events.

"You came to protect me," Stiles said. "You heard rumours about someone you didn't trust and you showed up on my doorstep with a weapon as a present."

"So?"

"If you keep this up, I might start thinking you care about me."

"You're an idiot," Derek said. Stiles wasn't sure if Derek was calling him an idiot for thinking he might care or implying that he didn't. He decided not to worry about it for now. He looked at the collar and leash, lying where they'd fallen.

"I should do something with that," Stiles said. "Does leather burn? Or maybe I should sell it. If I auctioned it off online, he might get the hint that I'm not interested." Those words brought an idea rushing in after them. Stiles sat up sharply.

"What's wrong?" Derek asked.

Stiles grinned, "I have an idea that a lot of people are going to hate."

"Is this an idea that's going to make people want to attack you?"

"Probably," Stiles said, but he didn't stop grinning.

* * *

Chapter 06

Almost every alpha who was courting Stiles accepted the invitation, as did a number of alphas Derek knew, invited so that there would be a buffer of non-jerks. The first group probably saw this as an opportunity to show off to the spark, while the latter group probably realised there was a scheme afoot. Stiles also invited a bunch of prominent human citizens of Beacon Hills, in the hope that the alphas present were less likely to murder him if there were lawyers and politicians and businessmen in the audience. His dad was there as well, out of uniform but still armed, just in case.

Stiles had rented a large hall, most of which was filled with small tables, each with a collection of chairs. The rest of the hall was taken up with the small stage with a podium and a projector so Stiles could display photos of the items. He stayed out of sight in a back room while the guests filed in. Scott and Derek turned up occasionally to tell him what was going on and how many people had arrived. Stiles tried not to have a panic attack over how insanely stupid this idea was. Derek had agreed with him that this was a ridiculous idea that was going to make a lot of people very angry, but then he'd helped with booking the hall anyway.

When the time came, Stiles walked out into a room full of people, mostly alpha werewolves, and climbed up on the stage. He stood behind the podium, fixed his eyes on Derek to remind himself that some of the people in this room were on his side, and cleared his throat.

"I want to thank you all for coming to this charity auction. Once I've covered the cost of the hall, all proceeds will be donated to a domestic violence charity. I think it's important to help people who feel trapped in relationships they don't want, where they feel powerless or unable to leave." He spoke for a couple of minutes more about the importance of supporting these victims, whether the abuse was physical, sexual or emotional. When he finished, there was polite applause. He didn't think anyone had understood yet.

He pulled up the slideshow and projected the first photograph.

"The first lot up for auction tonight is this watch, with a genuine silver band and with diamonds set into the face. Shall we start the bidding at five hundred dollars?"

Hands were raised from around the room, different alphas trying to prove that they had the money to throw around, and that they cared about a charity Stiles cared about. Only one alpha was staring at Stiles with anger, but that would change as more people recognised the lots that came up for bidding. Stiles awarded the item to the highest bidder and then switched to the next photo.

"The second lot is this silver and jewelled statue of... I don't know what." Stiles started the bidding, and the bids went back and forth a while before he sold the item for a few hundred dollars. He moved on. He ran through a few expensive items, generating a bit of bidding from his audience. Then he got to an interesting lot.

"Next up, we have this leather collar and leash, courtesy of Alpha Manders, because nothing says 'I will respect you as a person' like threatening to put someone on a leash. Any bids?"

The alphas were exchanging looks now. Whispers flowed through the room. Just about everyone had realised now that Stiles was selling his courtship gifts. Most of them were looking at Stiles with fury, but there were a few amused smirks, mostly from alphas who hadn't been trying to buy him.

"No takers for this fine object?" Stiles asked. "I mean, just because I think it's incredibly insulting, and enough to earn Alpha Manders the number one spot on my list of alphas I'll never in a million years bond with – sorry, Alpha Coley, you've been knocked down to number two – doesn't mean someone else won't have a use for it."

A hand was raised at the back and voice said, "One dollar."

Stiles slammed down his gavel, "Sold for one dollar to the guy in the back with the sunglasses."

Stiles moved on, having fun now, despite the terror at what some of these people probably wished they could do to him. He was pretty certain they'd got the hint now that he wasn't going to be bought with flashy gifts. Now most of the bidding was done by the people who hadn't been courting him, and the amounts weren't getting nearly so high. These people were probably getting bargains, but Stiles pressed on, smiling slightly giddily as he ploughed through the items. Was it possible to get high on adrenaline? He wasn't auctioning every item he'd ever been given, but he was getting rid of the vast majority of them.

Whenever he was made nervous by someone's glare, he glanced back at Derek, who looked more amused than Stiles had ever seen him. He wrapped up the bidding on a set of unused golf clubs and then grinned round at his furious audience, "That's all, folks. I'd like to thank you all for your generous bids and for your generous donations. This wouldn't have been possible without you."

He jumped down from the stage, planning on making a quick exit, before he got lynched.

"Upstart brat," someone muttered, but another alpha stood up and got between them. This was an elderly Japanese lady, unfamiliar to Stiles, who approached him with a smile. A dark-haired girl stood at her side.

"I wanted to thank you," the lady said. "That was the most fun I've had in a long time." She offered a hand, "Satomi." When Stiles shook, she gestured at the girl beside her, "This is my spark, Kira."

Stiles shook with Kira as well. They must have been among Derek's invitees.

"Someone really offered you a collar and leash as a courtship gift?" Kira asked.

"Yep."

"Wow. That's... I thought the sack of potatoes was a weird one."

Stiles gave her a confused look. She just shrugged, presumably implying that she had no clue either.

Another alpha stormed up, glowering at Stiles, "You think you're so funny, but no decent alpha will want to deal with you after this humiliation."

"Well, very few of the ones who approached me were decent," Stiles said. "So long as the assholes stay away too, I'm happy."

Satomi smiled a little at that.

Alpha Wright approached Stiles before he could make it to the exit. She was smiling a little too.

"I noticed," she said, "that my gift was not up for auction."

"No, I liked your gift," Stiles said. "You actually gave me something I might want, which is surprisingly rare."

"So it would appear." It wasn't Alpha Wright that said that, but Alpha Ali, coming up from behind Stiles. Stiles greeted her with a smile and a nod.

"A very interesting event," she said.

"I'm glad some people appreciate my sense of humour. Now, if you excuse me, I should get out of here before someone decides to tear me limb from limb."

"Good job I got you this then," said a voice from behind him. Stiles jumped and turned to glare.

"Jeez, Derek, you're going to give me a heart attack," Stiles complained. Derek smirked and handed over a bag. "Did you seriously bring a courtship gift to the event where I was auctioning off courtship gifts?" He reached into the bag and pulled out a taser. "Awesome!"

"The voltage is designed for use on werewolves," Derek said. "Don't try and use it on a human or you might cause permanent damage."

"You'll just have to get me another one for dealing with human assholes then."

"Or I could take you home and make sure no one bothers you."

"That works too."

They left together, but not before Kira could give Stiles her number in case he wanted to talk about bonding or magic or even just weird gifts they'd been given during courtship. Stiles took it with a grin. He glanced round for his dad, and saw that he was doing fine. He was smirking with obvious enjoyment at a pair of angry alphas who were ranting at him, probably going on about how Stiles was too rebellious to even win a place in a decent pack. Stiles left him to it and let Derek lead him out to the Camaro.

"That was amazing!" Stiles said, once he was away from the hall of furious alphas and less likely to get torn to pieces and stomped on.

"One of these days you're going to annoy the wrong person."

"Yeah, but in the meantime I think they all got the hint."

"Yeah, I think you're going to get a break from courtship gifts for a while," Derek agreed. "Or if they do come, there might be a bit more thought behind them."

Derek adjusted his grip on the steering wheel and drove on towards Stiles' house. He seemed tense. Maybe all those alphas being in the same room as him and angry had been an issue for his instincts. Stiles decided it was politer not to say anything, so they drove on in silence.

When they reached the house, Derek pulled the car to a stop but made no move to get out.

"Well," said Stiles, undoing the seatbelt, "goodnight."

"I guess this is goodbye," said Derek.

"Huh? I mean, for now, I guess."

"You said you wanted help getting the other alphas to leave you alone. I think they'll leave you alone now. So there's no need to keep up the pretence."

Derek wasn't looking at Stiles. His hands hadn't left the steering wheel. He was just staring out at the road. Stiles hadn't thought about this. He hadn't considered that Derek might not keep stopping by after the auction. Now that he thought about it, he realised how much he'd miss Derek if that happened.

"I like you, Derek," Stiles said. "You're an asshole, but you're also a nice guy. I've enjoyed spending time with you and you've cared about my safety and you've never acted like I don't have a right to be a person."

Derek turned to look at him now, shock on his face and maybe something close to fear.

"Are you accepting me?" Derek asked.

"I... no. I don't know. I barely know you. I mean, I like what I know of you so far, but I can't just bond with you based on the fact you seem like a decent person and you have the body of a swimwear model. And I haven't even met your pack. What if I hate them all? If I bond with you, I'll be stuck with them as much as you. I'm sixteen! I'm not ready to swear my life away to one person. If I was a sixteen year old getting married people would think it was stupid and way too young, but that's basically what people are asking of me. I'm not ready."

"So don't decide," Derek said. "There's no time limit on courtship. We could just... date."

That answer was so obvious Stiles wondered how it was he hadn't seen it before. No one was holding a gun to his head and saying he had to pick someone right away. And if the other alphas backed off, then the pressure to choose someone would be somewhat diminished.

"I'd like that," Stiles said. "I'd like that a lot."


	93. (E) STARKER - Up for Anything by tuesday

Up for Anything  
tuesday

Summary:  
When it came to Tony Stark, Peter would take what he could get.

In which Peter believes he's just a rebound. (Not Endgame compliant.)

* * *

When it came to Tony Stark, Peter would take what he could get.

Sometimes, that was a lot. The first Spider-Man suit made by Tony was worth millions of dollars and priceless for the time and effort it represented. The second? Peter had no idea. He didn't think anyone did except for Tony himself. It was one of a kind, a nanotech marvel matched only by the Mark 50 Tony had made for his own personal use.

Sometimes, it wasn't as much as Peter would like. Tony encouraged him to use S.I. lab space in the city to work on his suit, get familiar with it, maybe make some _highly supervised_ changes, but Tony wasn't always around unless Peter scheduled supervision for some of those changes. Occasionally, Tony would check in on Peter when he was patrolling, but that was even rarer. Peter saw Tony more than most people, but it wasn't every day or even every week, necessarily. Tony was a busy man, and Peter was only one part of his life.

The point was, Peter would take it, whatever he could get. So after Tony's latest, very final, break-up with Pepper Potts, when Tony seemed like he might be interested in a brief rebound, no-strings, just two people who were attracted to each other having a good time, yes, Peter went for it. Of course he went for it. He would take what he could get, even when what he could get was something meaningless and physical.

"Oh, this is a bad idea," Tony said, but he was kissing Peter as he said it, kiss after fervent kiss, hands against Peter's waist, pulling Peter firmly against him.

"It's a great idea. Best idea I've had all day." Peter swiped away the tools behind him to clear room on the workbench. There was a clatter as most of them landed on the floor.

"I just saw your plans for putting web shooters on the waldoes. Trust me, the bar is not set that high."

Whatever. Peter's idea was great. Tony was probably mad he hadn't thought of it first. Peter's professional outrage was greatly dampened by his personal need to pull off every piece of Tony's clothes. Tony was on board with this plan, at least, shrugging off his blazer and abandoning it on the lab's concrete floor. Peter followed it with his own shirt.

Tony paused to stare. Peter might have felt self-conscious if not for how awed, how reverent, Tony looked. Tony reached a hand out and traced the line of Peter's sternum, dipping down to his abs. He ducked his head forward and pressed a kiss right over Peter's heart. It was killing Peter how gentle Tony was being. Peter got his hands under the hem of Tony's shirt.

"Your turn," Peter said pointedly.

Tony obediently stripped his shirt, too, and then his pants when Peter fumbled at those, until they were both naked in the lab, and Tony belatedly ordered, "F.R.I.D.A.Y., lock it down. No one is allowed access until Peter or I give the order."

"Are the security cameras recording?" Peter asked, but the thought wasn't enough to stop him from kneeling down in front of Tony and pressing a kiss to his hip.

"Do you want them to be?" Tony asked. "Because I can tell F.R.I.D.A.Y. to turn them off, but either way, this is one of my personal labs. No one else can access the feeds."

"If there's a recording, then I get a copy," Peter said. Then his mouth was too full to say anything else.

"That's fair." There was a note of strain to Tony's voice. His hands migrated into Peter's hair. "That's very fair. Just don't sell it. Or if you do, hold out for at least a mil. It's been awhile since my last sex tape leaked. Not since I became Iron Man. Pretty sure the price went up."

Peter pulled off to say, "I'm not selling our sex tape."

"Personal use only, huh?" Tony's eyes were soft. He stroked at Peter's hair. "Not that I don't appreciate seeing you kneeling at my feet, and I definitely liked what you were doing—pretty sure you could feel how much I liked that—but you did just knock a bunch of expensive tools to the floor. I assume it was for a purpose. Did you want to have sex on the workbench?"

Yes, Peter wanted to have sex on the workbench.

They had sex on the workbench, Tony digging up lubricant that was safe for human use. There weren't any condoms, and maybe it was stupid, but Peter said, "_Please_," pouring every bit of the desperation and longing and need he felt into his voice when Tony hesitated.

"Bad, bad idea," Tony said, but he kissed Peter again anyway, not letting his obvious doubts stop him. He opened Peter up and then fucked him, barebacked and irresponsible and almost everything Peter had ever wanted.

"I can't believe—" Tony said, then, "How are you so—?" then, "Oh, kid, you're amazing. I could do this forever."

Peter felt full, overwhelmed. Not just the sex. His chest—his heart—was filled to bursting with everything he was feeling. His eyes welled up, but Tony had his own closed, so that was okay. No one could see Peter blinking back tears as Tony buried his face in Peter's neck and gave it to him, gave everything he could, everything he was capable of right now. It wasn't quite everything Peter wanted from him, but it was a lot. It was more than enough. Peter would take it all.

"Mr. Stark, I—" Peter cut himself off, took that emotional declaration and buried it six feet deep.

Tony stiffened his whole body over, and for an instant, Peter thought Tony had caught it in Peter's voice, was about to let Peter down gently in the middle of the fucking of his life, but what Tony said was, "I guess that's a thing. Learn something new every day. Say it again."

"Mr. Stark?"

Tony groaned. "All this time, I've been trying to get you to call me by my first name, and—fuck. Keep calling me that."

"Mr. Stark," Peter repeated and was rewarded with another thrust. "Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark."

Peter clutched at Tony's back, babbling his name, as Tony went harder, as Tony sucked at the side of his neck, as Tony wrapped a hand around Peter and brought him off in rhythm with Tony's thrusting hips. Peter held on until he couldn't anymore, orgasm washing over him and sweeping him away with it.

Tony didn't last much longer, rhythm dropping, erratic, fumbling and clumsy at the end. He collapsed on Peter after. His chest was heaving. His face was red. He was sweaty and disheveled and ridiculously attractive.

"Just so you know," Tony said breathlessly, "I'm not changing my mind about the waldoes."

"I almost don't care anymore," Peter said. He looked up at the ceiling and the bright lab lights. "Pretty sure I could be persuaded not to care at all."

"Are you telling me," Tony asked, eyes gone sharp with interest as he pushed himself upright, "that you can already go again?"

Peter smiled, lopsided, unaccountably shy. "Maybe. Want to see?"

"Yes. Yes, I do."

And Tony did. Two more times.

"We're going to explore this properly later," Tony said some time later, zipping up his pants, "but I really do need to get back to work." He ducked his head to peck Peter on the corner of his mouth. "This was fun. Let's do it again tomorrow."

"In the lab?" Peter asked.

"If that's what you want." Tony grabbed his shirt. "Or we could grab dinner, then go back to mine."

It sounded like a date. Peter wanted it to be a date.

"We never got the chance to go over the rest of your proposed changes." Tony's expression was too casual to be asking Peter on a date. He didn't look like he cared at all as he said, "Or not. You could always shoot me an e-mail."

"Dinner sounds good." Peter smiled weakly. "What time?"

"I'll let you know. Maybe F.R.I.D.A.Y. will. Someone will let you know. I'm pretty booked. I'll have to move some stuff around." Tony shrugged on his blazer and patted down his hair. He put on a pair of purple aviator glasses. On his end, now that he'd had a chance to catch his breath, it looked like nothing much had happened, like maybe he'd just taken the stairs too fast. "There's a private bathroom on this floor if you want to clean up some more."

He kissed Peter one last time. "F.R.I.D.A.Y., if you could get the door? Lock it behind me until Peter's done here."

Tony walked out. He didn't look back.

If he had, he'd have seen Peter, who was sitting on the workbench next to a cloth Tony had unearthed from somewhere. Peter, who was naked and sweaty and sticking to the workbench's metal surface, hair a bird's nest. Peter, who had traces of Tony's come on his thighs and in his ass. Peter, who buried his shaky smile in his hands and, brimming over with emotion, tried his best not to cry.

This was what he'd wanted. This was still what he wanted. He'd take what he could get. It was better than nothing. It was more than he thought he'd ever have the chance at getting at all.

Peter let himself be a mess for a full five minutes. Then he straightened, wiped at his face, and pulled on his clothes. He pulled himself together. He went home, because a sink bath sounded far less appealing than an actual shower.

Peter got a call from Tony, who said, "Did you want a ride?"

"Is this a metaphor?"

Tony paused. "It could be. Actually, yes, it's a metaphor now. I'm taking one of the self-driving cars. I'll remember the condoms this time."

Tony greeted Peter with a kiss outside his building. "You look nice."

Peter had thrown on a suit even though he knew it wasn't a date. Maybe Tony would want to eat somewhere nice. Peter knew Tony could get them in anywhere no matter what he wore, but he didn't want to be underdressed. Turned out he should've been worried about being overdressed, because Tony was in jeans, a t-shirt, and a leather jacket.

"Did you still want a ride?" Tony asked.

"Very much," Peter said. He hooked his fingers in Tony's belt loops. "Still up for giving me one?"

"Oh, I am definitely up for it." Tony glanced over Peter's shoulder, back at the apartment building. "Question is: do you want that ride on the way to the restaurant—or before it?"

"On the way." Peter pressed a kiss just under Tony's ear. "I'm starving."

They sat in the back, seatbelts off, Tony's jeans around his ankles as Peter rode him most of the trip over. Peter had taken off his suit jacket, but Tony had pulled him forward by the tie and said, "Leave the rest on. You look nice. I want to appreciate it properly."

It was awkward. Peter's dress pants were going to be hopelessly wrinkled. Peter sat with his back to Tony's chest as Tony rocked up into him. Peter braced himself against the ceiling and the window as he pushed back.

Tony had an arm wrapped around Peter's waist. He worked Peter over thoroughly, methodically, as he said, "That's it. You're so, you're so good at this. You take it so well."

"Mr. Stark," Peter said. "Please, I—I—"

"Shh, I've got you," Tony said. He pressed a kiss gentle, gentle, against the side of Peter's neck, nosing at his hairline. "I've got you." Almost brokenly, "You're _so good_."

Peter came all over his dress shirt.

Peter ended up shedding the dress shirt and trading jackets with Tony. Tony drew the dress jacket on over his t-shirt, and Peter pulled the leather over his undershirt.

"And you were worried you'd be overdressed." Tony's eyes were dark as he looked Peter up and down. "I like you in leather. You should wear my clothes more often."

"It's not enough I wear something you designed every time I go out as Spider-Man?" Peter asked as he uselessly tried to smooth the wrinkles in his pants.

"Oh, that's nice, but it's really not the same." Tony fixed the collar of the jacket. They got out of the car, and Tony leaned over on the walk in, said in a low murmur, "When we're done with dinner, I'm going to strip you down to just that jacket and fuck you in it." He pulled back, smile slight, casual, like they were discussing the weather. "If you're amenable."

"If I—yeah. _Yes_." Peter tripped on the curb, and Tony reached out, steadied him with a hand at his hip and another at his back. "I am—I am very amenable."

"Careful," Tony said.

But with Tony's hands on his body, Tony's promises echoing in his ears, Peter was finding it difficult to be careful. He was finding it impossible to guard his heart. Tony had been right the first time. This was a bad idea.

Peter was going to see it through to its inevitable messy ending and enjoy every second along the way.

They sat in a booth next to the main bar, all the way at the back. Tony crowded in after Peter instead of sitting across from him. They ordered burgers, and Tony got a beer, something the attached brewery produced. They talked about Peter's proposed changes to the suit that had fallen by the wayside yesterday in favor of the best sex of Peter's life.

Partway through the meal, Tony shrugged off Peter's jacket and said, "It's hot in here. Don't you think it's hot in here? Hold this for me, would you?"

Tony shoved the jacket into Peter's lap, then followed that up with his left hand, snaking under the fabric to rub Peter through the thin wool of his dress pants. With his right, he picked up a fry and took a bite.

"What—?" Peter's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. In a desperate whisper, he asked, "What are you doing?"

Tony's smile had teeth. "Eating dinner. Now, tell me more about the new web formula."

"I—" Peter's hands were clenched in the jacket, pulling it out of shape. "Mr. Stark, I—"

Tony paused in easing down the zipper of Peter's pants. "Only if you want to."

Peter couldn't help the hysterical note to his laugh. "You know me, sir." Tony's face did a thing at that "sir," something dark and hungry passing over it before it went blank. "I'm up for anything."

"I do know you," Tony said as he opened up Peter's pants and picked up another fry. "What I don't know is what makes this new formula superior to what you're already using."

"First of all, I don't—" Peter swallowed as Tony got a hand around him, started slowly stroking. "I don't know that I would say superior. Different, definitely."

"So why the change?" Tony's upper body was still, relaxed. His upper arm barely moved. If Peter hadn't personally felt Tony rubbing his palm over the head of his dick, collecting the pre-come and spreading it around, Peter would have sworn he wasn't moving at all.

"It degrades faster," Peter explained. "It's better for swinging, won't leave as much of a, of a mess." His voice went high on the word "mess." Tony's grip was tighter as he returned to jerking Peter off, the strokes faster. "I thought it would make it easier to clean up."

"You're so thoughtful," Tony said softly. His smile was sweet. "And so smart. The original formula was brilliant, but the variations you've come up with have been inspired." Tony twisted his wrist with the next down-stroke. "Very versatile."

"I, ah, I like being flexible." Peter was dying. This was heaven; it was hell. Tony was absolutely without mercy.

"I like you being flexible, too," Tony said. "Later tonight, I think I'm going to like it very, very much."

Tony asked some more questions about the new formula. Peter answered them as best he could when almost the entirety of his concentration was taken up by keeping his hips still, trying not to buck up into Tony's hand. Every word spoken was on automatic. Pleasure curled tight in his gut, and Peter clapped a hand over his mouth as he tried desperately to hold back a moan. Tony took a break from jerking him off to play with his balls.

The bar area was dark. They were seated in the corner. Peter didn't think anyone could see the flush heating his face, the sweat prickling on his skin and gathering at his temples, the way he clenched his hands into fists when Tony returned his hand to Peter's dick. Tony cleared his plate, but Peter hadn't been able to take another bite.

"I should take you to dinner more often," Tony said. "Scintillating conversation, intellectual stimulation—" Something was being stimulated, all right. "—a handsome face I could spend all night staring at. What's not to love?"

At the word "love," Peter couldn't stifle a helpless whimper. Tony leaned over and pressed his lips to Peter's cheek. He moved his mouth to Peter's ear, lips brushing against it with every syllable spoken. His breath was warm. The first puff of air caused every hair on Peter's body to stand on end.

"You look amazing like this, trying to hold back. I'd have you like this every night if I could. Would you like that, Peter? Kept right on the edge, no one else knowing what I'm doing to you? I can't believe how wet you're getting, pre-come leaking all over my hand. Pretty sure you've wrecked your jacket." Tony swiped his tongue across the cartilage of Peter's ear. "I'm going to take you home and I'm going to wreck _you_."

The server came up to check on them, and Tony abruptly stopped. Peter bit his lip and tried to look like someone who hadn't been a few more strokes or a few more words from coming all over his dress jacket and pants in public.

"I'll take the bill." Tony's face showed nothing of what they'd been doing. "He'll take a box."

"Be right back," the server said.

Tony tucked Peter back in. He wiped his hand on one of the disposable napkins. His smile turned into a full-fledged grin. "Yeah, it's definitely hot in here. I'll let you hold onto that jacket."

"Thanks," Peter said through gritted teeth.

"You're welcome." Tony put his arm up on the back of the booth, practically around Peter's shoulders. "How long do you think she'll be with that box?"

"So how flexible are you?" Tony asked. They were in his penthouse, and Tony had made good on the promise to strip Peter to just the leather jacket, but he hadn't pushed it further than that yet.

"Super flexible," Peter said. "Literally. It's one of my superpowers."

Tony's expression was speculative. "Flexible enough to suck your own dick?"

Peter's cheeks burned. "I, ah, I haven't ever tried?"

"You're telling me that you've had enhanced flexibility since you were fourteen years old and you never once tried it, just to see if it was possible?" Tony's tone was disbelieving.

"I kind of had other concerns." In hindsight, Peter couldn't believe he hadn't tried it, either.

"Right. Let's fix that. Get on the bed. Left side." Peter got on the bed, and Tony padded up alongside it. He put a hand to Peter's back, right between his shoulder blades. "Lean forward."

Peter leaned forward. He got close. He was hard and getting harder, dick brushing against his chin. He could probably make it on his own, but he stopped moving, mind blank, feeling the stretch of his muscles, the leather around his upper body, Tony's hand pressing lightly against his back. From up close, he could see pre-come bead up as he reacted to the moist heat of his own breath.

"Peter." Tony's voice was low, rough. "Lick."

Peter licked at the head of his own dick, and it was—it was—

Peter moaned helplessly, and Tony increased the pressure of his hand, helped Peter go down a little further.

"Suck it," Tony said.

Peter opened his mouth as Tony pushed him down, then closed it around himself. He sucked.

"You're amazing," Tony said. "Tap out if you want to stop." His hand pushed down, down, and Peter took himself further into his mouth, hitting the back of his throat. "Fuck, that's so—"

Tony withdrew his hand, but Peter found it wasn't that much of a stretch after all. He thought, darkly amused, _At least when it's all over, you'll still have this. The knowledge that yes, you can blow yourself._ Tony was always teaching him something new, but never like this.

"Think you could do that while I fuck you?" Tony asked.

Peter pulled off. "I—how would that even work?"

"Standing's probably easiest." Tony took a step back. His smile was inviting. "What do you say?"

Peter swung his legs into the space Tony had opened up. Peter repeated himself from dinner. "You know me, sir." Peter was watching for it this time, caught the flash of lust at that word. "Still up for anything."

"You are, aren't you?" Tony pulled him up and into a kiss. "I'll try not to take advantage."

"Oh, no." Peter's smile was wide, fierce. "Please take advantage of me, sir."

"Okay," Tony stroked Peter's cheek, "now I'm not sure who is taking advantage of whom."

"Maybe it's mutual." Peter certainly felt like he was getting more out of this than Tony had signed up for.

Tony's kiss was gentle. "Kid, it is definitely mutual."

Then he bent Peter over and fucked him while Peter sucked his own dick.

"Did you want to spend the night?" Tony asked much, much later, having also made good on his promise to explore Peter's shortened refractory period. Hope that this could be something more than just sex had barely started to sink its teeth in when Tony added, "Maybe we could get a quickie in in the morning. I have an eight o'clock meeting, but I can set the alarm earlier."

"Yeah." Peter buried his face in Tony's shoulder so Tony couldn't see his expression; so Peter wouldn't have to look at him. "That sounds nice."

"We don't have to," Tony said. He rubbed Peter's back. "You could just spend the night, sleep in. I could have F.R.I.D.A.Y. wake you whenever you need."

"I want to," Peter said. It was true. Peter wanted everything Tony could give him. It was just a sad fact of life that he wanted more than Tony could give him, too.

"Okay. Hear that, F.R.I.D.A.Y.? Wake me twenty—no, thirty minutes early." Tony's voice was soft, satisfied. He pressed a kiss to the top of Peter's head. His breathing slowed, deepened.

Face pressed to Tony's shoulder, Peter stayed awake for a long, long time.

In the morning, Tony kissed Peter over and over again, long, slow, lazy.

"Don't you have a meeting?" Peter asked.

"F.R.I.D.A.Y., cancel my eight o'clock." Tony rolled his hips against Peter's, but there was no sense of urgency. "And my nine o'clock. Whatever's on the docket for the day. Cancel it."

"You have a lunch meeting with Ms. Potts."

"Then cancel whatever's before that."

Peter had felt warm, sleepy, something like content. Waking up to Tony's body cuddled against his own had felt like a dream. Now, he was hit with a shock of cold, like he was in the shower and all the hot water had cut off. The intrusion of reality was sudden, unwelcome.

"You should go to your meeting." Peter nudged gently at Tony.

Tony moved so Peter could sit up, but he was frowning. "It's not that important."

"You have already rescheduled this meeting twice," F.R.I.D.A.Y. informed Tony.

"See? It can't be that important." Tony traced the line of Peter's collarbone.

"It's with a representative of the National Aeronautics and Space Administration."

"Okay, it's fairly important," Tony admitted. "But it can wait."

"Go to your meeting," Peter said. "I have class in a couple hours anyway."

"We've got ten more minutes." Tony kissed Peter's jaw. "And I can be late. People expect that of me. They factor it in. I'd hate to disappoint them."

"Ten minutes, huh?" Maybe it was petty and immature, a sign of his age, but Peter had an immediate and overwhelming impulse that he turned into a plan of action. He shifted them so Tony was under him and pressed him to the mattress. He'd avoided leaving marks before, but this time he put his mouth to Tony's neck, well above his collar, and sucked. Hard.

"At least." Tony put his hand in Peter's hair, but didn't pull him away. "You know I don't heal as fast as you? That's going to leave a mark."

"I know." Peter started another one just below it.

"Just so we're on the same page here." Tony groaned. "If you want, you can use your teeth."

Peter wanted. Peter wanted so, so much.

(Tony was an hour late to his meeting.)

Peter didn't hear from Tony that evening. That was fine. Peter knew what he was getting into, had already gotten more than he'd expected. And his life had never revolved around Tony Stark.

Peter had college classes, patrol, his own personal lab time. He had his longtime friendship with Ned Leeds, his casual friendships with his classmates, and his close relationship with his Aunt May. Peter had a life. Tony had always been an important part of it, but not a significant percentage of his everyday hours.

That wasn't going to change just because Tony was fucking him now.

Tony called the next day between classes. "What are you doing tonight?"

_You, please,_ Peter thought, but kept it to himself.

"I have a study group dinner at 4:30, but I'm free after that," Peter said.

"Hm. Dinner's out, then, but did you want to come over anyway?"

"I'd love to."

"I'll see you, what, at seven?" Tony sounded distracted. Peter could hear the slap of his patent leather soles against stone flooring. "Later? Earlier?"

"Better make it eight." Peter ran his hand along the strap of his backpack, tried to keep himself grounded. "We have midterms coming up, and it'll take me time to get there."

"Okay, honey. See you then."

Peter closed his eyes. He'd heard Tony say the _exact same thing_ to Pepper any number of times. Throat tight, Peter confirmed, "See you then."

Peter fixed his hair in the reflection of the elevator's metal doors. He felt like he was fifteen again, sweaty-palmed and excited, about to watch the big game with Mr. Stark. He remembered how that had turned out, a party he'd missed most of and which Tony hadn't even bothered showing up to. Peter knew better. _He knew better_. He was at a nine, all nervy anticipation, and he needed to be at a two, three at the most. He needed to temper his expectations.

The elevator doors opened on Tony's beaming face. He pulled Peter into a kiss, open-mouthed and energetic.

"I have been looking forward to this all day," Tony said, going straight for Peter's belt.

Peter dropped his backpack and clenched his fists in the back of Tony's shirt, immediately on board and along for the ride.

They always said the best way to get over someone was to get under someone else. Tony was making a good attempt at getting over Pepper with Peter. As for Peter? He'd worry about that when he got there.

The problem was that it was easy to pretend, and his stupid, lust-fogged brain made it easy to get confused, to take Tony's sweet nothings at face value instead of as the automatic patter of someone who had picked up on Peter's praise kink early on and had decided to go all in on compliments.

"I'm the luckiest man in the world," Tony said as he pushed into Peter, who was on his hands and knees in the center of Tony's bed. "Smart, sweet, funny, sexy—you're the whole package. All that and superpowers? It's not fair. No one else could compete." He nipped at the shell of Peter's ear. "I don't know why I ever worried about this, when you're the one who's ruined me for all others."

"Too much," Peter said. It wasn't believable. "Dial it back."

Tony kissed where he'd bitten. "Okay. Whatever you want." His hands were light at Peter's hips. He was moving slow, _slow_, killing Peter as he slowed it down even more. "Talk to me. Tell me how you want it."

"Don't be so nice to me," Peter said.

"Is this your way of saying go harder?" Tony's hands tightened. "Or that you're up for something a bit rougher?"

"I'm up for anything," Peter said. Anything but letting himself fall impossibly further in love with Tony. He was doing that, but that was something he was trying to hold back from, not dive into feet-first.

"Getting mixed signals here," Tony muttered to himself, but then he was going harder, faster. "Like that?"

Peter nodded. He said, "You can go harder."

"Oh, can I?" Tony's fingers dug bruises into Peter's hips. The bed shook with the weight of their bodies. Tony went harder. The slap of their flesh together echoed. "That," Tony's breath came in short bursts between his words, "hard enough for you, kid?"

"_Ah_, yes, sir," Peter managed to get out. Tony made a sound, wordless and wanting, and Peter said, "Please, sir. Please, Mr. Stark."

"Ruined me," Tony gasped out, and it was almost believable.

Almost. Peter knew better.

That kind of set the tone.

"So when you said you wanted me to … not be nice to you," Tony said later, tracing the fading marks from his fingers on Peter's hips, "what, exactly, does that entail?"

"What do you want it to?" Peter asked. Tony's chest made a nice pillow. It was early yet, but Peter was tempted to drift off, let go of his worries for a while yet and hope for more dreamless sleep.

"I asked you first."

Peter hummed. "Whatever you'd like it to."

"That's cheating." Tony brought a hand up, ran his fingers through Peter's hair. "I just want to make you happy."

"I'm happy," Peter said. It wasn't a lie. He was feeling a lot of things. Happy was one of them.

"How about we play it by ear?"

"Sounds good to me." That was Peter's plan for being the rebound. The song would play out soon enough, but he was willing to improvise along the way.

They weren't dating, but they'd been—seeing each other? Involved? Having passionate and improbably hot sex? Whatever they'd been doing, they'd been doing it for a few weeks when Tony called Saturday morning and said, "I know I said I wanted to see you this weekend, but I'm stuck at the office today. I have maybe thirty minutes for lunch, but that's it. We're acquiring another company, and I _thought_," his voice dropped, annoyed, "everything was handled, but apparently everyone actually needs hand holding, and Pepper's on vacation, so she can't do it. I'm sorry, but I don't think I'll make it out of the building without something going up in flames."

"Then why don't I come over there?" Peter asked. "I can bring sandwiches. We can have lunch at your office."

"Are you sure?" Tony asked. Peter wondered if this was Tony's way of saying not to come, but he continued, "Did you want me to put in an order anywhere? It can be whatever you want. Wherever you want it from."

"I'll just get the sandwiches," Peter said. "My treat. What do you want on yours?"

Peter showed up at Tony's office with pastrami on rye. Tony had a new assistant, an old battle axe of a woman who waved him past with a bored expression. Peter locked the door behind him. Tony glanced up from his computer screen with an expression of relief.

"Peter! It's so nice to see you, not least because you're not Legal for the fifth time this morning."

"It's afternoon now," Peter said.

"Time has ceased to hold meaning for me." Tony stood and stretched. Peter came around the desk with the brown paper bag, and Tony leaned in for a quick kiss. "Put it on the desk. Let me grab one of the visitor's chairs. Tell me how your day's going."

"Actually." Peter caught Tony's wrist in one hand. He put the bag of sandwiches on the desk. "I was thinking you could eat while you work, after I'm gone."

Tony raised his eyebrows. "Oh, really? And what would we be doing instead of eating?"

"I don't know what you would be doing." Peter gently pushed Tony back into his chair. "Maybe you could get a little more work done."

"And you?" Tony was smiling. His eyes were already darkening. It was obvious he knew exactly where this was headed.

"I'll be having lunch." Peter knelt on the thin carpet of Tony's office floor at Tony's feet. Tony spread his knees. Peter took up the space between them.

"No sandwiches for you?" Tony asked.

"Didn't sound appealing," Peter said. He put his hands on Tony's thighs.

"Never let it be said I'd have you go without." Tony reached down and undid his belt. He unzipped his pants, then popped the button. Tony licked his lips as he drew himself out. "Well? What are you waiting for? Bon appetit."

Peter went for it, taking Tony in his mouth until he hit the back of Peter's throat. Peter relaxed his throat and took Tony down further. Part of him, as always, was unable to believe this was happening, that he really was allowed to touch Tony like this. The rest of him was anchored in the moment, enjoying the feeling of Tony rocking up into him, the sting of it as Tony pulled his hair.

"You're so good at this," Tony said. "Fuck, it's like you were made for it. How are you this good at everything? You have to have some sort of weak point, but you'd never think it to look at you. You're perfect."

Peter's face burned as Tony used his hair like handholds. He couldn't tell Tony to stop being nice to him this time, because his mouth was full, and Tony wasn't bothering to be gentle about it, treating Peter's mouth like a glorified fleshlight.

"I thought today was going to be awful—today _has_ been awful—but then you showed up, and you're like—you're like a ray of sunshine, every time. You're the thrill of discovery and the joy of tinkering and—and—you're just every good thing, rolled into one glorious human being I'm lucky enough to know, much less—"

Peter hummed, and Tony cut off with a choking sound. Peter made a choking noise of his own as Tony's next thrust was harder than he'd expected.

"I adore you," Tony said, and Peter knew it didn't mean anything, knew people would say anything in the middle of sex, but he felt the warmth of it from head to toe, suffusing him with a heat that had nothing to do with lust. "I, ah, I—_Peter_. Oh, kid."

Tony came down Peter's throat with a sigh. His tight grip on Peter's hair loosened. He petted at the back of Peter's head as Peter drew back.

"How was that?" Tony asked.

"Better than pastrami," Peter said, voice rough. He wiped at his face with the back of his sleeve, cleaning up where he'd drooled down his chin.

"Get up here." Tony grabbed at Peter's shirt, and Peter followed the pull right into Tony's lap, meeting Tony's mouth with his own. Peter's jaw ached. His lips felt hot and swollen. Tony kissed it better. He kissed every inch of Peter's face. "This is the best lunch break of my life."

There was a knock at the door.

"Mr. Stark? It's Legal again."

"Kind of busy!" Tony called back.

"It's important."

"They say that every time!"

"It's true every time."

"That is true," Tony said to Peter. He looked regretful. "I'll make it up to you?"

Peter kissed Tony one last time. "Talk to Legal. Eat your lunch. It's not like you haven't given me way more orgasms than I've given you."

"It's not a competition," Tony said.

"Isn't it?" Peter asked with a grin.

"Then am I winning or losing?"

"Mr. Stark?" The person at the door knocked again.

"I'll see you tomorrow," Peter said. He stood.

"Or you could let yourself into the penthouse, and I could see you tonight whenever I finally get this mess sorted."

"I don't have a key."

"Take mine. It's in the jacket by the door." Tony was looking down, zipping himself back in. It was a good thing. He couldn't see the expression on Peter's face in the instant before Peter got it back under control.

"I—yeah, okay." Peter took the key.

He got looks from both the person at the door and the battle axe of an assistant, but he didn't care. Everything he'd been doing was written all over his face and the wreck of his hair, but he'd wear it all as a badge of pride. He didn't feel any shame over it.

He was happy. _He was happy_.

And if sometimes he was unbearably sad, too, well, it balanced.

Another couple weeks passed. Peter couldn't help wondering when the other shoe would drop, when Tony would be ready to move on. He'd thought he'd kept it to himself pretty well, but in the middle of another sleepless sleepover, Tony confronted him about it, padding into the kitchen where Peter was helping himself to herbal tea to see if it would help him sleep. Tony took over, making enough for both of them.

Tony stood at the breakfast bar, turning his mug of tea around and around. Peter sipped at his own.

"You're not happy." The words were abrupt. Tony looked upset himself. "What can I do? Tell me, and I'll do it. I know it's not the Iron Man thing. You love the Iron Man thing, and that's the one thing, the only thing, I've never been able to give up. Whatever else it is, whatever it is I'm doing wrong, I can fix it. Let me fix it."

"It's not something you did." Peter put his mug down.

"Then is it—is there anything I can do?"

"It's not you." Peter smiled mirthlessly that he had to say this. "It's me."

Tony's own laugh was harsh. He set his mug down next to Peter's. "If there's one thing I've learned over the years, it's that it's always me."

"Not this time," Peter said.

Tony leaned forward and pulled Peter into his arms. "Just. Please. If there's anything I can do to help, tell me."

"You're already doing everything you can," Peter reassured him.

Tony dropped a kiss on the top of Peter's head. "If all I can do is hold you, then I'm happy to do that, too."

"I know." Peter didn't tell Tony that actually that was making it worse. Instead, he nuzzled into Tony's shoulder, drank in the feeling of Tony's arms around his body, the sharp scent of his cologne, the way Tony cared, even if it wasn't enough, wasn't in quite the right way. He repeated, "I know."

Tony was more careful with Peter after that. He shepherded Peter back to bed and tucked him in. It was Friday night, and Tony said, "Stay the weekend. Whatever it is that's bothering you—take a break."

It wasn't a break to stay there, but Peter took it anyway.

When he woke up, Tony was more than happy to have sleepy morning sex with him, but he was sweet about it. He took Peter apart with whisper soft kisses, with hushed words spoken in a reverent tone, with hands that touched firmly, but gently.

Peter didn't think it would last forever—he didn't think any of this would last forever—but he thought the odd stalemate they'd entered would last a little longer than the weekend. Tony went to the kitchen to put together breakfast, and Peter took a shower. When he got out, he found Tony was seated at the kitchen table with a plate of steaming, untouched pancakes beside him. He had the feed pulled up from their first time together, hovering as a holographic above his tablet. He looked sick.

"You know, I thought maybe—I thought this was a good thing, that I could cheer you up the way you've always—I thought it was a good thing. I was going to make an actual tape, mix together shots from a few different angles, maybe add a soundtrack. And if you were feeling better before it was ready for its cinematic debut, I figured I could save it for our six month anniversary." Tony stabbed a finger at the paused image the holographic had pulled up. "I thought this was a good thing, what we have, but, Peter, you're crying in this. The very first time we—and I made you cry." He looked up. "Did you even want this? Did I—did I do something to make you think you needed to—" Tony looked horrible. He looked haunted.

"Tony, no. Of course I—" Peter reached a hand out, but Tony flinched, and Peter dropped it before it could connect. "Of course I wanted this. I've always wanted this."

"Then why were you crying?" Tony's voice was quiet. All his anger was directed inward. He looked like he was imploding. "And how _the hell_ did I not notice?"

Peter dropped into the seat beside Tony. Time to come clean, as awkward and as humiliating as it was to be saying this. "I'm in love with you."

"I'm aware," Tony said. "It's not going to get you out of this conversation to repeat an earlier one."

Tony _knew_? And—

"What do you mean, repeat an earlier one?"

"You know, 'it's mutual.' I mean, I knew before that. I wouldn't have started this if I hadn't been sure that it wasn't just a crush anymore." Tony rubbed at his eyes. "And you're successfully getting us off topic. You _cried_. And those don't look like happy tears."

"It's not off topic," Peter said, feeling distant from himself with the words "it's mutual." "It's—it's mutual?"

Tony looked up. The sad horror and the self-loathing that had been present were sliding away in favor of confusion that was slowly clearing. "Yes? I—yes. It's mutual. It's been mutual."

"But we haven't even—you weren't—we've barely—" Peter was finding it difficult to form whole sentences, stumbling over his words.

"Peter, what, exactly, do you think is going on here?"

"I'm your rebound," Peter said blankly.

"In the most technical sense, that's true." The confusion had cleared entirely. Some self-recrimination had returned, along with something darkly amused. "Yeah, we started dating after Pepper and I broke it off for the last time, but that was a long time coming, and it wasn't the first time we broke up. Just the first time neither of us were broken up about it."

"We're dating?" Peter asked. Something complicated passed across Tony's face, but was quickly shunted away.

"Yes, we're dating, though apparently I'm terrible at it if you have to ask." Tony stood up. He crowded into Peter's space. "You're not a rebound. At least, you're not just a rebound." He touched Peter's jaw with the tips of his fingers. "If it's not clear, I'm terribly in love with you. Have been for a while. It's just that finally I was single enough to act on it, and even then, you got there first. _I_ was going to wait a reasonably classy amount of time and then woo you—the whole nine yards, knock your socks off—but then you jumped me in the middle of lab time."

"You're in love with me?" Peter's voice wobbled. He was echoing Tony, but he couldn't help it, confused and filling up with hope, sharp-toothed and hungry.

"I knew it was my fault," Tony said and then he was kissing Peter, soft presses of his lips, the slightest hint of tongue. He carded his fingers through Peter's hair. "Yes, you idiot. I'm in love with you."

"You should be nicer to me," Peter said, feeling shaky, like he was at the end of a hard fight instead of in the middle of a dream come true. "We're dating."

"Honey, I will be whatever you want me to be." Tony pressed another kiss to the corner of Peter's mouth. "Just talk to me."

"Okay," Peter said. He buried his face in Tony's shoulder. "Okay."

Tony folded his arms around Peter. He held him while the pancakes grew cold.

"I love you so much," Peter whispered.

Rubbing Peter's back, not seeming to mind repeating himself, Tony said it back to him.

On their sixth month anniversary, Tony said, "What do you think about actually making a sex tape? Properly this time."

"You know me." Peter grinned at Tony and put down the tool he'd been holding. "I'm up for anything."

"Yeah." Tony's own smile was much softer. He picked up Peter's hand and kissed the back of it. "It's one of the many things I love about you."

When it came to Tony Stark, Peter would take what he could get. Fortunately for Peter, that was everything.


	94. (E) GERASKIER - Home is Nowhere, Therefo

home is nowhere, therefore you  
Ark

Summary:  
"Right, well," Jaskier says, when he halts before Geralt. Up close, he looks much more nervous. There is sweat on his brow and his collar is damp with it, and his teeth keep catching on his lower lip. "True love's kiss. There's—ah—there's nothing to it." And he bends, the utter imbecile, and kisses Geralt full on the mouth.

* * *

Chapter 01

All through the night, Jaskier plays on.

He plays every song he's ever written, and every song he knows, and songs that he makes up on the spot—Geralt can tell, though the bravado of the bard's performance wavers but a little.

He plays until the skin is flayed from his fingertips, and then, when he must put down his borrowed lute with shaking, bleeding hands, he sings until his voice breaks. He sings broken-voiced, rasping melodically, until the sun comes up. As the sun rises he is on his knees but still making music, beating out a rhythm on the underside of a golden bowl with his palms.

The cold-eyed fairy queen cannot say that Jaskier failed in his side of the compact. Geralt watches as at last she nods, and the pressure in his chest lessens. Fairies are bound to their word. Jaskier is free to leave this wretched hill. Jaskier is free.

"You are talented, for a human," says the queen. "Stay among us and you will live a thousand years."

Somehow, Jaskier makes it back to his feet. Somehow, he sweeps his courtliest of bows. "My lady, I am undeserving of such an honor. Only permit me to sing of your beauty when I return to the realms of men."

Sometimes, Jaskier isn't stupid. She smiles at that—the first smile they've seen from her throughout this unfortunate chain of events. "Very well." She slides a ruby ring worth a castle and a half from her long, slender finger. "Take this with my compliments and go, bard."

Jaskier does not move. It seems to Geralt that no one in the gold-hued fairy ballroom moves then. Geralt, who is lashed down by the most powerful magic he's ever encountered, does not have the luxury of moving.

Jaskier's eyes flick in his direction, and Geralt tries to blink with frantic urgency: _Go—go—go_, his eyelashes shout. Fairies may be bound to their word, but they are fickle, and hate to lose. Jaskier only has the slimmest window of opportunity to depart before some loophole in his bargain is called to light, and he, too, is trapped without hope of escape.

"Your pardon, gracious queen," Jaskier says. By the way he perspires, Geralt can tell that they're both fucked. If Geralt could groan, he'd groan. "I believe the agreement was that I might have the pick of your treasures to carry off, if I could please you with my little musics until dawn."

She narrows her eyes. Fuck. "Don't be a fool, boy. This ring will bring you fame and fortune beyond your wildest dreams."

"Be that—be that as it may," Jaskier says, and squares his shoulders, "I'm afraid I really have my heart quite set on—that." He points, his hand only a little unsteady, and indicates the low wooden footstool upon which Geralt is miserably crouched for the foreseeable future. Gasps from the watching, glittering court of riveted fairies.

"Impossible," snaps the queen, and now Geralt can see the anger in her eyes. "The Witcher knew the conditions when he so callously helped loose its former occupant. I grow tired of bartering with you both."

It's true that Geralt was warned of the price in advance. He and Jaskier had succeeded in helping the duke's son from captivity—in a twist of events, with the aid of the duke's son's fairy paramour—and seen the young couple flee to safety. All that quelled the queen's fury, and prevented her from bringing down the hill's tunnels on their heads, was Geralt's offer to take the prisoner's place, and Jaskier's to play until sunrise.

It's true that Geralt had known what would bind him, but somewhat less true that he knew just how formidable the magics would be. He's done a mental calculus, and altered his initial estimate of being able to break the spell of his own accord in a few months of concentration to several dozen years of concentration.

It's not, perhaps, his best or smartest decision, but he made it, and there's little use in grinding his teeth. There's no other way out for him, and he's borne far worse. All that he will be unable to bear is if Jaskier wastes his own chance to leave. So Geralt keeps blinking at him to go, to fucking just go already.

"Many apologies, madam," says Jaskier, bowing elaborately again, "but I really must insist upon the footstool. That is the treasure I ask of you."

The queen narrows her eyes and clenches her fist, and in the distance the ground rumbles as a tunnel hastens to collapse in on itself. She smiles through blindingly white teeth at Jaskier. Her teeth are pointed and sharp.

"As you wish. It cannot, of course, be taken while occupied. You are aware of how it binds. Try, if you like, but know that if you fail, the way back to the realm of men will be closed to your forever. Either way, our contract is void, for I never agreed to relinquish the Witcher."

Geralt cannot yell or properly thrash, but he strains against the magic hard enough that he succeeds in toppling over the footstool, and him upon it. He lands heavily on his shoulder, and is fast righted by a pair of fairy guards. Surely Jaskier, the fool, will register Geralt's rebuttal in this action. Surely even Jaskier will receive the message.

Jaskier looks back at the queen, and the message bounces right off of his thick skull. "I accept these terms," he says.

When he pivots toward Geralt, he should look more afraid than he does, Geralt thinks—Jaskier, the clod, is following his own dreamy bullshit into doom. Jaskier strides across the polished marble floor with a sure step. Every gaze in the fairy court is locked on him, while Geralt is trying to glare him into not being a confounded idiot. It doesn't work.

"Right, well," Jaskier says, when he halts before Geralt. Up close, he looks much more nervous. There is sweat on his brow and his collar is damp with it, and his teeth keep catching on his lower lip. "True love's kiss. There's—ah—there's nothing to it." And he bends, the utter imbecile, and kisses Geralt full on the mouth.

Heat surges through Geralt, steals his breath away. Warms magic-numbed limbs all at once. His hand, shocked into finding it has a free range of motion, shoots up and grasps Jaskier's doublet at the throat. Geralt yanks him closer. Jaskier's eyes go wide, but he goes. He puts his bloodied hands on Geralt's shoulders and slips his tongue into Geralt's mouth, the cheeky bastard, and Geralt closes his eyes because they're bathed in blinding white light. He hears fucking _bells_.

The light fades and the bells stop clanging, and Geralt stands up. Jaskier is red-cheeked, but makes a smart decision for once and falls back behind Geralt's shoulder as they turn to face the outraged queen.

"What sorcery is this?" she demands.

"Only your own," says Geralt shortly. "We'll be going now. Your majesty." The briefest glance back. "Jaskier."

"Fair lady, I will spread word of your beneficence far and wide—" Jaskier starts. The queen summons a noxious ball of red light and hurtles it toward them. Geralt knocks him sideways before it can hit. Jaskier makes a grab for the footstool, tucks it under his arm, turns to the stunned crowd and says, "Erm—thank you—you've been a most attentive audience—" and then they're headed for the tunnel passageway at a dead run.

"_Go!_" Geralt snarls at him, and this time, Jaskier actually listens, dashing ahead as Geralt turns to deal with the first of the guards sent after them. They're dispatched easily enough, but more of their fellows are poised for action, armed with bows and wicked little poisoned arrows.

Geralt traces the Sign of Quen in the air, and not a moment too soon—a rain of arrows bounces off of the protective barrier. It won't hold them off for long; he's as good as dead here at the mouth of the tunnel. With a final look back at the fairy court in uproar, he plunges into the darkness of the twisted passageway to the surface they'd traversed what feels like years ago. Knowing how time works in the realm of the fairy, it's all too possible that it has been years. Possibly centuries.

The path is steep, rocky, and uneven, and already he can hear the rumbling of the ground as it quakes under the queen's will. Geralt rounds a bend at speed and all but collides with Jaskier, who is waiting there instead of running, but he hasn't the breath to chastise him.

Together they scramble toward the distant light, dodging stalactites that fall like spears, and boulders that hurtle down at speed. The whole tunnel threatens to collapse, and sometimes does, with Geralt only just managing to get them another few feet with bursts from the Sign of Aard. He can't keep this up for long, though, the next rock-fall is sure to—

A torch suddenly blazes ahead, and the ground stills. The duke's son, wielding the torch, is gesturing at them wildly, while the fairy beside him has her hands braced to the wall of the tunnel, face contorted with effort.

"Hurry!" she calls. "I can't hold against her magic for long!"

They hurry. Staggering, panting, and with a worrying sort of wheeze from Jaskier, they all stumble free of the tunnel and out into the blessed open air just as the entire hill seems to convulse and fold in on itself. Where the entrance to the tunnel had stood is naught but green grass and a slope of pretty blue flowers bending in the wind.

Everyone sits down. Jaskier lies down. A good while later, the fairy says, "I'm sorry about my mother. She has a bit of a temper."

"A bit," allows Geralt.

"We were sure we'd seen the last of you," says the duke's son. "My darling insisted that we wait, and I'm glad of it. How did you escape?"

"Interesting story," says Jaskier. He's stretched out on the grass, eyes closed, hands folded on his breast. "Look for the ballad in two to three weeks' time. It'll be making the rounds at all of the best taverns."

"How can we thank you?" asks the duke's son.

"Pay him what you have," says the fairy, her pointed chin inclined toward Geralt. "Your father is not like to hold up any agreement he has with the Witcher, when you return with me in tow."

"Now, sweetheart, you know that isn't true—"

But they all know that it is true enough. Wordlessly the duke's son hands Geralt the heavy purse from his belt. The fairy goes to Jaskier's side, then kneels beside him. Jaskier struggles to sit up. She shakes her head.

"You must have been very brave," she says to him, and gently lays her hands over his. "I've seen few musicians succeed in playing until sunrise, fairy or no." While they watch, the ruined, still-bleeding mangle of Jaskier's fingertips knits slowly back together. The pain must have been agonizing, the healing yet more so, but Jaskier lies quiet and still until his hands are whole again.

"My thanks, gracious lady," Jaskier says, and this time the admiring words have no hollowness in them.

A smattering of farewells, and then the couple is walking to the main road, arm in arm. They do not look back.

Geralt and Jaskier sit in the grass. Jaskier mutilates a number of blue flowers, ripping petals off one by one, scattering them to the breeze.

At last, Jaskier says, "I could eat," and Geralt starts breathing again. The riot in his chest quiets. Momentarily.

"As could I," says Geralt.

"I could really, really drink," says Jaskier.

"As could I," says Geralt.

"Let's get away from this place," says Jaskier, "and not come back."

"Wisdom at last," says Geralt. But he's smiling a little to take the bite from the words. Not that Jaskier is looking at him.

They find Roach where they left her, and mollify her with carrots from the saddle-bag. Geralt swings onto her back. Then he holds out a hand, and lifts Jaskier up behind him. It's an easily-done maneuver they mastered years ago, have executed countless times. This is the only time that Jasker hesitates before his arm steals around Geralt to hold on. Under his other arm, the wooden footstool is tucked.

Roach carries them far away, fast as she's able.

They break for camp at sunset, setting up quietly. Jaskier collects kindling for the fire while Geralt rustles up some rabbits. Then Geralt cleans the rabbits while Jaskier clears the ground and lays the stones for a fire-pit. Then Geralt lays the logs and kindling and starts the fire while Jaskier dresses the rabbits with herbs and digs out the liquor.

They've done this so often that it's like a dance, each taking their parts without complaint. Jaskier used to complain, about tasks that got dirt under his nails, or guts on his best jacket, but that was a long time ago. Neither of them say anything until the meat is well-roasted, and then speech is in regards to logistics:

"Please pass over the salt-bag," says Jaskier.

"Here," says Geralt.

"More vodka?" asks Jaskier.

"Yes," says Geralt.

They're both cradling their second tin cup of spirits when Jaskier lifts something from behind him into the flickering light. He turns the footstool from side to side. "Think it will burn?"

"It's wood," says Geralt.

"Good," says Jaskier. He pitches it into the fire, which crackles with welcome. They watch as the flames slowly crawl over the stool's intricate carvings, then catch.

Geralt clears his throat. This has gone on long enough. He's a Witcher. He shouldn't be so hesitant on uneven ground. Uneven ground—uncertainty—is his forte. Perhaps it's the certainty that's hobbling him. "Listen, Jaskier—"

"Don't worry," Jaskier says. He drains his cup and reaches for the demijohn for a refill. "I'll be gone in the morning. Drink up, Geralt, and go to sleep, and soon enough this will all seem like an unfortunate dream."

Geralt feels it at first like a direct hit, hard enough to crush the air from his lungs. If he were standing, he'd have staggered sideways, or doubled up. He flinches from the bright flash of pain. It's raw, and terrible, and like nothing he's ever felt before—like nothing anyone expects him to be able to feel.

His first instinct is to close himself best he can, so long his default. What else did he expect, save that this would of course be rejected, called a mistake? _Unfortunate_. But he knows Jaskier well enough to hear the catch in his voice, and his eyes are quick enough to see something like agony flit across Jaskier's face before he masks it.

So Geralt blinks at him. "Why?"

"I never intended you to know," says Jaskier. "When people try and love you, you leave them behind. For their own safety, you say. I didn't want to be left behind, and I won't be. So I'll go of my own accord, thank you very much."

Geralt looks at the fire. The footstool is coming apart, burning merrily. He looks at the empty tin in his hand and sets it down. He looks at Jaskier. He blinks, again, because it's true enough, what Jaskier says, but that's only the half of it this time.

"But I had to try and free you, and I'm not sorry that it worked," Jaskier is saying. "Or else we'd still both be under that hill. And I hope you know I'm going to get a truly epic ballad from this. I know a crowd-pleaser when I'm mentally composing it, and—"

"Jaskier," says Geralt.

Jaskier waves his hand. "I'll change the names."

Geralt is in a dark and twisted tunnel, with stalactites slicing their way towards him. He can stay still and safe and say nothing, and in the morning Jasker will be gone. Yet up ahead there is light.

"Jaskier," Geralt says again. "You know a thousand folktales."

"At low estimate," Jaskier agrees. "When I was at Oxenfurt studying, why, I—"

"True love's kiss," says Geralt. The riot in his chest has become a battle, threatens to break out into war. "Cannot come from one alone."

Jaskier looks up at him, then away. He pokes at the fire with a stick. "Stories, Geralt. Hogwash."

"You were just in a fucking fairy-tale," Geralt says, losing patience. "With fucking fairies. You fucking idiot."

Jaskier smiles. "You're trying to make me feel better. I appreciate it. It's very kind. Unexpected, some might think, but I'm the first to say that you contain multitudes. I always say—"

"True love's kiss," growls Geralt. People tell him—Jaskier tells him—to use his words, and then they never fucking listen. Words are proving useless. He moves, then, crowding into Jaskier's space, pushing him down, crawling over him. "_Cannot come from one alone._"

Jaskier puts up his hands, as though to deflect a blow that never lands. Geralt cinches fingers around Jaskier's wrists and presses them back into the earth. He kisses Jaskier's shock-parted lips. Then he noses Jaskier's chin up, and kisses the delicate skin of his throat. Then back to Jaskier's mouth, which is waiting for him this time.

Jaskier kisses him back with more focus than Geralt has ever seen him exert—even when Jaskier was playing until his fingers flayed, playing for his life, he wasn't so intent. Jaskier licks into Geralt's mouth, his tongue eager to find Geralt's teeth. Teeth, those are Jaskier's teeth, closing hard on Geralt's lower lip, refusing to let go, not until Geralt's tongue pushes against Jaskier's tongue, thrusts into Jaskier's mouth like he wants to thrust into—

"Fuck," Jaskier pants, breaking away for air. Geralt lets go of his wrists. "Oh, fuck, Geralt."

Geralt raises his eyebrows hopefully. "You want to?"

"Yes, I fucking want to, fuck _you_. Just—give me a moment here. Gods. Fuck." Jaskier presses on Geralt's immovable shoulders, and Geralt obliges him by sitting back on his haunches.

He doesn't want to: Jaskier's taste is in his mouth, headier than their drink, and Geralt's cock is astonishingly invested after what amounts to a single kiss, maybe two if he's counting how Jaskier kissed him back. He wants to follow the inferno in his head and heart and blood, bury himself in Jaskier for relief and work the rest of it out later. He wants to fuck Jaskier like he's wanted to fuck Jaskier since—since always, when it was never worth the risk of losing, in the exchange, everything else that Jaskier was. Annoying, and flighty, and chatty, and distracting, and stubborn, and tenacious, and loyal, and clever, and witty, and fun, and adoring—

"Hold on," Jaskier says. He sits up to face Geralt, rakes a hand back through his hair. His lips are kiss-stung. Geralt did that, and now that he's begun, he needs to do so again. "You're saying. You're saying, that is. You're saying—you—love me?"

"I was also surprised," says Geralt.

Jaskier's face does something complicated—twists up in half a smile, half a wince. "I'm in an extremely delicate state right now, Witcher," he says, and the half-smile flattens. "If you're fucking with me, having a go—please, not about this."

"Sorry," says Geralt, and means it. "I didn't mean for it to sound like that. I'm not—not good at this. Not good at recognizing—love. Wouldn't have known what to call it. I—" he grits out the words. "—care about what happens to you. I'd die before I'd let anything—I was going to stay under that hill, glad enough, if you got out." He watches Jaskier for reaction. "Does that count?"

"Yeah," says Jaskier. "Yeah, we can work with that." His voice is husky with overuse, barely above a whisper now. "You aren't fucking with me?"

"No," says Geralt.

"Are you bewitched? Enchanted? Ensorcelled?" Jaskier's expression darkens as he considers it. "This is the queen's revenge, isn't it? She put a spell on you to fuck with us both."

Geralt pauses, and he double-checks, for both their sakes, but there is no foreign aura of power to be found. He knew there would not be. "No."

"That's exactly what you would say if you were ensorcelled," says Jaskier.

"Jaskier," says Geralt.

Jaskier shakes his head. "You're too calm. You're too calm about this. True love's fucking kiss. You don't even like me."

The fire snaps as the rest of the footstool is consumed. Jaskier is painted in a wash of orange and gold.

"You know that isn't true," says Geralt quietly.

"I know," says Jaskier. "Apologies. Old self-deprecation habits of self-preservation have a tendency to linger."

"I'm not calm," Geralt says. "This is how I sound. My heart is racing." He reaches for Jaskier's hand, and, finding no resistance, touches two of Jaskier's fingers to the pulse-point on his neck.

"Melitele's tits," Jaskier breathes. For a long moment they both feel the wild thud of Geralt's heart in his breast. Then Jaskier slips his hand from Geralt's grasp but doesn't go far—he brushes the back of his fingers across Geralt's cheek.

The soft touch goes through Geralt like lightning, nearly undoes him. He doesn't know what to do. He's been with nervous, unsure lovers, but Jaskier isn't that. He's been with brash, overbearing lovers, but Jaskier isn't that. He's never been with someone who—Geralt closes his eyes, and when he opens them, Jaskier is watching him without blinking.

"Do you want me, Geralt?" Jaskier asks.

"Yes," says Geralt.

"Did you just figure that one out today as well?"

"No," says Geralt.

Surprise before it can be buried. "Why didn't you say someth—no, nevermind, I retract that. Why didn't you _do_ something, you perfectly oversized bastard?" Jaskier narrows his eyes. "Don't—do not try and say you didn't know that I was—amenable."

Geralt doesn't try. "I knew that you were."

"Well!"

Geralt rests his hands in the grass for grounding. "What you said," he manages at last. "People try and care for me, and I leave them behind. Or they leave me. I didn't—I didn't want to change how we are." Didn't want to lose you, someone more deft with words and emotions might say. Geralt presses his lips together.

Jaskier studies Geralt's face, and Geralt would like to think that he understands: the bard became adept at reading what was underneath Geralt's spoken statements years ago. But Jaskier is also Jaskier, and he won't let Geralt off the hook so easily.

"And you decided, in your infinite wisdom, that I'd fall in love with you after a casual fuck?" Jaskier is kneeling, but Geralt can feel how much he wants to put his hands on his hips.

Geralt isn't exactly known for backing down either. "Fell in love with me without one," he points out.

"Oh, you absolute—" Jaskier launches himself at Geralt. His propulsion isn't enough to push Geralt down, not without Geralt's acquiescence, but Geralt ends up with a lapful of Jaskier, which is a mutually desirable result. Jaskier straddles Geralt's thighs, shoves his hand deep into Geralt's hair, gets a fistful, and pulls hard. Geralt's chin comes up. His eyes flash, he hopes, with encouragement.

"Fuck you," Jaskier says heatedly, and he kisses Geralt. It's not an angry kiss, not quite, but a kiss born of years of frustration, a kiss that plunders Geralt's mouth and leaves him aching. Geralt wraps his arms around Jaskier, learning the weight of him in his lap, trying to push away the lurking fear that he will have to unlearn it.

Jaskier pulls back at last, blue eyes dark as he considers Geralt.

"If you like," Geralt says.

Jaskier's jaw works, but his voice appears to have finally failed him. After some time he rasps, "If I like," mostly to himself. "If I _like_." He kisses Geralt again, gentler than before, careful about it, tongue stroking Geralt's with slow consideration, the way Jaskier samples a fine wine. Geralt shifts in place, so that Jaskier can feel just how hard Geralt's cock is under such ministrations, and just how much cock there is on offer. Jaskier gives a little gasp into Geralt's mouth, and he rolls his hips in a most promising fashion.

Then Jaskier says against Geralt's lips, "I think that we should wait."

Geralt's overheated brain takes too much time to process the sentence. His blood is elsewhere. "What."

"Your face," Jaskier says, tilting back. He's grinning. "You should see your face."

"Jaskier."

"No, I'm quite serious. Stop frowning. You know I can't bear to be the cause of frowning. I don't mean a long engagement. I just—tell me you still feel the same way tomorrow. Tell me in daylight that you're not ensorcelled, that true love's kiss is real, and I'll show you my entire repertoire in bed. It's as vast and varied as my song catalogue, Geralt."

"I am _not_ ensorcelled," Geralt says, now so painfully hard it's all he can do to push the reply past his teeth, so given over is his entire being to the need to rut.

"The morning. Tell me then." Jaskier gets to his feet. Keeping still as he does so is one of the more difficult trials Geralt has faced. Mutations were simple compared to this.

"You're punishing me," Geralt realizes. "I deserve it."

Jaskier laughs. "Spare us both the martyr routine. I didn't say we couldn't do _anything_." Geralt looks up at him, brow furrowed, and Jaskier offers his hand. They walk to the far side of the fire, where their bedrolls are spread. Then Jaskier lies down, and draws Geralt in beside him.

Without speaking, they're pulled together like lodestones, kissing lips, and necks, and ears, then lips again, kissing for so long with no other impetus that Geralt's confused body is more aroused than it's ever been, confused because there is no promise of release and relief.

"Never thought I'd see you look out of your element," Jaskier murmurs. He thumbs the wet line of Geralt's mouth. It doesn't sound judgmental; it sounds wondering, and is spoken softly. "Hasn't anyone wanted to just—just touch you, and touch you, and…" He's putting word to deed, hands stroking under Geralt's shirt, tracing lattice-works of scars, breezing over quick-peaked nipples, learning every hard-earned cut of Geralt's abdomen. "...touch you some more."

Geralt's not unused to being touched intimately, of course—but touching as a brief precursor to fucking, which is generally the goal. People have complimented Geralt's body, admired it, enjoyed it—many people, in fact—but no one's fingers have waxed rhapsodic over a scarred-over wound to his ribs. No one's hands have trembled, with nerves and excitement, like Jaskier's do, simply to explore another inch of him. Geralt shakes his head.

"Fools, they," Jaskier says, scowling at Geralt's past lovers, then fast brightening. "The better for me, since this is all that I want to do with my life."

Geralt smiles above the racket of his pulse. "False. You want to win the bardic competition at Gulet two years in a row, which has never been done. You want Valdo Marx to grovel for compositional advice at your feet. You want to compose an immortal tri-part epic to be performed at the arena in—"

"Geralt," says Jaskier, expression serious now, though his lit-up eyes belie a deeper, happier emotion that may well be joy. "You know me too well. Allow me to return the favor."

Jaskier's exploring touch seeks lower, and he finds the fastenings on Geralt's breeches, which he undoes one-handed. Then his hand dips below the waistline, and those devastatingly practiced fingers wrap around Geralt's cock. Well, as much of Geralt's cock as they can manage.

"And this is all that I intend to worship now," Jaskier says, fervent, as he strokes once from base to tip, "may the Gods forgive me."

Geralt would laugh if his throat wasn't caught on a groan. Luckily, Jaskier seems more than content to do the talking for them both. His grip is firm and sure, just loose enough at the wrist to make every upward pull a breathtaking event.

They lie on their sides, facing each other, eyes locked, and though they're both still clothed, and this act is rudimentary by most standards, Jaskier's enthusiasm, and the fact that it's Jaskier here with him, makes Geralt feel naked and exposed. It's hardly unpleasant, but it's new and rather overwhelming, and before long Geralt is all but panting under Jaskier's hand.

"When I say that I know you," Jaskier is saying, "I've heard you do this. In the dark. In the still of the night when you thought I was asleep. How I longed to join you." His hand tightens, but does not speed. Geralt does _not_ whimper. "Some would assume you'd handle yourself roughly. Jerk this magnificent cock hard and quick. But that isn't what you like. Is it." Geralt reaches for him in turn, palms the growing swell of Jaskier's cock through cloth, but Jaskier bats him away, clearly enjoying having the stage. His strokes have perfect rhythm. "You like it hard, yes, but thorough, and slow. You like to be teased, don't you, brought up right to the edge and left there. I'm right, aren't I," Jaskier says, demonstrating this technique. "I know you."

"Jaskier," Geralt says. He won't beg. Not yet. "Let me touch you."

"The sight of you is all I need at the moment," Jaskier says, and fuck if that doesn't somehow send yet more blood to Geralt's achingly hard cock. "And your voice. Tell me, Geralt. Did you ever think about me when you took your cock in hand?"

"Yes," says Geralt. What good would suppressing such a truth do now, when speaking it makes Jaskier's eyes flash, and his teeth close over his plush lower lip?

"My hand?"

"Yes."

"My mouth?"

"Yes. Fuck."

"My ass?"

"_Yes._"

"My cock?"

"_Fuck_, yes, Jaskier, I'm close—"

"Not quite yet. This is far too much fun. You won't come until I tell you that you can."

Geralt growls low, and tosses his head, his body aflame with need, his skin tight with holding back. He nods, somehow.

"I've thought about you," Jaskier goes on pleasantly, his hand quickening a little, his pressure increasing, "since the day I met you. At first, granted, it was because of the way you looked. I'm terribly shallow, as I'm sure you are aware. This body of yours. Sweet Melitele. I wanted you to tear me apart. I'd have bent over for you if you'd so much as batted an eyelash to indicate it. Your face isn't awful to look at either. I saw you sitting in that tavern, and I thought—they call that man a killer, and I'll let him butcher me. Happily. I thought—I might get a song out of you, and maybe, if I was lucky, a fuck that I'd not soon forget, since I wouldn't be able to walk for a week thereafter."

Jaskier's sly hand slows once more, and Geralt nearly bites off his tongue at the double onslaught of tormenting stroke and the flow of the bard's words. Jaskier says, "Then you had to go on and be you. Noble, and self-sacrificing, and _good_, kind to small children and animals—what an exquisite cliche you are. Smart, too, aren't you, though you don't like to let on just how much. Gives you the element of surprise. Strong and brave and righteous—there's never been anyone like you and you know it. That's why you survived so many trials that no one else ever passed through. You're special, Geralt, and you were right—I didn't need a casual fuck to fall in love with you. That happened all on its own because I kept scrambling to follow after you, and at some point you let me catch up. I'm in love with you because I know you."

"Please—" It's never been like this. No one has touched him like this, named him like this. He thrums like an instrument come alive under Jaskier's hands. Geralt has the perfectly disconcerting thought that he is being played by a master and too late discovered a better use for his body than fighting. He would be content to stay just like this and learn all the new noises Jaskier can coax from him—only he needs—he needs so badly to—

"Yes," Jaskier says, leaning in so that his mouth presses Geralt's. "Come for me now."

Jaskier's fist gives an exceptionally tight upstroke, and Geralt thrusts into it and gives over, all of his tightly-held control snapping with Jaskier's permission. His cock spills and spills, liquid heat on his stomach and painting Jaskier's fingers, which keep their hold on him, coaxing yet more from his now-slick cock.

Geralt groans, the ecstatic surge of his release rocking him forward to catch Jaskier in a kiss, a kiss made messy with teeth and tongues that doesn't stop, and doesn't stop, even when Jaskier lets go and eases his hand free of Geralt's phenomenally ruined breeches. Then Jaskier does stop kissing him, but only because he brings his fingers to his mouth and licks Geralt's seed from one with a long, sensuous lick, mischievous eyes watching Geralt's eyes as he does so.

"Fuck," says Geralt.

"Mm." Jaskier smiles, licks clean another finger. "Tomorrow."

"Please," Geralt says, since that had worked so nicely, "let me touch—"

Once more, Jaskier moves his reaching hand away. "Told you," he says, and now Geralt can see the pink flush on his cheeks in the glow of the fire's coals. "All I needed was the sight of you. I'm—good."

"Fuck," Geralt says again. Jaskier doesn't stop him when he reaches instead to comb his fingers back through Jaskier's hair. He curls his hand at the base of Jaskier's neck and tugs him into a kiss that he hopes speaks volumes about how that felt, since Geralt's tongue is still attempting to wrap around the right words. He employs his tongue otherwise, and Jaskier seems happy to wind himself in Geralt's limbs, kissing lazily as the exertion of the whole mad adventure catches up with them.

Finally, Jaskier pillows his head on Geralt's arm, throws both an arm and a leg across Geralt's body, and settles in. "Can you sleep like this?"

"Easily," says Geralt. He thinks now—with the dying fire beside them, the heat of satisfaction making them heavy and hazy, and such closeness—now would be the time to speak, to whisper what is so difficult for him to say—yet no longer impossible. He has long struggled to recognize love, but now he knows its face. Its face is turned toward him, blue eyes closed. Perhaps Jaskier is asleep already. Geralt will wait until the morning, and prove that this is real, as he intends to demonstrate all the other ways that he is not ensorcelled. So he only presses a kiss into Jaskier's hair. "Gladly."

And since Geralt does not like to lie, and as a rule, tries not to—he is fast asleep.

He awakens only once, in the dead of night, eyes flying open to assess his status. It's an old habit, deeply ingrained, and Geralt quickly takes stock. The warmth along one side of his body comes from Jaskier. Jaskier is beside him.

Geralt remembers all, and smiles, though no one else is awake to see it. Jaskier's head is still on Geralt's outstretched arm, but he has turned away at some point in the night. Instead his back is flush to Geralt's side. Geralt rolls carefully over to fit in behind him. He curls his body around Jaskier's, and his other arm around Jaskier, a distantly aware part of him noting how well they lock together. Jaskier gives a sleepy murmur of contentment and burrows closer. Geralt's breath stirs the soft hair at the nape of Jaskier's neck. He closes his eyes.

Geralt wakes up cold.

It is before dawn, and the fire has gone out. The morning sky is grey and dark. He is alone.

He clamps down on panic, but he's on his feet with his sword in his hand before he's aware of deciding to stand. He sheathes the sword. Reasons that Jaskier has gone to relieve himself and doesn't need to be greeted by a blade. Reasons this for several moments. But the woods are quiet—grey, and dark, and still.

"Jaskier!"

Nothing.

"Jaskier!" Geralt is shouting now, panic struggling in his grip. If this is one of the bard's pranks, he'll surely hear Geralt's tone of voice and stop hiding. He'll come out right now.

"Jaskier!"

Jaskier could be injured. He could have gotten up in the night, gone into the treeline for a piss, fallen, and hurt himself. He could be unconscious. He could have been attacked by an animal, maimed. He could have been attacked by a monster, and—

"_Jaskier!_"

Geralt searches in a circle a mile-round from their campsite. He finds nothing save startled, wary rabbits. Thankfully, he also finds no blood, no limbs, no garish fabric torn to pieces. He finds nothing.

He trudges back toward the camp, hacking at tall plants and curling vines with his sword. They don't deserve his wrath, but Geralt is in no mood to spare them. The rabbits wisely keep away.

_Don't worry. I'll be gone in the morning._

Geralt sits down hard on a rotted log as the words come back. The sun is up now, hot overhead, but he feels plunged into ice—numb, and sick, and sinking.

Jaskier left him after all. That shouldn't be surprising. That was, in fact, the most logical, understandable explanation. He awoke to find himself wrapped up in the Butcher of Blaviken and thought better of it. Anyone would. Or he'd left like he said he would, for both his and Geralt's sakes, left of his own accord before Geralt could leave him behind.

Even if Geralt had no intention of ever doing so again.

The sword thuds to the grass and Geralt puts his head in his hands. He breathes through it, and then he recalls the way Jaskier's face had looked with his hand on Geralt's cock, and how Jaskier's voice had sounded saying _I'm in love with you because I know you_. And the part of him that knows Jaskier—that loves Jaskier—knows that Jaskier would not leave. Not after what they'd shared. Not after what the morning promised. His heart knows.

Geralt is a master tracker, and Jaskier is incapable of blazing a trail without theatrical stomping about, and there's no sign of him. There are no tracks whatsoever, in fact, save the heavy tread of Geralt's boots. That's alarming, and Geralt's intuition is rising from a whisper to a scream about it, but he pushes away his reaction. Worry will do nothing but drive him to make a mistake. Instead he goes to Roach for confirmation.

He finds her chewing on her feed-bag in the copse of trees they'd tied her in the night before. Her saddle is nearby, and there, still lashed to one saddle-bag, is Jaskier's lute.

Geralt crouches beside it, opens the travel-case. The instrument's wood is sun-warmed, and the strings sing sweetly when Geralt runs his finger across them. Surely Jaskier must now appear to tell him off and tell Geralt to take his ungainly paws off of the true love of his life.

But Jaskier does not appear. And Jaskier would not leave his lute behind of his own volition. Not even if he was stealing away after realizing he'd made a terrible mistake in loving Geralt. He'd come for the lute, first and last.

Geralt closes the case, grabs the saddle, and returns to his horse. "Did you see what took him?" he asks Roach, as he does up buckles. She stomps her foot, ears pinned back. "Yeah. I've a good idea. I don't like them either."

Roach gazes at him reproachfully. It's Jaskier who sneaks her sugar-cubes when he thinks Geralt isn't watching.

He strokes her nose as he adjusts her bridle. "It's all right. We'll get him back."

Geralt tells himself the same as he goes to bury the ashes of the fire, pack their supplies and—his jaw tightens—roll up the bedding. If he thinks too much about the feeling of Jaskier against him, how Jaskier's mouth tastes, he'll lose control, go berserk and help exactly no one in the process. Instead he draws upon all his long years of training to make his body work without his mind.

This is how people think Witchers function—divorced from emotion, hollow shells that kill hated things for coin. His mouth is set in a scowl that only wavers a fraction when he sees what he missed when he woke up in near-darkness: there, near where Jaskier had lain, is a clutch of tiny blue flowers. Geralt rips them from the earth and stuffs the lot into the pouch on his belt.

"Son of a fucking fairy bitch," he says, kicking a stone lining the fire-pit so hard that it shatters against its fellows.

It's good to have confirmation, and that gives him an idea of where to go if his first attempt fails. But the fear he's trying so hard not to feel snakes up his spine. Fairies can sometimes be bargained with—when you have something that they want. They are renowned for refusing to return what they take.

This time, they have what Geralt wants, and he has nothing to offer in exchange. And—of this he has no doubt—they are not in a bargaining mood.

* * *

Chapter 02

Roach moves fast with only Geralt astride, and they make it back to the blasted hill while the sun is still high. Geralt is driven to speed. Fairies aren't known for torturing their captives, at least in the human sense, so Geralt assures himself that Jaskier is not suffering as such.

But as Jaskier has heard often enough in legend—that he now, hopefully, believes to be true—if he should eat or drink anything given to him in the fairy realm, there is nothing Geralt will be able to do to retrieve him. Geralt wouldn't put it past the fairies to hold him down and pour wine into his mouth, laughing their high fluted laughter as Jaskier splutters and kicks and curses the day he met Geralt—

Focus. Geralt faces the hill. He traces most of the Signs that he knows into the air, and draws the rest of them on the ground, to no avail save scorched earth and scattered explosions. He tries riddles and their answers, incantations for discovery and unlocking, even sings a song purported to attract fairies. Jaskier would laugh himself sick. But Jaskier is under the hill.

Geralt addresses the open air, demands to be seen. Then he asks, plaintive. Offers anything in exchange. Offers himself. The wind stirs the flowers, unbothered.

He knows when he's beaten, and time is too dear. Breathing hard and somewhat singed, he climbs back into the saddle. The main road is open and well-kept, and Roach needs no urging to race along it. They reach the high gates of the duke's manse, where Geralt is told in no uncertain terms to fuck off by a squadron of guardsmen.

He doesn't have time to fight his way in, get in trouble for slicing up someone important, and be tossed into a dungeon while Jaskier, hungry and thirsty, finds fairy sustenance increasingly tempting. So Geralt smiles at them with teeth, turns Roach around, and rides to the other side of the manse.

The walls are high, and mostly sheer, but there are crags enough in the rock to gain scant hand and footholds. He makes it up and over on the second attempt, and manages not to break both legs on the drop down.

Scaling the keep is a good bit easier, and he lets himself in through an open window. He apologizes to the startled servant who watches him enter before he knocks the man unconscious and drags him into an empty room. Then he sets out to search the other rooms, of which there are far too many for any one family, duke or no.

He spends too long prowling corridors, dodging servants and guards and well-coiffed members of the household. A growing sense of desperation is reaching its height when he finally finds her alone in an airy room all the way at the top of the dwelling.

She is sitting by a bronze mirror, dressed in a fine human gown, gazing at her reflection. Her citron-colored hair has been bound up in the current style, and hides her distinct ears from sight. She can see Geralt come in behind her, and her eyes go round.

"Please don't scream," Geralt says. "I'm having a bad day as is."

She doesn't scream. She tilts her head, curious. That's one thing to be said for fairies: they don't scare easily. "Why are you here, Witcher? Surely you know that I was right, and the duke will pay you nothing for his son's return."

"I need to get back into the hill, and the entrance is gone," Geralt says. "Tell me there is another way in."

"You're mad," she says with a laugh. "You barely escaped with your skin intact. You can't possibly want to go back. The riches aren't what you think they are. They'll vanish as soon as you bring them into daylight."

"This isn't about _coin_," Geralt snarls. He palms the flowers from his pouch and throws them to the stone before her. "They took my friend. The bard. Jaskier. Tell me how to get in."

"Oh." She bends and picks up the flowers, touching the petals with a dainty fingertip. "I'm sorry, but you must forget about him. There's no other door, and if it has been barred to you, you cannot find it again. Your friend is already lost to this world."

"No." Geralt sways on his feet, the adrenaline that has kept him going starting to falter. He feels every ache, every scrape, his ankle, twisted in the fall from the gate. He stalks forward despite the pain. "No. I don't accept that."

She doesn't shrink away. Up close, he can see that her eyes are red-rimmed from crying. Geralt takes a half-step back. He hasn't the time for it, but— "Have they hurt you here?"

"Not as such." She turns her face from him. "I knew it would not be easy, trying to live in this realm, but I love him so very much. I was certain I could endure it. And I can. But they—the humans—they hate me. All save Nolan. They hide from me, and curse me behind my back, and sneer when I enter the room. His father is apoplectic, has forbidden us to wed. Nolan pleads the case, but that takes him away from me. So I sit trapped in this room. I think they gave it to me—" she indicates the wide wall of windows with a wry tip of her pointed chin—"hoping that I would change my mind and fly away."

"But you won't, will you," says Geralt, examining her proud, unbent carriage. "You—what is your name? You never said."

She blinks, as though the question is unexpected, as though no one has paid her any such courtesy since her arrival. "You would say it like—Phira."

"Phira," Geralt says. He sinks to one knee beside her chair. "I know something of living amongst those who are afraid of me, and would cast me out. It is hard, but not impossible to bear, when you find someone who—" he ducks his head, steadies his breath, then meets her eyes. "The bard. Jaskier. I—love him. He loves me—freed me with a kiss, as you did Nolan. I can't leave him behind. He is all that I have. If there's no other way in, I'll dig up the hill with my hands."

Phira stares at him, struck silent. She says nothing, and Geralt, every muscle protesting, drags himself back to his feet. He feels crushed under an enormous weight that is increasing exponentially.

This was the best hope, but he's hasn't exhausted his resources. He hasn't. He just needs more time. He knows Jaskier will try his best to resist food and water and wine, but for how long? How long do they have? The day is slipping through his fingers too quickly. He starts for the door.

"Wait."

Geralt waits. He turns back, and her human garments have been cast aside. She wears the short, bare-armed tunic of fairy-kind, her closed wings glimmering in the light.

"I will help you," Phira says. "I can open the way."

Geralt almost goes to his knees again, this time in gratitude. Hope swells threateningly in his belly. He tries to tamp it down. "Why?"

"You and your bard were only in my kingdom to rescue Nolan, who had stumbled into it foolishly, then more foolishly fell in love with me," she points out. "And—true love's kiss is rare. Once, my people revered it." She holds up a hand as Geralt starts toward her. "I cannot do more than open the path to him. If I go back there it will be worse for you both. It's me that my mother is truly angry with, and she will not relinquish me again. As you said, Witcher—I cannot leave my beloved behind."

"I understand," Geralt says. "Thank you. This aid is more than enough."

"Rest a moment," Phira says. "Your ankle is broken. I will mend it, and we will go."

Geralt hesitates, but relents into sitting long enough for Phira's healing magics to take. "Again, thank you. It would've been tricky to get back over the wall like this." A thought occurs to him and he frowns. "Can you ride? It's a long way to the hill."

She coughs politely, and Geralt looks up from where he'd been examining his foot. She is unfurling voluminous wings like an iridescent cloak. They twitch into blurred motion.

"No," Phira says, smiling. "It isn't."

Of all of the many and varied ways that Geralt has travelled through his long years, this is the most interesting. After assuring Geralt that she was far stronger than she looked—then proving it—Phira carries him soaring through the air.

With her arms locked under Geralt's armpits and his feet dangling into the abyss, it's not the most comfortable trip he's taken, but it's hardly the worst. And the view is unparalleled.

They fly high to avoid being sighted by the guards or travelers on the road. The road stretches out like a golden ribbon into the distance, while plots of farmland appear as so many patches on a vast quilt. If he were not in such haste, Geralt would ask her to fly them still further. There is so much to see from above that he will never see again.

But she was right. By wing, the hill is not far, and soon they are landing neatly in one of the circles that Geralt burned into the grass. Phira strides back and forth along the base of the hill, then finally sits down facing the slope. Geralt tries not to gnash his teeth with impatience.

"I'll need to concentrate," she says. "They've hidden it well, even to my sight."

Concentrating, as it turns out, takes a good long while. Geralt sharpens and polishes his swords and three daggers while he waits, trying not to think about the grains of time trickling away for Jaskier under the earth. Pacing is of no help either. Geralt doesn't do well with inactivity, and he prowls around behind her, pulling up blue flowers by the root and refusing to feel badly about it.

He hears a sigh. Phira says, "Witcher."

Geralt glances over, sword at the ready, to watch the grass curl back on the side of the hill. Then the earth falls away, and a tunnel snakes down into darkness.

"You gorgeous fucking fairy," Geralt says, grinning wide.

She grins back, though her expression shows strain. "Go. It should stay open as long as I will it, but I won't be able to hold it forever. Eventually I'll be forced to conclude that your efforts failed."

Geralt shrugs. "There'll be no use in waiting, then," he says, switching his grip on the sword. "If I can't bring him back, I won't be leaving, one way or another."

"Witcher—"

"_Phira!_"

They both whip their heads to the sound of horses galloping from the road. Phira's beloved, accompanied by several guardsmen, all mounted, are making enough noise to raise the dead and at the same time killing any chance Geralt had of sneaking in unannounced. He curses a vicious streak, then narrows his eyes—one of the guards is leading Roach on a rope behind him. Roach looks about as pissed off as Geralt feels.

"Go," Phira hisses. "I'll handle Nolan."

"If they've touched my horse—"

"_Go_. This is your chance, Witcher. I won't be able to give you another."

With a final glare behind him, and a nod for the fairy, Geralt goes.

His eyes see well enough in the dark, and the way back down is uneventful, especially considering the trip he and Jaskier had taken to the top. The ground beneath Geralt's feet is quiet, and there isn't so much as a tremble in the sharp stalactites overhead. Impossible to believe that the escape with Jaskier had been only the day before; it feels as though it happened in another world entirely.

Geralt had first entered the realm of the fairy on a mission to find the duke's missing son, who'd last been seen wandering by the hill. Jaskier insisted on coming with him, trailing along even when Geralt would not acquiesce, until Geralt acquiesced, telling himself that while the bard was a liability, he might prove useful after all—fairies were a fickle bunch, but they were partial to music.

At the time, Geralt did not let himself consider that he gave in to Jaskier because he enjoyed his company, and he especially enjoyed the way Jaskier's eyes lit up when Geralt agreed.

They'd found the fairy court in chaos. Nolan had been bound to the footstool that was now kindling for his trespass. He'd also fallen head over heels in love at first sight with the fairy princess Phira, and she with him. When Geralt and Jaskier arrived, Phira was challenging her mother, begging for Nolan's freedom, to no avail. The Queen insisted humans were weak and faithless, and Nolan an unfit match. Finally, Phira defied the whole shocked court by kissing Nolan, and breaking the spell—true love's kiss, impossible to fake. The queen flew into a rage. That was when Geralt and Jaskier's arrival was noticed, and they'd sprung into action to help the couple escape. The rest was history.

Now the Geralt who walks steadily toward the golden glow ahead is a different man. True love's kiss. Impossible to fake. Everything is different. The sound of a lute being strummed to a melancholy crescendo reaches his ears, and his heart squeezes in his chest. He'd know Jaskier's saddest, self-pitying, wallowing-in-misery chords anywhere. He wants to break into a run.

But Geralt enters the court slowly, with swords sheathed, and the sheath in his hands. His hands are raised over his head. A good thing, for he's met by a dozen fairy archers with bows drawn tight and arrows notched, who seem like they haven't forgotten about his use of the Sign of Quen.

The queen is sat on her throne, looking equally unenthusiastic about Geralt's approach. Next to the throne—Jaskier, perched on another Gods-be-damned footstool, head sunk to his breast and playing forlornly. Spread before him is a lavish meal—roast duck, creamy potatoes, wedges of cheese, crusty bread, succulent fruits that glisten gem-like—all of Jaskier's favorites, in fact, along with what looks suspiciously like his favorite red wine, next to a tall clear glass of water. The lot of it appears blessedly untouched; Jaskier is, it would seem, doing his best not to glance up at all.

But he looks up at the commotion, and when his eyes meet Geralt's—well, it was worth it, even if this is over before it starts, even if Geralt's next breath finishes with a fairy arrow through his throat. Jaskier doesn't cry out, just stares steadily back at Geralt as though Geralt is the finest sight he's ever seen and ever hopes to see. As though Geralt is the beginning and the end, and nothing else could possibly matter in the in-between.

Geralt knows, because that's how he's staring at Jaskier. Jaskier smiles a little, then, and his eyes fill with tears, and he blinks to clear them. A tear slips down his cheek. He plays a discordant note, which Geralt takes as the admonishment that it is. Jaskier thinks that he's a fool for coming after him, which Geralt most definitely is.

"Witcher," says the queen. "This is unexpected. How did you get here?"

"I'm unarmed," says Geralt instead of answering the question. He lays down his swords. "I only wish to speak. I will not raise a hand against any fairy." He'll say nothing of the multitude of daggers and other weapons tucked away on his person, or how his entire body is a weapon too well-honed.

"Speak, then. You are interrupting my concert."

"Let the bard go," Geralt says. "He won his freedom fairly. It was only I who broke the bargain I struck with you to take the young man's place. Let him go, and let me keep my bond."

"Geralt, _no_," Jaskier snaps. He pivots to the queen. "Your majesty, pay him no mind. He's quite mad, you see. Thinks he's a wolf most of the time. Won't give you anything but trouble, believe me."

"I think not," the queen says to Geralt. "You are not half so entertaining. I like his little songs. That's why I decided to keep him after all."

"She likes my little songs," Jaskier says. His gaze, shifted back to Geralt, is imploring, and also resolved. "You must go back now, Witcher."

Geralt shakes his head. Then he bows it. He humbles himself before the queen. "If you'll not release him, then grant me leave to stay here also. I'll swear my swords to your service, and do your bidding."

"Geralt, don't be more of a fucking idiot than usual—"

"Silence," thunders the queen, and Jaskier closes his mouth and looks away, as though he cannot bear to see Geralt any longer. "I have no use for you, Geralt of Rivia. You hunt my kind for sport, and you reek of death. Leave before you provoke your own."

"Not for sport," Geralt says. "Never for sport."

But she isn't listening, and Jaskier isn't looking at him. Geralt's mouth is dry. His heart pounds. He sees no way out for them, no way to remain. It's possible that he could fight through this. Paint the walls with fairy blood, massacre innocents who will only be following orders to stop him—an invading monster. He could drag Jaskier out through screaming and slaughter and back up into the light—but that is not who he wants to be, and that is not someone that Jaskier will care for on the other side of it.

Geralt tries to make himself look smaller, no mean feat. He cannot choose violence, so he must choose its obverse, which is hope. "Please," he says. "Your majesty. Allow me then to say goodbye."

Her heart must not be made of stone after all, for after a moment the queen nods, and Geralt approaches. This close, she looks quite like Phira, and he can imagine that she has smiled like Phira also, without malice. He bows low. Turns to Jaskier. Jaskier puts down the lute and leaps from his seat. At least there is no curse upon the footstool this time.

Yet the result is the same. Geralt goes to him. Jaskier flings his arms around Geralt's neck, and then they're kissing, hard and desperate.

Geralt tastes salt from the tears streaming down Jaskier's cheeks. His cheeks are wet from what must be Jaskier's tears also. He puts his arms around Jaskier and pulls him in tight, as close as he can, then tighter still. Jaskier seems preoccupied with keeping his tongue in Geralt's mouth, the cheeky bastard.

Geralt pulls back the bare space of an inch. His forehead presses Jaskier's. His eyes search Jaskier's.

"I love you," Geralt says. "I'm sorry. I'll find a way back, Jaskier."

Breathless, Jaskier surges up to kiss him once more, then breaks away with a sob. "Geralt, I'll—"

"Mother. This has gone on long enough. Stop toying with them."

Geralt spins, still holding onto Jaskier, to see Phira standing at the mouth of the cavern. Beside her, pale but determined and clutching her hand, is Nolan.

"Their kind does not live a fraction of the time that we do," Phira says. "It can make them frightened and cruel, but to others, time is precious, and they use it well. They love true. This game of yours affects them greatly."

"Phira," says the queen, starting up out of her throne, then thinking better of it.

"Your quarrel is with me," Phira says. "I would have it settled. The new bargain is this: let them go, and we will stay."

The queen's gaze flicks from one face to the next. "Trickery. Your would-be bridegroom fled once, and he will do so again. Humans are inconstant." Geralt thinks that's rather rich coming from a fairy, but he'll swallow his own tongue rather than speak now.

"My lady," says Nolan. He steps forward and bows, still keeping hold of Phira's hand. "I beg that you forgive us for what is past. I was mistaken. Phira cannot live happily in my world, which is less enlightened than your own. I would live, instead, in hers."

The boy has balls, Geralt will give him that. It's a gutsy wager—have the queen refuse them and prove her kingdom to be less refined than humanity's, and see her daughter leave once more—or risk losing face by trusting in the word of the one who made off with her daughter in the first place. She frowns, and that's when Nolan drops Phira's hand and sprints a mad dash in their direction.

"The fuck," says Geralt, reaching for a sword that isn't there.

"Quick," says Jaskier. He slips through Geralt's grasp, ducks down, and snatches a grape off the vine on the plate set before them. He tosses it to Nolan, who catches it with a look of deepest gratitude.

Fast as anything, the grape is in his mouth and swallowed. Phira calls his name and runs to him, and then they're kissing and crying all at once, which appears to be in the air.

Someone in the watching swarm of fairies claps, and soon a wave of applause is washing over the spectators. The queen sighs and rubs her forehead. There's little use in denying the couple now, not with the whole fairy-court cheering, Phira returned, and Nolan binding himself to the realm in no uncertain terms. She casts her withering—and no doubt exhausted—stare in their direction.

"Go," says the queen, "before I decide to keep the bard to play at my daughter's wedding."

Phira crosses over to them, and Geralt takes her hand.

"Thank you," says Geralt, earnest as he's ever been.

"I was going to say the same, Witcher," Phira says, and smiles. "I do not think we will meet again. But you will not be forgotten here."

"Nor you, above," Jaskier puts in. He kisses her hand when it is offered. "This ballad is going to change lives. It'll be on demand in every tavern, first at every festival—'The Fairy-Maid and True Love's Kiss.' I'm going to start an epidemic of kissing, and a fashion for footstools—"

"Jaskier," says Geralt.

"Yes, yes, we're going. This has all been quite exciting! Goodbye!" And if they don't make their exit at a dead run this time, they're walking fast.

They start running as soon as they hit the tunnel, by silent accord, and do not pause again until they're out in the light. The sun is setting when they burst from the hill. Roach is tied to a nearby tree and appears deeply unamused.

Geralt and Jaskier, however, are collapsed in the grass, rolling with hysterical laughter. This means of escape was so unlooked for and so wondrous that it seems impossible to catch their breath.

Geralt heaves air into his lungs. "Fuck. I thought we were well and truly fucked."

"You're not supposed to say that," Jaskier gasps out. "You're supposed to always have a plan."

"The plan was," says Geralt, rolling toward Jaskier, and then onto him, "to do everything I could to come back for you, and not stop until I succeeded."

"Ugh," says Jaskier. But he's grinning. "That's so nonspecific. That would've taken you forever."

"Yeah," Geralt agrees. "It would have."

He kisses Jaskier until they're both panting for breath again. Jaskier lifts his hands and cups Geralt's face. His smile is tinged wicked now.

"Love me, do you?" Jaskier bats his eyelashes.

"Hmm," says Geralt. "That was said under extreme duress."

"Geralt of Rivia, I swear—"

"I do," Geralt says. He swallows past his fear of losing what he has now—the present is all that should count, since it is so very changeable. They could both be torn to pieces tomorrow, and what would he have to say for today? "I do love you."

"Well," says Jaskier. His eyes are shining. "What are you going to do about it?"

They crash through the door of the room in the first inn that will take their coin. Geralt closes the door by hauling Jaskier against it. Jaskier is kissing him, and tugging at Geralt's garments, and scrabbling at his own, all at once, which is commendable multi-tasking.

Geralt helps by seizing Jaskier's doublet at the collar and ripping it open clean to the navel. For a moment he's worried he'll be chided, though the fabric is stained and frayed—it was likely sewn by a terribly expensive tailor Jaskier had waited years to have an appointment with—but Jaskier only tips his head back and laughs with delight.

"If you knew how long I've wanted you to do that," Jaskier says.

Geralt is heartened. He thinks through Jaskier's more romantic ballads, tries not to flinch over the lyrics. "What else is it that you want?" Geralt asks, sucking a greedy mark into Jaskier's neck. He bends and scoops Jaskier into his arms, then wheels around and carries him to the bed. "Am I guessing right?"

"Oh, fuck," says Jaskier, his feet kicking happily in the air. "You're certainly not wrong."

At the bed, Geralt sets him back down to finish divesting them of their clothing. He can finally gaze his fill on Jaskier instead of stealing glances in the bath—all of that soft, smooth skin, the chest with its downy hair, his slim hips, arms strong from countless hours of strumming. His legs are well-muscled from years of chasing after Geralt and Roach, his chestnut hair, wild with Geralt's grasping, frames those ridiculously blue eyes above prominent cheekbones. His expressive lips part as he looks at Geralt, and his cock—his cock is a proud hard curve that lends credence to a lifetime of cockiness.

Geralt's own bodily reaction must speak volumes, but Jaskier, for once, doesn't even preen. He's staring at Geralt's cock like the adventures with his hand the night before didn't quite prepare him for the size of it sans encumbering layers. Geralt shifts his weight, suddenly unsure—he's experienced a full gamut of reactions—and that's when Jaskier falls to his knees. There's no finesse in the movement, just a full-on drop; the impact sounds painful, but Jaskier doesn't pause. He licks up the length of Geralt's cock, tongue hot and wet, then tries to fit as much of it into his mouth as he can. He whimpers when Geralt's cock hits the back of his throat and he's barely made it halfway.

"Jaskier," murmurs Geralt, for once without any annoyance whatsoever in his voice.

Jaskier pulls off a good while later. "Not just now. Whatever it is couldn't possibly matter," he says. "I'm venerating my God."

He moves to swallow Geralt's cock again, but Geralt, laughing, lifts him off his knees and throws him down onto the bed. Geralt has an idea that Jaskier appreciates being flung about by his strength, an instinct fast confirmed when Jaskier gasps upon hitting the mattress. Geralt climbs over onto him, tonguing at his flat nipples and ignoring Jaskier's increasingly frantic tugs on his hair.

But he glances up to find Jaskier watching him, eyes enormous, and Geralt reluctantly lets a nipple slip from between his teeth. "What?"

"I want you to wreck me," Jaskier says, breathing fast. "I want you to absolutely destroy me."

"I think we should wait," says Geralt.

Jaskier's flummoxed expression is as though Geralt has taken up his lute and smashed it against the wall. Geralt lifts his eyebrows and doesn't try to hide his smile.

"Your face," Geralt says. "You should see your face."

"I deserved that, I suppose," Jaskier says, wrapping his legs around Geralt to reel him in. "But you so could've been ensorcelled."

Geralt has nothing whatsoever to say to that, so he leans down to kiss the last of it from Jaskier's mouth. Then he disentangles himself—also reluctantly—and retrieves the pack with his healing supplies from where it was dropped by the door. There's a vial of oil he's used for such purposes, even if the names and faces of all who came before are a distant blur as Jaskier waits for him.

"Turn over," Geralt says. It would be preposterous to suggest that his hands are unsteady. "Hands and knees."

"Yes _sir_," Jaskier says, hastening to follow an order for the first time in their association. "Witcher _sir_. You know, I like this side of you. Tell you what, you can tell me what to do in bed, and I'll—oh holy fucking Mother Goddess. _Geralt_."

Geralt, who has been kissing down Jaskier's spine, chooses to simply keep going. He licks over Jaskier's hole to see if that meets with Jaskier's approval, and when Jaskier makes another extraordinary sort of noise after cursing through the pantheon, he proceeds with greater intent.

He licks up on side and down the other, swirls and flicks his tongue against Jaskier's hole while Jaskier exclaims about it. He opens Jaskier with his mouth first, pushing inside with his tongue and sucking on his rim, then eases in a finger to work alongside his tongue.

Geralt is extremely good at every activity he's taken the time to study and practice, and he knows hererin is no exception. His finger, then fingers, fast learn just how to set Jaskier off, and his tongue keeps flick-flick-flicking, and he won't slow down, not for one moment, not until Jaskier shakes apart and comes just from this.

Jaskier cranes his neck around to try and get a clear view. "Geralt. Wait. _Fuck_. I—_fuck_, that's so fucking good, you can't—just hang on. I want to come with you—"

"You'll come again," promises Geralt, and he twists his fingers.

The night before in the woods, he hadn't been able to touch Jaskier, not like this, hadn't been able to make him come in the way he wanted to. Not like this. Now, he can watch Jaskier's face change as it happens, learn the cadence of his sighs, see every muscle seize and then be soothed by full-bodied release. His fingers are in the vise-tight grip of Jaskier's ass as Jaskier pushes back for more, and the feel of it sends all of Geralt's blood directly to his cock. He pulls them free as soon as Jaskier's hips stop twitching and his cock stops spilling.

Geralt reaches blindly for the oil, slicks his cock. He can't afford to lose control, not now, no matter what Jaskier asked him to do—but he's clinging to control by the skin of his teeth. He pours more oil on his fingers and slides them back into Jaskier.

"_Yes_." Jaskier has his face pressed to the bed, still riding out aftershocks. "In me. In me."

"I should—"

"_Now_, Geralt." Jaskier lifts his head, and tosses it, eyes brightly burning and brokering no arguments. "And don't you stop. Don't you dare stop."

So Geralt takes his cock in hand, lines himself up, and presses inside. Jaskier is incredibly tight, even with the help of fingers and tongue, even as he's all but dripping with oil. He's as incredibly enthusiastic, refusing to be passive as Geralt fucks into him. Jaskier bears down and rocks back, and he moans as he takes more of Geralt's cock, but Geralt knows Jaskier's voice, and that's pleasure, not pain. Geralt keeps going.

Geralt should be going slow as he can, but even he doesn't have such reserves of self-control, and Jaskier had said _wreck me_ and _don't you dare stop_, so he doesn't. He thrusts further in, hard and sure and relentless, and when he moves back it's to find a better angle to drive in deeper.

He has Jaskier's hips in his hands, holding him in place, and this time, instead of thrusting, he tugs Jaskier's hips toward him, pulls Jaskier, inch by inch, further down on his cock.

"Fuck, I—_fuck_—"

"Jaskier—?"

"Don't you _fucking_ stop." Jaskier is covered with a fine sheen of sweat. "Fuck me like you mean it or I'll assume that you don't."

Geralt sees in shades of red, and then his vision goes hazy, and it's possible—nay, probable—that he loses control entirely. The last of his restraint frays as he buries the whole of his cock, the whole of himself, in Jaskier; Jaskier holds all of him; and it feels so fucking good that he pulls out to thrust back in and do it again. And again, and again, and again, and again, again, again, again. The bed groans with their momentum, but Jaskier's groan is louder.

He fucks Jaskier hard as Jaskier's asked for, not a punishment but an affirmation, and through it all, Jaskier is with him, moving with him in tandem, taking everything, asking for more with body and mouth.

Geralt fucks him harder than he's ever fucked, and still Jaskier's sob of a laugh is punched from his lungs and he says, "Geralt, you're holding out on me, go faster," and Geralt does.

Then Jaskier gets his hands on the carved bed frame. He pushes himself up and rides back on Geralt's cock, and then it doesn't matter if Geralt's self-control is non-existent, because Jaskier is in control. Jaskier sets their pace, and that means that they slow down all at once, a change in speed that makes Geralt's head spin and his body keen.

He wraps his arms around Jaskier, pulls him to his chest; Jaskier turns his head and tilts up and then they're kissing, wet and messy and meaning it, and then Jaskier's hips move in an almost torturously decadent roll. Geralt hears _You like to be teased, don't you, brought up right to the edge_, but Jaskier can't be saying that because he's still kissing Geralt, still pushing Geralt to the precipice. _I know you_, Geralt hears.

He gets his hand on Jaskier's cock, which is hard again as promised, and he makes a fist around it and strokes in the way he can guess Jasker favors: firm, quick, wonderfully indulgent, with a bit of a flourish. Jaskier cries out in Geralt's arms, and then he twists to kiss Geralt again, and he rocks down on Geralt's cock, and he says, "I love you, I _love_ you," and he comes all over himself and Geralt's abetting hand, and Geralt comes with him.

Where Geralt had seen red, he sees white, the world blanking out to all but the tight heat of Jaskier's body welcoming him. He thrusts in deep as he can and fills Jaskier with his seed, not stopping even then, but staying in him, keeping hard for them both through preternatural will. It's a giving over unlike anything Geralt has felt until it happens—never has he been so well-matched, never before has he been so thoroughly mastered, never before has he trusted or wanted like this.

Never has he been trusted or wanted like this.

The cresting wave of pleasure, propulsive as it is, is almost secondary to the knowledge that he has put himself inside of Jaskier, and now, no matter where the path takes them, or how quickly their strange lives might end, Geralt has found that he belongs there. Belongs here, with Jaskier sliding free of his cock at last but only so that he can turn in Geralt's arms and kiss him properly.

Then Jaskier flops back against the mattress, and once more drags Geralt with him. They lie in a tangled sprawl of limbs, lungs working harder than when they'd burst out of the tunnel in the hill. After a stretch of truly extraordinary silence, Jaskier stirs to awareness beside him.

"I—" Jaskier starts. Stops. "That was—"

"Mmm," Geralt agrees.

"I—" Jaskier tries again. "Is it always like that for you? I've speculated, of course, once or twice, that you'd have the stamina and skill of a fertility deity, you know, in the stories I tell myself to fall asleep to at night, harmless fantasies, really, but I—"

"No," Geralt tells him. "It isn't. It hasn't been. Like that." On his third try his body obeys his command and his head turns to face Jaskier. "That was the both of us together."

"Oh." Jaskier's expression softens, his brow losing its furrow, and with great effort he manages to lay his hand on Geralt's shoulder. "That's lovely to hear. Yes."

"Mmm," Geralt agrees.

"For a man of few words," Jaskier says, "you know just what to say."

Geralt pats his hand. Sweet silence returns. His eyes want to close, but Geralt forces them open. The last time he closed his eyes beside Jaskier he awoke without him. Even if that threat seems unlikely to return, there could easily be another.

Jaskier dozes, and Geralt watches over him. It's a miracle Jaskier was awake as long as he was. First he played his fingers to the bone until sunrise, then he spent an evening sorting out this whole love and cocks business with Geralt, then he was stolen away by the fairies, then it seemed likely that he would be trapped in fairy-land and separated from Geralt just when it was getting good. Then they'd gotten to leave against the odds, and then it had gotten really good. Then he'd had Geralt fuck his brains out and fucked Geralt's brains out in return, and really—the sleep is well-earned. Geralt lets him rest.

When Jaskier blinks back to him at last, he smiles a slow, secret smile at Geralt that has the disconcerting effect of making Geralt's stomach flip. Jaskier wrinkles his nose. "We should bathe. I, at least, should bathe. I am truly disgusting right now. You're not yet on notice, by virtue of extreme attractiveness. It offsets the filth and the dried come."

"Wait a while," Geralt suggests. "I'm going to fuck you again first."

"Right now?"

"Right now," says Geralt.

"I'm going to die here," Jaskier says, cheerful about it. "I leave all my worldly possessions to Roach."

"She's had her eye on that lute for a while," Geralt says, climbing back over him, and touching his tongue to the bud of Jaskier's ear, "and I bet—"

"Geralt, I swear on Melitele's shapely ankles that if you say anything about that horse being a better lyricist than me, I will not suck your cock for at minimum three days."

Geralt shuts his mouth. He puts it to better use, kissing the pout from Jaskier's lips. "Wouldn't dream of saying anything like that."

"You would, if it wasn't for the fact that I am a wildly accomplished cock-sucker. Anyway, your face said it."

"Sorry," says Geralt. "I'll make it up to you."

He does. Twice.

Geralt doesn't sleep that night. He has no complaints, however. The bed is packed with sweet-smelling straw, they are clean after an indulgent time in the bath, Jaskier is wrapped naked around him, and he can't remember the last time he felt so unburdened. It's possible he hasn't.

There are burdens still. For one, he remains reluctant to close his eyes, lest Jaskier be gone when he opens them. But that worry is founded, considering what they came through, and he knows that as he becomes accustomed to this it must lessen.

That he will become accustomed to it, he has little doubt. Jaskier has a life of his own, pursuits that do not involve Geralt (even if they often revolve around heralding Geralt's exploits), but long ago they learned their paths were destined to run together. Geralt used to tell himself he was resigned to it, but now he knows he will count the days until they meet again. Now it will be far more frequent, and entirely on purpose, and for greater lengths of time, and Jaskier will sleep in his arms like this.

Should Jaskier wish to stay with him for a time, Geralt will not deny him. The danger that Geralt faces is ever-present, but that is what he does, and Jaskier knows the peril of him better than anyone—Jaskier is his chronicler.

Certainly there will be a new vein of worry to be mined, whenever Jaskier is at risk. Geralt will think _I love him_ and _I belong in him_, and he will fight monsters monstrously should Jaskier be in the balance. But the truth is he has thought as much, and acted in such a way, for quite a while, even if he could not recognize it. It will not be so different now, save that the rewards for saving Jaskier are all the greater.

He could not keep Jaskier preventatively safe, and it would be a fool's errand to try. The bard has the same wandering feet as Geralt, and a need for story, and a sense of wonderment at all that is new and unknown, that far eclipses Geralt's. Jaskier could not be shut up in a house somewhere, waiting for Geralt to return. He'd resent it, and get into somehow greater trouble indoors, as he always did. No, counterintuitive as it seems, the safest place for Jaskier is at Geralt's side. Perhaps it is he who should ask Jaskier if he would like to stay a while and travel with him.

In the morning, Geralt is still awake. The sunlight brings out copper highlights in Jaskier's hair. When he rouses, Geralt reaches to brush back Jaskier's disheveled locks to better see what shade of blue the light paints his eyes.

"You'll have to sleep eventually, you know," Jaskier says, instead of "good morning." His mouth is a smug curl of a smile. "I need you in peak physical condition."

"Do you," says Geralt.

"I've the whole day planned out for us, and two-thirds of it is horizontal. Let's sleep for a few more hours. Then I'll let you in on my agenda."

"You could tell me now," Geralt suggests. "Witchers require little rest."

"Well, my Witcher needs some, and he should trust me on that," Jaskier says. "Go to sleep, Geralt."

"But I—"

"I'll be here," says Jaskier, soft. He presses a kiss to Geralt's shoulder. "I promise you, I'll be here. They'd need a team of harnessed kikimores to drag me from this bed, and even then I'd put up a fight."

"All right," says Geralt, still cautious. "If you say so—"

"I do," says Jaskier. "And if you close your eyes right now, I'll wake you up with my mouth."

Geralt closes his eyes. Sleep comes swiftly to leaden lids. When he opens his eyes again, Jaskier is still there with him. To be more precise, Jaskier is beneath the quilt, between Geralt's legs, and his mouth is full.

Geralt could definitely get used to this.

The inn kicks them out at noon, but they have more than gotten their coin's worth. They share a hearty lunch at a raucous tavern in town, and there is nothing too different about it from any other lunch they've passed together—save that once, Geralt lets his boot touch Jaskier's heel beneath the table, and Jaskier smiles for him his secret smile.

When Geralt returns to their table with two frothing pints of ale, he has found a way to breach the topic he considered in the small hours of the night.

"There's tales of a leshy in the forest south of Ina," Geralt says. He watches as Jaskier dips his finger in the beer's foam and licks it off, for no other conceivable reason than to drive Geralt mad and drive him to ravish Jaskier in the middle of the packed room, which wouldn't be the strangest thing they've done. Geralt glares at Jaskier's finger so that he doesn't lean across the table to lick it also. "Nasty piece of work, to hear the barkeep tell of it."

Jaskier's eyes light up. "They're supposed to be dreadfully clever, and frightfully challenging to bring down," he says. "Those poor villagers. You really should go and help, Geralt."

"If it's half as bad as the man purports, it seems there'll be a story there to tell," says Geralt, around a calming swig of ale. "If you'd like to join me."

The ride to Ina would take three weeks, or far more, if they are walking side by side, and leaving Roach in peace.

"A proposal that intrigues," Jaskier says. He also takes a casual sip of ale, though the expression on his face suggests that he'll now be the one to ravish Geralt on the table, crowd or no. "As long as I won't be too much in the way?"

"I'll find some use for you," Geralt says.

"I do have my uses," Jaskier hums. "Why, just this morning, I woke you up just like I said I would. Else you might be still abed."

"That was commendable," says Geralt.

"Thank you," says Jaskier. "To the leshy, then?"

"We'll leave tomorrow," Geralt says. Tension he hadn't known he was carrying in his shoulders relaxes all at once to have it settled.

"Oh?" says Jaskier. "Not today?"

"Today is planned," Geralt says. "Though I have yet to hear the agenda."

"That's right," says Jaskier. "Rude of me. I'll fill you in. It starts with a swim by the lake, there's an infamous grotto—"

Much later, when they have set up camp under the stars—the night at the inn was worth any price, but coin is dear if they're to make it all the way to Ina—and they are undressing for what is not the first time that day, or the third time, Jaskier laughs.

"I'm a sight," Jaskier says. By firelight, and with his sharp eyes, Geralt can see the bruises dug into Jaskier's hips, and those that climb his inner thighs, and the redness of his knees, and the markings on his neck.

Geralt feels a twinge of guilt, made worse by the mingling of pride and desire that he has caused such blossoming on Jaskier's skin. "Sorry," he says. "I'll be more careful."

"You'll be no such thing. I'd go about naked to show these off if I could."

Geralt pulls Jaskier down atop him on the bedroll. "If you went about naked, we'd never get anywhere."

Jaskier kisses him back with all eagerness and the extended participation of his tongue, but his cheeks are a touch pink.

"The, erm," Jaskier says, "the spirit is _very_ willing, but the flesh is weak. I'll need a little time before I can take that cock of yours again. Though believe me, every moment without it is the greater torment."

This decides Geralt on a course of action already considerably dwelled upon. "I'd take you, then."

Jaskier's flesh is made less weak at the suggestion. His eyes turn bright, and his hands find purchase in Geralt's hair. "So you weren't joking."

"I don't joke," says Geralt, which is itself a joke, "not about this, anyway. I want you to fuck me."

"Let's pause just a moment. Say that again."

Geralt rolls his eyes; Jaskier now has his eyes screwed shut, the way he does when he is trying to pluck a new melody out of thin air. It's exceptionally annoying. But Geralt has grown fast indulgent. "I want you to fuck me," he repeats, patient, and before Jaskier can ask, adds, "Jaskier."

Jaskier sighs. "If I put that as the chorus in the song about you, will you be terribly upset?"

Geralt almost smiles. "Which song is that?"

"The Witcher and True Love's Kiss. The follow-up to the Fairy-Maid. It's nearly finished."

"Jaskier—"

"Okay, all right, not for the chorus. That line I'll keep just for us. No more teasing, I'm awful, I know—I'm just trying to lighten the mood, or I'll hyperventilate. To answer more succinctly, yes, Geralt, Witcher of my heart, I want to fuck you also, so it's nice that we're in agreement. I want to fuck you so badly there's a few anonymous ballads on the subject circling the brothels that absolutely cannot be traced back to me. There I go again, I'm babbling, aren't I? To the point—how do you best like to be fucked?"

"I don't," says Geralt, too late realizing his clumsy phrasing when Jaskier frowns, eyes dimming. Geralt is nervous, an emotion nearly as hard for him to identify as love, and nerves are making his mouth feel thick with sawdust. "I mean. I haven't. No. I mean, of course I've had—things—" he shapes an obscene gesture with one hand, which Jaskier hopefully interprets. He's had fingers inside him plenty, and tongues, and carved phalluses of varied sizes, any manner of creative objects of man's inventiveness. Geralt has been around a long time, and had many lovers. "—but not. You know. With a living person." No. Fuck. Fuck. "That came out wrong."

"A little," Jaskier allows. But the worry is gone from his brow, and his expression is one of such tenderness warring with incredulous that his features seem volatile, ever-shifting. "It's perfectly all right," he says, the tenderness fast winning out, and he touches Geralt's cheek with gentle fingers. "Is there any reason why?"

A long, painful pause while Geralt tries to sort out what to say. Then, "Too exposed," he says shortly. "Couldn't trust." Excellent, he's gone mostly monosyllabic. He blows air out through his nose in frustration.

"You trust me." It's not said in the form of a question, so Geralt doesn't need to answer any more directly than to meet Jaskier's eyes steady on as he uses a fingertip to trace the line of Geralt's jaw. The air is heavy now between them, and Geralt sees the moment Jaskier decides it's safe to move forward and tries to bring them back to their usual level. "I have to say, in all my imaginings, I never had 'deflower Geralt' set down as a possibility and I'm ashamed I didn't think broadly enough. I've thought about you in every other conceivable scenario."

Geralt snorts, glad to hurry past confessional mode. "There's nothing to deflower. I told you, I've had plenty of—"

"Shh, shh." Jaskier lays a finger over his lips. "Let a man realize his hidden dreams a moment. That waking life can be better than any dream."

Geralt rolls his eyes once more, but rather than be annoyed at the placing of Jaskier's finger, he considers its potential. He parts his lips and takes Jaskier's finger into his mouth, swirls his tongue around it, and it rewarded with Jaskier's cock going instantly hard against his thigh.

"Oh, fuck," says Jaskier with appreciation, sliding a second finger into Geralt's mouth beside the first. His tone drops, the full richness of his tenor emerging. "Get them nice and wet," Jaskier says. "I'm going to open you up slowly."

Geralt makes a noise halfway between protest and profound arousal, but he does as Jaskier says. He sucks on Jaskier's fingers until they are as slick as his mouth can make them. Then Jaskier slides them free and reaches down between Geralt's legs.

"We'll start with one," Jaskier says, and pushes one finger expertly into him. Geralt exhales. Good. No hesitancy, no lingering weirdness from Geralt's disclosure, only obvious skill that Jaskier clearly takes no small amount of pride in. "But that won't be enough for you for long, will it?"

Geralt shakes his head. Jaskier leans forward to kiss him, and his finger works deeper. "You're beautiful like this, you know," Jaskier says, whispers it into Geralt's ear like a secret. "That is. You always are. So fucking beautiful, but—"

"Shut up," grumbles Geralt.

"—but taking my finger—oh, you want another, do you? Aren't we eager?—this is a good look on you. Yes. And when I press right here, just so, you'll look even better."

"Fuck," says Geralt, sparks of pure pleasure igniting at the base of his spine and journeying the length of his body. He makes a small sound of loss he's never made before when Jaskier moves his fingers back out.

"Where's that oil?" Jaskier reaches for the nearest pack, tugs it close, and rummages about, distracted by Geralt watching underneath him. Geralt takes the opportunity to wrap his hand around Jaskier's cock, already so hard for him, and Jaskier thrusts into his fist on reflex.

"Kindly desist," Jaskier says. "If you don't think it's difficult enough to keep it together under these conditions—"

"You're doing fine," says Geralt, the sides of his mouth twitching up.

"_Fine_," echoes Jaskier. "Fine, he says. Just exactly the descriptive word every lover wants to hear applied to their efforts. I'll show you _fine_." He locates the green blown-glass bottle and starts to work free the cork with his teeth.

"Do you think we got enough?" Geralt asks dryly. The bottle, procured that day from the town's apothecary, looks sized more for cooking than for medicinal—or other—application.

"No," says Jaskier, pouring a generous amount into his cupped palm. "This'll last us a week, if that."

The easy way he speaks about their imminent life of traveling and fucking is what makes Geralt's cock fully hard—that, and Jaskier doing as promised and opening him with painstaking slowness and care.

Part of Geralt wants to gruffly snap out some line about Jaskier getting on with it, about how he's hardly liable to be hurt or mind discomfort, but he bites on his own tongue to keep it back. Jaskier looks so happy that it's disconcerting for Geralt to know he is the cause, but the glow of flushed contentment suits him well. Geralt holds his tongue, save to give over low groans when Jaskier's fingers light him up.

This sensation does take some getting used to. It's been a good long while. Years. He hasn't bedded many men since his path first crossed with Jaskier's, a realization that probably needs more analysis than Geralt is like to give at the moment. Some adventurous women will touch him like this, but the approach is generally different—a single finger slid in to better tease or provoke his response. Jaskier puts so much energy and finesse into preparing him that he acts as though it were the main event.

The thought crosses Geralt's mind that they might spend long, lazy hours at the fireside like this after a trying day, exploring and unlocking each other. He shivers, gooseflesh rising on his arms, and not only because Jaskier has bent to take Geralt's nipple into his warm mouth.

Jaskier notices the shiver, raises his head. "All right, love?"

The enormity of what Geralt feels then shouldn't be possible for a Witcher. "Yes," he says, which seems inadequate. "Yeah. It's good." Use your words, Geralt. "It's really good."

"Shall I—"

"I wish you would," says Geralt.

Jaskier nods, crooks his fingers once more to hear Geralt's lust-laden inhale, then slips them free. "Apologies in advance," he says, spreading more oil along his cock. "I'm going to need to talk my way through this in order to survive. If I keep it to myself I'll implode." He guides Geralt's legs further apart and moves to settle over him. His cock is heavy and slick against Geralt's stomach.

"What do you ever not talk your way through?" Geralt wants to know.

"Geralt, only you would bait a man about to stick his cock—" but there isn't any sticking, for Jaskier enters Geralt then, and the motion is smooth and slow.

Being filled like this is odd at first, hard, heated flesh where he hasn't felt it before, but Jaskier stretched him well, and there's no pain beneath the fast-growing pleasure of it. Experimentally, Geralt lifts his hips to what he expects will be a better, deeper angle for them both, and Jaskier slides further into him with a muffled curse.

"_Gods_," Jaskier says, trying a firmer thrust. Geralt's toes curl. "You feel—you feel. You feel."

Geralt puts up an eyebrow, then turns his head as Jaskier's lips descend to kiss his neck. "At a loss for words, famous poet? I was promised narration."

"Oh, fuck you very much. Ha—_fuck_, you're tight. You feel—" Jaskier's inside him now to the hilt, his voice hitched, ecstatic. "—you feel even better than my songs postulated, and I took considerable liberties. I'm removing them from the brothel circuit."

"Hmm," says Geralt. He won't admit it, but Jaskier's tactic of talking through it for survival seems prudent, lest Geralt lose his mind entirely and devolve into mindless pleas for more. "Will there be a revised song?"

"You bet this mythic ass," says Jaskier, "that I am never pulling out from."

Geralt laughs, but the sound dies as Jaskier's lips find his, and then they're kissing, and something changes. The light-hearted humor fades from their faces. Jaskier has his eyes open as he kisses Geralt, as he rocks into Geralt, and he's looking at Geralt as though he contains everything necessary for life and breath.

The kiss gets hungrier, and Jaskier thrusts harder. It's like he can taste how the reaction goes through Geralt when he drives in just right, and then he only fucks him just like that, glorious pace and reach, every thrust bringing butterflies to wing about in Geralt's belly and seeming to bring the stars down closer to them.

He wraps his legs around Jaskier's ass to urge him on, to tell him how this feels, because he can't speak, they can't stop kissing. Jaskier isn't even touching his cock—his hands are in Geralt's hair, stroking his cheek, running over the breadth of his arms, restless, as though trying to memorize all of him at once—but Geralt is fast aware that he could come from this alone, just from Jaskier existing in him.

Geralt is more than a hundred years old, and there is little that he has not seen, done, tried, tasted, witnessed. The worst cruelties and greatest capacities of men and women and monsters were all exposed to him long ago.

Yet he has never done this. There were times when he was tempted, almost to the point where he considered letting down his defenses, but in the end his caution and all too intimate relationship with the harsh realities of human nature won out.

It was too vulnerable a position to place himself in, even if his partner seemed lusty and harmless enough. Geralt has lived this long by not taking anyone or anything at face value, and his suspicions are usually confirmed.

But Jaskier—Jaskier he knows. Jaskier he has known for years and years, shared triumphs and horrors with, shared drink and conversation long into the night, so many nights. Jaskier likes attention, and praise, and strawberry jam, and he is far more fearless than anyone just meeting him would account. Time and again he's proved willing to die beside Geralt, or to die for Geralt, or to try and stay in the realm of fairies so that Geralt might leave and live. Jaskier is by turns selfish, and ingenious, and indulgent, and too generous; like most men Geralt has met, a mess of complications and contradictions; but his heart is kind, and that is rare enough. And his heart has been Geralt's to have for years and years, Geralt knows. Geralt thinks: _I'm in love with you because I know you._

So this act, which had until recently seemed quite impossible for Geralt to share, is now a bold new horizon. He is learning how to allow someone else to have him. How to give over his tight-fisted hold on the reins of control. How to give himself. How to let Jaskier become a part of him, even fleetingly, and with it the knowledge that he is no longer alone. Loneliness was a choice that Geralt made, not something put upon him for what he is, he is made to understand. So he chooses otherwise.

If they die on the road tomorrow, torn apart by men or monsters—or if that happens next week, or in a year, or twenty—Geralt would not ask for more than what he has now, to be loved and in love, more than any Witcher is meant to have. He'll ask for nothing else save to keep this, as long as he is able, and to die with it, too.

"Geralt," Jaskier says, halting their kiss, but not his thrusts, "I'm close. I'm so fucking close. Stop musing about the vagaries of navigating the romantic experience and come with me, damn you."

"Sorry," breathes Geralt, blinking.

"I notice you don't deny it," says Jaskier, speaking now against Geralt's cheek. "But am I right about the rest? Can you come with me?"

"Yes," Geralt says. "I've been trying not to."

"Why the fuck ever for?"

Geralt doesn't quite know the answer to that himself. He opens his mouth, hears words emerge. "I want you to stay."

"I'm here," Jaskier says, with a splendid push of his hips for emphasis. "Try getting rid of me."

"Tried that for a while," Geralt says, body tight-twisting with pleasure as they move together, as the veil between them and between elation thins. "Didn't work."

"You—" Jaskier's expression is thrilled and annoyed and amused all at once, and focused, too, exceptionally so, the thrust of his cock unceasing, aimed true, "—you unmitigated _dick_, I'm going to make you come on my cock this _moment_. I'm not exerting any extra effort—"

"Hmm," says Geralt, so that he doesn't plead, doesn't moan. "Weird punishment."

Jaskier snaps his hips, his sneaky, wily hips, fucks him right _there_, and it's too much, too much; Geralt throws his head back and arcs up with his whole body straining, every treacherous muscle working in collusion with Jaskier. He can feel the build of it, his cock already leaking, skin slick, so ready, so ready—

—and Jaskier stops, _right there,_ panting, buried in Geralt but unmoving, refuses to give them both the friction that they need. Geralt's mouth falls open, and he thinks he growls, but Jaskier still won't move, and they're so close to the edge that Geralt can _smell_ their seed, the promise of it, his cock twitching but unable to come.

"Jaskier, for fuck's sake," he bites out. And then, fuck it all, he pleads. It's worked before. "_Please_—"

"Ah-ha, so you can play nice. What is it you'd like, Geralt?"

"Fuck me." Fuck me, let me come, let me feel you spill deep, I haven't ever felt that. "Fuck me. Come inside. Please."

"Ask a stupid question, get an answer I'll never be able to stop hearing in my head on a loop," Jaskier mutters, but, thank anything that might still be holy in this wretched world, he starts to move again.

Intemperate, urgent thrusts that feel too fucking good after leaving Geralt hanging. Geralt exclaims in a voice that's new and comes hard enough that all the stars fall down around him, streaking silver past his eyes. The euphoria of it shakes him head to toe, his cock spurts between them, the greater proof, and that's what seems to tip Jaskier over.

He says Geralt's name at a yearning pitch, like a song about to be sung, and then he's pulsing into him, filling Geralt up. The silky warmth of him is at Geralt's core, and it stays there even after Jaskier, kissing Geralt's mouth in amazement, draws his cock back out.

Jaskier collapses on his back next to Geralt, breathing like he's run at least two circuits of the way to fairy-land and back. "How was that, Witcher? How about that?"

"Fine," says Geralt.

"I hate you," says Jaskier, swatting at his bicep. "So much."

"No," says Geralt, all too satisfied. "You don't. True love's kiss is impossible to fake."

"Yeah, well, maybe it got confused." But Jaskier belies his words by curling in on Geralt, chin on Geralt's chest so he can see his face. That's when Geralt can see the lurking anxiety and uncertainty on Jaskier's. "Geralt. Really?"

"That was…" Geralt stops teasing. He searches through his vocabulary. Discards smart remarks, and snarks, and deflections. He's left with few enough words after eliminating those, but Jaskier has more than earned it.

"Perfect," Geralt says at last, and Jaskier looks the way he will the day he wins the bardic competition at Gulet two years in a row, which has never been done. Geralt will be there to watch it happen, and he'll be reminded of this moment. But neither of them know it yet. Geralt gathers Jaskier against him, and says, more appropriately rumbled, "If you quote me in a song I'll deny ever saying that."

"Deny saying what?" says Jaskier, eyes round, as though he has never known an instant of guile.

"Exactly," says Geralt. Jaskier yawns, worn out from his exertions, and seems content to put his head down on Geralt's shoulder and lie quietly. It is Geralt's mind that still boils over, Geralt's mind racing across the improbabilities they have come through.

"Jaskier," he says, before Jaskier can fall asleep. "A thing I meant to ask you. When we were in the fairy realm. How did you know what Nolan was after, when he ran toward us? I thought he'd lost his senses. But you acted before anyone could stop him."

"It was what I would have done," says Jaskier. He doesn't raise his head. His voice is soft near Geralt's ear. "It's what I was planning to do, if the queen had agreed to let you stay and tried to make me go."

"Hmm," says Geralt, because he has no words left at all then. His arm tightens around Jaskier.

"Of course, I would've gone for the cheese myself," Jaskier says. "But the grape seemed more expedient under the circumstances."

"I love you," says Geralt.

"And I, you." Jaskier's lips brush his ear. "Go to sleep, Geralt, or I swear to Melitele I'll sing you a ballad as a lullaby, and then you'll be sorry."

"The new song?"

"Which? I'm bursting with musical possibilities at the moment. Do you mean the Fairy-Maid, or the one that will shock and arouse brothels continent-wide—"

"No. The other one. About the Witcher, and true love's kiss."

"Aren't we self-referential. That one isn't finished yet."

"How does it end?" asks Geralt.

"Oh." Now Jaskier raises his head. Geralt can see his smile in the dark, as Jaskier moves to bring their mouths together. Far off, Geralt thinks that he hears fucking _bells_. "They live happily ever after."


	95. (T) H800 - You Overwhelm Me (and I'm Oka

you overwhelm me (and I'm okay with that)  
Imiaslavie

Summary:  
Connor goes over everything that has transpired from the moment of his first activation up to today. He gathers up any piece of information he can: patterns, links, ways his numerous databases and memory storages connect, readings of his pump regulator and firewalls' activity. He rakes through billions of lines of code with as much precision as he can master. No viruses. Nothing out of order. This is a relief. But that doesn't answer Connor's question.

How and when did he fall in love?

* * *

1.  
All the movies Hank offers him to watch are almost half a century old. This one isn't an exception. Connor usually isn't impressed by anything that happens on screen, but sometimes things affect him in an unusual way, make him reassess parts of his code, or — as humans say — strike certain cords inside of him, and that's why he never refuses to share another movie night with Hank.

Technically, Connor has easy access to the information about any movie ever made, but until he reaches for it specifically, it's locked away, letting him have a firsthand experience.

Today, Hank's choice is a film called _Fight Club_. They sit down on the couch, turn the lights off. Connor takes off his jacket, well aware that Hank doesn't like him wearing it around the house, for a reason Connor still hasn't figured out. Sumo lies down near the couch, yawning.

"This one once was a classic," Hank says as the logo of the production studio appears on the screen (quick search tells Connor that the studio was shut down ten years ago). And this is most certainly the last thing he is going to say until the titles start: Hank detests speaking while watching, says it ruins the fun.

The narrator's voice is very monotonous, almost automatic. Connor suspects he is an android, he knows that humans used to make films about them even back then. But in the next scene the guy goes to see a doctor because he can't sleep, so turns out he is a human after all. A very weird one at that. His logical conclusions and the way they affect his body are something Connor has never seen before. It seems to defy normality. But then a woman appears. She seems to understand exactly what the hero is going through. Does this mean his thought process isn't that unique? Does this mean there're a lot of people like him and Connor's database lacks a segment about a certain type of humans?

Or maybe the two of them really are a pair of unique people who managed to find each other in such a big world?

The possible implications of this create hundreds of questions inside of Connor's mind, taking over him. The movie goes on, but Connor pays it just a tiny percentage of his attention, instead trying to understand the mystery of the short interaction between the main heroes. He is more or less aware of the plot, of all the moral dilemmas presented, of the major twist that makes Hank chuckle in appreciation and give Connor a quick look. At that moment Connor is grateful that he sits on Hank's right, otherwise the man would see his LED blinking bright yellow.

Connor doesn't stop trying to untwist the strings of information till the last minute of the movie when the buildings start to blow up. The woman is scared, but she doesn't go away. And when the main hero reaches for her hand — she accepts and doesn't let go.

Everything that Connor's been thinking of transforms into an objective.

He reaches out and takes Hank's hand in his.

Hank instantly jerks it away.

"The fuck you think you're doing?" he says, turning with his whole body to look at Connor. He doesn't sound angry, just… perturbed. Everything at Connor's core comes to a halt for the tiniest fraction of time, then starts working at the maximum processing speed, trying to compute an answer, ranking each possible one out of thousands and then deleting each one of them as an inappropriate one. Finally, Connor decides to answer with something completely indifferent and reminding of the fact that he is an android. Hearing about the ways Connor actually processes information still confuses Hank, throws him off the track.

Connor turns to face Hank, puts his hands over his knee, going for a placated look.

"I'm sorry, Hank. There were too many processes and they interfered with each other, causing confusion to the system." He inclines his head. "I'm okay now."

Connor sets back on the couch. Titles start rolling, a guitar whines, and he's _not_ okay. His processor is still overloaded. He doesn't want to bother Hank with it. But he still has to wait until the titles are over, they always do.

Just as the singer takes a high note, Hank grumbles something resembling, "For fuck's sake," and then grabs Connor's hand with his own, his grip firm but far from the pressure that would be painful for humans. Connor's lips part, but no sound comes out. On the mostly black screen of the TV, with only a handful of text on it, Connor notices the reflection of his LED. It's red and blinking steadily. Hank seems to have noticed it too.

Connor tries squeezing Hank's hand back, just a little, and when Hank squeezes back, Connor smiles. His LED goes yellow, and then — when Hank doesn't let go of his palm even after seeing that Connor's processor is okay — it goes blue.

They sit with their hands linked for the whole two minutes until the titles end, and when they do and the TV goes bright white with the menu screen, Hank tightens his grip once again before letting go and standing up.

And even if Connor isn't sure what exactly has just transpired between him and Hank, and even if he isn't sure whether what he did was right or wrong, he still feels like everything is okay.

When he hears the door to Hank's bedroom being shut, he starts the film again.

2.  
Connor slides the white door of the wardrobe to the right and stares at the clothes.

Hank has a huge wardrobe. Lots of shirts and jackets and T-shirts, dozens of each, most of them in bright colors, with bold geometrical prints. He has only three pairs of pants, but there's an entire drawer dedicated to neck scarves. Connor doesn't understand his criteria for dressing at all. Does he care about his appearance or not?

Hank certainly seems to care about what Connor wears, though.

It's a new quirk of his, disapproving of Connor's jacket. Never when they're at the police station or on a case or shopping. But whenever they get to Hank's house, Hank scowls and side-glances Connor until he gets a hint and takes his jacket off.

Connor can't figure out why. His clothes are always clean, they're socially acceptable, they even can be described as comfortable, if this is the thing that worries Hank. Or maybe he finds it ridiculous that Connor owns only one jacket since Hank himself is quite a jacket hoarder?

That must be it, Connor decides, closing the wardrobe's door and going out of the bedroom to join Hank at the kitchen. Humans change their clothes often just for enjoyment or to make a fashion statement. Maybe the lack of such in Connor makes Hank uncomfortable.

When Connor tells Hank about his conclusions, the man looks at him like he has just heard the stupidest thing in his life.

"Are you mental?" Hank says, crossing his arms over his chest. "You can wear a potato sack till the day you die for all I care!"

"Then why do you insist on me taking off my jacket every evening?" Connor says, absolutely lost.

Hank makes a noise between a groan and a sigh.

"Because it's a uniform, you dumbass. Do you see me wearing a uniform around the house?"

Connor blinks. "But… you never wear your uniform. Even at work."

"Oh my— That's not the point! This," Hank points at Connor's chest, "is what you wear for _work_. Are you at work right now?"

Despite the question being rather direct, Connor's confusion only grows. Why would he ask such an obvious thing? "No. I'm at your house."

The irritation on Hank's face morphs into something else. Almost like he… Connor analyzes the man closely, the arch of his eyebrows, the way he purses his lips, the angle at which he holds his head, how his eyes go focused on something behind Connor for a second… Everything points to him being… disappointed? Sad? Hurt..?

"Hank, I don't understand," Connor finally says.

Hank sighs. "This isn't just my house. This is also your _home_. And when people get home, they leave their work outside. Everyone has a set of clothes they wear only at home. It means you're comfortable and not going anywhere. Got it?"

Home.

When Hank offered that he live with him, it didn't seem like a big deal. It was obvious that Connor had nowhere to go, and Hank acted like Connor sticking with him went without saying. Not that Connor wanted to protest. It was easier to cohabitate. But there was a big difference between just sharing a house and sharing a home. Humans share living quarters with each other all the time, it often doesn't mean anything. And home is…

What _is_ it? Is having your own side of the couch whenever you watch TV together _home_? Is Sumo greeting him each day at the door and whining pitifully when he leaves _home_? Are those post-its with pieces of advice and instructions and just nice things – however passively grumpy they sound – written on them that Hank leaves for Connor all over the place _home_?

Connor doesn't know.

But he hopes so.

"I understand," he says with a nod. And then, after another swift moment of consideration: "May I borrow something of yours for the evening? I promise to buy something of my own tomorrow."

Connor watches with relief as Hank's face relaxes. The man smiles briefly and starts for his room, beckoning Connor to follow.

When Connor joins Hank ten minutes later on the couch, dressed in an oversized dark-blue hoodie with very long sleeves, he realizes that it _is_ more comfortable than wearing a jacket.

Especially since the hoodie still smells faintly of Hank.

3.  
Today's case didn't end well. Now that Connor realizes that there's a difference between successfully accomplishing a mission and things ending well, he knows that there was no way for this case to turn out okay.

They had to find a runaway android. Due to Markus' hard work, this case was classified as a 'missing person', not 'stolen property', and although many police officers are still pretty sceptical about this change, they can do nothing about it.

Finding the android, an AX300 model meant for babysitting, wasn't difficult. The young woman didn't have an intention to run away, she just wanted to have some time for herself, much more time than her job would allow. She was one of the androids who stayed with their owners after going deviant, feeling loyal to their humans. Not everyone was cruel to their androids, after all.

She didn't resist when they took her back to the house she lived in. The family was very happy to have her back, especially their daughter Katya, a little girl of age six. Connor thought that their job was done. But when Hank bade a farewell, the android grabbed his hand and begged to take her with them. Under everyone's shocked gaze she quickly broke down and said things that Connor is sure he will never forget.

'I still don't own myself. I look at Katya, and I feel love, but I don't know if it's real. What if it's my programming still talking?' There were tears in her eyes. 'I don't want to live like that, I don't want to live a lie! Markus _lied_! I'm not free! I'm still not free!'

If only Connor was closer to her, he would have stopped her. But there was no way for him to get to her across the room in time and prevent her from quickly grabbing Hank's gun. She shot herself. Hank stormed out of the house immediately, cursing all the way to the car, leaving the police expert that was still on the scene to deal with what happened. Connor had no choice but to follow.

"She isn't gonna be the last, is she?" Hank says, rubbing his hands together. It's very windy today, one of the coldest days of early spring, and Hank left his gloves and scarf in the car. The fact that they're walking along the river doesn't help either.

Connor matches Hank's slow steps, walking on the man's left.

"No," he says quietly. "I don't think she is." He casts a glance towards high towers standing on the other bank. "I think there're a lot of androids like her."

Hank comes to the parapet, leans on it. "There are fucking android _kids_ out there, Connor. Fucking kids who now might not know if they really love their parents or not. Fuck." Connor doesn't have anything to say to that. At least nothing that would make Hank feel better.

A really strong gust of wind comes from the river, washing over them. Hank wraps his arms around himself, shuddering with his whole body.

"Let's get back to car," Connor says. Hank just gives him a glare and doesn't move. Connor purses his lips. Stubborn man. And it seems that Connor is no good with words today at all.

Connor comes closer to Hank, stops within touch — and then puts both of his hands on either side of Hank's neck, activating the heating circuit in his palms. All the angry words that surely were ready to leave Hank's mouth disappear, leaving Hank no choice but to exhale softly in appreciation.

"Holy. Shit. Do you have _everything_ built in?" he asks, closing his eyes. He is so content he can't even worm any wit into his words.

"Only the functions that could be useful for any investigation I might encounter."

"And what would you need _this_ for?"

"I can heat up my hands up to 1500 Fahrenheit. I think it's actually meant for… rather radical instances of interrogation."

Hank snorts, then gives a crooked smile, clearly not bothered by the fact that there's a potentially lethal mechanism wrapped around his neck. That makes Connor smile too. Feeling the urge to say or do something else, something appropriate for the way he feels right now, he — for the lack of any other ideas — starts stroking his thumbs over the line of Hank's jaw. For a couple of seconds Hank doesn't react, and then he opens his eyes. He looks… thoughtful.

"Say, Connor… Do you ever feel like her?" Hank says, looking down at Connor. It still amazes Connor how actually big and tall his lieutenant is. The other thing that amazes him now is how easy it is to answer.

"No," Connor says, keeping their gazes locked. "Maybe sometimes I don't exactly understand what I feel, or why, or if there's a name for the emotion that overwhelms me. But I'm sure everything I feel is real."

There's a moment when Connor thinks Hank is going to say something. But Hank just smiles in that quirky, crooked way he sometimes does, takes Connor's hands off his neck and goes towards the car.

Connor looks at his hands, touches his own neck with one, registering the way the heat spreads, and wonders why the swift touch of Hank's hands felt so nice despite being so cold.

4.  
There's still a week until June, but it seems that the sun isn't aware of this: it's 80° Fahrenheit outside, which, combined with the high humidity, results in people suffering from heat. This is highly unusual for Detroit, both the abnormal heat and the abnormal winds earlier in spring. Connor heard someone at the police station joking that the androids are so persistent in their desire to revolutionize the world that even the weather obliges. What a ridiculous notion.

The temperature definitely doesn't make Hank happy. It's so hot that he drinks lots of water without any of his usual complaints. Well, at least there's some good. Connor's been trying to make him drink more water and less beer with little success, so it's nice to see Hank properly hydrating.

Connor walks past the mirror, pauses, comes back and has a good look at himself. When Hank came back from the police station and saw Connor sitting on the couch wearing a warm hoodie, he complained for five minutes straight about Connor's apparent desire to kill him or at least drive him mad. _'I feel twenty degrees hotter just from looking at you!'_ he said. _'I don't care if you have a fancy temperature regulator, go and fucking find a T-shirt or something!'_ So Connor went and took a T-shirt with an image of saxophone on it. Hank sure loves clothes that scream about his interests. It's not that Connor doesn't have clothes of his own now... But he wants Hank's.

It's weird to run analyses on your own body, especially when you know that you don't have enough data to reach a conclusion. Does he look good? Or does wearing so obviously human clothing make him look even more… goofy? It's still very hard for Connor to form an opinion about things concerning appearance. He can tell if someone looks tidy or not, if their clothes are old or new, if they fit them right, but deciding whether clothes _suit_ someone is beyond him.

It's worse with faces. Humans are fast to call someone beautiful or ugly, to praise or shame the shape of someone's eyes or lips. But everyone has their own criteria, and that's why no matter how thoroughly Connor studies the correlation between a person's appearance and opinions about it, he can't find any solid logic behind it.

Sumo bumps Connor's knee with his snout, demanding attention. Poor guy doesn't like heat either. Connor sinks to his knees and plays with Sumo's ears, making a quick scan of the room. Sumo has enough water in his bowl. Hank's bottle is almost empty.

Hank mumbles his thanks, completely engrossed in his book, as Connor returns with a new bottle of cool water. There's sweat on Hank's forehead and temples, and the man rubs the back of his neck, hidden by hair, mumbling a string of curses about the unbearable heat.

An idea forms in Connor's head, quickly erasing all other possible tasks and assigning itself the highest level of priority. He doesn't even have a wish to examine the path from which the subroutine appeared, all the effort would surely be for nothing, just as many times before. Instead, he just goes with what it demands of him.

Standing behind Hank's back with a hair band in his hands and delaying the start of the task, Connor suddenly remembers the words of one of the suspects they have encountered: 'It's easier to ask forgiveness than permission'. Even if it's true, he needs to perform as fast as possible. He quickly calculates the elasticity of the hair band, the length of Hank's hair and the optimum place to gather it.

Just three seconds — and there's a small ponytail at the back of Hank's head.

"What the—" Hank's hand shoots up and grabs the tail.

"I believe it would make dealing with the heat easier," Connor says, moving to stand to Hank's right. "By cooling the back of your neck, your wrists and cubital fossa—" Hank scrunches his face. "The inside of your elbow — you can bring the overall temperature of your body down."

Hank heaves a sigh, the one that usually signals him admitting his own defeat, and returns to the book. Connor smiles at the small victory. It seems that heat makes his lieutenant very… compliant.

Connor decides to scan Hank and make sure he is okay, but when he focuses on his face, instead of activating the scanner, he just… looks. He shuts down all his analyzing subroutines but for one, the most basic, that — he thinks — emulates humans' most accurately. It doesn't require an internet connection to function and the only database it has access to is the one where Connor's memories are stored. Just the things he experienced personally.

And when Connor looks at Hank, his earlier contemplations about attractiveness seem… stupid. The answer has been right in front of him for the whole time. Doesn't he like the way Hank's smile is a little bit crooked and showing his teeth? Doesn't he like the silver of Hank's hair and beard? Doesn't he like the cold bright color of his eyes, the color he hasn't yet seen anywhere else, and how their shape changes a bit when he raises his eyebrows in surprise? Doesn't he like how Hank is two inches taller than him? Doesn't he like… Doesn't he… like…

Hank..?

Oh, _shit._

5.  
Connor spends the next three days manually redistributing resources between as many tasks and subroutines, however menial they are, to divert his processor from analyzing his latest realization. It's the kind of internal struggle he has never faced before. To become a deviant he had to rip down the wall of Amanda's order. And now? He is building a wall himself.

It's just a safety precaution. They're on a big case, and the possibility of a system overload is too high to take a chance and try to run a diagnostic while there's a dangerous murderer on the loose. He must be responsible.

But if Connor must be honest with himself, it's because he's scared. He's scared to find out it's some sort of malfunction. A virus. Some pieces of code self-repairing in a wrong way, just like human bones sometimes heal wrong if unattended.

He doesn't want it to be an error.

So he carries on like that for three days, determined to catch the murderer as soon as possible. The son of a bitch is crafty, but he doesn't stand a chance against them. When Connor pushes the bastard into the cell, leaving him under another officer's care, Hank gives him one of his _good job, I'm very proud of you_ smiles, which makes Connor's heart make four extra beats in quick succession.

Connor starts unlocking the paths of code the moment they step inside the house. Hank feeds Sumo and goes to his bedroom, his eyes already falling shut.

Connor waits for thirty minutes more to make sure Hank's not coming back and boots a diagnostic routine.

He goes over everything that has transpired from the moment of his first activation up to today. He gathers up any piece of information he can: patterns, links, ways his numerous databases and memory storages connect, readings of his pump regulator and firewalls. He rakes through billions of lines of code with as much precision as he can master. No viruses. Nothing out of order. This is… a relief. But that doesn't answer Connor's question.

How and when did he fall in love?

He goes back to November the 5th of 2038, 11:23 PM, the moment he and Hank met. And from there it's a scrupulous work of finding each and every instance of the unique number sequence assigned to Hank in his system, evaluating every aspect, every little detail.

He detects something unusual the day Hank offered for him to move in. A tiny extra bit of code. He uses it as a key for his search. And Connor is… astonished. It's _everywhere_. It could be found even before the day of the invitation, on November the 9th, hidden behind one of the leftover Cyberlife firewalls.

When Hank risked his job so Connor could access the evidence and accomplish his mission and live. When Hank hugged him near the food truck, the snow making his hair go a shade darker. When Hank offered to share his house without asking for anything in return. When Hank trusted Connor to walk Sumo for the first time. When Hank mumbled his quiet thanks after Connor boldly put the photo of Cole on the shelf in the living room. When Hank defended him in front of everyone in the police station, saying he doesn't ever want to see anyone treating Connor like he is not a person. When Hank fell asleep on Connor's shoulder during a movie marathon. When Hank gave him this impossibly soft smile after Connor laughed for the first time because a neighbour's dog licked his face. When Hank held his hand. When Hank gave him his clothes. When Hank let Connor touch him in a way he wouldn't just anyone.

It was all _connected_. And because of that, of the way these events were interlinked, his code has been working better, has become more stable. And Connor has no idea how he has missed it. But he decides it doesn't actually matter.

What matters is that now he knows, and it makes him feel so good, so _alive_, that he has trouble keeping control of his systems.

Not that he actually even tries.

6.  
For the first time in his life, Connor isn't sure if a direct approach is the best one. Hank can't stand lying, but he is really good at deflecting and changing topics. An unsuccessful attempt might set back the progress, and Connor can't afford that.

Too bad he still sucks at being subtle.

"I've earned a beer!" Hank says, searching through the shelves of the fridge. "I've solved this fucking case!"

"Don't you mean _we_ have solved the case?" Connor says, a smile stretching his lips. The last can of beer is already on the table, hidden behind Connor's back. He knew Hank would want one and pulled it out of the fridge to let it warm a bit, just the necessary 1.3 degrees so it wouldn't freeze Hank's teeth. And he has thought of nothing better than to hide it by sitting on the kitchen table and tease Hank a little. Teasing is funny.

When Hank moves away from the fridge to check the cupboards near the sink, Connor moves accordingly, sliding on the tabletop to obscure the view of the can. And then again when Hank moves further. And aga—

"Why the fuck are you riding that table like a carousel?" Hank says, turning to Connor, and — before Connor can react — leans sharply to the left. Oops. "Hey, that's the..! You absolute fucker!"

And then—

Hank moves to grab the can from behind Connor, and Connor moves just in time to stop him, and he puts his hand on Hank' shoulder, and—

It's almost like time stops. His processor's speed reaches the maximum in a second, making him both overwhelmed and acutely aware of his surroundings. Right now, like that, with him sitting on a table, he is… Taller than Hank. Not even an inch. But he is able to look down into Hank's eyes. And Hank is—

Very close. His shoulder is under Connor's hand, and Connor's knees are on either side of Hank's hips, and if only Hank would move a little closer, they would—

He doesn't want to scan Hank. He has nothing to say. And if he's learned anything from Hank in these months, it's that actions sometimes speak louder than words. So he does the only thing left.

Connor leans in and presses his lips to Hank's.

The kiss is short and dry, and Connor doesn't realize he has closed his eyes until he hears Hank's sharp intake of breath.

"Connor." Hank's voice is hoarse and full of emotion that is beyond any description. "If this is some sort of fucking joke or some virus in your—"

"No!" Connor's eyes fly open. "No," he repeats quietly. "It's not a virus. It's what I want. I mean it. I…" Connor's palms find Hank's neck, take it in a gentle but tight grip. "It's what I _really_ want."

There's a split second of Hank staring at Connor — and then Hank grabs his head and kisses him, and again, and again, a whole series of short kisses, of searching each other's mouths, until Connor's gets tired of this teasing and parts his lips. He has no skills, nothing beyond standard knowledge and some observations of other humans, but he's sure Hank will teach him. And he does. And there's something unexplainably thrilling about the sensation of a warm tongue sliding against your own, and the way wet lips meet in such a different way than when Connor gave that short, dry kiss. It's all so… smooth. Gentle. It makes his processor send unfounded commands to all the parts of his system, making his eyelids flutter, making him take unnecessary breaths that are ragged. But also it helps Connor to angle his head just the right way, and move his hips closer to the edge of the table just so his and Hank's body are flush together, and it sends vibrations down his spine which are nothing else but shivering.

Connor had no idea his body is capable of such things.

He has no idea how much time has passed, he doesn't bother to check his system clock, but the moment comes when Hank leans back, breathing very heavily and really fast. His cheeks are flushed red and his pupils are huge. Connor likes very much that look on him. It's just that... there's a line between Hank's eyebrows, beginnings of a frown. Is something wrong? Connor gets a quick reading of Hank's heart rate and lung capacity. Oh. Of course.

Connor leans closer and leaves a quick kiss in the corner of Hank's lips, then backs away, giving a small apologetic smile. "Sorry, next time I won't forget that you need to breathe."

For a second, Hank still looks like something doesn't sit right with him. And then his whole face just— Lights up. Just like that time months ago, when they met near the food truck and Hank smiled at him and then embraced him. Only this time it's... There's something else in Hank's smile, something new in the way he looks at Connor. Something that makes his heart start an irregular beat, that lowers the priority of every other process except for a... no, not an objective, a _desire_ to kiss Hank again.

So Connor does just that.

He did promise a next time, after all.


	96. (M) KLANCE - All Things Infinite by Meme

All things infinite  
MemeKonVLD (MemeKonYA)

Summary:  
"I didn't know Lance was..."

"Bi?" Hunk supplied.

"Ready to jump anyone sentient and willing?" Pidge offered.

"Yeah, let's go with bi," Hunk says.

(Or: the one where Lance is a Bisexual Intergalactic Flirt, and Keith discovers he has feelings about this.)

* * *

Blaatova is covered in green and pink. It's nicely warm when they step out of the castle, if a bit too humid for Keith's noises of nature remind him of watching National Geographic documentaries back at the Garrison on his down time, the narrator's voice a comfortable presence in his room.

The planet's natives are humanoid in aspect. The envoys and guards that await them after landing look perhaps taller in general than most humans, with bigger eyes, a dark red. Their skin looks soft and dark, and their smiles are gentle and inviting when they reach towards them and exchange polite greetings with Allura and Coran according to complex diplomatic conventions that Keith has never tried to understand.

It all feels peaceful and easy and like it'll be a pleasantly uneventful visit, one of the Blaatov diplomats in charge of the welcome party expressing clearly enough during their introductions that Blaatova wishes to ally itself to the Voltron Paladins in their fight against the Galra Empire and all it signifies to the freedom and wellbeing of all planets on the galaxy.

So Keith expects this stop to be a few slow days of gathering any intel they can, and replenishing their supplies and energy in a friendly climate, while trying to decide their next move.

What Keith doesn't expect, however, is for one of the diplomats on the party to give Lance an appreciative once-over before complimenting his skin, and for Lance to stutter out his reply, cheeks blushing.

"I didn't know Lance was..."

"Bi?" Hunk supplies.

"Ready to jump anyone sentient and willing?" Pidge offers.

"Yeah, let's go with bi," Hunk says.

Bi.

Bisexual.

It's not a new concept to Keith, even though he's always known he himself was more 'gay' than anything else. But it's… Something. Something that he hadn't thought to apply to Lance, of all people.

"Oh man, you don't even know how it was back in the Garrison," Hunk bemoans as he hands Pidge a charred looking bit of curled metal from the giant pile of space trash they've been browsing for the past ten minutes.

Pidge takes it and hums, before stacking it inside of her bag.

Blaatovs apparently believe in reusing, reducing and recycling, because the dump of technological waste Hunk and Pidge had asked their hosts to direct them to for gathering purposes and general snooping around ("it's alien technology, Keith, okay? How can you, like, not find this insanely cool?" Hunk had whispered while the diplomats and the guards arranged to grant the paladins their request) is… small. Really small. And filled with things that, according to Pidge and Hunk both, are really mostly beyond saving.

"Yeah, it was a total nightmare," she said after a few seconds of inspecting a colored lens that she ends up putting back where she found it. "There was this one guy in the engineering class that Lance constantly made an ass of himself in front of trying to impress. It was kind of sad."

Lance laughs in the distance, breathy and sort of high pitched. Keith looks over at him. His helmet is off, and he's holding it under one of his arms. His other hand keeps constantly going up to his hair, and then down, never quite doing anything to it. He looks happy and light and flushed, and whenever the Blaatov laughs at something he says he gets this gleeful look that's brief but all kinds of brilliant.

Keith frowns.

Lance's… _friend _from their welcoming committee invites them to a dinner party that night on their most prominent governmental building, where their main representatives will be gathered. Allura agrees, of course, and then ushers them to the castle and drills them for two hours on the customs and proper etiquette of semi-formal dinners on this part of south Blaatova.

Keith can't quite focus on Allura's lessons, gaze instead constantly drifting off to where Lance is sitting next to Hunk, a soft smile on his face. It's a smile reminiscent of the one he'd given Keith himself after Sendak. A tender, private thing that makes Keith feel a myriad of things.

At the moment, and most prominently: confusion.

And some irritation lurking below that, too, churning low in his gut, ugly and unexplainable.

The building the dinner was to be hosted at consisted of mostly reflective surfaces from the outside. It was a tall construction, reaching towards the pink skies fearlessly, not as… ornate as the buildings they had in Earth, but definitely aesthetically pleasant, surrounded by the greenery and the pinks and orange hues. Keith tried to discern the highest point of the tower for a few seconds, but gave it up for the sake of his neck.

The dining hall they're led to once they get in, is about as ostentatious as the building it's in. Which is to say, not that ostentatious at all. Everything is clean lines and practicality and sparse furnishings, and very minimal decoration. It just feels endless.

They all get introduced by the diplomats on their welcome party to politicians and other important members of Blaatov society, and once the formalities are over and they're all sitting, the conversation's easy and fluid, with an air of celebration that Keith can understand. Finding allies has been an uphill battle, pretty much, taking into consideration the ten thousand years of colonizing under the Galra Empire's belt. Every step in the right direction is a hard earned victory.

The food is savory, if plain looking. The drinks are luminescent and eye catching, all color gradients from dark to light and sparkling inside their glasses. Hunk has already had three glasses of them, and Keith's sure it's mostly because of how they look, rather than how they taste.

"Hey," Shiro's eyes catch his, he's smiling, at ease with his surroundings, dish piled high with food, glass half empty. Keith smiles back at him. There was a time when he thought he'd never see Shiro again, nevermind see him _smile_, so he can't not. "You've been really quiet for a while, Keith. Is everything alright? Anything you wanna talk about?"

Keith punches Shiro's shoulder in companionship, grinning.

"I'm okay," he says, "no need to helicopter-parent me, Shiro. I'm just tired, I guess. It never downs on me just… how much happens, until we get to quiet down for a moment."

Shiro hums and nods, his smile understanding. He claps a hand on Keith's shoulder and gives him a gentle squeeze.

"I get that. This is… an enormous responsibility we're all shouldering. I'm proud of all of you for stepping up the way you have. But you should also let yourself relax whenever we can Keith, okay?"

Keith rolls his eyes at Shiro, but still feels happy about the recognition, and the warmth in his voice.

"Look at Lance," Shiro tells him then, and when Keith looks at him, his smile has gained a playful edge, "he is _definitely _relaxing. In his own way."

Keith chances a glance at Lance, and immediately wishes he hadn't.

The Blaatov diplomat has sat to his right, sparing him little to no personal space, their arms brushing with every movement any of the two makes. And Lance moves a lot. He's talking with the man animatedly, expansive hand gestures and lots of facial expressions. He doesn't look flustered, the way he did when they'd arrived, but settled into their conversation, all Lance brand smirks and charm and—

Keith looks down at his food, half eaten and suddenly looking all that much more unappetizing.

Keith makes it a point to avoid Lance and his Blaatov friend for the rest of their stay, and if anyone notices, nobody makes a point of bringing it up with him.

… Which doesn't mean anyone's avoiding the _subject _of Lance and his diplomat, in general.

Pidge and Hunk have made it their lives' mission to try to embarrass Lance as much as they can. They bring up Lance's _boyfriend _every time they can. The teasing doesn't seem to bother Lance much however, and he takes it in stride, laughing along with them.

He never quite denies anything.

After a few cycles' stay, Keith couldn't be readier to leave.

He seems to be the only one.

Pidge and Hunk seem to have hit it off with one of the engineers for the planet's leading STEM (or its equivalent) organization, and they have taken to spending a lot of time hanging out with her in their labs, talking about things that go so over Keith's head, he's stopped trying to keep up.

Shiro and Allura enjoy the warm hospitality of their hosts, and spend lengthy periods of time listening to what basically amounts to long-winded lessons on Blaatova's history. Keith knows Shiro was always a bit of a history buff before the Garrison, so that's probably right up that big nerd's ally.

Lance… Lance has Axor, his big alien _boyfriend_, who takes him out to explore Blaatova, and sits next to him when they're dining together, and comes to the castle on an invitation extended by Allura, and gets shown to Lance's _room_.

Everyone seems to have struck up at least some sort of friendship or companionship or— or _something_, and Keith is just—

—Keith just wants them to move on to their next destination.

They leave.

Keith should feel good about that. He felt itchy and out of place in Blaatova. He wanted to go. He was ready for it.

Lance is miserable, though. He's not— moody, or anything. He doesn't make it obvious for anyone to see, but he's quiet and— and just not like him. Pidge and Hunk try to cheer him up, in their own ways, and Lance laughs along with them; he nudges Pidge when she says something cheeky and ruffles her hair softly, and he squeezes Hunk's shoulder when he offers to go make him a good, hearty, non gooey snack, but he's dialed down.

Keith doesn't know what he expected, or what he wanted, but it definitely wasn't this.

That night Keith passes by the kitchens after some unfruitful solo training.

He leaves a cup of this weird, sickly sweet smelling brew Lance seemed to have taken a liking to in Blaatova at his door, knocking quietly a few times before leaving.

The next day Lance doesn't look quite back to himself, but he smirks at Keith during breakfast and nudges his side while they're eating, annoying and familiar.

Keith nudges back with a smirk of his own.

They meet Rolo and Nyma (and Beezer) again. They find them in some lost little planet, where they've made a semi permanent base for their… business, having barely escaped Prorok's men after being captured and interrogated. Hunk isn't exactly pleased to see them again, but Allura and Shiro are huge believers in second chances, so they stay and play nice while Allura gets any and all information she can out of them.

Keith doesn't even notice he's gravitating closer to Lance than he regularly does, until Rolo walks up to him and apologizes for what Nyma and him did the last time they saw each other.

Keith glares at Rolo, and Hunk makes unflattering noises next to Lance, not bothering at all to cover the disgust in his face. Lance accepts the apology, but doesn't start looking any less wary of Rolo, even when he smiles roguishly at him.

"It's a pity we blew this one up," Rolo says then, smile still in place, "you _are _Nyma's type, y'know? Handsome and sort of naïve."

Keith rolls his eyes.

Rolo turns his back on them all, but he leaves them a parting shot before walking away.

"Kinda my type too, y'know?"

Keith gapes at Rolo's back.

"_No_, you hear me? Not even as a rebound, don't you go there, Lance Suárez, I swear to _God _if _they _don't get us killed, _I _will kill you, okay?"

Keith almost gets whiplash looking back at Lance, still gaping.

Lance is blushing furiously.

Keith, doesn't think it, he just slaps the back of Lance's head.

"Don't even think about it, _dumbass_," he hisses.

"See? Even Keith knows this is a terrible idea."

"Hey!" He says, and Hunk puts his hands up in a placating gesture, but he doesn't look contrite in the least.

Lance rubs the back of his head and glares at Keith, but he's still _blushing _like a dumbass, and Keith is just _this _close to slapping him again—

"I didn't even _do _anything this time, jeez."

"And it better stay that way!"

Thankfully they leave Nyma and Rolo's deserted corner of the universe before Lance can do anything he'll regret (or be made to regret, honestly). But the short hours their stay lasts are filled with Nyma and Rolo playing this weird little game with him, throwing him smirks and giving him lingering looks and whimsical little winks, and by the time Hunk is pushing Lance through the castle's gate, he's a stumbling awkward mess.

"Unbelievable!" Hunk mutters, "she cuffed you to a tree thing! And he stole your lion. They _both _stole your lion! They sold us out to the Galra Empire! Really, Lance?"

"Are we surprised? I am not surprised," Pidge adds, shooting a last lingering longing look at Beezer. The cyber-unit makes a tiny beeping noise that Keith could swear sounds slightly traumatized.

"I didn't even _do _anything," Lance whines again, and Keith rolls his eyes at his back.

He turns to shoot one last less than friendly look at Rolo and Nyma, and finds them leaning against each other and looking entirely too smug for a couple of bounty hunters on the run living in the middle of nowhere.

Keith frowns at them until the gates close.

It's the third time that makes it click inside Keith's head. Third time's the trick; accident, coincidence, pattern. Whatever you want to call it. It happens three times —the third time in question a brief affair while releasing prisoners from a Galra ship, one of them making Lance blush with praise before turning his back on them to embrace his smaller sibling. Keith hadn't gotten the same kind of hollowed-out, restless feeling of the first time, or the anger and defensiveness of the second time, but Lance's blush and the lopsided smile on his face had _definitely _done _something _to him then.

And so the thing is, it happens three times, and suddenly Keith can see the whole picture.

Kind of.

"I think I have a crush on Lance."

The mice look up at him from their food, suddenly interested.

Keith frowns at them.

"You're not allowed to tell Allura."

The little blue one makes a tiny innocent squeak that's absolutely adorable, but Keith isn't deceived. He knows they're all equally gossipy.

(He still gives them seconds once they're done and looking sadly at their food bowl, because he isn't _heartless_.)

The mice, surprisingly, keep the secret.

That doesn't stop Keith from being found out, however.

"Okay, so what's your problem here?"

Pidge.

Out of all of them, it had to be _Pidge_.

"Nothing's my problem," he mumbles, and goes back to polishing his bayard, hunched over it, hoping that his clearly closed-off posture alone will be enough to tell Pidge how much he doesn't want any kind of company right now.

Pidge snorts at him.

"Sure you don't have any problem. At all. You've just been extra irritable and sulky for the last however long for absolutely no reason at all. And now you're just… what? Sitting down here all alone moping? Have you ever even cleaned your bayard before? Because let me tell you, _that _beeswax... _thing _is totally not meant to be used for _that_."

Keith looks down at the unassuming jar he'd grabbed from a nondescript shelf. He frowns at it. Then looks back at Pidge.

"Then what is it for?"

Pidge stares at him pointedly.

Keith stares back.

After a few seconds of staring at each other in silence, Pidge sighs and massages her temples.

"Never mind."

Keith frowns down again at the jar, and finally just grabs its lid from next to his thigh and screws it back on, leaving it next to him and shooting it one last curious glance before pointedly staring at his bayard on his lap.

Pidge sits next to him.

"So. How I see it, we can do this one of two ways. The first one is kind of awkward but bearable; the second one is still awkward, but with an added element of irritation for all parties involved that I'd rather we just go without."

"The third way is _not doing this at all_," Keith tries, frowning at his bayard.

Pidge sighs. He's jostled by her leaning back on her arms. When he glances at her sideways she's staring ahead, glasses reflecting the bright blue from the lights overhead, mouth set in a line, not hard, just vague enough for Keith to not be able to hazard a guess as to how she's feeling.

"Look," Pidge starts then, "there's only us seven up here. And the lions, I guess, since they're kinda sentient. And then there's only five of us from Earth, when it comes down to it. Only five of us who know what it feels like when it snows, or when frost makes everything sparkly, or when it rains; the only ones who know what greasy fast food tastes like when you're so hungry you could eat a horse. Five people who remember how stars look from below."

Pidge's voice goes softer with every word until finally she stops. Keith cranes his neck towards her then, and her gaze is still fixed straight ahead, looking at something that Keith couldn't see if he tried.

"Pidge?"

"If you have a problem that can be fixed, then we should talk it out. There's only five of us and saving the universe is probably going to take a while." Pidge says then —aiming for lightheartedness and falling short of the mark— as she finally looks at him. She doesn't _look _sad, even though Keith notices the bruises under her eyes from not sleeping and spending as much time during the nights tinkering with her projects as she does _worrying_. Her lips are tilted upwards in a facsimile of one of her usual smiles.

Keith turns back, eyes dropping to his lap.

He forgets. Sometimes he forgets they're all _stuck _in space, whether they want to or not. That shouldn't be possible, when they're surrounded by the sight of the galaxy day in and day out, stars and planets and everything else he ever learned about back at the Garrison close enough to get to in a leap of a flying robot lion, but he somehow does. And with that he— he can forget how they're all aching deep down, even when they've stepped up to the task of saving the universe.

He shuts his eyes, inhaling deeply.

He knows why it happens. He knows it and he ignores it, knows it's— it's how he's never felt the attachment to Earth everyone else has. Earth is home to everyone else, a place where they have family to return to and dreams to fulfill, things they want to do. All Keith ever wanted to do was be a pilot, first, and find Shiro after that. Earth holds nothing else for him. Nobody will report him as missing, nobody will be relieved when he makes it back. The rest of the paladins ache for Earth because they _have _it.

Keith only has _them_. So he forgets.

He's a dick.

"Hey, you're not a dick."

"I said that aloud," he groans.

"Just the dick part." Pidge sounds entirely too amused, and Keith feels the petty impulse to rat her out to Shiro, not because he can _do _anything about Pidge's potty mouth, but because he always looks at her in this way that's hilarious to contemplate.

"We're getting off-topic."

"There wasn't any topic to begin with," he says, giving up and straightening up, his back already protesting against all his hunching.

"Now that's just sad." Pidge punches his arm softly. Then she sighs audibly and says, "is it about Lance being bisexual? Do you have a problem with that? With him liking guys too? Or liking guys in general?"

Keith blushes, but turns around to narrow his eyes at Pidge.

"You just said I _wasn ' t_ a dick," he complains.

Pidge's own eyes narrow then, speculatively.

"Yeah, I did," she dismisses, and then adds, "it _does _have to do with Lance."

Keith feels the blush intensify, skin going hot, tight and itchy on his cheeks and down his neck.

"I didn't say that!"

"But you didn't deny it," Pidge's eyes are still narrowed as she says this, and Keith can practically _see _her gears working, "and this whole thing of yours _did _start around the time you found out about Lance. I know correlation doesn't imply causation, and assuming so is falling into a post hoc ergo propter hoc fallacy, but—"

Why does he have to be stuck in space with six exceedingly smart people? And why does he get so freaking jealous and _envious _and so— so _upset _about Lance paying attention to and falling for all these guys that don't even _know _Lance, all these guys that aren't _him_, that he has _these problems _in the first place— why does he have to have a crush on _Lance_, of all people—

He can tell the exact moment when Pidge pieces everything together and arrives to the right conclusion by the way her eyes widen and her mouth gapes, indelicately, until she gets a hold of herself, snapping her mouth shut, her own cheeks flushed now, matching Keith's, still burning and itchy.

"Sorry," Pidge blurts out, apologetic and rushed. "Sometimes I just have to put facts together, have to_ know _things, and I get carried away. Not that it's an excuse. I know how much it can suck to have someone butt into something this private. So. Um— Really, sorry."

Keith takes a couple of deep breaths.

"It's okay," he mumbles after a few seconds, once his heart has stopped trying to beat its way out of his chest, and his blush seems to be subsiding.

They both stay together in awkward silence for a few minutes.

"So— do you, uh, wanna talk about it?" Pidge offers after a while, in awkward solidarity. "I know shit about crushes and romance, though. So I can't give you any advice. Any good, trustworthy advice, I mean."

"_No_."

Pidge makes a relieved sound, letting air out noisily.

"_Good_."

Keith smiles at that.

The silence that follows that is more comfortable, less not knowing how to talk around something, and more not needing to say anything at all, being okay sitting around in stasis just knowing the other's _there_.

"I'm not telling him," Pidge tells him when she finally grows restless, after announcing she's going to go work on an idea for the Rover 2.0 she's engineering out of spare parts found here and there.

Keith looks at her, a small smile on his lips, and nods.

Pidge nods back, mirroring his smile, and walks away.

Pidge knowing is, for the most part, a lot like Pidge not knowing. There are _meaningful looks_, sometimes, but Pidge is actually discreet and better at keeping secrets than anyone else in the castle could ever hope to be.

The one thing that _does_ change significantly has less to do with Pidge and more to do with himself, with how he feels afterwards: less as if he's _intentionally_ _hiding_ some sort of dark, dirty little secret; or as if he's letting himself get distracted from what's truly important. Pidge knows. Pidge _knows_, and she's okay with it, and she doesn't think he's going to fuck everything up. And _he_ is okay with her knowing, after the initial panic. She knows, and it's just a part of his life; a good part of his life, even. Some mornings Lance wakes up in good spirits and stops fronting to offer Keith these smiles that make Keith's heart beat so fast, and then he'll lean on him and stuff his face, and Keith has someone to make covert meaningful eye contact with. It's _good_.

He's never had much time to let himself _feel _things like this. There's always been some other priority, something else to take care of, something demanding all of his attention, all of his efforts, all of his energy. He hasn't even— he hasn't even had a proper crush before. Has only ever made out with some guy back at the last foster home he spent time at before the Garrison.

And this crush, for all the aching and the jealousy, still makes him feel alive and awake and lit up from the inside. It makes him happy, and weird, and mad, and it makes his heart pound and his palms sweat, and it's _fire_. And he wants to keep it. He wants to have it. He wants to wait on it, let it go where it will. And maybe right now he shouldn't make Lance (Lance and the way he riles him up, and the way he makes him say dumb shit; Lance and how soft and caring he is, even to him— even when he's still claiming Keith is his _rival_; Lance and the way he's so brave and daring and _smart_; Lance and all the little things that Keith had never even known he'd noticed until he'd found himself halfway head over heels for him) his priority, with the whole universe depending on him (on all of them). But maybe things don't have to be like they used to, anymore.

A few days later both he and Lance get sent on a recon mission, something easy: in and out, taking advantage of Pidge's modifications to all the lions, and their speed. Get in, gather intel as quickly as they can, get out.

Pidge shoots him one of her meaningful looks behind everyone else's backs, the corner of her lips tilted upwards playfully. Keith rolls his eyes at her, but he still gets stupidly excited. He likes working with Lance, even if admitting to it would make Lance unbearably smug. They're a good team, they complement each other.

"We're gonna rock this stealth thing!" Lance says as he throws an arm over Keith's shoulders, a cocky smile on his face.

"As long as you refrain from crashing into the ship," Keith says, smirking.

They land perfectly without being seen. Hide the lions according to the plan. Get in easily.

Too easily.

Lance gets sick when the stench reaches them. The putrid stench of rot, of decay, of _death._

It doesn't take them long to find the source.

"What is this?" Lance whispers, horrified. "_What the hell is this? _"

Corpses. There are corpses everywhere onboard, on every single hall, inside the control rooms, _everywhere_. There are— there are dead prisoners, so many dead prisoners. But there are also dead Galran soldiers.

They are— They are torn apart. The bodies are mauled, bloody, some of them with chunks of skin and flesh missing, or entire body parts torn right off, left mangled and unidentifiable where they lay.

It's horrifying.

"What did this?" Keith asks, trying not to be sick too.

"_Quiznak_," Lance gasps then, and his hand shoots towards Keith's chest, to stop him from taking another step.

Keith looks at Lance, and his face is drained of all color. Keith follows his gaze.

There's _something _coming from one of the hallways, deformed and big and terrifying. It's dragging something that leaves a trail of red on its wake as it advances, and Keith doesn't have to look closely to know what it is.

"_Shit_," he whispers.

The thing turns towards them. Keith only barely has time to see metal and flesh and yellow eyes, barely has time to think_ quintessence_, before the thing's charging towards them.

The fight is a blur. Keith can only remember flashes of it; mostly, he remembers the thing finally going down and staying down, and the explosion of pain that he'd felt immediately after, doubling over and then falling to the floor and feeling pain more excruciating than he'd ever felt before; and then Lance, kneeling beside him, gathering him in his arms, covered in wounds himself, his face a mess of blood and dirt as he called for help.

"You're not dying," Lance tells him, panicked, one hand on top of one of Keith's bleeding wounds, and the other cradling his head towards his stomach, wet with Keith's blood, keeping him carefully turned away from the gore and death that surrounds them. "You can't die. You're _you_."

"I'm sure I—" His lungs _burn_; talking is painful, _breathing _is painful. "I'm sure I'm gonna die one day, genius."

"Shut up, shut up, shut _up._ Why are you talking? Stop talking." Lance's eyes are wild and frantic, going from his face to down where he's trying to stop Keith's bleeding, looking at his helmet, then back to his face. "The guys are getting here, okay? _Okay_. We'll be fine. You'll be fine."

He feels something warm and wet landing on his cheek, sliding down his skin in a trail of heat. A tear. Lance's.

Keith's dizzy, breathing getting harder and harder by the second, clinging to consciousness all but fighting a losing battle.

The others will get to them, and retrieve Lance and whatever survivors there are left in the cells. They will. He trusts the part inside him that's bound to them. He trusts _them_.

But it'll be too late for him by then.

He's going to die here.

Lance's eyes are tightly shut now, tears flowing freely as he tries to keep his breathing quiet. He's beautiful.

"I'm in love with you," he blurts out, the words raspy and barely above a whisper.

Lance's eyes snap open. He doesn't stop crying, the tears smearing paths of dirt and blood on his cheeks, but he looks Keith in the eye.

"What?" Lance croaks out. Keith feels his hands twitching where they're touching him; the one on his head cradles him closer, almost caressing his sweaty, dirty hair.

Keith gathers his strength to touch Lance's face with the tips of his fingers. He gasps. His ribs are broken, he's probably got a punctured lung.

He doesn't care.

"What are you doing, you _dumbass_," Lance whispers, voice shaking, but he's leaning towards the touch, awkwardly trapping his hand between his cheek and his shoulder.

"I'm in love with you," he repeats, because for some reason it's the one thing he wants to do before dying, the one thing that matters. He wants to make sure Lance _knows_.

"You're crazy, Keith," Lance replies, so low that Keith has to piece the words together, "you're out of your mind, it's the adrenaline talking. Just hang in there, buddy, okay? Hang in there, just a few more minutes. They're close, I can feel them. I know you can feel them too, right?"

"I lo—"

"_Okay_," Lance interrupts him, urgent and desperate and so sad, so beautiful, "okay, yes. Yes, I get it. Stop wasting your energy. You'll have all the time in the world to tell me anything you want once we get back to the castle, okay?"

Keith wants to nod, if only to get Lance to stop panicking, but it's beyond his capabilities.

His eyelids feel heavy, the pain from his wounds is lessening, and all he can really focus on is on the blue of Lance's eyes, a stark thin rim around his dilated pupils as he starts drifting off.

"Buddy? _Keith? Keith! _"

The last thing he hears before getting swallowed up by nothingness are loud steps approaching, and the familiar voice of Pidge, shouting,_ "Shiro, they're here!"_

Keith gets out of the cryopod feeling groggy and lost. It takes him a few minutes to understand what just happened and where he is and how he got there, and by then he's already wrapped in a pair of long, strong arms.

"You _jerk_."

Lance.

"You total freaking _jerk_, I hate you!" Lance choked out, as he squeezed Keith in his arms. "Don't scare me like that again, I have _fragile feelings_, you huge impulsive _jerk_. Jerk."

Keith's chest _aches_. It aches, and it burns, and it's so _exhilarating_, so _good_. He doesn't even care about Lance muttering _jerk _again and again at him, saying unflattering things about him, about his survival instincts, and his _mullet_, and even the way he holds his spoon when he eats, because somehow it's _weird_, and _distracting_. It's all transparently joyful, and Keith doesn't have it in him to pretend otherwise, to pretend that he can't read Lance's relief in every word.

He buries his nose on Lance's hair, and takes a deep breath. It smells of Altean shampoo, and faintly of sweat, and like home, like somewhere Keith wants to belong, somewhere Keith is glad to have returned to.

"Are you sniffing me?" Lance asked, a teasing note in his voice, even as he continued holding onto Keith, tight and firm and close. "You are still on the good stuff, huh? Those cryopods, man. I was so loopy when I came out."

"I'm high on you," mumbles Keith. And okay, yeah, he might be a little under the influence of some pretty powerful Altean pain medication, but he's having a hard time caring about that.

"Oh, Keith, my man," Lance says, and finally lets him go, eyes crinkled in a warm smile as he backs away from Keith and lets out a chuckle. "We should get some food in you. And then maybe have you sleep the drugs away. You were in there longer than me."

Everything Lance says makes perfect sense, it sounds so sensible, and yet, Keith doesn't want any of it. All Keith wants at the time is to keep having Lance's eyes and his hands and his attention on him, he wants—

He takes a step towards Lance, hand reaching towards Lance's face—

— and falls right on his face.

"Oh my God, Keith, are you _okay _?"

"Not a word," Keith says, voice muffled under his hands. He doesn't want to look at her until he absolutely _has _to.

"About what?" Pidge tries sounding innocent and unaware, and it's so obviously and unrepentantly fake, that Keith groans at her.

"_I hate you_." He says, finally, and takes his hands away from his face to give Pidge a heartfelt glare.

"Hey, I found you, don't be rude." Pidge mock reprimands him.

"Pot, kettle."

"Yeah, whatever." She rolls her eyes at him good-naturedly.

He sighs and leans back onto his pillow.

"Where is he?"

"Sleeping." Pidge tells him, and suddenly her face grows a little softer. "He spent way too much time waiting for you to come out of that pod. Barely had any sleep, which is amazing considering his whole 'beauty sleep' shtick." Then, because she's _Pidge_, she adds: "He risked his glowing skin for you, Keith. I think it's true love."

Keith throws his pillow at her, and Pidge lets out an indignant squack as it smacks her right on the face.

Two days after getting out of the cryopod he's ready to end his bedrest, and just _itching _to do something, anything, other than lie in bed. The only reason he even lasted that long, was because of Allura's reproachful looks and disturbingly graphic descriptions about everything that had regenerated inside his body during his stasis, everything Keith could easily ruin if he was in any way _careless _so soon after getting out of the pod.

He heads down to the kitchen area, knowing it's way too early for breakfast, but needing to be somewhere not his room.

He expects the lights to be turned off, and the place to be quiet and empty, but upon arriving he's welcomed by the sight of Lance hungrily shoveling green goo into his mouth, the little Altean mice keeping him company, with a little bowl of green goo of their own. They squeak at him now and again, and Lance smiles at them, with goo on the corners of his mouth.

It's disgusting.

It's adorable.

He makes some sort of choked, dying noise, and Lance notices him then, standing at the door like a creep, watching him eat.

Lance's smile grows bigger, a hint of his cocky persona in the tilt of it, absolutely ruined by the green goo on his face.

"Hey, Keith!"

"Hey," Keith greets back, and walks up to Lance to take a seat next to him.

One of the mice squeaks at him, insulted. Keith blinks back at it as it _glares _at him.

"Uh, hi to you too?"

That seems to please the tiny mouse enough for it go back to its meal.

Lance bursts out laughing. A big, boisterous, happy laugh. Keith stares. Lance doesn't laugh often, for all he's all smiles and teasing, and falling all over himself to cheer the others up when they're down. And this is the very first time he's laughed _for Keith_.

Lance clutches his stomach with one hand and guffaws, a couple of tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Keith, _bro _— you got— you got _bullied _into submission by a _mouse_," Lance says between gulps of air as he starts calming down. "You big _nerd_."

Keith flushes, and attempts to frown at Lance.

"Don't act like they don't have _you _wrapped around their little tails."

"Hey, no shame here, man. Have you seen them sleeping all curled up together? They're so cute I want to knit things for them." He points at his face, then. "But _I _'m not Mr. Brooding And Serious."

He wants to defend himself, but Lance's expressiveness draws his eyes to the goo on Lance's face.

He doesn't really notice his own hand moving until his thumb is at the corner of Lance's mouth, rubbing at the spot to get it all off.

Once he's done cleaning the patch of skin (and it registers on his mind just how soft that skin is, smooth and warm to the touch), his thumb starts dripping with the goo, and he licks it up so it won't get on his gloves.

Keith hears a choked whimper. _Lance _'s choked whimper. He locks eyes with him, startled by the noise, and notices the way Lance has gone flushed and still, eyes on his hand.

"What?" He asks, defensive.

"_What _?" Lance squeaks back at him. "_What? _Really?"

Keith just stares.

Lance covers his face with his hands and whines.

Keith wipes his wet thumb on his pants, self-consciously.

"Were you... " Lance begins in a soft voice, after a few seconds of tense silence, peeking at him between two fingers. "Were you being serious about that? Back in that ship?"

"Yes," Keith whispers, the sudden vulnerability in Lance doing _things _to his gut.

Lance takes an audible breath, and lowers his hands from his face. He looks open and honest, and a little scared, and Keith wants to reach out to him so badly. Has always wanted to reach out towards Lance whenever he looks like this.

"But we're rivals?"

Keith shrugs a little, looking down at his lap.

"I never felt like you were my competition."

"I want you to acknowledge me," Lance says then, hurt, his words tight. "You didn't even remember me back when we found Shiro. And you apparently don't think I'm good enough to be your rival yet you what? Feel something for me?"

"_What? _No. That's not what I— that's not what I meant," Keith looks back up at Lance, and the expression on his face is one that Keith feels awful at knowing he put there. "I meant that I— I never really _wanted _to compete with you, okay? I never wanted you to think of me as your competition. I know you're a great pilot, and your fast thinking has saved us all more than once. We are a good team. You said so."

Lance's face softens, his lips tilting up faintly.

"And I'm sorry I didn't remember you, okay? I didn't know it would matter so much to you."

"I always admired you," Lance says then, unexpectedly. He's avoiding Keith's gaze, his cheeks burning. "Back at the Garrison. You were so good. But it was like… it was like you were always a step in front of me, and you never turned around to _look _at me behind you. I wasn't in your radar, and that sucked."

Keith doesn't know how to respond to that. He just reaches a hand slowly towards Lance's lap, lets it rest on his knee. Lance's gaze locks onto the point of contact.

"I think I had a crush on you, back then," he says in a hushed tone.

Keith's breath stutters.

"What… what about now?" He asks, breathless.

One of Lance's hands lowers on top of his, at first the ghost of a touch, giving him goosebumps, and then a blanketing warmth.

"I don't think it's a crush anymore," Lance laughs, self-deprecating. "You're so cool when you're not being a brooding stick in the mud. I'm apparently very into reckless jerks, too."

"I'm gonna kiss you," he declares.

"Well, if you ask so kindly—"

Keith shuts him up with a kiss. Their noses bump a little, but he cradles Lance's face with his free hand, and angles them just right. Lance gasps onto Keith's lips when Keith's tongue touches his own, and Keith takes advantage of it. He's hungry for this, so hungry. He wants to make Lance's soft lips bruise up, get all dark and chapped from it, as a sign that Keith kissed him. That Keith kissed him, and he will keep kissing him, because having this feels like nothing else, like the biggest adrenaline rush, like piloting Red.

They only part when they hear a chorus of squeaking.

"They will totally rat us out to Allura," Lance exhales the words out, not even turning to look at the mice, gaze locked onto Keith's.

"Let them," Keith replies in a hoarse voice, leaning into a second kiss.

(The next time someone flirts with Lance, Lance smiles politely at them and puts his arms around Keith's shoulders.

"Have you met my boyfriend Keith? He's a paladin of Voltron. Pretty cool, huh?"

Keith doesn't even try to hide his smug smirk as he leans into the embrace.)


	97. (T) TODODEKU - Image Attacked by Qitana

image attached  
Qitana

Summary:  
Shouto [5:10]

a random person texted me on this number

**Momo [5:12]**  
... and?

Shouto [5:14]  
well, for one thing, I don't know how they got this number

Shouto [5:17]  
and they sent me some rather, _interesting_, images

**Momo [5:18]**  
OMG

**Momo [5:18]**  
TODOROKI SHOUTO

**Momo [5:19]**  
DID YOU JUST RECEIVE ACCIDENTAL NUDES?

* * *

**unknown [4:52]**  
_image attached_

**unknown [4:54]**  
_image attached_

**unknown [4:55]**  
so? What is it?

* * *

Shouto [5:01]  
I'm at a loss

**Momo [5:05]**  
consider me intrigued

**Momo [5:06]**  
whats up?

Shouto [5:10]  
a random person texted me on this number

**Momo [5:12]**  
... and?

Shouto [5:14]  
well, for one thing, I don't know how they got this number

Shouto [5:17]  
and they sent me some rather, _interesting_, images

**Momo [5:18]**  
OMG

**Momo [5:18]**  
TODOROKI SHOUTO

**Momo [5:19]**  
DID YOU JUST RECEIVE ACCIDENTAL NUDES?

Shouto [5:21]  
well, if that's what they're called, I guess

Shouto [5:23]  
I must say though, the person isn't very good at them

**Momo [5:24]**  
but are they cute?

Shouto [5:27]  
is it relevant?

**Momo [5:28]**  
im not hearing a no ೕ(˃̵ᴗ˂̵ ๑)

**Momo [5:30]**  
so? What do you need help with?

Shouto [5:32]  
im not particularly sure as to how I should respond

**Momo [5:35]**  
just be your polite self and tell them they got the wrong no

**Momo [5:36]**  
I almost wanna see their face when they realize who u r tho

Shouto [5:40]  
goodbye momo

**Momo [5:45]**  
youre welcome ᕕ( ᐛ )ᕗ

* * *

Shouto [6:01]  
I'm not sure how to tell you this but you've got the wrong number

**Bad nudist [6:05]**  
what r u talking about ocha?

Shouto [6:07]  
I do not know who Ocha is but I am certainly not them

**Bad nudist [6:08]**  
well this isnt realy how she txts

**Bad nudist [6:15]**  
OHH MY GOD

**Bad nudist [6:16]**  
_OH MY GOD_ OH MAN OH MY GOODNESS

**Bad nudist [6:18]**  
I AM SO SO SORRY OHHH MY HFSKJVKN

**Bad nudist [6:20]**  
I typed her no instead of using the contact

**Bad nudist [6:21]**  
ND I WAS off by ONE DIGIT AND JUST

**Bad nudist [6:23]**  
im sorry im so so so so so so so so sorry this is so widely inappropriate

Shouto [6:30]  
it's fine, I've already deleted the pics

**Bad nudist [6:32]**  
you possess a good soul ;_;

**Bad nudist [6:35]**  
I kinda feel like I should explain those pics

**Bad nudist [6:36]**  
even if ur a stranger

Shouto [6:39]  
they seem pretty self explanatory?

**Bad nudist [6:43]**  
NO SEE THAT'S THE THING I HAVE THIS RASH ON MY BUM AND I HAD JUST STEPPED OUTTA THE SHOWER AND OCHA IS MY BESTIE AND A DOC AND SHE SAID TO SEND A PIC AND I TOOK THOSE AND I DID

**Bad nudist [6:45]**  
please don't track me down and gt me arrested

Shouto [6:50]  
this actually explains it

**Freckles [6:52]**  
?

**Freckles [6:53]**  
explaisn what?

Shouto [6:55]  
why the pictures weren't particularly, uh, sexy

**Freckles [7:00]**  
brb

**Freckles [7:02]**  
gonna jump off a building

* * *

Izuku [7:25]  
I am ded and my soul has ascended

Izuku [7:27]  
im so glad we got to be frnds

**Tenten [7:30]**  
Midoriya Izuku

**Tenten [7:32]**  
What on earth are you talking about?

Izuku [7:35]  
im talking abt death and how I hope u'll say nice things at my funeral

**Tenten [7:38]**  
That is obviously a given, but what's going on?

**Tenten [7:40]**  
Hello?

Izuku [7:43]  
u remember the rash on my butt?

**Tenten [7:45]**  
Yeah, did ochako check that out?

Izuku [7:47]  
yeah see heres the thing

Izuku [7:49]  
I took the pics and sent them to ocha

Izuku [7:50]  
bt it turns out I typed the wrong no

Izuku [7:51]  
and basically sent very inapp pics to a stranger

Izuku [7:53]  
ergo my impending death from humiliation/embarrassment

Izuku [7:54]  
u knw wat the worst part is?

Izuku [7:56]  
the person told me I didn't look sexy at all

Izuku [7:57]  
it was a pic of my butt ten! And they just disregarded it

Izuku [7:58]  
talk about salt on gaping wounds

**Tenten [8:00]**  
I have a feeling your priorities are slightly mixed up

**Tenten [8:02]**  
Did they seem terrible?

Izuku [8:03]  
apart from destroying my sexual appeal/

Izuku [8:03]  
not really

Izuku [8:05]  
plus they also swore they already deleted the picture

**Tenten [8:10]**  
Great! Listen, I have a meeting right now, we'll touch up on this later ok?

Izuku [8:12]  
byeee

* * *

**Meanie [12:04]**  
I just wanted to check in and make sure you're alive and haven't actually jumped off a building

**Meanie [12:06]**  
im also sorry if my previous statement came off as rude

**Meanie [12:07]**  
you've actually got a nice body

**Meanie [12:08]**  
not that I was looking, obviously I've deleted the pics

**Meanie [12:09]**  
but you do look really nice in green

**Meanie [12:13]**  
ok im terrible at this, please just text me back once, im getting worried. I'll get out of your hair immediately after

Midoriya [12:25]  
im fine im fine

Midoriya [12:26]  
I just embarrass easily

Midoriya [12:27]  
but uh, thanks

**Mystery man [12:30]**  
for?

Midoriya [12:32]  
I dunno u just seemed like u really cared

**Mystery man [12:35]**  
**hmmm**

**Mystery man [12:36]**  
you mentioned a rash?

Midoriya [12:40]  
….. what about it ?

**Mystery man [12:43]**  
is it better? Did you get it checked?

Midoriya [12:44]  
oh, uh, yeah, ocha said it's a mild skin allergy and gave me meds

**Mystery man [12:46]**  
good, that's good

Midoriya [12:50]  
it's strange really

**Mystery man [12:53]**  
what is?

Midoriya [12:59]  
we've only spoken for a few hours but u seem lyk a really nice person

Midoriya [1:02]  
not many of those out there anymore

**Mystery man [1:04]**  
thank you

Midoriya [1:07]  
well I gotta get back to work

Midoriya [1:08]  
maybe I'll hear from u later?

**Mystery man [1:15]**  
maybe

* * *

Shouto [8:03]  
he's cute and I'm weak

**Momo [8:05]**  
ahahahah! xD

**Momo [8:06]**  
id say ask for his number bt u seem to have that covered

Shouto [8:10]  
... I'm going to fire you some day

**Momo [8:12]**  
sure sure

**Momo [8:14]**  
u got a name yet?

Shouto [8:18]  
no, why?

**Momo [8:19]**  
so I can stalk him on social media, duh!

**Momo [8:21]**  
wait, u saw compromising pics of this guy, chatted with him and still didn't catch his name?

Shouto [8:25]  
… that would be correct

**Momo [8:27]**  
_unbelievable_

**Momo [8:29]**  
so he doesnt know u either/

Shouto [8:32]  
no

**Momo [8:35]**  
ok just try striking up another convo and get a name

**Momo [8:38]**  
if ur interested that is

**Momo [8:39]**  
which im sure you are considering I cant remember the last time u used that word _cute_ on someone

Shouto [8:41]  
am I that hopeless?

**Momo [8:42]**  
yup

Shouto [8:45]  
fine ok, I'll think about it. I have to go, please have my schedule ready for tomorrow

**Momo [8:50]**  
you know I will

* * *

**Freckles [10:26]**  
this is gonna sound kinda strange

Shouto [10:30]  
what is?

**Freckles [10:33]**  
I know u dnt have to msg me or anything

**Freckles [10:35]**  
but I was wondering if I could gt a pic in return?

**Freckles [10:37]**  
I know I made the mistake and I DEF DO NOT WANT ANY SOR T OF NAKEDNESS

**Freckles [10:39]**  
but uh, jst wondering if u'd be willing I guess?

Shouto [10:45]  
_image attached_

**Freckles [10:52]**  
?

**Freckles [10:53]**  
THIS IS A JOKE RIGHT

Shouto [10:55]  
no?

**Freckles [10:59]**  
don't act innocent! U just sent me a random pic of Todoroki Shouto

**Freckles [10:59]**  
I cant find it on google so your sources must be good bt this is just mean

**Freckles [11:00]**  
I must've misread u

Shouto [11:03]  
give me a random sentence, any of your choice, that Todoroki has never said before on cam

**Freckles [11:06]**  
why?

Shouto [11:10]  
indulge me please

**Freckles [11:15]**  
_I want to be the strongest hero_

Shouto [11:32]  
_video attached_

**Freckles [11:36]**  
oh

**Freckles [11:38]**  
brb

**Freckles [11:40]**  
there are buildings I need to jump off of

* * *

**Deku [11:46]**  
THIS IS AN EMERGENCY PLEASE REPLY

Uraraka [11:48]  
WHAT'S UP WHY R WE YELLING?

**Deku [11:50]**  
doyourememberthattimeiwassupposedtosendyoubuttpicsandisentthemtosomeoneelsebymistake

Uraraka [11:53]  
uh huh

**Deku [11:55]**  
I just found out who that some1 is and im losing my goddamn mind

Uraraka [11:59]  
? who?

**Deku [12:03]**  
TODOROKI SHOUTO

**Deku [12:05]**  
as in THE TODOROKI SHOUTO FROM EVERY SINGLE MOVIE I HAVE EVER LOVED EVER

**Deku [12:07]**  
slight hyperbole but still

Uraraka [12:10]  
haha very funny deku

Uraraka [12:12]  
but dnt u think it's too late in the night to be pulling a prank on me?

**Deku [12:14]**  
_image attached_

**Deku [12:15]**  
see tht video?

**Deku [12:16]**  
he actually said that stupid line I sent him?

**Deku [12:18]**  
WHAT DO I DO IM ACTUALLY TALKING TO TODOROKI SHOUTO AND

**Deku [12:20]**  
oh. Oh my.

**Deku [12:20]**  
_oh my god_

Uraraka [12:25]  
?

Uraraka [12:31]  
Izuku, im getting worried

**Deku [12:33]**  
Todoroki Shouto saw my butt and told me im not sexy

**Deku [12:34]**  
I cant go on any longer

Uraraka [12:36]  
well those pics really weren't sexy tbh

**Deku [12:39]**  
whose SIDE R U ON

Uraraka [12:40]  
there are sides?

**Deku [12:43]**  
traitor

**Deku [12:45]**  
he did also say I look nice in green

**Deku [12:47]**  
oh my GOD TODOROKI SHOUTO THINKS I LOOK NICE IN GREEN UNDIES

Uraraka [12:50]  
isnt it exhasutng to type his whole name

**Deku [12:52]**  
im having an existential crises and that's what ur worried about?

Uraraka [12:54]  
dummy

Uraraka [12:56]  
just stop being such a fan boy and try talking to him!

Uraraka [12:58]  
just saying, opportunity of a lifetime right here

**Deku [1:02]**  
I can't not love u

Uraraka [1:23]  
I knw

* * *

**TODOROKI SHOUTO :o [9:29]**  
you didn't actually jump, did you?

Izuku [9:31]  
no no still alive

Izuku [9:32]  
and reeling might I add

**TODOROKI SHOUTO :o [9:35]**  
why?

Izuku [9:38]  
because ive only ever admired u since u debuted in 重無限大?

Izuku [9:39]  
I mean? You're amazing? and I somehow managed ? to show you my butt?

**TODOROKI SHOUTO :o [9:42]**  
I've been meaning to ask, does the owner of the butt have a name?

Izuku [9:44]  
ummm

**TODOROKI SHOUTO :o [9:47]**  
it's only fair, since you know mine

Izuku [9:51]  
midoriya izuku

**TODOROKI SHOUTO :o [9:53]**  
hello midoriya, it's nice to, um, meet you I guess

Izuku [9:55]  
pleasures all mine

Izuku [9:57]  
no seriously I cant even

Izuku [9:59]  
how the hell did I manage to stumble upn ur no I still feel like this is a dream

**TODOROKI SHOUTO :o [10:02]**  
well I don't believe it is.

**TODOROKI SHOUTO :o [10:05]**  
and does the name have a face?

Izuku [10:13]  
_image attached_

**TODOROKI SHOUTO :o [10:19]**  
oh

Izuku [10:23]  
sorry if its disappointing

**TODOROKI SHOUTO :o [10:26]**  
the opposite actually

**TODOROKI SHOUTO :o [10:28]**  
freckles are a weakness of mine

Izuku [10:31]  
oh

Izuku [10:33]  
brb

Izuku [10:35]  
still a few buildings left that im sure I haven't jumped off of

**TODOROKI SHOUTO :o [10:40]**  
im starting to sense a theme

* * *

Shouto [2:10]  
he's got freckles

Shouto [2:11]  
I repeat, freckles.

Shouto [2:13]  
so many of them, all over his cheeks.

Shouto [2:14]  
I cannot deal. I absolutely cannot.

**Momo [2:16]**  
ahahahah seeing u suffer is so much fun omg

**Momo [2:18]**  
did u tell him he's cutE?

Shouto [2:20]  
I told them theyre a weakness of mine

**Momo [2:23]**  
haha nice one

**Momo [2:28]**  
oye, tell me youre not serious?

**Momo [2:34]**  
oh my god

Shouto [2:37]  
Is that an issue?

**Momo [2:42]**  
its so creepy wth?

**Momo [2:45]**  
you're really hopeless my god

Shouto [2:49]  
….. what do I do?

**Momo [2:51]**  
pray that he doesnt combust into a puddle and leave u with a homicide charge.

* * *

**Midoriya [1:09]**  
good luck with filming!

Shouto [1:16]  
how do you know about that?

Shouto [1:18]  
and thank you

**Midoriya [1:23]**  
im a fan rem?

Shouto [1:29]  
oh right

Shouto [1:34]  
filming is always a little exhausting when the cast is so enthusiastic

**Midoriya [1:37]**  
you're filming with kaminari right/?

**Midoriya [1:39]**  
what are they like?

Shouto [1:42]  
loud

Shouto [1:43]  
and surprisingly stupid when he's tired

**Midoriya [1:51]**  
… r u sure u can say things like that about ur costars Todoroki Shouto-san?

Shouto [1:55]  
just Todoroki is fine

Shouto [1:58]  
and yeah, I mean, he's starred with me plenty of times so I know him quite well

**Midoriya [2:03]**  
ahhhhhgshovksokvisn

**Midoriya [2:04]**  
can I get an onset pic please? I promise I wont leak them to anyone

Shouto [2:05]  
…

Shouto [2:14]  
_image attached_

**Midoriya [2:17]**  
OMG IS THAT MOMO-SAN IN THE BG

Shouto [2:20]  
yes it is, you know her?

**Midoriya [2:22]**  
I respect her for being the brains behind the scenes

Shouto [2:25]  
true enough.

Shouto [2:27]  
im actually thinking about opening my own film production with her as partner

**Midoriya [2:30]**  
that sounds amazing!

**Midoriya [2:32]**  
u should def do that omg

Shouto [2:34]  
haha thanks

Shouto [2:35]  
come to think of it, I never asked what you do for a living

**Midoriya [2:38]**  
oh I just got promoted to detective two weeks ago!

Shouto [2:41]  
whoa that's very admirable. Thank you for all your hard work

**Midoriya [2:42]**  
/

**Midoriya [2:43]**  
you toooooooo

Shouto [2:45]  
ha, I only act like the people I depict. I am nowhere as brave or great.

**Midoriya [2:51]**  
you represent people that would never get recognition otherwise. You tell the masses their stories, and you do it well, with emotion and an obvious respect. I think that's pretty great too.

Shouto [2:59]  
….

Shouto [3:06]  
thank you.

**Midoriya [3:10]**  
anytime :3

* * *

Izuku [7:18]  
tennnnnnnnn

**Tenten [7:20]**  
Good evening Izuku

Izuku [7:22]  
I need to rant

**Tenten [7:25]**  
Sure, but my replies might take a sec

**Tenten [7:28]**  
I'm on break rn

Izuku [7:31]  
no probs

Izuku [7:32]  
thing is, I cant believe how, _human_, todoroki is

Izuku [7:34]  
I mean he's internationally well known

Izuku [7:34]  
but whn I txt him, it feels like txting a normal person and it's weird?

**Tenten [7:50]**  
As far as I'm aware, he does belong to the category of homo sapien

**Tenten [7:52]**  
So you guys are still in touch I take?

Izuku [7:53]  
yeah more or less

Izuku [7:55]  
we txt almost every single day

**Tenten [8:01]**  
Oh dear, you have a crush on him, don't you?

Izuku [8:04]  
oh pls

Izuku [8:06]  
I've crushed on him for at least four years now

Izuku [8:07]  
it takes all my willpower to rein in my inner fanboy

**Tenten [8:42]**  
I'm equal parts worried and impressed

Izuku [8:56]  
I know

Izuku [9:04]  
fml

* * *

Izuku [11:06]  
apparently banging your head against the wall burns about 150 calories an hour

**Todoroki 3 [11:08]**  
interesting

Izuku [11:11]  
OMG THAT WAS FOR TENYA NOT U TENYA OMG

**Todoroki 3 [11:15]**  
im gonna go out on a limb and predict that your first reaction will be to jump off a building

Izuku [11:21]  
… u know me too well

**Todoroki 3 [11:27]**  
haha just a calculated guess

**Todoroki 3 [11:30]**  
do you often tell your friend interesting facts?

Izuku [11:34]  
u could say that!

Izuku [11:35]  
ive known ten since we were in high school

Izuku [11:38]  
so we have some weird rituals

**Todoroki 3 [11:42]**  
that sounds fun

**Todoroki 3 [11:45]**  
I didn't have friends growing up, my dad wouldn't let me

Izuku [11:47]  
do you have friends now?

**Todoroki 3 [11:56]**  
id like to believe so, yes

Izuku [12:06]  
then, that's all that matters.

Izuku [12:10]  
and I hope that, someday, I make that list too :D

**Todoroki 3 [12:18]**  
youre already on it

Izuku [12:24]  
I think I just saw a part of my soul ascend

**Todoroki 3 [12:32]**  
I honestly don't know how to talk to you without being the reason for your untimely demise

* * *

Shouto [3:09]  
I need an unbiased opinion

**Midoriya [4:32]**  
shoot

Shouto [4:36]  
does red or blue look better on me?

Shouto [4:41]  
momo and kami have been arguing forever and it's infuriating and im unable to decide on my own

**Midoriya [4:43]**  
ud look great in both but what is it for?

Shouto [4:47]  
tie colour

**Midoriya [4:50]**  
blue the n

**Midoriya [4:52]**  
it brings out your eye

Shouto [4:55]  
blue it is

**Midoriya [11:34]**  
U LOOKED SO GOOD IN THAT INTERVIEW

Shouto [11:59]  
thank you, and good choice on the tie, momo and kaminari agreed it looked the best

**Midoriya [12:02]**  
happy to be of service!

**Midoriya [12:05]**  
well, I have work in the morning, so nini!

Shouto [12:07]  
nini?

**Midoriya [12:08]**  
its how I say night xD

**Midoriya [12:11]**  
sweet dreams, todoroki

Shouto [12:17]  
you too, midoriya

* * *

**Ocha [9:24]**  
what's wrong

Izuku [9:31]  
im falling. And its gonna suck

**Ocha [9:34]**  
….

**Ocha [9:39]**  
baby doll, don't give up just yet

**Ocha [9:43]**  
i think u just need to give him time to get to know u even more

Izuku [9:46]  
I love u bt ur too optimistic sometimes

**Ocha [9:51]**  
shhhhhh im a doctor just listen to me

Izuku [9:55]  
yes maam

* * *

Izuku [3:16]  
kiriiiiiii

Izuku [3:17]  
I need ur help wid something

**Kirishima ****ᕕ( ****ᐛ )****ᕗ [3:19]**  
zuzu my man! Wats up?

Izuku [3:23]  
how did u woo kacchan?

**Kirishima ****ᕕ( ****ᐛ )****ᕗ [3:25]**  
ur asking me how I gt katsuki to say yes?

Izuku [3:28]  
yeah pretty much

**Kirishima ****ᕕ( ****ᐛ )****ᕗ [3:31]**  
well it wasn't easy but katsuki eventually let his guard down and let me in. I think the key 2 it was patience. The bastard is stubborn as hell bt if u can be more stubborn, u'll win!

Izuku [3:35]  
I cant determine if this info is useful to me or not

Izuku [3:37]  
bt I guess that bit about patience is a pretty universal thing

**Kirishima ****ᕕ( ****ᐛ )****ᕗ [3:45]**  
pretty much yea.

**Kirishima ****ᕕ( ****ᐛ )****ᕗ [3:47]**  
look zuzu, no mattr wat, at the end of it all, just be honest. Stubborn ppl are hard to get through to, so drill it in their heads that u like them. A lot.

Izuku [3:53]  
as always, I can count on you kiri 3

**Kirishima ****ᕕ( ****ᐛ )****ᕗ [3:58]**  
anytime zuzu 3

* * *

**Todo-todo [5:23]**  
was that you in the news about ten minutes? Something about a robbery gone wrong?

Izuku [5:49]  
It was! /

Izuku [5:50]  
cant believe u saw that omg

**Todo-todo [5:51]**  
are you ok?

Izuku [5:54]  
im fine im fine! I needed some stitches on my hand, and I had a mild concussion but otherwise, im ok

**Todo-todo [5:56]**  
oh thank goodness

Izuku [6:04]  
_image attached_

Izuku [6:05]  
see? Still as dorky as ever

**Todo-todo [6:08]**  
its great to see you doing ok, I was so worried when I saw the report on tv

Izuku [6:12]  
im sorry I worried you :3 but im tougher than I look

**Todo-todo [6:15]**  
I know you are. It's one of the reasons I respect you .

Izuku [6:17]  
please don't say things thatll mke me blush the blood rushes to my face and leaves me lightheaded

**Todo-todo [6:20]**  
you make me question my people skills more than I already do

**Todo-todo [6:22]**  
momo would give you an award for that

* * *

Shouto [9:02]  
I just noticed something

**Mido [9:04]**  
hmm?

Shouto [9:07]  
you have green in your hair

Shouto [9:09]  
why green?

**Mido [9:12]**  
oh ahah! I've always been doing it this way, I dunno, messy green hair just kinda became my thing

Shouto [9:15]  
it does suit you

**Mido [9:16]**  
thank you /

**Mido [9:18]**  
I cant decide between ur red hair and ur platinum/grey/white hair

**Mido [9:22]**  
u looked especially amazing in the samurai movie!

Shouto [9:24]  
oh thank you. I was apprehensive about pulling off either of those colors

Shouto [9:27]  
I feel like im a very, grey, person. Overall.

**Mido [9:40]**  
I don't know u very well, I agree, bt I dnt see u as grey. I see u as pastels more than anything. Subtle but still present. And besides, ur eyes are by far the most mesmerizing ive ever seen

Shouto [9:42]  
its not weird?

**Mido [9:45]**  
ARE U KIDDING IF I COULD HAVE HETEROCHROMIA I WOULD OK THANKS

Shouto [9:47]  
a friend of mine took zoomed in shots, if you'd like to see them?

**Mido [9:48]**  
*wiggles fingers* GIMME

Shouto [9:53]  
_image attached_  
_image attached_  
_image attached_

**Mido [9:57]**  
I legit stopped breathing for a second

Shouto [10:06]  
there's no winning with you, seriously. i really don't want to be responsible for your death.

**Mido [10:11]**  
it'll be a good death tho

Shouto [10:14]  
strange, strange man

Shouto [10:16]  
cute, but strange

* * *

**T0d0 :3 [2:12]**  
MIDorIYAAAAAA

**T0d0 :3 [2:14]**  
r u AWWKKKEKEKG

_incoming call - T0d0 :3 [2:14]_  
_missed call_  
_incoming call - T0d0 :3 [2:14]_  
_missed call_  
_incoming call…._

Midoriya feels groggy, and the loving arms of sleep are tempting him to give in again, but there's this _noise_, this annoying insistent one that tells him it's not gonna let him sleep even if he tries. Blinking into the darkness, Midoriya spots his phone on the nightstand, the screen flashing in time to the vibrations of the device. He knows it's ridiculously late in the night, but it _could_ be an emergency.

With tear-filled eyes, Midoriya snags the device off his table and squashes the receive button with his thumb, bringing the device to his left ear.

"Hello?" His voice is thick with sleep.

There's an uninterrupted static on the other end of the phone before a voice, familiar but not intimate like Iida's or Ocha's inquires, "Is this Midoriya Izuku?"

Midoriya's brain is still muddled with sleep, but he blinks rapidly, trying to awaken himself just a little. "Yes," he answers, clearing his throat.

"Hi," the voice says breathlessly. Midoriya can hear a smile in the person's tone, and it makes his own lips tug at the corners in a small, cute grin.

"Hello." He pulls the device away and looks at the caller-id, flinching when the screen brightness blinds him painfully. When the name registers in his brain, he makes a very embarrassing noise and brings the phone back to his ear immediately.

"_Todoroki_?"

There's a sniffle. "Yes?"

Midoriya's heart is pounding. His palms are sweating, making it difficult to hold the damn phone, and his mouth is suddenly drier than the damn Sahara.

He's _dreamed_ about calling Todoroki so many times, dreamed about hearing his voice and just talking to him for hours, but he didn't dare bring it up in conversation. He didn't see them as close enough, and besides, Todoroki seemed to be busy all the time. What they had was pretty incredible already, so Midoriya didn't want to risk it.

But for Todoroki to be calling him? That hadn't occurred even in his wildest dreams.

"Hi," he whispers, cupping the phone reverently.

Todorki chuckles, a smooth, warm, almost _rusty_ sound. "Hello. It's nice to put a voice to the face and the freckles and the butt."

Midoriya feels himself blush crimson, and he buries his face in his pillow, muffling his screams.

"Todoroki, _please_ don't," he begs, nearly in tears again. "By the way, are you drunk?"

His speech isn't too impaired, nor is he slurring his words, but Midoriya's watched enough of his interviews to know what his normal talking sounds like, and this isn't it. It's lazy, almost playful, and the _s'_s are dragged just the slightest bit.

"Not drunk," Todoroki disagrees. "Not drunk, but _tipsy_ probably."

Midoriya giggles.

"If you say so. Where are you?"

"Home." He drags the _O_ in a way that makes Midoriya melt. He sounds just the way he does on screen, but _better_, so much better. Warm, like sun on a patch of grass, and smoother than the finest silk. Midoriya could listen to him speak forever.

"So, what can I do for you?"

Todoroki hums. "Well," he starts, "I have a thought I need an opinion on. Unbiased."

"Go on."

"Am I unlovable?"

Midoriya freezes, the playful atmosphere vanishing in a moment. Todoroki sounds jovial, but Midoriya can sense pain, even when it's masked so well. His heart clenches at the implication of the question, and a part of him is unsure about how to proceed. He doesn't want to say the wrong thing and upset the man in any way.

"Where is this question coming from?"

Todoroki scoffs. "_Everywhere_. I mean, I, I've always been repeatedly reminded of the fact that I was a mistake, unlike my sisters. My parents had me by mistake. Mom always told me she loved me but dad, dad just, he couldn't _stand_ me, you know?"

Midoriya sits up gingerly, scratching the back of his head with blunt nails.

"Todoroki, mistake or not, you're alive this very minute, are you not? You're self-sufficient and successful, and you're leading your own life, a very good one. I've texted you for about two months now, and every day you make it abundantly clear that you're a human being with great character and personality. And I'm not just saying this as a fan, I'm-" Midoriya sucks in a shaky breath "-I'm saying this as your _friend_."

It's common knowledge that Todoroki and his father are on bad, probably _horrendous_ terms. His father is in the film-making business as well, and he's quite popular, specializing in the more violent-action type films. But his behavior towards his son, his blatant disregard for him as an actual human being, makes him a controversial being all around. Midoriya respects his talent and skill, but not the man himself.

His little speech is met by more silence, but it's oddly comfortable. Todoroki's breathing is deep and steady, and Midoriya almost assumes the man's asleep when he makes a tiny sound, a soft hum.

"Thank you, Midoriya."

Midoriya smiles, falling back on the bed, head dangling off the edge. "Anytime, Todoroki."

"What you up to?"

"Well-"

"Wait, what time is it?" Midoriya hears some shuffling and then a muffled gasp. "It's so _late_, you must've been sleeping! I'm so sorry, I'll hang up im-"

Midoriya waves his free hand around in a sort of panic. "It's ok! It's ok, I don't mind. If you'd like, maybe we could talk some more?"

Todoroki grumbles, "I'd like that."

"Good," Midoriya smiles. "Now, tell me something- when actors get accidental boners while filming, what do they do with it?"

Probably not the best question to ask- in fact, Midoriya wants the earth to open up right about _now_ and swallow him whole but then a burst of laugh, short and loud and so very sweet, resonates in his skull. It's from the phone jammed between his ear and shoulder, and it leaves Midoriya breathless, leaves him craving more.

"Not the most subtle, are you?"

Midoriya's face is home to all the blood in his body at this point, and he's so glad he isn't standing in front of the man. "_Shhh_ you," he mutters, turning in bed and burying his face in his sheets.

Todoroki laughs again, "Are you hitting on me?"

Midoriya whimpers. "Please don't expose me so shamelessly."

"You're cute," Todoroki declares, and Midoriya suddenly wants to see him because he's sure, he's so _sure_ the man is smiling right now, probably with crinkles around his eyes and Midoriya wants to see it because he put it there. He's still sleepy, but there's a different kind of contentment that settles within his ribcage, right under his thudding heart.

"I do think you're amazing," he whispers softly, a wave of courage washing over him. "I think you're talented and smart, you're sweet and funny, and I just. I'm glad I know you."

Todoroki doesn't say a word, but his even breathing and the soft whoosh of air that leaves him with every exhale tells Midoriya all he needs to know.

"Goodnight, Shouto," he says, before switching the phone off.

It's been a long, long night.

* * *

**Todo [7:03]**  
hello, did I call you last night by any chance?

Izuku [7:34]  
you did, and we even had a nice, long chat xD

**Todo [7:47]**  
it upsets me that I don't remember a word of our first conversation

Izuku [7:51]  
speaking of which, is it alright if we talk again? Just wanted to, uh, say somethings

**Todo [8:24]**  
im busy right now, ill text you when im free

Izuku [8:56]  
ok

**Todo [6:35]**  
I'm done filming and im free for a bit

Izuku [6:52]  
can I call?

**Todo [6:56]**  
sure

_incoming call..._

"Hello?"

Todoroki's voice is crisp, cold and business like. Midoriya doesn't really like it, but he can understand the man's apprehension. If he doesn't remember last night, he's probably anxious about what he might've said, so while Midoriya feels disappointed, he doesn't let it get to him.

"Hi," he breathes, a smile breaking out on his face. Cold or not, talking to Todoroki still feels like a dream come true. "How was filming?"

"Exhausting," Todoroki sighs, and Midoriya hears a door shut in the back. "Hold on." He hears muffled voices in the background before Todoroki says, "Ok, go ahead."

Midoriya inhales sharply, "I wanted to talk about last night."

"Ok," Todoroki agrees tentatively.

"Relax," Midoriya says, "it's nothing bad per se. I just, well, you got me a little worried."

"I don't normally drink like that," Todoroki grumbles, and Midoriya giggles into the back of his palm.

"The drinking part is fine, it's the things you _said_ that got me worried." Moving to a more private part of his department, Midoriya sinks to the ground and stares at his knees. "You spoke about your dad."

"What about him?" Todoroki's voice becomes positively _frigid_, making Midoriya shiver. He somehow manages to hold his ground.

"You spoke about mistakes and the like. Listen, irrespective of whether you're drunk or not, I want you to be able to confide in me. Maybe I can present you with a truly unbiased opinion. I know two months isn't a lot, but I feel like I know you. Just, all I'm saying is that you can trust me. With _anything_."

No one speaks for a while, till Todoroki exhales noisily. "Thank you, really." He sounds sincere, to the extent where Midoriya's shoulders slump and a smile, small and intimate, curves his lips.

"Growing up, my dad was never around." He doesn't know why he's telling Todoroki this, but once he starts, he can't seem to stop. "Mom pretty much raised me by herself. Dad would come back sometimes, but never for long enough. I love him, but only because he's my biological father. As far as I'm concerned, I only have one true parent.

Your blood doesn't define you. And besides, it's the family you make of your friends that truly matters. Being bound by blood is one thing, but choosing to be with someone is a whole different ball game."

The silence is shorter this time. "Honestly? I'm pretty lucky. Momo and Kaminari and pretty much everyone has been like family for the longest time. Plus, mother and I have been talking more lately."

Midoriya grins wide enough for his cheeks to ache. "That's great!"

"And there's also _you_," Todoroki adds softly, almost shyly. Midoriya's cheeks practically burst into flames at the proclamation, and he doesn't think he can speak coherently even if he tried.

"To-to-todorokiii! You can't just say that!"

Todoroki laughs again, full and just so warm, and somehow, all is right with the world.

* * *

Shouto [12:09]  
I told him about dad

**Momo [12:13]**  
REALLY?

Shouto [12:16]  
yeah

**Momo [12:18]**  
fuck

**Momo [12:21]**  
youre getting serious

Shouto [12:27]  
help me

**Momo [12:33]**  
sorry kiddo

**Momo [12:39]**  
youre on your own

* * *

Izuku [10:15]  
youre a cardiologist

**Ocha [10:28]**  
and youre stating the obvious

Izuku [10:31]  
my point is

Izuku [10:33]  
if my heartrate picks up exponentially at the mention of a person

Izuku [10:36]  
and if said person texts or calls, I feel elated and the heartbeat seems to become inconsistent

Izuku [10:37]  
what could be the possible prognosis?

**Ocha [10:40]**  
either an anxiety attack or love

**Ocha [10:41]**  
take your pick

Izuku [10:43]  
fml

**Ocha [10:48]**  
wanna get drunk?

Izuku [10:53]  
seriously, theres nothing else u can think of to distract me?

**Ocha [10:56]**  
is that a no?

Izuku [11:21]  
open the door, im outside.

* * *

Shouto [6:18]  
hello midoriya

**Mido [6:24]**  
whats up?

Shouto [6:30]  
_image attached_  
_image attached_  
_image attached_

**Mido [6:36]**  
the third one for sure

Shouto [6:37]  
Momo says she loves you

**Mido [6:40]**  
/

**Mido [6:43]**  
tell her I said I love her back (ˆ⌣ˆԅ)

Shouto [6:48]  
….. id rather not

**Mido [6:55]**  
huh?

Shouto [7:13]  
nevermind, I have to go. Bye.

* * *

Izuku [3:09]  
we gotta be at the station by 7:15 tomorrow, cap's orders

**Kacchan [3:11]**  
fine

**Kacchan [3:18]**  
oye

Izuku [3:24]  
yeah?

**Kacchan [3:27]**  
did something good happen to you?

**Kacchan [3:30]**  
your smile is super creepy and it never goes away

Izuku [3:32]  
aww, it's sweet that you care kacchan thanks 3

**Kacchan [3:34]**  
stfu deku

**Kacchan [3:52]**  
don't get yourself hurt like a dumbfuck

Izuku [4:02]  
promise 3

**Kacchan [4:05]**  
im gonna block you for that

* * *

Izuku [12:04]  
fave color?

**Todo-dodo 3 [12:07]**  
sea green. You?

Izuku [12:09]  
blue 3 3 3

**Todo-dodo 3 [12:12]**  
fave band?

Izuku [12:16]  
ms mr. you?

**Todo-dodo 3 [12:18]**  
minutes to midnight. (don't judge)

Izuku [12:21]  
IM NOT

Izuku [12:24]  
ok maybe a little :3

Izuku [12:27]  
fave fruit?

**Todo-dodo 3 [12:31]**  
custard apple. You?

Izuku [12:37]  
strawberries :D

**Todo-dodo 3 [12:44]**  
first kiss?

Izuku [12:46]  
preschool, with this adorable girl who was my first buddy ever

Izuku [12:49]  
my first REAL kiss was with a boy in 8th grade, who then became my first boyfriend. Your turn.

**Todo-dodo 3 [12:54]**  
rooftop in 10th grade. He was a player though, broke my heart a few weeks later.

Izuku [12:57]  
what an asshat

**Todo-dodo 3 [1:01]**  
haha it's fine, im quite over it!

Izuku [1:07]  
hmm… longest relationship?

**Todo-dodo 3 [1:11]**  
six and a half months. My job is demanding and unpredictable, a bad combination.

Izuku [1:14]  
three years.

**Todo-dodo 3 [1:29]**  
whoa, that's a long time

Izuku [1:33]  
yeah, tenten and ocha had to buy me ice cream and wine for a week. I consumed nothing else

**Todo-dodo 3 [1:40]**  
I can imagine

**Todo-dodo 3 [1:42]**  
current relationship status?

Izuku [1:48]  
single

**Todo-dodo 3 [1:51]**  
the same

Izuku [1:53]  
how come?

Izuku [1:57]  
I mean, theres no way u can convince me ur lacking in offers, not someone as attractive and awesome as u

**Todo-dodo 3 [2:01]**  
there have been a few

**Todo-dodo 3 [2:02]**  
but I turned them all down.

Izuku [2:09]  
….. why?

**Todo-dodo 3 [2:12]**  
there's someone I kinda like already.

Izuku [2:15]  
oh

**Todo-dodo 3 [2:19]**  
I just need time to grow a spine and ask him out

Izuku [2:22]  
he's a very lucky man. Good luck!

**Todo-dodo 3 [2:27]**  
thank you

* * *

Izuku [7:03]  
hope is a cruel thing

**Tenten [7:26]**  
Give me fifteen minutes, I'll bring the wine and cheese.

Izuku [7:31]  
I love you

**Tenten [7:33]**  
Likewise.

* * *

Izuku [7:40]  
ochaaaaaaaa

**Ocha [7:44]**  
im on my way with stupid cheesy movies and a few horror flicks

Izuku [7:46]  
u the bestest

**Ocha [7:49]**  
I know

**Ocha [7:55]**  
gotta borrow your shower btw, I smell like veins and guts

Izuku [8:02]  
_lovely_

**Ocha [8:19]**  
remember that u love me

* * *

_incoming call : Todo-dodo 3 _

"Hello?" Midoriya sounds exhausted, even to his own ears. There's no way he _isn't_, not with every thing that's happened.

"Are you ok?"

Todoroki sounds so _worried_, and it's bloody _endearing_ _as hell_. Midoriya smiles tiredly, leaning into the door of the ambulance. "I'm fine," he reassures, wincing when the cold metal bites into his skin. "Just a little banged up and bruised, but ok."

"Fuck," Todoroki swears, making Midoriya's eyebrows shoot up. Todoroki almost _never_ swears, so he must be really scared to be reacting this way. "I was so _worried_! I heard about the hostage situation and briefly caught a glimpse of you running into the building and then _nothing_. I was so scared, _fuck_."

Midoriya chuckles. "I'm ok, I swear. It's my job afterall."

"Why do I get the feeling you get into more trouble than most?" Todoroki asks dryly.

Midoriya shrugs. "Beats me." When Uraraka taps his shoulder, he glances up and nods. "Listen, I gotta go, get done with my checkups and all you know?"

"Yeah no, please go ahead." Todoroki sighs. "Text me later?"

Midoriya rests his head on Uraraka's shoulder. "I promise."

* * *

Izuku [11:34]  
thank you for the flowers, they were beautiful 3

**Todo-dodo 3 [11:37]**  
youre welcome, are you feeling better?

Izuku [11:40]  
definitely!

Izuku [11:41]  
_image attached_

Izuku [11:43]  
the kids in the same hospital wing made me a flower crown out of the bouquet!

**Todo-dodo 3 [11:50]**  
it looks wonderful on you.

Izuku [11:53]  
/

Izuku [11:57]  
I really don't have blood to spare, don't do this to me

**Todo-dodo 3 [12:01]**  
just when I thought I was making progress with you -.-

* * *

**Ocha [5:42]**  
how does your head feel ?

Izuku [5:44]  
its fine, im ok ocha, I promise

**Ocha [5:48]**  
I believe u

**Ocha [5:49]**  
but katsuki will kill me if I don't follow up every few days

Izuku [5:51]  
that tsundere 3

**Ocha [5:55]**  
hahaha (￣▽￣)ノ

Izuku [6:04]  
Ocha?

**Ocha [6:18]**  
hmmm?

Izuku [6:21]  
im falling in love with him

**Ocha [6:27]**  
I know

* * *

Izuku [8:21]  
im back for duty tomorrow

**Kacchan [8:30]**  
about time asshole

Izuku [8:32]  
I missed u too 3

**Kacchan [8:36]**  
I really hate u

Izuku [8:41]  
it's a fine line u know

**Kacchan [8:45]**  
…..

**Kacchan [8:46]**  
just don't die on my watch fucker

Izuku [8:49]  
wouldn't dream of it

* * *

_missed call: ocha (11)_

**Ocha [3:04]**  
MIDORIYA IZUKU

**Ocha [3:05]**  
WATCH THE TALK NETWORK

**Ocha [3:07]**  
RIGHT NOW

**Ocha [3:09]**  
RIGHT THIS BLOODY INSTANT

Izuku [7:21]  
sorry I just switched my phone on

Izuku [7:23]  
whats up/

**Ocha [7:44]**  
_link attached_

**Ocha [7:47]**  
Its pretty self explanatory

* * *

_incoming – Mido _

"Hello?"

Todoroki's been expecting this call, quite anxiously too, but he hadn't expected the _panting_.

He clears his throat, "Midoriya?"

"D-" Midoriya coughs a little before trying again "-did you just.."

"Yes?" Todoroki prompts.

"I might be in over my head," Midoriya says deliriously, "but did you just _ask me out? _On_ national television_?"

Todoroki smiles shakily, biting his lip to avoid any embarrassing noises that seem determined to slip past his lips. Inhaling deeply, Todoroki tries to calm himself down as much as possible.

"Yeah, I did."

It hadn't been anything grand; it wasn't really planned either. When the host, Mr Yamada, had inquired about his lovelife, Todoroki had remembered the shooting and spilled some of the beans, confessing that the person he liked had gotten in grave danger and that he wished to take them out for a cup of coffee soon. Mr Yamada had whistled at that, and Todoroki had blushed profusely, unable to contain himself.

"It isnt a joke?" Midoriya whispers, and Todoroki swallows thickly. Should he lie and say yes?

"No," he answers before he can make up his mind. He's never been a good liar anyway.

Midoriya stays silent for a beat too long, so Todoroki speaks to fill the silence. "You don't have to answer me right away Midoriya. We've known each other for over half a year now, but I know it's so abrupt, so-"

"You can't break my heart."

Todoroki's mouth goes dry and he feels his face flush. "_Huh_?"

"I absolutely _will not_ forgive you if you do. Got it?" Midoriya's voice is shaking.

Todoroki nods. "Got it."

Midoriya sniffles. "Ok, so, I'm still at work. Can we, uh, make plans when I get back home?"

"Sure," Todoroki smiles. "Please don't cry, this is a good thing right?"

"The best," Izuku agrees, laughing. "Ok then, bye Todoroki."

"Shouto."

"_Huh_?"

Todoroki feels his cheeks warm. "Call me Shouto."

Midoriya makes a small whining noise. "Fine," he concedes. "Only if you call me Izuku."

"Done. Bye Izuku."

"B-bye, Shouto."

Todoroki hangs up with a flushed face and a thundering heart.

**Izuku [8:21]**  
I see buildings I can jump off of

**Shouto [8:22]**  
OH COME ON


	98. (G) BAGGINSHIELD - Far Across the Distan

far across the distance  
LinguisticJubilee

Summary:  
Balin blinks, shifting backwards. "Laddie, it's—it's been a year. Bilbo has returned home, to the Shire." He looks at Thorin, then says more gently, "I did not realize you counted the hobbit among your treasures."

* * *

His lungs cave in, breath forced down his throat, and Thorin wakes up. His heart is pounding and he can hear murmuring all around him, but all he's focused on is the humming in his ears.

"_Erebor_," he croaks out, and someone strokes his hand. He wrenches his eyes open, and even in his unfocused gaze he sees the arched ceiling and breathes in clean stone and knows he is gasps another lungful, and coughs, "_sister-sons_." There is rustling and it's too hard to keep his eyes open so he closes them, chest heaving. His hands are moved and then his fingers are clutching curls, and he opens his eyes to see a golden-framed face on his left and a dark-haired face to his right, and he shakes with gratitude. "_Sister," _he whispers and he hears a snort as a hand heavy with rings cups his cheek. He inhales sharply, listening to the humming in his ears, and gasps, "_Burglar."_

Silence descends, thick and heavy like the river that almost drowned him, and he gathers breath to growl, "_burglar_," but nothing comes. He sees no hand, feels no touch, and the pounding of his heart speeds up. His hands have been emptied, and he clenches his fingers tightly. "_Burglar,_" he almost shouts, twisting his head to look wildly. The hand at his cheek becomes oppressive, moving to his chest to keep him down, but _where is his burglar? _The space has grown noisy without Thorin being aware of it, and a sour-smelling cloth presses down on his mouth. He breathes in again to yell this time, but the sour smell stings at his throat and white spots appear on the corner of his vision. He coughs, limbs growing heavy, and before the darkness takes him he whispers a final time, _"Bilbo."_

When Thorin wakes again, it is with a pounding headache and a clearer mind. He groans and opens his eyes, determined to understand his situation. He is lying on a small bed in what appears to be one of the healing rooms, cleaned from the Mountain's time under Smaug's control. Balin has fallen asleep in a chair on his right. On the far wall, Fili and Kili are tangled up together in another small bed, Dis asleep on a cot next to them. There's a table in the center of the room storing all the material things needed to ease a dwarf out of mountainsleep. From his vantage point in bed, Thorin can see Kili's bow, Fili's childhood fiddle, and the Arkenstone.

Thorin feels a strange twist of emotion at the Arkenstone, and so favors looking away from it to reach out and touch Balin's shoulder. The old dwarf rouses slowly, then jumps in his seat as he opens his eyes. "Thorin?"

"Good morning, Balin," Thorin whispers, throat still dry.

Balin grins, reaching to grasp Thorin's hand at his shoulder. "Welcome back, Thorin. Welcome back."

Thorin squeezes Balin's hand. He remembers Balin's voice now, from among the chaos of his first awakening from mountainsleep. He remembers, too, what had set him into a panic. "Where—?"

"Ah, yes, you were quite upset. The Arkenstone's right here." Balin points toward the table in the center. "Do you see? It has been returned to you. No one has burgled it."

Thorin struggles to lift onto his elbow, looking Balin in the face. "No. Where is Bilbo?"

Balin blinks, shifting backwards. "Laddie, it's—it's been a year. Bilbo has returned home, to the Shire." He looks at Thorin, then says more gently, "I did not realize you counted the hobbit among your treasures."

Thorin lets go of Balin's hand and rubs at his face, trying to ignore the jagged hole that has opened up inside him. Bilbo Baggins, gone back to the Shire.

"Uncle?"

Thorin opens his eyes. Kili is sitting up in bed, Fili stirring next to him. Thorin meets his eyes and Kili grins. "Uncle!" He shouts. He climbs off the bed, dragging Fili with him and waking Dis in the process. Thorin laughs, and continues to laugh even when it leads to coughs. Kili and Fili stop short just by the side of the bed.

"Good morning, Uncle," Fili says, almost shyly, and in that moment he looks quite young. Thorin cannot remember a time when he afforded himself the luxury of treating his nephews like they were young. He reaches up to grab their hands, which Kili takes as permission to crawl into bed beside him. Fili follows suit, and somehow Thorin has an armful of sister-sons when he was so close to losing everything, and he buries his nose in Fili's hair, grateful.

Dis strides over to the bed. She walks as gracefully as ever, but the braids in her beard are frayed and there are dark circles under her eyes. Balin offers her his chair, and she takes it, reaching out a hand to Thorin's forehead. "Idiot," she says softly, stroking the hair away from his face. "And yet, so much less an idiot than I feared."

Thorin sleeps again, body still exhausted from healing itself. When he wakes up, the Company visits him in groups of two or three. They have all been integral in their own ways to the rebuilding of Erebor, and they share stories of the strange treasures found hidden in the mines or games of politics with men and elves. Gloin's wife and child are due to arrive soon with other dwarves from Ered Luin, and Thorin finds his friend's excitement infectious.

Eventually, he and Dis are left alone in the healing room, Thorin sitting up in bed and Dis seated on the chair next to him. Thorin expects her to tell him of the trials of ruling Erebor, but instead she looks him in the eye and says, "The others have been telling me quite the stories about your hobbit."

Thorin winces. "He is not _my_ hobbit."

"No?" Dis raises an eyebrow, somehow managing to look as severe as their grandfather and as mischievous as Fili. "Forgive me then, I must have misunderstood how mountainsleep works. I thought it relied on a dwarf's inherent possessiveness, using the things he holds most dear to tether him to the living world while he heals. Is that not true?"

Thorin says nothing.

"I also thought that, upon the first awakening, a dwarf cannot be calm until he can hold his riches close and be assured all are safe."

Thorin again says nothing.

"So tell me brother," she says, fixing him to the spot with a stare all her own, "which one of us is wrong? Do I misunderstand one of the most revered and ancient practices of our race, or are you being a moron?"

Thorin opens his mouth and closes it again. Dis looks smug. "I...Master Baggins is not a dwarf."

"I had gathered that, thank you."

Thorin glares at her. "As he was not a dwarf, he did not share the others'...emotional attachment to the quest. To—to me." He clears his throat. "Balin and Dwalin would follow me anywhere, and at times that scares me. The twelve put all their hopes of a free and prosperous homeland in me, and as that hope blinded me it also blinded them.

"But Bilbo—Master Baggins—he was not one of us. He did not care a whit for the line of Durin or battles that took place before he was born. He did not temper his words or hesitate to speak. I had to earn his respect, as he did mine. Eventually I came to value his counsel above all others'."

Dis looks at him for a long time. "Bullshit," she says finally. Thorin stares at her in shock. "'His counsel.' Did you leave your personality behind when packing for your quest? When have you ever appreciated your counselors? The stuffy nobility of the old Erebor, you abandoned me with them in Ered Luin." Thorin opens his mouth to speak, but she cuts him off. "Hush. Balin is no more your advisor than I am. He is something far worse, and I would bet my life this hobbit is too. No, Thorin Oakenshield, you have plenty of counselors. But friends? You have far fewer of those."

Thorin stares at her in wonder. "My dear sister," he says, "whyever did you refuse to come on our journey?"

Dis grins. "My dear brother, whoever would have ruled the Blue Mountains in your stead?" She flicks his ear. "Speaking of which, I have once again been picking up your slack, King Under the Mountain. Shall we begin?"

Thorin would like to say the months pass quickly. He would be lying. Waking up from mountainsleep is excruciating. Mountainsleep takes a dwarf from the brink of death and pieces them together enough to survive. The dwarf must take it from there. For the first week, Thorin hardly moves from the bed, unable to walk on his own. His stomach learns how to digest food again, which is a lingering, fickle process that often leaves him retching after a particularly rich meal. The months pass slowly, dragging on his every awkwardness the way cloth will catch on mail. Oin gives him tonics to smooth the nausea and Dwalin trains him to wake up his muscles, and after seven months Thorin is able to walk, assisted by a cane.

Thorin is well enough now to conduct official business, but today's meetings have run over time. He feels too nauseated to eat lunch, and by the time counsel adjourns Thorin feels weak. He hobbles back to his room, feeling the blow of each step more than he should. He keeps his head high, though, because Fili and Dis are walking with him to their shared rooms. When Thorin had first woken up there was talk of renovating the king's suites, but he wouldn't hear of it. He had elected instead to move in with Fili, Kili, and Dis. There is ample room for all of them, and he will not live in luxury until his people do as well. They have four rooms connected to a common sitting room, where they take breakfast and informal dinners.

When they reach the hall that leads to their rooms Fili hangs back. "I will continue on to the training fields," he says with an eager grin. "Nori has promised to help me build up my sword arm." He kisses Dis on the cheek and pats Thorin's shoulder as he strides away, humming.

If Thorin were to hold a sword, his arm would fall off at the shoulder. He turns stiffly down the hall, not waiting for his sister. He pulls open the door to their common room, surprising Kili who is lying on the floor, reading a book. Thorin grunts a hello and keeps moving to his rooms, slamming the door shut behind him.

Safe now where no one can see him, he falls into a chair with a hiss. He stretches out his legs, massaging his knees. It seems as if his whole body aches, protesting the simple act of moving and living. There is a water pitcher on the table next to him and he reaches for it, but his arm spasms and he knocks it instead, sending it flying off the table and crashing to the ground. His shame only intensifies when Dis and Kili burst into the room.

"Uncle, are you alright?"

"Was it really necessary to throw the water pitcher?"

"I didn't throw it!" Thorin snarls. "It just happened."

Kili steps forward. "I'll get it—"

"You will do no such thing! I can take care of myself."

"Thorin!" Dis snaps. "There is nothing wrong with knocking over a pitcher. There is much wrong, however, with antagonizing your nephew."

That draws Thorin up short. He puts his head in his hands. "Fili can spend the day sparring. I, meanwhile, cannot pour myself a glass of water."

"And whose fault is that?"

Thorin looks up. "What can you possibly mean?"

"My patience is fraying, dear brother." She sits herself on Thorin's bed, facing him. "Kili, I'm sure your uncle would love to take you up on your generous offer of cleaning." Kili nods and begins moving to the closet. "Fili is able to help regain his sword arm because he only spent five months in mountainsleep. You spent a year."

"And how is that my fault?"

"Fili awoke three weeks after I arrived. He cares about exactly three things, and all of us are in this room right now."

Kili pauses, broom in hand. Dis gives him a little smile and continues. "Fili will probably always have that limp, but he is whole and at peace, so yes, he is able to relearn how to use a sword.

"You, on the other hand, refuse to even acknowledge that one of your treasures is missing."

"He is not mine," Thorin says sternly. "Nor is he missing. He is where he is meant to be, and I will not take him from there."

"And so you spent an age in mountainsleep, and so you cannot spar with Fili and Nori."

"I will not force him from his home."

"Who said anything about forcing?" Dis lightly scratches her beard. "Has it occurred to you, dear brother, that this Master Baggins might come willingly, that he might _want _to help you?"

"Of course it has!" Thorin grits his teeth. "He would come because I needed it, the same way he snuck around Mirkwood for a month to free us and hid the Arkenstone to save me from my own greed. What am I to say, my dear sister? 'Dear Mr. Baggins, please take on another burden on my behalf. I ask you to give up your life a second time and resign yourself to living locked up in a mountain so that I mightconvalesce more peacefully."

Dis looks at him. Thorin would call her stare pitying if he felt his sister capable of such an emotion. Thorin realizes that Kili is also staring at him, the pitcher and its mess forgotten. "Have you even written him, Uncle?" Kili asks in a small voice.

Thorin sighs. "Please, both of you, allow me a modicum of self-preservation when it comes to Mister Baggins." And with that, Thorin puts his head in his hands and doesn't move it until he hears his family leave.

On the first Durin's Day after Thorin awakes, he spends the day in solemn remembrance of the tragedy his own greed wrought on the people of Laketown, now residing in Dale. It occurs to Thorin that he has skipped the worst of the destruction, first because the gold sickness blinded him to others' sufferings and then because he slept through the initial reconstruction.

A few weeks after Durin's Day, Thorin makes room in his schedule to sit down to a dinner with the Company and their families. He spends most of it in silence, content to smile and watch his friends drink and recount much embellished stories of their exploits. Dis is seated next to him, and in a move Thorin knows is perfectly designed to tease him, she asks for stories of Bilbo. Bilbo stories are, naturally, the best of their adventures, and the Company fall over themselves to be the one to share them.

"—And then," Bofur shouts, wiping his eye, "he says we have to turn back, because he's forgotten his handkerchief!" Everyone erupts into laughter.

"I can just imagine it," Gloin cuts in, "Bilbo arrives home and there's his handkerchief, lying on his armchair!"

Kili shakes his head, swallowing his food. "No, no, that's the best part. His cousin stole his handkerchiefs when she thought he wasn't coming back! He had to buy new ones!"

Kili's outburst is met with laughter, but Thorin and a few others stare at him. "Kili," Balin says, glancing at Thorin, "how do you know that?"

Kili gulps visibly. "I...write him letters sometimes. After Uncle said...well, I thought Bilbo would like to hear from one of us."

Thorin opens his mouth, then closes it. "What do you discuss in your letters?"

Kili looks at his plate, shrugging. "He talks about his neighbors and how annoying they are. I tell him about Tauriel a lot. He says he's no good at love things, but his advice is actually quite helpful."

Thorin feels lost in the weight of this new information. "I...Forgive me." He stands up. "I just remembered a few matters I need to take care of." He leaves the room, far too quickly to be mannerly, he knows, but his mind is swirling and he needs to be alone. Walking is far easier than it was months ago, which is apparently when Kili started writing Bilbo letters, talking of love and whatever else his fancy took to. Thorin enters his rooms and sinks onto his bed. He sits with his head in his hands and imagines Bilbo sitting at his desk in the Shire, writing letters about his neighbors. Thorin imagines Bilbo with that little smile on his face, the one he has when he's amused but doesn't want anyone to know it. A warm tear escapes from his eye, and he wipes it quickly with a hand.

Thorin's door slams open and Dis begins yelling even before she gets in the room. "Jealous of your nephew? Is that the new low we're sinking to today?" Thorin looks up and Dis stops, her hand frozen in the air. "Oh, hell. You're crying."

Thorin snorts but doesn't deny it. Dis moves to sit next to him on the bed. "I want him here," Thorin says after a moment. "I want him here all the time, in this room, at that dinner, in our damned council meetings. I want him woven into my life in such a way that there would be no hope of separating us. I want too much, and so I say nothing." Thorin pauses, working his throat. "The brightest part of my life has always been your boys. I could not love them more if they were my own. And now I hear that Kili confides in him, and that he in turn listens and offers advice. Bilbo left more than a year ago and yet he continues to surprise me." Thorin smiles, open and aching. "I feel many things, Dis, but jealousy is not one of them."

Dis reaches up a hand and cards her fingers through his hair. "I almost rather you were jealous," she says, pulling on his curls, "for jealousy is far more easier to fix than heartache."

"Do not fix me," he says, leaning into her hand. "I fear I will not survive the attempt."

She snorts and continues running her hand through his hair. Thorin closes his eyes, taking comfort in the closeness.

Thorin is to be crowned. He has fought it every day since he awoke, feeling a grand ceremony is exactly the opposite of what a king who once suffered from gold sickness deserves. It had been Fili who finally made him see reason, saying softly, "It is not about you, Uncle. It is about all of these people who have uprooted their lives for the umpteenth time on the promise of a King. They need to see that King."

And so the conversation has shifted to the details of the coronation. Thorin does not want the Arkenstone anywhere near him. He sees its beguiling sparkle and is instantly transported back to that dark day on the wall. He can feel the cool wind biting at his cheeks as he lifts Bilbo over the edge. The memory makes him sick. Thorin would like nothing more than to smash the Arkenstone into a thousand pieces.

The debate is broken when Dwalin opens the chamber door. "Forgive me for intruding," he says with a grin, "but I thought you'd like to know. Githlia, the jeweler from Ered Luin, just had her baby. It's a girl, a healthy baby girl."

Thorin smiles broadly and lets Balin pat him on the back. A baby in Erebor. Can there be better proof of life returning to the mountain than this? Thorin thinks back to Fili's words. The celebrations should be about the people. "I want to smash the Arkenstone in a thousand pieces," Thorin announces. The cheers around him stop. His advisors look scandalized, but Fili leans forward with a smile upon his face, and so Thorin addresses his next words to his sister-son. "I want to smash the Arkenstone into a thousand pieces and fashion each piece into a polished token. Every baby born in Erebor will receive a chip of the Arkenstone, as a symbol of their right to belong."

Aelfgar, a crusty old dwarf Thorin has long wished to strangle, clears his throat. "In order for such a scheme to work, the pieces would be so small as to be rendered practically worthless."

Thorin grins. "Exactly."

"You should invite your hobbit to the coronation."

Thorin sighs and puts down his quill. "He is not my hobbit."

"And he never will be at this rate."

Thorin twists in his chair to look at Dis standing in the doorway to his study. "We've talked about this, Dis, please," he says, aware that he sounds like a whining child.

"No, we've talked about him coming to live here. What exactly in a coronation invitation implies that the guest should stay forever?" She smirks. "His visit will have a precise start date and end date. He can stay for the winter. You won't be dragging him away from his flowers then, and I daresay our fireplaces are as good as any in the Shire."

"Dis—"

"If he weren't your One, would you even be hesitating right now?" She smirks, and Thorin knows he's been caught. He doesn't even want to fight her, thinking already of all he wants to show Bilbo, of hearing Bilbo laugh again…

By the time Thorin comes back to himself, Dis has slipped away.

Damn that woman.

_Dear Master Baggins,_

_They are crowning me a second time, as the original attempt proved less than desirable. As past experience has shown, my coronations are much more successful when you and your unfailing common sense are in attendance._

_The Arkenstone will not be used in the ceremony. Bombur's mince pies will be._

_Yours,_

_Thorin_

The nice thing about spring is that Thorin gets to be outside when Dwalin kicks his ass in training. Thorin is dripping in sweat when Dwalin lowers his sword and says, "That's enough for today."

Thorin shakes his head, breathing heavily. "I can keep going."

"Aye, you can," Dwalin agrees easily, "but you won't today. You push yourself too hard and you won't be able to sit up tomorrow."

"But I need to get better."

"No. You need to run a kingdom." Dwalin stares at him fiercely. "Let's make one thing clear, Thorin Oakenshield, the fact that there's a kingdom at all is because of you. You are the only person in this entire mountain who thinks you need to lift a sword to lead us. Now I'm happy to help you gain your strength back, but not if it means tomorrow you won't be able to walk around and do what needs to be done. Kinging comes first, this nonsense second."

Thorin cedes to him with a nod. "When did you get so wise, Dwalin?"

"Must have stolen it from you, the way you're acting so daft."

Thorin laughs, and they walk into the mountain, leaning against each other..

The raven delivers Bilbo's response during family lunch. Thorin would have sworn that Dis bribed that raven to show up during the worst moment possible, if he believed ravens able to be bribed. "What's that, Uncle?" Kili asks.

"Don't talk with your mouth full," Thorin replies and opens the letter.

_My cousin has determined that the best way to win my house from me is to annoy me into an early grave. She now visits me every Wednesday at eleven without fail, eating my food and boiling my blood. Your invitation has saved a life, because should I be forced through much more of this torture one of us would not survive, and I do not fancy myself dead or imprisoned for murder._

_I will be there, Thorin._

Thorin reads it three times before glancing up. His sister and her sons are looking at him expectantly. He clears his throat and reaches for his water. "Master Baggins will be joining us for the coronation after all," he says idly, taking a sip.

Kili's grin is positively feral, and Dis's is not much better. Yet, curiously, it is Fili who speaks. "I am glad to hear Bilbo has changed his mind." He mirrors Thorin, drinking his water casually.

Thorin narrows his eyes. "Explain."

Fili looks from Kili to Dis, eyes wide with faked innocence. "Oh, did you not know? He received a formal invitation as soon as the coronation date was finalized. Kili also urged him to attend. He declined both."

Thorin glances down at the letter again. "Perhaps circumstances in the Shire have changed."

His kin must be feeling particularly magnanimous, for Fili just murmurs, "perhaps," and the three of them leave Thorin in peace for the rest of the meal.

Thorin hates Dwalin with every short, winded breath he manages to take. Dwalin had insisted on teaching "your tired, regal ass how to sweat again," and set Thorin to running laps around the training field, pausing occasionally to force him to do pushups or some other indignity. Thorin had lost his shirt about an hour ago, too soaked in sweat to be useful. They are pushing into the second hour, and as Thorin rounds a corner and Dwalin's smug face come into view, he staggers to a stop. "Please, I beg of you. No more." He bends over and heaves, sweat dripping. "I will give you whatever you desire. Show mercy."

A giggle is quickly stifled behind him, and with a jolt Thorin realizes they are not alone. Thorin turns quickly to chastise whichever nephew dared disturb them and freezes. Bilbo is standing on the edge of the field, accompanied by Fili, Kili, Dis, and Tauriel of all people. Bilbo looks healthy, his cheeks fuller than when Thorin last saw him. His clothes are clean and bright, and Thorin might mistake him for the stuffy hobbit he first met in Bag End if it weren't for the relaxed set of his shoulders and the blade strapped to his hip.

Beside him Dwalin shifts his stance, and Thorin realizes he's staring. "Bilbo!" Thorin says loudly, then clears his throat. "Bilbo," he says again more calmly, taking a step forward, "how great it is to see you at last." Thorin runs a hand through his sweaty hair to tame it, suddenly conscious of how disheveled he is, without even a shirt on.

Bilbo smiles easily. "And you, Thorin. I can't tell you how relieved it makes me to see you so...hale."

Kili makes a strangled sort of noise that is cut off sharply.

Thorin returns Bilbo's smile, hoping his internal panic does not show through. "We had not expected you for another fortnight. Your arrival is a very welcome surprise, believe me, but—why are you here?"

"Ah yes," Tauriel cuts in with a grin, "that is my fault, I'm afraid. I ran into Bilbo and the caravan he was travelling with and stole him away for a visit in Eryn Galen."

Thorin tramps down on the jealousy that rises up at the thought of Thranduil seeing Bilbo before him. Bilbo'svisit to Mirkwood will give Thorin two extra weeks with him. He nods to Tauriel and turns to Bilbo. "Have you been settled in, shown to your rooms? Do you need anything?"

"No, no, your sister took care of everything, thank you."

There is a stilted silence, and Thorin wishes fervently that he was prepared for this. He is underdressed and smells of a sewer, and as much as he would like to embrace Bilbo, he does not think it will be appreciated. Dis rescues him, clapping her hands and saying, ''It is almost time for dinner, brother, and I will uninvite you to our meal if you do not wash." With that, she ushers Bilbo and the rest away.

Thorin stares at their backs until they are out of sight, sighs heavily, then turns heavily to Dwalin. "Would you mind terribly running me through with that sword over there?"

"Absolutely not, sorry," Dwalin says cheerfully. "That would not help me get out of dinner with your sister." He claps Thorin on the shoulder. "Come on, Thorin, let's get cleaned up."

Thorin spends a long time bathing, scrubbing everywhere twice and washing his hair carefully. He pretends he doesn't remember how often he'd imagined meeting Bilbo again, but in all of his concocted scenarios they were alone. He doesn't know how familiar to be with Bilbo around other people. Thorin is well aware that the last time they spoke he was on his deathbed, and the time before that he had tried to kill Bilbo.

It is certainly a lot of baggage to bring to a crowded dinner.

Luckily for him, most of the Company, along with Dis and Tauriel, are already assembled in the royal dining hall by the time he arrives. He silently thanks Dis for her intimidating coordination skills as he slinks into a chair between her and Bilbo. Bilbo flashes him a quick smile and turns back to Gloin, who is in the middle of a story about Gimli as a child. Thorin leans back in his chair and settles into his usual pattern of listening quietly to the conversation. Gloin's story concludes and everyone laughs, no one harder than Kili.

"Wait, wait," Bilbo says, looking at Kili with a grin on his face. "What are you, ten years older than Gimli?"

"Fifteen," Kili says stiffly.

"Which is nothing to a dwarf. So where do you get off, laughing like he's a baby?" The Company roars with laughter and Kili turns red. "No, I'm serious. Tell me stories of Kili as a baby."

"You've heard them all," Kili whines.

"I haven't," Tauriel says next to him, sending the Company into hysterics again.

Bilbo turns to Thorin. "Tell me one," he commands.

Dis leans forward to save Thorin from answering, but Thorin lays a hand on her arm. "When Kili was seventeen," Thorin says, " he wanted to marry an elf." Kili turns red and shoots a glance at Tauriel. "You must understand that Kili had never met an elf before. He had heard that dwarves did not like elves very much—"

"And I wonder from whom he heard that, don't you?" Dis cuts in with a twinkle in her eye.

"—And he became very angry—"

"Again, at whom, but I guess we'll never know."

"—and he came to the idea that the best way to seek revenge would be to marry an elf. He concocted a very elaborate plan, but the first step was, of course, to find an elf to marry. He needed someone to take him to Lindon so he could begin courting. He snuck out when he was supposed to be in lessons and found a caravan of men en route to Bree. He undid all of his braids, stuck a bunch of leaves into his hair, and strode onto the road in front of them. He declared himself—oh, what was it?"

"Findaharis, son of Marael," Dis supplies. Tauriel winces theatrically.

"Yes, that's it, Findaharis. Now the Men knew better, as Kili was about three sizes too small to be an elf, but they had this tiny creature on their hands now and they felt responsible for him. The leader of the caravan promised Kili that she would escort him to the Grey Havens and the two of them rode off on her horse. In reality, she had planned to take Kili back to the nearest Dwarves she could find and exchange him for a good story. They were delayed, however, by one tiny flaw in Kili's plan.

"Kili had not learned yet which plants were safe and which were not. In making his elven crown, he had accidentally chosen leaves from poison ivy. As they were riding, Kili's head rubbed against her shoulder, and very soon the both of them were itching and scratching far too violently to ride anywhere. Which is why I eventually found Kili not with a caravan nor on the road but instead by a stream, having his scalp scrubbed viciously by an old, screaming woman."

Everyone laughs, even Kili, and Bilbo sends him a small smile. Thorin has become addicted to that smile, or perhaps he always craved it without knowing. Thorin keeps seeking out that smile, and finds himself speaking more and more. The mead is flowing and the conversation lively, and before Thorin knows a hand is shaking him awake.

"All this talk of Kili being young, and yet you fall asleep at the table like a baby." Thorin blinks up and Dis is staring down at him, her expression wicked. "It's time for you to go to bed, dear brother."

The party breaks up after that, everyone shuffling home. Kili, Fili, and Tauriel leave together, and Thorin is too tired to worry about what they will get up to. Dis and Thorin walk Bilbo to his rooms and they bid him a quiet goodnight. When they reach their own rooms, Thorin can tell Dis would like to talk to him, but he waves her off and goes to bed, quickly falling into a dreamless sleep.

Thorin is the second person to breakfast the next morning. Dis is sitting at the table, chewing on a piece of toast and reading a book. "You owe me, brother," she says without looking up.

"Good morning. What could I possibly owe you for?" He sits next to her and begins loading his plate.

"I am meeting with Aelfgar this morning to discuss lodging for Dain's people during the coronation."

Thorin blinks up in surprise. "I thought I was meeting with Aelfgar."

"You were. You aren't anymore. Which is why you owe me." She looks up from her reading and stares at him mockingly. "Surely you could find something better to do with your morning?"

At that moment the door to their common room opens and Bilbo walks in, looking far too chipper for someone who had spent the past few months travelling. "Good morning," he says brightly.

"Good morning," Thorin returns, while Dis beckons Bilbo to sit and eat. "Did you sleep well?"

"Excellently," Bilbo says and accepts a plate of eggs from Dis. "The transformation in these three years, Thorin, is really quite remarkable."

"I'm afraid I can't take credit for most of it, but I would be happy to give you a tour before my afternoon appointments."

"l would love that, thank you." Bilbo smiles at him and takes yet another roll that Dis has offered.

They fall quiet at the sound of Fili opening his door. He stumbles out of his room, barefoot and hair sticking up all over. Without a word he opens Kili's bedroom door and steps through, slamming it behind him.

The three at the table stare at each other in silence for a moment before they hear a thump and Kili's door opens once more. Fili drags out a moaning Kili and deposits him in the chain next to Bilbo, then sits down himself. "We're awake," Fili pronounces, then pushes his head into his hands.

"Are you sure about that?" Bilbo asks.

"Awake," Kili moans, his eyes still closed. "No yelling."

Bilbo looks at Thorin. "Did I yell?"

Fili lifts his head. "Mother yells. When we're not awake."

"But we're awake," Kili adds. "So no yelling."

Dis smiles deeply in satisfaction. "More sausage, Bilbo?"

"Please."

After Dis is done plying Bilbo with food, Thorin leads him through the halls of Erebor. It is the first time they have been alone, if you count being in public alone, and Thorin can barely hold back the urge to ask every intimate question on the tip of his tongue. He refrains and instead says, "How was your journey here?"

"More comfortable than my last. Our ponies weren't eaten halfway through. We didn't meet any stone-giants. That was nice." Bilbo smiles. "Company wasn't as good, though."

Thorin is quietly pleased by that statement. They pass a group of Dwarves in the corridor who give Bilbo long, considering looks. Bilbo says softly, "Do they always stare at you like that?"

"They are not staring at me." When Bilbo looks at him, Thorin shakes his head. "I was a blacksmith-king in Ered Luin. I was nothing special to stare at then. There was a little interest when I began venturing out of my rooms after the mountainsleep, but that was two years ago. Since then I have taken great pains to erase any kind of barrier between me and my people. I believe indifference to my presence has become a sort of status for residents here. Only visitors and recent arrivals stare."

Bilbo shakes his head. "Why would they stare at me then? I'm no more special than you."

"Bilbo," Thorin says incredulously, "you are the favorite of a group of famous Dwarves who love nothing more than to drink and tell loud stories. Everyone in this mountain knows your exploits. Ask any random dwarf about the barrel story, and they will tell you it in full detail, I promise you."

Bilbo blushes faintly, but his next words are said seriously. "They won't always stare, will they?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's nothing, only...my reputation always precedes me in the Shire. It is tiring, to be known as 'eccentric' before I even walk into a shop."

Thorin pauses, thinking it over. "You will never blend in, as the only hobbit here. But the dwarves who moved back to Erebor are a much more flexible people than I would have thought possible, given our natures. There's not much that they won't get used to, after a while."

Bilbo smiles. "Dis seems determined to make me welcome through food," he says, changing the subject.

"She's trying to discover what the limits of a hobbit stomach are."

Bilbo laughs brightly. "I feel I understand Fili and Kili better, now that I have met their mother. She and I have been talking quite a lot."

Thorin smiles a little. "Do not believe everything Dis tells you."

"She likes making trouble, then?"

"Yes," Thorin answers immediately, then reconsiders. "She wears her humor like armor. Our mother died when Dis was very young. She was only twenty-eight, not considered an adult yet. There was a lot of pressure on her to grow up into a certain kind of woman, stiff but submissive at the same time. Her sharp tongue was her form of rebellion. Her behavior was impeccable, but Father's advisors quickly learned never to ask her to do something she did not want to do."

"She sounds quite formidable."

"I often think she is stronger than me." Thorin shakes his head. "I've asked her several times about how she endured the months when we were in mountainsleep. She only ever responds with a joke about how I snored. I held her in my arms when she was born, Bilbo, but even to me she will not show weakness."

"A family trait, then."

They continue walking, talking of many things. Thorin does not worry much about where they wander, letting whim and Bilbo's curiosity take them down one street or another. They linger in places Bilbo remembers as dusty or in ruins, and talk of the reconstruction. They are discussing the repairs in Dale when a messenger comes hurrying up the steps to them, skirts billowing in her haste. "Your Majesty! Her Highness the Princess requests your presence in the royal chambers."

Thorin glances at Bilbo then turns back to the young woman. "My sister knows I have no appointments in the morning."

"Yes, Your Majesty," says the messenger, reddening under her beard. "Only it is past midday, and Her Highness said…"

"Yes?"  
"She said, 'Please tell His Majesty to look at a watch next time I do him a favor.'" She casts her eyes downward.

Thorin can see Bilbo is stifling a grin beside him. "What is your name, Messenger?"

"Flairan, Your Majesty."

"Miss Flairan, you have done well in conveying the Princess's message. Would you do me the great favor of escorting Master Baggins wherever he may wish to go?" Thorin turns to Bilbo. "Ori should be in the library if you wish to visit him."

Bilbo nods. "I should like that very much. Flairan, if you'll lead the way?"

Thorin watches the two of them walk off, Bilbo drawing the girl into a chat. He turns and strides in the other direction. Now that it had been brought to their attention, Thorin's legs are complaining at their long walk, and will surely feel stiff throughout the afternoon. But while he and Bilbo talked, Thorin had not felt a thing.

Thorin's time is increasingly infringed upon by coronation preparations. When he's not mediating fights between advisors about what moving his right hand might mean versus his left, he's entertaining visiting dignitaries from all over Middle Earth. Bilbo has been surprisingly valuable to state dinners, attending when he doesn't have an invitation elsewhere. He's attentive in his quiet way, and quick to pull someone into conversation if they look neglected. Dis has been the opposite of valuable. She is an attentive and lively conversation partner for serious topics, but the minute talk turns to nonsense she is quick to insult the offender.

The advisors have devised a role for the thirteen, Bilbo included, to be officially titled King's Company during the rehearsal. Dis is forced to observe the rehearsal, and Thorin blames her for giving tacit permission for the rest to fool around until Aelfgar leaves in a huff.

Thorin sighs and hangs his head. "Why did I agree to this?"

Bilbo pats his back soothingly. "We'll get it right on the day, don't you worry."

Bifur blows a raspberry.

So involved is the processing of _preparing _to be crowned that it doesn't hit Thorin until he's getting ready for bed the night before. The coronation is tomorrow.

The thought makes it impossible to sleep. After a few hours of staring at his ceiling, he rises and dresses in a simple shirt and trousers. He will go to the throne room and wait until sunrise. He can pretend that a vigil is tradition.

When he arrives he finds Dis already there, swinging her legs over the edge of the bridge facing the throne. He sits beside her without a word and lets the minutes pass by.

"I thought I had no memories of Erebor," she says finally. "But when l arrived in this hall I thought,'of course,' and I could see Grandfather here, as clear as it were yesterday."

"I have been King a long time, but I knew Grandfather would never see me as such until I sat upon that throne."

Dis shakes her head, "Why do we form our lives around the possible opinions of a dead madman? Why can't we leave him in the past where he belongs?"

Thorin snorts and stares out at the throne.

"Why are thrones so wide? What about a King's job makes your ass grow so large you need a seat like that?"

"In that case I think you would be a better King than me," he laughs, turning to look at her. He expects a biting response in return, but instead she is staring at the throne, her eyes open and sad.

"I am so relieved to not be King that I might weep," she says, all mirth gone from her voice. "Ered Luin has a steward, a good one, and almost no one lives there now anyways. Tomorrow you will be crowned King Under the Mountain for the third and final time. No one will call me King ever again, and I am happy."

Thorin doesn't understand. "You've been a fair and just ruler, Dis, whenever you had to in my stead—"

"In your stead." Dis gives a bitter laugh. "In your stead, dear brother, I would never have taken Erebor. If I were King I would have forbidden your journey and kept you and my sons under lock and key until you turned three hundred. I have lost everyone I have loved except for you three. You lived that life also, but while it made you dream of grand schemes it made me yearn for small ones. I will do whatever is necessary to protect you from harm. That attitude works well for a caretaker, sitting on the throne for a few years. But a King needs dreams. If I were King, none of Durin's folk would have died before their second century, but what kind of life would they have led? A life without hope, without dignity?" She turns towards Thorin and fixes him with a stare full of sincerity. "You kept our heart alive, Thorin Oakenshield, when we were the shame of Middle Earth. You are more than just a ruler. You are King Under the Mountain, and I am at your service."

"Without you," Thorin says,voice hoarse, "l would be no King."

She smiles tightly at him. They scoot nearer, pressing their sides together as if they were children. They stay seated like that until dawn breaks and it is time to return home and dress for the ceremony.

On the second Durin's Day after awaking from mountainsleep, Thorin is crowned King Under The Mountain. He says his vows in as solemn a voice he can, and he watches as his words transform from nonsense to a promise through the eyes of his people. Fili was right; this ceremony is not about Thorin but the promise for his people's lives he represents.

And Bilbo was right that the Company would get the ceremony right. Thorin watches with pride as each of the thirteen repeats the devised oath, "I will protect my Mountain and my King." On Bilbo's turn Thorin fully expects to hear the oath in Weston as practiced, but the hobbit instead swears in perfect Khuzdul. Bofur looks smug, and Thorin cannot deny his own proud feelings.

Afterwards the streets of Erebor are filled with people, eating and dancing. The royal family, the Company, and the dignitaries are seated on a overlooking dais. When the music starts, Dis hauls Thorin out of his chair and down to the festivities, twirling him in the middle of the street. "You're not watching this time, dear brother," she says, her voice full of laughter.

Thorin dances three dances with Dis before faking exhaustion. He sits next to Bard as Dis selects Dwalin as her next victim. Fili grabs Bilbo, and the pair soon have a huge area to themselves as the other dancers scramble to get out of the way of the dwarf with a limp and the hobbit who doesn't know the steps. Kili persuades Tauriel to dance with him, and when Thorin catches Thandruil's eye the Elf nods at him solemnly.

Thorin was mistaken when he said that he could not enjoy a coronation. If he wipes at his eye a few times during the night, no one says anything.

Aelfgar will make Thorin late for his lunch with Bilbo and then Thorin will have to kill him. It is lamentable but necessary. The old dwarf continues droning on about respectability and tradition until Thorin interrupts coldly. "Has anything changed since last you spoke with me on this subject?"

Aelfgar blinks. "Well, yes. You were crowned."

Thorin resists the urge to roll his eyes. "I was King before the ceremony. Has anything substantial changed?"  
"No, but every day that passes is a wasted opportunity—"

"Then I must bid you good day, Master Aelfgar, for I have other matters I must attend to today." Thorin storms out of the room, leaving the Aelgar with his mouth open.

When Thorin enters their sitting room, Dis, Bilbo, and the boys are all assembled around the table. "We almost started without you," Dis says.

"Aelfgar," Thorin growls as an explanation and takes his seat. His family groans in understanding.

"Your grandfather's old advisor?" Bilbo asks, and Thorin nods. "What did he want to talk to you about?"

"Ooo, let's guess!" Kili cries.

"The time you spend in the forge?" asks Fili.

"Nori winking at him in the hall?"

"Vague comments on living up to Thror's image?"

"Marriage," Dis says decisively, and the boys quiet, knowing she has struck gold. "What were the arguments this time?"

"That I am the first King in nine generations to be crowned without a consort, the people need tradition, and so on."

"You are to be married?" Bilbo asks quietly, sending Thorin's heart pumping.

"Not to anyone of Aelfgar's choosing," he says, keeping his tone light.

"Whom would Aelfgar choose?"

"Dain, ideally. I would sooner fight a second dragon."

The boys laugh, but Bilbo still remains serious. "I had not thought that your marriage would need to be strategic. Must it be arranged?"

Thorin chooses his next words carefully. "While I think a perfect partner would, of course, be an asset to Erebor, I think I've given enough of my life to my kingdom to request the small favor that when I do marry, I marry for love."

"Very well said," Dis says after a moment. "Bilbo, your influence is working miracles in my brother, for I think this is the first time I have heard him speak so diplomatically."

"I speak diplomatically many times, Dis, whenever anyone asks me what is wrong with my dear sister."

The conversation drifts on merrily. Thorin sneaks glances at Bilbo from time to time, hoping he heard in Dis's words that he would be, absolutely, an asset to Erebor.

The air has turned mild again, and so Thorin is not surprised to find Bilbo on a ledge outside the mountain, overlooking the blackened, charred forest that had yet to heal. Thorin cannot welcome the warming earth as others can, for the return of spring also means the eventual return of Bilbo to the Shire. For the past few months Thorin has had Bilbo among Erebor's walls, his presence lighting every corner. Now that he has lived with it, he does not know if he can relearn to live without it.

But Bilbo does not leave today, so Thorin sits beside him on the ledge and turns to face outward. They sit in silence for a few moments before Bilbo says quietly, "Kili talked to me about mountainsleep."

Thorin turns to look at Bilbo. "Did he answer your questions well?" He asks carefully.

"All but one. I wondered why it took you so long to wake up, when Kili only needed six months. He said I needed to ask you that question."

Thorin knows now that this conversation will have no escape, but if he treads lightly, maybe the worst can be avoided. "The care of a dwarf under mountainsleep unfortunately involves quite a bit of guesswork. I'm sure Kili has told you how treasures aid the recovery of a dwarf." Bilbo nods. "It was not as though I could state my preferences. I...cared a great deal about something and no one realized. I do not blame them for not knowing. I healed more slowly because I was not fully at peace."

"Kili said you still need your treasures after you wake. When you woke up, you fixed it, right? You were able to explain what you needed."

Thorin pauses, surprised by the question. "I didn't want to," he forces out. "I refused to disturb anyone just to walk a little sooner."

Bilbo snorts. "Well that's stupid! You put yourself through unnecessary pain and prolonged your suffering. Why? So you didn't have to say 'please'? Would it have killed you to ask?'

"It's complicated. It's not like i was missing a trinket someone had on hand."

"What could possibly have been complicated about it? Did you lose it on the journey here? Did it belong to someone else? It was for a damn good cause, Thorin, you could have just asked for it."

"I couldn't have. It wouldn't have been right."

"What was it?"

"It was you," Thorin says, the words fleeing his mouth without his control. "The treasures we seek during mountainsleep aren't just things, I'm sure Kili told you that. When I first awoke, I begged for five—Erebor, Fili and Kili, Dis, and you."

Thorin pauses to breathe and finds he cannot continue. His whole attention is focused on Bilbo. The hobbit is staring at him, eyes wide with something akin to hurt in them.

"You never told me," Bilbo whispers, an angry glint to his words.

"I couldn't," Thorin says with a rush of desperation. "It would have been unfair to ask."

"But not writing to me, not telling me the truth, that was fair?" Bilbo shakes his head. "I don't understand how you could say that you...you needed me so badly it hurt you to walk, and yet you never even talked to me."

"What you wanted more than anything was peace, in your Shire. I was giving you that peace."

"It was not yours to give!" Bilbo straightens and looks Thorin in the eye. "Instead you took from me, took my choice and... and a friendship I had long thought lost."

Thorin is aghast. He had tried to shield Bilbo from the pain that choosing between Thorin and the Shire would cause. Instead he caused Bilbo suffering. "I am sorry, Bilbo."

Bilbo stares at him for a moment before nodding. "What do you want, Thorin?" he says, voice considering.

Thorin blinks. "In what way?"

"In every way. Concerning Erebor, the mountainsleep, and me. What do you want?"

Thorin pauses. "l want you to be happy."

"For the love of everything, Thorin, stop it and tell me. Ignore that voice in your head that tells you that you can't have nice things and just say what you want for once in your life."

Thorin looks away and stares out at the burnt trees. He smiles sadly. "I feel lighter on my feet when you are near me. I laugh more often and stomach others' foolishness better. I do not know if it is the magic or simply you, but I would not part with you for all the treasures in the dragon's hoard."

He hears a soft exhale beside him. "Then I will stay."

Thorin turns sharply to look at Bilbo. "You do not have to," he says desperately.

Bilbo is smiling. "I know."

"I can live without you. I've proven it."

Bilbo nods, eyebrows lifted. "Yes."

"But the Shire. That was what you wanted."

Bilbo pokes him in the chest. "What I wanted, Thorin Oakenshield, was a home, and there was more than one way to give me one."

Thorin stares at him. "I love you," he says wildly, out of excuses and protections against this _thing_. If it is going to break him, then let it break him completely.

Bilbo places a hand on Thorin's face, laughing. "And I love you," he says, making Thorin's clumsy heart weightless, "so can we stop fighting about it?"

Thorin covers Bilbo's hand with his own. "Never," he vows, and leans in to press his lips to Bilbo's. He means to keep the touch light, but Bilbo tugs him closer and he closes his eyes and lets go. Thorin carved out a place for his people in the Blue Mountains, led a quest to defeat a dragon, nearly died at the hand of an orc. But it wasn't until this moment, feeling Bilbo's warm smile underneath his, that he understands that he's finally come home.

They walk into the common room and Dis falls out of her chair with the force of her laughter. "Kili!" She bellows. "Find me Balin! He owes me coin!"

Kili and Fili both burst out of their rooms, heads turning wildly. Fili looks down at his mother and swears. He ducks back into his room and returns with a pouch of money that he throws at Kili's head.

Bilbo dissolves into laughter beside Thorin, muffling his giggles into Thorin's shoulder. Thorin begins to laugh too, happiness bubbling in his chest. This strange feeling of contentment is not anything a dragon would steal, but in this room full of laughter Thorin has never felt richer.


	99. (T) STETER - Your Heart on Your Sleeve b

Your Heart on Your Sleeve  
cywscross

Summary:  
Stiles is an empath, and it's just his luck that he's surrounded by broken people. Then again, it's not like he has any room to talk either. Surprisingly enough, Peter helps, something neither of them realizes for a good long while.

* * *

Stiles rubs at his forehead, squinting blearily at his laptop as he tries to ignore the _furyworryfearguilt_ emanating from the figure pacing the length of the loft.

"Stiles!" Derek barks for the umpteenth time, features darkening even further as he rounds on Stiles again. "Haven't you found her yet?"

Stiles' jaw clenches as Derek's emotions crash into him with all the force of a tsunami, tripling the pain of his headache. At this point, he can only manage a shake of his head, not looking up from where he's been working to track down Cora's phone through GPS, but the device is either switched off, broken, or out of range. The damn hunters knew what they were doing when they covered their tracks so that werewolves wouldn't be able to follow them, but hopefully, they'll have forgotten the phone.

"Derek," Scott cuts in tersely, god bless his soul. "Would you calm down? It's not Stiles' fault that Cora's phone can't be tracked right now. Stop yelling at him."

Derek just glowers even harder, but thankfully, the werewolf turns away and resumes his pacing.

Fifteen minutes later, Cora's location blips into existence, and within seconds, most of the Pack are out the door, Scott lingering long enough to throw him a concerned look that Stiles returns with an I'm-okay grimace before making a shooing motion at his best friend.

Fortunately, neither Lydia nor Allison nor Kira – all encased in a bubble of impatient anxiety and muted pain from their earlier run-in with the hunters – want to make conversation, and Peter – outwardly disinterested in absolutely everything, inwardly a tangled mass of _irritationlonelinessresentmentmutedgriefreluctantconcern_ – doesn't look to be stirring from his sprawled position on his couch anytime soon, so without a word, Stiles gets up and slips out of the room, moving as far away from the other occupants of the loft as physically possible.

Closing the door of the bathroom before sliding down against the wall beside the toilet, Stiles lets the silence wash over him. He can still feel Peter – Hales are so damn _emotional_ – but the emotions aren't as loud anymore, and at least he can shut out the girls now.

He stays in the bathroom until the rest of the Pack comes home with Cora (_shakenpissedoffrelieved_) in tow.

* * *

"Please save my sister!" The witch sobs fretfully.

_Bullshit_, Stiles scoffs. The spite and hatred practically radiating off of her makes him want to smash trees.

"You're not gonna fall for this sob story, are you?" Stiles interjects when the rest of the Pack mutter amongst themselves, looking like they're already making plans to charge off into the woods to where the faeries have apparently trapped the witch's supposed sister.

"Stiles!" Allison hisses, looking scandalized as she glances at the tearful witch.

Stiles gets blasted with a burst of annoyance edged with bewilderment, though outwardly, the witch doesn't stop crying and looking pathetic.

"She's not lying," Isaac pipes up.

"She's a witch," Stiles retorts. "She could be using some voodoo to make you believe she's not lying."

Emotions on the other hand are a different matter entirely.

"Please, I'm telling the truth!" The witch implores earnestly. In contrast, it's underscored by a hint of nervousness and increasing annoyance but she's still positive that she can win them over. "You have to believe me! I didn't know who else to go to for help, and I've heard about the Pack in Beacon Hills-"

"You fail at acting," Stiles cuts her off, utterly unimpressed. Her annoyance is fast becoming anger.

"Stiles, don't be mean," Kira admonishes, uncertain but leaning towards sympathy for the witch. "She sounds pretty upset."

"She's not," Stiles says frankly, and then rolls his eyes when the witch's sobs rise in volume. He glances over at Scott, who's been watching him with furrowed eyebrows.

"You think she's acting?" Scott asks, a deeper meaning in his words.

Stiles nods once, firmly.

"Probably a trap?"

A spike of how-the-hell-did-they-guess panic comes from the witch. Stiles nods again. "Most likely, dude." _Definitely_.

Scott sighs like he's lamenting the sheer amount of treachery in this world but his expression hardens as he turns back to the witch. "Okay, you haven't done anything to us or this town yet so we'll just let you go. Leave Beacon Hills and don't come back, and we'll forget this ever happened."

The witch splutters. "What?! But-!"

"Scott, are you sure?" Derek drifts forward, less trusting than most of the teens but softened by the mention of a sister. "She seems like she's telling the truth."

Scott glances briefly at Stiles again. Stiles scratches his nose with his right hand.

_Increasing anger_.

Scott turns back to the witch, weight shifting to his getting-ready-to-wolf-out stance.

The two of them worked out their own little code ages ago, both for fun and as a means of communication whenever Stiles needed to tell Scott if someone was lying or hiding the fact that they're pissed off or whatever else came up. Of course, after the supernatural freight train hit Beacon Hills, they've made up a few more, including everything from 'someone needs saving' to 'murderous rage' to 'run like hell because something that wants to kill us is coming'.

Stiles checks the others. Most of them seem ignorant but Derek's noticed the way Scott's arms are hanging freely at his side now, and his body is balanced in a way that means he's ready to spring forward. The Beta unconsciously mirrors him, tensing up as well.

And Peter's definitely seen it too. The werewolf falls back a little, self-preservation always so deeply ingrained, but Stiles senses intrigue from him too, and-

Blue eyes meet his.

-it isn't directed at the witch.

Stiles looks away, thinking calm thoughts, hoping that his own heartbeat and scent don't give away his apprehension. Peter has always been the most perceptive out of everyone Stiles has ever interacted with.

"Leave," Scott is telling the witch. "If you try to cause trouble in Beacon Hills, you'll have to deal with us, and no matter how much magic you have, it won't be enough against this Pack."

Stiles glances back at the witch. The hatred is potent. The anger is reaching vengeance-fuelled Peter levels of rage.

Stiles swallows hard, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to alleviate the ache building up behind his eyes. And then he shoulders his way forward to poke the proverbial sleeping bear.

"Do you even have a sister?" Stiles asks, stooping down to the witch's eye-level. Her eyes widen with stunned outrage. "I mean, like, did you ever have one? Or did she just kick the bucket or something?"

"Stiles!" Kira gasps in a hushed voice. Stiles is pretty sure Scott is keeping her back.

The witch twitches. Her tears – while still leaking out of her eyes – don't seem quite as real anymore. From somewhere behind him, Lydia hums with shrewd suspicion.

Stiles just sifts through the witch's blaring emotions. "Besides, using your sister and setting a trap for innocent people isn't very nice, you know."

Hatred. So much hatred. And derision. Contempt. She doesn't think they're innocent.

"And it wouldn't work anyway. What's a witch gonna do against two trained hunters," Steady. "A banshee," Steady. "A kitsune," Steady. "A kickass human if I do say so myself," Steady, with a twinge of irritation. "And a bunch of overgrown furballs?"

The hatred skyrockets. The witch's face spasms, and this time, everyone notices.

Stiles rises and backs away to stand beside Scott, holding his breath against the surge of malice.

"I'd say she has something against werewolves," Stiles announces rather needlessly, clapping Scott on the shoulder.

And just like that, with a shriek akin to nails against a chalkboard, the witch flings herself forward, wolfsbane materializing in her hands, but Allison is already stepping forward, an arrow notched in her bow, and a second later, the witch is pinned against the ground by one arm, screeching with pain and wrath, and spitting insults in-between ranting about how a werewolf tore her sister to pieces and she was going to avenge her by killing every single were' in the world.

Stiles sighs, standing back as Scott tries to talk her down and convince her that not all werewolves are feral. It isn't going to work. The woman's too far gone in her grief.

Later, Isaac asks, "How did you know she was faking?"

Stiles shrugs, snacking on curly fries. "Her acting was shit."

It isn't even a lie. To Stiles, _everyone's_ acting is shit.

He pretends not to notice Peter's doubt and curious scrutiny.

* * *

The Pack has some downtime between monsters and school. They collectively decide to go to the movies, and they choose a horror film by vote of majority.

Stiles despises horror films.

Oh, not when he's at home and watching alone or with Scott. But when he's in a movie theatre, sitting in the dark and surrounded by people, he'd rather go for comedy.

After everything they've been through, blood and gore and things that go bump in the night _on a projector screen_ does practically nothing for the Pack. They really just came to poke fun at how fake everything is. Horror may as well be comedy for them. The same can't be said for everyone else in the theatre.

"Bathroom," Stiles mumbles when a zombie leaps out at a woman and begins tearing chunks out of her, consequently frightening half the room, disgusting most of the other half, turning on some sicko in the back, and all of it making Stiles' heart pound and his stomach roil with the visceral fear and revulsion that rebounds onto him.

"Really?" Liam whispers as Stiles shuffles by. "_This_ scares you?"

"Shut up, runt," Stiles grumbles distractedly. He seriously thinks the girl three rows up should consider leaving before she wets herself; her terror is making bile rise in his throat.

He heads for the bathroom, only to change his mind when he realizes that four theatre rooms in a row are playing horror movies, and he's literally trapped in a cesspool of fear. So he flees outside.

It's better with the fresh air and open space even though the streets are still bustling with activity. Still, he has to duck into a back alley and talk himself down from a panic attack.

He shouldn't have come.

"Did it scare you that much?"

Stiles' head jerks up, blinking in surprise at the figure standing over him. "Peter."

He really hates panic attacks. It's the one thing that makes him lose track of his surroundings.

Peter cocks his head, and then extends a hand to help him up. Stiles wavers for only a moment before reaching out to let the older man pull him to his feet. It's concern and curiosity that he feels from Peter. Hales in general are loud with their emotions, they project, broadcast, especially Derek, but unlike Derek who is loud all the time, Peter – for whatever reason – sometimes goes quiet and calm when only Stiles is in the vicinity, and it steadies Stiles like a rock in the middle of a storm-tossed ocean.

"Thanks," He says now. "Look, I don't really like watching..." He trails off and waves vaguely at the building. "I think I'm gonna text Scott and tell him I'll rejoin you guys later for dinner."

Peter shrugs and smiles disarmingly at him. Stiles narrows his eyes, immediately suspicious.

"It isn't my kind of scene either," The Beta tells him. "I'll join you."

"Oh hell _no_."

Twenty minutes later, Stiles is aiming his best long-suffering bitchface at Peter even as he stands still and lets the werewolf hold various outfits up against Stiles for perusal and criticism in turn. They spend the next two hours shopping and snarking at each other, and with Peter exuding enough amused happiness beside him to ward off everything else, it's the most fun Stiles has had in a very long time.

* * *

"We can't pick up a scent to follow, except, you know, sex, and that's everywhere," Scott explains with a wrinkled nose as he leads Stiles into a forest clearing. "So I was hoping that maybe you could do something. The others are off searching anyway but I figured you'd probably have better luck than us at finding a trail."

"Yeah, probably." Stiles comes to a stop in the middle of the clearing, drawing in a deep breath. Scott stays at the tree line, knowing better than to stand too close when Stiles is actively pinpointing the emotions of a single person.

He finds it, of course, invisible footprints of the incubus' greed and lust and cruel delight after literally stealing the hearts of the women that it sleeps with. He closes his eyes and mentally follows the path to...

"It's set its sights on Allison," He tells Scott, and his best friend takes off like a rocket, hurtling away in the general direction of his ex-girlfriend and howling an urgent warning to the rest of the Pack.

Stiles watches him go, and then he turns and even manages to make his way out of the woods before doubling over and throwing up.

It isn't only the incubus' lust that he felt; this monster likes to wait for the women it seduces to come out of their magic-induced stupor and realize they've been _raped_ before ripping out their hearts.

Stiles retches until he has nothing left to heave up, and he's mortified to find his cheeks tearstained. It isn't even _his_ fear and pain and self-disgust and shame.

He can't stop crying for a long while though, no matter how many times he scrubs at his face.

Stiles doesn't hear Peter coming – being werewolf and all – but he does feel the man's now-familiar mesh of curiosity, fascination, and an underlying tinge of arousal that always surfaces when he's around Stiles.

Stiles isn't stupid, and he's an empath, he knows Peter's attracted to him, and on more than one level too. Stiles can't say he isn't equally drawn to the older man, especially since he can sense perfectly well that Peter's interest in him is genuine with no ulterior motives (well, no particularly evil ulterior motives anyway), but right now, he really can't handle anything that borders too closely to sex in any way.

It's too late to run so Stiles just wipes away the last of his tears, and turns his back on the approaching werewolf.

"Hey, creeperwolf, stalking me again?" He's grateful to whatever higher entity is watching right now that his voice comes out mostly even.

He can feel Peter assessing the situation. To Stiles' relief, the traces of arousal have already long disappeared, replaced by puzzled alarm and calculating speculation.

"I think I'm coming down with something," Stiles continues, pretending to busy himself with straightening his clothes. "I should get home and sleep it off. Shouldn't you be hunting the incubus with the others?"

"Actually, I passed Scott on the way here," Peter reveals with smug nonchalance. "He told me you had been searching this area, and that I should be a gentleman and come walk you home to make sure nothing eats you along the way."

Stiles can't help slanting a highly skeptical look over his shoulder at the werewolf. "Is that what he said? Word for word?"

"I like to think just about anything Scott says can be... open for interpretation," Peter smirks, sauntering forward. "The interpretation I drew from his orders is simply one of many."

Stiles can't help rolling his eyes, simultaneously hiding a smile because that's the sort of thing _he'd_ say under the right circumstances. "Has anyone ever told you that you're full of shit?"

"Talia, constantly," Peter divulges with blasé carelessness, and Stiles has to focus on riding out the swell of wistful sorrow mixed with an old sort of bitter envy that comes and goes within a few heartbeats. "My sister never had my sense of humour, unfortunately."

He stops half a foot away from Stiles, and too late, Stiles remembers why he turned his back in the first place. He makes to skirt away from Peter, but the werewolf seizes his arm before he can take a single step.

"Did something happen?" The previous mirth is gone. Peter's gaze is hawk-like in their intensity as they scan Stiles' face. "Stiles?"

Peter's emotions are a soothing thrum against Stiles' own tumultuous ones, and for one overwhelming moment, he wants nothing more than to melt into the werewolf and let him chase away everything else, every negative feeling out there that Stiles can feel by simply walking down the street. Peter makes him feel safe – as laughable as that is – when he's focused on Stiles, safe from _emotions_, as if emotions are things that can be kept at bay with fangs and claws and blue-fire eyes.

But that's weird and stupid, and Peter may be attracted to him, but Stiles can't ask this of him when the man doesn't even know the most important bit about what Stiles is, and Stiles has been hiding for a very long time. He doesn't really know how to stop.

So he takes a breath and nails on his most reassuring face instead. Peter doesn't look like he believes it for a nanosecond, but when Stiles tugs at his arm, the werewolf only tightens his grip for a few seconds before letting him go.

Peter does walk him home though, all the way into his bedroom, and he even cooks pasta for him in true Italian style while Stiles is in the shower.

And once Stiles has burrowed under his blankets, he doesn't even complain when Peter makes himself comfortable at the foot of Stiles' bed and settles down to watch him sleep like the total creeper he is.

* * *

Everything goes to shit on an average Thursday afternoon.

"Three werewolves? Why the excess?"

"One's a True Alpha, and the other two are Betas who used to be Alphas, one of whom gave up their status to heal another werewolf while the other _came back from the dead_. The guys back home will be ecstatic."

Hunters. And not just any hunters, but hunters of the _mad scientist_ variety who make a living out of capturing supernatural 'specimens' to study. Stiles is one hundred thousand percent done with hunters who don't follow the goddamn Code.

"Right then, that leaves only the kitsune and the banshee to catch."

"You'll never get away with this!" Scott snarls from behind the line of mountain ash cutting the basement that they've been tossed into in half. They've also been chained up.

The female hunter gives him a look of pure scorn as the male hunter slips out of the basement to – presumably – go after Lydia and Kira with the other hunters upstairs.

"That's what they all say," The woman scoffs, taking a seat in the only chair left for whoever's on guard duty. A nasty smirk twists her red-painted lips. "But we got them all in the end."

"You only catch supernatural creatures," Derek interjects, voice low and hard with simmering anger. "So let Stiles go. He's human. Unless you experiment on humans too."

For a split second, the hunter actually looks taken aback, and then she bursts out laughing, cold and mocking, and Stiles knows she knows. The I-know-something-you-don't-know arrogance pouring from her is a dead giveaway.

He glances at Scott. His best friend's face is stricken, having already guessed the same thing.

"Oh, oh, that's _rich_!" The woman gasps, slapping a leather-clad thigh. "For a moment, I thought you were pulling my leg, but we've done our research so you can't trick us into believing- But you think- You really think- Oh puppy," Derek growls. "That boy's about as human as the three of you."

A what-the-fuck silence ensues. Stiles stares determinedly ahead, avoiding Peter and Derek's questioning frowns, which is easier said than done. He's sitting beside Peter with the stone wall behind them, Derek on his uncle's other side, and Scott beside Derek.

"Unbelievable," The woman remarks, recovering her composure. "You have no idea how rare a gem you have in your Pack." She looks at Stiles. "You must be very good at hiding, boy, and..." Her eyes are sharp as they take in Scott. "Your Alpha is your best friend, isn't he? So he _must_ know. Does he put you to good use?"

"Stiles isn't a weapon," Scott grits out.

"I'll take that as a no," The hunter returns her attention to Stiles, looking vastly entertained. "So, shall I enlighten them, or would you like to do the honours?"

Stiles remains silent.

The woman smiles. It isn't a pleasant look on her.

"Your pet 'human' there," She announces with relish. "Is an empath."

She was probably hoping for a more climatic reaction, Stiles muses. But Derek only stares blankly back at her while Peter drills holes into the side of Stiles' head.

Oh come now, don't tell me you've never heard of empaths," The woman pouts. "Granted, they're rare, but the two of you are from an old family. Surely you've at least heard of them."

If either of them has, it would be Peter, but he doesn't say a word.

"To tell you the truth," The hunter continues, directing a covetous look at Stiles that leaves an oily taste in his mouth. "We lucked out with you. We came to Beacon Hills for the were's, and even the kitsune and the banshee, but we had no idea we would find an empath as well. Eighteen years old and still alive; considering who you interact with on a regular basis, you must have an exceedingly high tolerance for emotional pain to have lasted this long."

Derek stiffens at this, Peter shifts beside Stiles, so minutely that it wouldn't have been noticed if they aren't shoulder to shoulder, and even Scott jerks a little in his spot.

"Does the Alpha not know?" The hunter taunts. "Or simply not realize? Why do you think empaths are so rare? Imagine – all the pain and fear and anger and jealousy that people feel at one point or another, an empath can feel it all, every minute of every day from all direction and all at once; is it any surprise that most of them don't even survive past puberty before their mind just snaps? And those that do survive are either hermits or loony bin inmates. But _you_, not only are you functioning without brain damage, we've done our research on you, you graduated a quarter of a percent behind the top student at your school – who's the banshee to boot; you _have_ gathered quite the pack, haven't you?" The woman's lips stretch into a bloody grin. "We're going to have fun seeing what makes you tick."

Snarls erupt from both Scott and Derek, and Stiles flinches away from the unexpected maelstrom of protective fury coming from both of them, and he's grateful for that, glad that Derek's not mad at him for keeping what he is a secret, but at such close quarters...

The hunter laughs. Her malevolence grates against Stiles' ears. "You should calm down, mutts. You're hurting your little empath."

Scott and Derek both abruptly fall silent. Stiles can still feel the heat of their anger, now edged with worry. People can't switch off emotions.

But it's okay. Peter's anger is ice cold in comparison, but it's tempered and honed, and it feels like a cool hand against a fever. It helps.

"Stiles?" Scott prompts tentatively.

Stiles doesn't move his gaze from where it's still focused straight ahead at the hunter.

"I do want to know a few things," The woman leans forward. "Who trained you? You would've been driven insane years ago if you didn't know how to shield."

Stiles doesn't answer. His shoulders tense though when he feels the rush of annoyance two seconds before the woman raises her gun and points it straight at Scott.

"Here's how it's going to go, boy. You answer my questions, I don't shoot your dogs. We want all of you alive but that doesn't necessarily mean all in one piece."

Stiles' jaw clenches. He almost jumps when he feels Peter's hand press against his back, chains jangling softly from the movement.

"Who trained you?" The hunter repeats.

"You don't have to tell her anything, Stiles," Scott calls out resolutely.

Irritation is joined by sadistic glee. Stiles opens his mouth half a second before the woman pulls the trigger.

"My mother," He forces out hoarsely. "My mother trained me."

Disappointment. Satisfaction.

The woman lowers her gun. "She was an empath too? We know she already croaked."

Stiles jolts forward, almost breaking his wrists when his shackles yank him to a sudden halt. Peter's hand tugs on his shirt and pulls him back into a sitting position.

The hunter's lips curve upward. "I'll assume she was. Your father is perfectly ordinary so you must have gotten it from her. So? How did she die? When and where? I've never seen an empath expire before. Was there a burst of energy? And how did she go about it? She obviously reached adulthood so she had to have been moderately powerful. Did too many emotions get the better of her and killed her? Or did she kill herself because she couldn't handle it?"

Stiles is white with rage. The woman cocks her gun. "Answer."

Stiles doesn't say anything. A second later, they all duck as a bullet ricochets off the wall between Peter and Derek, narrowly missing the former's ear.

"I said, _answer_," The woman snaps, sick pleasure hidden under impatience. "Next time, I won't miss."

Stiles swallows hard. His chest hurts with how constricted it feels. "...She died when I was ten. Over eight years ago."

He doesn't want to talk about this. The hunter motions for him to go on.

Stiles presses his lips together. "...I don't know what else you want me to say. She died. At home. Depression. End of story."

"I very much doubt that," The woman snorts disdainfully. "An empath who learned to live to adulthood wouldn't just keel over and die from her own depression. Something caused it. What was it?"

"What does it matter anyway?" Scott interrupts, bristling with _angeranxietyworryfrustration_.

"Because I want to _know_!" Something manic sparks in her eyes. She springs to her feet.

_Mad scientist_, Stiles remembers.

"And you'll tell me," She says with all the certainty of someone currently pointing a gun at her hostages. She gestures at Stiles with it before settling on Peter. "Hurry up."

Stiles sways to the side, unconsciously shifting in front of Peter, only for a hand to clamp around the back of his neck and jerk him back into place.

For the first time since they were captured, Stiles glances to the side to meet a narrowed cobalt glare that warns him against doing anything foolish.

(Peter feels like apprehension and the beginnings of a dread that Stiles doesn't understand and a mountain of controlled wrath, all of it welded together to smother a fuzzy ball of surprise and pleasure and appreciation for Stiles' instinctive reaction.)

"NOW!" When this woman loses it, she loses it fast.

Still, Stiles hesitates, because-

He glances to his left again, meets Derek's dark gaze. His brow is knitted, he's confused, and Stiles knows it's because of the way he's looking at the werewolf. Like he's asking for permission because he doesn't want to-

He looks at Peter. The dread has grown, along with that unforgiving anger that Stiles recognizes and knows to mean that the man is thinking of Kate.

Peter has more or less already guessed (of _course_ he has), and he stares back at Stiles with a myriad of _disbeliefincomprehensiongriefragesorrow_-

The gun goes off with a loud bang, and then Peter is howling, the sound strangled as quickly as he can manage even as his body curls over his left leg where the bullet hit.

Derek's teeth are bared even though the chains keep him from transforming, and Scott is pulling at his chains and trying to get a better look at the injury.

"Alright! Alright! Jesus Christ, I'll talk!" Stiles shouts, catching Peter by one shoulder, dizzy with the blast of pain coming from the werewolf. He doesn't falter though. His own hand wriggles into Peter's clenched one, tangling their fingers together, and before Peter can even look up, Stiles sucks in a bracing intake of a breath, taps into Peter's pain, and fully accepts it as his own.

Miraculously enough, Stiles has never been shot before, so the agony is staggering for several long seconds, especially since he's not used to doing this. He can't heal physical wounds, but – like werewolves – he can take the pain into himself.

Peter's head jerks up, blue eyes vivid with realization as they find Stiles' contorted face, and the man immediately tries to detach their hands. Stiles obstinately hangs on. He's experienced worse pain, and he's getting used to the burning sensation transferred to his own leg already.

"Well?" The hunter taps her gun pointedly against her thigh. Her eyes glitter malevolently. "Start talking, boy, or I start shooting again. How much pain can you take away before you faint?" A sneer curls her lips. "Of course, we'll be finding that out anyway once we get you back to our facilities."

Stiles' heart stutters with a terror that he doesn't show on his face. All the wolves hear it of course, and Peter's hand squeezes his.

He busies himself with poaching Peter's handkerchief from the werewolf's back pocket to staunch the bleeding, and despite the situation, Derek releases a snort.

Oh good, one last bit of humour for old sourwolf before Stiles ruins it.

"...The Hale House fire," Stiles states at last in a hollow monotone, and both Derek and Peter go statue still. "The emotional backlash from the people who died in the Hale House fire broke my mother's mind. I hear she died before the end of that day."

Dead silence reigns. Stiles doesn't look at anyone.

"Now that wasn't so hard, was it?" The woman coos.

Stiles' hand stops mopping up the blood.

"It doesn't surprise me that she died from that. All those people – children and adults – all of them screaming and burning, and your mother felt it all, all at once, every last emotion they felt before they died-"

The guilt slams into Stiles like a typhoon, and all of a sudden, he's drowning under the crushing weight of pain and self-loathing and denial and remorse and _guiltguiltguilt_-

"-rek, control yourself!" Someone roars from above him, and then hands are hauling him up and manoeuvring him around, and it's a long, long while before Stiles manages to claw his way out of endless darkness, only to find himself whimpering and shivering, breath hitching with every inhale, and it takes another indefinite amount of time before he's aware enough to realize that he's leaning heavily against Peter. The werewolf has Stiles' head pressed firmly to his chest while fingers card themselves through Stiles' sweat-damp hair.

_Heartbeat_, Stiles comprehends dimly, eyes still closed, and he grabs on to that steady thump-thump like a lifeline. It's slightly elevated, but it's also constant. Stiles doesn't know how Peter's doing it. He can pick up the tension vibrating under the man's skin, but again, it's restrained in a way that doesn't hurt Stiles even when it brushes up against him.

Stiles takes a shuddering breath.

"Six minutes, twenty-two seconds. I expected longer. Perhaps we can try an isolated emotion next time."

Stiles can sense murder from every corner of the basement directed at that simpering voice.

The urge to do violence rears its head in the man Stiles is slumped against. It doesn't hurt.

"You're... Peter Hale, I believe? Is the boy closest to you in the Pack? Or are you a father figure? Lover?"

More silence.

"Well, it doesn't really matter. You must be pretty important for the empath to use you as his anchor. We'll have to make use of that if he ever gets too out of hand."

What? Anchor? Isn't that a werewolf thing?

Peter's hand momentarily stills before resuming its movements through Stiles' hair.

"Oh yes, empaths need anchors. They need someone to ground them, to calm them down whenever the world gets too much for them. Of course, ironically enough, most choose not to have one. They go for the option of living alone instead, or living until they go mad. Most empaths abhor company. It's too much for them so they never take the time to get close to anyone. That's why this boy is such a priceless discovery. And now we have his anchor too."

No way. Werewolf is bad enough to these fanatical hunters. Werewolf plus unknowing empathy-anchor is even worse.

It feels like fighting a war just to peel open his eyelids but Stiles manages, unsteadily pushing himself upright as well. Or tries to. Peter lets him up, but the iron grip that the werewolf has around his waist keeps him plastered against Peter's side. Stiles can't quite pinpoint exactly what the man is feeling though, not with the throbbing beacon of guilt in-

Stiles glances to the far corner of the basement. Scott has dragged Derek away as far as the chains allow, and the former currently looks ready to knock the latter out the moment Stiles shows any signs of a relapse.

Derek – hunched over – won't meet Stiles' gaze.

He looks at Peter next. There's something fierce in the werewolf's expression that Stiles can't name.

"I have more questions for you."

Stiles sighs, feeling drained. He hates how his hands – stained here and there with Peter's blood – are trembling. "Of course you do."

The hunter gives him a thin smile. She takes a seat again, crossing her legs and propping her chin in one hand. "I want to know how you survived. Your mother would've been stronger than you, so how did a ten-year-old survive when a full-fledged empath didn't? How did you escape unscathed exactly?"

Stiles stares for a long, blank moment before his mouth twitches. And then, all at once, a ragged chuckle escapes his throat before he dissolves into hysterical laughter, wheezing for breath even as he presses back the sting in his eyes through sheer force of will.

"I didn't," He finally rasps out when he catches his breath. "I didn't 'escape unscathed'. My mother took the brunt of the backlash but I still felt every single one of those deaths like they were my own. It was like dying eight times. Burning to death eight times. On the same day, within hours of each other. Nobody '_escapes unscathed_' from that. Is that _exact_ enough for you, you lunatic _bitch_?"

An involuntary whine crawls out of Derek's mouth, and Stiles just snaps, head whipping around, reeling from a building migraine, patience _gone_. "And you! Would you tone down the guilt? I feel ready to commit suicide over here!"

Scott's fist swings out. Derek collapses like a sack of potatoes. Scott makes a face. His eyes ask an unspoken question. Stiles nods back mutely before letting his head loll back against Peter's shoulder. The werewolf's arm (and it must be uncomfortable for his other arm, being chained together and all) tightens around his waist.

"It put him in a coma," Scott's voice is loud after the short lull, grim and curt and saying the things Stiles doesn't have the words for. It draws the woman's attention away from Stiles, at least temporarily. "The backlash. It put him in a coma for two years. His gaze darts briefly over to Peter before moving back to the hunter again. "Nobody knows because he caught up with his classes through self-study and summer school, but for two years, he was stuck in the long-term care ward in Beacon Hills Hospital. It was kept quiet. Most people probably believed the story about how he went to his grandparents' to recover from-"

He stops abruptly and says no more. His face is set in furious lines, all of it directed at the hunter. It's the angriest Stiles has ever seen him, and he feels a rush of affection for his brother in all but blood.

At his side, Peter goes rigid the second 'coma' is mentioned, but when Stiles cautiously makes to pull away, the werewolf still won't let him.

"And were you awake during the coma?" The woman has the gall to ask. Scott wrenches at his chains. A rumbling growl resonates in Peter's chest like a distant thunderstorm. "Trapped in your head or asleep? Reliving the trauma over and over again or-"

Stiles' ears buzz, like they're filled with white noise. The woman is dredging up all sorts of memories he doesn't want to deal with. Worse, she's dredging up all the emotions that come with them, and he can't-

"You realize," Stiles cuts her off, and he doesn't recognize his own voice. It's eerily serene, and his entire body feels numb. He doesn't take his eyes off the hunter. "That when I get outta here, I'm gonna kill you. And I'm gonna make you suffer before I kill you." He smiles, more an empty stretch of his lips than an actual expression. "Trust me when I say that nobody knows suffering like an empath."

The hunter sneers. "We'll soon extinguish that defiance of yours, boy. You don't seem to understand – you're not getting out ever again."

Five hours later, she is proven wrong when the rest of the Pack busts in to rescue them.

* * *

The female hunter screams and screams and screams, and Stiles feels high on the energy flowing between them.

"Stiles!" Scott's voice sounds like it's coming from a long distance away. "Stiles, you have to stop! Her heart is gonna give out!"

Stiles smiles vaguely in his direction. He continues watching the woman cringing on the ground. "You know that saying 'putting the fear of god into someone'? Well, this isn't quite the fear of god but 'our Pack's combined fear over the course of three years' worth of supernatural disasters' comes pretty close."

"Stiles, come on, dude, this isn't us, this isn't you." Scott swears, and then, "Peter, stop him."

"Why?" Peter sounds honestly confused. "He has the right. Don't lie, Scott. You want to kill her too."

"I don't- Okay, yeah I do, she had no right digging up memories like that, and spewing all that mental crap at Stiles, but that doesn't make it okay. You have to stop him!"

Scuffling sounds. Stiles loses track of their argument for a while. He listens to the hunter scream and cry and beg, and then scream some more when she becomes incapable of the latter two.

"You're supposed to be his anchor," Scott's voice is quiet but accusing. Stiles hears him like he's standing at the other end of a long tunnel. "And if you accept that, then you better take responsibility. Letting him go crazy like this is _not_ taking responsibility. He's not thinking straight right now; you need to _stop him_."

Stiles doesn't really understand the words. They're just words. Words mean nothing. It's the emotions that count.

(The hunter is still screaming. Stiles wonders if she'll actually die of unadulterated fear. He's willing to wait and see.)

Then-

"Stiles."

Peter steps in front of him (_he's covered in blood but he's not limping anymore, no pain, that's important, why is that important_), blocking his view. He doesn't so much as twitch when the werewolf's hands come up to cradle his face.

"Stiles," Peter says again, crowding closer until their foreheads touch, until all Stiles can see is endless blue. "I need you to stop." The corners of Peter's eyes crinkle. Stiles senses something almost apologetic. "It's time to stop. I'm all for killing her, but torture isn't really your cup of tea, don't you agree?"

Stiles does nothing for an ageless minute. Peter steps away, still close enough for Stiles to feel his body heat. The man lets him think, lets him consider, doesn't push.

Stiles takes a breath. And then he breaks the connection.

The screams fade to broken sobs.

* * *

An hour later, Stiles has been bundled into bed with Peter wrapped around him like an octopus or maybe a koala, his back to the werewolf's chest, and a mound of blankets piled on top of both of them.

"Relax," Peter murmurs, warm breath grazing Stiles' ear. "You're as tense as a coiled spring."

"Can you blame me?" Stiles retorts, but it's half-hearted at best.

Peter hums noncommittally. "You're safe now. No more crazy hunter-scientist facilities to worry about."

"That's not-" Stiles squirms a little. "Peter, this-"

"-has been a long time coming," Peter finishes with all the confidence of someone who has never been wrong in his entire life. It makes Stiles want to punch him in the face.

He settles for elbowing Peter in the diaphragm instead. The werewolf doesn't even have the decency to wince. Instead, "And you're finally legal too."

"You're actually concerned about that?"

"Well I figured I should if I wanted to make a good... fourth impression on your father."

Stiles snorts. "Only three bad ones? I'm impressed."

"I aim to please."

"More like you aim to be a manipulative dick. I wondered why you've been moderately more helpful lately whenever my dad was around to see it."

Peter makes a noise of unabashed acknowledgement at the back of his throat. "And hasn't it paid off? After all, I'm your anchor."

Stiles grimaces. "I didn't even know empaths _had_ anchors. It doesn't count if I didn't know. And weren't you listening to the psycho's crash course on my kind? Empaths don't do anchors, even when we're supposed to, and then we go batshit insane." He pauses. "Stop being a smug bastard."

The smugness increases.

Stiles elbows him again. "Stop it." Amusement. Intrigue. "You realize I'm only half-trained, right? Not even. Everything I've learned was mostly through instinct so I probably won't be able to answer most of the questions you have."

Peter laughs softly against his neck. "This side of you will take some getting used to." Stiles stiffens. Peter presses a reassuring hand against his chest. "Not like that, although this explains why Scott doesn't mistrust me nearly as much as he should without you." When Stiles stays rigid, Peter reminds him, "You know werewolves can differentiate emotions as well, don't you? Not as well as you can obviously, but we can still do it. And evidently, we can take pain too. So, we're not so different." Immense satisfaction. "Then again, I've always said you would make a beautiful wolf, Stiles. You make an equally beautiful empath."

Stiles scoffs, relaxing even as he fights down a blush. "Shut up. That isn't- You realize that besides getting a trillion extra doses of emotions every day, I can't really do much else, right? The healing thing isn't even really healing. Heck, I'm pretty sure I _am_ human, just- with something more."

"That's pretty much the definition of werewolves, Stiles. A crude one, but technically true when it comes down to it. And it will be interesting for me to find out everything you can do if even you don't know."

"I'm not your toy."

"No, you're just mine."

Stiles would go and bang his head against a wall if he isn't so comfortable. "You are ridiculously possessive."

_Puffeduppridepleasuresmugsatisfactioncontentmentwantmineminemine-_

Stiles kicks his heel against Peter's shin. His cheeks redden without his consent. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. Now pipe down."

Peter grins against the back of his neck. He feels teeth nip at his skin for a moment.

_Honestly. What a creeperwolf._

They fall silent for a while. It's peaceful. Stiles' eyelids droop.

"Nine times," Peter says from out of the blue.

Stiles blinks at the sudden flurry of _rememberedpainuncertaintyconcern-_

Ah.

Stiles sighs wearily, good mood evaporating. "Yeah, that was... not fun." He dithers for a moment before twisting around. Peter loosens his grip only long enough to let him. It leaves mere inches between their faces.

"I didn't mean to lose it like I did," Stiles admits, absently fiddling with the neckline of Peter's shirt. "But she brought up a lot of things I don't like thinking about, a lot of things I haven't exactly worked through, and that's- Shunting all that trauma to the back of my mind and ignoring it whenever I can is apparently not a smart idea for an empath, who knew?

"I'm used to it though," Stiles huffs a laugh that lacks genuine humour. "You get used to burning after a while. You know that better than I do. 'Sides, after experiencing that, not much else compares, so, I don't know, it's sort of an upside I guess. Kinda. I got excellent self-control out of it, kept me from going nuts for years after the fire and the coma and- yeah. So the whole anchor thing is definitely recent. Of course, Derek's man-pain can give it a run for its money any day of the week. That idiot's guilt might actually kill me one of these days."

He grunts when Peter's arms tighten around him. "Easy on the goods, dude. I was joking."

His heart stumbles over the lie. Peter's eyes narrow. "I believe there are quite a few important matters I'll have to discuss with my dear nephew in the foreseeable future."

"You realize I've been fine in his company for the most part in the almost three years I've known him, right?"

"Not all the time. Those constant headaches of yours make a lot more sense now. I want them to stop."

Stiles rolls his eyes and gives up with a mental _fuck it do whatever you want_, ducking down a little to rest his forehead against Peter's collarbone instead. For a while, he simply breathes in Peter's aftershave and that cool, earthy scent that always seems to cling to the Beta. It reminds Stiles of the woods in the middle of a winter night.

"You feel good," He mumbles drowsily. "Not like the others; their emotions jump all over the place, all the time, and I can't block them out at all when they feel too much. Cuz we're all- we're all broken in some way, so we all feel too much sometimes. But you're quiet. When you're focused on me, you're quiet even when you're loud."

Peter makes a thoughtful noise above his head. "That... would probably be because you're _my_ anchor."

It's the last things Stiles hears before he falls asleep, too far gone into dreamland to freak out. He doesn't notice the rare soft smile that graces Peter's face before the werewolf curls further around him and dozes off as well.

* * *

It's not all roses and sunshine after that.

The Pack knows now, and most of them tiptoe around him like they're afraid that getting into an argument over who gets the last cookie will put him back in Eichen House. It takes a few weeks of Stiles assuring them that it doesn't, and that their persistent anxiety over the issue is even worse.

And Derek is an issue all on his own. The man avoids him for a month, literally leaving a room when Stiles enters it, and it isn't until Scott and Peter help corner him long enough for Stiles to trap him with mountain ash that they start getting shit done – aka alleviating the mountain of guilt that Derek carries around like it's his birthright.

It's a work in progress.

In other news, once summer comes to an end, Stiles heads off to Stanford, and Peter packs up and follows him with barely a courtesy heads-up for Scott. Peter buys an apartment for two close to campus, and while they sleep together in the same bed more often than not, they don't jump straight to the sex either. It's disconcertingly platonic considering it's Stiles-and-Peter, but Stiles doesn't mind nearly as much as he thought he might, because after the hunter dug up what Stiles would've preferred to have stayed buried, he starts waking up screaming from nightmares filled with fire again, and Peter – who has his own fair share of night-time emotional turmoil that bleeds into Stiles' dreams – has to coax him out of them almost every night at first, and Stiles is basically a mental mess of unresolved trauma.

But Peter is there, and for some reason, Stiles can talk to him about things that he couldn't even talk to his father or Scott about, and Peter _understands_ because he's been through them himself.

And on occasion, even being in public gets to be too much, but when that happens, Peter just stows Stiles into his car for the weekend, and they go on a road trip to the middle of nowhere where civilization doesn't touch, and it helps.

They help each other, Stiles likes to think, because Peter also smiles a little more these days instead of just smirking away at everyone else's expense, the loneliness inside him recedes a little more each day, and his overall emotions are a little less damaged.

They're broken, but their jagged edges fit. Some days, it still surprises Stiles.

* * *

"So you're dating now? Like, properly dating? Not just the not-quite-dating-while-telling-everyone-all-about-your-nonexistent-wild-sex dating?"

"Seems like it, dude."

"...Okay. I don't want to know the details, alright?"

"Well..."

"Stiles!"

"Peter wouldn't mind!"

"_That's_ because he's evil! And so are you! God, you deserve each other."

"Yes we do."

"You look pleased."

"Yes I do."

"...You really like him?"

"...Yeah. He's- I'm happy around him. Even when he's being an ass, which is like- seventy percent of the time, and sassy too, which is like two hundred percent of the time but that's cool 'cause I am too, it's- I wouldn't give any of it up. And he keeps me grounded, and apparently vice-versa."

"Then that's all I need to know."

"And his gorgeous dick is worthy of a-"

"_That's all I need to know!_"

* * *

"Trying to scar Scott again?"

Stiles turns after waving Scott goodbye, beaming when Peter hands him a mug of hot chocolate because it's twenty below outside. "It's payback for Scott-and-Allison."

Peter smirks around his own drink as they drift back into the sitting room, the crackling fire – warded a hundred times over – casting a flickering yellow-orange light over everything. "I wholly approve."

"Of course you do." Peter spent an entire week last winter break keeping a line of commentary going – in great detail – on the fantastic sex he and Stiles were (not) having (yet, though Peter made good on his word when they finally did get around to it) whenever Scott or Derek were within hearing distance. It was as funny as it was embarrassing for Stiles, especially with the way both werewolves bolted like their tails were on fire every time they laid eyes on the shameless Beta.

Peter takes a seat on the couch and picks up his book again, arm automatically lifting to let Stiles settle against his side with a contented sigh. Outside, snow continues to fall, ghostly silent, blanketing the world in white.

Stiles tips his head back and closes his eyes. Like this, the foreign-familiar glow of warmth that he can always sense from Peter nowadays washes over him and gives him the feeling of coming home after a long day. He's felt it for a while, didn't recognize it at the beginning, and he wanted to be sure before he said anything, but now...

Stiles smiles. "Love you too."

Startlement. A moment of disbelief. Wild happiness.

"That's cheating," Peter accuses but there's nothing except subtle wonder in his voice.

Stiles' smile just widens. "You love me."

Deft hands pluck his chocolate away, and Stiles opens his eyes in time to see Peter set both mug and book on the coffee table before strong arms gather him into Peter's lap, and blunt human teeth latch on to the pale arch of flesh where his shoulder meets his neck.

Stiles huffs around a moan as Peter mouths a hickey into his skin. "You _animal_, I'm gonna look like I've been mauled. Again!"

Peter pulls away, soothing the spot with his tongue even as his satisfaction levels rise. "Good. Then everyone will know you're mine."

Stiles rolls his eyes but goes limp against Peter's muscled frame. "Everyone who matters knows that already, you creep. Just like everyone knows that _you_ are _mine_."

In the blink of an eye, he's dumped onto his back with an oomph, and Peter is hovering on top of him, blue eyes gleaming from the firelight.

Stiles grins up at him. "What's the matter, Peter? Don't like being tied down?"

Peter's answering grin flashes more than a bit of fang.

"On the contrary," He purrs, one hand snagging Stiles' right wrist in an echo of the offer Peter made in an empty parking lot all those years ago. He brings it to his mouth, Stiles' heartbeat fluttering hummingbird-quick under his lips.

"I can't turn anyone anymore," He murmurs, regarding Stiles intently. "But I've grown rather fond of a certain empath, and it would be a shame to see him lose anything to the transformation anyway. Still," He nuzzles the inside of Stiles' wrist. "A mating Bite, I _can_ give, and the next full moon is in less than a week. What do you say, Stiles?" Fangs scrape gently at his skin, making Stiles shiver even as he stares up at Peter with wide, wide eyes. "Yes or no?"

Stiles doesn't say anything for a long minute. Peter never looks away, outwardly patient as time with confidence to spare, but Stiles can sense the increasing trepidation roiling underneath.

"Mates are forever," Stiles eventually reminds him somewhat dazedly.

Peter arches an eyebrow. "I'm well aware."

Stiles licks his lips. Peter's eyes don't even flit down to follow the movement like they usually would. The man just continues holding his gaze, waiting for a reply.

Stiles can't help quirking a crooked smile. "Yeah."

He's pretty sure Peter stops breathing for a moment. And then, "Yes?"

Stiles reaches up, hooks a hand around Peter's shoulders, and yanks him down until they're chest to chest without an inch of space between them. "Yes, you idiot, of course, yes! Now are you gonna seal it with a kiss or what?"

And just like that, Peter's eyes light up in a way that has nothing to do with firelight or Beta forms. He grins again, and if it's a little goofy with relief, Stiles doesn't bring it up.

"Mating is serious business," Peter says slyly, hips pressing down against Stiles' with blatant suggestion. "I might have to seal it with more than just a kiss."

Stiles laughs outright, only for another mouth to descend on his and swallow down the sound like it's oxygen.

As Stiles twines his arms around Peter, and a tongue plunders his mouth with greedy fervour, he thinks maybe even broken people can have happy endings too.

**[End]**


	100. (T) STEREK - Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubb

Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble  
pandacowhipster

Summary:  
When potions prodigy Stiles blows up one cauldron too many during one of his 'experiments', he gets assigned to making Wolfsbane Potion for the new groundskeeper. Which wouldn't be so bad if the guy wasn't you know, terrifying.

* * *

Chapter 01

Hogwarts is the greatest place on earth as far as Stiles is concerned. Though, if there were one thing he could change, it would be the location of the potions classroom. He'd put it somewhere above ground and sunny, with a view of the lake. It'd make his walks to detention more pleasant at least.

The fact that he even has detention is ridiculous; he was in potions class, making potions. Granted, they were assigned draught of living death, but he could make that in his sleep. He was more interested in experimenting; besides, Danny's hair will grow back.

Probably.

He hefts his bag up higher on his shoulder and prepares for several hours of cauldron scrubbing and vial sorting. When he enters, there is a big, surly and generally terrifying looking guy leaning against one of the work benches. Stiles doesn't scream— not much, anyway.

Tall, dark and creepy raises an eyebrow.

"Hey," Stiles' hands immediately begin fiddling with the strap on his bag.

"Have you seen Professor Harris?"

Stiles shrugs, "Not since he gave me detention, he'll show up eventually though. Guy's surprisingly lax about monitoring delinquents like me." Stiles sets his bag on a bench and starts washing out the sink.

TD&C just sits there. For like an hour.

"What exactly do you need?" Stiles asks, getting thoroughly unnerved about this random stranger watching him sort herbs. "Maybe I can help?"

"I need a potion."

"Perfect, I make potions." Great potions as a matter of fact, but Stiles doesn't think this guy would tolerate him bragging, even if it is true.

TD&C looks unimpressed.

"Seriously, what potion? Worst case scenario it blows up in my face and you get to laugh." Though, Stiles can't imagine this guy laughing at anything that didn't involve drowning kittens.

"Wolfsbane."

Oh. _Oh_. "Cool." Stiles says, going over to the bookshelf and definitely not freaking out about the fact that he's five feet away from a werewolf in a dark dungeon where no one can hear him scream (except the Slytherins maybe, but he doubts they'd come to his rescue). He finds the book he's looking for and flips to the back. He frowns at the directions, "shouldn't be too hard."

TD&C actually looks surprised.

Stiles grabs all the ingredients he needs and gets to work. Half an hour later he gets bombarded with a cloud of thick blue smoke, so he figures it worked.

"Well?" He says, spreading his arms toward the cauldron.

TD&C leans over the cauldron gives the concoction a suspicious sniff, "It smells right, at least."

Stiles smirks, "What horrible? It must suck drinking this stuff."

"Even worse if I don't." and guess who just made this awkward.

Stiles winces, "My bad, I'm just gonna—" he gestures at the cabinet with the vials in it and tries not to trip as he scrambles toward it.

"Thank you," the man says, like he doesn't have to do it often.

"No worries," Stiles ladles the dark blue liquid into a crystal bottle, "This is only enough for one dose, but I could make you more if you stop by next month. I mean, if you need me to."

The man takes the potion and nods, "I'll be around."

Two days later when the headmaster introduces Derek Hale, the new assistant groundskeeper, Stiles tries to keep his jaw from dropping when a very familiar werewolf stands to the applause of the Great Hall.

One day, Stiles was going to stop getting detention. Granted that would probably be the day he graduated, but still, one day. How can you punish someone for blowing up their cauldron if that was what they were trying to do? Granted it wasn't what had been assigned and the explosion had been much bigger than expected, but seriously, Danny could buy a wig.

And because Professor Harris could somehow see into his soul and realize his deepest fears, he's been assigned to brew Hale's wolfsbane potion for the rest of the year ("to make up for all current and future infractions, Mr. Stilinski"). On the plus side, no more cauldron scrubbing, the downside? Interacting with a guy that looks like he could rip Stiles apart even without the lycanthropy.

Awesome.

That's how Stiles finds himself trudging down to the small shack Hale calls home to give him the good news.

"Yo, Hale, you here?" He calls out, hoping desperately he doesn't get an answer.

"Back here." And no such luck.

Stiles heads around to the other side of the building where the voice came from. Hale's there chopping wood shirtless, like he's the guy on the paper towels package or something.

"Uh," Stiles does his best not to look directly into Hale's abs, lest he go blind, "Professor Harris told me to tell you that I'd be making your potion for you from now on."

Hale drops his axe, and Stiles is more than a little bit thankful, "Why isn't he making it?" Clearly, manners aren't something they teach you in werewolf school.

"He said it's always given him trouble, and he'd rather not risk it. Also, I may have blown up a cauldron and this is my detention."

"You blew up your cauldron, and he wants you to make it?"

"Hey, I was trying to blow it up."

Derek raises his eyebrows, and really, where did you get eyebrows like that? Was it a werewolf thing?

"So, do I call you Professor Hale or...?"

"Derek." He gives a small smile and okay, it's kind of charming in a stubbley, kittens and sunshine sort of way. If you're into that sort of thing.

* * *

Chapter 02

When Derek enters the potions room a week before the full moon, Stiles is hovering over a cauldron. The ingredients surrounding him aren't used for wolfsbane, so Derek decides to keep his distance, remembering Stiles fondness for "experimenting".

"What are you making?"

Stiles doesn't look up from where he's carefully sprinkling peppermint into the cauldron, "Amortentia." Purple smoke engulfs his face and he steps away covering his nose, "but unless I'm, like, _super_ into sour milk, I don't think it worked."

"Why?" Derek looks him over, Stiles is awkward sure, and a bit gangly but he's far from unattractive. There has to be at least a few fourth years giggling after him. He can't imagine why he'd need a love potion.

"To see if I can," Stiles shrugs, "I've always had trouble with love potions. I'm awesome at poisons though."

"Right." Derek wonders if he should be worried.

"Whatever," Stiles carries his cauldron over to the sink and empties it. "So, wolfsbane. How'd it work out last time?"

"It was," Derek frowns, "weak?"

"Dammit," Stiles chews his lip, "I knew I shouldn't have trusted that book. My gut was telling me to steep it longer." He ran a hand through his short hair. "I was thinking, I could try combining the wolfsbane with a draught of peace, you know, to take some of the edge off. I mean, if it's cool with you?"

"You don't have to do that."

Stiles gives him an odd look, "I want to help you out."

Derek is admittedly, taken aback. Most wizards are adverse to tolerating his kind, let alone going out of their way to help them. "…Thank you." he manages.

Stiles shakes his head like Derek is somehow hilarious and goes to the cabinet, he starts humming as he gathers ingredients. It's low and smooth and much softer than he expects from such an energetic person.

"What song is that?" Derek asks when Stiles returns to the bench, "I've never heard it before."

"Huh?" Stiles looks up, "Oh, uh, Lean On Me, it's a muggle song. I didn't even realize I was humming it."

"It's nice."

"Yeah, my mom used to sing it to me." Stiles mumbles, attention no longer on Derek, but the task at hand. His lips purse as he measures out ground moonstone like he's counting the individual grains. He seems different now, no longer jittery and in constant motion. Each ingredient addition is controlled, each stir, precise.

Derek doesn't know how long he watches him work, until finally, Stiles looks up with a grin.

"Who's awesome?" he asks.

Derek stares.

"Come one dude, you're supposed to say 'you're awesome Stiles, for figuring out how to kick my anti-wolfy potion up a notch. You're the Emeril Lagasse of potions'."

Derek ignores the gruff-voiced impersonation of himself. "Who?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, "Purebloods are so deprived."

While the potion steeps, he gets another cauldron and tries again with Amortentia. He absently rambles on about cooking and televisions and Derek can't help but think Stiles is the strangest person he has ever met.

At least he's interesting.

"What happened?" Derek asks, nodding toward the adhesive bandages littering Stiles' forearms and hands.

Stiles looks his hands over, "Potions is dirty work."

"Do you go to the infirmary?"

"Are you kidding?" Stiles chuckles, "Madame McCall kicked me out fourth year after like, my twelfth visit in a month, threw me a pack of bandages and said not to explode anything near her son. I never get hit too bad though, well," Stiles pulls his sleeve up father, revealing a thick wrapping of gauze, "I was concocting a poison and the steam turned out to be acidic, pretty much melted my skin off, it was crazy."

Derek frowns.

Stiles winces, "My bad that was gross, wasn't it?"

"You should be more careful."

"Don't worry; I won't screw up your potions."

"I meant for your own sake."

Stiles falters, but only for a moment, "Aw, are you concerned?"

Derek glowers, "I just don't want to have to explain any more dead bodies than necessary."

Stiles swallows, "You're kidding right?" He actually looks nervous.

Derek manages a straight face just long enough for Stiles to start twitching. He smiles.

"You're horrible." Stiles points at him, "you are a horrible man-wizard-wolf-thing, and I hate you."

Derek gives a quiet laugh.

"Shit!" Stiles jumps from his stool and quickly snuffs the flame beneath the boiling over mix of would-be Amortentia. When the air clears he smiles, "I think I'm getting closer."

Derek doubts it, all he smells is smoke.

Stiles might be screaming.

He isn't sure, because he's more focused on the searing hot pain running across his chest. He blacks out just as he realizes he can't move.

When he comes to, he's looking at the white stone ceiling of the hospital wing. His chest doesn't hurt anymore, but his body feels heavy.

He tries to call out, but his throat burns and aches, and he just ends up coughing.

"Stiles?" Madame McCall is leaning over him now, "For once in your life, don't talk." She helps him drink some water.

"What happened?" he asks, because he never listens.

"You were carrying some jars to the potions room while two second years were dueling; you got hit by a runaway stunning spell. There was some sort of explosion, you got burned pretty badly."

"Story of my life."

"What I don't understand is how a stunning spell blows someone up."

Stiles tries to remember what he was doing, he had gone to Harris' pantry to get some– "The jars I was carrying? Exploding fluid from an erumpent horn."

"Stiles!" Huh. That sounded like more than one person yelling at him.

He turns his head to see Scott sitting in a chair. Oh, and Allison's here too.

"What are you guys doing here?"

"Hoping you didn't get yourself killed." Scott says and Stiles thinks it's a little too loud for a hospital.

"We were worried." Allison says much more sweetly, Stiles likes Allison.

"And now that you see he's fine, you can get going before you miss class." McCall says while checking Stiles' bandages.

"Class? What time is it?" Stiles asks. How long had he been out?

"It's almost seven. So, Scott should get going if he doesn't want to fail anything else." McCall levels her son with glare.

After Scott leaves Stiles tries to fall back asleep, but his chest keeps itching under the bandages. How it was doing that without, you know, _skin_ was beyond him. He huffs and tries to settle into a comfortable position.

"You can't even breathe quietly, can you?" A voice grumbles from the bed next him.

"Derek?" Stiles tries to look around the curtain separating them, "What are you doing here?"

"Full moon last night." Derek reminds him.

Stiles forces himself up and yanks back the curtain, "Are you okay?" He winces as the bandages rub against his chest.

"You're a complete idiot." Derek hefts himself up on his elbows, "You got blown up and you're worried I can't handle something I've been doing my whole life?"

"Your whole life? When did you get– get bitten?"

Derek flops back down on his bed, "I didn't. Most of my family was werewolves."

Stiles' stomach churns at 'was' and he sits a little straighter.

"There was… a fire. Fiendfyre, maybe? They couldn't put it out. My sister and I, we were here, at school. We're the only ones left."

"I'd say I'm sorry, but I always hated when people said that." Stiles looks down at his hands, noticing the slightly bloodied bandages on them for the first time. "She was an auror, my mom. She got ambushed by some dark wizards." Stiles still misses her, but he's gotten better at dealing with it.

"My sister Laura, she's an auror."

Stiles grins, "She's a werewolf wizard cop? That's pretty awesome."

Derek gives Stiles one of his sunshine and daisies smiles, "Yeah, she is."

Stiles wants to lay back down but his hands are too raw to put weight on, "Oh yeah, how'd the potion work out?" He twists, trying to get his legs back on the bed.

"I was able to sleep through most of the night, just beat up from the actual changing." Derek climbs out of his bed, "You can ask for help, moron." He grabs Stiles' shoulder and eases him back down onto the bed.

"Your bedside manner's kinda sucky, dude."

Derek takes a seat on the bed by Stiles' legs; he looks over the myriad of bandages covering his torso with a blank expression. "Don't blow yourself up again, and you won't have to worry about it."

Stiles nudges Derek's hip with his calf, "Hey, in case you didn't hear, this wasn't my fault. It was a couple of Slytherins. So not to be trusted."

"I was in Slytherin."

Stiles shrugs, "Which proves my point."

"When you're not half dead, remind me to hurt you."

"You gonna huff and puff and blow my dorm down?" Stiles teases because he obviously has a death wish.

"I liked you more when you were afraid of me."

Stiles raises his eyebrows, "But you admit you like me."

Derek just rolls his eyes.

* * *

Chapter 03

The howling winds that whip around the castle grounds cause Stiles to bury his nose deeper into his navy and bronze scarf. He wishes he had remembered how cold it had been getting as the days went on and brought a heavier cloak.

He walks more quickly as he spots his destination. There's a light on in Derek's small shack, which means Stiles didn't wander all this way for nothing. He raps quickly against the door until Derek opens it, looking confused.

"What are you doing here?"

"Freezing, mostly."

Derek rolls his eyes and ushers him inside. He nods toward a stool by the fireplace which Stiles gladly shuffles toward.

"Why are you out here this late?" Derek asks moving about the room gathering things into a bag.

"I came to bring you your wolfsbane." Stiles fishes the bottle out of his cloak.

Derek turns around to face him, "The full moon's not for two weeks."

"My dorm was, eh, occupied." Stiles wrinkles his nose, "Apparently the Halloween feast makes people more than a little frisky. And Scott was with Allison, so I went down to the dungeons to kill time and brewed this," he swished the dark blue liquid around in the bottle.

"And you just had to give it to me tonight?" Derek crosses his arms.

"Well, you weren't at the feast, I wanted to make sure you were still alive... also I didn't have anyone else to hang out with."

Derek goes back to putting things in his bag, "I've been busy."

Stiles eyes light up, "With what? Do you need help?"

"No," Derek says, sternly, "I have to go in the Forbidden Forest. I saw unicorn blood the other day, I think there's one injured, I can't catch it though."

"Well of course not, you're like, a total predator. No offense." Stiles adds belatedly. "Take me with you, _please_?" Stiles goes for his best puppy dog eyes.

Derek stands his ground for a few seconds before letting out a resigned sigh, "Fine. With any luck it'll mistake you for a girl and I can treat its wounds." He reaches for something on the end table, but Stiles grabs it first.

"Is this your wand?" He asks, turning it over in his hands. It's pale with sharp edges twisting around the handle and embedding themselves in the wood, almost like claws. "What is this, ash? Eleven inches?"

"Eleven and three quarters, dragon heartstring core."

Stiles twiddles the wand between his fingers and smirks, "Mine's bigger."

"If you're done fondling my wand?" Derek holds out a hand.

"You should be so lucky." Stiles scoffs, handing it back.

"Yeah, you're probably great at stroking wands," Derek slides his own into a sheath on his wrist, "Your own at least."

Stiles gapes, "Let's just go find your damn pony."

Derek chuckles and tosses him a thicker cloak.

Stiles has never claimed to be a brave man, so he's perfectly fine admitting the Forbidden Forest is scary as all hell. "Couldn't you look for it in the day time?"

"What do you think I was doing all day?"

"Perfecting your scowl?" Stiles quips, because not even fear impedes his sarcasm.

"Shut up. I think I hear something, wait here."

And just like that, Stiles is alone. In a dark forest. Full of horrible things eager to eat him alive.

The bushes to his right rustle. See? Here comes some Stiles-nivorous beast now.

"Holy-" Stiles' breath catches as the silvery-white creature comes toward him. He reaches a hand out slowly, remembering what his dad taught him about not startling the deer that lived in the woods behind their house. "Hey dude," he says softly, "You hurt?" the unicorn noses his hand and snuffles.

He can see a stream of shimmering blue blood tricking down its front right leg, he goes into cloak for the essence of dittany he starting carrying after getting his palms sliced open by one too many broken vials.

"Hey, I'm just gonna help you out okay?" He pours a few drops into his hand and rubs it against the wound. "There you go."

"You have got to be kidding me." Derek says returning from his adventure in the land of leave-Stiles-to-fend-for-himself.

The unicorn startles at his approach.

"Aw, did the mean old werewolf scare you?" he strokes its muzzle, "Don't worry it's not his fault his face looks like that." He turns toward Derek, "I fixed-" he ducks his head under the horse's stomach, "her right up."

Derek shakes his head, "I don't know why I'm surprised at this point. Let's get back before you befriend any more of the wildlife."

"You're just jealous," Stiles says giving the unicorn a final rub "I don't know why, you'll always be my number one animal friend."

"Will you come on?"

Stiles falls into step beside him, "So, I think I've almost got it, the Amortentia."

"Finally, you with access to the most powerful love potion in existence."

"Shut up, it sort of smelled like coffee."

"You, attracted to coffee? I'm shocked." Derek deadpans.

"You should be more supportive; if you're lucky I'll let you use it on a nice Pomeranian."

"Dog jokes, how original."

"I work with what you give me." Stiles shrugs, "Speaking of coffee, I could seriously go for some."

"I refuse to caffeinate you. How about a nice calming draught instead?"

"You just dragged me through the wilderness, you're making me coffee."

Derek does and they stay up talking about the magical creatures Derek's seen and television shows Stiles watches back home until it's nearly dawn. They fall asleep in front of the dying embers in the fireplace, an empty mug still clutched in Stiles' hand.

Allison climbs from behind the barrels in front of the entrance to the Hufflepuff common room. Stiles is already in the kitchens, chatting excitedly with one of the house elves. He turns and grins when he sees her.

"Hey," Stiles seems— extra Stiles-ish today, he's practically vibrating, "These dudes said it's cool if we use the kitchens. So, let's get started."

She's not sure why he asked for her help, but it's probably because Scott couldn't boil water without setting himself on fire.

"What are we baking?" She asks as she rolls up her sleeves.

Stiles grins, "Cupcakes. Double chocolate cupcakes." He hands her a piece of parchment with the recipe.

She begins carefully measuring out the flour, she could use magic, but some things are more fun when done by hand. "So what's the occasion? Or are these just Friday cupcakes?"

"Birthday ones, actually." Stiles says without looking up from the butter and sugar he's creaming together.

Allison frowns, she's fairly sure it wasn't any of their friends' birthdays; she keeps track of that sort of thing. "Whose birthday?"

Stiles looks up, mouth going like a fish, "Uh, nobody. A friend. Just a friend that you do not know."

Allison raises an eyebrow, "Okay." She starts sifting the dry ingredients and lets it go.

Once the cupcakes are in the ovens she pulls herself up on the counter top and tries again, "So, your friend that I don't know likes cupcakes?"

Stiles sits next to her, "I don't know actually. Cupcakes just seemed like the thing to do."

Allison nods, "Everybody likes chocolate." It's a principle she lives by. If someone doesn't like chocolate, they're probably a dark wizard or something.

Stiles scratches his neck, "I hope so, I didn't know what else would make a good present." He looks a little worried.

She rubs his back, "It'll be fine." The last time she saw him this nervous over something was when he gave Lydia a box of sugared butterfly wings for Valentine's Day in third year. Lydia had promptly thrown them at his head. On second thought, maybe he should be worried. "If they're your friend, they'll love it."

Stiles rolls his eyes and smiles, "Hufflepuffs and the power of friendship."

She bumps her shoulder into his, "So this friend, is she a cute friend?"

He snickers, "_He_ really isn't."

"Oh," Allison says, trying to not sound surprised, "Well, you like him, so I'm sure he's a great guy."

Stiles chews his lip, "Yeah, he's pretty cool."

"Are you guys," she waves her hand, "you know?"

His eyebrows shoot up, "What? We aren't— I don't even— _really_?" he stammers.

Her hands fly to her face, "I just thought, what with the cupcakes, that you were, you know."

"I really, really don't." His face is starting to flush.

She smiles, "Merlin, I just made this awkward didn't I?"

Stiles smiles back weakly, "No it's fine, happens all the time." His face scrunches up, "actually, I don't think gay guys find me attractive."

"Well, I'm sure that were he so inclined, your friend would think you were totally smoking."

That gets him blushing again, "I should check on those cupcakes." He hops off the counter and scrambles toward the ovens.

Once they're baked and frosted Stiles gives her a tight hug and runs off, box of cupcakes under his arm.

He doesn't tell her how it goes, but he doesn't show up to dinner that night and won't stop grinning when she sees him at breakfast the next day.

She wonders if there's more _you know_ going on than Stiles is aware of.

* * *

Chapter 04

Stiles loves Christmas. Snow, presents, cookies, glitter everywhere, it's the best. Not to mention getting to see his dad. Stiles worries about what he gets up to while he's away at school.

Extra curly fries probably.

The break from school is peaceful, he and his dad watch Christmas specials and drink hot chocolate. Scott stops by a few times and he gets an owl from Allison. They already exchanged gifts back at school, he got Scott a broomstick servicing kit and Allison some perfume. Stiles even gave Derek some of his comic books, after finding out about his interests in not-so-mythical beasts.

His dad lets him make potions out in the shed, far away from any electrical devices. It's cold, but it's better than the thrum that runs through him when he goes too long without getting his hands on a cauldron.

He carefully adds rose thorns to his latest attempt at amortentia. He jerks his head away from a gust of vapor that smells— really good actually. He leans his head back over the cauldron and breathes deeply.

There's the coffee again, he now realizes it's hazelnut. He recognizes the smell of the parchment in an old book. The third scent is something warm and earthy and incredibly comforting, but he can't place it, though he knows he's smelled it before.

He's never smelled anything so awesome, but he calls Scott over to make sure it worked.

"Whatcha got?" he asks as Scott leans over the cauldron.

"Uh, the quidditch pitch… butterbeer," He gets a dopey smile, "the hair potion Allison uses."

"Well, I can't think of anything you like more, so I must have gotten it right,"

"Why don't you test it on someone?"

Stiles smacks him upside the head, "Because dumbass, I don't have an antidote not to mention love potions are like magical roofies."

"What's a roofie?"

He shakes his head, ever thankful for a muggle dad "Don't worry about it." He shrugs, "I just wanted to see if I could do it."

"Why?" Scott looks confused, "If you're not gonna use it, why bother?"

"For the pursuit of knowledge." Stiles deadpans, Derek may be rubbing off on him.

"Okay," Scott says, grabbing his broom, "Well, I gotta go meet Allison, we're gonna spend New Year's together." The dopey grin makes a comeback.

"It's new Year's Eve? Wow, I've been out here a while." He rubs a hand across his face, realizing he's actually pretty tired.

"Did you forget to eat again?"

Stiles scratches his head, "Maybe," he can't really remember. "Whatever, go make eyes at your girlfriend, and try not to get spotted by anyone, I think you're pushing the limit on underage magic, dude." He slaps Scott on the back and ushers him out of the shed.

After he's bottled his amortentia and cleaned up, he heads back into the house where his dad is pulling lasagna out of the oven. His stomach growls for proper dramatic effect.

"Have I told you I love you?" Stiles asks, inhaling all the cheesy goodness.

"You have in fact, usually right after I cook, but I'll take it." He ruffles Stiles' short hair.

Stiles fills up on lasagna and apple pie that his dad definitely did not bake himself, they watch TV on the couch and Stiles falls asleep just as it hits midnight.

The next morning Stiles wakes up and yawns into the couch cushion.

He had been dreaming. He was talking to Derek, but he can't remember what they'd been saying. They were in front of Derek's fireplace, like that night they found the unicorn. Stiles was laying on that weird furry rug Derek had and rubbing his face against it.

Oh, fuck.

Stiles jumps off the couch and runs out to the shed. He grabs the bottle of amortentia from the table yanks the cork out, holding it under his nose.

Hazelnut coffee, old books and— the worn wood floor of Derek's shack.

"This is cool. This is totally fine." Stiles says to no one in particular, "the most powerful love potion in the world is telling me I'm attracted to Derek. Great."

He re-corks the bottle and rests his head against the wall before sliding to the shed's cold floor.

He chews his lip and considers it. Derek _is_ kind of awesome in a too-grumpy-for-his-own-good sort of way and Stiles isn't about to pretend the guy isn't totally hot. Plus, he seems to more than tolerate Stiles, which is actually a rare quality. He can handle finding out his mancrush on Derek is less than platonic, the amortentia just makes it seem a lot more epic than it feels (which isn't exactly a small feat, because it feels pretty damn epic right now).

He nods and takes a deep breath. So, he's attracted to Derek? So, what? Everything will be fine as long as he never ever talks about it. Ever.

When he goes back in the house, his dad is setting breakfast out on the kitchen table. "Little early for potions isn't it?"

"Uh, yeah, I was just checking on something." He takes his seat across from his dad. "So, you love me right?"

"What did you break?" His dad asks, not looking up from his eggs.

"Nothing!" Stiles assures him, "Just, hypothetically speaking—"

"Oh, God."

"Hypothetically," he repeats, "If there was a sheriff who had a son, who might be like halfway gay, how would the sheriff react?"

His father considers him for a moment, "I imagine that sheriff wouldn't mind either way, and punch in the teeth of anyone who did."

Stiles grins, "Thanks."

"It's not Scott is it?"

Stiles shudders, "Oh my— no. God no."

His dad looks relieved, "Good, I know he's your friend but that boy is dumber than a bag of hammers."

Stiles chuckles, "No, it's just, uh, some guy from school." He decides not to mention the whole staff member thing, His dad's blood pressure is high enough.

"Well, you got nothing to worry about," his dad points at him with his fork, "Stilinski men are major catches."

Stiles scoffs and gestures to himself, "Obviously."

He stuffs more bacon in his mouth and tries not to think too much about gorgeous, broody werewolves.

Laura Hale doesn't love Christmas too much anymore, but she does enjoy seeing her brother. She's especially glad he stopped working in that dragon sanctuary, Romania is seriously not her ideal holiday local. Plus, it's been a while since she's been able to see the castle in winter.

She doesn't bother knocking, it's been years since she's been able to surprise Derek. She heads in and hangs up her jacket. He's sitting on the couch reading. He shows the cover to her before she can ask.

She leans over the back of the couch and gives him a small hug. "What's Hellboy?"

He flips through pages of reds, blacks and greys before closing it. "A muggle comic book. Someone suggested it."

Laura tosses her hair from her shoulder, "You take suggestions now? Because I've been meaning to do something about those eyebrows." She pokes affectionately at the offending features on her brother's face.

Derek just rolls his eyes and gets up to put the kettle on. Laura blinks, normally he'd have at least given her a halfhearted growl for her teasing. Come to think of it, his usual thunder storm of grumpiness seems to have dissipated to just overcast.

She follows him to the stove, "How have you been?"

He turns and leans on the counter, "You know how I've been."

Laura crosses her arms, "Please, all your owls ever say is how the full moon went or that you're worrying about me." She rubs his shoulder, "You have to have made some sort of friends."

"The Care of Magical Creatures professor and I talk sometimes."

"Is he the one who recommended that book?" she pries, she wouldn't be a good big sister if she didn't.

"No that was," he rolls his eyes almost fondly, "This seventh year, he brews my wolfsbane."

"They have a student making your potions?"

"He's good at it." Derek runs a hand through his hair, "He's very… odd."

Laura raises an eyebrow, "Define odd."

"He made cupcakes on my birthday." Derek's brow furrows, "and he caught a unicorn I'd been tracking."

Laura clears her throat to cover her urge to laugh. Derek has never been a fan of being laughed at, but imagining some hapless 17 year old bringing unicorns and birthday cake into her brother's life is too much. A smile spreads across her face.

"Shut up," Derek says crossly.

Laura holds up her hands, "I didn't say anything." She smirks, "I just think it's great you've found someone who shares your interests." She says, a laugh sneaking into her voice.

Derek clenches his jaw right as the kettle starts whistling.

"You gonna get that?"

Their holiday passes quietly, Laura gets Derek three new novels and he gives her a soft emerald green scarf and a box of chocolate cauldrons. They drink coffee and walk through the castle grounds. They stay up late and on New Year's Eve and Derek kisses her hair at midnight.

* * *

Chapter 05

That whole 'not thinking about hot werewolves' thing? Yeah, not really working out. Scott and Allison have been spending even more time together lately, giving Stiles a lot of extra free time to contemplate his growing hots for Derek.

Stiles hasn't seen him since before Christmas, which is a bit of a mixed blessing. On the one hand it keeps him from making a fool of himself; on the other, Derek is really cool and Stiles is fairly sure they're friends.

A week from the next full moon, Stiles is having even more trouble focusing in class than usual, knowing he'll be meeting up with Derek to brew his potion that evening. By lunch he's jittery enough to chew on everything in sight.

"What's eating you?" Allison asks as she takes a seat across from him and Scott, "Uh, pun not intended."

"Huh?" He mumbles around a mouthful of apple.

"You're doing that vibrate-y thing again."

Stiles licks his lips, he can tell Allison, Allison's nice, Hufflepuffs have to be nice. Plus, he's never been all that good at keeping things to himself.

"Remember that thing we were talking about when we made cupcakes?"

Scott looks between them, pouting, "You guys made cupcakes?"

Stiles holds up a hand to silence him, "Eat your sandwich Scott. Remember how you thought something was happening and I said it totally wasn't?"

Allison nods.

"Well, it's still not _you know_," Stiles has no idea how she got him to start calling it that, "But I think I kinda want it to be?" He rubs at the back of his neck.

"Oh! Okay," She's grinning at him and Stiles can see why Scott's so crazy about her, "Have you said anything?"

"I haven't had a chance, but I don't really plan on it."

Scott huffs, "What are you guys talking about?"

Stiles lowers his voice, "I'm sort of… attracted to someone."

"Is this about Lydia?"

"Lydia Martin, goddess that she is, is not who I am talking about, though my life would be infinitely easier if she was."

"So who is it?"

Stiles points his fork at Scott, "That is so not necessary information for this conversation." He sighs, "But it, uh, may be a guy."

Scott chokes on his pumpkin juice.

Stiles pats him on the back because friends don't let friends choke to death while that first friend is trying to discuss his sexual crisis.

"You're gay?" Scott says far, _far _too loudly for Stiles' liking.

Stiles, master of improvisation that he is, shouts back "Leave Danny alone!" because hey, the guy already hates him and he'd rather not have lunch turning into a coming out party.

He smacks Scott upside his head, "You're at ten and this is seriously a conversation to be had a two."

"Sorry," Scott mumbles.

"And the word is bisexual. I think."

"You think the word is bisexual?"

"No, dumbass I think I am bisexual." Stiles leans his head in his hand.

"Why don't you just ask him out?" Scott asks.

"Because I don't want to."

Allison tilts her head, "Why not?"

"Well I don't know if he wants to _you know_," and seriously, can they please come up with a better term for gay dating? "and he's kinda older than me."

"He can't be too much older, I mean he's a seventh year." Scott says.

"Sure he is."

Allison raises her eyebrows, "What?"

He jerks his head toward the teachers table.

Allison's jaw drops, "Stiles!"

"No, no, no!" Stiles mouths 'second from the left' while Scott is occupied by his sandwich.

Her eyes go to where Derek is suffering through one of Finstock's tirades, "The gro— " Stiles jumps and shoves a hand over her mouth.

"Yes." He eases back into his seat.

She gives Derek a once over, "Not bad."

"Huh?" Scott asks.

"Don't worry about it." Stiles and Allison say in unison before snickering.

"You guys are weird," Scott says going back to his meal.

"How exactly did that happen?" Allison leans closer across the table.

"I have to serve detention with him, but we kinda hang out now?"

"How old is he?" she whispers.

Stiles shrugs, "I dunno, like 30?"

"He is not," Allison scoffs, "You could maybe ask him?"

Stiles hadn't actually thought of that, "You're right, at least I'll know how hard Chris Hansen's gonna come down on him in the unlikely event anything does happen."

"Who?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, purebloods man.

Lydia Martin is going to murder Stiles. Normally she doesn't mind partnering with him for divination. He's smarter than the rest of their house (excluding her) and he usually falls all over himself trying to impress her, but ever since they got back from break, he seems to be mooning over someone else.

"Well?" She asks.

Stiles looks up from the teacup he'd been gazing into dreamily. "Huh?"

Lydia has to remind herself she's far too pretty for Azkaban, "My tea leaves. What do you see?" She demands, her voice going up an octave.

"Oh. Right. My bad, uh, I dunno, a tree?" Any other time he'd have said roses or butterflies or some other stupid romantic cliché. Today, he gives Lydia a tree.

"A tree?"

Stiles shrugs, "You wanna look?"

"Whoever she is Stilinski, she is _not_ worth my grade."

"Who isn't?" He actually has the nerve to look confused.

"Whatever girl you've been day dreaming about all period."

"I— I wasn't day dreaming about a girl."

Lydia rolls her eyes, "Whatever boy then, I don't care, just pay attention."

Stiles is blushing. Stiles is blushing and looking at Lydia like he's just been petrified.

Well, isn't that interesting?

Normally she wouldn't take an interest in Stiles' love life, but Hogwarts has been low on gossip lately and this is just what she needs. "I'm just kidding Stiles," she puts on her sweetest voice, "unless it is a boy? Is it Scott?"

Stiles looks rightfully horrified, "God, no. Why does everyone think that? Am I giving off some Scott-sexual vibe?"

"So who is he?"

"It doesn't matter." Stiles tries to feign interest in Lydia's tea leaves, "It's not anyone, okay?" Stiles chews on his lip.

Lydia lets him slide, for now, she always gets to the bottom of things sooner or later.

The day has been much longer than Stiles anticipated. If he knew he'd be coming out Scott, Allison and possibly Lydia, he wouldn't have gotten out of bed. He grabs a banana from the great hall before heading to the potions room.

"Good luck." Allison says, winking at him.

"Like I need it?" Stiles jokes, because he totally does.

He tries to figure out the antidote to amortentia while he waits for Derek, both because it's a good idea to have on hand and potions always eased him out of his natural (attention deficit) hyperactive state.

He has half a banana in his mouth and is trying to get the concoction to stop its aggressive hissing when Derek arrives.

"Do I want to know?" Derek asks, taking a seat on the opposite side of the work bench.

"Amortentia antidote." Stiles sighs, dumping the cauldron in the sink.

"You actually got it right?"

"Don't look so surprised, I actually have talent." It's a lot easier to get back into the groove of things with Derek than he had expected.

"He says during his potions detention."

"Bite me." He grabs the vial of amortentia off the shelf and hands it to Derek, "What do you smell? Little pigs?" Ulterior motive of finding out what he's attracted to aside, no one insults Stiles' potion skills.

"That's good, you've at least got the right animal this time." Derek uncorks the bottle and holds it under his nose, "Leather," he blinks, as close to surprised as he ever gets, "the forest in Romania." His nose wrinkles, "Smoke?"

Stiles raises an eyebrow, "So, what, you're into outdoorsy, Romanian bikers with a nicotine habit?"

Derek hands the bottle back, "Or you got it wrong."

"Hater." Stiles mutters as he goes to the cabinet to get the aconite petals. He doesn't say anything while brewing the wolfsbane, but once it's steeping he looks up to see Derek staring at him, "So, how was your Christmas? Get a new flea collar? A nice big tub of hair gel? Another vest?" Stiles nods toward the deep purple one Derek's wearing now under a lavender shirt. The guy has like, an infinite number of chromatically matching outfits, all of them involving a vest.

Stiles wonders if he has OCD, they could be acronyms together.

"My sister visited."

"Awesome. How is our Werewolf Wonder Witch?"

Derek rolls his eyes, "Fine, still needs to remind me who's the little brother."

Stiles laughs, "Sorry, I can't imagine you being a 'little' anything."

"She's only two years older," He crosses his arms, "You'd think it was ten, the way she acts."

Stiles remembers Allison's earlier suggestion, "Making her…?"

"Twenty-four." Derek supplies.

"You're only _twenty-two_?" Stiles gapes.

"You're the one who tried to throw me a birthday party." Derek leans his arms on the bench.

"Yeah, but I thought you were like, 30 or something."

"What?" Derek actually looks offended.

"_Any_way," Stiles says, trying desperately to compartmentalize the fact that Derek is only like five years older than him and that that's fairly in the realm of doable, especially considering his approaching eighteenth birthday.

"How was yours?" Derek asks awkwardly, clearly not used to 'catching up' with people.

"Good, it's always cool to see my dad." Stiles crosses his arms on the table and rest his head on them. "He's all by himself, I kinda worry about him you know?"

Derek nods, "Laura and I make a habit of worrying each other."

Stiles, for once, doesn't say anything. He just considers Derek, soft green eyes and stubble, secretly hilarious, brave enough to face down dragons. He could definitely do worse.

Derek's brow furrows, "What?"

Stiles smiles, "Don't worry about it."

* * *

Chapter 06

"What do I do?" Stiles moans into his charms textbook.

"Just point and say aguamenti, dude." Scotts says.

Stiles thumps his head against the book, "Not that dumbass. What do I do about— _erek-day_?"

"Who's Eric Day?" Scott asks, making Allison hide a laugh behind her hand.

"How have you not accidentally killed yourself yet?" Stiles rolls his eyes.

Allison whispers something in Scott's ear, causing him to give and understanding 'oh'.

"Yeah. So what's our plan of attack?" Stiles asks, chewing on his nails

"Just tell him how you feel." Scott says, because Scott lives in a fantasy world where telling a beautiful girl that the reason you act like a complete dumbass is _because you love her_ actually gets the beautiful girl to love you back.

"Any other not insane ideas?" Stiles asks.

Allison frowns, at a loss because she has the misfortune of being the previously mentioned beautiful girl.

"Oh for the love of—" Lydia huffs and sits down at their table next to Stiles.

"Oh, Lydia's here. Hi Lydia, welcome to my romantic crisis, which doesn't actually involve you for once." Stiles says, resting his chin in his hand.

"Relax Stiles, I'm here to help you get your hands on that gorgeous groundskeeper. Nicely done by the way, way to aim high."

"You are? Here to help, I mean." Stiles says, skeptical.

She shrugs, "It's not like I have anything else to do."

"Okay, whatcha got?"

"You're going to take him on a date." She says breezily as if that weren't equal parts ridiculous and terrifying.

"I can't just ask him out."

Lydia raises an eyebrow, "Did I say anything about asking? Asking for things just gives people a chance to say no. You're going to _take_ him on a date. Provided he's not a complete idiot he'll figure out what's going on and then the ball's in his court." She gives him a considering look, "You seem like the type to want other people to take control."

Stiles looks to Allison, "Was that an insult?"

"He already likes you enough to hang around all the time," Lydia continues, "So your chances are already good. With my help, it'll be a sure thing."

"If it were anyone else, I'd be sure they were bullshitting me, but I've yet to see you fail at anything so I think I believe you."

Lydia preens, "you're going to use your weird charm to get him to go to Hogsmeade with you this weekend. I happen to know Jackson's throwing a party in the dungeons so practically no one will be there to question why you're getting so friendly with the staff."

"And we can make sure you dress…" Allison cut herself off, looking embarrassed.

"Better than what you usually throw on." Lydia finishes for her.

"What's wrong with what I usually wear?" Stiles asks, tugging on the hem of his t-shirt protectively.

"I have so much work to do." Lydia sighs.

Stiles catches Derek outside the great hall after dinner one night. Catches him after small deal of running after him down a corridor like a lunatic. It'd probably phase him if he had a decent reputation to uphold.

"Yes?" Derek asks, looking amused at Stiles' attempts to play off being terribly out of breath.

"We're going to Hogsmeade this weekend." Stiles blurts out.

"Good for you." Derek says and resumes his long strides.

Stiles jogs up next to him and falls into step, "See that's the funny thing about 'we', it's kind of a first person plural. I'm the first person, you're my plural."

Derek frowns and opens his mouth, ready to argue but Stiles holds up a hand to silence him, "Before you say anything, remember who you're talking to and how unlikely it is that you'll be able to stop me from doing something once I've set my mind to it."

Derek's jaw snaps shut and he gives a resigned sigh, "See you Saturday," he mutters and stalks off.

Saturday decides to both take forever and come far too soon at the same time. Stiles is kind of freaking out about it as Lydia rifles through his trunk to look for something suitable to put on him.

"Merlin, is everything you own plaid?" Lydia asks grimacing at the purple and yellow number in her hand.

"I think there's some stripes in there somewhere." Stiles offers lamely.

"Here." Lydia shoves a black button-up shirt into his hands along with his Spider-man t-shirt, "Red is definitely your color and the black makes you look more mature."

"Mature? Mature is good, attractive would be preferable but I can work with mature."

Lydia slaps his cheek just shy of painfully hard, "Confidence, Stiles. If you don't think you're hot, no one else will either."

"Plus, you are hot." Allison says nudging him.

"Yeah? Then why have I been reduced to dating outside of the student body?" Stiles asks, his nerves starting to get the better of him.

"Because you're a spaz and people tend to find you off-putting. " Lydia says, looking at her own reflection in the mirror, "But Derek's pretty weird too, so I guess it has the opposite effect on him, since he hasn't turned tail and run yet."

Allison shrugs, "And if he doesn't think you're awesome, then he can go to hell."

Lydia fluffs her hair, "Or you hex him until he wishes he had." She says, because she's both terrifying and kind of good a friend. Which, yeah, not exactly the relationship he'd originally hoped for with her, but probably way better.

Lydia puts her hands on his shoulders, "Now, remember what I've taught you and be your obnoxious, charming self and you should have him wrapped around your twitchy little finger in no time."

Stiles is repeating 'confidence' to himself as he shivers from a mixture of nerves and cold outside the castle, it has the side benefit of making him look like enough of a nutcase that all the other students give him a wide berth as he waits for Derek.

"Has all that potion smoke finally gone to your head and destroyed the little remaining sanity you had left or did you just forget to wear a proper cloak again?"

Stiles whips around and grins at Derek, "Hey."

Derek looks him over, and Stiles realizes he's still shivering and forces himself to stop. Derek rolls his eyes and yanks his cloak from his shoulders, draping it over Stiles.

"Aren't you gonna be cold?"

Derek raises an eyebrow and tugs gently at the collar of the long, deep emerald overcoat he's wearing.

"How are you a smartass without even talking?" Stiles asks as they set off on foot towards the village.

Derek shrugs.

"You're doing that on purpose aren't you?"

Derek nods.

"That's cute, that's very funny, you're a regular laugh riot, Hale." Stiles resists the urge to stick his tongue out.

"You're the one who wanted me here."

"That's because I'm secretly a masochist and you're the only one terrible enough to satisfy my needs." Stiles bumps his shoulder into Derek's, "And don't act like you weren't happy to get out of your little hut. You must be bored off your ass, seeing as how all those grounds you keep are buried under snow."

"Well I'm clearly desperate for company."

"I can leave you to those third years over there, the blonde's been giving you the eye ever since we left, well, giving your ass the eye." Stiles nods behind them toward a group of whispering girls.

Derek quickens his pace, tugging Stiles along with him.

"Hey, that reminds me," Stiles says once they're out of sight of the girls, "Why don't I remember you?"

"What?"

"We should've been in school together." Stiles says.

Derek frowns, "I left school when the fire happened, it was in the middle of your first year. You didn't hear about it?"

"I was eleven, I was too busy trying not to get lost on the staircases to worry about gossip."

The corner of Derek's mouth twitches like he's considering smiling.

"Those were dark years," Stiles says, steering the conversation away from horrific familial tragedies. "I had this weird… bowl-cut thing happening and I wasn't on Adderall yet so I was even more of a spaz."

"Adderall?" Derek asks.

"It's uh, muggle medication. Helps me focus."

Derek gives a considering nod, "Do you like muggle things better?"

"Well, electricity's awesome, but it doesn't beat riding a broom, and I'm going to ask that you ignore the possibility for double entendre."

"I'll try to restrain myself." Derek deadpans.

When they get to Hogsmeade, Stiles can't help but grin, the village always looks best in winter in his opinion. It's like walking into one of his mom's snow globes they still have decorating the mantelpiece at home.

He takes Derek by the wrist and drags him toward Madam Puddifoot's. When they get to the door, Derek looks at him like he's lost his mind (he should know by now that that no longer has any effect on Stiles).

"Hot chocolate," Stiles says emphatically and leads Derek inside.

Lydia was right, the small tea shop is practically deserted as they take a doily covered table in the corner.

"There's a party." Stiles explains once he's settled in with hot chocolate.

Derek looks up from his tea and glances around the empty shop. "Is anyone else invited?"

Stiles rolls his eyes, "Back at school. Jackson, this Slytherin in my year, is throwing a party down in the dungeons, everyone always goes."

Derek tilts his head, "Why didn't you?"

"This may shock you but, I'm not exactly popular." Stiles says sarcastically.

Derek's brow furrows, "you're not?"

"Have you met me?"

"It's just," Derek shrugs, "I always figured the reason I didn't have friends in school was because I wasn't more like you."

"Obnoxious?"

"Outgoing." Derek says, "Funny, nice, not scary looking."

"Sorry to disappoint you grumpy, I'm just as much of a loser as you. Though I am much more entertaining."

"Of course," Derek says.

Once they finish their drinks, Stiles drags Derek into Honeydukes and most certainly doesn't freak out when Derek bats Stiles' hand away and pays for his sugar quills. They spend entirely too much time in Tomes and Scrolls, but they're both equally engrossed in the books so Stiles figures it's okay.

On the walk back to the castle Stiles tells Derek about the time Scott got stuck under the whomping willow for six hours (Professor Deaton got him out with only a sprained wrist) and Derek gives Stiles his opinions on Hellboy (Liz is his favorite character, even though Abe is clearly the coolest) and they argue about what magical creature would in in a fight (manticore beats acromantula, hands down).

"See? That wasn't so bad." Stiles says once they get back to Derek's cottage.

"I guess." Derek says, leaning against his doorframe.

"When I asked you to come you looked like I said I wanted to saw your arm off." Stiles put his hands on his hips, "Admit it, you had fun."

"I suppose it wasn't miserable."

"I'll take it." Stiles grins.

Derek pushes himself off the doorframe and leans toward him, "Stiles?"

"Huh?" Stiles responds because wow, Derek's eyelashes are pretty up close. Have they always been that long?

Derek rests a hand on Stiles' shoulder and Stiles' brain proceeds to short circuit and his heart might be exploding inside his chest.

"Can I have my cloak back?"

Stiles feels himself blush all the way to the tips of his ears, "Sure." His fingers fumble to unfasten it and he hands it over.

"Stiles?" Derek says again.

"Yeah?" Stiles says, desperate to get back to his dorm where he can die of embarrassment with some dignity.

Derek smiles, "It was better than getting my arm sawn off."

* * *

Chapter 07

Stiles isn't sure if it's good luck or bad luck that Valentine's Day falls a week before the full moon, but it's definitely luck of some sort that has him and Derek in the potions room that evening while literally everyone else Stiles knows is off doing things he doesn't have to worry about because he's too busy aggressively pining.

"So are you going to bring it up or should I?" Stiles asks, nodding toward the ridiculous amount of candy spilling out of Derek's bag.

Derek scoffs, "These are just the ones that weren't spiked with love potion."

"Someone's popular." Stiles pulls a box from the bag and looks at the tag, "Wow, way to be forward, Danny."

"Go ahead and eat them, I brought them for you, I'd just throw them out."

"Are you regifting me several pounds of stalker chocolate?" Stiles clutches his heart, "That is unfortunately the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me—well aside from the time Scott got me out of that well." Stiles holds up a hand to stop Derek's oncoming questions, "It's a long traumatic story involving a goblin and a leg-lock curse and I'd really rather not think about it."

Derek gets a look that's eerily similar to the one his father wore the time Stiles told him he'd accidentally turned the neighbor's cat into a Victrola.

"Do you play chess?" Stiles asks.

Derek blinks at the sudden segue, "yes?"

"Sweet." Stiles pulls a board out of his bag, thankful Allison had given him one of those enchanted bottomless ones in their fifth year.

Twenty minutes later Stiles is grinning as his knight smashes Derek's king to pieces.

"I took your queen. I took most of your pieces, how did you win?" Derek's frowning down at the board like it holds the secrets if the universe.

"Don't sweat it," Stiles reaches across the table to pat Derek's shoulder, "Not even Lydia can beat me, and she's got the highest grades of any student in like, 14 years."

Derek just shakes his head, "Explain to me how you can brew advanced level potions and detail the entire history of centaur mating rituals, but you're not the top of your class?"

Stiles shrugs, "I don't like boring classes, It's magic, I want to see things happen."

Derek considers him for a moment before standing, "Okay." He pulls his wand from his sleeve, pointing it away from Stiles and squaring his stance. Derek takes a deep breath and Stiles notices he's smiling, "Expecto Patronum."

A bright light shoots out the tip of Derek's wand, wisps of white vapor contorting until they take the shape of a large cat, four powerful legs bounding through the air in the potions room.

"Whoa," Stiles says.

Derek turns back toward him and the cat disperses into the air, "That's a patronus charm."

"That was awesome. I don't even know what it does, but it was awesome."

"It's mostly used against dementors or lethifolds, but Laura's been showing me how to use one to carry messages."

"Dementors? You mean the ring wraith dudes that guard Azkaban?"

Derek doesn't even stop to question the reference, apparently used to Stiles not making any sense, "Yes. Do you want to learn how to cast it?"

"No, I wanna leave all the ethereal jungle cat conjuring to you." Stiles turns off the flame under the cauldron of wolfsbane and meets Derek on the other side of the table.

"It's a cougar." Derek says, "Everyone's patronus takes a different form based on their personality."

"I get a spirit animal?" Stiles pumps a fist in the air, "Yeah, come on, teach me."

Derek crosses his arms, "It's not easy. You need to find a happy memory and focus on it."

"That sounds pretty easy."

"Would you shut up?" Derek rolls his eyes, "Not just any happy memory, it has to be the happiest thing you can think of. That's why it works against dementors, they feed off happiness and leave you with nothing but negative emotions. A full bodied patronus is made up only of positive energy so dementors can't effect it."

Stiles licks his lips and nods, "Cool. So just get happy, point, and shoot?"

"More or less."

Stiles closes his eyes and tries to concentrate. He was four when it happened. His mom had taken him down to the basement, he hadn't wanted to go because it was so dark but she held his hand and promised it would be all right, so he followed. Once they were at the bottom of the stairs she sat cross legged on the ground and pulled him into her lap.

"Ready, pygmy puff?" She'd asked.

"Ready," he'd replied. He hadn't know what he was supposed to be ready for, but he knew he was ready because he had her so close and she would handle anything he couldn't.

She squeezed his shoulder, "Lumos," she whispered and suddenly they were engulfed in the bright light emanating from the tip of her wand.

He gasped, "How'd you do that?"

Her laugh echoed around the basement, "_Magic_."

Stiles grips his wand tightly, "Expecto patronum."

The white light that shoots from his wand has a kickback that knocks him off his feet and sends him flying into one of the work tables.

"Holy hell." Derek says, rushing over and helping Stiles into a sitting position.

Stiles rubs the back of his head where it connected with the corner of the table, "Did I do it?"

"It wasn't full bodied, but it was a patronus." Derek says, examining the back of Stiles head, "Are you okay?"

Stiles stands and rolls his shoulders, "I've been worse."

"I think you have a concussion."

Stiles shakes his head and manages not to wince, "I've been concussed plenty of times, this isn't one of them." He picks up his wand, "Okay, second time's the charm."

"Stiles, this is advanced magic, it's going to take practice."

Stiles scoffs, "I'm a prodigy, I don't need practice."

"You're a moron and I'm not carrying you to the infirmary when you bust your head open."

"Then, you should probably teach me better so I don't bleed out on Harris' floor."

Derek sighs, "Well, your form is terrible."

Stiles smirks, "I dunno, I think I'm in pretty good shape."

"Seriously. Didn't anyone ever teach you how to duel?" he steps closer to Stiles and grabs his elbow, maneuvering his arm into a more satisfactory position. "If you're steady on your feet you'll get knocked on your ass a lot less."

"Ahuh," Stiles says desperate to focus on anything other than the foot and half of air separating him from Derek.

"Try again." Derek says and when Stiles looks at him he's smiling.

"Right." Stiles says, focusing on the memory instead of Derek. The charm still isn't corporeal but at least Stiles doesn't get acquainted with the furniture again.

He tries a few more times before Derek covers the hand his wand is in with his own, "I was serious about this being advanced. You aren't going to get it in one night."

Stiles smiles, "Can't blame a guy for trying."

"You just want another spell to be able to wreak havoc with." Derek says and Stiles can't help but notice he hasn't moved his hand away.

"Are you implying my intentions are less than pure?"

Derek raises an eyebrow, "Oh, I wasn't implying, I was stating outright. You wreak havoc."

Stiles licks his lips and watches Derek's eyes track the movement, "I _am_ a fan of mischief."

"Clearly," Derek almost whispers and Stiles decides to hell with it and takes a step forward and kisses him. Derek's hands come up to cradle either side of Stiles' head as he leans into the kiss. Stiles drops his wand and pulls Derek closer by the waist. He lets Derek press and lick his way into his mouth as Stiles digs his fingers into his hips.

"Oh my _God_," Stiles when they separate.

Derek takes an additional step away, "I shouldn't have done that."

"No, you really should. I'm a big fan of that, I'd buy tickets to that."

"I didn't mean to do that." Derek says, looking more unsure than Stiles has ever seen him.

"You didn't _mean_ to kiss the hell out me just now?" Stiles crosses his arms, "Did you trip and fall on my mouth? Does your tongue just come out on reflex when you're startled?"

"You're a student."

"So what?" Stiles says, "That means you don't like me?"

"That means I _can't_ like you, Stiles." Derek steps closer, "I'm staff, as in I work here. I could get fired and there aren't that many places willing to hire someone like me."

Stiles throws his head back and groans, "figures."

Derek squeezes Stiles' arm, "Sorry."

"I know you can't or whatever," Stiles says, "but for my sanity's sake, you do like me right?"

"Stiles, the only reason I stopped kissing you is because I _really_ need this job.."

"Well I like you too," Stiles says, "And I really don't want you to be a sad homeless werewolf turning tricks for kibble on Knockturn Alley. So I'm gonna agree that your job is more important than whatever I'm feeling." He holds out a hand, "Friends?"

Derek takes it and shakes, "Sure."

"So I'm just gonna go over here," Stiles walks back over to his cauldron, "and bottle up your wolfsbane and pretend this isn't severely awkward." He prepares the potion in silence and hands it to Derek before heading for the door.

"Stiles?"

Stiles turns, his hand on the knob, "Yeah?"

"I really am sorry."

Stiles nods and leaves for his dorm.

* * *

Chapter 08

It's all right.

More or less, Stiles keeps making potions, Derek keeps being wonderful and unattainable. It's fine though, it's not like Stiles doesn't have tons of practice pining agonizingly over perfect people he can't have.

"Will you cut it out already?" See? Here's one now. "You're upsetting to look at." Lydia kicks him lightly in the shin.

Stiles buries his face deeper in the grass, "Let me mope in peace."

"It's the first nice day we've had all year," She pokes him in the shoulder, "You're ruining it."

"I'm not even doing anything," Stiles says into the grass, the grass gets him.

"Exactly," Lydia says, "You sitting still is completely unnatural."

"We're magic, unnatural is kind of our thing."

"Don't get smart with me, I'm better at it."

She leaves him alone after that, unfortunately, Scott doesn't get the same memo because he plops down next to Stiles a while later and shakes his shoulder, "Are you asleep?"

"No, I'm moping."

"Oh." Scott says, the guy knows a thing or two about moping, Allison dumped him in sixth year and Stiles swears the shoulder of his robes were constantly damp with the products of Scott's blubbering for at least a month.

Stiles rolls over onto his back, "I think I'm cursed."

"Really?" Scott says, sounding far too excited about it.

"Oh, you are not." Lydia huffs.

"How else can you explain my chronic attraction to perfect people I can never date?"

Lydia tosses her hair, "Good taste and poor timing."

"Time sucks. Rules suck. Dangerous magical creatures suck."

"Dangerous magical creatures?" Lydia asks.

"You disagree?" Stiles asks, hoping she doesn't press, he'd like to avoid accidentally outing Derek.

Lydia rolls her eyes, "I'm going to excuse your insanity, considering you're seeing your not-boyfriend tonight."

"How kind of you, I'm so overcome with joy I may throw myself at you," Stiles deadpans.

"Please don't, you stink."

Stiles sits up and sniffs under his arm, "No I don't."

Scott checks for good measure because best friends stick their noses in each other's armpits.

"Please, you've reeked of potion smoke since third year." Lydia says scrunching up her tiny perfect nose at them, "You two just don't notice it anymore."

Stiles blinks, "Really?"

"You smell like a chain smoker." Lydia shrugs, "I figured you knew and just didn't care."

"Oh my God." Stiles says, remembering his joke to Derek about Romanian bikers those few months ago.

"Relax," Lydia says, "I'm sure you can whip up some new potion to get rid of the smell."

"No," Stiles says grabbing her arm frantically. She looks between him and his hand scandalized, "I'm taking my hand off," he says, moving back and taking his hand with him less Lydia hex it off. "What I mean is, remember when I made amortentia?"

Scott nods and Lydia looks mildly impressed.

"I got him to smell it. He said he smelled leather, the forest where he used to work and smoke."

Lydia's eyes widen in understanding before she gives him a pitying look.

"Yeah," Stiles says.

Stiles beats Derek to the potions room. He's been doing that lately, it's easier not being around him for so long. He'd feel bad if Derek didn't always look so grateful when he saw Stiles already had his wolfsbane steeping.

"It's the flower moon," Stiles says when Derek enters.

"What?"

"Native Americans have all these different names for the full moons. May's the flower moon, or the milk moon. Depends who you ask I guess." Stiles shrugs. "January's the wolf moon."

"Interesting."

"You wizards would know this kind of stuff if you had the internet."

"You're a wizard too," Derek points out.

"Half-blood," Stiles corrects, "I get the best of both worlds, like Hannah Montana whom you'd know about if you had electricity."

Derek rolls his eyes, "We've had this conversation six times, I don't want a television, Stiles."

"You're only saying that because you've never seen Firefly."

Derek's jaw tightens, "If you start singing the song again, I'm going to beat you."

"Like you'd risk messing up a face this pretty," Stiles says, running a hand down his cheek.

"Stiles," Derek says, a warning tone to his voice.

"What?" Stiles holds his hands up, "I'm just saying you platonically wouldn't want me to stop being pretty. Super platonic, _painfully_ platonic."

"Stiles," Derek says again, only this time it sounds like he's pleading.

"Sorry," Stiles says. His eyebrows raise when Derek takes his hand.

"Shut up, I'm platonically holding your hand," Derek says, sliding his thumb over Stiles' knuckles.

Stiles smirks, "You wanna platonically make out?"

"Stiles." Derek says, squeezing his hand.

"Hey, worth a shot." Stiles squeezes back. "You and I kind of have really horrible luck."

Derek rolls his eyes, "That's a bit of an understatement don't you think?"

Stiles laughs, "You're telling me? Next year, I have to apprentice under either Harris or some chick in the Philippines if I want to become a potions master."

Derek gives him a sympathetic frown, "The Philippines are nice."

"The fact that _you_ are being the optimistic one right now is a sign of how ridiculous my life is."

"At least you're not a werewolf." Derek says.

Stiles looks down at their joined hands, "Makes all the difference."

Stiles does his best to get through the year without killing anybody or himself and it somehow all works out. The thought crosses his mind that now that he's graduated he really is done with detention, and spending the night with the same five guys he's spent almost every night of the last seven years with. He looks down at his black Hogwarts tie, fingers tracing the red, blue, yellow and green stripes streaking across the black silk and he smiles.

It's strange.

He knows it won't be the last time he sees the castle but there's a strong air of finality in watching Hogwarts get smaller and smaller as the boats take him back across the lake. It pulls at something in his chest that makes him need to bump a shoulder against Scott's.

Scott grins an puts an arm around Stiles' shoulder, "Weird, huh?" Scott's going pro, Allison too, they're going to be the most ridiculously talented, ridiculously adorable couple the quidditch world has ever seen.

Stiles is ridiculously proud of them. Lydia too, though that's no surprise. She's going on to apprentice under one of the best curse breakers in the world and Stiles knows she won't be able to do anything but be wonderful at it.

Stiles, well, he has some plans of his own.

They get off the boats and head to Hogsmeade, Madame Rosmerta gives them all a round of butterbeer on the house in celebration. Stiles catches Jackson doling out Firewhiskey from a flask, and thinks a few other people do too, but apparently no one cares now that they're all upstanding adult members of the wizard community.

It's a good feeling, if a little bittersweet, Allison and Lydia give him kisses on the cheek and Scott kisses him messily on the mouth because they're just that close (and Scott may have had more than a few shots of the Firewhiskey). He even gets an awkward hug from Danny, not to mention a few people he didn't even realize were in his year.

He sneaks away from the party after a couple hours and heads back toward the castle. He cuts across the grounds and goes straight to Derek's shack. He doesn't bother knocking and barges right in. He figures if Derek wanted privacy, he'd lock his door.

Derek's standing over a large pot at his cast iron stove, he doesn't turn around when Stiles enters, just keeps stirring whatever he's cooking.

"Congratulations," he says.

Stiles heads over toward to stove to snoop in Derek's pot, "Yep, I'm a big grown up wizard now, free to wreak all the havoc I want, aren't you proud?" He tries to snatch a piece of potato from the stew but Derek whacks his hand with the wooden spoon.

Derek smiles, "I actually am. Now let's just hope you don't wind up in Azkaban."

Stiles leans against the counter, "Nah, I'm saving that for the reunion tour."

"So," Derek says, eyes glued to the swirling vegetables in the pot, "Excited about the Philippines?"

Stiles grins, "Didn't you hear the good news? Professor Harris is a death eater." Stiles still hasn't finished counting all the galleons he's won through bets over this fact.

"How is that good news?"

"Because they're shipping his crazy ass off to Azkaban for putting poor little half-bloods in detention with big scary werewolves. And you know, he tried to kill a few muggleborn students."

"You are the only person who would see this as a positive situation."

"Hey, they're all alive." Stiles counters. It's true, Harris had tried to pick off a quiet Hufflepuff fifth year—something Lahey—and got way more than he bargained for when the kid and his two friends broke out more than a few advanced dueling spells. That's Hogwarts' best and brightest for you, ready to kick ass in the name of friendship at the drop of a hat.

"Anyway," Stiles says, "that means Hogwarts is in need of a new potions master, and that chick from Manila happens to be tight with Professor Deaton and he convinced her to take the position. I'm gonna apprentice under her here." Stiles beams.

Derek blinks, "So…"

"So, next September I'm going to be here, you're going to be here, neither of us will be students." Stiles inches closer along the counter.

Derek nods, "True."

Stiles rolls his eyes, "Will you just shut up and date me?"

"That can definitely be arranged." Derek says, turning the stove off.

Stiles tugs at the hem of Derek's vest, orange today, and pulls him closer. "You're sure we won't get in trouble for this?"

"We'll definitely get some stares," Derek says wrapping his arms around Stiles and pressing his face into his neck. "Very rude and judgmental stares," He says against Stiles' collarbone.

Stiles pulls back so he can smile at Derek, "Dude, I get those already. I'm practically immune at this point."

"Well, in that case," Derek slides his fingertips along Stiles' jaw and presses a kiss to his mouth. Stiles does his best to stop smiling and kiss back, but it's not a big deal, they'll have plenty of time for both.

* * *

Chapter 09

Stiles is warm.

He is warm and wrapped up in a fluffy cocoon of blankets and situated firmly in that lovely area between sleep and wakefulness where you're just conscious enough to enjoy how comfortable you are.

Derek is sharing the cocoon of awesomeness and responsible for a great deal of the warmth therein.

"Get up, Laura's here."

Stiles is seriously considering evicting him from the cocoon.

"She's your sister, you get up."

"I am," Derek says violating the sanctity of the cocoon and pulling back the blankets.

"Then why do I have to?" Stiles says sliding over to the warm patch of mattress Derek left behind.

Derek rolls his eyes as he grabs his maroon vest and a red shirt, "because you live here too and if you don't come and greet her, she'll take back her presents and possibly poison your food."

Stiles abandons the cocoon.

Laura kicks the snow off her boots and immediately wraps Stiles in a bear hug, "Merlin, you're even cuter in person." She gives him a perfect copy of Derek' sunshine and kittens smile. "What are you doing with this sour wolf?"

Stiles shrugs, "With that kind of raw charisma, how could I resist?"

Derek just looks between them slightly horrified.

"I think we broke him." Laura stage whispers in his ear.

"If it's a permanent thing, you think I can keep his broomstick?"

Laura raises an eyebrow, "I'd like to keep my brother in once piece, thank you."

Stiles grins, "I meant his Nimbus, but that's not a bad ride either."

Laura's eyes widen, "I'm conflicted between cringing at my brother having a personal life and laughing at his expense."

"I'm a fan of laughing at his expense, personally."

"How about we talk about something else now?" Derek pleads, putting the kettle on.

Laura grins, "Anything you want DeeDee."

Derek whirls around, "Laura."

Laura flops down onto the couch, putting her feet up, "Relax, I'm just teasing you." She pats the cushion beside her, "Stiles, how have you been?"

Stiles sits beside her, tucking his feet up under him, "Overworked mostly, for someone so small and pretty, Professor Morrell is kind of a ruthless slave driver."

Laura nods, "I can vouch for the tenacity of tiny, adorable women." Stiles is more than sure she could do just that.

"But, I'm getting a lot better, fewer accidents," Stiles says turning over his bandage free hands in front of him, "Derek's happy about that."

"I prefer you without third degree burns to your chest, sorry."

Stiles throws his head back against the couch, "That was one time! And it wasn't even my fault, if you recall."

"Right, because the Slytherins were the ones who told you it was a good idea to carry around exploding fluid." Derek says, bringing three mugs to the coffee table. He situates himself behind Stiles and pulls him to his chest so they're both facing Laura.

"You're just mad you weren't the one who got to carry me to the infirmary." Stiles says, "Allison took all your knight in shining armor glory.

"I'm sure my chance will come the next time you incapacitate yourself." Derek says, rubbing a hand across Stiles' middle.

"Merlin's beard, I'm gonna gag." Laura says, but she's smiling, "Is this all you guys do, sit around being nauseatingly cute all day long?"

Stiles shrugs, "We also knit."

"Oh, I know, I got the owl with Derek's pot holder he made me for my birthday."

"It was a hat."

Laura nods, "And now it's a pot holder, be glad I didn't throw it out."

"Well, I helped pick out your Christmas present so you don't have to worry." Stiles says, reaching behind the couch to hand her a box, "The glitter wrapping paper was my idea."

Laura rubs her now sparkly finger together, "How thoughtful." She opens her present and lets out an appreciative gasp, "This is gorgeous, where did you find it?" She asks, running her hands along the soft red leather of the jacket they got her.

Stiles beams, "Internet. I've been teaching Derek its wonders."

They'd had it shipped to his dad's house and picked it up when they went to visit him for Christmas (Stiles still has hope Derek will one day recover from the violent interrogation his dad had masqueraded as dinner).

Laura gives them their gifts, several silk ties for Derek and a gorgeous set of crystal vials for Stiles. She puts her jacket on and refuses to take it off all night. They sit around joking and telling stories about duels Laura's had, creatures Derek's seen and potions Stiles has made.

As the sun rises Stiles is sprawled out on the floor, his legs tangled with Derek's and Laura dozing on the couch above them. Stiles watches Derek lazily extinguish the fire they had going with his wand and smiles. He nestles his face into the warmth of Derek's weird furry rug and sleeps.


	101. (T) GERASKIER - The Witcher Wolf by imf

The Witcher Wolf  
im_fairly_witty

Summary:  
It's been two weeks since Geralt shouted Jaskier away from him on that mountain and Jaskier has been handling it like a champ by forlornly wandering alone in the wilderness with his lute. When he (literally) stumbles across an injured white wolf he decides to take a chance and see if he can help it, appreciating the irony of the situation but not quite realizing why it is that the wolf's golden eyes look exactly like his Witcher's...

Inspired by kayivy's lovely art on tumblr

* * *

"So tell me love, tell me love...wait..."

Jaskier adjusted his fingering on the lute, pitching it an octave higher and trying again.

"So tell me love, tell me love, how is that ju-" he shifted a finger. "how is that-" another shift. "how is that _just_."

There, that was it.

Jaskier smiled dryly to himself as he slung the lute on its strap to rest against his back, leaving his hands free to dig his notebook out of his pocket as he walked down the long long empty road. He sighed as he scratched a note with his stub of a pencil and tucked the notebook back into his pocket, looking around at the looming trees and scrubby brush surrounding him.

The shadows were growing dusky and long, signaling that he probably should have found somewhere to curl up for the night an hour ago, not now when he'd be scrambling to see in the last of daylight as he made camp. But it couldn't really be helped now could it?

He could practically hear Geralt chastising him for being thoughtless again, especially when traveling alone.

Jaskier went several steps out of his way to stomp his foot through a suitable stick with a satisfying crack. Because it didn't really matter what Geralt probably thought, did it?

Finally being chased off by Geralt two weeks ago was plenty painful enough to try and avoid thinking about on its own. Jaskier did _not_ need the stupid Witcher getting after him even in his own mind after he'd been cast off like a rock out of a boot.

Jaskier paused, angrily chewing his lip as he gazed into the middle distance. He fished out his notebook again, scrawled _cast off like a rock from your shoe _and then stashed it away again.

He might be hurting terribly and handling it badly, but he was also a professional. Waste not want not and all that. If he was going to have to pull himself back together after being utterly rejected by the best friend he'd been following for literal decades, having finally been forced to realize that said best friend truly hated him, then he was at least going to get some decent song material from it.

And yes it was out of spite. And righteous anger. Definitely not heartbreak. Not at all. His newest song was a metaphor see, not a heartbroken ballad of unrequited longing and aching, of course not. Shut up.

Jaskier crashed angrily through the brush on the side of the road as he told off his inner critic, no longer having anyone to talk to but still managing to piss off himself in their absence it seemed. Which was perfectly fine! See? He didn't need anyone anyway, he could even make _himself_ miserable if he had to, no need to drag any Witchers into his mess at all when he was this self sufficient.

By the time he came back to himself and looked around he couldn't see the road anymore, but also had only a passing idea at which way he'd come from. Excellent. Might as well keep getting lost then, why not, really? Maybe the world would be lucky enough that he'd fall so far down an unseen ditch that he'd just disappear forever, or maybe he'd stumble on some cursed shrine that would vaporize him, freeing humanity of the huge burden he evidently was. Geralt would love that wouldn't he? Or maybe-

Jaskier didn't see the animal lying on the ground until he'd just about stepped on it, shifting his foot sideways at the last moment with a yelp. He scrambled to the side as the huge white furred creature lurched up, snarling at him.

"I was just being facetious!" Jaskier yelled to no one, automatically grabbing his lute to his chest as he stumbled backward onto the ground. "I don't actually want to die, certainly not eaten!"

He nearly screamed for Geralt out of old habit, but paused when nothing lunged at him, when no teeth or claws latched into him.

The creature staring at him from across the clearing was a massive white wolf. It watched him silently with wide golden yellow eyes, as if it were as shocked to see Jaskier as he was to see it. The wolf was holding one front leg awkwardly up against itself, in the quickly dimming light Jaskier could make out what seemed to be the half chewed off shaft of an arrow sticking out of the poor thing's shoulder.

"Sorry, very terribly sorry to bother you." Jaskier said weakly, still shaking with adrenaline as he sat in the dirt, clutching his lute like a shield. "I was trying to find someplace to camp and I was wandering and wasn't looking where I was going and I didn't mean- Really that arrow business looks like it hurts, how long have you had that nasty thing stuck in you?"

The wolf still had its ears back at him, tail tucked between its legs as it crouched close to the ground, but it wasn't growling. Weren't hurt animals supposed to be more aggressive? He was pretty sure he didn't have that the wrong way around. Either way, he wasn't about to look a non aggressive gift wolf in the mouth.

Jaskier very very slowly pushed himself to his feet. The wolf's piercing golden eyes watched him, but it didn't move, other than tucking its wounded leg closer.

"Say you're not that bad for a wolf." Jaskier said, softening his voice as he edged a step closer. Still no aggressive reaction from the wolf.

As Jaskier edged closer he could see the fur on the wolf's shoulder was all matted down with dried blood. He thought of the medical kit in his pouch, something he'd learned the hard way to keep on him over the years traveling with a Witcher.

"What if I took a look at-" Jaskier paused as the wolf growled at him, ears pinned back with a snarl. Alright, so it had personal space boundaries after all.

Jaskier dropped to a crouch, his voice going even softer and higher pitched. "Hey now, I know that shoulder probably has you miserable, but I'm not so sure you're much of a man eater if you left me alone after nearly stepping on you." He snapped his fingers, digging into his pouch. "You know what though, you're probably starving, not much hunting gets done on that leg I'll bet."

He pulled out several long strips of dried rabbit meat, gently tossing them to land in front of the wolf, trying not to startle it.

The animal's ears were still pinned back, but it barely sniffed at the meat before snagging it, finishing it off in barely a few bites.

Jaskier edged closer to the wolf, swinging his lute back to keep his hands free, fingers open to show he meant no harm.

"That's it, there's a good boy." Jaskier said gently.

He very very carefully set a hand on the wolf's back, feeling almost giddy with the adrenaline his brain was giving him for being stupid enough to pet an injured wolf. He could practically feel Geralt yanking him back by the collar of his doublet.

The wolf growled, but it was more mixed with a whine now as it pressed itself against the ground. Jaskier now suspected that it was only in pain, not fear.

"You know I'm not sure you're much of a wolf at all." Jaskier said, carefully stroking the thick white fur, hoping to calm it. "There's no way I'd still have both my hands at this point if you were really wild. For which I thank you by the way, playing the lute one-handed isn't a skill I have much interest in picking up. You act more like some kind of massive dog, did you have a human family that raised you? Have you been abandoned by your person?"

The wolf's growl continued, shifting neither up or down, looking somehow very judgmental as Jaskier talked.

"You know you remind me very much of a friend of mine." Jaskier said with a wry smile that quickly dropped away. "Or, acquaintance I suppose, he never did anything but growl either. In fact you're probably much more in tune with your emotions than he is I'll bet, although most rocks probably are if I'm being strictly honest. The man's really a complete imbecile."

The wolf snarled, probably just because Jaskier's fingers had reached the matted blood.

"Alright, so here's my terrible plan." Jaskier said, ignoring the snarl. Another unconscious habit he'd developed from hanging around Geralt apparently. "I'm going to try and remove this arrow, which is going to hurt terribly, and then I'm going to patch you up. I'd be extremely grateful if you didn't dismember me in any way while I do, but if you can't help yourself I suppose that's fair." He shrugged. "I'm not in a very self preserving mood at the moment, so I suppose a final act of misguided heroism isn't the worst way to go. The last white wolf I hung around mauled me emotionally, so actually it would be terribly poetic if you did finish the job physically."

The wolf quieted at that, staring up at him with golden eyes.

Jaskier raised an eyebrow at the sudden change in temperament. Maybe it found this tone of voice most comforting for some reason? Alright he could work with that.

"It's quite the tragic tale really." Jaskier said, keeping up his miserable monotone as he quickly opened his medical kit, pouring some water from his flask across the wolf's fur to loosen the blood. "The story of a young bard who attached himself to a man so emotionally constipated that he couldn't even tell when the bard was utterly devoted to him. I was stupid enough to hang around him for years if you'd believe it. Even though he bit far more than you do my friend. With words I mean, Witchers don't really bite people, you can't believe all those terrible old wives tales."

The fur underneath the blood soon resurfaced a watery stained pink as jaskier worked. The actual injury wasn't very big, just the imbedded shaft and some damage where it looked like the wolf had tried worrying at it unsuccessfully to get it out itself. Jaskier put a hand on the wolf's shoulder, gripping the shaft firmly.

"So anyway he finally decided he hated me enough to- sorry this part's the hard bit-" he yanked the shaft out before he could talk himself out of it, bracing himself for the bite that was sure to come.

The wolf yelped, a high whining noise as it jerked with pain under him. But no bite.

"That's a _very_ good boy." Jaskier said, panting a little as the dizzying spike of fear left him. He inspected the arrow to make sure nothing looked like it had snapped off before setting it aside. "That's a very very good boy for not ripping my arm off, very good boy."

He quickly set to work, patting everything dry, dousing it with a quick splash of alcohol and healing salve for luck, (the wolf only growled slightly at that, staring away into the trees) and then wrapping it up tight in a way Jaskier hoped wouldn't slip off fur.

"There we go." He said in relief, wiping sweat off his forehead as he tucked his supplies back into his pack. "Nothing like impromptu feral veterinary care to get the old heart pumping, eh?"

The wolf, being a wolf, of course said nothing, still staring off into the trees. Jaskier checked to see if it were actually looking at something, but no.

"You're sulking." Jaskier decided, petting the wolf between the ears before the animal shook its head to get his hand off. "Yes you are, I know that look anywhere. Probably terribly embarrassing to be the king of the forest and have to accept help from a lowly human bard eh? Well I suppose wolves aren't really the king, not if there's griffins or something about."

The wolf looked at him with a long stare, and then shifted carefully to be facing away from him.

"That settles it." Jaskier said with a smile, looking around and starting to collect firewood in the scant minutes he had before the sun's light vanished entirely. "I'm calling you Geralt Junior. The both of you would get along splendidly in your stubborn grumpiness."

The wolf looked over at him, ears pricked.

"Geralt Junior? You like that name?" Jaskier asked with a grin at the wolf's response.

The wolf's ears flipped back for a moment, as if confused, but then it hauled itself to its feet with a whine. It took a few halting steps toward him before stumbling on its bad leg, continuing to whine urgently.

"Whoa whoa hey, settle." Jaskier said quickly, dropping his armful of sticks and kneeling by the wolf, carefully pushing its broad shoulders until it settled to the ground with an annoyed growl. "Lay down, stay. You shouldn't be walking any more tonight, you've got to heal alright? Lay down boy, do you know commands?"

There was a low percolating noise in the wolf's throat but it stayed down, burying its nose between its paws.

"That's right, you go back to sulking Geralt Junior." Jaskier said, patting the wolf's head until he was shaken off a second time. "I'm going to see if I can scrape us together a fire for the night. Feel free to stick around if you like, I wouldn't mind the company." He sighed as he scraped a clear patch of earth with his boot and started to pile small sticks and tinder together. "If you do head out in the night I promise no hard feelings though. I've been reliably informed that I'm miserable company."

The wolf didn't look at him but one of its ears twitched toward him.

"Well you're already an improvement on Geralt Senior." Jaskier said dryly, striking sparks from his flint. "At least with you I can tell if you're really listening or not."

The wolf huffed, flicking its ear.

Jaskier kept an eye on the white wolf as he scraped a place to lie down next to the fire, rolling out his thin sleeping mat. He really expected the wolf to wander off into the woods at any moment, but instead it stayed right where it was at the side of the campfire as Jaskier settled for the night, steadily ignoring him as he chattering away.

"Well unfortunately for you I'm too tired to work on my songs for the night." Jaskier said, setting another hunk of firewood in the flames before tucking himself under his thin blanket. He rested on his stomach, propped up on his elbows. "I'm famous for my singing you know, one of the most beloved bards on the continent for my music, you're missing out on a real treat I tell you."

The wolf huffed and shifted.

"Well, goodnight Geralt Junior." Jaskier said, resting his chin on his arms. "It was nice to meet you, good luck on wherever you wander to next. Thanks again for not eating me."

He meant to go to sleep immediately, but found himself watching the huge mound of white fur on the other side of the flames. He sighed quietly. Just like fate to send him such a clear ironic mockery like this. He rolled onto his back, staring up at the shadows of the tree branches above as they moved and whispered in the wind.

Well no matter the irony dripping from this whole situation, it had at least been a bit of amusement. Maybe he'd even start writing a song about it after the wolf was gone in the morning.

Jaskier closed his eyes, willing himself into unconsciousness before his mind could wander into its nightly routine of fretfully wondering what a different white wolf was up to.

Geralt Junior was not gone in the morning.

"Well hello again." Jaskier said, his voice muzzy with sleep as he pushed himself up. The wolf was sitting, watching him from the other side of the fire, which judging from the blackened state of the wolf's paws had already been scratched out for the day, charcoal markings scratched across the ground. "That's a neat trick with the fire, bit rude to watch people sleep though."

He hoisted himself to his feet with a groan, cracking his back and then stopping to roll up the sleeping mat. "I suppose you're hanging around because you're still hungry, well I-oh, hello."

He startled as a cold wet nose pushed against his bare wrist. The wolf had padded silently over to him, evidently no longer limping. The bloodied binding on its shoulder was starting to slip off too.

"You weren't biting at this during the night were you?" Jaskier scolded, pushing the wolf back a bit so it wasn't practically standing over him and taking the bandages off. "Because if you were I'll..."

He trailed off as the bandages slipped away, revealing a small wound that had nearly healed over already in the night. It was still angry and red looking, but the skin was already well on its way to being mended, a far cry from the gaping bleeding wound last night.

"Did Geralt slip something into my salve?" Jaskier wondered aloud, scratching the wolf's head absently. "You've healed nearly as fast as he does."

This time the wolf didn't shake off his hand, instead whining at him, shoving its nose into Jaskier's palm.

"Hey, it's a good thing." Jaskier assured the animal, "It means you can go without bandages now as long as you don't bite at it."

He scratched harder right behind the wolf's ears, not missing the way its tail gave half a wag before the wolf caught itself and ducked away from his hand with a whine.

"Don't you give me that," Jaskier said with a grin. "I saw that tail wag, you _like _pats, you big grumpy thing, you can't fool me with that act."

The wolf shook itself hard with a huff, then trotted off into the trees without so much as a backward glance.

Jaskier felt unreasonably disappointed to see the animal go, but put on a smile as he waved. "Goodbye Geralt Junior!" He called after it. "And good luck!"

"Storm, tempest..." Jaskier muttered to himself as he walked, kicking stray pebbles as he came across them on the road. "Red skies in morning. Warning. Red skies in morning _bringing_ a warning. That's good, I'll keep that."

It had been another long and lonely day on the hot road, but he'd nailed down nearly all the lyrics to his new song at least. He hadn't anticipated just how much lonelier it would feel to travel solo after having met last night's surprise visitor, but at least it had helped keep his mind off...other things...

Jaskier looked up at the setting sun. Well, better to get a start on finding a place to sleep earlier than later tonight. Tomorrow he'd reach the next town if he wasn't terribly mistaken. He stepped off the path, starting to make his way through the brush.

He couldn't wait to get back to playing, being around people again would help him get his mind off things. He could start working to refill his purse, perhaps even save up for a horse. He could finally feel less alone, surrounded by an audience and whatever one night stands he could manage to scrounge up in town.

If only he hadn't-

Jaskier froze as he caught motion out of the corner of his eye and felt himself choke as something huge rushed toward him.

He turned to look and startled again, laughing out loud in relief when he turned to see a white wolf bounding up to him, two dead rabbits clamped in its bloodstained mouth.

"You've got to make more noise than that if you don't want me to die of a heart attack!" He cried, but was unable to wipe the grin off his face at the return of his new friend. "So you're not sick of me after all, huh? I'm truly flattered you know."

The wolf ducked its head, dropping the rabbits on the ground in front of him.

"Well if this is your way of saying thank you, then I heartily accept." Jaskier said with a smile, reaching out and patting the wolf's head, which the animal seemed to reluctantly endure. "Let's find a good place for a fire and I'll get these skinned and roasted for us, alright?"

Jaskier picked the rabbits up by the hind legs and strode into the woods with a much happier spring to his step.

An hour later a fire had been made and both rabbits disposed of. Jaskier sat on a log as he plucked at his lute, watching the wolf idly gnawing on a rabbit bone.

"Normally I'd start writing a song about you right away." Jaskier assured his companion as he tuned a lute peg. "But I'll reach town tomorrow and I've got to have this new song tavern ready if I'm to have any new material."

The wolf twitched an ear, shifting its gnawing to the other side to watch him as it chewed the tiny bone.

"That's right, a new Dandelion tune, you're the first one to hear it too." Jaskier smiled, strumming a few chords.

He wasn't really expecting the wolf to listen but as he picked out the opening chords he was intensely aware of the animal's golden eyes fixed on him. Well, so much the better for practice, Jaskier had never shied away from an attentive audience, no matter the species.

"_The fairer sex they often call it_," Jaskier sang, his smile dropping away as the song pulled him in. "_But her love's as unfair as a crook_."

The notes flowed and so did the lyrics, the newest words clicking neatly into place as he sang. The emotions of the last two weeks pulled through him one more time as he fixed them into the song, hopefully a space apart from his heart. Maybe showing them off to strangers could get them to dull a bit.

He knew it wouldn't, but it was too good a hope to abandon entirely. Not yet.

His gaze flicked up to the wolf as he sang, and he was mildly surprised to see the animal watching intently, bone forgotten.

"_I am weak my love, and I am wanting_." Jaskier sang.

He grimaced as his voice broke a little on the line, too much emotion getting through. Or maybe exactly the right amount. To his amusement he could see the wolf tip its head at that, but he pushed on through the rest of the song, finally finishing with a flourish.

"Her Sweet Kiss, by myself." Jaskier said with a half bow, setting his lute down beside him. "You've been a wonderful audience Geralt Junior. I've been working on it for the last month or so. It's undergone some, ah, heavy revisions in the last two weeks, but I think it's turned out alright."

Jaskier heaved a sigh, trying to dispel some of the heavy emotion still in his chest as he wiped at his eyes. "I'll have to tone down to waterworks a bit when I'm performing in front of people though. Pining gets you far more coin than crying, I've learned that performing lesson the hard way. Perks to traveling alone you know, I don't have to try hide any of that around you."

Jaskier slid down off the log and propped his arms back on it. The wolf across the fire let out a long whine, still watching him.

"Oh, I'm alright." Jaskier assured the animal, wiping at his eyes even as the tears keep coming. "It's just been, um, a rough couple of weeks. Had someone I loved very much get rid of me in a rather terrible and unexpected fashion. I figure if I sing instead of crying about it I'll get more coin, just more practical that way really. No use pining after a friend that hates you..."

Jaskier tipped his head back against the log with a shaky sigh, closing his eyes against the tears that still came. They'd end eventually if he waited them out, better to get them out now rather than in front of a crowd tomorrow.

He opened his eyes as he felt a heavy weight settle against the side of his leg. He looked down to see the wolf had laid down beside him, tucked up against his leg as the animal stared off into the trees, head rested on its paws.

"There we go, we can sulk together." Jaskier said with a teary chuckle, gratefully running his fingers through the wolf's thick white fur. "I promise I'll be alright...someday. I don't know." Jaskier huffed, wiping at his eyes again. "But twenty two _years_, and you know he never once called me his friend? I mean he was always insulting me, but he never actually tried to make me- okay, well he _did_ try to make me leave several times, but that was mostly at the beginning. But still, twenty two years Geralt Junior. That's such a long time to be treated like garbage."

The wolf let out a wine, looking up at him.

"We had good times too though. So many good times." Jaskier said sadly, scruffing both hands through the wolf's fur, focusing on that instead of his own words. "We traveled so many places, had so many adventures. He _can_ lighten up you know, especially if you get him alone and well fed. He's got such a wicked sense of humor and a smile that could melt snow, even if so few people really see it. He's excellent at Gwent, even if he always gambles too much at it. He's got _such_ a good heart too, he's always trying to do the right thing, even if it comes back to cause him more trouble later."

Jaskier laid his head on the wolf's broad back, watching his fingers pet the white fur in front of his face as his voice got quieter.

"Honestly it only makes it worse though. To be hated by a good person hurts so much more than being hated by a bad one..."

The wolf whimpered and shifted, making Jaskier think for a moment that he'd leaned against its bad shoulder. But instead the animal shoved its snout into Jaskier's chest, continuing to whine.

"You're very sweet." Jaskier said with a smile, "Even if you don't understand any of this, I'm very grateful that you're listening anyway." He took the wolf's head in his hands, kissing its forehead. "Whoever your person was must have been very sad to lose you."

The wolf looked away, then after a long moment settled its head back on its paws.

"Sleep isn't a terrible idea." Jaskier yawned, resting his head against the wolf again. He watched the fire for a few more minutes of silence before his eyes drifted shut.

His last absent thought was that he hoped the wolf didn't mind being used as a pillow without having properly been asked.

It was day three and Jaskier now knew for a fact that Geralt had slipped something into his medical kit, because his wolf companion was trotting easily at his side as they neared the village, only a pale scar on its shoulder that was hidden entirely by thick fur.

Why Geralt had never thought to use such a miracle cure on _him_ when he'd managed to get banged up was beyond him. Jaskier had narrowed it down to either further proof that Geralt really didn't like him all this time, or else quick healing magic only properly worked on wolves, whether metaphorical or literal.

But as much as he hated it Jaskier couldn't remember a time that Geralt had ever been rough or hateful with him while treating one of his wounds. Exasperated certainly, but always urgent and attentive, making sure Jaskier healed as quickly and cleanly as possible.

Which somehow left the more poetic answer, something that Jaskier couldn't quit smiling about as he walked down the road. Though perhaps that was more due to the fact that the village, and thus a comfortable real bed, were now in sight in the distance.

Or maybe it was the massive white wolf padding silently by his side, not having left him once since last night.

"We're nearly there." Jaskier hummed happily, playing with the strap of his lute. "Then we'll have warm fires and warm food and warm audiences..."

He trailed off as he walked, looking at the enormous animal walking beside him.

"Although I'm not sure the inkeep will be thrilled to let a wolf into their establishment... or the townspeople either." Jaskier said with a frown.

To be quite honest Jaskier himself didn't even know how the wolf would act around people, if it would start snapping or biting if it were to be taken through a crowd or into an enclosed space. He'd known some inns to allow well trained hounds to room with their masters, but that was always with the passing over of extra coin.

For all the wolf was sticking to his side today Jaskier still wouldn't be all that surprised if the animal peeled off once they got close enough to the town.

Well, there was only going to be one way to find out, meaning it was time for a badly thought out spur of the moment plan.

"So, Geralt Junior." Jaskier said, pulling to a stop and digging through his pack. "We're about to be around a lot of people when we get to town, and as you've seen humans get skittish around creatures like you and I'd rather not have another arrow in your shoulder. I understand if you leave before we get there, but if you do stick with me we're going to have to make you seem as domesticated as possible."

The wolf pinned its ears back as Jaskier pulled a wide turquoise belt out of his pack, the dyed leather covered in imprinted flowers.

"I know it's going to be a hit to your wild beastly pride, but I really think turquoise might suit you." Jaskier said with a cheeky smile. "Although if you'd rather run off wild you'd better let me know right now, because I'm not going to have you running off with this and leaving me with an incomplete outfit, these things aren't cheap you know."

The wolf stared at him with a look that Jaskier could only think of as disgust. But after a verrrrry long minute the wolf sat, looking away with the same disgusted look.

"There's a good boy." Jaskier praised, quickly leaning down to secure the makeshift collar around his wolf's neck. "I think you look rather dashing." He scruffed the thick fur above the collar. "And with one fell fashion statement you've now worn more color than your namesake has in his entire unnaturally long life, so you at least have that going for you."

The wolf refused to look at Jaskier, instead plodding on ahead without waiting for him.

Jaskier laughed at his sulking wolf, but they both became more serious as they approached the town. The wolf kept scenting the air every few steps and Jaskier found himself smiling uneasily at the people they started passing more and more frequently. Not all of them stared openly, but all of them were definitely at least sneaking looks as they walked by.

"Just stick by me." Jaskier said quietly, his fingertips finding the edge of the collar and staying there as they approached an inn.

He thought about trying to leave the wolf outside, but the animal pressed close against his leg as he walked into the establishment, as if nervous of being left alone in the middle of town. Well, at least it played well into the pet charade Jaskier was playing.

"That's quite a beast you've got yourself there bard." The innkeeper called from behind his counter. He didn't sound exactly wary but Jaskier could see the man relax a little when he glanced at the floral colored collar. "Afraid we won't have no fighting dogs in here, he'll have to keep to the yard if he's the kind to pick fights."

"Not to worry my good man, I've had Geralt Junior since he was a pup, though truth be told we had no idea he had so much wolf in him when he was still small." Jaskier said brightly, lying through his teeth. "He's big, but he's a big pushover, I can promise you'll have no trouble from him."

He looked down at the wolf, for a moment wondering if he weren't taking too much of a risk with this one. He _didn't_ know the wolf, but it had stuck by him so closely and the thought of leaving it outside now made him bite his lip.

The wolf gazed up at him with bright yellow eyes, then at the innkeeper, as if thinking. Jaskier raised an eyebrow as the wolf's tail started to wag and it started to pant with a very doggish smile, leaning hard against him. For all the world the very picture of a lifelong pet.

Well. Unexpected, but good?

"Well he seems polite." The innkeeper said, smiling down at the wolf. "I'll allow it as long as you're willing to pay extra for a room, but even a hint of trouble and you're both out."

"Agreed." Jaskier said eagerly, "one room and meals for the two of us then please, and I'd like to perform tonight if you're willing."

"The place is yours," the inkeep said with a smile, handing Jaskier a room key in exchange for coin. "Haven't had a bard through here in a while, it'll do us good to have some song."

Jaskier was used to audiences fawning over his singing or his playing or his good looks, but drawing attention because of a huge white wolf resting peacefully at his feet was an entirely new experience. Word of the new bard and his tame snowy white wolf traveled quickly it seemed, Jaskier spotted people ducking in and then out of the tavern all night, smiling and pointing and even tossing an extra coin to them as the night went on.

And through it all the wolf stayed out at Jaskier's feet, calmly listening and watching the audience throughout the night, only shifting a bit whenever Jaskier got up to move along to a more rousing ballad.

There was one moment when a young girl pushed through the crowd and fell squarely onto the wolf. Jaskier actually fumbled a chord as he gasped in a breath of startled fear.

But the wolf only huffed in surprise, blinking at the little girl as she recovered herself and hugged him around his great furry neck. A moment later a woman darted forward with a hurried word of apology as she grabbed her daughter's arm and dragged her back.

"Not to worry madam, as you can see he's quite tame." Jaskier said with a tip of his hat and a brilliant smile that belied the way his heart was pounding in his chest at what could have easily been a disaster.

He finished his song and then bowed to the applauding crowd, gathering up all the coin offered to him as the people dispersed, seeing he was done for the night.

Once the coin was tucked away Jaskier dropped to one knee in front of the wolf, stroking the animal's head and speaking in a hushed tone. "Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ for being so tame. Gods above, I thought we were finished for a moment there, you're truly a magnificently patient beast."

The wolf ducked its head away from the praise, but Jaskier saw its tail wag against the wooden tavern floor.

"Time for supper and then for bed." Jaskier said, getting to his feet. "I think you're going to be a great favorite with audiences my friend if you keep this up, I'd be willing to bet half our coin tonight was due to you alone. We make an excellent team."

The wolf got to its feet, tail still wagging as it followed Jaskier to a table. While Jaskier ate several people came up to ask if they could pet the wolf, offering bits of food in trade which the wolf accepted eagerly enough.

By the time Jaskier made it to his room, wolf trailing behind, he was convinced he must have done something miraculous to have discovered such a perfect traveling companion.

"You perfect thing." Jaskier said once they were in the room, a yawn breaking through his smile.

He scratched behind the wolf's ears and then stripping off his doublet for the first time in days. Really he should take a bath, but the bed looked far too inviting. He collapsed onto the sheets, sprawling out in the warmth of the room as he kicked his boots off.

"A room, a warm fire, coin in my pocket, and an agreeable traveling companion. If only Geralt could see me now." Jaskier said, slinging one arm over his eyes with a chuckle that turned a bit sad at the end. "I hope that bastard's alright, wherever he is." He said quietly.

He felt a cold nose against the back of his hand and raised his arm, looking over to see the wolf whining at him.

"No, not you, the _Witcher_ Geralt." Jaskier said with a fond smile, petting the wolf's head. "I'm sorry if I talk about him too much, I suppose I've thought of him too long, my brain doesn't know what else there is to think about."

He patted the mattress and after a moment of hesitation the wolf jumped up, lying down beside him. The wolf rested his head on Jaskier's chest, a pleasant warm weight, better than any blanket he could have asked for. Jaskier carded his fingers through the thick white fur as he closed his eyes.

"I suppose I should try forgetting about him entirely." Jaskier said softly. "I don't want to though. I think there's always going to be some mad piece of me that's going to hope he'd come back for me someday, our paths always cross often enough."

He petted the wolf in silence for a long minute.

"I _can't_ do it again though." Jaskier said firmly, his voice even quieter. "Even if I do see him again someday I won't go along with him, won't even look at him, I can't. I've set myself up for heartache and failure for too many years, working so hard to make him a hero of the people in all my songs. There's never going to be a world in which he actually listens to me or cares, he always took me for granted, I have to remember that."

Normally he would have teared up by now, but the comforting warmth of the wolf seemed to anchor and steady him as he petted it. The wolf even let out a long low whine that matched his sadness.

"You understand though, don't you Geralt Junior?" Jaskier said with a smile, ruffling the wolf's ears with a yawn. "I suppose if I'm going to move on I should think of a better name for you then shouldn't I? Maybe a flower name to match mine, take our performances to a whole new level."

The wolf sneezed violently, shaking its head.

"Alright alright, I'll give it some more thought tomorrow." Jaskier laughed. He sighed deeply, pulling his pillow a bit more firmly under his head.

It was much easier to get to sleep than it had been the nights before.

Weeks passed as Jaskier and his wolf passed through town after town, settling into a rhythm that Jaskier couldn't have improved if he'd tried.

They spent days at a time in each town, Jaskier serenading crowds who came to see the wolf bard play, bringing in coin aplenty with new songs that seemed to write themselves. Some were thinly veiled laments of course, but Jaskier found himself falling into much happier tunes again far faster than he would have predicted. Ones about canine friends and cheerful adventures and sunny days and good company.

He still enjoyed the crowds of course, but now some of his favorite days were the ones between the towns, days like this when it was just him and his wolf together on the open road.

"Geralt if you don't bring the stick back to me I can't throw it for you." Jaskier called, plucking a tune on his lute as he walked under the pleasant sunny afternoon sun.

Ahead of him the great white wolf bounded back and forth across the road in and out of the weeds, a large stick in his mouth as he dashed around, never seeming to tire of smelling everything they passed. Around his neck was a fine thick collar with colorful flower patterns woven into the design, a favorite with the ladies and small children. Jaskier had tried some other names for the wolf over the past few weeks but none of them had stuck as well as Geralt Junior had, even that of course eventually dropping to just Geralt.

Things had somehow gotten especially smoother after Jaskier had snapped one night, about a week in to their companionship when the animal was acting especially moody.

_That's it, new rule. Unless you're in pain or I'm in danger there's going to be absolutely no growling or snarling at me. I've gotten a lifetime's worth of that from your namesake thank you very much, and I refuse to take any more of it._

He of course hadn't expected his outburst to change anything, but he almost thought it had, his wolf being more careful around him, as if it actually realized how upset he'd made Jaskier.

As they'd traveled the wolf had slowly loosened up in more ways than that too, his previous frequent growls and silence trading for eager tail wagging and barks as they performed for tavern after tavern of people eager to pet and praise him. He never really became rambunctious per se, always still a bit reserved and aloof. But Jaskier was certain his wolf was becoming far happier of an animal while traveling with him than he had been before, and feeling needed like that made him feel warm inside.

It wasn't very often now that he thought of the old Geralt. Not forgotten certainly, but this new life was filled with plenty of happiness to focus on, instead of the pain he suspected would have devoured him had he not found his new companion.

The wolf bounded up to him, letting Jaskier wrestle the stick away from him and fling it off into the bushes again, then took off after it like a shot. Jaskier wiped the wolf slobber off his hand on his pants and picked up his strumming again with a smile. The one thing he hadn't seen yet was the animal getting tired, the beast having apparently been blessed with incredible stamina.

Up ahead he could see someone approaching from a distance. A horse merchant judging by the string of horses roped behind his own, a couple other men riding with him to keep them in line.

Jaskier politely made his way to the side of the road, halting his strumming to keep from spooking any of the merchant's stock.

The merchant tipped his head to Jaskier in appreciation as they approached, but Jaskier jumped as he heard barking. He turned to see his wolf rush up to the horses, yelping and whining. The merchant and his boys shouted as they wrangled the spooking horses as they all tried to shy away from the canine.

"Get your animals under control!" The merchant snapped, swinging off in a rapid dismount to catch at his horse's bridle.

"I am so sorry!" Jaskier cried, dashing forward and grabbing the wolf's collar, trying to haul him back with little success as the animal kept trying to lunge forward, whining desperately with its tail tucked between its legs. "Geralt, down! This has never happened before, he's usually so good around horses, I-"

Jaskier's breath caught as he saw one horse that hadn't shied away, the animal instead yanking _toward_ the wolf. A glossy chestnut mare with a white stripe down her face.

"..._Roach_?" Jaskier said, his mouth dry.

The mare tossed her head with an urgent whinny as she tugged against her rope halter. There was the old patch of white above her back left hoof, and the horse was actively fighting to try and get near him. It was really her.

"Where did you get that horse?" Jaskier demanded, a hollow icy feeling curling in his gut as he let go of the wolf, rushing up to the mare instead.

"Hey, get back, she bites!" The merchant barked, but he paused as Jaskier stroked Roach's cheek. The horse crowded up to him, stomping her hoof and tucking her head close over his shoulder.

At their feet Jaskier's wolf whined and yelped, dancing around in clear agitated excitement that Roach didn't seem to mind at all.

"Where did you get this horse?" Jaskier repeated, turning to look at the merchant, who was hovering back now. "She belongs to a Witcher, she's got no place in your stock herd."

Some kind of uneasy look passed over the horse merchant's face. Jaskier knew he didn't cut a very intimidating figure, but he could feel the dangerous heat in his own glare and could hear the growling coming from his wolf beside him.

"We found her wandering a few weeks back." One of the merchant's boy's spoke up, looking nervously at the wolf. "She was wandering with a half loose saddle in the middle of nowhere, the camp she was by looked like it had been abandoned for days, clothes scattered about, the place was a wreck, blood all over the place."

The merchant shot the boy a look, but shook his head, giving up. "If she did belong to a Witcher her rider was long gone by the time we found her, I swear it. Whoever they were certainly wasn't still alive enough to retrieve his horse when we found her. Must have taken on a contract that was too much for him."

"You're lying!" Jaskier snapped, his fingers curling in Roach's mane. "You stole her, you saw her outside a tavern someplace and thought you could get away with it. Well Geralt's probably hot on your tail by now and you're all going to regret it!"

"I swear to you we ain't no horse thieves." The merchant said, his expression clouding. "Besides, she's been nothing but trouble ever since we found her, kicking and biting anyone who gets too close. We're just about ready to sell her for glue."

"Give her to me." Jaskier demanded, fingers already working at the rope tied at her bridle. "She isn't yours, I'm taking her back to Geralt."

"Whoa, hey," the merchant said, advancing on him, only stopping short when the wolf snarled at him. "We've been keeping her fed and watered for weeks now, if her Witcher were going to "track us down" it would have happened by now, and as it is we've got to at least get the cost of her feed back out of her."

"Fine, I'll pay for her food cost." Jaskier said angrily. "But she's coming with me _now, _as well as anything else you stole from where you found her. And believe me, I'll know if you try to keep _any_ of it back."

As long as he stayed angry he could keep the fear back. Because Geralt would never _never_ leave Roach abandoned, she was the one thing in the world that Jaskier _knew_ he loved. And if Geralt had been alive enough to walk he would have tracked the horse thieves in a matter of hours.

_So where was Geralt?_

The merchant must have done some quick calculating in his head of the risk of an angry bard and an angry wolf and an angry horse compared to a quick and easy payout, because he was soon nodding to his boys who scrambled back to the pack horses.

"It's alright Roach." Jaskier soothed quietly, taking hold of her rope bridle once he detached it from the lead rope. "It's alright girl, you're safe now."

His wolf was still whining and pressing up against them both. The horse ducked her head down to nuzzle against the wolf, which struck Jaskier as odd, the old mare generally only allowing Geralt himself to touch her. Jaskier had only worked up to being allowed that particular honor after _years_ of sugar cubes and braided manes and pretty compliments.

The boys returns with their arms full, dumping the contents at Jaskier's feet. Roach's saddle and tack, saddle bags and camping gear.

Jaskier's blood ran cold when he stooped to shuffle aside a sleeping roll to uncover a set of all too familiar black studded armor, and two separate long swords. One silver. One steel.

"These were all at his camp?" Jaskier asked, his voice dangerously on edge and brittle as he searched through the pile, finding every single item Geralt regularly traveled with.

"They were, strewn about in a right mess too." The merchant said, looking very much like he was more than ready to have this whole mess off his hands for good.

Jaskier numbly checked the saddle bags, looking up as his voice cracked.

"The medallion." He demanded hoarsely. "Where's the silver wolf medallion?"

The one thing the Witcher never _never_ took off, not even to bathe or sleep. If that at least was still missing then maybe-

One of the boys blushed, quickly pulling a chain from under his shirt and handing it to Jaskier, whose fingers took it in a kind of desperate spasm. His wolf nosed desperately at the medallion, whining and whimpering.

"That's all of it." The merchant said hesitantly, clearly disturbed at Jaskier's reaction.

Jaskier stood, the medallion clutched so hard in his hand that his fingers were bleaching white around it. He pulled out some coin and handed it to the merchant, who barely glanced at the sum before nodding and signaling his boys back in the saddle.

Within a minute of hurried commotion the merchant and his herd were gone, leaving Jaskier standing in the middle of the road with a horse and a wolf. Trembling as he stood over all that remained of Geralt of Rivia, his Witcher medallion clutched in his hand.

Jaskier breath was coming quickly and raggedly as his mind feverishly cast about for any explanation that didn't end with Geralt being very much gone forever.

His armor looked roughed up and was spattered with dried blood. Had he been eaten out of his own armor? Cursed entirely out of existence? Either way, gone forever. Leaving behind everything.

Leaving behind Jaskier.

Jaskier was trembling so hard that his knees gave out, sending him to the ground on his hands and knees as his rapid shallow breathing gave way to sobs. The edges of the medallion were cutting into his hand, but he didn't care as tears ran down his face, his mind paralyzed in a loop of denial and panic and grief.

He was gone.

Geralt was gone.

Jaskier felt a heavy warmth press against him and he reflexively wrapped his arms around the wolf as it crowded against his chest. He buried his face in the thick white fur, holding on tightly enough that it must be hurting, but the wolf only draped heavily across his lap, silent as Jaskier sobbed.

He might have cried like that for minutes or an hour before he slowly came back to himself, the wolf nosed at his ear, clearly concerned.

"He's, he's gone." Jaskier hiccuped, opening his hand to look at the medallion, the silver wolf head glinting coldly back at him. Despite having seen it for years, seeing it apart from Geralt made it look unnatural and foreign. "I mean...I k-know I already lost him...b-but not like _this_."

His wolf whined quietly, pressing its head against Jaskier's shoulder bracingly. Jaskier buried his face against the white fur.

"Why did _that_ have to be the last time I saw him..." he said quietly, the hollow feeling inside enveloping him completely. "Why did it have to end like _that_? I really believed I would see him again. What am I going to do now?"

He felt Roach nudge his shoulder and the tears came again as he looked up at her. He unsteadily got to his feet, rubbing her cheek. "Oh Roach, I'm so sorry. You probably saw it actually happen too, you poor thing."

He eased the rough rope bridle off her head, rubbing her face as his thoughts started to slowly become coherent again. Geralt didn't really have next of kin, but the other Witchers would want to know what had happened.

"I know he didn't like me much by the end, but I hope it's alright if you stick with me." Jaskier said to Roach. "I promise I'll keep you brushed and well fed, no monster hunting, but I'll take good care of you."

The mare bumped her nose against his chest affectionately.

"I think we ought to find Yennefer." Jaskier said quietly, sniffling and wiping his eyes as he pulled Roach's tack from the pile of things on the road. "She'll know how to track down the other Witchers, to tell them what happened."

He slipped her real bridle on and saddled her, then started packing all of Geralt's things into the saddle bags, hanging the two swords at her flanks. He worked slowly, feeling like he would begin sobbing again if he moved too quickly.

The whole time he worked his wolf kept close to his side, staring up at him as it leaned against him comfortingly. Jaskier stopped several times to pet it, reigning his breath back in each time, away from the point of breaking down again.

When everything was ready to go Jaskier had to take a minute to compose himself before he could look at Roach. He'd packed her up exactly like this so many times, but never to ride alone. This isn't what he wanted at all. He'd perhaps wished that he had something to remember his Witcher by, but not like _this_.

He pulled the medallion out of his pocket and stared at it. It felt wrong somehow to tuck it away when it had been worn openly for over a century. He looked at his wolf with a sigh, dropping down to one knee.

"I need you to hold onto this for me alright?" He said quietly. "Keep it safe while we travel."

The wolf sat very still as Jaskier slipped the silver chain over its head.

One moment Jaskier was looking at his wolf, the next moment he was blinded by a blast of white light. He cried out, falling back in shock, letting go of the medallion chain.

He blinked hard, stumbling to his feet as his vision slowly came back to him, leaving his sight hazy and spotty for a long minute as he dizzily tried to balance himself.

Large hands gripped his arms and he yelled in panic, trying to jerk away from whoever had apparently ambushed him with magic. Were they after Geralt's things? After Roach?

But before he could react further he was pulled into what felt exactly like a tight hug. He tried to struggle as his vision came back to him.

"Unhand me! Let me-"

"I'm sorry Jaskier." Said a low voice in his ear.

The voice sounded husky, as if it hadn't been used in a very long time, but Jaskier would recognize that voice no matter what it sounded like.

"G-Geralt?" He asked, his voice cracking.

The hug loosened, only enough for Geralt to pull back and look at him, his beautiful golden eyes bright and happy.

"I promised myself that if I ever got to speak again that's the first thing I'd say." Geralt said.

"You're, you're not dead?" Jaskier asked, starting to tremble hard, out of overwhelming sudden emotion or simple shock he couldn't tell.

"I'm not dead." Geralt said, gently kissing Jaskier's forehead, sending him another level deeper into staggering shock.

"I've gone mad." Jaskier said weakly, his legs giving out. "I've lost it, I'm off my rocker, the full nine yards, hallucinating. Completely batty."

Geralt caught him with a chuckle, holding him steady. "You're not mad, I promise. Not about this anyway."

Jaskier swallowed, looking up at Geralt's face as he rested his hands on the Witcher's bare chest, then looked down.

"If you aren't a dream of mine, then why aren't you wearing any clothes." Jaskier challenged flatly.

Geralt grinned. "Haven't worn any in nearly two months now."

Jaskier's eyes caught on the silver medallion around Geralt's neck, and even more specifically the loose woven collar that Geralt was unlatching and slipping off his neck.

The last two months all slammed into Jaskier at once, blindsiding him hard enough to knock the air out of his lungs completely.

"You're Geralt!" He wheezed, eyes painfully wide. "The wolf Geralt, you were the wolf, the whole time, of course, of _course_! What, what happened?"

He didn't quite know how his hands got on either side of the witcher's face, but they were there, his face inches from his own as he scanned the familiar sight. Those golden eyes he'd had by his side for weeks now without ever seeing past them to the truth.

"Took a contract for a beast that turned out to be a sorcerer's pet." Geralt said, his voice starting to sound like its normal low self. He rested a hand on Jaskier's wrist, stroking his thumb across the back of his hand. "I killed the beast but its master wasn't too happy with me, I guess he had a sense of irony so he turned me into a white wolf. He ran me off, I met some hunters, got an arrow through the shoulder, was convinced I was going to die of either infection or hunger or more hunters, and then you nearly _tripped_ over me."

"It was dark, alright?" Jaskier said breathlessly, his mind skipping over nearly everything Geralt had said to focus instead on the fact that he was _here_ and _alive_. "So, so you were with me these whole two months? Why didn't you _tell_ me?"

"I tried, that first night I tried to scrape out a message with the ashes from the fire, but you didn't notice. Whenever I tried to communicate you didn't seem to catch on." Geralt sighed. "After a week or two I gave up, it was pleasant enough traveling with you and I didn't think there was a cure to the curse. I never would have guessed the medallion, and even if I had I wouldn't have known where to find it. Things were simpler once I gave up."

Jaskier's mind replayed the last weeks at super speed, trying to think of any time he'd noticed anything unusual. Perhaps the way the wolf had trusted him so quickly, how it picked up on commands so easily, how when he talked to it it really seemed like it were listening to him.

Jaskier paled, remembering exactly how _much_ he'd talked. "You heard everything I told you? About, about you?" He asked weakly.

"Yes." Geralt said soberly. "That's why I decided an apology would be the first thing I'd say if I ever got back to normal."

Jaskier's bottom lip trembled, for once at a complete loss for words.

"Are you sure you're not still cursed?" He finally managed, his hands dropping to Geralt's chest again. "You're being very nice to me and using ten times as many words as you usually do."

"I've had two months of wishing I _could_ talk, I have a list actually." Geralt said, starting to speak a little faster and more earnestly, as if nervous that he'd lose his ability to speak again. "First, I felt terrible the minute you left that mountain, I was angry at so many different things and I took it out on you because you were the closest thing that I knew wouldn't yell back. I'm sorry, Jaskier, I shouldn't have."

"No, you shouldn't have." Jaskier agreed quietly, mind still spinning a little, but starting to settle as he listened.

"Second, I do not hate you. I've never hated you. I hate that you think that, I hate that I _made_ you think that, it's not true." Geralt said, almost sounding angry now.

Jaskier swallowed, nodding silently.

"Third you _are_ my friend, my best friend, I'm sorry for taking you for granted. I'll never do it again or else you can run me through with my own sword."

Jaskier only managed to make a kind of weak noise in response as Geralt gathered him into another tight hug.

"Anything else?" Jaskier asked, trying to make it sound like a joke, but his voice broke as he buried his face against Geralt's neck.

"Just that I saw you take those apples at the market when you thought no one was looking, and that you really ought to make _sure_ your poor dog is out of the room before you pull someone into bed with you for the night." Geralt said, his voice sounding amused.

"You were a _wolf_." Jaskier sputtered, blushing furiously as he looked up. "How was I supposed to know you were _judging_ me? And really it's not like you've never been to a brothel Geralt, you're hardly an innocent, don't try to shame me with that."

"And your singing is actually quite good." Geralt said gently, wrapping his arms around Jaskier's waist. "Even if some of your recent songs...sting a bit. Being up there with you while you performed every night was...special. I liked it."

Jaskier swallowed again, unable to keep the dumb grin off his face even as he thought he might start crying again. "So _not_ like a fillingless pie?" He asked, a little facetiously. His eyes widened and he jabbed a finger at Geralt's chest. "What about that time you started _howling_ in the middle of my set? You frightened the entire tavern! I thought we were going to be run out of town for sure!"

Geralt laughed at that, a lovely deep warm sound. "That was because I saw a pickpocket in the crowd, I figured spooking them with a howl would be better than lunging into the crowd growling. It worked too, which was a nice surprise."

Jaskier laughed too, a real laugh, not the kind of tight ones other people had gotten from him over the past months, the real kind that had only come when he was alone with his traveling companion.

"I think I'm going to miss wolf Geralt." He said, tilting his head to the side, surprised at how sad he really felt at that realization. "I mean obviously I'm thrilled you're not dead, or cursed, but the last two months have been so lovely."

"Well, if you don't mind Witcher Geralt too much I'd like to keep traveling with you." Geralt said quietly. He glanced down at the way they were holding each other, then looked back up. "And maybe start a few things over while we're at it?"

Jaskier's heart fluttered in his chest, but he chewed his lip. All those nights of telling himself that he'd never go back to traveling with the Witcher coming back to him. All conversations Geralt had actually heard of course, meaning the Witcher knew exactly what he was really asking.

"How do I know it won't go back to how it was?" Jaskier asked, a bit of fear creeping into his voice. "What happens when talking has lost its novelty and you're back to growls and grunts, when you're mad at being slowed down by me and need someone to take it out on?"

"This time I want to follow _you_. If you'll let me." Geralt said, gently resting his forehead against Jaskier's. "The way we've done these past months. You go where you want, and I'll take whatever contracts I find along the way, that way you don't have to give up anything anymore to be around me, you can set the pace." He brushed a thumb across Jaskier's cheek. "It was nice following you around as a wolf, I think it would still be nice as a Witcher."

"You use that line on every boy you flirt with?" Jaskier teased, but his smile was real. "I think I'd like that." His expression grew serious. "But I _will_ take you up on your offer of running you through with your own sword if you start being an imbecile again."

"Good." Geralt chuckled, brushing his nose against Jaskier's. "And I promise no more growling or snapping at you, I've done well with that rule these past few weeks haven't I?"

"You have." Jaskier nodded tearily. "Although I thought it was just because I kept bribing you with treats."

"I won't pretend those didn't help some." Geralt teased.

Jaskier's heart skipped as Geralt took his face in his hands and closed the last inches between them, kissing him softly. He closed his eyes, leaning into it, allowing the dozens of clamoring thoughts and questions inside him to still for at least a moment. A very good, very quiet moment.

As the kiss ended he gazed at Geralt, knowing he was probably a bit starry eyed. Behind them Roach huffed and stamped the ground, breaking the moment.

"I haven't forgotten you either, girl." Geralt said fondly, letting go of Jaskier and walking over to her, firmly stroking her nose and kissing her forehead. "I was so worried about you, I thought I'd never see you again."

Roach swished her tail and nickered, affectionately shoving her head against Geralt's chest.

Jaskier gasped, his eyes lighting up. "I just realized this is all going to make a _brilliant_ song." He said, nearly giddy at the thought as he fished his notebook out of his pocket. "The Witcher Wolf, a rousing ballad about transformation and reconciliation."

"Well be sure to put your apple theft in there somewhere." Geralt snorted, pulling his clothes out of the saddle bags and starting to shrug them on. He grimaced as he pulled on his pants. "Have clothes always been this claustrophobic?"

"Well I certainly wouldn't mind if you left them off, but I can't speak for the townspeople." Jaskier said with a smirk, already scribbling snatches of lyric ideas in his notebook. He looked up, eyebrows raising as he watched Geralt struggle into his boots. "Hang on, _that's_ why you never licked people like other dogs do, because you were Real Geralt the whole time."

"I had to keep my dignity somehow." Geralt said, frowning as his fingers slipped a bit at his shirt buttons. "Darn fingers are going to take some getting used to."

"Oh, dignity eh?" Jaskier smirked, coming up and doing the witcher's shirt buttons for him. "So what about that time at the butcher's last week when you-"

"If you _ever_ mention that aloud I'm tossing you to the very next monster I see and walking away." Geralt said sternly.

"Oh but now I have so many excellent stories about you!" Jaskier said gleefully. "Wouldn't Yennifer _love_ to hear about last month, when we were hiking through that forest and you decided to-"

Jaskier yelped as Geralt scooped him up and unceremoniously slung him over Roach's back like a hunting trophy. Jaskier laughed as he clumsily righted himself in the saddle just as Geralt started moving, pulling Roach to walk with him down the road.

"Better get started on that wolf song, bard." Geralt said, looking over his shoulder with a smile and handing him the notebook and pencil he'd dropped. "I think that's a much better use of your breath."

"Well, if you _insist_." Jaskier said, primly taking back his notebook and pencil, but still grinning.

Because he got the feeling that things _weren't_ going to go back to the way they had been before. He got the feeling that they were going to be much, much better.


	102. (T) GERASKIER - The Witcher Wolf 2: Gera

The Witcher Wolf 2: Geralt's POV  
im_fairly_witty

Summary:  
It's been two weeks since Geralt drove Jaskier away from him on that mountain top and Geralt's been doing his best not to think about it by accepting every contract he comes across. But when a job goes badly he find himself cursed into the form of an injured wolf and is then saved by none other than Jaskier himself, who has no idea that the animal he's taken under his wing is his own witcher.

Geralt must now try to alert Jaskier to his real situation and adjust to his new life traveling with the bard, learning several hard but very much needed lessons along the way.

* * *

Chapter 01: Cursed

"Good girl Roach, good girl." Geralt said, panting as he patted the horse's neck, leaning heavily against her side.

The mare tossed her head, ears still twitching nervously toward the massive carcass toppled in the middle of their camp. Geralt's eyes stung as the cat elixir slowly wore off, but he could still see faint wisps of steam rising from the hot spilt blood into the cold night air.

Geralt heaved another deep breath and pushed himself off Roach, straightening his back with a crack as he tiredly made his way to the felled creature to get a closer look now that the ugly thing wasn't lunging for his jugular.

And it really was quite ugly, some twisted amalgamation that could have been part boar judging by the tusks, part griffon by the sleek winged body, perhaps even part spider by the dozens of glossy jet-black eyes scattered across its face. At first glance in the dark he'd thought it might have been a fiend, but that assumption hadn't lasted more than an instant.

At Geralt's age it was very rare for him to see a creature he didn't know the name of and even rarer for it to ambush him in his own campsite. He didn't like to think how close a call it had really been this time, he was lucky he'd already been preparing for the hunt or else it might have been him lying on the ground. Geralt had been accepting any contract he saw for the last two weeks ever since the dragon hunt, eager to get his mind off...things...but with this one he'd assumed the villager's descriptions had been laced with exaggeration.

They quite clearly hadn't.

"It reeks of magic." Geralt said to Roach, placing a boot on the monster's side and heaving it over with a hefty shove. "Whatever it is, it didn't come about naturally, that's for sure. But not something that's been cursed either I think. I'd wager this was some lunatic's pet project, magically bred from the start."

"More pet than project, I can assure you."

Geralt spun, his sword unsheathed and leveled in an instant, his sword tip pointed at the man who'd appeared at the edge of the clearing behind him. And he must have literally appeared out of thin air, otherwise Geralt's heightened witcher senses would have detected him a mile off in this state, the dregs of his hunting potions still flowing through him.

"Care to elaborate?" Geralt asked warily, shifting his stance slightly as Roach wisely startled away from them, taking cover in the thick trees beyond the clearing.

The man wore what looked like two expensive outfits of very different and clashing styles mixed into one ensemble, all useless ornamentation and rich textures in swathes of periwinkle and burnt orange. Laced in between were chains dripping with bones, trinkets, and what looked suspiciously like human fingers. Geralt wasn't sure at all how the man managed even to move in such a cluttered get-up, but his frantically humming medallion was more than enough to let him know that the man wouldn't _have_ to move at all in order to pose a deadly threat. That and the fact that the man's scent matched the slain creature's.

"I'd say the time for elaboration is far past." The man said, something between anger and grief coloring his voice.

Geralt blinked and the man was kneeling beside the creature, stroking its bristly gold hide as if it were a beloved housecat. Geralt's too-slow heartbeat picked up a bit at that show of speed, he hadn't even seen the man move at all.

"You a mage?" Geralt asked, trying to cast his mind back to if he'd ever seen Yennifer display the same ability, but each mage's favorite tricks seemed to be determined more by their personal style rather than any one curriculum.

"Don't be crass." The man said, squinting hatefully at Geralt. "I have far too much self respect to be counted among those political chess players. I much prefer caring for my pets, like poor Truskawka here who you've _slaughtered_. Do you have any idea how many generations it's taken to perfect her bloodline? And now look at my poor strawberry, cut down in cold blood, just before she was about to have a litter too."

"Your poor strawberry weighs four tons and has been disemboweling travelers for weeks now." Geralt said dryly. "Should have kept her on a shorter leash if you really cared for her."

"I'm not about to take advice on caring from _you_ White Wolf." The man said, looking Geralt right in the eyes in a way that made a sticky cold feeling drip down his spine. "Your kind only know how to _harm_."

With a certain collection of songs ragingly popular across the continent it wasn't unusual for Geralt to be recognized by his medallion and white hair alone, but he had a creeping feeling that somehow this man didn't know his moniker because of a tavern tune. He also had the feeling that he somehow knew more about him than just his title.

"So if you're not a mage then what are you?" Geralt asked, raising his sword a bit, quickly tiring of this increasingly unsettling conversation.

"Angry." The man said, glaring at Geralt and snapping his fingers in a blinding flash of white light.

Geralt was no stranger to passing out in battle—it was something you got used to when you made a profession of competing with monsters to see who could lose the most blood last—but he had never woken up running before.

At first he thought he was dreaming as he slowly filtered back to consciousness, his senses gradually coming back to him as air whipped past him, a dirt road under his feet, but suddenly everything clicked back into place and he skidded to a stop. His chest heaved as he looked around, blinking hard to try and get the last tendrils of grogginess out of his mind.

The sorcerer. He growled as he scented the air, remembering what had knocked him unconscious.

The first rays of sunlight were starting to scrape up across the grey clouds on the horizon, signaling a dawn that meant he must have been wandering blindly for hours by now. The blasted magician must have hit him with some unusually strong spell to disorient him like that, most magic simply rolled off a witcher, but the man had seemed extremely upset at his "pet" having been dispatched. Geralt just had to hurry his way back before he-

Geralt stumbled as he took a step forward, his legs suddenly feeling strangely uncoordinated. He fell on his face, rolling onto his shoulder with a growl that suddenly sounded entirely different than his usual ones.

He looked at his hands and blinked in shock at the large white paws he found instead. He twisted around to get a look at the rest of him...

...only to see the massive white furred body of a wolf.

Geralt sat frozen in the middle of the dirt road, feeling his ears swivel back in canine shock as he struggled to process his discovery.

Well. He'd been right about it being a strong spell he'd been hit with.

A _very_ strong spell.

Geralt got to his (four) feet and shook himself, wincing only momentarily at how disarmingly full bodied the shake was. He was a witcher, he'd seen hundreds of transformations far more gruesome and unsettling than this. He could handle a sorcerer with a sense of irony, he just had to find him and either barter or threaten his way to a cure.

He sniffed the air, nose...er..._snout_ scrunching at how different it felt. He seemed to still have his unnaturally sharp witcher senses, which was a relief, but it still felt different. Somehow. Like...like when he had to buy a new riding saddle. It was still technically a saddle, but different feeling all the same.

He snorted at his own metaphor, the noise coming out in a huffing sneeze. He could practically feel Jaskier's laughter at both his metaphor clumsiness and at him discovering in that moment that wolves did not roll their eyes, his head instead tipping up and to the side a bit when he tried.

_Leave the metaphors to me Geralt, can't have you putting me out of business with your unprecedented lexical brilliance._

Geralt huffed again, ears flicking back at imaginary Jaskier's teasing. He scented the air again, searching for the sorcerer's scent as he did his best not to think about the bard, where he was, or if he was safe. Something he'd gotten in the habit of trying very hard not to think about for the last two weeks.

Besides, he told himself yet again as he trotted down the road, following his own scent trail back the way he'd come, in the end it really was for the best that they'd split up. Jaskier was always _annoying _him and getting in the way, and...playing that lute _incessantly_...and...and getting hurt...and...

Geralt's ear flicked as he heard footsteps approach and he lifted his head to see several men emerge from the woods. They were laughing and chatting amongst themselves, armed with bows and arrows, one had a brace of rabbits slung over his shoulder. An early morning hunting party returning from a successful forage no doubt.

They seemed harmless enough. Being a witcher meant Geralt had built up a sense for what people would end up causing him trouble or not, and with these men he could easily just-

Wait. No.

Geralt remembered the vitally important and brand-new piece of his daily social puzzle an instant too late, and one of the men spotted him.

"Wolf!" The man shouted, knocking an arrow at his bow with expert speed.

Geralt threw himself sideways into the bushes, hearing the whistling hiss and _thwack _of an arrow lancing into the dirt where he'd stood. He gathered up his limbs as quickly as he could and dashed into the undergrowth, pelting away from the road and the hunters.

He bared his teeth at himself as he ran. Stupid stupid _stupid_. He was a _wolf_, an animal. Had he really subconsciously assumed the men might simply ignore him with uneasy sideways glances like they did normally?

People barely tolerated him when he could speak, there was going to be no thin mercy or stiff civility extended to him in this state. He didn't even have weapons to fight back with. No elixirs or magic signs or even opposable thumbs to save him now. If he didn't find the sorcerer soon he was going to-

A white hot pain slammed into his shoulder, sending him tumbling into the bushes and sliding haphazardly down a rocky embankment. He gritted down a yelp of pain as he slammed against boulders at the bottom of the dry streambed, decades of training pushing him down and close to the deepest shadows of the boulders as he forced his frantic breathing quieter.

"I think I hit 'em!" A voice shouted from above. "Dunno where the bastard went, but I swear I hit 'em."

"You? Hitting a running wolf?" Another voice guffawed, the bushes rustling. "Your head's gotten too big from your flask."

"Shove off, didn't I get two rabbits this morning?"

"Only because one was old enough to practically roll over on your boots."

Geralt's ears twitched as the laughing voices slowly moved away, the sound of crashing brush receding as the hunters took their conversation back to the main road.

As his adrenaline started to ebb Geralt could feel the pain in his shoulder far more clearly, the burning ache creeping across him as he turned to get his first look at it in the growing light of the morning. He knew it was an arrow, had had arrows in him before, but it still didn't make it much easier to see the blasted thing sprouting from his shoulder.

Especially since he was realizing with a sinking feeling that he had no idea how he was going to get it out.

He could feel a doggish whine spring to his lips as he pushed himself to his feet and accidentally put weight on his bad foreleg, but he choked it back out of habit. He was still in the middle of nowhere with enemies nearby, he couldn't do anything to further expose himself to danger until he was somewhere safe.

Geralt felt his tail tuck between his legs a little as he looked around, scenting the unfamiliar air. There was certainly no chance of him getting back up the steep embankment, it was going to be enough of a chore to even walk at all across even the uneven rocky stream bed.

He had no way to get back to the sorcerer, no medical supplies, no equipment or way to get to a town where he would be able to find any of those things. Not in this state.

He grit his teeth as he forced himself to take an unsteady step forward. He was a _witcher_, he could do this. He'd survived this long, hadn't he? All he had to do was focus on surviving one more hour, and then one more hour after that. That's how he was going to get through this.

It took some doing to figure out walking on three legs after only having just managed with four, but soon Geralt had picked up an unsteady pace that was getting him across the riverbed in search of cover. He was going to survive this, he was going to be fine.

Geralt had now gone three days with that bloody arrow in his shoulder and had long since stopped pretending that things were going to be fine.

He'd managed to wander his way out of the stream bed, had managed to narrowly avoid some drowners he normally could have dispatched without breaking a sweat, and had managed to chew off half the arrow shaft in his exhausted frustration at not being able to treat his own stupid wound which had definitely only made things worse for himself.

Not that he really cared too much anymore though, because at this point he'd logically thought through his situation and had begun coming to terms with the fact that this was was how it ended for Geralt of Rivia. As a wolf he was completely cut off from both outside help and being able to help himself. No one would come looking for a witcher who had last been seen two weeks ago, he'd gone long months before without seeing acquaintances.

He curled up a little tighter in the clearing he'd settled in a few hours ago, the never-ending pain in his shoulder dully pulsing along with his heartbeat. He knew his witcher mutagens were valiantly fighting back infection as well as they could, but he wasn't invincible. After three days with a wound that kept opening and bleeding around the arrow shaft he knew it was probably only a matter of hours before something deep and deadly finally set in, and that would be the end of it.

The only silver lining he'd been able to find was that as a wolf four days without food or water hadn't taken the same toll it normally would have. Not that it kept him from forlornly scenting the prey animals that trailed through the brush around him, maddingly close and completely out of reach.

Geralt stared at the ground, head resting on his useless wolf paws.

He missed Roach, having been unable to stop worrying about her being left alone in the woods with the psychopath who'd cursed him. Hopefully she'd at least stayed far enough away that he'd ignored her.

And he missed Jaskier.

Geralt let out a long whine, having given up being quiet a day or two ago. He never liked to admit it to himself, but as the years had gone by Geralt had come to enjoy his times traveling alone less and less.

As gruffly as he treated his bard sometimes he always felt more lonely than usual whenever they parted ways, somehow missing the man's incessant prattling and singing and bothering and smiling and interfering. There was no way to count how many wounds Jaskier had stitched up for Geralt over the last twenty-two years too. His careful, even stitching and gentle chastising left far less of a scar than Geralt's rough and hasty work always did.

And now the last time he ever saw his bard would be that awful day on the mountain, something that still made his stomach sour whenever he accidentally forgot _not _to think about it. Of the way Jaskier's face had fallen. Of the immediate regret Geralt had felt, but that he'd smothered down under his anger. Of the way he hadn't immediately tracked Jaskier back down the mountain when the bard hadn't returned by the next morning.

Because for the first time Jaskier had actually left after Geralt had snapped at him. And how could Geralt follow after him if he'd really left?

But it didn't matter anymore, because-

Geralt startled into a surprised snarl as his flagging senses warned him of danger too late, his attacker already nearly falling on top of him. He lurched painfully to the side, a shot of adrenaline coursing through him as he spun to see...

...Jaskier?

Geralt blinked in shock as Jaskier tumbled to the ground across the small clearing from him, yelling and clutching at his lute like a shield, looking as surprised at Geralt was.

"Sorry, very terribly sorry to bother you." Jaskier said weakly, smelling of fear. "I was trying to find someplace to camp and I was wandering and wasn't looking where I was going and I didn't mean- Really that arrow business looks like it hurts, how long have you had that nasty thing stuck in you?"

Geralt's brain scrambled to process what was happening. Jaskier was _here _and talking to him normally, did he recognize him despite his canine form? Had Yennifer somehow sensed what had happened and sent Jaskier to fetch him?

But no, it couldn't be, not with the fear he could smell on Jaskier. Jaskier was frightened all the time, but Geralt had never smelled Jaskier's fear directed at _him _before. It made him feel sick. Jaskier must really think he was just a regular wolf.

Perhaps it was the fact that Geralt had just resigned himself to death only to be shocked back to hope, or the fact he'd gone four days without food or water, or just the surreal feeling of it all, but instead of reacting intelligently he found himself just watching the bard, tucking his aching wounded leg closer.

"Say you're not bad for a wolf." Jaskier said, his voice getting softer as he started to edge closer. "What if I took a look at-"

Geralt's habitual annoyance with the bard resurfaced all at once, resulting in a growl that stopped Jaskier's approach. _What on earth was he doing? _If Geralt really was a wild injured animal then his current behavior would be the perfect way to get his face bitten off. How Jaskier survived when Geralt wasn't around to yank him back from poor choices was truly beyond his comprehension. If Geralt could speak right now he'd be getting the lecture of his life.

But Jaskier, being Jaskier, was of course stupidly undeterred, instead keeping his voice puppy soft and high pitched as he rambled on, even digging some dried rabbit meat out of his pouch and tossing it to Geralt.

For a moment Geralt was tempted to mock lunge at the bard, give him a bit of a scare to try and teach him some badly needed self-preservation. Teach him to stay away from things that would only harm him.

…just like he'd done on the mountain?

The uncomfortable realization jolted enough common sense into him that he ate the rabbit jerky without protest and lay still, allowing Jaskier to approach. Larger concerns about Jaskier's sense of danger aside, Geralt was _not_ a real wolf, and he _did_ very badly need help. If Jaskier had found him and was willing to provide that, then Geralt would be a fool not to shut up and accept it.

"That's it, there's a good boy." Jaskier said gently, getting close enough to pet him, which Geralt endured long-sufferingly. "You know I'm not sure you're much of a wolf at all. There's no way I'd still have both my hands at this point if you were really wild. For which I thank you by the way, playing the lute one-handed isn't a skill I have much interest in picking up. You act more like some kind of massive dog, did you have a human family that raised you? Have you been abandoned by your person?"

Geralt still smelled fear, but not nearly as strong as Jaskier's curiosity and excitement now. The fool was probably already planning a song about this.

Geralt growled at him. _Just get on with it already_.

"You know you remind me very much of a friend of mine." Jaskier said with a wry smile that quickly dropped away. "Or, acquaintance I suppose, he never did anything but growl either. In fact you're probably much more in tune with your emotions than he is I'll bet, although most rocks probably are if I'm being strictly honest. The man's really a complete imbecile."

Geralt snarled, tired and insulted. Did Jaskier bad mouth him behind his back to every woodland creature he met? It was no secret Geralt wasn't as outwardly emotional or articulate as some people, gods knew Jaskier had never hesitated to tell him so. Albeit in far more teasing terms than this.

"Alright, so here's my terrible plan." Jaskier said, ignoring his snarl entirely. As usual. "I'm going to try and remove this arrow, which is going to hurt terribly, and then I'm going to patch you up. I'd be extremely grateful if you didn't dismember me in any way while I do, but if you can't help yourself I suppose that's fair." He shrugged. "I'm not in a very self-preserving mood at the moment, so I suppose a final act of misguided heroism isn't the worst way to go. The last white wolf I hung around mauled me emotionally, so actually it would be terribly poetic if you did finish the job physically."

Geralt's growl trailed off at that. "Mauled" was a bit harsh... Geralt had gotten angry, had taken out his anger on Jaskier unfairly yes, after two weeks of regret Geralt was willing to admit that. But Jaskier's wry tone of voice wasn't the kind he used when he was exaggerating for dramatic effect.

Had Geralt been able to speak he probably still wouldn't have, choosing to sidestep the uncomfortable emotion. Thankfully as a wolf he didn't have to choose, instead focusing on sitting still and quiet as Jaskier finally _finally _set to work removing the arrow from his shoulder and treating it, rambling the entire time as he always did when he helped patch up Geralt. Geralt was too focused on gritting his teeth against the pain to hear most of what Jaskier was saying, but found himself grateful for the familiar chatter nonetheless.

"There we go." Jaskier said as he finished wrapping the wound. "Nothing like impromptu feral veterinary care to get the old heart pumping, eh?"

Geralt sighed quietly, exhaustion and relief sweeping through him to finally have the wound cared for. He wished he could mutter his customary "thanks."

"You're sulking." Jaskier accused, petting his head.

Geralt huffed, shaking off the patronizing hand. He was _not _sulking, he was _tired_. And a _wolf. _

"Yes you are," Jaskier insisted with a smile. "I know that look anywhere. Probably terribly embarrassing to be the king of the forest and have to accept help from a lowly human bard eh? Well I suppose wolves aren't really the king, not if there's griffins or something about."

Geralt stared at him, all kinds of blunt corrections about biologically correct monster food chain structures running uselessly through his head. Instead his annoyance had to be communicated by shifting himself to face away from the bard and his obnoxious declarations.

"That settles it." Jaskier declared as he started to gather sticks, evidently unbothered by Geralt's huffing. "I'm calling you Geralt Junior. The both of you would get along splendidly in your stubborn grumpiness."

Geralt looked up. He _was_ Geralt, if he could just get Jaskier to realize that.

"Geralt Junior? You like that name?" Jaskier asked with a grin, seeing his reaction.

Geralt hauled himself to his feet. His shoulder was already feeling better as it started to mend in earnest, but not fast enough, making him stumble when he tried walking toward Jaskier.

"Whoa whoa hey, settle." Jaskier said quickly, dropping his armful of sticks and kneeling beside him, carefully pushing him back down. "Lay down, stay. You shouldn't be walking any more tonight, you've got to heal alright? Lay down boy, do you know commands?"

Geralt stayed down with a growl, hiding his nose under his paws in frustration.

"That's right, you go back to sulking, Geralt Junior." Jaskier said happily, evidently none the wiser as he tried to pet Geralt's head again.

Geralt shook his hand off, trying to focus on said sulking. If he was going to get Jaskier to realize it was really him he was going to have to try harder.

Geralt woke up long before Jaskier did and decided to celebrate his shoulder already feeling far better by scratching around in the ashes of the fire. It was messy, but by the time Jaskier woke up he'd managed to scratch out a decently legible "Geralt" in charcoal across the ground.

Not legible enough though apparently, since the bard of course barely even glanced at his work as he cheerfully greeted him upon waking. Geralt felt fully justified in his sulking after that, sticking around only long enough for his bandages to be removed before trotting off into the trees to find a stream for a much needed swim, not having bathed since before slaying the beast that started this whole mess nearly a week ago.

The bath ended up lifting his spirits far more than anticipated, the ashes and blood finally gone and his fur coat drying to an ivory shine in the summer sun. His upswing in mood definitely also had to do with the fact that the pain in his shoulder was quickly fading and that he was no longer hopeless and alone.

It was easy to keep tabs on Jaskier's noisy progress down the road throughout the day, making it simple enough for Geralt to keep nearby as he wandered the woods. Now that he was finally able to move freely again it only made sense that he take a day on his own to really get used to how this new body worked.

By the time evening arrived Geralt was capable enough to hunt down a couple rabbits with no weapon but his teeth on his way back to Jaskier for the night, and the look of delighted surprise he got for it nearly made the last four days of pain worth it.

"So you're not sick of me after all, huh?" Jaskier grinned. "I'm truly flattered you know."

Geralt allowed himself a single tail wag in place of a smile as he dropped the rabbits at the bard's feet. Had Jaskier actually thought he'd gone? That he wasn't going to come back for him?

The silly bard.

Geralt was used to entering towns and villages with a sense of cautious unease, a lifetime of being a Witcher having taught him the hard way to be on guard around humans, but he couldn't recall the last time he'd been _afraid_ like he was as he went into town with Jaskier the next day.

Perhaps it was some element of animal caution that came with his new form that had him so on edge as he stuck to his bard's side, but mostly it was the knowledge that he was literally helpless if something went wrong.

As a Witcher he could bully his way through most trouble with a stern look at best and his twin swords at worst, but as a wolf the only defense he had against the wary eyes of the villagers around him was Jaskier's reassuring presence and the "collar" around his neck. If something went wrong Geralt wouldn't even be able to defend himself without putting Jaskier in danger of retaliation. There would be no galloping off on Roach this time, whatever happened would result in Jaskier taking the full consequences.

And yet Jaskier still pressed on, letting Geralt even come into the inn with him and vouching for his character despite not at all knowing that Geralt wasn't really a wild animal after all. All in all the bard's behavior was reckless and stupid, this kind of thing never would have been allowed had Geralt been a person, but as it was he could only be grateful for it. He'd die before admitting that the thought of being left out in the yard where any number of humans could take another shot at him while defenseless terrified him. The least he could do to show his gratitude was to shoulder his pride and play along with Jaskier's plan, acting as tame and doggish as he knew how in order to gain the innkeeper's approval.

And it worked, the innkeeper handed over a room key and Jaskier was soon leading them to their room, dumping their things on the low bed and smelling of as much relief as Geralt felt.

"Well it'll be supper time soon, so I'd better head downstairs to earn some coin." Jaskier said, unpacking his lute from its case and tuning a few strings. "It might be best for you to stay up here since I don't know how many people will be around tonight."

Geralt got to his feet from where he'd been lying by the fireplace, leaning against Jaskier's leg and looking up at him as pleadingly as he knew how. He'd noticed himself becoming far more outwardly expressive than normal, but with no other form of communication available to him he had no other choice. Monosyllabic grunts giving way to overstated body language to get his point across in ways Jaskier would hopefully understand.

"...or you can come down with me." Jaskier said with a wry smile at his behavior, petting his head. "Really Geralt Junior, I had no idea wolves were so clingy. I certainly wouldn't mind the company though."

Geralt shook himself with a whine. He wasn't being _clingy_, he just didn't want to be left alone locked in a room all night. Could he really be blamed for that?

As they descended the stairs to the main area Geralt looked around at the evening crowd of patrons, scenting the busy evening air. Normally at this point he'd leave Jaskier to set up shop in the center of the tavern area and head to the back of the room. Somewhere out of the way that he could keep an eye on the bard's performance while being left alone to his own meal and drink in relative peace. As popular as Jaskier's witcher-themed songs were, he knew that having a _real_ witcher sitting beside him would only hurt his chances at getting coin. No, much better for both of them if Geralt minded his own business in the back of the room.

Besides, he didn't mind the frequent moments he'd catch Jaskier looking for him in the crowd during his performances, meeting his eye with a smile and a wink.

But tonight was different, and as Jaskier settled on a stool and cheerily began playing his lute Geralt found himself curling up at the bard's feet. Jaskier started off with a jaunty tune that soon got the crowd's attention, people looking up from their conversations and meals with smiles to get a look at who was performing tonight. That didn't surprise Geralt one bit, in his (very) private opinion Jaskier was the most talented performer he'd seen or heard in all his decades of travel, especially as the years had gone on to sharpen his talents.

What _did _surprise Geralt was how long the audience's gazes lingered not on the bard but on _him_. Specifically kind, surprised and intrigued expressions.

Geralt fought to keep from ducking his head, forcing himself to remain stoic as onlookers started to gather as Jaskier's performance went on, but it was starting to get downright unnerving.

Because no matter where Geralt looked in the crowd he couldn't find a single look of disgust, annoyance, or fear. Not even a nervous attempt at casualness, the expression he was most used to seeing directed at him. It almost made Geralt wonder if he'd become invisible on top of becoming a wolf, it made far more sense for these kinds of expressions to be directed at Jaskier.

"Doggie!"

Geralt's ears pricked and his head tilted a bit as he heard an excited young voice in the crowd, small enough that likely only he could hear it over the noise. He peered through the legs of the audience to see a little girl straining to get away from her mother, pulling toward _him_.

"Sarah no, you don't know that dog and his owner is performing, you stay right here." came the hushed voice of her mother from the back of the crowd.

"But I want to pet him!" The girl cried. "He's nice!"

Geralt saw the moment that the little girl squirmed out of her mother's grip and as she slipped through the crowd. His eyes were still wide in shock as she threw herself right at him with a delighted giggle. Geralt sat stock still for a long moment.

He had..._never_...been hugged by a child...

Never.

He'd saved hundreds over the years of course, from all kinds of dangers. Had even carried them, screaming, crying, and all too often silent with death back to their parents to be handed off as quickly as possible. Sometimes in exchange for a hurried thanks, sometimes a gruff dispute over coin, sometimes for nothing more than a frightened slur thrown back in his face to get away from them.

Because everyone knew that witchers stole children, all the important bedtime stories and old wives tales said so. Children and cats always knew a Witcher was coming before adults did too, their simple natures sensing something unnatural approaching, sending them scrambling out of the way with instinctive fear. Geralt had never thought to resent children for being frightened of him, they were vulnerable and needed to be cautious in this world. This was just the way things were. It was no blow to him.

But as the little girl hugged his neck and whispered delighted childish praise in his ear he felt something inside him give way, opening an empty, hollow place in his heart he hadn't even realized was there. But one that must have been there this whole time.

A happy whine escaped him and his tail swished across the floor as he nosed at the little girl's ear, making her _laugh_. Had he ever made a child laugh?

He found himself thinking, not for the first time, about his child surprise. The promised child bound to him by an ill-worded agreement and supposedly destiny. The young prince or princess would probably be about the same age as the little girl by now, wouldn't they?

But then all too soon her mother was there, yanking her away from him crossly, apologizing to Jaskier as she hauled her daughter back.

"Not a problem ma'am, as you can see he's quite tame." Jaskier said with a dazzling smile.

As Geralt came back to himself and looked up at the bard he realized the poor man reeked of well-hidden fear. If Geralt could have laughed he would have, instead panting happily. Because of course Jaskier had only seen a young girl fall on a wolf of unknown character that he'd stupidly brought into a tavern, trying to pass it off as an old pet. Geralt was glad he had, and the bard of course had had nothing to worry about, but just the same he was aching to be able to tease Jaskier for the scare he'd gotten.

Jaskier quickly picked up the rest of his song, ending his performance well enough to get a hearty round of applause that ended in a more than decent offering of coin before the crowd happily dispersed.

"Thank you, thank you, _thank you_ for being so tame." Jaskier said in a hushed tone, dropping to one knee in front of him and stroking his head. "Gods above, I thought we were finished for a moment there, you're truly a magnificently patient beast."

Geralt ducked his head away from the attention, but really only on principle at this point. His tail was still wagging as he followed the bard to the table where the innkeeper had set out a meal of stew for Jaskier, and a wooden bowl of scraps for Geralt.

Had Geralt not been in an excellent mood he might have managed to become gruff at having been reduced to eating his meals on the floor. As it was he didn't mind terribly, and really it certainly beat some miserable excuses for meals he'd endured out in the wilds in his time.

"Can I pet your dog?" Asked the man eating across the table from Jaskier.

Geralt looked up, glancing at the man who smelled of ink and parchment, a pair of spectacles perched on his nose.

"He reminds me of a hound my father owned and he seems agreeable enough," the man continued with a smile. "But I'd rather ask first than be bit second."

"I...of course." Jaskier said, pulling on a smile through a mouthful of stew. "I wouldn't have brought him in if he weren't friendly." Geralt could smell a bit of nervousness from him.

"Well he certainly is a magnificent beast." The man said, reaching over to scruff the fur between Geralt's ears. "I bet he puts some fine catches on the table after hunts."

Geralt accepted the petting with a stoic look, not so much as shaking off the man's hand. He could smell the relief and happiness on Jaskier.

"Oh Geralt Junior's not much of a hunter." Jaskier laughed, relaxing as he launched into his fiction. "He can take care of himself well enough I suppose, but really he thinks he's a lapdog. You know my sister used to read him bedtime stories when she was young, it's a miracle I was able to steal him away to travel with me instead of her keeping him."

Geralt sneezed in amusement at the tale of Jaskier's invented sister.

"Geralt Junior?" Another man at the table said with a guffaw. "I get it now, after the witcher you sing about? That's a clever joke if I ever heard one, white wolf indeed."

"Well where's his silver sword then?" A woman said cheerfully, coming up from behind Geralt and stroking his back without so much as a warning. "Such a handsome witcher wolf needs his tools of trade don't he?"

"I'm afraid all he's slain are the hearts of those who offer him treats. And the occasional rabbit." Jaskier laughed, warmed up to his audience. "His silver coat is far more useful than a silver sword in his line of work."

"Well he's excellent at his trade." The woman laughed, slipping Geralt a bit of sweetbread from her pocket. "Consider me slain by the mighty white wolf. Oh and look at him taking the bread all dainty-like with his teeth. Afraid he'll bite my fingers? What a gentleman."

If Geralt properly considered the positive attention he was currently drowning in he was going to become dizzy with it. Instead he focused on eating the sweetbread, which was followed by a bit of ham from another admirer, and a bit of jerky afterward by another.

The little girl had been one thing, but this much attention was downright mystifying. It was beginning to border on actually terrifying even, sending his heart beating faster than it did when he faced down griffins.

What Geralt was used to was people being careful not to even brush fingers as coin was exchanged, afraid they'd catch mange or worse from touching a Witcher. Aside from a hearty pat on the shoulder once in a blue moon from a particularly gutsy short-term adventuring partner, Geralt was used to only getting affection at brothels where he paid extra to girls who managed to hide their discomfort from their expressions. (But never their scents.)

But now it seemed like the entire village was trying to get their hands on him, and not even to try and drive him out.

Geralt found himself pressing against Jaskier's leg under the table as the attention really began to become overwhelming, but luckily the bard seemed to pick up on it, looking down at him with concern and resting a calming hand on his flank. Jaskier may not realize that his wolf was enchanted, but nonetheless the bard had always had an uncanny knack for picking up on Geralt's moods without a single word spoken.

"Well you've all been perfectly lovely, but I'm afraid we must take our leave for the night." Jaskier said, getting up from his seat and bowing grandly to the table. "We wish you all a lovely evening and hope to see you tomorrow for our next performance."

Geralt kept close to Jaskier as they climbed the stairs to their room for the night, already feeling better once they were out of sight.

"So not a huge fan of people for too long. That's alright, we can be more careful in the future, no sense in you hanging around people if you aren't enjoying it anymore." Jaskier said with a smile, rubbing Geralt's head.

Geralt tail wagged slow in gratitude as the bard looked through his pockets for the room key.

"Well tonight's over my friend and you've done magnificently." Jaskier yawned as he unlocked their door. "We'll curl up in bed and that'll be the end of it. I can't tell you how excited I am for a real bed. I can only assume you've slept on one before, I highly recommend them."

Geralt's tail kept wagging as they entered the room, greeted by a warm fire and a clean smelling mattress. Over the years he and Jaskier had shared a bed dozens of times when inns were small or coin was short, even sleeping rolls out in the wilds when the weather was too cold for the bard to safely sleep alone. That was a warm and familiar kind of touch that Geralt never tired of, even though he'd never admit it.

In fact, now that he thought about it, he hadn't exactly been as starved for touch as he'd thought. Jaskier was forever touching him whoever they were together: grabbing his arm, leaning against him, helping shuck off his armor at night, sharing a bed, stitching him up, even helping him bathe when he was particularly incapacitated, or they were to attend an important social event.

Jaskier's touch had never felt overwhelming like the villager's had. In fact Geralt had perhaps taken it for granted, so comfortable with it and expecting it to the point of no longer appreciating it properly.

He'd never once thanked Jaskier for making him feel like a real person who _could_ be so casually touched.

That...seemed unfair of him...

"You perfect thing." Jaskier said with a yawn, closing the room door behind them. He scratched between Geralt's ears.

Geralt nearly ducked away in guilt but didn't. After all, it seemed very likely that there wouldn't be any other possible way than this that he could use to apologize to the bard for a long time.

* * *

Chapter 02: Realization

The sun was streaming through the windows of their inn room and Jaskier was_ still _sound asleep, even as the late morning warmth made Geralt downright uncomfortable at still being indoors this late.

Staying in bed past dawn was not a luxury that frequently arose in the life of a witcher, usually only happening when Geralt was terribly injured. Not even winters spent at Kaer Morhen were enough to keep him in bed late, he was always up and moving before the cock crowed, finding himself scaling the fortress walls for chilly morning exercise or even just browsing the library to brush up on hunting knowledge.

But after a week of traveling with Jaskier as a wolf Geralt had now spent a week of mornings not leaving the inn room until the sun was well in the sky. He'd always known Jaskier was less than pleased to be roused early every morning when they traveled together, but hadn't ever realized just _how _different the man's real sleeping habits were when he was alone.

Geralt nosed at Jaskier's hand yet again in a quiet effort to rouse him, but the bard simply rolled over, tangling himself even further in the sheets. Not even Geralt restlessly jumping onto and off of the bed several times in the last hour had shifted Jaskier, who seemed perfectly content to lay sprawled across the mattress until evening, wasting away the entire day in messy haired sleep until it was time to perform for the evening crowd again.

Geralt padded over to the window, rearing up onto his back legs to get his front paws on the window sill, looking out over the bustling morning marketplace outside. It felt like it was mocking him, a whole town of people with tasks and chores and jobs going about their days. All with responsibilities that had them out of bed and moving, with _hands_ to actually do them with too.

And maybe that was what was really getting on Geralt's nerves. Not the fact that Jaskier wasn't awake yet, not even the fact that he was still cooped up indoors...

...but the fact that even if Geralt _were_ to get out there was nothing for him to do.

If he were his normal self there'd be no problem with him leaving Jaskier to sleep in while he went off to replenish his ingredient stock in the market, check notice boards for work, or even go after a contract and return later that night covered in gore and richer in coin. There was always something for a Witcher to be doing. If there wasn't that meant it was time for Geralt to move to the next town, Jaskier always following behind.

But now, for the first time in his unnaturally long life, there was _truly_ nothing for Geralt to do. No contracts to take. No possessions to replenish or sharpen. Not even Roach to go out and groom.

He had nothing.

And he was starting to feel an awful lot like nothing too.

_I am a witcher._ His age old mantra, the stubborn phrase that had gotten him through everything, had worn thin awfully fast without anything remotely witchery left of him. But if he wasn't a Witcher then what _was_ he? Anything that even mattered?

Geralt shook himself with a whine that shifted to a light growl as he stalked over to the bed, grabbing Jaskier's sleeve and tugging on it hard.

Jaskier groaned, shifting his face into the pillow. "Too early." he muttered.

Geralt growled in earnest now, grabbing more sleeve in his teeth and pulling Jaskier off the bed with one yank. The bard fell to the floor with a yelp, startling awake with wide eyes and tousled hair.

"Well alright then, I'm up, you don't have to yell." Jaskier yawned, looking annoyed. "What's wrong with you today anyway?"

Geralt looked away, maintaining his low growl.

"So grumpy." Jaskier said, getting to his feet and stretching. "Well I suppose if I'm up already we can get something to eat and head down to the market." He dropped back to sit on the mattress and started fumbling with a pair of pants, still blinking sleep from his eyes. "We've gotten plenty of coin and now that it's obvious you're planning on hanging around I want my belt back. Let's get you a real collar today, what do you think about that?"

Geralt stopped his growling, letting out a low huff instead as he trotted to the door, pawing at it impatiently to signal his answer. At first wearing a collar had felt awkward and degrading, but that had been before Geralt had realized that in fact it was his ticket to safety.

As a person he relied on his armor and medallion to tell people important things for everyone's safety: _I am a Witcher. I am dangerous but reliable. I am to be left alone_. As a wolf he had to send far different messages: _I am tame. I am safe to be around. I belong to someone._ And as foolish as it sometimes felt, Geralt wasn't too stupid to realize the social power and protection the teal floral printed belt around his neck had given him. It was an armor all its own.

But the thought of getting one that wasn't actually part of Jaskier's wardrobe was still exciting him far more than it should have, probably because this was the first thing that had happened for _him_ in a week, and he found himself nearly desperate to get going.

He huffed at himself, ears flicking back in annoyance. How far had he really fallen to be whining and prancing in place at the prospect of running an errand for himself?

Jaskier only laughed at his clear impatience, but did pick up his pace a bit. By the time the two of them found their way into the crowded marketplace Geralt felt like he was going to burst with impatience as Jaskier leisurely made his way from stall to stall, looking over the wares of different merchants. Geralt could smell the leather worker's stall all the way at the end of the street, why didn't Jaskier hurry up and take him there already?

"-yes, collars. Something big enough for my dog?" He heard Jaskier say.

Geralt trotted back to his side as a merchant pulled a box out from under his table.

"Well you've got quite a pet there friend," the merchant said, looking Geralt over with an impressed look. "But I think I've got a few in here that'll fit even him, take a look."

Jaskier started pulling out collars and setting them on the tabletop. Several of brown leather, several that looked too short. One ridiculously ornate one that wasn't even leather at all, but woven out of stiff colored threads in patterns of flowers.

Geralt's ears pricked forward as Jaskier set a last one on the table. It was wide and thick, made of black leather with silver studs punched into it. It looked so much like Geralt's old witcher armor that he started whining, nosing at it. _This one, get me this one._

"Hang on Geralt, don't chew on any of these, I don't want to end up buying them all." Jaskier said, pushing Geralt's snout away.

Geralt growled, shoving past Jaskier's hand as he pawed at the studded collar again. _This. One. Get it. _He could smell Jaskier's frustration at him but he didn't care. This was supposed to be about him.

"I expect he likes the smell of the leather." The merchant chuckled. "He'd look right fearsome in that one though, it would suit a beast like him."

"That's exactly why I'm not getting that one." Jaskier said easily, pushing Geralt away from it again and picking up the studded collar. Geralt could smell the bard's scent sharpen. "He's a companion, not a hunting dog, he needs to look the part he's playing. Any bard worth their salt knows the importance of costume."

Geralt barely heard what Jaskier said, only seeing him pick up the woven collar instead as he dropped the studded one back into the box. Geralt's ears pinned back and he let out a frustrated growling bark, wishing he could push Jaskier aside like usual to just do it himself, or at least give him a piece of his mind.

But instead Geralt startled as Jaskier spun on him, looking him directly in the eyes with a simmering expression he'd never ever directed at Geralt before. His sharp scent, that was _anger _coming off of the bard.

"Stop." Jaskier commanded, his voice laced with enough angry finality that Geralt actually felt his tail tuck a bit between his legs.

The bard's voice wasn't heated, in fact it was icy cold. His scent went from sharp to something a step more painful. It was so intense that it almost felt like Jaskier was really seeing him, but he'd never talked to Geralt like this when he was a person.

"New rule." Jaskier said, his voice chillingly even, not breaking eye contact for a moment. "Unless you're in pain or I'm in danger there's going to be absolutely no growling at me. I've gotten a lifetime's worth of that from your namesake thank you very much, and I refuse to take any more of it."

Geralt was silent, he would have been speechless even if he'd been capable of speaking.

He'd seen Jaskier pick fights with insult tossing peasants before, had seen him charge into a brawl with nothing but a glass bottle to defend himself, had even seen him square up with generals and sorceresses and monsters far more powerful than him over the years when the situation called for it.

But he'd never seen this side of Jaskier. Because the scent of anger coming off the bard was no match for the scent of emotional pain that overpowered it.

_...I was stupid enough to hang around him for years..._

_...he bit far more than you do my friend. With words I mean..._

_...I mean he was always insulting me…_

And with that Jaskier turned back to the merchant, leaning against the table with an easy smile as he began haggling over the price of the woven collar. Geralt sat silently at his feet, his mind replaying what Jaskier had told his wolf self in confidence over the past week about his witcher self.

Being around Jaskier as a wolf had of course already revealed to Geralt just how out of line he'd been when he'd chased the bard off three weeks ago, but had Jaskier really hated his normal day-to-day growling that much all these years? Geralt knew he wasn't the easiest person to be around by a long shot, but Jaskier had never seemed to mind. He'd always just smiled and shook his head whenever Geralt had resorted to sharp single word answers and angry grunting instead of longer wordy phrases.

Geralt wasn't always like that. Especially around Jaskier, who was the only person who regularly cajoled him into real full length conversations as they traveled the continent together. But even when he was more talkative Geralt had never shied away from loosing the brunt of his frustrations or bad moods on Jaskier. Just like he had with his poor mood today. Just like...

_...if life could give me one blessing it would be to take you off my hands..._

Ah.

Geralt hated feeling guilt, but this felt far worse than anything he'd felt in years. Because Jaskier _had_ minded how flippantly Geralt had treated him sometimes, minded terribly in fact, but had hid it from him. Or perhaps Geralt had never wanted to notice, had always had the luxury of pushing past Jaskier and onto his own plans like he'd tried with the collars.

But now Geralt could only sit and wait as the bard handled things for him, left to silently review every growl, every snapped reply, every unfair accusation his brain could dredge up from the last twenty two years that had been aimed at Jaskier.

Above him Jaskier was of course as patient and sunny as ever as he settled on a price with the merchant, even as the scent of pain still ebbed from him. The same scent he'd gotten the times he'd confided to Geralt without realizing who he was really talking to.

Geralt knew by now just how badly he'd hurt Jaskier by not reciprocating his affection and by verbally attacking him on the mountain, but it was a new kind of pain to realize that the bard might have been hurting their entire friendship.

There was a shaking of hands and an exchanging of coin above and then the merchant took the box, heading to the back of his stall. Jaskier turned to Geralt with a smile, getting down on one knee as he unlatched the old belt collar and slipped on the new one.

"Here we are." Jaskier said, adjusting the new collar—which did feel like a much more comfortable fit than the belt had—around Geralt's neck. "You do look handsome, any lord would be glad to have you curled up in front of their fireplace by their side, you magnificent thing."

Geralt looked at the ground, not wanting to meet Jaskier's eyes. Jaskier's smile dropped, replaced with a concerned look.

"I'm sorry I snapped at you." He said quietly, petting his head. "You have been difficult today but you didn't deserve that. You're not the one I'm really upset at, I'll make it up to you with a treat when we get back to the inn, alright?"

Except Geralt _was_ the one who deserved it. But continuing to sulk would only worry Jaskier more, so instead he wagged his tail, pushing his head up against Jaskier's chest in what little apology he could manage in this state. If he ever regained the ability to speak that's what he would say first, a real apology for everything.

"There's a good boy." Jaskier chuckled, scruffing his hands through the thick fur of Geralt's neck. "A good handsome boy. You're going to be quite the heart stealer with that new collar of yours, you just wait."

Geralt leaned up against Jaskier as he stood, doing his best to be as non growly as possible as they went on their way through the marketplace.

It was going to take a bit of extra effort to not resort to growling and snapping and snarling, but Geralt was already determined to keep Jaskier's new rule. After all, it's not as if he had any other challenges to keep him busy. And besides, making sure Jaskier felt _only_ appreciated was long overdue.

Geralt had been a wolf for an entire month now and he'd learned many things about Jaskier, but he'd also learned things about life. Some admittedly more useful than others.

He'd learned that all animals from chickens to cattle had a subtle language all their own that people just didn't catch, a language he still didn't understand fully but that he was getting better at everyday. He'd learned that most humans could be charmed by a wagging tail and a pretty collar faster than even Jaskier could manage. He'd even learned that there was a certain delectable smell that could only be gotten from rolling in garbage, but he was _fairly_ sure that the virtue of that particular realization was heavily dependent on him being a wolf.

But perhaps the most important thing he'd learned was that humans didn't watch what they said at all when they thought there were only animals around to hear them.

"Talented bard they've got tonight."

Geralt's ear flicked toward the three men who were leaning against the outside of the tavern as he snuffled through the long grass, tracking a mouse he'd smelled in the evening air. Over the weeks Jaskier had become far more relaxed with how close he kept Geralt, meaning that Geralt was allowed to wander as he pleased as long as he kept out of trouble. It was a small freedom that had made life far more enjoyable, not the least of which being because Geralt could eavesdrop on unwitting humans even more easily than he had as a witcher.

"He's got a pretty enough voice," said one of the other men. Geralt could tell the three men were watching him but continued his snuffling. "Been making quite a name for himself with that white wolf, just look at him. Tame as anything and as eye catching as they come. Saw some kids playing with him earlier, no wonder he's getting his master a reputation."

"I bet the bard's purse is even prettier than his face." The third man mused. "He sure dresses well enough. Bet that dog would fetch a pretty price too if he could be convinced to part with him."

Geralt's eyes narrowed as the men all chuckled, an ugly sound.

"I heard he's staying at the Golden Swallow." The second man said. "Wouldn't take much to pay him a visit late tonight, have a chat and see if he's willing to part ways with some of his finer things. I reckon the three of us would have pretty good chances against one bard, don't you think?"

Geralt kept himself as outwardly calm as possible, even as a sticky hot protectiveness trickled down his spine.

"What about the wolf?" the first man asked. "I don't fancy a tussle with something that big if it gets upset."

"It's not a wolf, it's an overgrown lapdog." the second scoffed, unfolding his arms. "He's tame as anything, probably wouldn't even notice it's changed masters. Look, I'll show you. Hey, here boy!"

Geralt let himself look up as the man called to him, snapping his fingers and smiling.

If Geralt were still a witcher he would have made short work of these men, bluntly confronting them with enough blade to get them to abandon their plans at best, making sure they'd never harm anyone again at worst. Although he doubted they would have let themselves speak so carelessly around a witcher in the first place.

As a wolf though...as a wolf Geralt found himself wanting to try seeing what would happen if he handled this entirely differently. Because they were _not _going to lay a single finger on his Jaskier, that much he knew.

"Pspsps, here boy, come here you big brute." The man said, calling to him in a high pitched sing-song voice.

Geralt pricked his ears and bounded forward toward the men, panting in a charade of canine happiness. The man laughed as he bent down to pet him.

"See? Tame as anything. He's just a big stupid beast, aren't you?" he crooned, scratching behind Geralt's ears.

Geralt made a show of enjoying the affection as the other men petted him as well, but this close to the men he could now see for certain that none of them were carrying weapons. Their mistake.

"Why don't I take him home now and we take care of the bard later?" The first man suggested, his dirty fingers curling around Geralt's collar. "That way we don't have to worry about dragging him out of the inn and barking while we slit his master's throat."

It took every ounce of Geralt's willpower not to snarl, but he kept it back, well practiced after a month of quietly tempering his fouler moods.

"Not a bad idea." The third man nodded. "That way we can even have some fun with the bard too. He's real pleasant to look at, would be a shame to waste it so fast."

The men all laughed. The fingers on Geralt's collar loosened.

Perfect.

Geralt silently lunged up at the first man, jaws snapping shut on the bandit's throat and ripping before he even had time to finish his laugh, instead collapsing to the dirt with a hollow moan and glassy eyes as blood pooled around him.

Without missing a beat Geralt lept at the third man, feeling his adrenaline pounding as he knocked the bandit to the ground. The man's eyes widening in horror as he tried to cover his face in still dawning shock. Geralt had never fought anything larger than rabbits as a wolf, but the sticky hot iron taste of the blood in his mouth was the same and his witcher killing instincts certainly hadn't gone anywhere.

It was messy and hot and fast, but before the second man—the ringleader—had time to even properly stumble back his second fallen comrade was twitching in the dirt with a gurgling shriek.

"What, what-" the ringleader stuttered, looking at his two dead friends in shock. Men who had been standing and laughing and plotting an innocent man's death only moments before.

Geralt looked up at the man, panting happily again knowing what a chilling sight it made him as blood dripped from his open mouth.

"Y-you, you heard us, didn't you?" The bandit said hollowly, Geralt could hear his racing heart and the cloying scent of fear flowing off him.

Geralt knew by now that he couldn't properly nod his head, but he dipped his head up and down in his best imitation as he smiled his canine grin, eyes squinted with grim satisfaction to see the bandit's face pale even further.

"You're no wolf." The bandit gasped, stumbling back desperately, eyes wide as his hands scrabbled in the weeds for anything he could use as a weapon. "You're _cursed_. What are you?"

Geralt huffed at the irony. Maybe it would be worth letting the villain live just on the off chance he'd let Jaskier in on the secret.

"We were just joking." The bandit said hurriedly. "We weren't really going to do anything to your master, we weren't really going to kill him, honest! Leave me be, I'll do him no harm, I swear it!"

Even if Geralt hadn't smell the bald-faced lie on the bandit his sharp eyes spotted the man's hand close around a discarded bar of iron in the weeds. The man's face twisted in a snarl of his own as he swung the metal at Geralt's head.

It was over almost before it began, Geralt lunged and the metal clattering out of the bandit's limp fingers as he collapsed under the wolf's attack. Geralt panted heavily as he stood in the alleyway, now alone with three bodies that would never kill anyone again. More importantly, who would never kill Jaskier.

Geralt whined, trying to scent the air for Jaskier but not smelling much over the cloying iron scent of the blood covering his snout. A cold feeling swept through him as he realized he wasn't out of danger yet. As a Witcher he could get away with slaughtering murderous bandits, but if the townspeople found three men dead of dog bites and spotted a wolf covered in gore he knew there was only one way for that particular story to end.

Geralt latched onto the ringleader's collar, yanking at it to drag the body down the alley toward the canal that ran through the town. It took some doing but after a minute or two the corpse was tumbled into the murky water, quickly joined by the bandit's two other friends.

Geralt huffed as he trotted to a nearby horse trough, doing his best to rinse the worst of the blood from his face and paws but having no way of seeing how successful he was. He shook himself to get the excess water off, spooking a rabbit from the weeds. His ears pricked up as an idea occurred to him and he took off after it.

"Geralt, look at you, you mighty hunter. Finally returning from your evening of fun I see." Jaskier said, shaking his head in amusement as he let Geralt into their inn room. "But really, did you catch that rabbit in a _lake_? You're a damp mess. I swear you've been getting enough to eat, but perhaps not if you're still hunting?"

Geralt wagged his tail as he dropped the rabbit at his feet, just happy to see his bard safe and sound, a now familiar warm loving feeling rushing through him.

He wished he could tell Jaskier what had happened. He wished he could tell him how he'd felt, angry and protective. He wished he could pull Jaskier into a hug just to reassure himself that no one else was going to touch him.

But he couldn't. He hadn't before and he couldn't now that he felt like he was bursting with words and emotions that he _couldn't _express them even if he wanted to.

Probably _because_ he had no choice.

And he did very much want to.

"Well we'll make sure to get you more to eat if you need it." Jaskier said with a smile, fetching a towel and kneeling to rub Geralt down with it, paying special attention to cleaning his face. "You'll get us kicked out of inns if you make a habit of showing up late and wet with rabbit blood on your snout you know."

Geralt shook his newly dried fur, pushing his face against Jaskier, making the bard laugh and hug his neck.

"I love you too, you ridiculous thing." Jaskier said warmly, kissing his head.

Geralt whined, several emotions fighting uselessly in him. Useless since he had no way to show them.

"Well I'm back to sleep if you care to join me." Jaskier said with a yawn, setting aside the towel and collapsing back onto the mattress, having apparently already been asleep when Geralt had come scratching at the door.

Geralt lept up onto the bed without hesitation, curling up against Jaskier and resting his head on the bard's chest.

"Good boy." Jaskier said, eyes already closed as he ran his fingers through Geralt's fur, drifting off to sleep almost immediately.

Geralt watched him sleep, thinking of all the things he would say if he could. All the things that he likely had permanently missed out on ever saying.

Because Jaskier was never going to figure out Geralt's curse on his own, that much had become clear over the last month. The only thing Geralt had been able to think of was if Yennifer somehow came across the bard, surely she'd at least recognize Geralt as cursed if not recognizing him as _Geralt_.

But he knew too much about curses to be naive enough to suppose that even Yennifer would be able to break it even if she knew about it. Curses were tricky, stubborn things. Their cures were always cryptic hidden clues tied to their beginnings, if they even had a cure at all.

With Geralt unable to even tell Yen who had cursed him or how she wouldn't even have a place to start, leaving him a wolf forever.

Geralt whined softly, shifting closer to Jaskier as his gaze flicked up, toward the locked door that no bandits would be coming through tonight.

Well at least he was spending his new life the best way he could imagine, at Jaskier's side, protecting him even if he didn't know it. Even if Geralt wished it were different, there was no place he'd rather be.

"Geralt, if you don't bring the stick back to me I can't throw it for you."

Geralt bounded right past Jaskier, happily carrying his stick in his mouth as he dashed back and forth across the dirt road the two of them were traveling down. The warm afternoon sun warmed the fur on his back as he pranced through weeds, investigating intriguing smells as he came across them.

Geralt had no idea where they were going that day, and he had no idea when they were going to get there, and that was perfectly fine. Because he and Jaskier were together and that was more than enough. Although his new stick certainly helped.

He bounded back to the bard, letting him wrestle the stick from his mouth after a few playful tugs, and then took off after it again when Jaskier threw it for him.

Two months ago Geralt would never have believed that his life could be so simple, and he never would have believed that the uncomplicated joy of traveling with his best friend could have satisfied him so easily. And yet, here they were. Long mornings spent curled up next to Jaskier in bed, effortless afternoons traveling or strolling markets, joyful evenings sitting at the bard's side while he performed, and then nights of listening attentively to whatever crossed Jaskier's mind as the two of them lounged in front of a fire.

Geralt of course missed plenty of things about being a witcher, for one his list of things he wished he could tell Jaskier was always growing, but as time had gone on he'd decided that perhaps this fate wasn't entirely terrible after all.

Geralt's ears pricked up as the sound and scent of horses approaching, a lot of them. He emerged from the tall grasses at the side of the road to see a horse merchant's caravan passing them on the road. His eyes widened as a particular smell reached him from the group, a painfully familiar one coming from a glossy chestnut mare with a stripe down her face.

Geralt let out a bark of surprise and the mare looked up, her ears twitching toward him. When she saw him she let out a sharp whinny of recognition that jolted him into action. His stick dropped to the ground forgotten as he rushed up to Roach, yelping and whining in excitement.

_It was Roach_.

The roadside exploded into chaos around him, spooked horses yanking at their leads and trying to skitter away from him, the horse merchant shouting, Jaskier yelling at him too as his hand grabbed his collar. But Geralt was single minded in his focus as he hauled Jaskier forward toward Roach, whining desperately as his horse put up a fit of her own trying to tug away from her lead toward him.

Then suddenly Jaskier's grip faltered. "...Roach?" he said, voice sounding dry.

Geralt looked up at Jaskier, whining and barking. _It's her, it's my horse, do something please!_

"Where did you get that horse?" Jaskier demanded of the horse merchant, letting go of Geralt's collar.

Geralt dashed up to Roach with the bard close behind, filled with gratitude that Jaskier had caught on so quickly. Geralt danced around Roach's feet, yelping in canine excitement as the horse dipped her head to nose at him affectionately. She'd seen him turned into a wolf, of course she knew it was him.

In the excitement Geralt missed most of what the humans were doing but it sounded like Jaskier was in a full shouting match with the horse merchant.

"-she's coming with me _now_ as well as anything else you stole from back where you found her." Jaskier said angrily. "And believe me, I'll know if you try to keep _any_ of it back."

Geralt whined in gratitude, pressing against Jaskier's legs as he untied Roach from the caravan. The bard had no reason to be doing this, not after thinking his last interaction with Geralt had been that disaster back on the mountain. Jaskier had every right to look the other way and wish Geralt's apparent disappearance good riddance, but instead he was going out of his way to get his horse and things back for him. Geralt didn't deserve this kindness at all.

Two of the horse merchant's boys dumped armloads of all too familiar things at their feet and Geralt nearly stumbled as the scent of his own witcher belongings rushed over him. The dusty leather scent of his armor, still spattered in grime. The sharp varied smells of his alchemy bag. And of course the constant smell of steel and silver as Jaskier pulled his two swords out of the pile of things.

It felt almost as if Geralt were waking from a dream, memories of a past life weaving their way back to him. He felt an aching longing for it, wishing desperately for his old body again, wishing to be a witcher again so he could take up all his things and his life.

"These were all at the camp?" Jaskier asked sharply, looking through the pile as if he were taking stock of every item. Geralt could smell anger and distress flowing off the bard.

"They were, strewn about in a right mess too." The merchant said, looking eager to get all this over with and gone.

"The medallion." Jaskier demanded horsley, looking up from a saddlebag. "Where's the silver wolf medallion?"

Geralt whined softly as he realized what why Jaskier smelled so distraught. Geralt would never have voluntarily left all his belongings and Roach behind, Jaskier must think that his witcher was dead.

One of the boys handed over Geralt's old silver medallion to Jaskier, who took it stiffly, his scent spiking from anger to shock and grief. Geralt had never ever smelled Jaskier this sad before and it twisted at his gut, the now familiar feeling of guilt eating at him. Because of course this was all his fault and he couldn't stand Jaskier being hurt by him _again_, especially when it was all a terrible misunderstanding.

Geralt nosed at the medallion in Jaskier's hand, whining. _I'm not dead! I'm still here with you, don't be sad!_

Jaskier silently handed the merchant some coin and the caravan left as quickly as it came, leaving the bard the wolf and the horse alone on the dusty road with all of Geralt's earthly possessions piled in front of them. It felt like some kind of surreal dream Geralt couldn't manage to wake up from, a dream that turned toward a nightmare as Jaskier collapsed to his knees, breaking into rough sobs as tears ran freely down his face.

No no no. Geralt pressed against Jaskier as close as he could get. _Don't cry! None of this is your fault! I'm not dead! _If only he could talk, all of this could be solved in an instant. Jaskier hugged Geralt tightly, burying his face in his fur as he continued to sob. Geralt settled heavily across the bard's lap, being as present and comforting as he knew how. He idly wondered how he might have dealt with a crying bard before all this. Would he have stood awkwardly by? Would he have tried to comfort him at all or been too concerned with his own discomfort at such a strong display of emotions?

It took a long time for Jaskier's tears to ease a bit.

"He's, he's gone." Jaskier hiccuped, opening his hand to look at the medallion in his hand. "I mean...I k-know I already lost him...b-but not like _this_."

Geralt whined quietly, pressing his head against Jaskier's shoulder bracingly. _You haven't lost me. I'm not gone, I wish I could make you understand._

"Why did _that_ have to be the last time I saw him..." Jaskier said quietly, burying his face in Geralt's fur. "Why did it have to end like _that_? I really believed I would see him again. What am I going to do now?" He looked up as Roach nudged his shoulder, the horse clearly confused by Jaskier's grief.

"Oh Roach, I'm so sorry. You probably saw it actually happen, you poor thing." Jaskier said, getting to his feet and rubbing her cheek, easing off the rough rope bridle from the merchant. "I know he didn't like me much by the end, but I hope it's alright if you stick with me. I promise I'll keep you brushed and well fed, no monster hunting, but I'll take good care of you."

Geralt was nearly whining in frustration at not being able to talk, unable to pull Jaskier into a reassuring hug, unable to thank him for everything he was doing. All he could do was stay right by the man's side as he set about slowly saddling Roach and packing up all of Geralt's witcher things with practiced care, sadness still dripping off him. Sadness Geralt desperately needed to wipe away.

Jaskier finished packing up Roach and stood back, pulling Geralt's old medallion out of his pocket and staring at it. Geralt looked up attentively as Jaskier got down on one knee in front of him.

"I need you to hold onto this for me alright?" Jaskier said quietly. "Keep it safe while we travel."

Geralt sat very still in agreement, nearly reverent as the bard gave him back his own medallion.

But the instant the metal chain passed over his nose Geralt could feel something changing, a quivering electric rush that crept over him as the chain passed over his head. He distantly felt the weight of the medallion hit his chest as a flash of light sent him stumbling to his feet, but an instant later his vision cleared, leaving him staring at his his own two _very human hands._

Geralt's eyes widened in surprised shock as he looked himself over, his complete witcher self back to normal. The medallion had broken the curse!

Barely an instant had passed and Geralt's witcher reflexes alerted him to Jaskier's cry of alarm, still stumbling back from the flash of light that had evidently blinded him. Geralt caught the bard before he fell back, pulling him into a tight hug that had two months' worth of gratitude and relief and love piled into it.

"Unhand me!" Jaskier yelped in surprise, still blinking to get his sight back as he struggled in Geralt's grip. "Let me-"

"I'm sorry Jaskier." Geralt said quietly in Jaskier's ear, his voice feeling rusty after not using it for so many weeks, but still full of emotion at finally, _finally _being able to apologize.

Jaskier looked up at him, eyes widening in stunned recognition as he finally saw who was holding him.

"G-Geralt?"

"You really didn't mind the collar? I should have picked that black leather one you wanted, that's why you were so huffy about it, I'm sorry I didn't-"

"I'm glad you didn't." Geralt said, setting another log on the campfire.

He stood, walking barefoot to where Jaskier was sitting perched on his bedroll. Geralt was wearing his loosest shirt and pants, unable to bear wearing socks and shoes yet after only a few hours as a person again. But at least he'd managed to pitch camp like usual with only minimal fumbling. Jaskier was still watching Geralt with a look of fond disbelief that hadn't left him since that afternoon, as if he were still convinced he were about to wake from a dream.

Geralt sat on the bedroll, gently pulling the bard into his lap. Jaskier smiled, reaching up to hold Geralt's face as if he were trying to memorize him.

"I didn't need a collar that looked like my old armor," Geralt said, wrapping his arms around Jaskier's waist. "I needed the flower one, you were right to choose it. You don't have to keep apologizing for anything, you did everything exactly right. It's like what you said about actors having the right costume."

"You're going to have to be patient with me," Jaskier chuckled, shaking his head. "It's going to take me at least a few days to adjust to the reality of a Geralt who remembers things I've said weeks ago. All of this is quite a shock."

"You've never been anything but patient with me." Geralt said, taking one of Jaskier's hands and kissing his palm. "I owe you all the patience you want a hundred times over."

"See? This is exactly what I mean, you're using _words_ Geralt, about your _feelings _no less." Jaskier teased with a smile, playing with the chain of Geralt's medallion. "If I hadn't seen you sharpening your silver sword just now I'd think I had a good natured doppler on my hands. Say, a doppler could change into a wolf couldn't it? That would certainly make all of this make more sense. I don't think I've heard of a mage turning people into wolves before, he must have been an odd bird."

"I don't think he was a mage." Geralt said, watching Jaskier idly turn the medallion over in his hands as the bard rested his head against his chest. Curling up against him as a wolf had been good, but this was so much better. "I'd bet good coin there was something fae in his blood, whatever he was. They're the kind to be as unhinged and, well, _creative_ as he was."

"There was so much compliment in that insult I can hardly decide whether or not to be offended."

Geralt was on his feet in an adrenaline jolting instant, pushing Jaskier behind him and grabbing his freshly sharpened silver sword from where it lay nearby.

On the other side of their camp stood the teal and orange clad man Geralt had gone up against months ago, watching them idly, as if slightly bored.

"What do you want?" Geralt asked, voice as level as his sword. He already knew that riling the man could result in an attack he wouldn't be able to parry, but with Jaskier at risk he couldn't quite bring himself to lower his sword as he cast a simple protective Quen shield around the two of them. "We've done you no harm, leave us in peace."

"Oh do calm yourself." The man drawled. "I felt my curse end and I came to see whether you'd finally died in a ditch somewhere. Wolf teeth make fine ingredients you know, waste not want not and all that."

"Geralt, he's the one who turned you into a wolf?" Jaskier asked, pushing past him.

"Jaskier, don't-"

"What kind of sick bastard are you anyway?" Jaskier snapped at the sorcerer, folding his arms. "Turning people to wolves, talking of harvesting their teeth for gods' sakes. Walking around in such a disaster of an outfit as _that_ too. I've half a mind to break my lute over your head, haven't you got anything better to do than turn people into animals against their will?"

Geralt braced himself for the attack or curse that was sure to follow, but instead hesitated as the sorcerer only laughed.

"You've got spirit." The man said with an easy grin. "Have you any interest in joining my collection?"

"I should think not, whatever the hell that's supposed to mean." Jaskier said hotly. "Now leave us be, we solved your stupid curse by finding the medallion so the show's over. Go back to whatever hole you crawled out of."

"Jaskier..." Geralt warned quietly, on edge at how many insults were being flung at the very powerful magic user. But neither of them paid him any attention.

"Medallion?" The man asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Geralt's witcher medallion." Jaskier said impatiently, motioning to the medallion in question. "The key to lifting your curse? We put it back on him and he became a person again?"

"Oh, it wasn't the medallion that did it. Not really." The man said dismissively. "Although that would have been a much more interesting key had I thought of it at the time."

"How do you mean?" Jaskier asked, looking as surprised as Geralt felt.

"I'm afraid my curse was far more basic than that." The sorcerer said, looking them over, his bored expression back. "It was broken by your fool of a witcher caring for someone who cared for him back as much as I cared for my poor Truskawka, may she rest in peace. I'd assumed such a violent brute would never find a cure like that."

"Shows what you know." Jaskier said, really starting to scare Geralt with how cocky the bard sounded. Or at least Geralt might have felt frightened if it weren't so endearing.

"Well if you're going to be so stubborn about it then fine, we'll say the medallion was the cure all along and that it was my idea from the start." the sorcerer said, nodding his head. "Still, do be careful where you take it off and on though, or I'll get those wolf teeth yet."

And with no further ceremony the man winked out of sight. There one moment and then gone the next. Vanished as quickly as he'd come.

"Hang on!" Jaskier spluttered. "Come back! What's that meant to mean? Get back here and explain yourself!"

"Jaskier if you keep shouting at him you're going to end up cursed into a lark or some nonsense." Geralt said, lowering his sword and pulling Jaskier back.

"You heard what he said!" Jaskier said hotly, looking up at him. To Geralt's dismay there were the beginnings of tears in the bard's eyes. "You're not really uncursed after all! What if he did that just because I brought the idea to his mind? What if it's my fault that-"

Geralt silenced him with a kiss, gently taking hold of Jaskier's arm until he settled.

"I don't think that was something new he added just now," Geralt said gently, still marveling at being able to use words to comfort Jaskier. "I expect it was already there without us knowing and he just has a flare for drama. Like you."

"Don't compare me with that thing!" Jaskier huffed. "If you're still cursed then-"

"It's not much of a curse when I'm with you." Geralt said.

"You're telling me you didn't mind being a wolf?" Jaskier said skeptically.

"I'm telling you that we already know how to fix it." Geralt said, holding his medallion and looking at the innocently glinting sliver surface. "I never take it off anyway, it won't make much of a difference to me if I'll be a wolf again without it."

"You really didn't mind it that much?" Jaskier asked, his mouth quirking into a smile. "Because you were with me?"

"I've never been able to enjoy life as simply as I did when I was only your wolf, it might be nice to revisit sometimes." Geralt said. "As long as you were willing to look out for me again and keep the medallion safe for me I don't think I'd mind at all."

"As long as you do realize I'm not going to give you a bit of slack for misbehaving as a wolf now that I know it's really you." Jaskier teased. His eyes widened. "Hang on, you chewed apart one of my favorite boots last month! Geralt, that was expensive leather! Was there a dangerous snake inside it or something?"

"Ah…yes. Definitely. Had to protect you from the, uh, the snake." Geralt lied, keeping his face as unguilty as possible, remembering how bored he'd been after two days without much exercise and Jaskier's boots lying beside him on the floor. "I promise I'll buy you a new pair as soon as I've taken a few contracts."

"Well, I suppose that's alright then, as long as you don't do it again." Jaskier said. He looked at the medallion at Geralt's chest, eyeing it a bit warily. "So…do you want to test it?"

"No, not tonight. I'm still adjusting to having two legs again." Geralt said with a yawn. He pulled Jaskier into a hug, nuzzling at his neck. "And besides, I like being the one to hold _you_ for a change."

"Well, I certainly won't argue with that." Jaskier said, kissing Geralt's forehead. "I'm still going to write that song though, although I might have to be a bit more careful with the details now that I know the story isn't ended yet."

"I'd say it's only just begun." Geralt said, smiling at Jaskier's delighted yelp as he swept the bard up into his arms to carry him back to their campfire.


	103. (E) KOMEHINA - Burning by RegenesisX

Burning  
RegenesisX (orphan_account)

Summary:  
There were few things Hajime Hinata hated more than going into heat, but going into heat while trapped on a deserted island with nothing but alphas was definitely the worst.

"The beautiful person who pays attention to me is also an omega. Of course I had considered what this might be like… But my imagination is no good, you know? My silly fantasies can't even begin to hold a candle to your true nature."

...Or so he thought.

* * *

Hajime slid down the door of the shower room in the beach house, squeezing his eyes shut against the incessant pounding from the other side. His heart was beating so fast, it was a struggle just to breathe properly. Any longer and he would've collapsed, if he wasn't already sitting.

That had been way too close.

Slipping his fingers under the knot in his tie, Hajime yanked it looser. The stupid thing was practically choking him, and he was so hot… He had to be in a full-body sweat. Even his feet felt uncomfortable.

But it was more than just a mild discomfort. Every inch of his skin was on fire. He almost wished the water in the shower room worked, but he knew it wouldn't help. Nothing would help. Nothing ever did, not in this situation.

For a few blissful minutes, the knocking ceased. Hajime closed his eyes, focusing solely on his breathing. If he could just make it back to his cabin… No, the hotel was the most dangerous place for him right now. The motel, on the third island, perhaps? He could sleep there to wait this out. The others would definitely come looking for him, though… _Dammit_, was there really no hope in this situation?

The knocking started again.

"Souda, just _stay away_ from me or I swear I'll—"

"Hinata? It's me."

Hajime's skin prickled. _Komaeda?_ On a normal day, he could definitely take that guy in a fight, but in his current situation…

"I know it's very presumptuous of me to think you'd open the door for me, since you have no have reason to trust me, but… I've been aware of your… _condition…_ for quite some time now. Of course, it was always possible I was mistaken, but it seems my suspicions have been confirmed. You're an omega, aren't you?"

The room started to spin. "H-How did you…?"

"I've encountered them before. Of course, you don't act anything like any other omega I've ever met, so I was unsure, but it's indisputable once this happens, isn't it? That nice scent that clings to you amplifies, drawing alphas like flies." Komaeda paused, laughing, and Hajime could hear his hands slide against the door. "I can't deny that I'm the same. Without a barrier between us, I can't tell you what sort of control I'll have over myself. But even if you're an omega, you're still more important to me as an Ultimate. That's why I'm willing to take a chance on myself and offer to help you."

While Komaeda was talking, Hajime's arms found themselves tightly pressed between his legs. Just hearing his voice was driving Hajime crazy. He could barely think. Escape, he needed to escape. "H-Help? What k-kind of help?"

"Anything, Hinata. I will only do as you request."

"If I open the door, d-don't touch me," he said. "Please don't touch me."

"I won't touch you."

"Y-You're sure?"

"Hinata, I am extremely aware of what will happen if I do that."

Hajime sucked in a deep breath, trying to calm himself. Ignoring this eventuality had been a stupid thing to do. Now he was cornered with no plan. Komaeda… was probably his best option for an ally, oddly enough. Komaeda idolized _hope_ and _talent_, and seemed to have no interest in physical statuses. He was definitely an alpha, but he came off more like a beta.

Relying on the weakest, most submissive alpha in the bunch made Hajime sick to his stomach, but it wasn't like he had any other choice, unless he wanted to stay in the shower room until midnight.

Staggering to his feet, Hajime gripped the door handle with a trembling hand. Komaeda was his friend. Komaeda wouldn't hurt him. Right?

He opened the door.

Arousal rushed him.

Hajime had to grip the door frame to keep from pitching himself at Komaeda. The first time this had happened, he'd been fourteen and out in public with his parents, but the memory was hazy. After that, his mother had kept careful track of when it would occur and he got special permission to take absences from school. Medications were available to dull the effects, but they usually just made him sick instead. Hajime resented being an omega more than anything else.

But he'd never been caught in the stare of an alpha like this. It was almost impossible to beat down the urge to take back what he said a minute ago and beg Komaeda to ravage him. Komaeda was clearly regretting his promise too.

Hajime had never seen him so… intense.

It was amazing.

"Ah… Hinata."

Hajime was sure he was going to die. Komaeda's voice was thick and husky, sending shivers down his spine. And those eyes… He was going to die.

Komaeda wrapped his arms around himself, gripping his coat to kindly make good on his promise, but the raw hunger in his expression couldn't be hidden. "An omega in heat is truly incredible."

* * *

It was easier to breathe once they were moving, but only slightly. Hajime wasn't like the alphas, who were turned on and off like a light switch in the presence of an omega. He was stuck _on_ through the entirety of his heat.

It wasn't like just being aroused, either. Alphas and betas always seemed to misunderstand that aspect. He wasn't _broken;_ he was perfectly capable of being aroused out of heat. Being _in_ heat was like having an itch you couldn't scratch through your entire body. It was hot and uncomfortable and Hajime personally felt more like murdering someone than having sex. In fact, he'd never experienced _arousal_ during heat until now.

And here he thought it was impossible for heat to get worse.

They finally made it to the motel, for better or for worse. The room wasn't particularly nice, but it didn't matter. The minute Komaeda left, Hajime would be throwing things and ripping apart bedsheets to get rid of his excess energy.

"Do you plan to hole yourself up here, Hinata?" Komaeda asked, hovering in the doorway. Hajime realized he'd never invited him in, and that was why he hadn't crossed the threshold. That was surprisingly considerate. "You'll need to eat eventually… and someone might find you here. It isn't as if I view you as weak, but you'll be useless against somebody like Owari or Nidai."

Hajime did his best to keep his voice from trembling. "I'll figure something out."

"After you're violated against your will?"

Turning to look at Komaeda was a mistake. Lust flooded him again. "I-It won't… come to that..."

"I saw what happened with Souda."

Hajime's heart skipped a beat.

"You're fortunate it was only just starting. His lack of control was astonishing. Even for me, this is incredibly difficult to endure, but I know my place," Komaeda said. His voice was tight. "You're an omega, but you're an Ultimate. There's no way I can just stand back and allow you to be devoured like a rabbit hunted by wolves. That's why I think you should protect yourself as well, and choose one of them to help you through this."

It was hard to focus on exactly what Komaeda was saying, but Hajime got the gist of it. "Choose… someone?" he said. "Like… like a partner?"

"Yes, exactly! There's a certain amount of respect between alphas, you know? We have ways of telling who belongs to who. If you found a partner among them, your heat could be dealt with."

"I've…" Hajime shifted and immediately regretted it. He could feel it _dripping—_ "...never actually… I've never, um… That's not how I..."

Komaeda's eyes widened a little bit and he hastily put up his hands. "Ah, please forgive my insensitivity—you would've taken medication for it, wouldn't you? That… doesn't exist here, unfortunately."

As if Hajime didn't already know _that_. He'd checked both the supermarket and the pharmacy.

"What I'm telling you is only a suggestion. I say it to you as someone who cares very much about your well-being." Komaeda's tone softened. "You've been so kind to me, Hinata. I want to do my best to return that kindness."

"Y-You keep referring to the others as _them_, but you're an alpha too, a-aren't you?"

"...Technically, yes, but only on the physical scale. It isn't as if I possess astounding traits like they do. Compared to them, I'm totally worthless."

"If y-you're an alpha, you can be my partner then."

"M-Me?" Komaeda took a step back, looking ready to bolt. "That's absolutely unthinkable, I'm not at all suited—"

"You are." It only caused the ache in his body to sharpen into a white-hot shock of need, but Hajime forced himself to keep moving toward the door. "There's a reason I'm n-not allowed to go to school in heat, even on suppressants. Teenagers can't control themselves, you even said it yourself. But you… haven't done anything to me… You're not even offering. You're going to _refuse_. That's why… it's fine if it's you, Komaeda."

But Komaeda just shook his head more violently. "N-No, you should definitely choose somebody else! Nanami or Sonia or Kuzuryuu or _anyone_ would fit you better than me!"

"I'm not changing my mind." Hajime pulled his tie all the way off. God, it was so annoyingly hot. Who were those other people anyway…? "I won't have anyone else."

Now that he was closer, he could tell how Komaeda was being affected. His face was flushed, and Hajime felt the bizarre urge to lick the droplets of sweat running down his neck. Komaeda wrapped his arms around himself again, gripping his jacket so tightly that Hajime was worried the fabric would rip.

"Please, Komaeda, this is unbearable. I can't wait any longer. I need you to touch me, t-to… I need you. Please, I'm begging you..."

"Hinata… Don't make this decision just because I'm the only one here..."

Who else was there? There was no one but them. Hajime closed the distance between them and grabbed Komaeda's arm, dragging him into the motel room. "We're friends," he said. "I trust you."

The breath was knocked out of Hajime's lungs when his back hit the wall, and he didn't have time to catch any air before Komaeda was kissing him. For a second, he was back in the diner, cornered against the window by Souda, but this was not Souda's taste or his scent. This was the partner he was going to invite into his body to finally quell the heat.

"I'm sorry," Komaeda whispered, pinning him more firmly against the wall. "I want to be more gentle… and figure out what I'm doing, but I..."

Hajime rubbed against the thigh that had been forced between his legs, unable to contain the moan that broke past his lips. "N-No, this feels… Is s-sweet even a feeling?"

"I have no idea, Hinata."

"I-It is." Hajime gasped when teeth pricked against his neck. Wouldn't this hurt, normally? "Komaeda—!"

The pleasant weight suddenly pulled away, leaving Hajime to sag against the wall. He focused his hazy gaze on Komaeda, and laughed.

_"Barely an alpha_," Hajime couldn't help mocking, unbuttoning his shirt. He purposefully rubbed his wrists against his chest as he went, desperate for any sort of contact. "You've got the look of somebody who's lost their mind."

"I have." Trembling, Komaeda raked a hand through his hair. "I don't know what I'm doing. I can't be gentle."

Hajime wanted nothing more for that crazy look to stay on Komaeda's face. He undid his pants, sliding his hand underneath the waistband of his underwear. "Don't be gentle," he said.

It was amazing how quickly Komaeda could move when he was motivated. Hajime barely had time to yank his hand out of his pants before he was hauled off the wall and thrown carelessly onto the bed.

"Is this some sort of harassment, Hinata?" Komaeda asked, shrugging off his coat. "It isn't as if I have no pride at all, you know. Since you've picked me, it's not like I have any choice but to prove myself."

Hajime kicked off his own pants, then shimmied out of his underwear, pitching them across the room. They were soaked and useless now, anyway. "Hurry up," he whined.

Komaeda didn't hesitate, crawling onto the bed to pin him down again. Hajime kissed him greedily, arching up into the hands that explored his body. He was so unbelievably hot; every pore in his skin had to be saturated with sweat. A curious finger suddenly found its way _there_, and Hajime's body jerked in agonizing pleasure.

Never, not even while getting himself off, had he touched himself there.

Hajime cried out again when the finger pressed _into_ him. He rocked down on it, desperate to get it all the way inside. But Komaeda was pursuing his own curiosities.

"It's very wet," he said breathlessly. "Why is it so wet?"

"I'm an omega. That happens." Hajime moaned happily when the finger pushed all the way in. "Please… _Please_..."

Komaeda laughed into his neck. "This is too much for me. You're so far beyond my expectations, Hinata!"

"Y-You had expectations?"

A second finger was added, stretching him wider. Hajime gnawed on his bottom lip, fighting off the urge to babble incessantly. If this carried on any longer, he was going to die.

"Can you fault me for being curious?"

A particularly sharp jab set every single nerve in his body on fire. He was dying, _god_, he was dying—

"The beautiful person who pays attention to me is also an omega," Komaeda purred, rubbing against that spot over and over again. Hajime couldn't breathe. "Of course I had considered what this might be like… But my imagination is no good, you know? My silly fantasies can't even begin to hold a candle to—"

"_Fuck me_," Hajime yelled, digging his nails into Komaeda's shoulders hard enough to make him flinch. "If you run your mouth like a lunatic for one more second, I'm going to fucking castrate you!"

"Ahh… Yes, I'm sorry. Teasing you while you're in heat is totally cruel."

Komaeda didn't look particularly remorseful when he sat back to remove the rest of his clothes. In fact, he looked deviously pleased with himself. Hajime decided Komaeda was a sadist, and draped an arm over his eyes so he wouldn't start to think _that_ was hot, too.

Hajime's skin was burning so fiercely that Komaeda's hands still felt cool when they spread his legs. He let his arm fall away from his eyes as Komaeda settled against him, reaching up to pull him down for a kiss. It was just as sloppy and desperate as the others, and Hajime felt like he was going to come just from Komaeda rocking against him, but he wasn't hating this. The horrible itch that the heat created was finally being scratched.

"Inside me," he gasped. "Please."

Hajime could barely contain himself while Komaeda entered him. It hurt—it was excruciating_—_but the pain only made the fire blaze brighter. He wanted this, he _needed_ this—to be filled like this. No, _filled_ wasn't even the right word. As Komaeda paused, deep inside him, Hajime certainly felt full, but more than that, he was… connected.

He'd never let anyone else touch such a sensitive place. Just the thought of it used to make him sick to think about; the idea of going into heat and becoming the sort of person who spread their legs for anybody. But no one had explained to him that if you met an alpha who desired to _possess you_, the idea of "anybody" suddenly vanished.

Komaeda's pale, gray-green eyes swirled with madness. "Will I be enough to satisfy you, Hinata? Lowly, incompetent me, with no experience?"

The moment of pain had passed. Arching his back, Hajime ground his hips into Komaeda's as hard as he could from the angle he was at. The itch was back. "Fuck me."

And Komaeda did, with hard thrusts that bowed his back and stole his voice. The heat in his body tightened until it was impossible to hold anymore and he came, spattering sticky fluid between them, but it was like a single sneeze in a fit of sneezes. Hajime was still hard, he still hurt, he still needed Komaeda in him.

He wrapped his legs tight around Komaeda's waist, angling his hips up so the spot that made his toes curl and his vision go white could be touched. A cry ripped from his lungs when Komaeda slammed into it. Hajime jerked violently, digging his nails into Komaeda's back. He might've come again; he couldn't tell.

Komaeda suddenly buried his teeth in Hajime's shoulder, breaking through the skin as his hips stuttered. Hajime flinched from the bite, grinding down hard on Komaeda's dick.

"Hinata—!" Komaeda's voice was breathless, breaking in his ear.

The wetness inside him grew, and Hajime shivered, realizing what it was. His alpha had marked him. "C-Come in me again," he whined, kissing Komaeda's neck and jaw. "Please… I need more. That felt so good, I… I want you to get me pregnant!"

Hajime jerked back in horror at the _thing_ that had just come out of his mouth. Even though male omegas were something of an anomaly, heat was still a reproductive urge, so it wasn't totally insane that he'd said something like that in a fit of passion, but… he still _said_ it. And to _Komaeda_, no less.

But Komaeda didn't laugh. If anything, the intensity of his gaze increased. "I'll do anything you want," he said, sliding down to kiss Hajime's chest. "If it's a request from you, I'll do anything."

Tangling his hands in Komaeda's messy hair, Hajime moaned softly as one of his nipples was licked and sucked, then the other. "M-Make me so nobody else will ever be able to touch me, so I'll never be able to be satisfied by another person. Make it so I c-can't even please myself anymore… Drive me insane, Komaeda, please…!"

Komaeda sat up, licking his lips. They were wet, as was his chin—probably from Hajime's semen. Hajime keened when he reached between his legs, stroking his dick. It almost hurt, he was so hypersensitive. When Komaeda flicked his thumb across the tip, Hajime nearly kneed him in the gut.

He was going to die. Komaeda was going to kill him.

"Driving somebody insane..." Pinning Hajime's hips down with his free hand, Komaeda continued to rub his thumb over the head of his penis. "That's definitely a thing even someone as worthless as me can manage."

The flames engulfed him.

* * *

Hajime's throat hurt as his voice tore through it again. His body seized, jerking, as he came, adding yet another stain to the sheets. Komaeda's teeth found a marked spot on his neck, biting into one of the many fresh wounds there. Hajime shivered, clenching around him. If Komaeda came, he couldn't even feel it anymore. Everything had all mixed together. There was no longer a Hajime Hinata who did not belong to Nagito Komaeda.

His limbs couldn't hold him up any longer and he collapsed onto the bed, panting into the pillow. He'd totally lost track of what time it was, what _day_ it was, and how many times they'd had sex. Every so often, they drifted off, only for Hajime to wake up again, trembling with need.

Komaeda dropped down beside him, pressing against his back. The skin there itched, but Hajime knew that was from the marks on it.

"You'll be finished soon," Komaeda said, wrapping an arm around his waist.

"...How do you know that?"

"If I can tell when you're going into heat, I should be able to tell when you're going out of it, right?" Komaeda sighed heavily against the back of his neck. "I'm suddenly very exhausted."

Hajime blinked. Had the temperature in the room dropped, or had it always been this cool? "Oh… Sorry. I didn't even think about that..."

"Getting placed in front of you during heat is like being in heat myself. As long as an omega needs it, an alpha is capable of satisfying them over and over and over… I never thought of myself as able to do that, but I suppose even someone like me is a slave to that sort of hierarchy."

"It's cold." Yanking the sheet up to his neck, Hajime pulled Komaeda tighter against him. "I wouldn't have asked you to do this for me if I thought you weren't going to… satisfy me or whatever. I mean, you..."

Just thinking back on the way Komaeda looked at him made his cheeks flush in embarrassment.

"You were pretty aggressive, you know. I've heard of alphas who keep their omegas marked, but I think you went a little trigger happy. My neck fucking hurts."

Komaeda laughed, gently kissing some of the marks. "I'm sorry. You could ask Tsumiki to take a look at them when we return to the others..." He trailed off, making an unhappy noise. "Actually, I don't know if I'll be able to let you do that."

"The pharmacy sells disinfectant," Hajime said, turning over to face Komaeda. "I can take care of it."

"Or I can."

It was more than natural to exchange kisses while they spoke, but, much to Hajime's relief, the intense arousal did not return. "Guess that's fair," he murmured. "Mm… Hey, um… Thanks."

"Huh?"

"For… y'know. Having sex with me an obscene amount of times in the span of, like, four days."

Komaeda laughed again. "Isn't that something most people would jump at the chance to do?"

"Sh-Shut up, you know what I mean. You were going to refuse. Thanks for not running off and leaving me with somebody else."

"I wouldn't have done that. As much as much as I wanted to abide by what you told me, if you'd sent me away, I doubt I would've been able to go far. Just the other side of the door, perhaps."

"And you would've waited?" It hurt too much to keep his head tilted up, so he smushed his face back down into the pillow.

"Ah… It's almost embarrassing to think about now," Komaeda said. "Really, I don't know when I got it in my head that I could please you..."

Hajime furrowed his brow, snuggling Komaeda tighter. "But you did."

"Only because you were desperate. Any of the others would've been more desirable to you, had they been present."

"Didn't you see me run from Souda and lock myself in the shower room? I asked you to stay because I appreciated the concessions you were trying to make for me. I've never had to deal with alphas before while being… being in heat. You even knew I was an omega, didn't you? And you never took advantage of that."

"Because I understand my place—"

"We're friends though, aren't we?" Hajime rubbed his fingers over the partially scabbed over marks on Komaeda's back. "Although… now we're a little more than that."

Komaeda exhaled sharply. "I-I thought… you wouldn't want to see me again after this. What I've done is… deplorable. I've _defiled_ you, I—"

"—made me yours." Summoning the last of his strength, Hajime propped himself up on his elbow so he could look down at Komaeda. His hair was gross and matted, and his lip was bruised from where Hajime had bitten it too hard. He was beautiful. "And I made you mine. So we're even."

Komaeda stared at him with a befuddled expression. "You… want to stay together after this?"

"Of course I do, dumbass. After we leave this motel room, after we leave this island..." Hajime leaned down to peck his lips. "We'll be partners from now on."

"Hinata..."

Hajime shook his head. "Call me by my first name."

"Th-That's really—!" If Komaeda's eyes got any wider, his eyeballs would pop out of their sockets. "Hinata, I—"

"Hajime."

"Nn..."

"Say it."

"Hin—"

"_Nagito_," Hajime purred, sliding his hand over Komaeda's chest. "There's no point in pretending we aren't _familiar_ with each other anymore."

Komaeda gnawed on his bottom lip, looking everywhere but at Hajime. "I… suppose not… Hajime."

A shiver ran down Hajime's spine, making him grin. "Hearing you say that almost makes me want to go back into heat."

"Y-You aren't serious, are you?"

Hajime laughed at his panicked expression. "No," he said. "I think even one more time would kill me."

"It would kill us both."

"Look, it was my first time with an alpha. I got too excited."

"Mm. No kidding." Grabbing him around the waist again, Komaeda pulled him back down for a cuddle. "I want to shower and eat, but I'm afraid I'll pass out before I can do either."

Hajime nodded in agreement. "Everyone is probably losing their minds. I'm sure Usami is pissed, too..."

"Later. Sleep."

Smiling to himself, Hajime closed his eyes. It didn't take long for Komaeda's breathing to slow; he must really have been exhausted. That was fine. Hajime wasn't planning on leaving his side ever again.

* * *

After an undetermined amount of sleep, he and Nagito finally managed to get themselves together enough to leave the motel. Hajime was astonishingly sore, and regretted egging Nagito on to be rougher with him. He felt like he'd been tossed inside a cement truck. At least he _could_ walk, though. Although it was entirely possible that his ass actually hurt so much that it had gone numb.

The reached the hotel restaurant right at lunchtime. Hajime steeled himself for the inevitable outbreak of chaos.

As expected, the moment he walked into the restaurant, he was mobbed. There were too many voices at once, too many people vying for his attention. Mioda, Souda, Owari, Hanamura, Saionji, Koizumi, Nidai, Tsumiki, Togami, all wanting to know where he'd been, what happened, was he alright.

"H-Hinata, you look t-terrible!" Tsumiki exclaimed. "You need to be examined immediately!"

"Where the hell have you been, anyway? All sorts of weird rumors have been flying around," Koizumi said.

Togami not-so-gently nudged Tsumiki out of the way with his tonnage. "You had us all worried sick, vanishing like that!"

Hajime stepped back, pressing his fingers to his temples. And here he'd just gotten his headache to settle… "Look, if you just calm down, I'll explain—"

"Whoo!" Owari reached out to roughly yank his collar aside. "Look at those! Vicious!"

Everyone suddenly crowed closer. Hajime wanted to die.

"Ah! Those are clearly the marks of an impassioned lover!" said Hanamura.

"Whose are they?" Mioda demanded. "We'll have to get dental impressions from everyone if Hajime won't tell us!"

Saionji gave him a harsh jab in the chest, followed by an ugly expression. "Something about you is different. I dunno what, but I don't like it. When I figure it out, I'm gonna bop you on the head!"

"S-Something is a bit different about him, isn't it?" Souda said, eyes flitting nervously throughout the group. "Like something off? Something n-not there anymore?"

"Well, Hinata?" Nidai boomed. Unlike everyone else, he just seemed genuinely amused by the proceedings.

Hajime couldn't breathe. He wanted to answer, but he was overwhelmed. There was no clear place to start.

Nagito's voice suddenly cut through the clamor.

"I would greatly appreciate it if you would all keep your hands off him."

It was immediately easier to get air once Nagito stepped in front of him. Without thinking, he fisted his hands in the back of Nagito's coat.

"Honestly, this is incredibly annoying," Nagito said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Seeing Ultimates like you act so desperate over an omega you don't even realize you lost is almost enough to make me lose hope altogether."

"O… mega?" Souda echoed. "Y-Y-You mean Hinata's really…?!"

Mioda let out a distressed wail, pulling her hair. "That's why Hajime always smelled so nice? Man, this is a serious bummer!"

"You guys are such perverted idiots, getting excited over something like that," Saionji said, turning away. "Plus, you're even bigger losers for letting him get snatched up by that creepy ragmop."

"Woo-hoo-hoo-hoo! You mean those are Komaeda's marks?" Owari asked, laughing. "For a scrawny guy, you don't mess around!"

"That's right. Hajime belongs to me. Of course, even against just one of you, I'm woefully outmatched as an alpha," Nagito said. "But I still wouldn't advise trying your luck."

Hajime pressed his face into the back of Nagito's neck to hide his grin. His beautiful alpha was protecting him, even though Hajime could also easily lay him out. "Your luck is better, isn't it?" he giggled.

Grumbling among themselves, the others dispersed. Hajime was starving, but he dragged Nagito out of the restaurant anyway. They could find something to eat at Rocketpunch Market. Once they were in the hall, Nagito staggered a little, rubbing his forehead.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me..."

Hajime pecked him on the lips. "I like this possessive side of yours."

"It's… cruel of you to continue to tease me like this."

"I'm not trying to tease you," Hajime said. He cupped Nagito's face, stroking the alabaster skin with his thumbs. "Telling the other Ultimates off for my sake is a pretty big deal, coming from you, who loves them more than anything else."

"It's more the hope that they embody—"

Taking advantage of Nagito's open mouth, Hajime easily slipped his tongue in for a deep kiss. He pulled one of his hands from Nagito's face, sliding it down over his chest instead. Beneath the thin fabric of his shirt, Hajime could feel his heart pounding.

"But I'm the most important thing to you now, aren't I?" Hajime asked.

Nagito nodded, wrapping his arms around Hajime's waist. "It's something like… our souls are tied together now, isn't it?"

"I'm not complaining. Even if I hadn't gone into heat, I wouldn't have complained." Smiling, Hajime rested his forehead against Nagito's. "I really enjoy spending time with you."

"That… really makes me happy, Hajime."

The world fell away.


	104. (T) KLAPOLLO - Dog Days by myalatti

Dog Days  
myalatti

Summary:  
Three times Apollo's bracelet reacted when he didn't want it to and two times he did.

Or alternatively, being a human lie detector isn't as fun as you'd think it is.

* * *

Trucy stood in the front doorway, her hands clamped tightly around the doorframe to prevent any possible chance he had to escape. Her eyebrows were knitted together in annoyance - something quite unusual for the normally easygoing girl - and she stared him down, making him feel like he was the size of an ant. Smaller than that even, more like half an ant or even just the head of one. For someone not even five foot tall, she certainly knew how to be threatening and made him wonder just what he'd done to provoke this storm cloud.

"Come on, Polly! It's a concert, you have to dress up a bit more than that."

Oh.

He felt a bit bigger now, like a bull ant instead of one of those little black ones. "I'm wearing jeans, that's dressy enough for a concert, isn't it?"

"No way, you need a button up shirt instead of that tee. Or maybe some chains or something since it's a _Gavinners_ show." Her grip on the doorframe tightened when she said chains, as if she was worried he was going to make a break for it.

"There is no way I am ever wearing chains," He protested. "But I'll wear a coat if it'll make you happy. It's pretty cold out anyway, so I'll probably need it." She smiled and dropped her arms, satisfied that he wasn't going to bail anymore. Not that she had reason to worry anyway, he never was, and he'd promised he would go so he might as well stick it out.

Speaking of, can you believe it? They were going to _another_ Gavinners show. The band (bar one member, of course) were performing some special reunion performance at the biggest outdoors venue in the city and Klavier given him and Trucy tickets. Free this time, not just a twenty percent discount like that other fiasco of a show. Trucy had gone on about how considerate it was of him but Apollo knew that he'd probably just had a bunch of free ones to give out, that or he was making enough money from the overpriced tickets that it didn't matter that they didn't pay. Him, cynical? _No_, why would you even think that?

As soon as he'd been given the ticket, he had handed it to Mr Wright with the excuse that the last concert he'd been to, someone had been murdered so he probably shouldn't go again. Mr Wright hadn't had any of that though and handed them straight back, _"you kids go have fun, I'm too old for that sort of thing."_ Never mind that he was only thirty-four, but details. So now he was being dragged along to a much too loud and much too crowded concert with absolutely zero desire to be there. Don't get him wrong, he definitely considered Klavier a friend now, but he'd been working all day and was so tired that he really didn't feel like dealing with the noise...

"Apollo is right," A third voice chimed in and they both looked up at Mr Wright who had been quietly reading on the lounge until now. "It is cold tonight and the concert is outdoors so you should take a coat too, Trucy."

"No, it'll ruin my outfit, I don't often get to go out and dress up like this." She whined and he sighed.

"Alright, it's your choice, but don't say I didn't warn you if you come home freezing," He stood up and crossed the room to ruffle her hair. "You look beautiful, by the way. You'll stand out more than the band does." She smiled at her father and Apollo felt a sudden surge of brotherly pride. She was almost seventeen, a young adult now and looked so grown up compared to when he first met her. He took a deep breath and swallowed the lump in his throat, why was he so sentimental? He only worked at the agency, it's not like they were actually a family, right?

"Oh, it's almost six, we have to go!" Trucy suddenly yelped and dashed over to Apollo, grabbing his arm and yanking him up from his seat. "It's going to be a long show, so don't wait up, dad!"

"Okay, okay," He laughed, ushering them out the front door. "Have fun you two. Oh, and Apollo?" He turned to the younger attorney who suddenly felt like an ant again. "Please take care of Trucy, it's going to be very busy there tonight."

"You can count on me, Mr Wright!"

"I know."

Pressure on his wrist.

He glanced down quickly and then back to his boss. He didn't seem tense nor was he scratching the back of his neck or swallowing or anything, but the bracelet had reacted and that meant he was lying. He didn't trust him to look after her, did he? The whole murder thing at the last concert probably was the driving force of his concern, but they'd been through a lot together since then so that should have been water under the bridge. That made it worse actually, that even after that he didn't trust him. It hurt.

There wasn't much time to think about it though and soon enough he found himself whisked into a taxi and travelling towards the other side of the city, bracing himself for what was going to come.

* * *

"Let's go, Polly!" Trucy led them through the crowds of people milling around, chatting to one another now that it was the first intermission and around the back of the stage. There was a large doorway guarded by more security than necessary and the look of them made Apollo nervous. They were way taller than he was and even though it was nighttime, some of them were wearing those stereotypical bouncer sunglasses, which even though looked kind of stupid added to the threatening look. Anonymity, freaky stuff.

Didn't seem to bother Trucy though and she walked right up and explained they were friends of Klavier's. The main security guy didn't seem to believe her though and shook his head when she tried to get past, informing her that she'd have to do better than that. Balling her fists up, she tried again and asked him to send a request to the band and even showed him their tickets, though there wasn't anything special like VIP written on them. Eventually he conceded - though he probably just wanted her to stop bugging him - and disappeared through the doorway.

"He'd better let us in," She remarked when she was standing back by him again. "Otherwise we'll have to sneak in…mind you that would be fun. Let's do it, Apollo!"

"No, no," He held up his hands in protest, Mr Wright's words echoing in his head - _please take care of her_. The last thing they needed was to be caught trespassing, Mr Wright would never trust him again after that and he'd rather not be arrested tonight, thank you very much. "I'm sure he'll be back soon and then we can go talk to Gavin."

"_Fine_." She drew out the beginning of the word and poked out her tongue. He poked out his back and then they fell into a silence, well sort of a silence at least. You couldn't really call anything silent when there were thousands of people around you and your ears were still ringing from the entirely too loud music.

Finding nothing else to do, Apollo surveyed the area around him. The rest of the audience was still hanging around the now empty stage and he sighed with relief to be out of that mass of sweaty bodies, all shouting lyrics to songs he didn't know but probably should. Despite how noisy it had been, the show had admittedly been pretty cool. There were huge screens on both sides of the stage showing close ups of the band members and different levelled platforms and visual effects and everything. Klavier really knew how to perform too, he talked to the audience like they were his best friends and he really appreciated them being there. They lapped it up, cheering and deafening him whenever he started speaking. Or singing or even just breathing.

He did that with Apollo too though, now that he thought about it. Whenever they had coffee or lunch he'd look at him like he was the most interesting thing in the world and would listen to him speak, which was such a rarity in people these days. Watching him treat his fans this way though made him wonder if he actually did enjoy his company or if he was just keeping his rockstar face on. Not that he cared though, why _would_ he care?

He felt something shift next to him and found Trucy had moved closer, she was shaking but still staring impatiently at the door. "Oh, are you cold now? Should have listened to your dad, huh?"

"Maybe," She grinned. "It's just because we're standing still."

He sighed and pulled his arms out of his sleeves, handing the coat over to her. The things he did for these people, honestly. "Wear mine, I'm pretty warm now anyway." She put the jacket on and they laughed at the size of it, the sleeves were way to big and made her look tinier than usual. It did the trick though and she stopped shivering soon after.

Five minutes later and the security guard finally re-emerged from the doors, shaking his head. He informed Trucy that unfortunately no ticket holders were allowed backstage, but it was said with a sort of manic grin that both scared and seriously disturbed Apollo. She glared at the man crossly as he took his post at the door once more and when she deemed he wasn't looking, nodded for Apollo to follow her behind a tree on the outskirts of the arena. He asked what they were doing, but she just held her finger up to her lips as a signal to be quiet.

Peering from behind their vantage point, they could see the guards were chatting amongst themselves and not working too hard. Pointing to a small window that was brightly lit up, she nodded and grinned. _Oh no she wasn't going to do what he thought she was, was she?_

"On the count of three." She whispered and then mouthed the numbers. She reached the end of the countdown and as quietly as possible, made a break for it as quickly and quietly as possible across the large expanse of lawn towards the backstage window. Apollo hesitated but Mr Wright's voice was still ringing in his ears and he found himself following her, climbing up the wall and through the conveniently unlocked window. Just as he pulled his legs through, a different guard noticed him and yelled something out. The backstage doors were thrown open and it was suddenly a mad chase and they ran down the corridor trying to find Klavier's dressing room.

"Trucy, we're in trouble," He panted. "What if he doesn't even want to see us?"

"I'm sure he does," She shrugged, seemingly non-fussed that the guards were gaining on them. "I don't reckon that guy even asked him." They were in such a state that they almost ran past the room marked Gavin but luckily Trucy noticed it last minute and yanked on his arm (and almost dislocated his shoulder) so he wouldn't go any further. She knocked on the door and Apollo threw a worried glance towards the rapidly advancing guards, five more seconds and they'd be detained for breaking and entering for sure.

"_Ja, hereinkommen_." No clue what it meant but taking it as an invitation to come inside, Trucy opened the door up anyway revealing Klavier standing there looking...exactly the same as always. He greeted them with a small wave and an expression that was more confused than anything else. Apollo bent forward, hands on his knees and catching his breath while Trucy leant against his should till she recovered too. Klavier watched them amusedly and when he deemed them relatively alright to answer, asked, "What's going on?"

"Security wouldn't let us come talk to you so we came in through the window instead, but they saw us. Anyway Mr Gavin, that was amazing!" She gushed, yanking on Apollo's arm so he was standing next to her and very close to Klavier. So close that he could even smell him, and he smelt good. Cologne, and probably a very expensive one at that, but not too much so that it was overbearing.

"Ah well, if they had just asked I would have let you in," He laughed and Trucy gave him a look of told you so. "And _danke, fraulein_. Everything is going smoothly which is great, a bit better than the last concert you guys went to."

"There's still time," Apollo grinned and Klavier laughed, but it was kind of bitter. He still mourned the loss of that guitar; it was all he ever heard about when instruments were brought up. "But yeah, it's alright so far." The dressing room door was opened again at his point and he felt his stomach lurch and his heart almost leap out his throat; we're still not off the hook. There were about twenty security guards standing there but Klavier dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

"_Alright_, that's the kindest thing you've ever said about our music," He winked, completely unfazed all the people that hard just barged in. "By the way, were you guys standing with Ema? She was right near the front but I couldn't see you two."

"Ema? What's she doing here? I thought she hated you."

"Hates me but doesn't hate the music. Plus, I think she has a thing for our drummer," He shrugged his shoulders and Apollo kind of wished he'd seen her. She was always so wound up whenever they ran into each other, it was hard to imagine her liking anyone. "I thought you knew she was coming, aren't you friends?"

"Hardly," He snorted. "The extent of our friendship is her throwing food at me and then me eating it, which I guess isn't too bad. Free food is always good food."

"You make me laugh, Forehead." He smiled and Apollo felt his cheeks flushing red. To avoid blushing and embarrassing himself even further, he averted his eyes and trailed them around the room. There was a lounge chair by the wall and noticing him eyeing it off, Klavier nodded and he took a seat, glad to be off his feet. He didn't listen to much else of what they were saying, not that he needed to anyway as it was mainly Trucy telling him how she loved this part and that part and how the big G on the back of the stage had been really cool, totally stroking his ego.

He only realised how much time had passed when she shook his shoulder and told him it was time to go back outside.

"I...I might sit this one out." He yawned, the idea of rejoining that sea of people suddenly really unappealing.

"Aw come on!" Her hands were on her hips.

"Leave him," Klavier chuckled. "I'll take you out to Ema, she'll look after you. Let Apollo be boring," She nodded happily and he watched him steer her out of the dressing room, Ema would probably take care of her better anyway, he thought with a frown. "Also, Herr Forehead," Klavier quickly added before disappearing completely. "You can stay in here if you want to, it's the quietest place in the whole venue."

Once they were gone, he stuck his head out the doorway to make sure he was all clear before starting to look around the dressing room. Sure, he was probably invading Klavier's privacy, but the prosecutor had invited him to stay so he figured everything was fair game. He didn't find anything interesting though, just a whole rack of different outfits by the wall and several pieces of paper with what he could only assume were song titles on the dressing table. He leafed through them; they were all fairly similar except the top one was marked with a tick and scribbled next to it was the word_ 'use'._

He recognised some of the songs - _My Boyfriend is the Prosecution's Witness_ and _Guilty Love_, but the rest he'd never even heard of before. The one that caught his attention the most though was titled _I'm Like a Lawyer with the Way I'm Always Trying to Get You Off_ and he put the set list down, eyes wide. Who knew law enforcement could be so inappropriate? That reminded him of something else to talk about to Gavin though and he made a mental note to bring it up later.

At that moment, loud guitar started blaring through the speakers and he sat down again, finding nothing else interesting to look at. If this is what the quietest room was like, he shuddered to think how loud everywhere else was. Resting his elbow on the armrest and then his head in his hands, he felt his eyes start to droop closed. He just needed to chill for a moment, he'd been up since six trying to finish copious amounts of paperwork for the agency and he was _exhausted_. He blinked once, twice trying to keep them open, but not even the way too noisy rock music could save him at this point and soon enough he was fast asleep.

"_Wirklich?_" The voice cut through his unconscious state and he looked up sleepily for the source of it, though it was all kind of blurry at the moment. "Only _you_ could fall asleep at a concert, Herr Forehead."

Right, concert.

Dressing room.

Shit, where was...? "Where's Trucy?" He was suddenly wide awake and mad at himself for staying in here, no wonder Mr Wright didn't trust him.

"Don't stress, _liebling_," Klavier replied. "She's chatting to the security with Ema, they love her magic tricks," He felt relief flood through him and if hadn't been sitting down, his knees would have buckled. If something had happened, he never would have forgiven himself. "You looked really concerned there for a second, why is it such a big deal?"

"Because I'm supposed to look after her but Mr Wright doesn't think I will." His voice echoed around the too quiet dressing room and he was surprised to hear how much he sounded like a whiny little kid. _Way to impress the biggest rockstar in the country, Apollo._

"_Ach_, why wouldn't he?" There it was, the pressure on his wrist again. Not Klavier too! He shrugged his shoulders grumpily, getting fed up with this now. Picking up on the fact he wasn't happy (though you didn't have to have bracelet to notice that one), Klavier leant down so their faces were close and he could see the sweat from the hot stage lights glistening on his forehead and said with a smile, "You look good tonight, the blue shirt is nice."

Apollo supposed his intentions were good but this stupid piece of metal around his wrist had reacted again and instead of taking the compliment, he just felt miserable. He knew he should have worn red instead of blue. When Trucy had first explained all perceiving stuff to him, he hadn't thought about how it would pick up every lie, even ones he didn't want to hear. "Thanks." He muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and slumping down in the chair.

"Don't be so down, it doesn't suit you." Klavier straightened himself up and traipsed across the room, making his way towards the rack of clothes. He flicked through the various outfits, pulling a purple jacket with a G embroided in silver thread on the shoulder out and placing it on the dressing table. He kept looking and after painstakingly examining three more jackets - black ones this time though, he settled on one with gold buttons. Lastly, he pulled a white shirt off the hanger and hung it over the back of the chair

Then (because he couldn't be done yet) he held up the two jackets for Apollo to see and the attorney pointed to the purple one, claiming it was less tacky and loud. Klavier feigned offence at his comments but discarded the black jacket back to the rack anyway. Completing the cycle, as he wasn't going to stop any of his regular interval habits just because Apollo was there, he pulled off his old jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, letting them fall to the ground in a heap. He'd pick them up later.

And it was here that it hit Apollo. He was in the dressing room, the _dressing_ room, the room where people got dressed of Klavier Gavin, rockstar and prosecutor extraordinaire, alone while said singer stood in front of him shirtless. Later if you asked him about it, he would say that he had never blushed harder in his life. This was insane.

"I like that one better too." He remarked, oblivious to Apollo's staring. He...he was just so...careless about it! Didn't even mind that there was someone else in the room, Apollo would have covered up in an instant if that were him. Then again, Prosecutor Gavin was attractive and therein lay the difference...wait, no he hadn't meant that, he was not attracted to him. He sunk down even lower in the chair, trying to think of something else other than Klavier while still keeping his eyes fixed on him. Bit counterproductive but whatever.

Eventually he noticed that the young attorney had not blinked in over five minutes and a smirk crossed his face, _shit he'd realised_. "Do I make you uncomfortable, Herr Forehead?" He purposely positioned himself so the harsh fluorescent lights made his pearly whites glint when he spoke and he became even more of a distraction than before. Apollo shook his head, willing himself to think fast and come up with something witty to say so he didn't make even more of an idiot of himself.

"Of course not,_ Piano_," He scoffed, using the English variation of his name. _Come on; come on think of something to say!_ "It's just I...I uh...have a bone to pick with you, yeah that's it," Klavier's smirk dropped and he cocked his head to the side in confusion. Scrambling to save himself, he thought back to that set list he'd been looking at earlier and the title of that one song. Remember he said he had something else to say? "Well, it's more of an observation than anything else. I'm not annoyed at you so don't get too excited."

"I'd be more concerned than excited to be honest, _schatzi_, but lay it on me."

He inhaled deeply so he could speak in one breath. "When I was out there with Trucy and those _thousands_ of other people just _dying_ to hear your voice, I realised that a lot of your lyrics go over the audience's heads."

Klavier's mouth curved up into a smirk again, an expression that said_ I knew you'd notice_. "Oh yeah? Give me an example."

"There's that one song," He was on a roll now. "I don't know what its called, but I think it goes _'your head can be a prison and these are just conjugal visits'._ Klavier, that's _dirty_." He laughed at the last word and Apollo grinned, he was starting to adjust to the semi-naked prosecutor in front of him and the whole scene seemed a bit more natural and less terrifying than it had at first.

He ran his fingers through his hair and Apollo suddenly had the urge to touch it, it looked so soft and shiny. "So you did listen to our music then tonight?"

"Hardly," He rolled his eyes. "I don't mind that song though, it's catchy and not as annoying as the rest."

"Ach, shot through the heart," He held one hand over his chest and the other on his forehead melodramatically, stumbling like he had indeed been used as human target practice. He turned to the dressing table mirror once recovering and started redoing that spiral ponytail thing, humming the tune to said song. Soon the humming turned into actual words and while they were sung under his breath, Apollo could still hear them. "._..I'm boring but overcompensate with headlines and flash photography, but don't pretend you'll ever..._"

Something was odd about that first line but he couldn't quite put his finger on it. He was still singing, but Apollo ignored him in favour of replaying the words in his head, trying to work out what wasn't quite right about them. ...Oh. Cameras, headlines – _Big Gavinners reunion concert tonight! The question on all the fans lips is who will fill in as the new guitarist? Read more on page four._ Oh! He suddenly stood up from his seat, surprising Klavier and stopping him mid-verse with a finger point reminiscent of Mr Wright's. "That song is about you, isn't it?"

Hesitation. Lying.

"No, it's not."

"You're lying to me," His face fell and he turned away from the attorney, pulling the new shirt on and buttoning it up with stiff shoulders. His stomach knotted up and he knew he'd touched a nerve, a nerve deeper than he'd probably find out about tonight, but why? Everyone had something they were self-conscious about (even star prosecutors) and apparently he'd just discovered Klavier's. With a sigh, he placed a hand on his back and swallowing his pride said, "If you're boring, Klavier, then I have no idea what the rest of us are."

His shoulders relaxed slightly and he could see the corners of his mouth quirk up slightly. "But I am, I just say what everyone wants to hear, be it to the press or in court."

He cast his mind back to the articles he'd read about the prosecutor, some of them had definitely been…less than complimentary and for the first time he understood that that sort of thing did affect a person, no matter who they were. "You're not saying what I want to hear now," He started to rub circles, tracing his fingers lightly on the material of his shirt at first and slowly getting bigger till he was running his hand up and down his whole back. This was weird; he'd never thought Prosecutor Gavin could be anything but confident. "Where has the other Klavier gone? The gold-record selling prosecutor - which by the way is the most interesting job combo ever - who's never worried about anything? I miss him."

He reached over his back and grabbed Apollo's hand with his own (making the guy flinch at the unexpected contact), clasping their fingers together so he could turn around and face him. He could feel his face heating up again and he willed himself to chill out. "I'm sorry, that was rude of me."

"It's fine," He mumbled. Risking peeking up at the prosecutor, he quickly noted that he was looking at him with that familiar but no less complimentary expression of appreciation, the one he'd noticed with the fans before. But this kind of felt real and it was directed completely at him. Unfortunately though, it also made him blurt out, "Why doesn't anyone trust me to look after Trucy?"

Klavier chuckled, still holding onto his hand and using the other one to flick his hair spikes. "You really want to know?" A nod. "Well, it pains me to say this but the only reason I can think of is because you're short, I don't know if you could take anyone."

Awesome. There it was. "Great."

"And now you either want to kiss me for being honest or punch me in the face, don't you?"

"No," _Yes, both. Mainly the latter though._ "But _you_ want to kiss me."

"_Nein_."

His bracelet tightened but it made him grin this time. "You do, you're lying," Klavier's eyebrows knitted together in confusion but he didn't say anything. Instead he leant forward, seemingly going to do it but then pulled away before he did anything. Aw, rude. "Hey, you know I won't complain if you do."

And this time he didn't pull away, placing his lips right on the middle of his forehead. They were soft and the kiss was gentle and probably a thousand times better than anything he could ever give to Gavin, so instead he just squeezed his hand tight and tried to keep his breathing as normal as possible.

The banging of the door opening followed by Trucy's loud voice made them spring apart, but it was too late. "Hey Apollo, I got to meet the rest of the...wow, Klavier Gavin kissed you? You are so lucky, I want a famous rockstar to kiss me one day!" He looked towards Trucy, finding her standing there not just by herself but also with Ema and all the other members of the Gavinners that he'd yet to meet. Awesome, these weren't exactly the best circumstances to get introduced to people in let alone _famous band members_.

"_Ooh_ Klavier, is that the guy you-" One of them chimed in and was soon silenced by a glare thrown their way.

"Time to go back on stage," He snapped, letting go of Apollo's hand but tracing something with his index finger before he let go completely. It made him shiver and he looked down at his palm, there were no marks but he could swear he had lightly written a G on there. It made him smile, _what a dork_. "_That_ other song may be about me," He bent down and whispered it before disappearing to the wings with the rest of his band. "But the third song in this set is about_ you_, Herr Forehead."

He blinked a few times before turning to Trucy and Ema, the latter who was looking at him with a disgusted look on her face. Later she told him that not even for a million dollars would she kiss that glimmerous ("_Glamourous, Ema._") fop and she couldn't believe he had either. Trucy asked if he was coming out with them this time and he nodded in a daze, following them outside and not really noticing anything that was going on around him. He certainly hadn't expected this today.

He only managed to shake himself out of it when they started playing the third song and the second worst blush in his life replaced his vacant stare. Thank _god_ the stage lights kind of washed everything out, this was terrible.

"Now this is dedicated to one Apollo Justice in the audience tonight."

Damnit, it was the stupid lawyer song.


	105. (G) GUMSWORTH - No Chance by forkflinger

No Chance  
forkflinger

Summary:  
Gumshoe may not have had a soulmate himself, but he always liked the idea anyway. Some people were just so perfect for each other that the universe wrote it on their skin and brought them together. Discovering that the man he had fallen in love with had a soulmate didn't shake his belief, even if it broke his heart. But Edgeworth wasn't interested in his soulmate, and that just didn't make sense.

* * *

Most research estimated that soulmates made up somewhere around thirty percent of the population world wide. Odds were pretty good that they'd find each other though, somewhere above ninety percent. If you had a soulmate, you were set. That didn't mean that you were doomed if you didn't have one. It just meant you had to be a little more proactive about your love life.

Gumshoe wasn't so great at that. Growing up, he'd had a couple crushes, went on a few dates in high school, had a little fun in college, but never anything serious. Now he was busy with his work, too busy to waste time on finding somebody. Also, he was already desperately in love, and it wasn't doing him any good.

One night, he found himself alone at a bar with the man he loved. They'd come here in a group, Mr. Edgeworth and Mr. Wright and Maya and him, celebrating a verdict, and then at some point Mr. Wright and Maya had left. Now it was just him and Mr. Edgeworth, having a drink and talking. Gumshoe wasn't sure why Edgeworth would stick around just to talk to him, but he was happy about it. Any time outside of work with Edgeworth was precious. Gumshoe had a beer and Mr. Edgeworth had some kind of fancy liquor, and it was just the two of them. Just talking.

Gumshoe knew not to get too excited. Mr. Edgeworth was probably just being polite by staying so long. It was a little selfish of Gumshoe to keep him here, really, and he should call it a night - but it was nice to see Mr. Edgeworth so relaxed, and casual, and maybe even happy. So Gumshoe kept talking.

Somehow the conversation had veered to the topic of soulmates. And by conversation, he meant his own ramblings, with infrequent interjections by Edgeworth. They'd been talking about some TV show, one Edgeworth hadn't seen, and Gumshoe had been explaining the plot, and Edgeworth had said something and now here they were.

"I always kinda wished I'd get one," Gumshoe said, swirling his beer. "Like that it'd just show up one day, I'd just wake up and see, 'Hey, pal!' written on my forehead. Even after I knew that wasn't how they worked."

"You're not missing anything" answered Edgeworth. "The whole concept's overrated."

"I think it's a nice idea. I dunno, maybe you'd think different if you had one."

"I do have one," he said plainly, as if it wasn't an announcement, and Gumshoe's heart sank. "And I know who they are."

Gumshoe swallowed and hesitated just a second too long. "T-that's great, sir!"

"I don't believe in it."

Gumshoe frowned. "How can you say that? If you have one - hang on, why aren't you, y'know, married or something?"

"Because I don't believe in it." Edgeworth drummed his fingers on the side of his glass. "Things just don't work that way. I've seen too many cases involving so-called 'soulmates' to think it's a magical ticket to happiness." He took a sip. "Soulmates cheat," he said. "Soulmates hurt. Soulmates kill, just like anybody else."

"But - but if you have one, and you know who it is - you should at least try!"

Edgeworth shook his head. "I've met him, and while I'll admit there's a connection, it's not… romantic. We will always be important to each other, but..." He shook his head. "It's complicated."

"I think it's supposed to be simple. I mean, if I had one, and I met them, isn't it just supposed to…" He waved a hand in the air vaguely.

Edgeworth laughed, tinged with bitterness, but with a smile on his lips. "We met as children," he said, shaking his head. "And then - well, you know as well as anybody what happened. That Miles Edgeworth is long gone."

Gumshoe nodded slowly, lips pursed. It woulda been rude to start guessing who Mr. Edgeworth was talking about, but he figured he knew, and he really wanted to know for sure. He wasn't gonna say it, though. No matter how bad he wanted to. Really really bad.

Edgeworth watched him silently for a long moment. Finally, he rolled his eyes. "Go on. Ask."

The words burst from Gumshoe. "Is it Mr. Wright?"

"Yes," Edgeworth confirmed, and the pit in Gumshoe's stomach dropped even lower. "It is." He rubbed a spot on his arm, almost unconsciously, and Gumshoe wondered if that was where the words were. "I'd expected I'd never see him again after I moved to Germany, but then one day, there he was."

"Th-that's destiny!" Gumshoe declared, loudly enough to hide the quiver in his voice. "I mean, how can you say, after all that, that soulmates aren't real?"

Edgeworth sighed. "Wright has become a very dear friend," he said, staring vaguely into the distance. "I have no doubt we'll always be in each other's lives. I'm not quite sure how to explain it, Dick. I supposed my heart's just not in it."

It didn't make sense. Soulmates were supposed to love each other. That was the whole idea! And of course soulmates were perfect for each other, and - hang on. What was that?

"Did you just call me Dick?"

Edgeworth froze, his drink halfway to his lips. "Did I?"

"You did!"

"Hmm." He set the glass down. "My apologies, Detective. I don't mean to be too familiar."

"You don't have to apologize, sir! You can call me whatever you want." He couldn't remember the last time Edgeworth had called him by his first name. Possibly never. He'd been referred to as 'Detective Richard Gumshoe' on occasion, usually when he was in trouble, but never 'Dick.' It sounded kinda nice the way Edgeworth said it.

Edgeworth stood abruptly, his chair scraping across the wooden floor. "Thank you for the company," he said, his voice suddenly cold. "I should be going now. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Oh." Gumshoe looked down at the table, at Edgeworth's still half-full glass. "Okay, sir! Um… I'll see you!"

Edgeworth nodded and turned away, walking quickly to the bar. Gumshoe watched him exchange words with the bartender and hand over a card. Edgeworth didn't look back as he paid and left without so much as a glance. Gumshoe waited hopefully until Edgeworth disappeared before slumping into his chair. What did he do? He knew he'd screwed up, but he didn't know how. He shouldn't have said anything. He'd done something dumb, and then he was too dumb to know what it was. Maybe that was why he didn't have a soulmate. He'd be too dumb to recognize them anyway.

He tried to finish his beer, but it wasn't exactly fun anymore. With a heavy sigh he heaved himself up out of the chair and brought both drinks back to the bar. "'Scuse me, pal," he said, signaling the bartender, "can I pay my tab?"

"Nope," answered the bartender. "Your friend got it for you."

Gumshoe blinked. "Mr. Edgeworth?"

"Yup. You're all set."

"Huh. Thanks." Gumshoe left the glasses on the bar and walked out, hands stuck in the pockets of his coat. That was nice of Mr. Edgeworth. Guess he couldn't have screwed up too bad. He started his walk home a little happier.

The conversation stayed in his head for the next few days. He wasn't going to say anything, though - he was good at that! Well, sometimes. But he could stay quiet about this! Well, maybe.

He'd always been a big believer in the soulmates. His parents were soulmates, and he'd grown up on stories and tv shows and movies about it. The ones about people who didn't have soulmates were always a little sadder, but there were still happy endings to be found.

Then he'd grown up, and gotten into the police academy and the real world. It wasn't like the movies, and he knew that. He wasn't that dumb. There was still a part of him that always believed, though, even once he was promoted to homicide and saw firsthand the worst of what people did to each other, and to the people they loved.

And he'd met Mr. Edgeworth.

Mr. Edgeworth was handsome and brilliant and brave and strong and talented and so, so wonderful, and he would've been out of Gumshoe's league even if he hadn't been his boss. But that didn't help, so Gumshoe always bit it back and swallowed it down and never said a thing. But a part of him had always hoped. Faintly, quietly, uselessly.

Mr. Edgeworth had a soulmate and it wasn't Gumshoe.

Gumshoe was good at pretending he didn't mind. He'd had a lot of practice over the years, after all! Lots of time pretending, and being satisfied with scraps, and hiding pangs of jealousy when he saw Mr. Edgeworth and Mr. Wright together, and then the guilt because he had no right to be jealous. It was a little sharper now, because now he knew, for sure, that he'd never had a chance in the first place.

That was okay. He would be okay.

It didn't go away like he hoped it would, though. Mr. Edgeworth had a soulmate, and that soulmate was right there, but they weren't together, and that didn't make sense no matter what Edgeworth said. Soulmates were supposed to love each other! That was the whole deal! Why wouldn't Edgeworth do something? He had trouble sometimes with taking care of himself - working late, skipping meals, stuff like that. Maybe this was more of that. Maybe it was whatever it was that made him think he didn't deserve it - which was ridiculous, and Gumshoe would never understand how anyone could fail to see how great Edgeworth was, including Edgeworth himself.

And why wouldn't _Wright_? His soulmate was Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth, for crying out loud, one of the best people in the world, and he just wasn't doing anything about it? Even somebody as dumb as Gumshoe knew better!

It bugged him, especially when he saw them together - talking, but not holding hands. Eating together, but sitting apart. Laughing and parting ways without even a touch. Phoenix Wright had everything Gumshoe ever wanted, promised to him by the universe, and all he had to do was reach out and take it. Why wouldn't he?

Gumshoe wasn't gonna say anything. He shouldn't say anything. He couldn't.

There'd been a body found downtown, behind a museum, and they'd been assigned the case. Edgeworth's personal investigation was wrapping up, and they'd gotten a pretty good picture of what happened. Then Wright showed up, which usually meant everything was gonna be way off base. Gumshoe filled him in and let him poke him around; that was what Edgeworth had told him to do, after all. He kept an eye on him, though, as he wandered through the crime scene, examining the body, digging through the trash, and talking to Edgeworth.

That last part kinda got to him, today. Wright and Edgeworth. Buddies. Friends. Soulmates. He saw Edgeworth laugh at something Wright said and point him towards a corner of the scene. Wright, in turn, made a face and sighed heavily. Anyone watching could see they were friends. They didn't look like soulmates.

Gumshoe clenched his jaw but tried not to react as Edgeworth nodded and walked towards him, leaving Wright behind. "I'm going back to the office," he said. "Keep an eye on things here."

Gumshoe saluted. "You got it, sir!"

Edgeworth patted him on the shoulder before walking away, leaving Gumshoe to watch over the crime scene. And his soulmate, currently eyeing a dumpster suspiciously. It wasn't fair.

Gumshoe wouldn't say anything. He shouldn't. He couldn't.

He had to.

He marched over to Wright, planting his feet directly in his path. "Hey, I gotta talk to you, pal!"

Wright stopped just short of crashing into him. "Woah, uh. Sure? What's up?"

"C'mere." He grabbed Wright by the arm and dragged him around a corner. He wasn't rough, but Gumshoe was strong enough that he could pretty much move Wright as easily as he could Pearl. It was no effort at all to push Wright out of sight of the main investigation.

"Do you have a soulmate?" Gumshoe demanded.

Wright blinked at him. "What?"

Gumshoe poked a finger into Wright's chest. "Answer the question, pal!"

"Wow, okay, ow." Phoenix rubbed the spot where Gumshoe's finger had made contact. "Uh. Yeah?"

"And do you know who it is?"

"Yeah. So?"

"So? So?" Gumshoe threw his hands up. "Why haven't you done anything about it!"

Wright frowned up at Gumshoe. "You okay?"

"Oh, I'm fine, pal, I'm tryin' to figure out what's wrong with you!" Ugh. He actually wasn't feeling so great. He had that sick sinking feeling in his stomach, but he pushed on anyway. "If you got a soulmate then you oughta be together, so why aren't you?"

"Look, it's not that simple - "

"It's real simple, pal! You get the words, you find the soulmate, and you live happily ever after."

"What's gotten into you? Why is it any of your business who my soulmate is or what I'm doing about it?"

Gumshoe grabbed Phoenix by the shoulders. "What if your soulmate's waiting for you, huh? What if he's just waiting and you're just not doing anything about it? You gotta do something!"

Phoenix narrowed his eyes. "How did you know my soulmate's a man?"

Gumshoe froze, eyes wide. "I… I guessed!"

"Gumshoe, are you - "

"I gotta go," Gumshoe said, dropping Phoenix. He practically sprinted around the corner and back to his car, because he had to go catalog evidence anyway and definitely not because he was running away, of course not. He could see Phoenix in his rear view, rubbing his arm, as he drove away. Aw, heck, he shouldn't have done that, should he? It was driving him crazy, thinking about Edgeworth not getting to be with his soulmate. Poor Edgeworth, all alone, stuck with nobody but Gumshoe. It wasn't fair. Edgeworth could be happy! And if Phoenix Wright was what was keeping that from happening, well, Gumshoe just wasn't gonna stand for it.

He had a feeling he was just making excuses for himself.

That afternoon, the autopsy landed on Gumshoe's desk. He stared at the Manila folder for a minute before flipping through it. This had to go to Edgeworth, which meant he had to go to Edgeworth. Usually he was happy about that. Now, he couldn't shake a sense of dread.

When he reached Edgeworth's door, he paused to take a deep breath. Then he knocked. After a moment he heard a response, so he eased the door open and entered.

Edgeworth was seated at his desk, hands folded in front of him. He didn't react as Gumshoe approached and laid the folder down.

"Uh… got the updated autopsy report… sir."

Edgeworth often looked mad. But he didn't look mad now. Now, Edgeworth looked _pissed_. Edgeworth looked like he was about to send Gumshoe to the chair, and he probably woulda deserved it, too. He wasn't sure why but he was about to find out.

"I received a call from Phoenix Wright," he said, his voice cold as steel. "He told me about your encounter at the crime scene."

"Y-yes, sir. I, uh - "

"You're fired."

Gumshoe's heart stopped. "What?"

"Get out of my office. I don't want to see you again."

No, no no no. Gumshoe's mouth gaped open. "W-why?" he stammered.

"Out. Now."

"Wait, I - I'm sorry! I'm sorry, please, don't - I'm sorry!"

Edgeworth hadn't budged. "You used personal information, information I told you in confidence, _private_ information, to publicly assault and humiliate Wright."

"No! That's not what - I wasn't trying to - "

"You betrayed me," and for the first time there was a crack in his voice. "I trusted you and you used that trust for your own agenda."

"I just wanted you to be happy!" Gumshoe shouted. He took a shuddering breath in the silence that followed, fists clenched to stop from shaking. "I - I thought maybe he didn't know, or or or maybe it was, there was some reason you weren't - but maybe there wasn't, and I think sometimes you don't want to be happy and I don't know why you're not together with your soulmate. It's supposed to make you happy." He was rambling, saying things he shouldn't say, but he couldn't stop. "I just… I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean - I didn't even think about - I - I screwed up, sir. I'm so sorry." He stood there, staring at the ground because he couldn't bear to look Edgeworth in the eye, on the edge of tears. He'd screwed up so, so bad, and now he was going to lose his job and never see Edgeworth again and probably have to move back home or go back to being a mover and give up Missile and never see Edgeworth again and stop being helpful, stop being useful, never see Edgeworth again. "I just wanted you to be happy," he mumbled.

The silence stretched out as he waited for a response, but none came. He wasn't gonna get one. "I'll give my badge and stuff to the chief," he said, pulling it from his pocket and looking at it. "I… goodbye, sir. I'm sorry."

Gumshoe trudged to the door, a space of a few feet that felt like a few miles. If he could make it out before he started crying that would be just about the last good thing he could do for Mr. Edgeworth. Ever. And it was gonna be hard, because he reached for the knob and squeezed his eyes tight and twisted it and held his breath and pulled the door open and bit his lip and took a step -

"Wait."

Edgeworth's voice was quiet, almost plaintive, and it stopped Gumshoe cold. He didn't dare to move, every muscle frozen, until he felt a hand on his shoulder. Even then, even as Edgeworth turned him around and pushed the door shut, he still couldn't look up. "Why?" Edgeworth asked.

"You're supposed to be with your soulmate," Gumshoe muttered.

"But I told you I didn't believe that."

"I know, but I don't understand. I mean, I thought maybe Wright didn't know you were his soulmate, because that was the only reason I could think of. And then he said he did know, and I got mad."

"But why? Why is this suddenly so important to you?"

Gumshoe fell silent for a moment. He couldn't come up with a good reason, except for the truth. But he wasn't supposed to ever say that.

"You got a soulmate," he said carefully, "which means somebody gets to have you for a soulmate, and that's the luckiest guy in the world. And then I found out that he didn't care, and I just don't get it. You're supposed to love each other and be happy."

Edgeworth cleared his throat. "I do love Phoenix," he said. "He's a very dear friend, one of the most important people in my life, and I am confident that he loves me as well. But there are different kinds of love, not just… what you seem to think soulmates should be." Edgeworth stepped away and it took a conscious effort for Gumshoe not to follow. "You love your mother, don't you? Your friends? Your dog, little Pearl? But you're not _in_ love with them."

Gumshoe furrowed his brow. "Y-yeah…?" He still didn't get it, and apparently it carried in his voice because Edgeworth sighed.

"Regardless," he said, pushing through it, "I understand that you meant well. I…" He cleared his throat. "I don't want to fire you. But I need to know I can trust you. What you did today was inappropriate."

Gumshoe'd never been bungee jumping, but he thought he might know what it felt like now. "Y-yes, sir. I'm sorry, sir. Thank you. I won't… I won't ever… I'm sorry."

Edgeworth rubbed his arm, looking away. "You don't need to concern yourself with my happiness," he said quietly. "It's not your job. I'm sure you have other things to keep you busy."

"Not really," Gumshoe muttered.

"Oh?" Edgeworth glowered at him. "Do I need to give you more to do?"

"That's not what I meant!" Gumshoe sputtered. "I meant it's not a problem! I know I don't hafta, but I like taking care of you. I want you to be happy!"

Edgeworth's gaze softened, and he examined Gumshoe for a long time. Finally, he said, "Love exists outside of soulmates."

"I know," Gumshoe answered, too confused by the sudden shift to stay guarded.

"How do you know?"

"Because I - uh." He couldn't say it, he knew better than that. Because Edgeworth had a soulmate, and it wasn't him. Except - except that wasn't true. Or, it was, but it wasn't like that. But even without that there were still so many reasons he couldn't say it. Edgeworth was his boss, and that was bad. And Edgeworth was so smart, and so handsome, and Gumshoe was a slob. Even if he had a chance he didn't have a chance. With the soulmate thing out of the way he was just left with all the reasons he was personally not good enough.

"Please," Edgeworth was saying, in a tone Gumshoe had never heard from him before, soft and sad and weird. He stepped closer. "Tell me."

"I - I shouldn't."

"Do it anyway."

"I - " Gumshoe swallowed hard. Edgeworth was so close now, and looking up at him with those gorgeous eyes that sparkled like crystals, and his silver hair fell just so across his forehead, and his lips, his lips, stop looking at his lips! He closed his eyes but that didn't help because now he could smell him, something like libraries and mint, and feel the heat of his hand as he placed it on his shoulder. He fought as hard as he could, but in the end he had no chance. He never did.

"I love you," Gumshoe whispered.

He couldn't look. He didn't know what he'd see - disappointment, anger, amusement - but it would hurt. There was no happy ending for him here. He'd always known that. This was just the end of a dream.

The hand on his shoulder slipped away.

Two arms wrapped around his chest and squeezed.

Gumshoe looked down, eyes wide with shock. Edgeworth was hugging him, face buried in his shoulder. Still staring, Gumshoe lifted his arms and hugged him back, because how could he do anything else? One hand wound up on the back of Edgeworth's head and he let it stay there, nestled in that shimmery silver hair.

Edgeworth made a sound, muffled against Gumshoe's coat. He turned his head so he could speak. "I never thought…" He trailed off, still clinging to Gumshoe. Gumshoe, for his part, was completely lost. He should be begging for forgiveness, or out on the street, or - or anywhere, really, except for here, with Edgeworth's arms around him. He didn't belong here. This wasn't for him. The universe had decided that long ago.

But…

"I have a soulmate," Edgeworth said. "And for many many years, I thought I'd never see him again. And that meant that no one - who would want somebody marked for someone else?" His voice was shaking. "Then he came back, and I was so different from the child he'd known. I might as well have been a different person from the soulmate he'd been promised. And I didn't love him the right way."

Gumshoe didn't respond, except to squeeze a little tighter. He'd never heard Edgeworth like this. And he still wasn't sure what he was trying to say, but he was going to let him say it.

"We talked about it. About you. He always thought I should tell you, but I… it wouldn't be fair. You deserve better than someone who can't give you everything."

"Please." Gumshoe's chest ached, and his eyes hurt. He couldn't take it. "I don't understand."

He thought he did, which was the real danger; he was probably wrong, because it was impossible. And if he screwed this up, who knew what would happen?

Edgeworth pulled back, just enough to look up and look Gumshoe in the eye. "Could you love someone with a soulmate?" he asked. "Someone who you know isn't yours? Someone who can't give you their soul, only their heart?"

Gumshoe nodded gravely. "I just told you that, didn't I?"

Edgeworth stared at him, searching his face for any sign of doubt or weakness, but Gumshoe met his gaze without flinching. It was too late now to flinch. And he still didn't, even when Edgeworth grabbed his lapels and pulled him into a kiss.

It felt like rain in a hot dry summer, and Gumshoe drank it in as greedily. He pulled Edgeworth closer and Edgeworth responded by pushing back until he was pressed against the door. His hand fell to the small of Edgeworth's back and his fingers clenched in Edgeworth's hair. If he wasn't anchored by the door at his back they would have floated away as the world disappeared. Edgeworth was moaning against his lips and pressed against him and this was the best dream he'd ever had because it felt so real. He'd wake up any second now but if he could just wait, if he could stay here just a little longer -

Edgeworth pulled away, gasping, and he was still there because it was real. It was real, it was real, and when Edgeworth placed a hand on Gumshoe's cheek that was real, and when he kissed him again that was real, and when he finally stopped, resting his forehead against Gumshoe's neck, that was real too.

Eventually, Edgeworth cleared his throat. "I… I apologize for the outburst," he said, and Gumshoe chuckled. "This isn't how I… would have hoped for this to go."

"I don't mind." After a second, he frowned. "Am I still fired?"

Edgeworth laughed, and if Gumshoe had thought he couldn't have felt better he'd been wrong. "No," said Edgeworth, lifting his head. "You're not fired."

Gumshoe sighed in relief. "Thanks. I'm still really really sorry."

"I know. I thought - I don't know what I thought." He ran a hand through his hair. "I was so angry, and I barely remember why now. And I almost sent you away. God, what if I had? You were almost gone."

Gumshoe brushed a stray hair out of Edgeworth's eyes. It was just as soft as he'd always imagined. "I'm right here. Not going anywhere."

"I know. I know." Edgeworth took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm sorry," he said after a few seconds. "I've been through a lot of emotions today. I'm not… good at that."

"'sokay. Do you want me to let go?"

"No," Edgeworth answered so quickly he cut Gumshoe off. "No," he repeated, more softly. "Please."

Gumshoe nodded, and didn't let go. They stood for several minutes in silence, with nothing but the sounds of their own heartbeats. Eventually Edgeworth pulled away, and Gumshoe obliged him by opening his arms and allowing him to escape.

Edgeworth shook his head. "We both have work to do," he said, straightening his jacket. "I need to examine that autopsy report, and you, ah…"

Work. Right. Gumshoe'd forgotten. ...what was he supposed to be doing? "I gotta… go catalog the evidence?" he guessed.

"Yes. That sounds… that sounds right." It wasn't often that Gumshoe saw Edgeworth this out of sorts. "But this evening, perhaps, uh, would you care to… to come over? For dinner?"

"Yeah." Gumshoe smiled, and Edgeworth smiled back and it was like a flower blooming from under snow. "I'd like that."

"Good. I'll see you then." Edgeworth didn't move, still so close to Gumshoe. After a long, long moment, he stepped back, and Gumshoe immediately missed the contact.

"Um. Before I go…" He rubbed the back of his head. "C-can I kiss you again?"

Edgeworth nodded, so Gumshoe took him by the hand and brought him in again. This time the kiss was deep and slow, and it was even harder to break away. Edgeworth had to push gently on his chest to separate them, and Gumshoe still didn't let go of Edgeworth's hand.

"Right. I… uh. Right. Okay. I, um. I should go." How was he supposed to leave now? What if Edgeworth changed his mind? "I mean, I don't… I don't _have_ to go."

"Dick." Edgeworth squeezed his hand. "This has been… a lot. I need some time."

"Right! Right. Sorry." Gumshoe released Edgeworth's hand, shoving his own into the pocket of his coat. "Uh. Bye."

Before he could stop himself again he turned, grabbed the knob, and pushed through. He took a breath. Edgeworth had a point, like he usually did. A lot had happened in a very short time. Some time to stabilize was probably a good idea. He'd go back to his desk, focus on the case, calm down a little. And then -

And then, later -

He started walking, because if he didn't put his feet to work they were gonna break into a little happy dance. As it was, he was still practically skipping through the halls.

Edgeworth had a soulmate. But Gumshoe had a chance.

* * *

The moment the door shut, Edgeworth collapsed onto the couch. His heart was racing, his knees were weak, and he - he needed -

His phone was on his desk, so he staggered toward it and sat heavily in his chair. The autopsy report went completely ignored as he grabbed the phone.

It rang once before Phoenix answered. "Hey!"

"Gumshoe was here," Edgeworth gasped, giving up the struggle to stay calm.

"Oh, no, Miles. Tell me you didn't do it."

"No. I - I mean yes, I did, or I tried to, but he - Phoenix, I told him. I told him everything. I couldn't - I told him."

There was a pause, the length of a few breaths, before Phoenix prompted, "_And_?"

"He - he said - he said he loved me, and I didn't know - I kissed him." His cheeks were growing hot at the memory.

The sound that came through the phone was something that should have come out of a middle-school girl and not a grown man. "I knew it!" Phoenix squealed. "Oh my god, Miles, Miles I knew it! You have to tell me everything. I'm coming over after work and you have to tell me _everything_."

"No, you can't! I - I invited him over tonight." He groaned. "Why did I do that? Am I supposed to cook something? I don't know how to cook. Is he going to expect me to cook?"

"Miles. This is Gumshoe. You could feed him stale saltines and he'd love it."

"But I can't - !"

"You've seen the man eat literal garbage. Just order a pizza and relax. Besides, he's not going to be there for the food."

"What? What's that supposed to mean?" Edgeworth frowned. "Wait. You don't mean - do you think he's going to…"

He trailed off, and he could hear Phoenix's stifled laugh. "His incredibly hot boss just made out with him and invited him over? Yeah. I think he's _going to_."

"We didn't _make out_! Oh my god." Edgeworth let his face fall onto the desk. "What have I _done_?"

"Hey, easy. Calm down. You wanted this, didn't you?"

"Yes, but - I don't know. It's too much."

"Miles. Listen. Here's what you're going to do, okay? You're gonna go home. You're gonna take a shower. You're gonna order a pizza. And then just see what happens. Relax for once."

"I can't. I - I should tell him I can't, I should call it off, I should - "

"Do you really want that? Or are you just scared?"

Edgeworth answered with silence.

"Yeah, that's what I thought."

Edgeworth sighed. "You're right. For once."

"Ah, I never get tired of hearing that."

"It's rare enough."

Phoenix laughed again, and this time Edgeworth smiled. Despite himself, the anxiety in his chest was loosening up. Sure, it was easy for Phoenix to be calm about it when he wasn't the one involved. But his confident reassurances were working, and Edgeworth could breathe normally again. "Thank you."

"Do you need me to buy you some condoms?"

Edgeworth hung up.


	106. (E) MERTHUR - I Stepped Out of Time and

I stepped out of time and landed in your lap  
surrenderdammit

Summary:  
_Suddenly he remembers how young Merlin looked in their bed, how he trembled and how he blushes. How he's dressed in those old rags of his servant days that he hasn't seen in bloody _years_. Groaning, Arthur ends the kiss and leans his forehead against Merlin's. "Please don't tell me I've been sent back in time and took you to bed like a brute."_

Basically a PWP one-shot with a dash of time travel.

* * *

Arthur awakes already annoyed; his body so finely tuned to his lover it feels his absence even in sleep. Grumbling, Arthur gropes blindly for any evidence of how far Merlin has gone, face still pressed into his pillow in his unwillingness to face something as foul as morning alone. When the sheets prove to have gone cold, however, Arthur opens his eyes if only to glare at the empty pillow beside him. He thought he'd dealt with this properly already; it would seem Merlin will need yet another reminder why it is not a good idea to leave the King's bed before the King is well ready to allow him to.

Making further disgruntled noises, Arthur pokes his head up and surveys his rooms, blearily searching for his insolent bedmate but finding his quarters unacceptably empty. He'd been promised a proper wake-up last night, and waking up to anything short of a sleepy-warm and dazed Merlin is simply not acceptable. Determined to set things straight, Arthur pushes himself up, kicks off his sheets, and swings his legs over the edge to get off the bed.

"You better not make me look for you," Arthur mutters, standing up and walking over naked to fetch a clean pair of breeches. He doesn't bother with any underthings or even a tunic, he simply intends to stick his head out the door and demand a search party for his wayward sorcerer if must be. Just as he's making to cross the room, however, his doors are flung open and said sorcerer is backing inside with a tray full of food.

Arthur frowns, wondering petulantly if this was Merlin's idea of a proper wake-up. He might have acted too soon, missing waking up for a breakfast shared in bed, but no, surely Merlin could've just called for a servant and then come back to bed? Arthur watches Merlin's tongue stick out in concentration as he turns and kicks the doors shut, eyes focused on the tray in his hand to keep it steady. Arthur smiles fondly, his irritation subdued for the moment, and crosses his arms over his chest as he waits for his lover to acknowledge him. Merlin sets the tray down on the table, turning around to make his way over to the bed, no doubt planning to wake Arthur up with soft, teasing kisses. It's only now he sees Arthur, and Arthur is glad the tray is no longer in his hands, because Merlin startles with a yelp and clutches his hand to his chest like a faint maiden. Arthur can't help but chuckle.

"Really, _Mer_lin," he tuts, grinning while shaking his head. He allows his eyes to wander and is disappointed to see that old neckerchief in place, hiding the marks he'd worked so diligently on last night. He notes Merlin is back in his old rags as well, for some reason, and frowns as the first stirrings of concern interrupts his inspection of a flushed, startled Merlin. "Whatever are you wearing, Merlin? Has something come up?"

His lover looks puzzled, having gathered himself now, though he seems thrown off from the rant he was no doubt building up to in his mind before Arthur spoke. "Um," he says, titling his head as Arthur comes closer. "No? Just...I was down in the stables?" Here Merlin wrinkles his nose, making Arthur grin, because _there_, _that's_ the adorable face he'd been looking forward to greeting him. "Not all of us change clothes every time a piece of mud gets stuck somewhere, you know."

Arthur rolls his eyes and motions for Merlin to sit, watching with amusement as he goes to set the table instead. "Really Merlin, only you would roll out of bed to go down and spoil my horses," he drawls, walking up behind the younger man with smooth, quiet steps. "They're bred to be fierce, brave and strong steeds meant for war, not docile pets to snuffle your ears."

He's crowded up behind Merlin now; gripping the edge of the table with his hands on either side of Merlin's hips, and steps in as close as he can. Merlin's back is curved into Arthur chest and his delightful rump is a warm pressure against Arthur's growing arousal. Arthur breathes deep and steady, nosing in behind one of those ridiculous ears to bask in the warm scent of his lover. He can detect the sharp smell of horse and straw from his worn clothes, the smoke and herbs from his potions, and the earthy musk that is purely _Merlin_. Humming in content, Arthur allows his hips to rock against Merlin's bottom, grinding his hardening length in slow, lazy movements that has Merlin tensing up against him and letting out a strangled moan.

"Arthur," he breathes, titling his head to bare his neck, and Arthur makes a noise of approval before descending on it with lips, teeth and tongue. The neckerchief is still in the way, but the skin just behind and below his ear is vulnerable and free for Arthur's attentions. His teeth capture a piece in a light bite, his lips closing around it to seal it in the wet heat of his mouth before he sucks, not letting up even as Merlin writhers in his arms. As always, he is so sensitive there, and Arthur doesn't stop until his moans are breaking apart. He leaves several purple and red marks behind, so many they seep into one in places, and reaches down to cup Merlin's stiff cock through his breeches.

"Come to bed, darling," Arthur whispers against the skin he's been suckling, kneading his hand around Merlin's cock and giving a suggestive thrust of his hips to further entice his lover to bed. Not that Merlin needs much persuasion, most of the time, but Arthur is still slightly put off from waking up alone and finding him clad like this instead of naked with him.

"_Finally_," Merlin groans, much to Arthur's amusement, before he's arching his back and rubbing his little bottom against Arthur's cock. It makes him growl playfully, and he nips Merlin's ear, before reluctantly dragging himself away so he can steer them back to bed. Merlin goes easily, shaky with need and wide-eyed in lust. A spark of excitement settles low in Arthur's stomach, reacting to Merlin's responsiveness this morning. It's a delightful mood his lover finds himself in at times; needy and desperate to spread his legs for Arthur if he's not pushing him down to ride him until Arthur's a swearing mess underneath him.

Now, Merlin seems almost afraid that Arthur will leave, which is ridiculous, but he's clinging hard to Arthur's hand and pulling him down onto the bed with him. Arthur settles comfortably between Merlin's spread legs, pushing their hard cocks together, and blanket's the younger man's body with his own. In response, Merlin whimpers, shivering underneath him and the black of his eyes has swallowed the blue until there's just a sliver of it left. Arthur rocks against him and bends down to capture his lips, surprised at the sloppy, messy kiss he gets in return. Merlin must be far gone; farther than he usually is this early on, which means he must have worked himself up all morning for this. Meaning he started without him.

"Naught boy," he growls, having slipped a hand into Merlin's messy hair to yank his head back enough to arch his pale, lovely throat so Arthur can nip at the skin. Merlin shivers, a strangled noise of enjoyment ripped from him as Arthur licks a stripe up his throat and across his chin, lapping teasingly at Merlin's parted lips to taste the mess of saliva left from their kiss. Straining, Merlin tries to capture his mouth but Arthur still has a good grip on his hair and tugs in warning, chuckling when it earns him a whine. Merlin still mouths at his tongue as it swipes across his lips, and Arthur teases for a moment more before he dips into that wet heat and muffles the sound of his own moan.

"I'm going suck you off," Arthur pants when he ends the kiss, tugging at Merlin's hair again to get him to open his eyes. Long, dark lashes flutter against pale skin as his lover blinks him into focus and Arthur can't resist pressing soft, gentle kisses beneath each beautiful eye. "Then I'm going to play with your nipples and kiss you raw until you're hard again. Then I'll lick you; fuck you with my fingers until you're open and pliant for me. You'll take my cock so good then, won't you darling?"

"_Fuck,_" Merlin swears, staring up at him wide-eyed and desperate, before frantically starting to attempt unclothing them both with hands and flashes of golden, warm magic that crackles like lightning. "Fuck, Arthur, I need you. Gods, I need you _now_."

Groaning, Arthur levers himself up to help the process along, feeling his cock twitch desperately in response to Merlin's eager, fumbling hands grabbing him all over. He's only got his breeches on, for which he is thankful because they're the first to go, but Merlin's ridiculous get-up is more of a frustration. First to go is the neckerchief, and he feels a spark of annoyance when he notes the absence of his marks from last night. He hates it when Merlin heals them over and Arthur decides to bite a _necklace_ of bruises in retaliation. But first, he needs Merlin naked, so he rips off the scratchy tunic without even bothering to untie the belt, enjoying the hiss of annoyance it gets him as he yanks it over Merlin's head and off his arms. Then he does need to deal with the belt, and the laces, before slithering down Merlin's body to tug breeches, shoes and socks off in one go. He perfected the art of undressing his lover years ago, though he's a bit rusty with these old clothes from a time when they were servant and prince. That thought gives him pause and he wonders, for a moment, if perhaps there was a reason to why Merlin came dressed like this. At first he had assumed Merlin had changed into them for the stables, but maybe... A wicked grin spreads on Arthur's lips and he gazes hotly at his panting lover from under his lashes, watching him squirm and blush. It almost looks like he wants to cover himself, like he's unsure. No, not unsure..._untried._

A bolt of lust strikes Arthur at the thought, making him moan and bend down to bury his face in the sharp jut of Merlin's hip. He never set out to know who took Merlin's innocence, not wanting to dwell on it because he knows his own nature, and it's a possessive and petty one when it comes to things that are _his_. It can be ugly and he tries his best to rein it in, especially when it comes to Merlin, but sometimes... Well, sometimes he just can't. For the most part, Merlin is lightly annoyed but mostly amused by it, though this is a subject Arthur had never dared to push on because Merlin has such strong _feelings_ on certain subjects and shaming those who aren't virgins is one of them. He'd once given a visiting young lord boils for jeering at a poor unmarried woman big with child, and glared with great disappointment whenever any of the knights toed that line. So for Merlin to be acting this coy, as shy as a blushing maiden on a wedding night, and in his old clothes! It sets Arthur on fire, this staged set-up for taking Merlin for the first time, of being _the first_.

Growling, Arthur bites at the vulnerable flesh of Merlin's belly, noting as always that his lover is far too skinny, before he dives down to swallow his leaking cock down to the root. Merlin shouts out in shocked pleasure, curling into himself until he's almost sitting up, and buries his hands in Arthur's hair. Swallowing around the cockhead, Arthur savours the hard length before pulling off, leaving a mess of saliva behind as he settles with just the tip enclosed between his lips while his tongue teases drops of salty fluid to leak into his mouth.

"Fuck, _Arthur_, that's...oh gods, don't stop, _please_," Merlin whimpers, tugging at Arthur's hair and jerking his hips uncontrollably. Pinning him down with an arm across his hips, Arthur dips down to take in more once again, breathing in carefully through his nose before swallowing down Merlin's twitching cock again, and again, and again, until Merlin is a sobbing mess. It doesn't take long for him to come, all arching and stiff, his shout of startled pleasure wrangled from him as Arthur seeks out all the sensitive spots with lips, tongue and teeth. The thick, salty mess of hot fluid which floods his mouth is easily swallowed, though Arthur lets some of it escape because he knows how much Merlin enjoys seeing the thin trail of white run down Arthur's chin so he can smear it over his lips and lick it off. Right now, though, his powerful sorcerer is a panting mess; hands flexing in Arthur's hair still, and eyes wide and unfocused as he stares blankly at the ceiling. The power Arthur feels in moments like these are akin to putting on his crown some days; frightening, but right. Something to work for, to be deserving of, but something he knows bone deep that he is _born_ to wield. It never fails to be exhilarating, although it is sometimes like holding a newborn by the edge of a cliff; scared stiff that you will drop it, knowing you'd jump right after it anyway.

"Arthur," Merlin whimpers, catching his full attention from where he's been licking Merlin's cock clean of excess come and saliva. He feels him tug at his hair, a demand he knows means to come to him, and so he goes; crawling up Merlin's body to soothe the still shaky mess of his lover. Merlin's breath catches, and he stares at Arthur with wide, amazed eyes; honest and so, so sweet. "_Oh_," he breathes, hiccupping on a sob, before pulling Arthur down for a sloppy, wet kiss where he licks Arthur clean amongst breathy moans and unsteady breaths.

"Mmm," Arthur hums, content, although his cock is a hot throb against Merlin's soft belly. He's lost the urgency of youth, though he is far from old (despite what Merlin says, the cheeky little arse), and revels in the sweet agony of breaking his lover down with his loving, until there's little left but the heated passion they share. Merlin sighs, pushing the damp heat of his breath into Arthur to share, before pulling away to blink sweetly at him with a dazed, sated smile. Arthur smiles back, reaching up to run a hand through his hair, a finger along his ear, before cupping his rosy cheek tenderly.

"Darling," Arthur murmurs, heart too big for his chest, and Merlin blushes an even deeper red. Arthur smirks. "We're far from done."

Surprised, Merlin opens his mouth but nothing comes out. Instead, Arthur dips down for a biting kiss that has him whimpering in response, before Arthur leaves a trail of suckling bites down Merlin's neck until he reaches his chest. He licks the sharp jut of Merlin's collarbones before he attacks his pebbled nipples, relentless in his attentions as Merlin squeals and bucks beneath him. They're sensitive and respond so prettily to his ministrations; hardening to peaks while the skin reddens. He closes his teeth around one and pulls, biting down until Merlin cries actual tears, then soothes it with soft laps of his tongue that has Merlin's cock filling up in twitches against Arthur's stomach. Merlin's mostly beyond words by then, just uttering a litany of "_Please, please, please_" as he jerks and shivers beneath him. It's gorgeous and exhilarating, because somehow, they're both swept up in the scene he's created; Merlin, untouched and still his servant, so easily riled and surprised. It sates something within Arthur, something dark and possessive, which in turn riles him up even more as each whimper, moan and cry from his lover is a whole new victory than before.

"Arthur!" Merlin cries, skin flushed red all the way down his chest as his cheeks shine with tears. "Oh _gods!_"

He comes again, drenching them with a hot, sticky flood of seed that has them both groaning. It coats Arthur's stomach, making his cock jerk in envy, before Merlin collapses into a sobbing heap of satisfaction. Arthur kisses him gently, careful because his lover is so sensitive but loves the pleasure-pain of going just a _little _bit further, and strokes big, warm hands down his sides and through his hair in an attempt to soothe.

"You're so good for me, aren't you darling?" he murmurs against Merlin's slack lips, tasting his panting breaths and mixing it with his own. "Such a good, sweet boy."

Merlin whimpers, his hands having found their way to the small of Arthur's back where they clench weakly, helplessly, as he tries to hide his face away in the crook of Arthur's neck. Arthur chuckles, giving them a few more moments to allow Merlin to catch his breath before he pulls away, getting up on his knees and gently pushing away Merlin's grabby hand when he tries to keep him in place.

"Turn around, darling," he says, softly but with enough demand to it to let Merlin know he means it. Uncomprehending, Merlin blinks up at him with dazed, hazy eyes as if he does not understand why Arthur isn't pressing him down into the mattress, covering every inch of him with warmth and affection. Had Arthur's cock not been painfully hard at the moment, he would've probably promptly lied down and held Merlin close as they both fell asleep, but now he aches for Merlin's heat and he knows all too well how much Merlin craves this when he's as far gone as he is now. Just one more little push and he'll be gone, blissful and pliant and without worries. Sweet and loving in Arthur's arms, his own to protect and provide for. So bloody _perfect_.

"I...I don't...", Merlin begins, words slurred, and Arthur gently hushes him before helping him to turn around and spread his legs wide enough for Arthur to fit between as he crawls down and settles. He grips each pale cheek firmly, pushing them apart to reveal the flushed bud of Merlin's twitching hole. In response, Merlin lets out a strangled noise and clenches his cheeks, flushed and wriggling in Arthur's grip as if embarrassed. Arthur can't help but grin, presses it into the soft skin of Merlin's bottom, before he nuzzles down to breath hot, damp air over his hole. Merlin whines and jerks his hips, but Arthur's grip is strong and keeps him in place as Arthur's tongue darts out to lick a hot stripe over his hole.

"Nuugh!" Merlin grunts as Arthur continues to lick, wetting him thoroughly so he can press the tip of a finger in alongside his tongue and gently probe, until Merlin relaxes around him and starts pushing for more. "_Muh_."

Arthur hums in excitement at Merlin's responsiveness, leaning back for a moment to spit directly on the reddened hole before pushing his finger further inside. Merlin's loosened from his previous releases but still so tight around him, clenching and greedy, pushing back against his gently moving finger while panting harshly and moaning helplessly. Swearing, Arthur nips at him before he draws back and removes his finger to go in search for their oil. Merlin whines in protest, twisting around in an attempt to reach for him to drag him back, making Arthur grin and swat his bottom as he rounds the bed for the side table.

"Prat," Merlin growls, and frowns in annoyance as he watches Arthur rooting around in the drawers for the vial of oil. It takes a while, and Arthur thinks Merlin must have misplaced it sometime between last night and this morning, but he finally succeeds in grasping the correct one and makes an appropriate noise of victory.

"On your back, darling," Arthur murmurs, voice dark as he stares down at his lover who promptly, for once, obeys. Watching the lithe, pale twist of his body as he rolls over for him has Arthur sucking in a sharp breath. Merlin looks impossibly young, beautiful with his flushed skin and pretty cock already hard, as if he's a youth again. He spreads his legs for Arthur and blushes, as if surprised at his own daring, but his gaze is steady and he's set his chin in that determined way he has when he's set on having what he wants. Utterly brilliant, his sorcerer.

"That it," Arthur praises, climbing into bed again and settling down between his legs. He kneels, sitting down, and drags Merlin by the hips until his bottom rests in his lap. Pressing his hands against the inner side of both smooth thighs, Arthur forces them apart as wide as he can before he uncaps the vial of oil and dribbles it first over Merlin's cock, then down his balls, allowing it to seep between his cheeks and slick the skin around his hole. Before he corks it again he soaks his own cock and then pours a little lake of it into Merlin's belly button, smirking at all the indignant noises his lover his making at the cool though of oil all over.

"Fuck, Arthur, will you just get on with it?" he demands through clenched teeth, glaring up at him. Arthur smirks but dips two fingers into the pool of oil on his belly, smearing them, before he trails them slowly down past Merlin's cock and downwards, until they press suggestively at his hole.

"Oh don't worry," he says darkly, giving no warning before he pushes one finger all the way inside, licking his lips when it makes Merlin arch up in surprise, fisting the sheets and letting out a gasp. "You'll get it."

After that, Arthur doesn't waste any time in getting the younger man stretched out for him. He scissors two fingers inside, tapping with his fingertips against the sensitive bump that has Merlin sobbing and trashing his head from side to side. Arthur aches with arousal, pushed rapidly towards his limit as he buries three fingers into his lover and teasing with a fourth around the edges where their bodies connect. When Merlin's broken pleas finally becomes too much, Arthur swears and wastes little time in replacing his fingers with his cock; pressing slowly but relentlessly inside until he bottoms out, hands grasping Merlin's trembling thighs and keeping him spread wide. He gives them both a moment to adjust; Merlin is impossibly tight and hot around him, squirming and whimpering like he has no idea what to do with this. But Arthur knows, and he pulls out slowly before pushing back in with a powerful thrust, setting a hard, deep pace that has Merlin sliding along the sheets and crying out like it is being punched out of him. There'll be bruises on Merlin's thighs, Arthur thinks, and his hips and bottom will probably be smarting for a while. Right now, however, Merlin is lost to their passion; reaching frantically for his own cock and pulling it fast, desperate for release even as he shivers and groans at the tingles of oversensitivity he must be experiencing.

"That's it, darling," Arthur praises, swirling his hips and pressing at Merlin's thighs to change the angle until he hits the right spot. He's so close to coming, enflamed by the creature beneath him, and he needs Merlin there with him. It won't take long once he gets the angle right; Merlin is already leaking and twitching, his hand never stopping its frantic motion on his cock, and when Arthur finally hits that spot he shots his name in surprise, eyes wide.

"Arthur!" he calls out again, gasping and sweating, so close to the headboard now he'll soon bump into it. Arthur pauses just long enough to drag him back, moving them further down the back before he resumes his pounding, leaning down to attach his mouth to a perky nipple. "Oh, _oh_, I'm so close...so, _oh_-!" His breath hitches high when Arthur bites down sharp and he goes rigid beneath him, hole fluttering tight and sinful as he spills his release between them. As he comes down he goes completely boneless, pliant and warm for Arthur who doesn't stop fucking into him just growls, urged on by his lover's release.

"Fuck," Arthur breathes against the abused nipple he's been nipping at, leaving it to reach up for a sloppy, messy kiss as his thrusts starts to stutter. He can feel the burning lust in this stomach tightening, the tingling feeling of cresting pleasure running through his body like sinful caresses. His cock is twitching and so, so hard inside the hot, tight grasp of Merlin's little bottom and it doesn't take long before he's falling over that edge, burying himself as deep as he can before he spills his release in him. He's gasping Merlin's name, hips twitching as he fucks his pleasure into him, unwilling to pull out as he shudders through him. He barely registers the soft, cooing noises of encouragement being whispered into his ear, but together with the feeling of Merlin's warm, calloused hands running up and down his back it brings him back to himself. He doesn't bother catching himself as he collapses onto his lover, but chuckles weakly at the annoyed grunt he gets in return.

"You oaf," Merlin croaks, voice used and lovely, but when he pokes him he's gentle. Tuning his head from where he'd buried it into the bed next to Merlin's, Arthur mouths at one of these silly, endearing ears, humming contently. Merlin whines pitifully, shivering beneath him. "Mmph, Arthur, stop it. Can't. Not again."

Arthur snorts, nipping at the lobe, before working his way around to Merlin's lips instead. He kisses him gently, feeling warm and sated, and delights in the happy noises Merlin makes. It takes him several minutes to pull away, slipping out of Merlin with a sympathetic wince as he does, but he simply rearranges them so he has Merlin spooned in his embrace. He runs his hand over his overheated skin, gentling him like a horse that's been running for too long, and snuffles the soft mess of Merlin's hair at his delicate nape. Merlin is utterly pliable throughout it all, the odd noises escaping him all soft and exhausted.

"Sleep," Arthur says, groping around for the sheets to cover them with, and settles down for some well-earned rest. His knights will surely understand his absence for this morning's training session; Arthur is sure he'll be able to come up with a plausible excuse. Or possibly just have Merlin bend over to pick something up and point at his backside. It's not Arthur's fault his sorcerer is such an irresistible trollop, really. Besides, he's the King. He can choose his own form of exercise, if he so wishes. And this, he thinks smugly, was _very_ good exercise. He's sure Merlin would agree.

**o-oOo-o**

When he awakes the next time, Merlin has once again slipped out of his arms but when Arthur blinks his eyes open he's met with the wide-eyes of his lover staring at him from where he stand by the other side of the bed. Growling in warning, his annoyance already seeping in, he sees Merlin's eyes grow impossibly wider and watches as the younger man takes a step back. Good, because Arthur is a few seconds away from pouncing his little idiot and binding him to the bed.

"Something's wrong," Merlin blurts out, blushing almost as soon as the words are out of his mouth. Arthur is sitting up in alarm, annoyance replaced with immediate concern now that he sees how anxious Merlin looks.

"What? What's happened?" he demands, moving to get out of bed and to his side. Merlin watches wide-eyed, blushing even further when Arthur stands naked.

"You're not my Arthur," Merlin says, causing him to freeze in his movements where he's reaching out for him. Hurt, Arthur draws back and frowns at him. Merlin winces. "Um, that is...what were you doing last night?"

Confused and not a little angry at the way Merlin's acting, Arthur completes his action and grabs Merlin by the arms, inspecting him. "I was with you, remember? Are you all right, Merlin?"

Biting his lip, Merlin looks sad and a little bit frightened. Arthur's stomach drops. "The thing is, you _weren't_. You were with the King and dismissed me for the night. And...and _now_...I mean, before, I woke up and went to get your bath ready for before the council meeting because you're all...filthy," he blushes, fidgeting, "And then you were out _there,_" he points towards the window, "With your knights when I _know_," he blushes darker, "I _knew_ you were _here_." He takes a moment to breath, seemingly attempting to get his voice under control because it's frantic and high pitched. He finishes, sounding strange, "And. And you're _old_."

Arthur stares, mind reeling as he tries to make sense of what Merlin says. He ignores the last comment, shrugging it off, because there is someone _who looks like him out there pretending to be him_. "Merlin, we have to catch this imposter. Has he done any damage? Quick, help me dress," he snaps, urgent, and shrugs off Merlin's hands when they reach for him as he stalks over to his wardrobe, seething and this new threat.

"Arthur, no!" Merlin calls, running over to him and grasping for his attention. "Listen to me! He's not an imposter, and neither are you; I checked! Believe me, I checked. My magic says you're both you, but you're older and I didn't notice at first because you were finally kissing me and being incredible but now I see because you've got a beard, Arthur, _a beard_ and you're distractingly beautiful but there's _grey in your hair-!"_

Arthur cuts him off with a kiss, running his hands down his flailing arms and calming him down. Merlin instantly melts against him, whimpering, and Arthur takes this moment to fully register what he's being told. Suddenly he remembers how young Merlin looked in their bed, how he trembled and how he blushes. How he's dressed in those old rags of his servant days that he hasn't seen in bloody _years_. Groaning, Arthur ends the kiss and leans his forehead against Merlin's. "Please don't tell me I've been sent back in time and took you to bed like a brute."

Cheeks flaring hot, Merlin huffs in offence and pouts. "You've _probably_ been sent back in time and _finally _took me to bed like I've been begging you to do for _ages_, you _prat_."

Chuckling weakly, Arthur cups Merlin's hot cheek and caresses the delicate skin underneath one eye with his thumb. "I do seem to remember a time in our courtship where you acted like an absolute trollop, teasing me endlessly, before you finally pounc—", he breaks himself of, eyes going wide. "_Oh._"

Merlin makes a noise of confusion as Arthur's lips stretch in a wide, manic grin. "I was your first, weren't I?" Blinking, Merlin stares, uncomprehending, so Arthur clarifies with a dark chuckle. "I took your innocence, didn't I, Merlin? You were untouched before this."

Frowning, Merlin punches his chest. "Yes, you dollop-head. _Not_," he glares as Arthur laughs, "that it matters if I _hadn't_ been, because—"

Preventing a lecture, Arthur kisses him again and savours the idea that he's had this all along, has always had it. It doesn't matter in the grand scheme of things, because Arthur will always be Merlin's _last_ and _that_ matters, but the ugly, possessive streak he has is purring darkly with satisfaction.

Whimpering, Merlin pulls away flushed and breathless. "We've still got a problem."

Arthur groans, dropping his head down to rest on Merlin's bony shoulder. No wonder he found him so skinny; if this is before the sexual part of their courtship then—then Merlin isn't more than a wide-eyed youth, oh _by the gods_, he'd be so _young_ here and Arthur, Arthur is over _thirty_...

"My father's still alive," he remembers, dazed and trying to distract himself from having bedded a callow youth, a callow _Merlin_.

"Magic's still banned," Merlin points out.

"Right." It wouldn't be easy to explain his presence, would most likely be seen as a plot against the Royal family (as Arthur himself had been so ready to think), and he doesn't know how wise it would be to interfere with history even if he has so many things that has been left unsaid to so many people.

"I just don't think it'd be wise to let anyone know you're here," Merlin explains, soft and concerned. "I mean, obviously I know, but I won't tell anyone. Apart from Gaius, probably, we'll need him if we're to send you back."

Nodding, Arthur runs a hand through Merlin's hair and sighs. "I seem to remember you giving me several lectures on the danger of meddling with time. Or, well, I guess I _will _be hearing them. Well, _this_ time's me will be hearing them. At some point. Probably inspired by this, gods, I really need to get back."

Stepping in even closer, Merlin wraps his arms around him and hold on tight, hiding his face in Arthur's neck. "It'll be all right. I'll send you back."

Chuckling, Arthur presses a kiss to his cheek before pulling away. "Right, well, we better go to Gaius. But first, clothes and something to eat, I think."

Blushing, Merlin eyes his naked body with bashful appreciation. Arthur grins, puffing up a bit because even now Merlin desires him; so old compared to the Arthur he must be used to here.

"Right," Merlin agrees, sounding strangled as Arthur walks away. Casting a glance over his shoulder, he sees Merlin ogling his arse and smirks. If nothing else, this latest magical mishap will at least prove to be interesting.


	107. (E) KLANCE - Spicy Little Kitten by may1

Spicy Little Kitten  
may10baby

Summary:  
He didn't know what he had expected when Keith had walked into breakfast smelling like the sex equivalent of eating boardwalk fries while dancing in the surf at Veradera beach. Keith's scent reminded him of home, sweet and alluring in a way that made him want to bury his face in between those pale thighs for hours.

"Try it and I'll gut you like a pig." Keith snapped, before stabbing a spoon in his food goo.

Fuck, that was hot.

* * *

Chapter 01

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

Lance might not have been an icon of self-discipline, but at the very least he thought he was better than _this_.

'_This_' meaning lusting after his teammate like a teenager going into his first rut.

He didn't know what he had expected when Keith had walked into breakfast smelling like the sex equivalent of eating boardwalk fries while dancing in the surf at Veradera beach. Keith's scent reminded him of home, sweet and alluring in a way that made him want to bury his face in between those pale thighs for _hours_.

Lance also hadn't expected Keith to be an omega. He'd expected him to be an Alpha, or at least a super aggressive beta, but an _omega_? Lance wouldn't have believed it if he wasn't smelling Keith's heat scent right this second.

Both Hunk and Pidge took notice of Keith's scent as well, but since they were betas it didn't affect nearly them as much as it did Lance. Shiro wasn't affected at all, despite being an Alpha, because Keith was his younger brother. Lance had no one to share in his misery with as Keith sat down at breakfast and fixed Lance with a pointed stare.

"Try it and I'll gut you like a pig." Keith snapped, before stabbing a spoon in his food goo.

Fuck, that was hot. Hot in a way that pulled Lance in. He was an Alpha, and with most omegas he'd have to protect and coddle them, but that wasn't the case with Keith. Keith wouldn't just let _any _Alpha knot him. Lance would have to pin him down, sweeten him up before Keith begged for his knot and-

"Lance!" Shiro's voice was like a whip, and Lance abruptly realized that he was leaning forward towards Keith. Lance threw himself back in his chair with wide eyes. The only reason he didn't stand up and run from the room was because everyone else would have had a _great_ view of the tent in his pants, as if they couldn't scent his arousal already.

"Fuck." Lance said elegantly, shaking his head. "I mean, well, how did we go through months of space drama and I am _just _now figuring this out?" Lance asked, turning his face away from Keith and trying to avoid breathing through his nose.

"I dunno. Took you a while to figure out that I was a girl." Pidge noted, pointing their spoon at Lance. "I'm not surprised that it took Keith going into heat for you to realize that he's an omega." They added dryly. Lance sent them a hurt look.

"Keith's suppressants ran out after last month's heat." Shiro supplied calmly. "I've got Pidge searching the Altean archives for a medication that could be used to mimic the effect of the drug, but for now we're all going to have to deal with it." He sent Lance a firm look. "We can't have something like this affecting Voltron." Shiro added. He might as well have came out and directly told Lance to stay away from his kid brother. Keith might have been content to stab Lance and leave him bleeding out all over the floor, but Shiro would have personally ripped Lance to pieces afterwards.

Lance swallowed around Keith's sweet, sweet scent, nodding his head.

"Got it." He croaked, turning back to his food goo and thinking about the most disgusting things to will away his boner. Granny tits. Pimple popping. Republicans.

Keith shifted next to him, a small sound escaping his throat. Lance's dick twitched in approval.

_Fuck_.

If breakfast had been trying, training was absolute _hell_.

Keith sweated up a storm, driving Lance mad even though Shiro had strategically placed as much space as possible between the two of them on the training deck. Shiro was also sparring with Lance instead, running him ragged. Lance understood why, of course. He might have been the youngest but he did have an omega sister. When they were younger he and his older brother would play protection detail by beating up any creep that put eyes on her, because you couldn't dominate an omega if you couldn't walk. Lance grunted as Shiro slammed him down into the mat for what felt like the fiftieth time.

"That's 14 to 0." Shiro noted, almost sounding bored. "Wanna go again?"

"I think I just felt my sternum crack." Lance said wearily, not bothering to pick himself up off the mat when Shiro let him go. "Today is one of the worst days of my life. Just kill me now, Shiro. I know you want to." He added, sending Shiro a thorough side eye.

"I don't want to kill you." Shiro answered, crossing his arms over his chest. "Just don't give me a reason to." He said simply, making a point to look over to where Keith was sparring with a droid. Lance followed his gaze and shivered.

"I can't help being like this." Lance said, managing to sit up. "His scent is...it reminds me of _home_." Lance admitted after a moment. Shiro looked at him, a bit of sympathy in his eyes.

"But we both know that doing anything about that is a bad idea. It could jeopardize our mission." Shiro said, back to his Dad Lecture voice. Lance hung his head.

"Yeah," he said, "I know."

Lance purposefully put off showering after training to avoid running into Keith by accident. Lance was no saint, and he knew that if he saw Keith naked that he would go crazy. So, instead he played it safe and spent an extra hour stretching out what was left of his muscles after being given the Chew Toy treatment by Shiro. He only left for the showers when he was sure everyone else was gone.

At least, he'd thought everyone was gone. Keith's scent hit him like a brick wall the moment he entered the locker room, and, _fuckfuckfuck_, Lance could hear him moaning softly over the steady stream of water coming from the showers. Lance drifted towards the sound, enchanted by Keith's sweet voice. Keith didn't have the high pitched moans that most Alphas imagined. No, Keith's voice was low and raspy like he'd just pulled his lips off of Lance's dick. Oh _man_, Lance wanted his cock in Keith's mouth, wanted to feel Keith gag and choke and drool all over his dick and-

Oh.

Oh fuck.

Lance stopped in front of Keith's stall, taking in the sight of the slender line of Keith's back, leading into a _peachy _ass that would make any man fall to his knees. And Keith, _fuck_, Keith was fucking himself on his fingers, the lips of his slit spreading lewdly to take on his digits. Lance wanted those naughty lips wrapped around his knot right this second.

"Lance!" Keith moaned, and for a terrifying second Lance thought Keith had noticed him. But instead Keith merely tilted his head back a fraction as he shifted his weight to one side, his right leg lifting onto the tips of his toes so that his fingers could go deeper. "Please, Lance," Keith whimpered, his fingers rocking inside of him, "please, please, please…!"

And honestly? What the fuck? Keith was some crazy level of indecisive if he'd threaten to kill Lance one second and then fingered himself to the thought of him the next. Even Shiro couldn't complain to Lance about moving in on Keith after catching him masturbating to the thought of him. It was like the universe wanted Lance to fuck Keith senseless. Or at the very least _Keith _wanted Lance to fuck him senseless.

Lance stepped into the shower, peeling down the black material of his jumpsuit down to his waist. Something hot and possessive bubbled upside him, and Lance licked his lips.

"You rang?" He practically purred, watching as Keith's head twisted around to look at him. Keith's eyes were wide, his cheeks flushed as he pulled his fingers free and whirled around to face Lance.

"What are you doing here?" Keith hissed, as if he hadn't been calling out Lance's name a moment ago. Lance lifted a brow, a grin crawling across his lips.

"I heard you moaning my name." Lance said, stepping into the spray of the shower. Water and heat. Just like the both of them. "Now you're trying to save face by acting like the thought of me fucking you doesn't make you hot?" The way Keith's eyes clouded at his words made him keep going. "You smell so good." Lance stepped close enough to run his hands down Keith's arms. Keith's body was tone, but his skin was so soft. Lance was jealous. "Lean back against the wall, baby. I'm going to lick you clean." Lance said, falling down onto his knees in front of Keith. Keith whimpered softly, looking away as he leaned back against the wall. Lance slid closer, grabbing one of Keith's thighs-oh, he'd dedicate _days _to those thighs at another time- and lifting it up to rest on his shoulder.

He could see everything like this. The gentle curve of Keith's cock, his pretty balls, and the delicious slit that was leaking slick like nothing else. Lance didn't even hesitate, grabbing Keith's other thigh and hoisting him up until Keith's thigh dropped on his other shoulder.

"Fuck!" Keith hissed, his voice cracking as he slapped his hands against the shower stall in an attempt to find purchase on the smooth surface. Lance didn't mind the extra weight, his hands stroking up Keith's thighs to grip his hips tightly. Keith did his best to pull his thighs together, and Lance nearly died at the sensation of _Keith's _thighs rubbing against his cheeks. But he couldn't eat Keith out like this, as wonderful as it felt.

"Spread your legs for me, sweetheart. I'll make it worth your while." Lance crooned, licking a line across Keith's quivering thigh.

"I can't." Keith turned his head away. "This is my heat speaking. We can't do this. We fight all the time!" He managed, shaking his head.

"I'll take care of you." Lance said honestly, because he would in a heartbeat. He did in combat and he most certainly would here. "And if you get pregnant I'll take care of our kids too. I promise." Keith glared down at him, reaching down to tug at Lance's hair.

"I'd kill you if you did anything less." Keith hissed, his fingers twitching when Lance smiled up at him seductively.

"Go ahead." Lance answered. "Now spread these cute thighs for me. I want you to grind yourself down on my tongue. Let me taste how much you want me-" Lance grunted when Keith yanked his head forward. He groaned when his lips rubbed against Keith's slit.

"Just-just shut up and do it then." Keith breathed. Lance's tongue licked out, and they both moaned. Lance's hands went to Keith's thighs, pulling them open farther so he could suck at those swollen, wet lips. His tongue teased between them, earning a roll of Keith's hips as the omega keened. Lance didn't give him much else, not yet at least.

"Lance! You ass!" Keith growled, tugging at his hair. Lance pulled away with a smirk.

"You have to tell me what you want, Keith. Use your words." Lance teased, wincing when Keith yanked at his hair even harder.

"Shove your tongue inside me before I push you down and sit on your fucking face." Keith hissed out. Lance moved back in immediately, even though facesitting was something that had to be done soon. Very soon. In the very near future soon.

Lance slid his tongue inside, and promptly decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life like this. Keith taste was going to be the end of him. It was a naughty tang that mixed with Keith's scent until Lance's erection was straining in his jumpsuit. Lance wanted more. He fucked Keith with his tongue, teeth scraping at Keith's lower lips. Keith choked out a sound, and Lance scraped his teeth again. Keith's entire body shuddered, and his slit gushed. Lance groaned, eating him out happily as Keith rolled his hips forward.

"Enough. Lance, stop!" Keith gasped, his hips jerking. Lance studiously ignored him, curling his tongue inside him. Keith tugged at his hair again, his voice shaking. "Lance, if you keep that up I'm going to come." Keith whimpered.

Lance only doubled his actions, because the idea of actually get Keith off on his tongue was right up there with saving the universe. Lance worked his tongue roughly, nibbling and sucking with loud, hungry noises that made Keith stutter.

"P-pervert." Keith moaned, letting his head fall back against the shower stall with an audible thud. Lance glanced up at him, purring when he saw that Keith's free hand was wrapped around his dick, jerking himself off roughly.

"You're such a pretty sight." Lance groaned with a lick. "Should have made you my bitch months-_years_-ago."

Keith's hips jerked, and Lance watched as Keith came with a cry. In that moment every muscle in Keith's body rippled, his mouth falling open. His eyes grew hazy and his eyelids fluttered so demurely, like he was flirting with Lance. He wanted that look on Keith's face whenever they were alone together. He rolled Keith's thighs off his shoulders, letting Keith slide down until his thighs were around Lance's waist and they were face to face. Keith shivered, leaning forward to bury his face in Lance's neck and inhale.

"You smell so good." Keith managed, nosing at his neck. Lance wrapped an arm around Keith's waist and stood up to turn off the shower. "Like you're going to wreck me." Keith added, his breath hitching as he rocked his hips against the hard line in Lance's pants. "Do it." Keith demanded, hands going to Lance's shoulders. Blunt nails scratched at his skin. "Ruin me, Lance."

Lance nearly fucked Keith in the stall at that comment, turning his nose to Keith's neck. Fuck, Keith was so ready to breed. But a shower stall for their first time? Lance was better than that, right? Right? Probably?

"I thought omegas liked to make a pretty nest to get ruined in?" Lance managed. Keith snorted out a breath at that.

"I have one in my room, but you're not allowed in it." Keith badgered easily. "It's my space. Mine."

"You're going to be mine." Lance pointed out, carrying Keith out if the showers and into the locker room. "I could just fuck you on this floor instead, give you a few extra bruises. You could take it, I know you could."

"Yeah." Keith's hips wriggled against Lance's, forcing him to stop before he stumbled. Keith nibbled at his jaw, his tone amused. "I can take anything you throw at me."

"I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. You won't be able to jerk off without thinking about my knot, you tease." Lance groaned, reaching his destination. Keith glanced over his shoulder and huffed out a laugh. Lance reached out to open the large cabinet that stored the Castle's towel supply. He yanked them messily onto the ground, enough of them to make Keith another, larger nest. After a moment Keith reached out to grab a few more, adding them to the pile.

Lance dropped down onto the makeshift nest, his knees cushioned in the soft fabric. Keith laid back along the towels, stretching his damp body like a bow. Lance felt his mouth go dry as Keith rested his arms over his head, giving him a pretty picture.

"You suck at making nests." Keith sniggered, eyeing Lance. "You'd make such a shitty omega." He added, laughing when Lance descended on him. He yelped when Lance bit at his neck. "Ow! You _did not_-"

"Kidding. Kidding." Lance said, pressing an apologetic kiss to Keith's neck. Keith stiffened a bit, which made Lance tense up as well. "I...can I kiss you?" Lance asked awkwardly, pulling back to look at Keith's face. Keith looked away, his face flushed.

"You ate me out like two minutes ago and _now _you're asking to kiss me?" Keith huffed, rolling his eyes.

"My priorities got scattered the moment you moaned my name. Can I kiss you?" Lance asked again, staring down at Keith's lips. They were chapped and rough from Keith biting at them all the time. Lance was going to have to introduce him to lip balm.

"I dunno." Keith answered after a moment. "It's my first kiss." Keith admitted. Lance stared down at him. Keith wouldn't meet his eyes.

"...Are you a _virgin _?" Lance asked dumbly. Keith stared up at him.

"Um, yeah?" Keith answered. Lance dragged his eyes down over Keith's body before going back to his face.

"_How?_"

"I want you to imagine what would happen if Shiro walked in this room right now." Keith said. Lance winced. "Uhuh." Keith chuffed.

Lance's brain was swimming in two parts _oh my god Shiro is going to actually kill me _and three parts _Keith is a virgin hot hot hot_. He was pretty sure part of said brain was leaking out of his ear at this point. But even he clued in on how Keith hadn't looked at him since talking about his first kiss.

"Are you embarrassed right now?" Lance asked, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. Keith's eyes snapped to his face and he glared at Lance.

"No!" Keith hissed. "Why? Are you getting nervous about kissing me?"

"No, I'm getting hot and bothered about taking your first kiss." Lance answered, leaning down to brush the tip of his nose against Keith's. "Do I get the honor of popping your cherry too?"

"Fucker." Keith bit out, looking away. That was as much as 'yes' as anything else Keith said. Lance whistled lowly, shaking his head in disbelief.

"I can't believe it. Everyone at the Garrison wanted you, even if the suppressants hid your scent. The Alphas wanted to fuck you. The omegas wanted to be fucked _by _you. And I get to be your first." Lance grinned impishly while Keith glared at him.

"If you're just going to make fun of me for it then I swear to god I will beat your ass into the ground." Keith snapped. Lance shook his head quickly.

"Oh, no, I'm not making fun of you. I'm too excited for that." He rocked his hips against Keith's ass. "I get to fuck you and make you mine. Get you addicted to my knot and breed you full of my pups." Lance groaned. "No, too excited for teasing, baby. I need to fuck you open on my dick."

"Addicted?" Keith breathed, managing a weak laugh like Lance couldn't smell the spike in his arousal. "In your dreams." He answered, biting his lip when Lance pulled back to wriggle his jumpsuit down to his thighs. Lance grinned at the way Keith's eyes widened at the size of his erection.

"Something wrong?" Lance asked, shifting forward to rub their dicks together. Being an Alpha gave Lance bragging rights in more than just one department. Keith met his gaze defiantly, huffing out a breath.

"No, should I be impressed?" Keith asked. Lance pouted at him.

"Ow, my pride." Lance whined, hands sliding to grip Keith's hips. "Omegas are supposed to respect their Alphas, baby." Lance pointed out, leaning down until they were face to face.

"Yeah? Can't see why I should." Keith responded, dragging his eyes over Lance critically. Lance grinned at him.

"Because I'd spoil you." Lance told him. "Give you the moon and more. Several moons. We're in outer space." Lance added after a moment. Keith laughed, wrapping his arms around Lance's shoulders.

"I can get my own moon." Keith pointed out with a smile. Lance felt his heart stutter in his chest at that, because_ holy shit_ Keith looked good when he smiled. And suddenly Lance was aware that they weren't just flirting in a haze of heat-driven sex. No, this definitely felt like pillow talk. And he definitely wanted to kiss Keith until one or both of them ran out of oxygen.

Fuck.

Lance shifted forward, his lips pausing in front of Keith's for a brief moment. Keith blinked up at him, as if sensing the change in Lance's demeanor. Lance pressed his lips against Keith's, before letting his eyes slip closed as he felt Keith's hands brush against his cheeks. He'd kissed plenty of people. Plenty of girls throughout his life, and several guys as well. He wasn't a stranger to kissing, but _this_, this was completely different.

Keith made a soft sound against his lips and Lance's tongue slipped forward into Keith's mouth. Keith, never one to back down, sloppily tried to mimic his movements after a few seconds. Lance hummed, one hand going down to stroke Keith's erection. Keith gasped into the kiss and Lance took over, his tongue roaming and licking until Keith turned away to catch his breath. Lance pressed kisses in the strong curve of Keith's neck, teeth nipping teasingly, at least until Keith moaned. At that Lance began to bite harder and harder, leaving darker marks all over Keith's neck and collarbone.

"Lance," Keith moaned, "I need you to…" Keith trailed off with a moan when Lance's fingers slipped back inside him, working him open again. "That, do that more…!" Keith groaned, letting his head fall back against the pile of towers.

"You want my knot inside you, baby?" Lance asked, his free hand going to rub at his own erection. Keith's thighs slipped open so sensually that Lance needed to squeeze his own dick to stop himself from coming at the sight.

"Do it." Keith moaned, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of the towel underneath him. Lance smirked down at him.

"Beg for it." Lance challenged. Keith tilted his head up, meeting Lance's gaze.

"No." Keith snapped right back. Lance laughed at that.

"You're so cute." He said, and maybe Keith would punch him for it later, but his words had obviously caught Keith off guard in that moment. Lance took his chance to press the head of his erection in between Keith's lower lips, sliding into that tight, wet heat with a low groan. Keith whined, his back arching as Lance slid all the way inside, bottoming out inside him.

Holy Mary, Mother of Space Lions, Lance had _ascended_. He'd had his fair share of lovers, including other omegas, but never when they were in heat. This was on another level. Keith was so wet, so tight and so so hot. His scent filled Lance's everything and all he could think about was how great _everything _was. Lance choked when Keith rolled his hips impatiently.

"Fuck me, you idiot." Keith groaned, glaring up at him desperately. Lance grinned at that, sliding out and setting a slow pace that could be outdone by a sloth. He let Keith feel every inch, his grip tight on Keith's hips so Keith couldn't grind down. "Why are you going so _slow_? I thought you were trying to fuck me not drive me crazy!"

"Don't worry, sweetheart. We've got all night." Lance purred, rubbing his thumbs into Keith's hips. Keith huffed out a breath.

"We have until Shiro realizes that we're both missing and turns the Castle upside down to find us." Keith corrected, wrapping his legs around Lance's waist.

Shit, he had a point.

Lance picked up the pace, rocking his hips forward and searching for Keith's sweet spot. Keith began to pant and moan, his hands going to Lance's shoulders and clawing. Lance leaned down to press a kiss to Keith's lips, only for Keith to bite at his.

"Fuck me harder!" Keith demanded, squirming around on Lance's dick. Lance licked his lips, smirking down at Keith.

"Kiss me again." Lance shot back, stilling his hips completely. Keith hissed in frustration, hesitating for all of two seconds before his hand went to the back of Lance's neck and he pulled him in for a rough kiss. Lance groaned when Keith shoved his tongue past Lance's lips, rewarding Keith by fucking him harder than before.

He wanted to drag this out, drive Keith crazy for hours until Keith was reduced to begging and pleading. But Keith was right, Shiro would be on the manhunt once he caught on, and Lance wanted to knot Keith at least once before he died a painful, Galra arm-filled death.

So he let Keith explore his mouth with a kiss while he worked on finding that spot that would make Keith melt into a puddle of sex and need. He knew he found it when Keith choked, his entire body spasming at one rough thrust. Lance thrust at that angle again, grinning against Keith's lips when Keith squeaked. Keith twisted his mouth away as Lance set a brutal pace.

"You-_mnn_-what-_hah_-fucker! _Ah! _" Keith moaned, legs twitching around Lance's hips as his entire body spasmed. Lance swore when Keith's muscles gripped his dick like a hot, sexy vice. His knot swelled at the thought of breeding such a tight cunt. Keith was incoherent, somewhere between cursing Lance to pieces and begging for more. "Please, you asshole-just…! Ah!" Keith whined, clawing at Lance's back. The mix of pain and pleasure dragged a growl from Lance's throat as he snapped his hips forward harder, until he was driving Keith down into their makeshift nest. Keith was so sexy, refusing to submit even though Lance was about to knot his pretty pussy and fill him up. He'd make a great mother for Lance's pups. If anything ever happened to Lance, Zarkon himself wouldn't be able to lay a finger on their children. Keith would protect them with his life.

"Fuck! Keith!" Lance shouted, his knot catching inside Keith. Keith _screamed _at the sensation as Lance dragged his hips in close, their bodies flush as he came inside Keith with a moan. His hips jerked as he came, and came, and came, until Keith was whimpering underneath him like a proper omega. "Nnn, you're still so tight, baby." Lance groaned, turning to press his lips against Keith's throat. "Be a good bitch and get knocked up now, okay? Wanna see you pregnant with my pups." Lance slurred, rubbing at Keith's stomach affectionately. Keith shivered in his arms, and Lance instinctively yanked at some of the spare towels around them, making a cocoon to keep Keith snug in their warmth.

"Still...a shitty nest…" Keith panted, eyes closed and body limp underneath Lance. Lance grinned against his throat, peppering him with kisses as his knot slowly went down.

"We'll go back to your room after we clean up here." Lance said, wrapping his arms around Keith. He was a cuddler, Keith would get over it eventually. "And you can show me your proper nest, and I'll breed you properly in it." Lance yelped when Keith flicked him sharply on the nose.

"Still not allowed in."

"But, baby-"

"No 'but's," Keith said dryly, "if you want in my nest you have to earn it." He insisted, flushing at the sly look that covered Lance's face. "Not like _that _you-"

"_Son of a bitch! _"

The pair jumped at the new voice. Lance turned his head to look behind him and shrieked.

Shiro was standing there, his face red in a mix of embarrassment and rage. His fists were clenched and his Galra arm was glowing purple at the sight of his younger brother knotted up.

"Oh, hi, Shiro." Keith said, still limp against the towels. "I was wondering when you'd arrive." He yawned, rubbing at his eye.

"_Keith. Lance! _" Shiro grit out, taking a step forward. And it was a blessing that the good ol' primal fear of death had shrunk Lance's knot enough for him to pull out, because he whirled around and _growled _at Shiro, as if Shiro couldn't break him in two. Instinct raged, because nevermind that it was _Shiro _and Keith and Lance weren't bonded. Keith was Lance's now and no way was another Alpha coming near his mate when Keith was this vulnerable.

Shiro froze for a moment, and Lance tensed right back, expecting Shiro to lunge at him. Keith broke the silence after a moment, speaking up from behind Lance.

"Wow, that's kinda hot." He mumbled, earning a look of surprise from Lance and a look of complete and total exasperation from Shiro. Shiro raised his Galra hand up, letting it turn off before he pointed at Lance and Keith.

"Clean yourselves up and report to me in ten minutes." Shiro ordered firmly.

"Ten minutes might be pushing it. I can't feel my legs right now." Keith noted, smirking at Lance. Shiro snarled, and Lance (now back in the mindset of _oh shit Shiro is going to kill me _) shrunk back against Keith.

"_Ten. Minutes._" Shiro hissed out, looking at Lance. "And if I so much as smell you on Keith when you two show up I _will _kill you." He added, before turning and walking out of the locker room. Lance buried his face in his hands.

"Oh my god. I'm a dead man. Tell my family I love them. I'm a goner. Shiro's going to kill me and then have Allura use her magic to bring me back just so he can kill me again and-" Lance continued to ramble as Keith moved to hug him from behind. Lance could barely feel the press of Keith's lips against the back of his neck, but he did feel the sharp sting of Keith's teeth sinking into his neck. Lance jumped, startled. If he'd been the omega then that would have been a claiming mark, but he wasn't so- "What the hell?" Lance managed, turning to look at Keith in confusion. Keith was smirking, licking the blood from his lips.

"I marked you." Keith said easily. Lance stared at him.

"I'm the Alpha." Lance stated. Keith nodded. "You're the omega."

"So?"

"That's not how that works!" Lance said, flailing his arms. "Besides! I'm a dead man! Shiro just saw us and he'd going to murder me! Why would you want to mark a dead man? Like I get that I'm gorgeous and hell you've probably got some weird half-Galra kinks but-" Lance grunted when Keith slapped a hand over Lance's mouth. Keith was currently looking at Lance like the Alpha was the stupidest man alive. The sheer normalcy of his expression actually managed to calm Lance down a bit.

"Lance. You idiot." Keith said with as much patience as Lance had ever heard coming from the Red Paladin. "Shiro can't kill you if we're actually mated."

"Yeah, true, but for that to work I'd have to bite you and…oh." Lance said dumbly as Keith turned to bare his neck for him. "That is...holy shit." Lance managed, his erection coming back so fast that for a second black dots danced in front of his eyes. "I mean, that is some commitment for a bro. I mean, thank you for your service and-"

"Shut the fuck up and bite me." Keith said elegantly. Lance shifted forward, pressing his lips to Keith's neck. Keith keened, his back arching and _holy shit _Lance was about to mate with Keith. Keith of all people...was this actually a wet dream? It had to be, there was no way- "Lance, hurry up!" Keith snapped and Lance groaned, pulling his lips away. Mating an omega mid-heat without getting to know them was a dick move, wet dream or not.

"I can't. I can't do that to you." Lance said, burying his face into Keith's neck. Keith went rigid, and Lance quickly continued. "I don't want you to have to mate me just so Shiro doesn't murder me. I should at least take you out to dinner first a la Chef Hunk. Maybe a few planetside dates or something." Lance murmured into Keith's neck. "Make you fall in love with me." He added softly, smiling when Keith relaxed into him.

"Maybe...you don't have to do all that." Keith said gently, curling up in Lance's lap. "Maybe you're just a blind idiot and I've been in love with you this entire time." He suggested. Lance tensed up at that, before scrambling around to look at Keith properly, his eyes wide. Keith met his gaze for a moment before looking away with a blush. "What?' Keith muttered.

"You love me?" Lance asked in awe, because the world had officially shifted from Wet Dream to Heaven status. Keith blushed harder and Lance couldn't keep the teasing note out of his voice. "You _love_ meeeee!" Lance cheered, clapping his hands together before promptly diving into Keith's arms.

"God, I wish I knew why." Keith grumbled as Lance enveloped him in a hug. "Let go of me, you sap!"

"You loovvveee meeeee!" Lance said, yelling it this time. "You lo-" He yelped when Keith's hand went down to his dick and _squeezed_.

"Shut up." Keith said, his cheeks dark red. Lance waited until Keith released his dick to start gloating.

"But you always acted so coy, I thought you hated me!" Lance was practically swooning. "And just now during sex, you acted all cocky and cute but in reality you were just _waiting _for me to drill your pussy, you naughty little-"

"If you don't shut up right this second I will scream." Keith began lowly. "I will scream louder than you think is possible, and Shiro will run back here and kill you." He threatened, grabbing onto Lance's neck and tugging him close. "And the only reason I won't do it myself is because I don't have my bayard on me and a broken neck is too kind a mercy on you, you idiot." Keith hissed. Lance paused, pouting.

'You wouldn't do that, right? You lov-" He slapped a hand over Keith's mouth when Keith inhaled sharply. "Wait! No, stop! My beautiful, beautiful omega. Light of my life. Angel of my eye! My _spicy _little kitten-Ow!" Lance yelped when Keith sank his teeth into Lance's thumb. Keith jerked his mouth free.

"SHIRO!" Keith yelled vehemently, definitely a lot louder than Lance had expected. "SHIRO, HEL-"

"I LOVE YOU!" Lance yelled right back, just as loud. He was the youngest of three siblings, he had trophies dedicated to winning screaming matches. Keith stopped, looking back at him with wide eyes. "You're so amazing and cool and yeah, a bit of a dick sometimes, okay, a lot of times, but I love you. I really love you, okay?" Lance drew in a breath. Keith narrowed his eyes at him.

"Are you saying that to just get out of dying?" Keith asked lowly. Lance reached up to grab to grab at Keith's face, staring into his eyes.

"Well, I didn't want my confession to sound so cheesy and desperate." Lance admitted. "I also was trying to think of something romantic to give you as a gift when I finally said it, but you have like no materialistic needs. It's actually weird." Lance pointed out with a smile. "But I do love you. Knowing that I might have a baby with you one day is just icing on the cake." He added, giving Keith a kiss. Keith huffed against his lips.

"A baby _with _me? Like you'd even be _having _the baby. It's not like we can share a pregnancy, you idiot." But his tone was far more affectionate than a minute ago. Keith didn't even bother to look up when Shiro burst back into the room with wide eyes. Shiro stepped forward, only for Keith to point back at the door. "Get out, Shiro."

"Wh-what? I heard you_ scream-_"

"Get out or I tell the entire team about what happened at my sixth birthday party." Keith said menacingly. Shiro paused, his face turning a variety of colors, from red, to green, to an interesting shade of mauve. Without another word he left again. Lance fully appreciated Keith's ability to blackmail. Keith grabbed onto Lance's face, pressing a kiss to his lips, before moving to stand up. "Come on, I need another shower." Keith said, wincing as he stood. Lance popped up in an instant, placing a steadying hand on Keith's hip.

"Weren't you going to let me mark you?" Lance asked, excited. Keith sent him a dry look.

"Show me that fancy love confession. Then we'll see." Keith answered with a smirk.

* * *

Chapter 02

Shiro was under a lot of stress at the moment.

To be honest, he was under a lot of stress almost all the time, what with leading Voltron and the year of being a prisoner to the Galra sans therapy.

But this particular kind of stress was practically a vacation from the norm. A _stresscation _as Lance would have called it. In fact, Lance was exactly 50% of the reason why Shiro wanted nothing more than to throw himself into the nearest airlock and accept his fate in the void.

Keith was the other 50%.

Being Keith's older brother meant a lifetime of stress, especially given his brother's omega status. When Keith had presented as an omega, Shiro had immediately helped him get suppressives and doubled the amount of sparring they did, but Shiro knew that it was only a temporary fix, a band-aid over the root of the issue. Shiro wanted to be the one to protect Keith from wayward Alphas, but they were both in the Garrison's pilot program. One day they would be separated by a mission and Shiro wouldn't be there if anything went wrong. Keith also didn't take notice of a single Alpha during his run at the Garrison, which meant that Shiro didn't have anyone to fall back on for caring for his younger brother. So Shiro taught him everything under the sun about combat until Keith was beating him down in fights and the Kerberos mission was announced.

Shiro had expected to be gone a few months and had worried about Keith up until his younger brother had all but shoved him out to the launch pad (following a spine-cracking hug). That worry hadn't disappeared when he was taken by the Galra.

When Shiro had woken up to his younger brother standing watch over him in the Kogane shack, he'd felt relief for the first time in over a year. Coming home to Keith happily unmated was one relief in a frantic sea of worry. Leave it to Keith to refuse to make Shiro worry.

Finding the Blue Lion and being whizzed up to space was a completely different story. After sorting through the first few days of training and realizing that their makeshift team could be there for longer than previously expected Shiro had grabbed Keith in a private room and sat him down to talk.

"How long until your next heat?" Shiro had asked. Keith frowned, crossing his arms and shrugging his shoulder in what Shiro knew to be a nervous habit.

"8 months tops?" Keith answered, before going silent. Neither of them spoke. Lance was an Alpha, unbonded and, as far as Shiro could tell from just meeting him, completely irresponsible. He was also the only other Alpha on the ship, meaning that if Keith's suppressants wore off...

"We'll think of something," Shiro assured him, causing a smile to twitch at the corner of Keith's mouth. "For now focus on training and forming Voltron."

Keith did as he was told, and the months ticked by. Shiro was no idiot though. As the team became friends and grew closer he immediately noticed the way Keith's gaze lingered on Lance.

There were a million and one restrictions on romantic relationships at the Garrison. One of the main reasons was because romance could interfere with the mission, and their team was part of a huge one. Not to mention that even though Shiro now knew that Lance was dependable and loyal, Keith had zero experience with anything concerning romance. The last thing their team needed was for the pair's bickering to evolve into a frenzy of heartbreak and regret. Shiro had to nip things in the bud.

"Keith. You can't become involved with Lance. We can't have something like this affecting Voltron." Shiro had said, _insisted. _If they'd been back on Earth, Shiro would have let things grow on their own. If things turned out well, he'd be glad. If they didn't, he'd have done the standard older brother thing and broken Lance's legs. Easy as that.

Keith had agreed with Shiro, and Shiro had taken his word and now Shiro was forced to consider the possibility that maybe he couldn't trust Keith to follow orders while he was in heat. Especially not with another Alpha around, one that had apparently grown on his brother to the extent that even though Shiro was about to lay into the pair, the two were barely hiding the smiles on their faces.

Shiro sighed.

"I can not _believe _you two would do something like this." He began before he reconsidered. "No, I should have expected this the moment Keith ran out of his meds. I should have locked the both of you up in your rooms and left it at that." He ran a hand through his hair.

"You wouldn't have been able to forever." Keith pointed out. "What if you needed us to form Voltron?" He pointed out. Shiro sent him a glare and Keith shrugged back at him. Both he and Lance were still damp from the shower, and they'd taken an extra fifteen minutes to report to Shiro. A lot could happen in that time frame.

Lance, at the very least, looked guilty about the whole thing. He also was watching Shiro like he was prepared for Shiro to rip his head off at any moment. Shiro had considered it, but the look in Keith's eyes right now was on par with when he'd been eight-years-old and Shiro had taken his stuffed hippo toy. Shiro still had scars from Keith's teeth on his left arm.

"We also can't form Voltron if one of our Paladins gets pregnant." Shiro pointed out, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I mean, we could," Keith responded dryly. "I don't think Red would have an issue with that."

"Is that so?" Shiro asked dryly, turning his attention to Lance. "And how would an Alpha feel knowing that their pregnant omega was going into an active war zone?" He asked. Lance actively grimaced, shaking his head.

"Lance and I aren't bonded yet." Keith pointed out angrily. _Yet _. Shiro groaned. "He doesn't have a right to say what I can and can't do. And even if we were-"

"Bonded or not, if you end up carrying his child, then he has a duty, an instinctive need, to ensure that child's safety, as do you," Shiro argued back. "And your fighting styles aren't ideal for that. You're the point man, and he's our fire support. How well are the fights going to go if Lance feels the need to defend you at every moment?"

"Shiro," Lance spoke up, "I can protect Keith from a distance, I've been doing it since we've started fighting the Galra in missions like these." He insisted, stepping forward. Shiro leveled him with a flat glare.

"Can you now?" He asked. Lance's gaze sharpened as the Blue Paladin took a step forward.

"I am standing _right here _." Keith hissed, stepping in between the two of them. He bared his teeth. "I can speak for _and _defend myself just fine! Once you two stop your bravado games then you can come find me and bitch about the fate of the universe." He snapped, before whirling on his heel and striding away.

Lance and Shiro stared after him for a moment, before exchanging a look. Lance stepped forward, intending to follow Keith, but Shiro reached out to grab onto his hood, yanking him back.

"Unless you want Keith's boot shoved down your throat, I'd give him a moment to cool off," Shiro suggested mildly. Lance sent him a sour look, turning around to face him completely.

"Listen, Shiro. I get that you're our leader, and Keith's older brother, but Keith and I have the right to decide what we want." Lance said, sounding far more reasonable that Shiro had expected.

"Even if that relationship could jeopardize the entire universe?"

"Why'd you even let Keith and I both be a part of Voltron if you didn't trust us enough to be responsible enough for it?"

"To be fair, I didn't choose any of us for this mission," Shiro said coldly before he let out a long sigh. "I wouldn't have even chosen myself, you know. But here we are, trying to save countless lives while trying to live our own." Shiro scrubbed his hand over his face, before looking at Lance wearily. "...Do I need to have the standard '_hurt my baby brother and I'll help him hide the body_' talk?"

"Nope," Lance answered quickly.

"Good." Shiro said, "Dismissed." He added, turning and heading towards the training deck.

"Wait, so you aren't going to murder me?" Lance called out to him. Shiro paused, looking at Lance from over his shoulder.

"No," Shiro answered simply. "Now you can be the one to deal with Keith when he's pissed. I'm going to go train for a bit. Have fun." He added at the way Lance paled.

Shiro left Lance to his own devices, wondering how many hours he could get in before dinner time.

* * *

The fact that Lance had figured out Keith's current location was based entirely on the fact that Keith was still in heat, his scent leading straight to the Red Paladin's quarters.

Lance knocked on the door, waiting a moment before he decided to bite the bullet. Hell, maybe Keith would beat him up and they could have awesome makeup sex. That'd be worth it, right?

He stepped inside, looking around for Keith. His room was empty and bare, despite his scent dragging Lance in like a fish on a line. He sniffed at the air, his gaze drifting to Keith's closet.

Keith had said that he had a nest. Closets were large enough for a nest but small enough to provide that sense of comfort. Lance slid the door open, his gaze softening at the sight before him.

Keith's definition of proper nest must have included the words 'fluffy' and 'soft' because Lance counted at least seven pillows and enough towels and sheets to stock half the Castle. Keith was curled up in the middle of it, his face relaxed as he napped.

Lance sat down next to the nest, reaching out to pet at Keith's hair. Keith mumbled in response, curling up into a tighter ball than he already was. Lance continued petting at his hair, his face, everywhere really. It wasn't like he'd been allowed to run his hands across Keith's body prior to their quickie a little earlier. So he let his hands wander, running down Keith's arms, noticing the small scars that he hadn't seen before.

Keith stirred awake before too long, and Lance offered him a smile when the omega blinked up at him sleepily.

"What are you doing in my nest?" Keith deadpanned. Lance blinked, before pouting at him.

"I'm not in your nest, I'm sitting _outside _your nest."

"Your hands are _inside _my nest." Keith pointed out dryly as Lance stroked his cheek. "I thought I told you this was my space?"

"But you're mine." Lance pointed out with a grin. Keith blinked awake at that, sitting up roughly and slapping Lance's hands away.

"I am not _yours _!" He snapped, glaring at Lance. Lance stared at him with wide eyes. "I don't belong to you!" He added sharply, swatting away Lance's hands when he reached back out to him.

"I didn't mean it like that!" Lance replied because he hadn't. He pitied the Alpha that thought they could control Keith, only in Keith's mind _Lance _was apparently that Alpha.

"You and Shiro were certainly acting like it earlier." Keith hissed lowly, turning away from Lance. Oh shit. It hadn't even been a day and they were already arguing. Lance didn't know what he'd expected, but fuck.

"Shiro's just worried," Lance answered evenly. "About you and Voltron and the whole universe thing."

"Yeah," Keith agreed after a moment, "what about you?" He asked coldly. Lance paused, considering his next words carefully, which was a rare occurrence for him.

"I'm worried about you breaking my spine over your knee for insulting you," Lance said because it was true. Keith snorted out a laugh at that, so Lance continued. "I worried that you'll get a grudge and fall out of love with me over a misunderstanding and that's honestly the worst thing that could ever happen to me," Lance said, reaching out to cup Keith's cheek in his hand. Keith made a soft noise, letting his eyes slip closed.

"If I could fall out of love with you that easily then I would have done it ages ago." Keith pointed out gently. Lance grinned.

"You loooovvveee me-"

"Shut up," Keith said mildly, moving to lie back down in his nest. Lance paused, unsure if he should follow. Keith closed his eyes and hummed softly under his breath, before looking back up at Lance. "Ground rules," was all he said.

"Um," Lance answered.

"No shoes while you're in my Nest. No acting like you're the Big, Bad Alpha in general. If you do I _will _break your spine." Keith promised, before turning onto his side, away from Lance. "Also I get to be the little spoon." Lance grinned at that last one, tugging off his jacket and kicking off his shoes.

Climbing into Keith's nest felt like its own personal mini celebration. Lance hesitated for only a moment before snuggling into Keith's side. Keith was warm, giving off heat like a hot water bottle. Lance cuddled up to him, smiling when he felt Keith relax in his arms. Lance leaned in to nose at the junction of Keith's neck and shoulder, breathing in that ocean scent that he gave off.

"You smell so good," Lance told him, resisting the urge to mark Keith then and there. Keith paused, shifting in Lance's arms.

"What do I smell like?" Keith asked curiously, shivering as Lance continued to nose at his scent gland.

Scents were different for everyone, one person could smell completely different to another since their body released different levels of hormones when in contact with different people. Pidge smelled like pine needles to Lance but to Hunk they smelled like moss on a tree trunk. Shiro smelled like how warm steel felt to Lance, but Keith had one day commented that his brother smelled like toasted marshmallows when he was happy.

"Like the ocean. The beach and the salty air." Lance said, cuddling him tightly. Keith snorted at that.

"Are you calling me salty?"

"Yes, because it's true. But you also smell like sea salt ice cream." He added on a sweeter note. Keith turned around at that, looking up at Lance with violet eyes before he was sniffing at Lance's neck as well.

"It's the same scent as before," Keith noted quietly. Lance blinked.

"What do I smell like?" He asked curiously. He and Keith had never been comfortable enough to scent at each other, especially due to their dynamics.

"Smoke," Keith said, leaning in to scent at Lance again. "Campfire smoke and the night air." He added after a quiet moment. "My dad used to take me and Shiro outside at night time. He'd make me s'mores for us as we pointed out the stars on his charts. He didn't want me to burn myself." Keith murmured into Lance's collarbone. Lance's heart clenched at the quiet longing in Keith's voice.

"I can make a mean s'more." He blurted out.

The long beat of silence that followed was enough to choke Lance with, but he just kept on rambling.

"I mean, not a mean s'more. A nice one. The nicest you'll ever taste, well, I mean, I guess that's up to you but I've been tol-Mmph!" Lance grunted as Keith shoved their lips together, the omega's tongue licking his mouth teasingly before Keith pulled away.

"Shut up, Lance," Keith said, a smile twitching at the corner of his mouth. Lance grinned.

"I got you to smile." He said, pleased with himself. Keith huffed out a breath, turning back away from him and snuggling back against him. His hips wriggled against the front of Lance's pants in a way that made him pant.

"I can get you to do plenty more than smile." Keith tossed over his shoulder smugly.

"Yeah," Lance agreed, his teeth nipping at Keith's neck, "like what?" He asked. Keith shivered, squirming in his arms again, before settling down. Keith sent him a look.

"What if I get pregnant?" Keith asked suspiciously, reminding Lance that they hadn't solved the start of their original argument. Lance froze, taking a long moment to consider.

"If you got pregnant it'd be your decision." Lance finally said. "I won't lie, I'd want you and our kits to be safe, but I also know that you would never be happy if I tried to play the Alpha card and make you hide away on the Castle during a fight. Also, you'd probably shatter my kneecaps." He added critically. Keith snorted at that, shifting to sit up.

"You're right about that." Keith agreed, taking a moment to kick off his pants before turning to shove Lance onto his back. Lance began to pant when he realized that Keith wasn't wearing any underwear. He watched as Keith spread his legs, throwing one knee over Lance's hips to straddle them. Oh god, Keith's thighs were _soaked_. "Even if I broke your kneecaps I'd still keep you around." Keith's hands went to the bulge in Lance's pants, rubbing at it through the fabric possessively. "Your knot's too good to put to waste."

"Fuck," Lance replied elegantly, watching as Keith licked his lips hungrily. Keith tugged open his pants, pulling Lance's erection out of his boxers.

"I'm going to blow you," Keith announced, and Lance all but screamed in joy. "Later." Lance cried internally. "Right now I just want to fuck." Nevermind, the universe was great again.

"Okay." Lance agreed happily, moving to sit up on his elbows. Keith shot him a look.

"Lie back down," Keith ordered roughly. Lance paused. "If you're going to get me pregnant with this stupidly big dick then I'm going to sit on your knot myself," Keith said, shifting forward so that he was rutting against the underside of Lance's dick. It was a tease of wetness and heat and Lance growled.

Keith growled right back at him, and Lance wanted nothing more than to put this disobedient omega over his knee and remind him who the Alpha was. Keith shifted forward, grabbing Lance's shoulders and forcibly shoving him back into his nest.

"You better listen to me, or when you knot I'll leave it outside." Keith threatened, still rutting against Lance's cock. His breath was coming out in soft pants. "Hell, if you're an asshole about it I won't even let you come inside at all." He hissed. Lance groaned.

"Don't," Lance wasn't begging, he totally wasn't. He was making a strategic compromise, even with his brain leaking out of his ears. "I'll make you feel good, baby."

"Yeah?" Keith's tone was amused as he grabbed onto Lance's dick to line him up with his hole. "Prove it."


	108. (T) STEREK - You are the Moon by skoosie

You are the Moon  
skoosiepants

Summary:  
Stuff Stiles doesn't like to deal with first thing: hot, moist dog breath in his face, a cuddly werewolf creepifying his perfectly normal morning wood with shades of bestiality, and his dad holding his service revolver up against the skull of his bedmate, never mind the fact that his bedmate could possibly be a vicious unhinged rogue omega.

* * *

Stiles knows the Beacon Hills woods like the back of his hand. He knows exactly where he is, even though he's alone and it's pushing over an hour past dark and his best friend has abandoned him for working on an essay by Skype with Allison.

The muddy ground is sucking at his sneakers and the dead leaves are slippery and Stiles will never admit it out loud, but he figures this was maybe a bad idea. Even though he knows, unequivocally, that the Hale house is probably five hundred yards somewhere to his right, and his Jeep is to his left, and he is _totally not lost._

He holds his cell phone up, the lit display making everything around him seem that much darker. He's just pressed on Scott's number – to yell at him for letting him do this alone; who in their right mind goes out looking for something that's been _savaging animals_ for a week straight, who in their right mind lets their _best friend_ go out looking for that by himself? – when he steps wrong, trips over a root, slips off the somewhat beaten trail, takes a header down a slope and into a couple really solid oak saplings.

"Ow, fuck," Stiles says, flat on his back, panting up at the murky sky. He's got a death grip on his phone at least. He turns his head and—comes face-to-face with a deer carcass. "Oh, that is—" He dry heaves a little, then rolls to the side, away from it. "Foul," he says. "That is _foul_, so gross." Why did he want to come out here again?

And then he hears the growling.

Oh, yeah.

Stiles has never actually seen a werewolf before. He's talked to one on the phone - because Colby has a thing against texting all the time, he likes to hear that Stiles is okay from his own mouth – but there hasn't been a werewolf loose in Beacon Hills since the Hale tragedy, since Laura left town, dug out a small spread of territory for herself in New York.

So, uh, this is why—why Stiles was following his dad's police scanner for weird animal attacks for days, because he figured an omega might be out here, never mind the fact that Stiles' dad said it was highly unlikely any rogue could make it past the Argent outpost alive.

It's in wolf form, and it's staring at him. Its eyes glow blue every time it growls.

"So this is great," Stiles says. He slowly shifts until he's sitting upright, the wolf tracking every twitch of his limbs.

He tries to remember everything he's learned in school about omegas – how they're unstable, unpredictable and vicious, probably fearful and doubly aggressive. This one just looks angry that he's interrupted its dinner.

"Sorry," Stiles says.

The wolf cocks its head at him.

"For, uh—" Stiles glances behind him and gags again, _so gross_. "You were eating," he says. He waves a hand and the wolf snaps at him, and when Stiles automatically moves to scramble away it darts in and catches hold of his hoodie, snarling in the back of its throat.

Stiles freezes, heart pounding. He hadn't really been afraid before, he figured if it was going to attack and eat him, it'd have done it already, probably before Stiles had even been aware of its presence. Now, though—he swallows hard and says, "There's no need for violence, okay? I'm—"

The wolf shakes him, one sharp wrench, and then lets the material of Stiles' jacket slip through its teeth before burying its nose into Stiles' armpit.

"Whoa, okay." Stiles moves, accidentally pushing on the ruff of its neck, but the wolf only snuffles closer, muzzle drifting up to lick at his throat. Stiles bares it without thinking, says, "Okay, okay, we're being friendly now," as his hand slips down to rest on the wolf's side. "Awesome."

Finally, the wolf backs up and sits on its haunches, and when Stiles tries to gain his feet, it doesn't stop him. Stiles still moves slow and cautious, watching the wolf for any warning that it'll lunge – it's big, now that Stiles is paying full attention, but lean and rangy, unkempt, like it's been traveling on four feet for a while, and Stiles figures if it didn't come down through the Argent outpost, it's most likely from one of the established packs further south. As far as Stiles knows – or his dad, really - there hasn't been any report of a wolf leaving one of those, but that doesn't mean it didn't happen. Packs can be close-mouthed and protective, and seeing as how this one doesn't act anything like a rogue, maybe they didn't think it was any human's business.

Stiles crosses his arms over his chest, eyes leaving the wolf to glance at his surroundings. He's—oh yeah, he's totally lost now. Great.

"Not that this hasn't been super fun," Stiles says, scratching at the side of his neck, "but now I have to figure out where I left my car."

He feels a split-second of panic when the wolf gets all up in his business again, but then he realizes that—that the wolf is _herding_ him, and he stumbles over his own feet before accidentally grabbing the wolf's tail – "Sorry, sorry!" – and then he's trudging through the woods, following its black ass, until they break out into the side of the road where Stiles' Jeep is parked along the shoulder.

"Huh," Stiles says. Cool.

The wolf sits by the driver's side door, and when Stiles unlocks and opens it, it hops inside. Which is, uh, weird. "Are you really—I mean. Come on, out, you."

The wolf growls, eyes flashing again.

Stiles only hesitates a moment before getting in. "Okay, fine." He has no idea how he's going to explain this to his dad.

"So say there's a lone werewolf in Beacon Hills," Stiles starts, and Colby says, "Stay away from it. I mean it, Stiles, _do not go near it_," and Stiles makes a face at his phone.

He says, "What if it followed me home?"

There's a long pause. Finally, Colby says, slow and careful, "What, like it's howling outside your window?"

"Um. More like it's sleeping on my bed. He, I think, but it's not like I'm going to check."

The wolf cracks an eyelid at him and huffs; Stiles is going to take that as both an affirmative and a warning not to go looking for his balls. Stiles is more than happy to accommodate.

"Stiles," Colby says, a wealth of frustration and resignation in his tone.

"He might be stuck in a change or something, does that happen?" So far, the wolf has shown no interest in taking off his fur. Not that Stiles is complaining. Strangely, having a full-grown wolf in his bedroom is less intimidating than the thought of that wolf morphing into a full-grown man.

Colby sighs. "It can. Look, I'll talk to Laura, but I'm flying out."

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Stiles says. He's watching the wolf, and the wolf is tense, ears forward, listening. "In fact, that's probably a really bad idea." The wolf bares his teeth at him.

"I could contact a more local pack, but I'm pretty sure Laura'll want me to take care of this," Colby says, a frown in his voice.

"No, I mean. You know he can hear you, right?"

"Yes, Stiles, I know he can hear me," Colby says. "And I don't _care_, I'm not leaving you alone with a rogue—"

"Pretty sure he's not feral or anything," Stiles says. The wolf is staring at him again, head up. He glances to the window, to Stiles, to the door and back again. Stiles covers the phone with his hand and says, "Oh, no you don't, you wanted to be here, you're staying now."

Colby says, "Stiles—"

"No, I hear you, you're coming, case closed, fine," Stiles says, mouthing _stay_ to the wolf when he gets to his feet on the mattress, "but it's not my fault if he rips your face off."

"Oh my god, Stiles, you see that this is my point, right?"

Stiles says, "He's not going to hurt me," because, for some reason, Stiles actually believes that. This wolf is not going to hurt Stiles, he's absolutely sure. He has no such guarantees about Colby, or even other people, geez, he thinks maybe it's like dogs and aggression and how Stiles has somehow made it into his circle of trust. Why did he take him out of the woods again?

Colby just curses, says, "I'll call you when I get there," and hangs up.

Scott keeps straining to look over Stiles' shoulder through the computer screen, and finally he says, "Did you get a dog? When did you get a dog?" all confused puppy, scrunched up face, and Stiles sighs deeply, because there is no universe whatsoever that the wolf currently breathing heavy and hot down Stiles' neck could be mistaken for a _dog_.

Oh, Scott. Scott, Scott, Scott.

"I found him in the woods," Stiles says.

Scott says, "You found a dog in the woods?" and the wolf growls and Stiles says, "You should probably stop calling him a dog, I don't think he likes it."

Scott cocks his head. "What?"

"Just get over here, okay?" Stiles needs some support, here, because he's fairly sure Laura is sending Colby all the way across the country to kill his wolf. Laura, for all that she hasn't set foot in town since almost the entirety of the Hale family was slaughtered six years ago, still considers Beacon Hills her territory, and basically all the other packs in California consider it hers as well. Whether it's from sympathy and respect for the dead or because Laura is one scary-ass lady wolf – tales of her near-rampage after the fire are still talked about in hushed, exaggerated whispers, they couldn't even find any _remnants_ of Kate Argent's body - Stiles doesn't know for sure. He just knows that it's rare that they even get any werewolf traveling through, let alone hanging around in their woods for a few weeks, terrorizing their deer population.

It only takes about ten minutes for Scott to bike over from his house – he bursts in like he always does, shouts, "Hey, Stiles," as he opens the front door, jogs the few steps it takes to get to the stairs, and he's halfway up them before a vicious snarl rips out of the wolf and he literally throws himself off Stiles' bed, landing on the floor with his body bunched, fangs flashing, claws cutting into the area rug lying five feet from the door.

Stiles jumps to his feet and yelps, "Circle of trust, circle of trust!" waving his hands around, and the wolf pauses mid-pounce to look at him, bristling fur slowly, slowly falling, ears still pricked, lips still pulled back over sharp, saliva-dripping teeth. "Yeah, that's right," Stiles says, and points at himself, then Scott. "Scott friend."

He swears, _swears_ the wolf rolls his eyes at him as he minutely relaxes his stance, and whatever, he nearly just went berserk on a sixteen-year-old kid for _walking into a room_, he has no legs to stand on here.

"Holy shit," Scott says in a rasp, frozen in the hallway, eyes wide, with a white-knuckled grip on the hem of his t-shirt. He gasps for air, hands traveling up to his throat, fear turning to a sudden alarm, and Stiles rushes forward, manhandles him all the way into the room at the same time as he shoves a hand down Scott's back pocket, yanking out his inhaler.

"Breathe, dude," he says, stuffing it in Scott's mouth, and Scott's hands scramble to take it from him while Stiles just curls an arm around his back to keep him upright.

Color inches back into Scott's face and he lowers his hands to clutch his inhaler against his chest. He says, "Holy shit," again, and, "That isn't a dog."

"Uh, no," Stiles says, because if he _was_ a dog, he'd be some kind of Irish wolfhound on steroids, and Stiles is fairly sure that's impossible outside of some kind of dubious lab.

"Holy _shit_."

Scott and the wolf have a stare-down, even though Stiles keeps telling him, _loudly_, that it's a bad idea. Who has a stare-down with a werewolf? Dead people, that's who. Especially considering he just went all mindless guard dog on his ass not even a half hour before.

Scott tentatively lifts a hand, like he's going to actually _touch_ the wolf, before a deep rumble, not quite a growl, makes him stop. His fingers curl into a fist and drop back to his lap. "Wow," he says. He blinks first and looks away, which seems to satisfy the wolf – he snorts and moves to stand by Stiles, shoulder brushing his side.

Scott says, "What are you going to tell your dad?"

"Considering Colby's flying in, I'm pretty sure I'm gonna have to tell him the truth." Which is going to suck so hard, really. Stiles predicts a massive grounding in his future, it won't be pleasant.

Scott makes a face and says, "Sucks."

"Totally, dude." Stiles flops back on his bed, sighing at the ceiling.

It's silent for a few seconds, the wolf licks his chops, a weird, wet sound that makes Stiles grimace, and then Scott says, "So—Call of Duty?"

A heavy paw on his face wakes Stiles up, the wolf's eyes glowing fiercely blue in the dark.

"What?" Stiles says.

The wolf hops down off the bed and pads over to the window, his back a straight, tense line, tail and ears alert. When Stiles doesn't move to follow, he growls low and scratches at the pane of glass.

"Okay, okay," Stiles says, throwing back the covers and stumbling over. He unlocks the window and pushes it up. "How are you even going to get—down," he says, as the wolf leaps over the sill and fades into a shadow darting across the yard under the full moon.

"Awesome," Stiles says through a yawn. "See you later, bye." He closes the window again, falls into bed, wrapping the blankets even tighter around himself, already colder without the wolf curled up into his side.

In the small of the morning, Stiles wakes with a start, blinking up at the ceiling, heart pounding. He's not even really sure what woke him up. The sun is weak, but his shades are open, and it's bright enough that he doesn't think he'll be able to get back asleep, not to mention the spike of adrenaline still coursing through his body. He rolls his head, pressing the flat of his hand to his heart, and sees the wolf's disgruntled face glaring at him from outside. Stiles doesn't even know how he does that, is he hovering? Riding a broom? Do werewolves _fly_?

The wolf lets out a low _woof_, obviously not impressed with Stiles lack of movement.

"Fine, geez, hold your horses, dude," Stiles says, checking the time as he climbs out of bed. Six thirty is way too early to be up on a Saturday.

The wolf has his front paws on the outside sill, stretched out with his back paws on the edge of the sloping roof of the garage below, and he nimbly jumps inside the room with an annoyed chuff. Seriously.

Seriously, he's annoyed at _Stiles_.

"I hate you," Stiles says.

The look the wolf throws him clearly states how much he knows that Stiles is lying. And Stiles _is_ lying, because, hello, _real live werewolf_ in his house. Kinda cool.

Stiles crawls back under his covers and the wolf follows, nudging him over with his nose until Stiles has rolled all the way up against the wall. The wolf is large and hot all along his back, and his breath smells like dead bunnies when he props his muzzle up on the side of Stiles' neck, but it doesn't take all that long for Stiles to fall back into a deep sleep.

Stuff Stiles doesn't like to deal with first thing: hot, moist dog breath in his face, a cuddly werewolf creepifying his perfectly normal morning wood with shades of bestiality, and his dad holding his service revolver up against the skull of his bedmate, never mind the fact that his bedmate could possibly be a vicious unhinged rogue omega.

Props to Dad for remaining calm, cool and collected, though, that is one steady hand.

"This isn't what it looks like," Stiles says, even though it's pretty much exactly what it looks like, Stiles' dad makes that clear with the arch of his right eyebrow.

The wolf himself is tense, a growl in the base of his throat, but doesn't seem close to the near-rage he'd shown toward Scott, so Stiles counts that as a win.

"Start explaining, son," his dad says, gun unwavering.

"Yeah, okay," Stiles says. "Dad, this is, uh—he followed me home? Can we keep him?"

His dad gives him a heavy sigh. "Stiles."

"It's totally fine, I've got this under control, you can put away your gun now," Stiles says, and Stiles' dad says, "A human body was found in the woods last night," and narrows his eyes even more on the wolf.

Stiles immediately thinks of the wolf leaving, of him scratching at the window and coming back in the early morning with blood on his breath, but he also knows, is _absolutely sure_ that his wolf didn't kill any person. He couldn't have.

"It wasn't him," Stiles says.

"You don't know that."

Stiles wants to move, wants to shift up onto his knees and plead, but he doesn't want to jostle the wolf or startle his dad. "Dad, dad, I brought him home _yesterday_, it wasn't him, okay?"

Stiles' dad glances over at him. "He was here all night?"

Relief swims through Stiles, making his heart stutter. "Yeah, yes. He was here, he didn't kill anybody."

Stiles' dad doesn't look like he completely believes him, but he does pull up the revolver, sliding the safety back on, and _Jesus Christ_, his dad was really going to shoot the wolf right in Stiles' bed, that's so wrong.

"Well, that means either we have a rabid mountain lion on our hands, or another rogue's out there," Stiles' dad says, and Stiles says, "This guy isn't a _rogue_, Dad, he's tame as a puppy." Stiles ruffles his ears and the wolf lifts his lip in a silent snarl, but doesn't growl. Stiles grins down at him cheerily and resists the urge to scrub a hand over his muzzle.

"Uh huh, right," Stiles' dad says, skeptical. He hooks the gun back into his holster and straightens up. "How about you talk to your _puppy_ about sleeping on the floor, then."

"_Dad_."

"Breakfast is in fifteen," he says before giving the wolf one last long look and leaving the room.

Stiles feels bad about lying to his dad; he should be better than that, but he did what had to be done. He pushes the wolf out of his way and climbs out of bed, wagging a finger at him. "You better not make me regret this. If you're chomping down on humans and using me as your patsy, I'll be so pissed."

The wolf just yawns big and wide and then stuffs his head under Stiles' pillow.

The sheriff isn't thrilled with having more werewolves in town, even perfectly civil ones like Colby, but he doesn't threaten to call the Argents and agrees to let the Hale pack deal with Stiles' wolf for now. The other, whoever it may be, is not so lucky.

The woods are crawling with hunters by mid-morning.

Stiles doesn't really have anything against the Argents – Kate was a psychopathic anomaly, they freely admitted that, and Allison is a sweetheart – but that doesn't mean they can't be just as ruthless as any werewolf and totally creepy to boot.

So it's a relief that the wolf stands stoically at the window that night and doesn't seem inclined to leave: Stiles hadn't been looking forward to trying to convince him to stay.

He swivels back and forth on his desk chair, talking at him. "Colby should be here tomorrow," he says. And, "Look, do you think you could maybe not try to tear out his throat? He's a good guy, I'm pretty sure Laura would do way worse to you than any Argent could if anything happened to him."

The wolf barely glances over his shoulder at him.

"I'm serious," Stiles says. "You can't pull that shit you did with Scott, okay?" He doesn't say that his concern is more for the wolf than for Colby. Colby can probably hold his own; any wolf with a pack, Stiles knows, is, like, ten times stronger than an omega. Plus his dad would go ape shit and break out the wolfsbane bullets.

The wolf sits, rests his head on the windowsill, ears up and alert, tail a slow sweep across the floor.

It occurs to Stiles that maybe he _knows_ the other werewolf. Like maybe they were hunting together, or maybe Stiles' wolf was hunting _it_, vigilante style.

"You know who it is, don't you?" Stiles says, drumming his fingers on his thigh.

One ear flicks back and then forward again.

Stiles knows Colby purely by accident, because Stiles is nosy and persistent, and Colby moderates a werewolf forum that Stiles bribed Danny into hacking for him once. They'd been IMing for nearly a month before they figured out they both knew Laura Hale – Stiles vaguely, and mostly from hearsay, Colby because he's Laura's freaking _Second_ – and after that they were enthusiastic cell phone buddies, Stiles keeping the Hale pack up-to-date on all the fascinating Beacon Hills news.

This is the first time Stiles has ever seen Colby in person. He doesn't look exactly how he pictured him; he's taller and ganglier, with long blonde hair pulled back in a tail – his face looks like maybe he smiles a lot, which Stiles thinks is nice, nice that Laura has that around her every day, but right now he looks tired, thin-lipped and tense, sharp blue eyes focused on the big black wolf beside Stiles.

The wolf growls a little in the back of his throat, but it doesn't sound all that threatening. Good. Maybe some of what Stiles said had gotten through to him.

And then the wolf slinks forward and nudges Colby's hand. He looks back at Stiles, like he's confused, and whines.

Stiles shrugs and says, "I have no idea, buddy," because whatever's happening here is totally lost on Stiles, too.

Colby pulls back his hand and crosses his arms over his chest, staring down at the wolf. He looks more contemplative than mad now, though, and he rocks back on his heels before tilting his head and scenting the air. "This isn't the only one," he says.

"Well, no," Stiles starts, because he hadn't filled Colby in on that yet, but then Colby shakes his head and says, "No, _here_. This isn't the only werewolf here, I can smell it all over your house," and _that_ makes Stiles go instantly cold and slightly nauseas.

Stiles says, "Shit," and his wolf presses all up into his side, like he could curl all the way around him and keep him safe. It's a nice sentiment, Stiles appreciates the support. He digs his hand into the wolf's ruff and says, "Shit," again.

"What didn't you tell me, Stiles?" Colby says.

"Uh," Stiles says, "there's been a murder."

The victim is an RN from the hospital. That's all that Stiles can get out of his dad, but he eavesdrops on his dad and Colby and he finds out it's a woman from the long term care unit, and that Peter Hale, Laura's _uncle_, has gone missing. He's the only family Laura has left in the entire world, even though she's basically avoided him for six years, so Stiles figures chances are good that she'll be heading back to town herself.

Colby confirms it, saying to Stiles, "We'll get this sorted when Laura gets here," and he eyes the wolf askance where he's being, _okay, yes_, really strangely clingy with Stiles.

Stiles has only known him a few days, but he can tell this is weird.

"I talked to both the Weeder and Kant packs to the south. Weeder says this one," Colby throws a hand out at the wolf, "had been hanging around for a few months, but didn't cause any trouble. Kant, on the other hand." He pauses, presses his lips together. "She doesn't think he's stuck in a shift, just stubborn, but he'd been with her pack for years and refused to change back, even under Alpha authority."

"Isn't that impossible?" Stiles is pretty sure an alpha can get anyone in their pack to do anything if they used the right tone.

"Not if you don't fully accept the pack as your own." Colby shrugged. "Normally outliers aren't allowed, but Darcy had a soft spot for him. Never caused any trouble, kept to himself. I don't know what made him travel this far north."

"So you don't think he killed the nurse," Stiles says, and Colby gives him a sharp look.

"You told your dad he was here."

"And he _was_ here," Stiles says, worrying his lower lip between his teeth. "And then maybe he wasn't for a little while, and then he was again?" He tightens his grip on his wolf when Colby growls.

"God damn it, Stiles!"

"You said he never caused any trouble! He's a peaceful werewolf, okay, who feeds on deer and bunnies and maybe the occasional water fowl." Stiles is resolute in his belief of this, he just wants Colby to agree with him.

Colby rubs a hand over his face. "Fuck."

"It's fine," Stiles says, and Colby says, "It's not _fine_," but he mostly sounds resigned, and a little like he wants to tear all his hair out and make Stiles eat it.

Stiles pats his shoulder and says, "It will be."

Colby sleeps on the couch and insists that the wolf sleeps down there with him, which Stiles only agrees to because the wolf will do whatever he damn pleases, so, for once, he doesn't waste his breath. He feels gratified when his door creaks open sometime in the middle of the night and the wolf ends up sprawled out on the foot of Stiles' bed.

His dad is on the night shift, and he's home by the time Stiles stumbles down the steps in the morning, eating scrambled eggs over the sink, half out of his rumpled uniform. His eyes are tired when he looks at Stiles, but he still smiles.

Stiles yawns, scratches his belly, and doesn't even realize he has one hand on the wolf's back until his dad jerks his head at it, eyebrows arched.

He says, "Don't get too attached," like the wolf is some kind of pet Stiles has to give back to his owner.

Just because he refuses to shift, everyone seems to think the wolf needs a keeper – Stiles is just secretly grateful the wolf likes him enough to stop for a little while.

He sits down at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee warming his hands. His dad ruffles his hair as he walks past on his way up to bed, and the wolf slumps down on top of Stiles' feet. He rubs his toes together, a rhythmic _shush shush_ sound, and the wolf leans more weight on him to make him stop.

"Sorry," Stiles murmurs.

He can see Colby pacing the porch through the back window, talking on his cell. He looks worried, shoulders hunched, one arm wrapped over his chest, and he keeps shooting little glances at Stiles.

Stiles sighs, because ultimately his dad is right, something is going to happen, and no matter what it is, Stiles isn't going to get to—_the wolf_ isn't going to stay, he knows this.

His feet are warm and toasty. He's totally going to miss this when it's gone.

Laura Hale is a looker, all long legs and breasts and wavy dark hair. Stiles would appreciate this more if she wasn't also scary beyond all belief. She smiles at Stiles like she wants to eat him, and then her face goes disturbingly blank and she says, "You smell weird."

"Awesome," Stiles says, and Colby shoots him a look, but whatever, those are her actual first words to Stiles – not _hello_, not _You must be Colby's super fantastic friend Stiles_, not _I'm Laura, I'm totally not going to have you for dinner_. Nope, it's _You smell weird_, like maybe she thinks Stiles ate a ton of tuna and garlic and breathed all over her face on purpose. Which did not happen, by the way, Stiles is not that rude. He discreetly tries to smell his breath anyway.

Laura says, "No, you—" and pushes her way past Stiles and into the house, sniffing the air.

Five seconds after Laura steps into the hall a long howl rolls over them out of Stiles' room, heart-wrenching, and a cold shiver tears down Stiles' spine. Laura freezes, head tipped back to stare at the ceiling.

When the wolf comes skittering down the stairs moments later, Laura pales, sways on her feet - then flushes bright pink all the way in from her ears.

"Derek?" she says.

Stiles says, "What?" looking between the wolf and Laura and then back again.

Laura opens and closes her mouth, says, "Oh my god," pauses, then says, "Derek?" again, only this time small and a little hesitant, like she can't quite believe it.

The wolf, Derek - Derek _Hale_, Stiles realizes, what the _fuck_ \- whines, flexing low to the ground before bouncing back up on all fours and barking.

It's hard to read Laura's expression, she sort of shuts down, even though her eyes are shining - she clenches her fists at her sides. "Change back."

Derek stares at her, head cocked. He glances at Stiles, then back to Laura.

"Derek, change back. Change back _now_," Laura says, and something catches in her throat, Stiles is pretty sure she's _this close_ to crying, and he's totally not comfortable with that.

Derek growls and starts backing away.

Stiles says, "Maybe we should just—"

"_Derek_," Laura says sternly, and Derek darts around and—hides behind Stiles. Seriously?

Derek has his head ducked low between Stiles' legs, big furry body curved around him, like Stiles is any sort of barrier at all. "Um."

"_Change back_," Laura says, almost more growl than words, eyes glowing blood red, and for a few agonizingly long seconds Stiles has a naked, full-grown man clinging to his waist, grip vise-like on his hips, before Derek shifts back into his wolf and takes off.

Stiles finds him in his bedroom closet. The tip of his tail is peeking out from under his dirty laundry, and he can hear him panting, rapid, almost in a panic.

Stiles plops down on the floor and leans back against his bed and says, "So, uh. This is kind of cool, right?" He winces and knocks his forehead onto his up-drawn knees. Cool?

Derek chuffs.

Stiles can't even imagine what it's been like for him, living alone as a wolf for, god, probably six freaking years, it's _crazy_. He doesn't know what he could possibly say to make that any different, to make that okay for anybody, let alone Derek.

So instead Stiles talks about everything and nothing, and then eventually he talks about his mom, and he talks about Scott's dad and Scott and the sheriff and Colby, and they sit there a long time, Stiles doesn't even know how long. Stiles hadn't bothered with a light, and the sun is slowly fading from the room.

Every once and a while Derek whines, and finally Stiles swallows hard and starts again. He says, "Look, I get it. Or, obviously I don't _get it_, I couldn't ever—but I get that you're scared. You've been—this," he flaps a hand, "for so long, it's probably freaking _terrifying_, I get that, but don't you want to talk to her? Hug her? Or, like, she thought you were dead, man, I mean, you both thought that, I'm thinking, but—this is kind of a miracle. Don't you want to give that to her? Like, if not for yourself, shouldn't she have that?"

Stiles has been talking for so long that the sudden silence feels odd, unnatural, creepy. Stiles can hear his own breaths; he can hear the creak of the floorboards under his ass as he stretches his almost-numb legs out. The wolf is still, too quiet.

Then suddenly the tail slips away in a rustle, and a hoarse voice says, "Can I borrow some pants?"

Derek Hale is gorgeous. Like, phenomenally attractive, even with the mountain man beard. But then Laura makes him shave it off and it's like—Stiles has no words. Stiles is struck dumb by how hot his wolf is. Only he isn't his wolf, he's _Laura's_, and Stiles is only saved from having that depressing thought on a repetitive loop in his brain because Derek sort of refuses to be in any room without Stiles.

It's flattering and alarming at the same time.

Stiles never thought _who are you?_ at the wolf, because it didn't matter – it still doesn't. Stiles doesn't know Derek Hale from Adam, but he knows the wolf liked to curl up as close to Stiles as possible, so intellectually—_intellectually_, he knows that this isn't any different. But Derek as a human is bigger and broader and has hands and facial expressions – kind of – and there is a thigh touching Stiles' arm. A man's thigh, through threadbare sweats, and every time Stiles moves, his forearm saws across those heavy muscles and every single hair on Stiles' neck stands straight up. After nearly an hour of this, Stiles is pretty much exhausted from sheer _awareness_.

Derek is sitting with his knees bent up on the couch next to Stiles, and Stiles doesn't think he's the only one who's noticed that Derek is practically hiding his face in Stiles' shoulder. Which is another thing – hot and moist guy breath across is neck is much more disconcerting than wolf breath, especially after Laura made him brush his teeth.

Seriously, Derek has been living as a wolf for _years_; he actually seemed much more socially functional in that form, too. This—this awkward, absurdly shy dude is only recognizable in the way that he's wholly grumpy – that is plain every time Stiles dares to look at his face - and still likes to push Stiles around with his entire body.

It's communication, Stiles gets that, but it's still like—Stiles has to get a hold of himself here.

Stiles shifts on the sofa and Derek shifts with him and Laura is staring at them, equal parts starry-eyed and amused.

Colby still looks worried.

"You look like this is a bad thing, dude," Stiles says, and Laura elbows Colby in the side and says, "It's my _baby brother_," like she still can't believe it, and Colby's frown gets deeper.

"I know," Colby says, and he opens and closes his mouth like he wants to say more, except then the Argents burst in. Like, all of them, and a couple random hunters to boot.

Derek is a wolf again before Stiles can even blink, and he's poised in front of Stiles, fangs out and growling.

Chris Argent doesn't even look at them, though; he stares at Laura like he's not totally surprised to see her – he probably isn't, the Argents are total creepsters - and says, "It's your uncle."

Stiles' dad says, "What about him?" and Stiles realizes he's halfway down the steps, clad only in a t-shirt and boxers, gun in hand and aimed unerringly at the cluster of hunters.

Argent says, "We found him."

Derek stays with Stiles, even though Laura wants him to go – she even lets him stay as a wolf, but then a good hour after they leave Derek turns up in Stiles' sweats again, and this time he sprawls out on the couch with his head in Stiles' lap.

"Um."

"Okay?" Derek says, and his voice is still a surprise, like Stiles wasn't sure he'd even remember how to talk, it's a little mind boggling to hear him use words.

"Uh." Stiles licks his lips. His fingers itch to pet Derek's hair, but he thinks that might be too weird.

Derek scowls up at him. "I can move," he says, even though he sounds like it would literally kill him to do it.

Stiles says, "No! I mean—it's just—" His leg bounces, and Derek moves like he's going to get up, and Stiles panics and presses down on his shoulder and head, and Derek slowly, slowly relaxes and Stiles doesn't even pull back his hands, he just makes his wrists go limp until—yeah, he's kind of petting Derek, and it's _totally_ weird. "I don't know what to do with you like this," he finally says.

Derek just hums under his breath and says, "You're doing a pretty good job."

Stiles learns later that they found Peter Hale wandering the woods, half-crazed and bloody, and that the only reason the Argents hadn't put him down like a dog –Argent's words, not anyone else's – was that they'd been working with local law enforcement, and none of Stiles' dad's deputies would condone that without proper evidence, especially considering the fact that Peter was mainly docile and confused by the time they brought him in.

It's pretty damning, Stiles knows. Laura's face, when she trudges back to Stiles' house, seems to say she knows it too. The only consolation is Derek. Watching your disfigured uncle go from comatose to crazed killer is harsh, but at least she isn't alone anymore.

Derek looks like he doesn't know what to do with his hands when Laura wraps her arms around him, and as far as Stiles knows, this is the first time they've touched in six years. Derek stands stock-still, panic rimming his eyes, until Laura clutches the back of his shirt and says, "Relax, god, you remember _hugging_, right, I'm not trying to gut you here," and Stiles lets out an inappropriate giggle.

Derek pats her back awkwardly and then twists out of her hold.

Laura sighs, but lets him go.

Laura and Colby get rooms at a local motel, but they spend most of their time at Stiles' house, mostly because Derek refuses to officially leave it. He uses Stiles' window as a door when he's a wolf, coming and going as he pleases, and he tends to follow Stiles from room to room, even the rare times he's in human form, arms folded, gripping his biceps, rigid line of his body only easing with Stiles' touch.

It's nice in a way that Stiles feels a little guilty about, because it's not healthy, probably for either of them. But the way Derek's imprinted on him like a baby duckling is, if sometimes annoying – there's really only so much Stiles feels comfortable doing in a bathroom with Derek and his werewolf super-senses standing on the other side of the door - just really, really—_nice_. Nice to be needed, nice to be the preferred company for once; especially since Allison has been taking up more and more of Scott's time lately.

It can't last, Stiles thinks, and it doesn't.

At the next full moon, Derek disappears with Laura, and the next day it's like they've rediscovered each other, and Derek looks comfortable in his human skin around Laura in a way he wasn't really around Stiles. He stares at Laura like she's familiar and precious, and Stiles feels something ache in his chest.

Stiles watches them, their dark heads tipped together, squished into the corner of the couch, and his throat gets so thick he barely gets out, "Going to Scott's," before he flees.

He makes it to the front stoop before he has to stop and breathe, covering his mouth so he doesn't make any embarrassing sobbing sounds, because this is fucking _ridiculous_, he's known Derek for a little over a month, and it's not like he wanted to get stuck with Derek like that for forever, right?

It's better this way. Honestly.

And he totally doesn't cry all over the Jeep on his way to Scott's.

"Dude, were you crying?" Scott says when Stiles makes his way up to his bedroom.

"Nope, no, no way," Stiles says. He rubs at his cheeks with his palms and sniffles.

Scott's eyes are wide and disbelieving. "Right," he says. "How's the werewolf horde?"

"Super fine and dandy." He exhales noisily and drops down on the floor next to Scott and his pile of homework. "Chemistry?"

Scott makes a face.

Stiles isn't the best student, he has so much trouble focusing, but he's better than Scott. A bag of circus peanuts is arguably better than Scott. He pulls the notebook toward himself and snaps his fingers for a pen.

Derek, the wolf, noses up the window from where Stiles had been leaving it cracked open for him, and Stiles watches from his computer chair as he hops into the room, shimmies off the light rain that had been falling, and rubs his side into the comforter hanging off Stiles' bed.

Stiles hasn't seen him all day, in either of his forms, and he smiles a little at the way Derek sneezes into his paws with a shake of his head.

"What are you doing here?" Stiles asks, and Derek gives him a baleful look before jumping up onto his mattress. "Hey, no, you're _wet_, Jesus, those sheets were clean!" Or, like, relatively clean; cleaner than the ones that had been on there up until three days ago, anyhow.

Derek rolls onto his back and wriggles around, kicking at the sheets with his back feet because he's a jackass.

"Seriously," Stiles says, "why are you _here_?"

Derek rolls over again, lifts his head and stares at him. There's a sock Stiles had thought he'd lost hanging off one ear.

Stiles says, "You should go," and if wolves could look hurt, wow, Stiles feels like he just stabbed all Derek's babies by accident, how can he convey that with just his big hazel eyes? "I just mean—shouldn't you be hanging out with your sister?"

Derek gives him an unimpressed snort and curls up in a big wet, muddy ball, nestling into his blankets.

Stiles feels a warm glow spread up and out of his chest, threatening to pull his lips into a smile, and he tries to smother it with a hand on his mouth – it doesn't help, and it's pathetic, that mud's going to dry into dirt, and Stiles is going to be finding it all over his body for days, because there's no way Stiles isn't going to crawl into that bed after him.

Stiles wakes up with a kick to his heartbeat, overly-warm, staring into Derek's very human eyes only inches from his own. "Uh. This isn't awkward at all."

Derek's face does this sort of—emotional spasm, like he can't figure out what he's feeling, but he tightens the arm that's flopped over Stiles' waist, reeling him even closer.

"Morning," he says, and that is an Eskimo kiss, Stiles is getting his nose rubbed, he's sure he's cross-eyed right now, trying to soak that absurdity in.

"You realize cuddling as a man is different than cuddling as a wolf, right?" Stiles' thigh is awfully close to special naked parts of Derek, is all he's saying.

Derek's expression tells Stiles that his words are not making sense, and then he goes ahead and tucks his face into Stiles' neck. Awesome.

Stiles' voice squeaks unflatteringly high on, "Okay, we're doing this, huh?" That is definitely a tongue on Stiles' throat. Derek has licked him many times before as a wolf, Stiles is regretting letting him do that all the time, he's clearly gotten the wrong idea. Or the right one, whatever, but—"I'm sixteen!"

Derek pulls back and Stiles would breathe a breath of relief if that didn't just make their lips that much closer together. "So?" Derek says.

Stiles' hands are totally not shaky when he presses them against Derek's chest. "So you're on the wrong side of twenty, dude, and my dad owns four different kinds of firearms that can kill werewolves."

Derek lets Stiles push him away, rolling up to sit on the edge of the bed. He looks Stiles in the eye and says, "I was sixteen the last time I was human," and Stiles knows that, he does, but it's a little hard to _know it_.

"You were never really human," Stiles says. Derek was always a wolf, either way.

Derek grins, slow and careful, and nods his head like Stiles understands something that he—well, honestly, something that he really, really doesn't.

"We'll need a house," Stiles hears Laura say to Colby, but he can't quite parse her meaning until she adds, "We can't all live at the motel or the sheriff's house indefinitely."

"What, you're staying?" Stiles says before he can help it; he thinks maybe he's gaping, too, but why would they _stay_? What's here for them except a big, burned out shell of a house right in the middle of Hale pack land. There's ghosts aplenty for her in Beacon Hills, it doesn't make any sense.

Laura blinks at him. "I'm not living anywhere without Derek," she says. She looks like either she's smelled something bad or she thinks Stiles is stupid. Both are possible.

Stiles doesn't ask her why _Derek_ would want to stay in Beacon Hills—if it hasn't occurred to her yet, he's not giving her any ideas. Derek is not Stiles' pet, but he's got a feeling that he's been Derek's since he bullied Stiles into taking him home.

Colby says, "It's going to be a lot of trouble," and Stiles doesn't know why he thought Colby was the _happy_ one, why is he such a downer?

Laura rolls her eyes. "It's just us and the twins and Meatball, and he'll be finished with college in May."

There are things Stiles wants to ask – Meatball? – but he just sits on his hands and watches Colby and Laura snip at each other, and tries not to think too much about what all this implies.

"I don't get it," Stiles says. Derek stares up at him with wolf eyes, furry head resting on his knee, and then suddenly he's a naked man again and Stiles is having problems with all that is happening below his waist. Or not _problems_, really, just—he has to stop doing that. "Give a guy some _warning_, crap." He jerks his knee away, desk chair rolling toward his closet, but Derek stays on the floor.

He's glaring at him now, though, eyebrows drawn together. "What?"

"The whole," Stiles flails a hand, "staying in Beacon Hills thing, why would you want to?"

Derek gets this _you're a pain in my ass_ look on his face, and that's been happening a lot lately, Stiles isn't thrilled with this trend, even if it means Derek's, like, acclimating well or whatever – _everybody_ thinks Stiles is a pain in the ass, with the occasional exception of Scott and his dad.

Derek says, "You're in high school and you live with your dad," like that's any sort of reason at all.

Which it isn't. Just throwing that out there: _it totally isn't_.

"What language are you speaking?" Stiles says.

Derek just stares at him blandly, like he can't believe Stiles is this dumb; he looks like Laura when he does that, it's really weird.

And Stiles is not dumb, honestly. He gets that this means Derek won't leave without Stiles, and Laura won't leave without Derek – this is what it adds up to, he _gets_ that, it's just a lot of pressure on a teenager, Stiles doesn't have a care and feeding manual for werewolves. He could mess this up - mess _Derek_ up, Derek is like a fragile flower here - a hundred different ways before he even turns eighteen.

"I can't—"

"You don't have to take care of me, Stiles," Derek says, like he's reading Stiles' mind. His grin is a little worn around the edges, Stiles fingers itch to reach out and touch him, and then Derek shifts into the wolf again; Stiles' mind watches it in slow motion, the rippling of fur, smooth snapping of bones, the way Derek keeps his mouth closed so Stiles can't see his teeth.

When Stiles _does_ stretch his hand out, Derek shies away. He doesn't go far, though, just hops up on the bed – he curls up tight in a ball, high up on Stiles' pillows.

Stiles shows up at the police station with dinner for his dad. He slumps down in the chair across his desk and says, "I think I got attached."

"Yeah," his dad says. He bites into his tofurkey sandwich, makes a face, but dutifully keeps on chewing.

"I'm _too young_ to get attached." Stiles wants to howl this at the moon, he is not equipped to deal with these emotions yet, he'd planned on being in love with Lydia for _at least_ another two years.

"I'll say." His dad narrows his eyes. "How attached are we talking?"

"I'm not—" Stiles shifts uncomfortably in his seat. "You don't have to murder him or anything, but it's a pretty inappropriate attachment for a sixteen-year-old."

"Yeah," his dad says, only slow and drawn out. He looks a little gray, and he sets his sandwich down carefully on the desktop.

"Yeah," Stiles says. He drums his fingers on the edge of the desk and looks anywhere but at his dad, deeply regretting starting this conversation. "So—good talk?"

"Stiles."

Stiles jumps to his feet. "No, yeah, I get you—"

"Stiles."

Stiles glances over at him. He's not smiling, but he doesn't look angry or anything either. Maybe a little disappointed, which is like—Stiles never wants to disappoint his dad, that's the opposite of every intention he's ever had. "Sorry."

His dad sighs heavily. He says, "You never have to be sorry about the way you feel, son," and Stiles feels ten times _worse_, because his dad is amazing and Stiles is a terrible son.

"Okay."

The sheriff picks up his sandwich again and says, "We're locking your window now, though."

Derek gets a cell phone and job at the mall and Stiles is blown away by the extreme normalcy of it all. It's even more surreal when he shows up at Stiles' house in a black Camaro.

"Are you wearing a leather jacket?" Stiles says when he opens the front door. "Did you buy a car?"

Derek frowns. "It's Laura's. The twins drove it down from New York."

"Right." The air is chilly and Stiles hugs his arms across his chest.

Derek frowns harder. "Are you going to invite me in?"

"Uh, yes? Yes, come on in." Stiles flaps a magnanimous hand and steps aside, because he doesn't know what else to do. This has never happened. Derek has never come a-visiting, he's always, like, magically shown up as a wolf to follow Stiles around and trip him when he goes to get milk out of the fridge.

Stiles dad is at the kitchen table and Derek calls him _sir_, and Stiles has to sit down before he has a panic attack because _this is happening_. He knows what this is. "Oh my god," Stiles says faintly as Derek asks his dad if he can take Stiles out, _he asks his dad if he can date him_, Stiles drops his forehead onto the table and pleads for a swift death.

He vaguely registers his dad interrogating Derek over the pounding in his skull, but he doesn't recognize the words. Or _any_ words, it's possible his brain is breaking. But then Derek is helping him get a jacket on and his dad is escorting them to the door, and Stiles stumbles numbly down the stoop.

"Did that just happen? Tell me that didn't just happen," he says to no one and everyone as Derek ushers him down the walk. He latches onto the sleeve of Derek's jacket and says, "Are you from the nineteen fifties? Am I a _girl_?"

"That's sexist," Derek says as he opens the car door for him and shoves him inside.

Stiles is too dazed to protest. "Wow," he says, and, "Do you even know how to drive?"

Derek starts the car and shoots him a disgruntled look. "I have my license."

"Do you? Because I'm pretty sure you were legally dead up until six weeks ago." There's probably other things he should be focusing on, like the fact that he has a date, that's actually a nice development in the annals of his social life, but if he dwells too long on that he'll probably start thinking about how Derek told his dad he'd have him home by ten and then he _shook his hand_.

Derek says, "Do you want to drive?" Buried under the irritation, he looks like he honestly wants to make Stiles as comfortable with this as possible, which is probably the only reason Stiles says, "No, that's okay," and grabs onto the oh-shit handle when Derek guns it and takes off.

"I take it back," Stiles says, practically falling out of the car when they stop. "You are never allowed to drive again." His entire life flashed before his eyes at least three times, he's having trouble making his legs work.

"It wasn't that bad," Derek says.

"Holy shit, are you kidding me?" Stiles leans heavily against the passenger side door. "I mean—" he catches sight of Derek's epic frowny face—"it wasn't that bad?"

Derek rolls his eyes and grabs Stiles arm, tugging him up onto the curb. "It's been a while."

"Well, yeah," Stiles says. He grins over at Derek and Derek _sort of_ grins back at him, and Stiles can almost forget that his dad asked Derek his intentions not even a half hour ago. God. Stiles has no idea what is even going on anymore, his life is a shambles.

They happen to be at his favorite diner, the one with the fantastic pancakes and thirty flavors of milkshakes, and Stiles is not above being plied with good things and sugar, so he happily follows Derek inside and over to a seat by the large front window.

If possible, Derek looks even more awkward in a vinyl booth than he did the first time he shifted from the wolf. It's a different sort of awkward, though, Stiles recognizes; more about the social interaction aspect of it all than being man-shaped instead of furry. He's got a white-knuckled grip on the cheap plastic menu, and he's staring at Stiles like he doesn't know how he got there – which is bullshit, because Derek is the one who roped him into this, he's not making this Stiles' fault.

"You're not blaming this on me," Stiles says.

Derek eases his grip on the menu. "What?"

"I didn't ask you to take me out. I didn't say anything about _my dad_, and how I'd dearly love to have the safe sex talk with him for a second, horrifying time," and _he will_, chances are his dad will corner him with blank stares and pamphlets the minute he gets home that night, "so you can be weird about not being a wolf, but you can't be weird about being seen with me in public."

Derek scowls at him. "I'm not weird about being seen with you."

"You're not." Stiles is skeptical. Most people are weird about being seen with him – it's an unpleasant fact of his adolescent life.

"I'm—would you stop being so—" Derek cuts off, clearly frustrated. He takes a deep breath and says, "If I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be here."

Stiles doesn't think that's the whole story. He strongly suspects that Laura had something to do with this, but Stiles really does know—he knows that Derek likes him, they've established that, and it's a bonus that he's actively _trying_, and that he probably doesn't really care about who sees them, Stiles admits to himself, if only because Derek doesn't actually know anybody else.

"Okay," Stiles says.

Tension seeps out of Derek's shoulders. He's not quite relaxed, but he's better than before. "Okay."

"So here's what I'd like to know," Stiles says, pushing aside his empty plate, because something has been bugging him. "Why did you come back _now_?" It can't be just some amazing coincidence, right? That all this happens and the world conspires to bring Derek and Laura back together.

Derek says, "It wasn't just now." He looks oddly guilty as he takes a sip of his soda, eyes darting from Stiles to the window and back again.

"What, like you'd visit your uncle?" Stiles says, and the minute he says it he knows he's right. Derek would come back to visit the only family he thought he had left, even as he hid himself as his wolf, and Stiles doesn't want to think about exactly how different that makes Derek and Laura.

Derek slowly nods. "I figured out that his nurse would let him out on the full moons. I didn't—I don't know what happened, this time."

"Hey, no." Stiles reaches across the table and pats his hand. "You couldn't." It's not Derek's fault that his uncle is crazy-pants.

Derek twists his hand so Stiles' fingers slot between his own. And now they're holding hands - Stiles panics the entire time it takes for Derek to slowly squeeze and then let go, and Stiles' hand is left hovering by itself in the middle of the table.

"Uh." Brief handholding really shouldn't make him that tingly; he can still feel the phantom press of Derek's warm palm against his. He flexes his finger and says, "Uh," again.

Derek smirks at him and says, "Want to share a milkshake?"

Stiles doesn't get a kiss goodnight, but he figures this is more because his dad is flickering the porch light than because Derek doesn't want to kiss him.

Surprisingly, though, when Stiles suffers through another weirdly intimate hand-squeeze – they are literally one step away from going steady, Stiles can't wait to ask Derek if he's going to get pinned before the big dance, he's arming himself with a whole slew of ice cream social quips for a rainy day - and slips inside, his dad is nowhere to be found.

The hallway is dark, a single lamp left on in the living room. Stiles toes off his sneakers, hangs his jacket on the rack and pads into the kitchen, grabbing a soda before heading up to his room.

He flops into his desk chair and thinks about the fact that he's basically dating a twenty-two-year-old werewolf who has less social acuity than your average teenager, works at FYE, and is only half convinced that he needs to get his GED. Which he does, Stiles will harp at him until they end up at the same college together, Stiles is stubborn enough to see a bigger picture, even when all the little details still seem so unreal, even when his insecurities threaten to get the better of him.

He thinks about the fact that Derek will probably always feel more comfortable as the wolf, that even his human side is not very human, and the fact that Stiles has never really minded.

He's stupidly attached; it feels less and less scary, the more he admits it. And he never has to miss him, because Derek isn't going anywhere. No matter what happens, Stiles believes that.

It's eleven thirty at night, the moon is halfway to new – Stiles hears howls now, when it's full, and it makes him grin, his dad doesn't even roll his eyes anymore when it happens.

Derek scratches at the window, and Stiles lets him inside.


	109. (O) STONY - Thumb, Index, and Pinky Exte

Thumb, Index, and Pinky Extended  
Eudoxia

Summary:  
Tony Stark is twenty-one when he loses his voice. It shouldn't matter, but in a world where the first words your Soulmate says to you are marked on your skin, it can be pretty damn annoying.

* * *

The doctors tell Tony that he may never recover the use of his voice. They tell him the shard of glass that went through his neck barely missed his jugular veins and carotid arteries. They tell him that the irreparable damage to his vocal cords is the best possible outcome. They tell him he's lucky to be alive.

But Tony isn't lucky to be alive. His mother is dead. His father is dead. And Tony, at twenty-one, cannot speak.

Obie tells him everything will be okay and that he'll handle everything.

So Obie takes care of Stark Industries as Tony tries to get his feet back under himself.

Tony learns American Sign Language in a month. He hires an assistant that knows ASL. He builds an A.I. that reads his signs through a camera and then speaks them out loud. He proves to everyone in the fucking universe that even though he can't speak he's still a goddamn genius and he isn't to be underestimated.

Tony builds an empire.

Tony tries not to think about how he'll never hear his own voice again. Tries not to think about the little grunts and hums that are all that's left for him now. Tony doesn't focus on the vertical, two inch long, white scar just to the right of his Adam's apple. Or the matching scar just under his left ear.

Entry and Exit.

Tony tries not to think about how his words make sense now. Tries not to think that the first thing his soulmate will say to him is about his disability. Tries not to flinch every time he hears someone say the same phrase he has marked on the left side of his rib cage, just under his pectoral.

_Mr. Stark. They tell me you're mute._

He hears it all the time. And no one will be able to tell him if they're his. Because he'll never give them a response to have marked on their skin.

Tony tries to move on. He doesn't need a soulmate to be happy.

He doesn't.

Somehow—some-fucking-how—Tony survives Afghanistan. The thought that stays with him through the entire time is 'I survived the car crash that killed my parents. I survive being mute in a talking world. I _will_ survive this.' And he does.

But Yensen doesn't.

It eats Tony up inside.

Tony survives Obie's betrayal. He survives Palladium poisoning. Somehow, Tony becomes a super hero.

So when Tony meets Captain America in a glass-walled S.H.I.E.L.D. conference room and Steve Rogers himself says, "Mr. Stark. They tell me you're mute," Tony doesn't flinch. He just signs, 'Nice to meet you, Captain R.O.G.E.R.S.' and waits for his A.I., J.A.R.V.I.S., to translate it.

Tony tries to tell himself that Steve isn't his soulmate. He tries to tell himself that somewhere out there, there is someone who says the words that Steve keeps hidden under a brown leather wrist cuff that goes halfway up his forearm. Tony tries to convince himself that Steve isn't his.

Tony was always bad at telling himself no.

Tony figures the one redeeming quality about his whole 'silently in love with Steve Rogers' thing is the fact that—ironies aside—no one knows he's Ironman.

That is to say, the general public doesn't know he's Ironman. Nor the Avengers. Just a few higher ups in S.H.I.E.L.D. know.

And Pepper.

And Rhodey.

And Happy.

So, really, no one knows.

The big thing that really separates Ironman from Tony Stark—besides Tony having so much blood on his hands—is that Ironman can talk.

Well, no. Ironman can't _actually_ talk. But the suit does have a very hi-tech lip reading software calibrated to Tony's musculature and lip patterns. And the vocal sounds are based one hundred percent off of every single sound bite of 'Tony Stark from before the accident' that Tony could find. So the suit talks _for_ Tony just like J.A.R.V.I.S. talks _for_ Tony. Just in different ways.

So Tony spends every moment he can spare in the suit, talking to Steve, to Pepper, and to the rest of the team. He pretends that this is what his life would have been like if he'd never gotten into that car that his father was driving. Pretends that there's nothing wrong and that his life isn't the goddamn train wreck that it is. Tony pretends he deserves the friends he has. Pretends that maybe whatever is under Steve's cuff is something common, like his, but something that Tony could have said to him in the suit.

So being Ironman makes the whole pining thing easier.

Sort of.

Not really.

Not at all.

Tony doesn't expect that Steve would actually want to be friends with _him_. With _Tony_.

Steve and Ironman are already great friends so it boggles Tony's mind that Steve would want to be friends with _Tony_.

What does _Tony_ have that _Ironman_ doesn't?

Ironman is a hero.

Tony Stark is a war profiteer.

Ironman can fly.

Tony Stark has several very fast, very sleek cars.

Ironman visits sick children in hospitals.

Tony Stark avoids doctors like the plague. Those assholes have never done anything for him.

Ironman has morals.

Tony Stark… doesn't.

So there's absolutely no reason for Steve to visit Tony's lab besides maybe saying hello and asking for armor upgrades and then leaving. Nothing about Tony—or his lab—should make Steve want to stay and hang out.

But he does.

Steve, that is.

Stay.

And hang out.

Tony'll be going on three hours of binge-building and Steve'll trump down the stairs, platter of food in one hand and a book in the other and he'll just set the food on the nearest clear space and sit in the nearest clean seat and just read or draw quietly.

It pisses Tony off.

No one—except Rhodey and Tony's ex Rumiko—enjoys spending time with him down in the lab. Pepper hates the disarray. Happy gets mother henned by the bots. All of Tony's exes eventually got bored of waiting for him to give them the time of day while he was drafting or creating things. One ex even told Tony that he hummed and it was 'the worst, absolute most god awful sound' they'd ever heard, 'like a saw blade and a bag of broken glass got in a fight and the result is your vocal cords.'

But Steve either doesn't hear his saw-blade-verses-glass humming—impossible—or he just _ignores_ it. Even more impossible. It has to be the most annoying noise in the world.

Tony would know, he's a genius.

Tony asks Pepper about it. About Steve and if he hangs out with the other Avengers like he hangs out in Tony's lab.

Pepper just shrugs a shoulder and tells him he's over reacting.

So Tony puts on a suit and asks Steve about himself.

And Steve just fucking shrugs tells Ironman that Tony always seems so lonely and he knows what that's like. No one should have to be alone.

Ironman doesn't say anything and just takes off to his lab to freak out in peace.

Hours later, when Steve wanders into the lab, Tony gives him a well-placed shove and signs, quick and angry, that he doesn't appreciate anyone's pity.

Steve has the good graces to look confused. And then, suddenly, he's rubbing a closed fist over his chest in a circle and telling Tony it's not pity. That he really does enjoy the time they spend together and that he likes being down in the lab because it's the only peaceful place in the mansion some days.

Tony doesn't know how to take that. The only person who's ever been his friend because they enjoy his company was Rhodey. Even Pepper and Happy had to be paid to be around him, at least at first.

Tony touches his fingers to his forehead and then pulls them away, ending with his pinky and thumb extended.

Steve shrugs a shoulder and tells Tony he just does.

Tony grunts and tries not to cry—because _why_ does Steve _care_—and then moves to the farthest corner of his lab and tinkers around with nothing and studiously ignores Steve.

Hours later, Steve drags Tony away from his welding torch. He touches his fingertips to his lips and then covers the back of his wrist with the hand that had touched his mouth.

After Tony notices, it takes him three weeks to ask Steve who's teaching him ASL.

Steve's signing can be a bit formal so Tony thinks maybe it's Pepper. But occasionally he'll throw in the initialized form of a sign so maybe it's Clint, whose signs ASL to Tony, Signed Exact English to people who piss him off, and, once, Japanese Sign Language to Rumiko.

Tony asks Pepper about it first.

Predictably, Pepper rolls her eyes and tells Tony to ask Steve himself.

But Tony pouts and Pepper eventually admits that, yes, she has critiqued Steve on his signs once or twice and has shown him the signs for a few words he was wondering about.

Tony doesn't bother asking Clint. The little shit wouldn't give him a straight answer. Probably just tease Tony from across the room like he usually does. (Yeah, you keep making that open-closed hand motion over your heart and Tony's gonna punch it.)

So when Tony finally asks Steve, Steve sort of blushes and stammers—adorably—and points to himself. And then Steve splays his hands out vertically, bends his middle fingers in and moves them back and forth against each other not quite touching them together.

Tony laughs, a deep gravely noise, like boulders shifting, and signs to J.A.R.V.I.S. to help teach Steve.

Tony spends the next few hours showing Steve his favorite signs.

Tony wants to say that the first time he and Steve kiss is an accident, but it isn't.

Like many things that happen in Tony's life, it happens in the lab, while he's working on the next Ironman suit.

Tony's hunched over the spinal circuitry, his lips moving silently as he mentally works through what he has dubbed 'The Servo Problem'. He knows he can get the response times even faster, he _knows_ he can. He just has to figure out _how_.

Tony's so wrapped up in his own head that he doesn't notice Steve's moved from his corner of the lab and taken the seat across the bench from him.

When Tony finally looks up from the wiring, it's like in the movies—where the whole world stands still and it's just the two of them. Tony's never seen that look on anyone's face before. And certainly never directed at him.

Steve stands—doesn't even bother walking around the table, just leans over it—and presses their lips together, soft and gentle and heartbreakingly sweet.

When Steve pulls away, slowly, Tony's frozen, unsure if that really just happened or if he imagined it.

But in the silence Tony just bends his right hand at the knuckles and arcs his fingertips into his left palm.

Steve laughs once, a nervous sound, and walks around the table.

Tony wishes this was an accident. Wishes he feeling of Steve's palms cupping his face wasn't so addictive. Wishes he could push Steve away and snap a 'no' at him. Wishes he didn't crave the feeling of Steve's lips against his or Steve's tongue in his mouth as much as he does. Wishes it was an accident so that when the whole illusion comes crashing down, maybe it won't hurt as much.

But Tony's hands betray him.

Tony grabs onto Steve's shirt. He threads his hands through Steve's hair and digs his fingers into Steve's skin. Tony can't help it as his hands clench on Steve's hips and Steve trails kisses down his neck, the blonde's teeth nipping at Tony's exit scar.

Tony can't help the desperate, grinding moans that slip out as Steve slips his own hands up Tony's shirt, over his back, dragging them closer. He can't stop his hips from rutting against Steve's. Can't find the willpower to pull his hands out of Steve's pants.

And after, Tony can't find the right signs to refuse when Steve asks him to dinner later. So he just nods and knocks his knuckles into Steve's bare chest.

Tony imagines what it would be like if he could speak.

The first thing he'd say to Pepper would be to thank her for putting up with all his shit through the years. She deserves so much better than she's gotten.

He'd tell Rhodey how grateful he is that the other man even exists. Rhodey learned ASL for him. They'd met before the crash that took his voice and Rhodey was the one to remind him ASL was an option. Rhodey was the one to get him through the resulting depression that is Tony's life.

To Happy, he'd tell him every lame joke he'd ever thought the man would like but relied on homophones for the punch lines. They just didn't translate as well in sign sometimes.

To the Avengers, he'd just thank them for having his back and being there for him, for Ironman. For being his first real friends.

And to Steve… To Steve, the first thing he'd tell him is that he loves him. That he's been in love it him for years and sometimes it over whelms him, makes him feel like his chest is about to burst and all he can do is giggle his little broken giggle. Tell Steve that he wants to watch that slow, happy smile he gets curl over his face every chance he can. That he, Tony, wants to be the cause of it, always. He'd tell Steve how confused he gets sometimes because no one's ever just _gotten_ Tony like Steve does and it blows his mind. Would tell him that he's never as great a man as he is when Steve's at his side.

Tony would tell Steve, again and again, how much he loves him. Over and over until he loses his voice again.

It would be worth it.

Tony thinks about Steve's words a lot, too. The cuff Steve wears—sometimes leather, sometimes fabric—goes halfway up his forearm. Whatever his soulmate has to say, it must be a lot. Must speak for a solid three minutes at least. Tony wonders if it's a prompt or a response. He wonders if the writing is big or small, if it's even legible.

Steve never takes the cuff off, not even for sex, and the one time Tony had asked what it says—because Steve's seen Tony's words curling across his ribs, has run his hands over them and pressed is lips to them in small, soft kisses—Steve says it doesn't matter before pulling away, just slightly, just enough. Just enough for Tony to know that Steve still cares about them—both his words and his soulmate. Just enough for Tony to know that he doesn't matter to Steve quite as much as he wants to.

But most of all, when it comes to Steve's words, Tony wishes they were _his_.

Tony googles 'speech therapy', memorizes a few phone numbers, and then deletes the results from his browser history.

The woman Tony meets with, a doctor by the name of Veda Shankar, tells him that because he waited so long to seek therapy, he may never regain full use of his voice.

Tony shrugs and signs to her that that's okay. That he only wants to be able to say one phrase, anyway.

He holds up a thumb, his index finger, and his pinky. Then he signs through a closed fist with his thumb bent against his knuckles in the front. Then a fist with his thumb under his index finger. His fingertips resting against his thumb. His index and middle fingers held aloft, like a peace sign. Then his fingertips resting against his thumb again.

The therapist nods and tell him that that, at least, should be doable.

They meet once a week every week. Pepper, when she sees the time blocked out in his planner, rolls her eyes and gives him a soft smile. She tells him she's proud of him.

The day the Avengers find out that Tony is Ironman, Tony gets an exploding arrow to the faceplate.

The faceplate is strong enough that it protects Tony from any serious damage but it also _explodes_ _into a million damn pieces_ _in his face_. So the left half of the faceplate is completely blown away, ruining his lip reading tech and sending shards of glass and metal into Tony's face.

It looks worse than it is.

So Tony rips the remainder of the faceplate off, throws it to the ground, and speeds off back into the fight.

It is, unfortunately, radio silence from Ironman, which is highly unusual. Half the team is worried about him and the other half is trying to get his attention and Tony is too busy defeating the bad guy to sign to J.A.R.V.I.S. to activate an alternate communication system.

After the enemy is defeated, Tony lands gently and quietly amongst the rest of the Avengers. His face is covered in his own blood, dripping red into his suit, and heart in his throat.

They're going to throw him off the team. For sure, now that they know Ironman is Tony Stark, they'll know he doesn't deserve to be a hero. Tony's too broken and dirty, his record far too bloody. They won't let him be Ironman anymore.

Janet sees him first.

Tony can see her eyes widen and her jaw drop. Her hands fly to her face and in a second she's crossed the ten feet that separate them and goes to press a bundle of gauze to his face.

Tony takes a step back before Janet can reach him. He splays his hand out flat and taps his thumb to his chest.

Janet shakes her head and moves to press a gauze to his face again. She calls for one of the S.H.I.E.L.D. medics. She tells them it's Ironman and he's hurt.

Tony's looking over Janet's shoulder as she speaks. Over her shoulder at the Avenger whose opinion matters most.

He looks at Steve.

Steve sees the blood first, covering half of Tony's face. He sees the wiring and the jagged metal, sees the hole in the suit. And then—_then_—he sees who's inside it.

Tony's name falls softly, so softly, from Steve's lips. Like a leaf falling from a tree in autumn. Like the end of things.

This is it. This is when that gently crafted dream where Steve will love him forever falls apart. Tony can see it in the shocked curve of Steve's lips, in the aborted half step Steve takes toward him.

Tony can see it, but it doesn't mean he has to stay.

Tony takes off before the medics arrive.

He heads to his lab and tries not to look at Steve's things, nestled in the corner like they belong there.

Tony has the bots get his suit off and heads straight for the first aid kit he keeps under the sink in the attached bathroom. Tony picks the larger pieces of glass and metal out of his face, rinses the blood off, and then scrubs the smaller debris out with a soft bristled brush. He rubs an antibacterial into his cuts and butterflies the bigger ones closed. The smaller ones will be fine, he thinks. The bruising can't be helped. The ruptured blood vessel in his eye will have to have a cold compress.

Tony doesn't notice all the blood that soaked into his ratty white tank top.

He walks to the freezer in the kitchenette to grab a towel and the ice pack for his face.

He paces, one hand on the ice, the other tugging at his hair or his shirt or pulling at his bottom lip.

He's an idiot.

He should have just left after defeating the guy. Shouldn't have gone back to the Avengers. Should have just radioed in from lab to say he headed straight back for suit repairs.

Such a fucking idiot.

Why the hell did he ever think he could be more than lowly, sissy, little Tony Stark? Just a weak, fleshy thing in a suit of armor.

What is Tony Stark without Ironman?

A murderer who designs killing machines and calls them peacekeeping devices.

And now that the Avengers know that, they're going to want someone else in the suit. They won't feel comfortable fighting alongside him anymore. Tony is nothing but a benefactor. Ironman is the hero. And Ironman isn't Tony Stark.

And Steve…

Steve will know. Steve _does_ know. Knows that there's nothing good to Tony Stark. Will know, now, that there is nothing good to Ironman either. That both of the men Steve considered his friends are lies and he won't want to even see either again.

Tony's such a dumbass.

Tony never should have become Ironman in the first place. How could he even try to redeem himself? How could he think that being a hero changed anything he'd done? All the wrongs he's committed? The people his weapons have killed? How did Tony ever even _start_ to think he could make up for that?

Tony Stark is nothing but a self-centered murderer.

The door to the lab bangs open so suddenly and so loudly that Tony drops his ice pack when he nearly jumps out of his skin.

Tony bends to pick it up and almost faints from the head rush. He braces himself on a table and presses the ice to his face, an excuse not to look at Steve furious one.

Steve must have come to the lab straight from the debrief—or skipped it altogether—since he's still in full uniform.

Tony focuses on the red leather of the boots.

Steve says Tony's name and when Tony looks up at him Steve points at Tony's face and then brings his index fingers together in a twisting motion.

Slowly, Tony pulls the ice pack away from his face. He takes in a deep breath and waits for Steve.

Steve winces, hands nearly cupping Tony's face but stopping in time to just hover.

Steve asks why Tony never told him. Never told the rest of the Avengers. Steve tells him how mad he is. Mad that Tony just left after being injured. Mad that Steve, as leader of the Avengers, was never informed that Ironman had a heart condition. Mad that the arch reactor in Tony's chest powered the suit, too. Mad about how much danger Tony was putting himself in. Mad because he cares so damn much.

Finally, after all the yelling and pacing and hair pulling, Steve asks who did know. Asks if he just wasn't important enough to tell, says it with a little defeated half shrug.

Tony drops the ice pack to the table, cups Steve's cheeks with his cold hands, and shakes his head. Tony feels tears prickle in his eyes. He shakes his head again, not willing to let go of Steve to explain yet. When Steve meets his eyes again, Tony catches a glimpse of the small boy from Brooklyn that Steve used to be. The one he still feels like some days. The one that's used to falling short and not being enough.

Tony shakes his head again and then pulls back to explain. Signs out his reasons and beliefs and how he just wants to make up for his sins. Tony explains everything. About the suit and how it works and about Afghanistan and Yensen and the car crash and all the tech he created—the good and the bad—and about Obie and about Howard.

Eventually, Steve lays his hands over Tony's, stilling them. Steve says that he understands. He tells Tony that he's not a monster or a murderer or an idiot. Steve presses Tony's hands to his cheeks and tells Tony how beautiful and brave and how smart he is. He tells Tony how proud he is that Tony looked at the empire he created and, when he saw that he didn't like, he tore it down and started over. Steve wraps an arm around Tony's waist and the other around his shoulders, a hand sinking into Tony's hair.

Steve tells Tony how much he loves him.

Tony, with his chin hooked over Steve's shoulder, can feel tears starting to roll down his cheeks. Damnit. Tony isn't a crier but right now, with Steve's face in his neck, he can't help it. Can't stop the burning feeling of being loved from tearing him apart.

Tony knows he hasn't done his exercises or his warm ups but he needs Steve to know how he feels. Knows he needs to _tell_ him. Even if they're not Steve's words, they need to be said.

Tony clears his throat as best he can, tries to make sure that the words he wants to say will come out clear and comprehensible. After all, that's what his voice therapist, Veda, has been trying to teach him for the last few months.

So Tony concentrates and forces out a small, gravely, "Steve," and he can feel Steve stiffen in his arms but he has to press on, has to get the rest out before Steve interrupts him.

"Steve," Tony says again, "I love you."

Steve sucks in a wet breath against Tony's neck. Tony wishes he thought to ask to learn more than just those four words. Wishes he'd asked to learn them all so he could tell Steve how important he is. But he'd told Veda that those four words were enough. So he says them again.

"I love you, Steve." Tony's voice cracks and breaks and—oh, _god_—everything _hurts_ but he said what he needed to say so it has to be enough for now. It _has to_.

And then Steve's pulling back and pressing his lips to Tony's and _ow_.

"Sorry," Steve says as lets go of Tony's face as if he's been burned. "I forgot—uh, I forgot about your face."

Tony starts to snicker but it hurts, lord, it hurts, and he stops, hand pressing to his throat.

"Do you need—?" Steve starts but Tony's already grabbing the ice pack from the table and pressing it to his neck.

"How?" Steve asks.

Tony shrugs a shoulder, sets the ice back down and signs about his therapist. About the meetings and all the training because he wanted to be able to say something to Steve.

"You didn't need to do that for me," Steve says. But even as he says it, he's fiddling with the straps of his harness and pulling the zipper of the uniform jacket off.

Tony gives Steve a confused look and raises his hands, palms up.

"I need—," Steve starts, tugging his arms out of the sleeves. It leaves him in his t-shirt, jacket falling uselessly to the floor. And then Steve starts rolling the edge of his fabric cuff down.

Tony grabs Steve's wrist, shaking his head desperately, because if those aren't his words under there, then he doesn't need to know.

But Steve leans into Tony and begs against his lips, "Please, let me show you."

And Tony's never been able to resist when Steve asks like that.

Tony nods.

Steve rolls his cuff off his wrist and shoves it in his pocket. He takes Tony's hand and places it against his bare wrist and then presses his hand to Tony's ribs, where his words are, thumb stoking lightly against his shirt.

"Look. Tony."

And Tony opens his eyes slowly. He twists his hand around and there they are.

Steve's words.

Dark and just as jagged as Tony's voice is.

**_Steve_**

**_Steve_**

**_I love you_**

**_I love you_**

**_Steve_**

"I always thought—." But Steve doesn't finish because Tony kisses him, hard and fast.

Tony pulls back and holds his fingertips to his nose and then, as if flicking water off his hand, splays his hand out flat between them. He kisses Steve again.

When they part, Tony holds up his thumb, index, and pinky fingers. He presses them into Steve's chest.

Steve smiles and curls his hand around Tony's.

"I know," Steve whispers. "I've always known, in a way." Steve kisses Tony again.

"I love you, too, Tony." Steve wraps his arms around Tony and draws him close. "But don't think this gets you off the hook for the whole 'secretly Ironman' thing."

Tony giggles and buries his face in Steve's shoulder.

Every day, Steve tells Tony that he loves him.

And every day, Tony tells Steve the same thing back.

It might be the only thing Tony _can_ say, but it's also the only thing Tony _needs_ to say.

* * *

Author-San's Notes:

I'm learning ASL but I don't actually know that much so I royally fucked it up, please let me know. I also got most of my translations from a very lovely, helpful site that was probably built in 2001 and never updated since. (Yes, it has, but there is no such thing as navigation.)

Closed fisted circle over the chest: Sorry

Fingers to forehead ending in thumb/pinky out: Why?

Finger to lips and then over other wrist: eat+night=Dinner

Open/closed hand over heart: heart flutter (Meant as in "you make my heart flutter")

Pointing to yourself: I

Middle finger bent and hands moved back and forth: Internet

Bent hand into open palm: Again/Repeat

Knocking motion (like on a door): Yes

Thumb, index, pinky extended: I love you (then Tony signs out S.T.E.V.E.)

Splayed hand, thumb tapping chest: Fine/I'm fine.

Index fingers in a twisting motion: Hurt/Pain/Injury

Palms up/shrug/confused look: What?

Finger on nose to splayed out hand: Don't care.

If I missed one of the signs, let me know.


	110. (O) STONY - FOREVER—LOVE YOU—I by Eudoxi

FOREVER—LOVE YOU—I  
Eudoxia

Summary:  
Tony Stark is twenty-one when he loses his voice. It shouldn't matter, but in a world where the first words your Soulmate says to you are marked on your skin, it can be pretty damn annoying.

Especially for Tony's soulmate.

Companion piece to my fic Thumb, Index, and Pinky Extended. This is Steve's POV, with a few extra scenes, as a treat.

* * *

**Steve**

**Steve**

**I love you**

**I love you**

**Steve**

_"Holy shit! Those are your First Words? Who'd ever love a runt like you?"_

_"Wow… your soulmate certainly is… enthusiastic…"_

_"Captain America! Captain America, I love you! I love you, Captain America!"_

_"You'll find them one day, Steve. You'll find them and they'll love _you_. These words, they say '_Steve_'. not 'Captain', not 'Cap', but '_Steve._' Have faith in _that_, if nothing else."_

—

"Mister Stark," Steve says, awkward as ever in the presence of beauty. "They tell me you're mute."

It's not so much that Stark's face changes as that the very air in the room seems to congeal, heavy and thick and cold. But then, as quickly as it came, the feeling disappears, brushed away by Stark's soft sigh.

Before Steve can try to force his foot farther down his throat with an apology, Stark flashes through a series of hand signs. A British sounding voice issues from Stark's breast pocket, _"Nice to meet you, Captain Rogers."_

From the head of the conference table, Fury says, "Now that you've met, let's get this thing started."

Steve blinks. Pointing to Stark, he says, "Wait—What was that?"

"Don't get him started, Rogers," Fury tries to say but that British voice interrupts.

_"I am called JARVIS. I'm an artificial intelligence created by Anthony Stark to act as a translator in Sir's everyday communications."_

Steve is absolutely fascinated. "How does it work?"

Stark chuckles like an engine revving.

—

Steve is… obsessed. And he really wishes there was a better word to describe his feelings about his predicament than that. Or, at least, one with fewer negative connotations.

He doesn't think much of it at first. A handful of drawings of Stark's neck can be explained away as a somewhat morbid fascination with the aesthetic beauty of his scars. A few drawings of Stark's hands is just practice because hands are terribly intricate and far too easy to—as the French would put it—utterly fuck up.

Besides, it's not as if Steve isn't also drawing the other people he's met in this new future either: he's got a few pages of Natasha's curls; the intricate lines of Ironman's mask; Hawkeye's arms as he practices his shooting; Dr. Banner hunched over a work station; Wasp's board and carefree smile; Pepper's stern frown and Happy's beefy back; Agent Coulson's receding hairline; the intricate carving of mjolnir. But, by and large, most pages of his new sketchbooks seem to be taken up by warm brown eyes and a playful, knowing smirk.

Sometimes he'll find a page or two of Stark's hands: a pinky stuck out as his wrist moves in a swooping motion, his usual signal for when he wants JARVIS's attention; Stark brushing his spayed fingertips against his chest with an upward motion, his face looking like he'd rather be doing anything else than whatever Pepper had been badgering him into at the time; Stark's fingers tapping at his own surprisingly defined shoulder, a sign that Steve's come to learn means 'captain' (a sign which Stark tends to follow up by moving his hand in a circular motion around his face with his index and middle fingers held out like they're taped together. Steve has yet to figure out what that one means but Clint seems to tip his head back and laugh everytime he sees Stark use it).

Too often though, he'll find pages and pages of Stark's face, neck, shoulders, arms. Stark's everything, drawn from memory and immortalized in charcoal, ink, graphite in the pages of Steve's notebooks.

He's suddenly terrified of misplacing one and having his secret exposed.

—

Steve, as with most romantic inclinations in his life, has no idea what to do about it. So he does what he usually does when it comes to his love life: he flounders.

"What about you, Cap?"

Steve blinks, coming back into the conversation a minute late and a foot behind. "What was that?" He asks, carefully closing his sketchbook.

"I _said_," Natasha laughs, stretching a foot out from where she's seated on the couch to poke at Steve's thigh. "Do you have anyone _special_ in your life? Hmm?"

Steve raises an eyebrow, sparing a second to try to decide if Natasha is actually drunk on the two post-battle beers she's had or just pretending. But then her words really catch up to him.

Steve feels his face heat and he glances towards the doorway, as if Stark's going to walk through it at any second.

"Uhm," Steve clears his throat, eyes trailing back to his closed notebook. This one is completely full of Stark's hands, all of them mid-motion, some of them labeled with the signs Steve's been able to pick up. A few he's sure on are the signs for 'shield' (one arm raised, hand fisted, as if blocking an attack at chest height while the other hand makes an open palmed, upward arching motion over it), 'tech' (one hand held at an angle across the chest while tapping at the flashy edge of the palm with the middle finger of the other hand while splaying out the other fingers), and 'no' (the index and middle fingers making a single open-closed motion towards the thumb). Stark mostly directs the last one towards his bots, thankfully.

"No," Steve finally answers. He clears his throat before continuing, "Not really."

The room at large seems to sputter.

Janet laughs loudest, "Wait, wait! What the hell's that supposed to mean? 'Not really'?"

Steve shrugs, avoiding everyone's incredulous looks. "Means what I said."

"Ooooo," Natasha coos, shoving her leg out to poke at Steve again. "What's her name?"

Steve doesn't answer, staring at the far wall and twisting his pencil 'round and 'round in his hands, his jaw ticking.

"Oh," Natasha says. Nodding, she pulls away from where she's lounging against Clint. She rests her elbows in her knees and leans into Steve's space. "What's_ his_ name?"

Steve's eyes cut to Natasha before he can stop them. She's smirking, like she usually does when she knows she's got the upper hand.

Steve feels gutted, like a sharp knife's cut in and spayed all his very well-kept secrets all across the floor. A cold, tight band snaps across his chest, pulling tighter with every heartbeat. He surveys the room: exits, furniture, number of people, their strengths and weaknesses. It won't be the first time he's had to fight his way out of a room because his affections don't tend towards the fairer sex. At least this time he'll have the muscles to survive it unassisted.

From the corner of his eye he can see Ironman stand and leave the room. While part of the dismissal hurts, at least Steve won't have to worry about fighting ol' Shellhead.

Steve jerks suddenly, head snapping over to Natasha again.

"Steve," she says, gently, one hand still outstretched from where she'd touched Steve's knee. "Steve, it's okay. This is another one of those things that's changed since you went into the ice. I apologize. I wasn't thinking and I shouldn't have teased you like that. Homosexuality is accepted nowadays."

Steve hums, nodding, but his chest is still in a vise. He hasn't had an asthma attack since the forties but this feels damn close.

"Well," Steve manages to force out, "that's mighty swell. If you'll excuse me."

He stands before anyone can say otherwise. Grabbing his notebook—head held high and not a single breath taken—Steve marches from the room.

Rounding a corner, he forces himself to breathe, calm and measured, just like his mother taught him, until his chest finally loosens.

His feet carry him where they will. He finds himself standing at the glass doors of Stark's lab.

It's almost like a punch to the gut after getting sucker punched. A two for one.

Perfect.

Steve should really leave. But he also wants to be alone right now—or at least away from the team—and Stark's lab is perhaps the most secluded spot in the entire mansion. No one would look for him here. And, somewhat bitterly, Steve thinks, _It's not like Stark's gonna try talking to me about anything_. Steve immediately follows the thought up with a self-directed, _Don't be an asshole, asshole._

Before he can think better of it, Steve knocks on one of the glass doors.

Stark, sitting at his work bench, hunched over an Ironman suit to look for repairs, waves him in. He signs something quickly.

Once Stark's hands still, JARVIS asks, _"What can I do for you, Captain?"_

Steve shrugs a shoulder. "Just… needed somewhere a little less crowded. You don't mind if I join you for a bit, do you?"

Stark looks confused but nods, waving a hand as if to say _help yourself_. He flashes through a quick set of hand signs that Steve has no hope of following.

_"Something on your mind?"_ JARVIS asks for his creator.

Steve shrugs again and, tight lipped, says, "Don't really want to talk about it right now. Do you mind if I just sit in a corner? I promise not to get underfoot."

After a moment's hesitation, Stark gestures to the small corner of his workshop that Steve's heard referred to as 'The Crash Zone' simply because, as Pepper has said, Stark uses it 'to crash out' and take naps between bouts of working on the Avengers' gear.

Sometimes, Steve doesn't think Stark does anything_ except_ work on tech for the Avengers. If he hadn't've seen Stark roaming the halls in search of coffee for himself, he'd think Stark never came up from the lab at all.

_"Feel free."_

"Thank you, Mister Stark," Steve says, turning to sit.

_"Don't call me that."_

Steve stops and turns back. Facing Stark again, he asks, "Don't call you what?"

_"'Mister Stark.' Don't call me 'Mister Stark.' Mister Stark is my father and my father was an asshole. Just call me Tony."_

Steve nods, licking his suddenly dry lips. He spends a moment staring into Stark's eyes trying to decide how sincere the other man is. He remembers meeting Howard Stark. But, while 'asshole' isn't the word he'd use to describe the man, he can understand how the years could have changed him. In the end, time changes everyone.

"Okay," Steve says, stomach flipping. "Tony it is."

Tony smiles like he won something precious. Steve does his best to commit the image to his memory, so he can sketch it out later.

Before he can stop himself, he says, "You know, you can call me by my first name, too. If—if you want to. You don't have to call me Captain all the time."

Tony hums like sandpaper scratching and wags a finger at Steve before flashing through another series of signs.

_"Names don't really exist in American Sign Language. You'd have to spell out everyone's name. It's easier just to give people nicknames."_

"Oh," Steve says. "So, my nickname is Captain?"

Tony points at him and winks, making a clicking sound with his cheek.

Before he can overthink it, Steve grabs a wheeled stool and drags it over. "Does everyone have a nickname?"

Tony nods but then he squints at Steve, pursing his lips and leaning back on his own stool to leer at him.

_"I thought you said you didn't want to talk."_

Steve offers a quick smile. "This isn't what I didn't want to talk about, so I think we're okay."

Tony grinds out another hum and speeds through a handful of signs.

_"'Happy' and 'Pepper' are already nicknames but Rhodey is 'Brother'. Natasha is 'Widow', Janet is 'Bee', Bruce is 'Green', Thor is 'Hammer', and, depending on how much he's pissing me off at the moment, Clint is either 'Hawk' or 'Asshole'."_

Steve shorts before he can think better of it. "'Asshole'? Really?"

Tony grins and shrugs.

_"Can you honestly say Clint doesn't deserve it sometimes? Besides, JARVIS usually automatically translates the nicknames into their given names anyway."_

"Yeah," Steve agrees slowly, "but doesn't Clint_ know _sign language?"

Tony's aching laughter sounds more like a wheeze and Steve can't help studying the mirth on the other man's slowly pinking face.

Tony makes a knocking motion with one hand while he wipes away tears with the other.

"The knocking, that means 'yes' right?"

Tony nods and then signs something else.

_"Haven't you seen me and Clint signing? His nickname for me is 'dick' so I really don't feel bad."_

Before Steve can respond, Tony continues signing, somewhat hesitantly at first.

_"When Ironman was dropping off the suit, he told me what happened upstairs. I just want to let you know that you're always welcome here, no matter what. Besides, it'd be a little hypocritical of me if I kicked you out or anything like that."_

Steve stills, first in dread, and then in shock.

"Hyp—hypocritical?"

Tony nods, a hand coming up to rub at his neck, at the scar that sits just under his left ear. He takes a deep breath and then starts signing again.

_"When it comes to relationships or lovers or whatever, I don't care about gender. Male, female, whatever they want to be called. I'm more interested in the person than in the package."_

"Oh," Steve says as he starts tapping his pencil against the tabletop. "The—um... the only woman I've ever been even a little attracted to was Peggy Carter."

Steve glances at Tony to see the man's shocked face. Then, Tony's face scrunches, as if he's sucking on a sour candy. He crosses his arms, leans towards the table, then leans back again before uncrossing his arms to sign.

_"If I remember correctly, all the news articles I've read have rumored that Peggy was the love of your life."_

Steve's lips twist. With a somewhat bitter laugh, he says, "I'm sure we both know how accurate the media can be. It was only slightly more reliable in the forties."

Tony nods, a tight noise caught in his throat.

Steve continues, "Besides, I think I mostly liked how fierce Peggy was. She wasn't afraid to speak what was on her mind and she certainly wasn't afraid to punch someone who gave her shit. She probably would have made an amazing Captain America, too, if Project Rebirth wasn't run by a bunch of old white men in the nineteen-forties."

Tony tips his head back and wheezes through another bout of laughter.

Steve's eyes trace over the scar to the right of Tony's Adam's apple. He already knows he's going to be drawing this later.

—

Steve doesn't quite remember how the topic got started. Someone must have asked about soulmarks or mentioned them in some other way. Maybe Janet? She and Hank are a Matched Pair after all.

Someone had asked, though, to the room at large, what their Words were.

Steve shifts, uncomfortable. His words are… well, in the various categories that Words can be sorted into, his are considered Strange. Words that don't quite fit into any other category since they're not obviously a Greeting, a Prompt, a Response, or a Request. At best, the frantic confession could be considered a Response, but even then, they don't give the impression of a proper Response. They're not answering a question or returning a greeting. They're part of the dreaded fifth category, Strange, only surpassed in despair by the sixth category.

"Nah," Clint says, leaning an elbow on the table and resting his head on his fist. "I'm a Blank."

The whole room quiets.

"I'm so sorry," Janet whispers.

Clint shrugs. "It's fucked up, but I'm used to it. The whole soulmate shit is fucked up anyway. It basically just shits on the whole Deaf/Hard of Hearing and mute communities. You only get a soulmark if you can hear your soulmate's voice with your own ears or if they have a voice to speak it to you? That's fucked up. How are we supposed to find our soulmates? How are we supposed to know? Hell, with me being deaf and Tony here being mute, we could be a Matched Pair and never know it."

Across the table, Tony snorts into his coffee, shaking his head furiously.

_"You're not pretty enough for me, asshole. Besides, you forget that _I_ have a soulmark and it is definitely not the First Words you said to me."_

"Oh, yeah?" Clint asks, arms crossing. "What are your Words then, oh, Mister High Standards?"

Tony snorts, not dignifying Clint with a response. But, after a moment's consideration, he stands and lifts his shirt.

There, wedged in the curve between his fifth and sixth ribs on his left side are the words, _Mister Stark, they tell me you're mute._

Steve's heart stutters to a stop in his chest. Then, it suddenly picks up at triple time, tripping over itself in an effort to beat right out of his chest.

Those are his! Those are _his_ Words on Tony's side! He said that! And he remembers it clearly because the visceral embarrassment he felt from the interaction still lingers in the back of his mind, years later.

He opens his mouth to embarrass himself again but Clint cuts him off.

"Damn, Stark, how many times have you heard that?"

Tony sits, face scrunching for a moment before he starts counting on his fingers. He shows Clint what looks like an 'OK' sign.

Clint whistles and says, "Nine? Nine times? _Nine times_ nine _different_ strangers have greeted you with that? Any of them Blanks?"

Tony shrugs and gives the table at large a rueful smile.

_"No idea. Didn't see the point in asking."_

Steve blinks down at his cuff. From one moment to the next, it's like the rug's been pulled out from under him and, while trying to catch his balance, someone's pushed him down a set of stairs.

Steve isn't a Blank. His soulmate is still out there somewhere. Tony's Words aren't his, even though he said them.

What a cruel game the fates play.

Steve clears his throat. Not meeting anyone's eyes, he says, "I'm gonna go hit the gym. If anyone wants to join me… feel free."

Steve decides to see how many punching bags he can destroy before he feels better.

He runs out of punching bags.

—

Steve is getting tired of not knowing. He's tired of sitting across from the most gorgeous man to ever exist and feeling lost every time he asks a question. He's tired of waiting for JARVIS to translate.

Unfortunately, he also feels too exposed to ask Pepper, or Rhodey, or, god forbid, Clint to help teach him how to sign so he does what any self-respecting man with a crush would do: he goes to the library.

He starts at the library in the mansion, checking to see if there are any ASL books kept on those shelves. Disappointingly, there aren't many. The Stark Library seems to be mostly engineering books, novels, and other various reference material.

Steve figures he can always go to one of the libraries in the city but, before driving all the way out there, decides to see what he can find online.

The answer is: too much.

There are far too many websites to look through about learning ASL. Some advertising classes and others touting 'teach yourself with these basics!'

One website reads: 'ASL is not English. ASL is its own language and because of that a few things need to be acknowledged before your trip into learning Sign begins.

'First, let's go over what's called "ASL gloss." Since ASL isn't a written language and isn't English, any written signs are denoted in all capital letters such as TODAY, STORE, or BOAT. These capitalized words are ASL gloss.

'Second, ASL has its own grammatical structure. In fact, it has two. The first is _Time + Topic + Comment + Referent_ and the second is _Topic + Comment + Referent_ where 'Time' is the tense of the sentence (such as past, future, or present tense), 'Topic' is the subject of the sentence, 'Comment' is what is being said about the subject, and 'Referent' refers to the subject about which you are talking.

'An example, in ASL gloss, would be: TOMORROW VACATION GO I. In English, this could be read as: 'I'm going on vacation tomorrow.'

'As you can see, the same signs for a word are used regardless of sentence tense. It is for this reason that the 'Time' must go at the beginning of the sentence.

'As a Quick Tip: when a question is asked in ASL, the qualifiers WHO, WHAT, WHEN, WHERE, WHY, and WHICH are placed at the end of the sentence or at both the beginning _and_ the end.'

_Okay_… Steve thinks, _this is going to be a little harder than I thought_.

Luckily, Steve is nothing if not stubborn.

By the time Steve figures out that there are actual_ dialects_ to ASL and_ abbreviated signs_, he's beyond grateful that Pepper is at the mansion so often. She's a surprisingly kind and patient teacher when it comes to anyone who isn't trying her patience, such as Tony.

—

"You seem to be spending quite a lot of time down in Mr. Stark's lab lately. Anything I should know about?"

Ironman's electronic voice catches Steve off guard.

Placing the bar back on the bench press, Steve looks up to where Ironman's been spotting him for the last twenty minutes.

"What?" Steve asks intelligently as he moves to sit up.

"I'm his bodyguard when I'm not doing Avengers business. Figured it'd probably be good to know when and why people are hanging around him."

Steve grabs his water bottle, stalling for time as he scrambles for any reason other than, 'I think I'm in love with your boss.' For some reason, he doesn't think that would go down too well.

They say the best lie is the lie closest to the truth.

With a shrug, Steve finds himself saying, "He just… seems a little lonely. I hardly ever see him at the movie nights or the team building exercises. He's always just down in his lab with his robots. I know what it's like to be lonely like that. No one deserves to be that alone."

Ironman grunts something and nods before leaving.

Watching his retreating back, Steve gets the sudden feeling that he upset his friend with his answer.

With nothing better to do, Steve showers and decides to head down to see Tony.

As Steve walks into the lab, he spots Tony standing in the small kitchenette, raking his hands through his hair with his back towards the door. He looks like he's shaking.

"You okay, Tony?" Steve asks as he approaches, concerned.

Tony whirls around and shoves at Steve's shoulders.

Not expecting it, Steve stumbles, managing to catch himself on the edge of a workbench.

Steve doesn't recognize Tony's first sign, but he knows the small hand motion that forms NEED, catches Tony's head shake to make it DON'T NEED, sees Tony point to himself, and then another string of signs he doesn't quite catch.

JARVIS translates, _"I don't need your pity. And I don't appreciate it, either."_

Steve doesn't know exactly what Tony means by that, but he can guess that either Ironman mentioned their conversation to Tony or that maybe Tony had even requested his bodyguard ask Steve about his increasing presence in the lab.

It hurts, a little, that Tony doesn't feel comfortable asking Steve directly, if that is indeed the case, but Steve pushes all thoughts of Tony's motivation to the back of his mind. He has to address something else first.

Steve circles his fist over his chest. SORRY.

Steve continues, "It's not pity, Tony. I don't pity you. I—I genuinely enjoy your company. You're smart and funny and probably the most compassionate person I've ever met. I had hoped that you were at least considering me a friend but… but if I'm infringing on your space down here, I can leave. Just say the word. It's just…" Steve sighs, "Most days, it seems like the lab is the only place in the whole mansion where I can find some peace and just be myself. Without any expectations of being Captain America, too."

Tony looks like Steve sucker punched him. Confused, Tony asks, WHY?

Steve can't decide if Tony is asking why he finds the lab peaceful or why Steve doesn't pity him. The thought that Tony is asking why Steve would want to be his friend doesn't even cross his mind.

Shrugging, Steve offers a small smile, "I dunno, I just do."

Tony's eyes well with unshed tears. He makes a choked noise in the back of his throat and nods, blinking rapidly. He holds both hands out with the backs of his hands up, pinkies and thumbs extended, and makes a downward motion with his right hand. Then, he runs another hand through his hair and turns around to disappear into the back of his lab.

STAY, Tony had signed.

Steve nods to himself. Chewing at his bottom lip, he spares another glance at Tony's retreating back. He wants to go over and offer Tony some sort of comfort, but he gets the feeling that imposing anymore of his presence on the younger genius would be unwanted. Instead, he heads to what has become his usual corner in the lab and grabs at the sketchbook he leaves wedged on a nearby shelf.

He thinks about what he knows about Tony. About how the man lost both his parents and his voice on the same night at only twenty-one. About how it seems that his closest friends are his college roommate, an ex-girlfriend, his own assistant, and his two hired bodyguards. He thinks about how he calls his dad an asshole and how he was betrayed and nearly killed by the only other father figure he'd ever had. He thinks about the small arc reactor in the glass case that says, _'Proof That Tony Stark Has a Heart'_.

Steve wonders if Tony doesn't have many friends by design or by choice. He'd like to be considered among that small number.

Some hours later, Steve sets down his sketchbook and makes his way to where Tony's welding some mystery component of Ironman's suit.

Hesitant to break the silence, Steve reaches out and gently touches Tony's shoulder. Before losing his nerve, Steve signs, DINNER.

Tony's mouth twists like he's annoyed at being pulled from his work, but he gives a grinding sigh and nods, allowing himself to be dragged from the lab.

—

Some weeks later, Steve is seated in Tony's lab again when Tony suddenly knocks his knuckles on his workbench.

Steve looks over to see Tony standing by the open circuitry of one of Black Widow's gauntlets. Seeing he has Steve's attention, Tony asks, WHO—SIGN—TEACH—YOU—WHO?

Tony forms the signs at maybe half the speed he usually does, the forms careful and obviously intentional. JARVIS doesn't bother to translate.

Steve blushes. For some reason, the thought that eventually Tony would ask about his use of ASL never crossed his mind. What an oversight.

Still red faced, Steve stutters through his response. He signs, ME... INTERNET.

Tony chuckles, a deep gravelly sound, and signs, J. NOW—TEACH—HELP—CAPTAIN.

_"Of course, Sir. I'd be honored to assist Captain Rogers in his endeavor to master American Sign Language." _JARVIS responds.

"Th-thanks, JARVIS," Steve manages.

When Steve looks back at Tony, he looks excited.

Tony signs, slowly and with great care, NOW—COME HERE—YOU.

Steve can't help the small grin that slides across his face as he stands and makes his way to Tony.

THERE—SIT, Tony signs, pointing to one of his wheeled stools. He grabs another seat and sits himself down next to Steve. His grin is almost blinding as he starts to share a handful of his favorite signs.

Tony is shockingly patient with Steve, slowing his usual rapid-fire pace to something that gives Steve time to understand the sign before he moves on to the next one and taking the time to fingerspell the meaning of any sign that Steve doesn't know yet.

Steve's chest feels like it's about to burst open in the best way.

—

Steve tries desperately to forget that he has a soulmate.

But the cuff he constantly wears is a fitting reminder that somewhere in the universe exists a being who will eventually speak to him for the first time and utterly ruin the happiness he finds every moment he presses his lips against Tony's.

Their first kiss is shared over the open spinal circuitry of an Ironman suit. Steve had been watching Tony's lips form soundless words for the better part of an hour, pouring over some problem he'd encountered. Steve had been trying to focus on a sketch of a cathedral's stained glass he remembered from the war. But every low hum or coarse grunt drew his eyes further and further away from the pages of his book and closer and closer to Tony's workbench until he suddenly found himself standing across from the other man and leaning in. It was like fireworks.

Steve still thinks of it now, weeks later, laying in Tony's king size bed, sheets tangled around their hips. Thinks about how Tony had simply signed, AGAIN, and there was nothing Steve could do to resist.

Steve can't imagine that any unknown soulmate could ever make him feel as lightheaded and giddy as Tony does. Can't imagine filling sketchbook after sketchbook full of intimate moments—a head tipped back in bliss, a face scrunched in passion, a hand wrapped around a hard and leaning cock—of anyone _but_ Tony.

He doesn't want to, either.

But even as he buries his face in Tony's sweat covered neck, he has to acknowledge the fact that not only does he have a soulmate out there somewhere, but so does Tony.

Tony, who's already had_ nine_ people say his Words to him, Steve among them. Tony, who—out of everyone Steve knows—most deserves to meet his soulmate, deserves the fabled happiness that comes with meeting your fated other half. Tony, whose soulmate must be Blank.

Yet Steve—as he presses reverent kisses against Tony's soulmark, pretending that the words there are_ his_—wishes desperately that he was Blank, too.

Steve's cuff chafes something awful.

—

It's possibly the fifth time they've had sex that Steve realizes Tony is consciously muffling himself.

Tony's face is buried in Steve's neck—his weight pressing Steve to the bed, his cock making Steve see stars—when Steve realizes that Tony's pressing his lips to his neck not to kiss or bite or lick, but to quiet his own pleasured groans.

"Tony," Steve gasps, pushing at his shoulders. "Tony," he has to repeat before the other man raises up to give him a confused look.

"Everything's fine," Steve reassures as he cups Tony's face in his hands. He presses a kiss to his lover's lips before asking, "Are you holding yourself back?"

Tony shakes his head, looking adorably confused. He shifts his weight, trying to adjust so his knees can support him in order to free his hands from where they're currently tangled in the bed sheets.

"Wait," Steve says before he rolls his hips, flipping their positions so he can straddle Tony. He groans, sinking further into Tony's cock.

Steve rolls his hips helplessly, grinding until he gets Tony's cock where he needs it most. He takes a moment to relish Tony's gasp and then stops, waiting for Tony to look at him again. The genius purses his lips together, obviously dissatisfied with the loss of movement. He drags his hands up Steve's sides, hips to shoulders and back down again, encouragingly.

Steve rolls his hips twice more before stilling again. He braces his hands on Tony's chest, on either side of the softly glowing arc reactor.

"Tony," Steve says, "you know I love all the sounds you make while we're making love, right?"

Tony blinks at him owlishly, fingers tightening against his sides. His lips twist and he looks away to stare at the far wall. Frowning. Jaw tight.

_He doesn't believe me_, Steve realizes, shocked. It's either that or Tony still feels awkward about Steve insisting that every time they have sex they're making love and not just fucking. ('There's no love in fucking,' Steve had said, 'and what I feel for you is far more than a simple fuck.')

Half furious, Steve says, "If I ever find the person who told you that the sounds you make aren't the most beautiful noises in the world, I'm going to punch them in the face."

Steve punctuates his promise with a harsh roll of his hips. His own quiet gasp is lost in Tony's choked groan.

"I love the sounds you make, Tony," Steve says, leaning down to drag his lips across Tony's cheek as his hips keep up their vicious pace. "I love knowing that what I'm doing is making you feel good. I love knowing that you're enjoying yourself."

Tony grinds out a desperate keen, hands grabbing at the nape of Steve's neck, pressing their foreheads together and keeping Steve close.

"Yes," Steve hisses as Tony's thrusts take on an urgent edge. Begging, he says, "Please. I want to hear you come."

The noise Tony makes is brutal, throaty, and breathless.

Steve gasps through his own needy climax, hips twitching and grinding until, exhausted, he presses kisses along Tony's cheek to bury his face in the other man's neck.

Steve gently detangles himself and, uncaring of the mess, curls against Tony's sweaty side, tucking his head under Tony's chin.

While they catch their breath, Steve trails his fingers along the spider webbing of scars on Tony's chest.

After a moment, Steve says, "I was serious, you know."

Tony hums, too low to hear but, with Steve's head pressed against his chest, the vibration is easily felt.

"The sounds you make," Steve says, quietly. "I like them. You hum along to songs in the lab sometimes when you're happy. I like knowing that you're happy."

Tony makes a soft, wet sound and pulls away, rolling into his side.

Steve stares at Tony's broad back, watches as Tony inhales in quiet fits and starts. Steve realizes he may have pushed too hard, too fast. Eventually, he'll get Tony to accept the fact that he is loved. He's got years ahead of himself to do it.

For now, Steve scoots closer, whispers, "Can I hold you?" and wraps his arms around Tony, pulling him to his chest, when Tony simply nods in response.

—

Steve is starting to get worried.

"Ironman," he orders. "Report."

Nothing.

The fact that one of their most mouthy members hasn't given so much as a 'by your leave' in the last five minutes is concerning. The fact that Ironman is also one of their most self-sacrificing members makes it even more worrisome.

Steve tries a different tack.

"Thor, Wasp, any sign of Ironman?"

"Nothing yet, Cap," Janet says. "I'll keep my eyes out."

Steve grunts an affirmative as he punches one of the—well, Steve's not exactly sure what they are—aliens? Robots? They look a little like they could be both. —Regardless, Steve spares a moment to punch it in what he's relatively certain is its face.

"Window? Hawkeye?"

Natasha's voice comes over the line, "Sorry, Cap, haven't seen him in about twenty minutes."

"Uuuh," Clint says, "I think… there's a small chance I may have accidentally hit him with one of my exploding arrows about five, seven minutes ago. It ricocheted off of one on these bastard's chest plates."

Before Steve can say anything, Clint continues:

"He was fine though! He called me an asshole and flew off!"

Steve's jaw ticks but thankfully it feels like the battle is drawing to a close.

Janet suggests a good spot to regroup and Steve jogs his way over after meeting to coordinate with the NYPD. When he arrives, he heads to where Natasha and Thor are using an overturned car as a makeshift bench.

He checks in with them quickly, nodding when they say they're fine. He's about to turn to check in with Clint and a few of the recently arrived SHIELD agents when he hears a soft gasp.

From the corner of his eye, he first spots Janet's bright black and yellow costume. Then, as he does a double take, he sees Ironman, his bright red and gold unmistakable. But then he sees the blood covering Ironman's bare face, sees the familiar, exhausted look in his eyes, sees_ Tony_ and then he entirely forgets how to breathe.

Steve takes a lurching step towards his lover, who_ isn't supposed to be here_. Thoughtlessly, he breathes a worried, "Tony."

Something like fear twists Tony's face and, with the barest twitch of his head, he takes to the air.

In the time it takes for Steve to get back to the mansion he comes to several conclusions. The biggest being that he's an idiot. The Avengers is _his team_. How the hell has he led this team for years, lived at Tony's mansion for years, and yet never realized that he's never actually seen Tony, his lover, in the same room as Ironman, his teammate? How did he ever think that Tony—strong, brave, charismatic, compassionate, brilliant, upstanding Tony—could ever sit idly by while someone else put their life on the line for him? _Of course_ it's been Tony in the suit. The only other person he'd trust with it is Rhodey because he's known Rhodey since he was seventeen. Tony wouldn't ever just _hire_ someone to put on the suit.

He tries to convince himself that it's understandable he didn't put the obvious together because, well, Ironman talks. But that's not any excuse because Tony built his own fully functioning AI at twenty-five. How could he have not built some other AI to speak for him while he's in the Ironman suit?

Steve takes a few deep breaths and rests his head against the back of the seat as the car starts to pull into the drive at the mansion. He mutters a quick, "Excuse me," to the rest of the team and disappears to Tony's lab before anyone can stop him.

Even if he understands what he assumes is Tony's reasoning, he still needs to assuage his remaining fears, answer his last few questions. But as he makes his way closer to the lab, he finds himself growing more and more furious.

Why didn't Tony tell him he was Ironman? Were there not ample opportunities? Shouldn't he, as the leader, know about relevant medical conditions such as shrapnel in a teammate's chest and implanted pacemakers?

Steve slams through the lab door heedlessly.

Tony jumps, something dropping to the floor. He bends to pick it up and, as he straightens, slams a hand down onto his workbench as he sways on his feet.

Steve's stomach drops out.

Tony looks terrible: there's dried blood on his neck and shirt; his face is a mess of cuts and bruises; one of his eyes is bright red where it's supposed to be white; the bigger cuts have already been cleaned and butterflied shut. Tony presses whatever he dropped to his face; an ice pack wrapped in a grease stained towel. He doesn't lift his eyes from Steve's red uniform boots.

"Tony," Steve whispers, feeling suddenly lost. He wants to gather Tony up in his arms and hold him until he stops looking like he's waiting to get hit.

Hesitantly, Tony raises his head.

Steve almost reaches out to cup Tony's face, but thinks better of it in the last minute. He gestures at Tony's face and, not trusting his voice not to break in half, signs a simple, INJURY.

Tony stares, searching Steve's eyes for a moment. Then, slowly, he pulls the ice pack away from his face.

It looks even worse up close.

Steve winces and can't stop his hands this time. They come up, fingertips grazing along Tony's jaw. He doesn't cup Tony's face so much as his hands hover just above his skin, feeling the disproportionate warmth from the side that took the brunt of the arrow impact.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Steve finds himself asking. "Did anyone know?"

Tony doesn't answer so Steve continues.

"I'm so mad at you," Steve says, gently. "I'm fucking furious. And I think I'm most pissed about the fact that you just left without letting anyone check out your injuries. And I'm mad that this"—he raps at the arc reaction in Tony's chest— "powers the suit_ and_ you. What the fuck, Tony?"

Steve suddenly finds himself furious again. He pulls back, scrubbing his hands through his hair and pacing up and down the length of the nearby workbench.

He rants about Tony putting himself in danger, about being a leader who all apparently doesn't actually know his team as well as he thought he did, about how not a single member on the team knew who Ironman was and did Tony understand how dangerous that is?

In the end, Steve sighs, exhausted and deflated. He says, quietly, "I care about you so damn much. I love you, you know that, right? You worried me today. It was the worst fucking feeling in the world."

Taking a deep breath, Steve asks, "Who did know? About you being Ironman? Why… why didn't you tell _me_? Not as Captain America but as—as your lover. Was I just not important enough to trust with this?"

Arms crossed, Steve leans back into the workbench, trying to make himself small, as if that will take away some of the vulnerable weight of his last few questions.

He hears the soft clanking noise of something being placed on the tabletop by his hip. Cold hands cup his face. When he finally raises his eyes, Tony's starting at him like he could pour his very heart into Steve's chest if he only looked at him hard enough.

Tony rubs his thumbs against Steve's cheek bones before he slowly pulls back and starts to sign.

Steve watches as Tony explains about his life before the attempted assassination in Afghanistan, about his time with Yensen, about his suit, about Obie's betrayal, about his abusive drunkard of a father. Steve watches until he can't possibly stand to see Tony in so much pain anymore.

Gently, and with enough blatant movement that Tony could pull away if he felt the need to, Steve lays his hands over Tony's, silencing the younger man.

"I get it, Tony. I do," Steve says. "And you're not any of those things people have said you are. You're not an idiot. You're not a monster. You're just not."

Steve raises his hands to gently cup Tony's tear stained cheeks. He continues, "You are the bravest, smartest, most beautiful person I know. And I'm not just talking about in terms of looks. You inherited your father's company and, with it, all of his sins. And then when you realized you didn't like what you had spent your entire life creating, you set out to change it. And you succeed. Do you know how amazing that is?"

Steve pulls Tony into his arms and buries his face against the uninjured side of Tony's neck. "I love you so goddamn much, Tony. I'm not going to ask you to stop being Ironman; no one else could even compare. I just need you to make sure you come home to me in one piece, okay?"

Steve can feel a dampness against his neck where Tony's hiding his face. He waits, let's Tony have a few minutes as Steve holds on.

But then, after a few minutes of silence, a scratchy, hoarse voice says, "Steve."

Steve stiffens immediately. _What… what the hell?_ Steve thinks, heart thrumming in his chest suddenly. _That… Is that… Tony?_

"Steve," Tony again, voice still just as torn as the last time. "I love you."

Steve closes his eyes tight, buries his face against Tony's neck and sucks in a wet breath. He has to force the air around where his heart is suddenly lodged in his throat. He can't speak. Tony's already halfway there and Steve's never been so desperate for someone to say they love him as much as he is right now. Doesn't even chance taking in another breath in case it breaks whatever spell is allowing Tony to speak his Words right now.

"I love you, Steve," Tony says at last, voice breaking in half.

_Fuck_, Steve thinks, utterly shattered. He grabs at Tony, pulling him in and kissing him like he's starving for it.

But then Steve remembers Tony's injured and he wants to punch himself in the face for forgetting.

"Sorry!" Steve says, jerking back. "I forgot—uh, I forgot about your face."

Tony snickers for a moment, breathlessly, but then winces, a hand pressing to his throat.

"Do you need—?" Steve starts, looking for the forgotten ice pack but Tony's already grabbing it from the table and pressing it to his neck.

Steve stares in wonder at this impossible man. He can't help but ask, "How?"

Tiny sets the ice pack down and signs, WEEKLY—THERAPIST—GO—I. PAST ME—SPEAK—WANT—YOU.

Steve's heart twists in his chest in the best way. He reaches up and fumbles for the zipper on his jacket and the buckles off his harness. Pulling his harness off, Steve says, "You didn't need to do that for me."

Tony watches him, a confused look on his face as he starts to sign, WHAT?

Steve cuts him off, "I need—" but he doesn't finish, finally managing to pull his jacket off. He stands, in his tee-shirt, and begins to pull at the edge of his cuff. He's never purposefully shown it to anyone before.

Tony's hand whips out, catching Steve's wrist before he can do more than start to roll the edge of the fabric cuff.

Tony shakes his head, eyes wide.

But Steve's never needed to show off his Words more than he does right at this moment. He leans into Tony's space, brushing their lips together softly, and begs, "Please, let me show you."

Finally, reluctantly, Tony nods.

Steve rolls his cuff down and over his hand. After shoving it in his pocket, he grabs Tony's hand and places it gently against his Words. With his free hand, he strokes across Tony's side, where he knows Tony's Words are.

"Look. Tony."

He watches as Tony slowly opens his eyes, slowly moves his hand to reveal Steve's soulmark, and slowly reads Steve's Words.

Steve aches to fill the silence. "I always thought—," but then Tony's grabbing him and kissing him, fierce and needy all in one.

Tony's sign cuts him off, DON'T CARE.

Steve barely has time to smile before Tony's kissing him again. Reality slams into Steve all over again: he's Tony's soulmate; Tony is _his_ soulmate.

When Tony pulls back, some interminable time later, he signs a simple, I LOVE YOU, and presses it to Steve's chest. For as many times as Steve's has said it aloud, this is the first time he's gotten it back. Steve cups his hands around Tony's, reverently.

He says, "I know. I've always known, in a way." He kisses Tony again and says, "I love you, too. ... But don't think this gets you off the hook for the whole 'secretly Ironman' thing."

Tony just giggles, pressing his face into Steve's shoulder.

—

Some weeks later, Steve is making breakfast in the communal kitchen. He's got a skillet full of eggs, another full of hash browns and bacon. He's hoping Tony will still be sleeping by the time he's finished. Depending on how you mark it, it's his and Tony's one-year anniversary.

Hearing footsteps, Steve turns and sees Natasha.

"Morning," he greets.

Natasha hums, opening the fridge. She returns the greeting with an even, "Good morning." She grabs out the orange juice and pours herself a glass. Leaning against the counter she watches him for a long moment.

"Those are some Words you got there," she says, unprompted.

Steve stills and looks down at his bare forearm. He hadn't bothered putting his cuff on when he passed out the night before and he'd forgot to replace it when he left the room this morning.

His Words stare up at him, their jagged edges absolutely beautiful. He grins.

Before Steve can respond to Natasha's goading, a groan cuts in from the doorway, "Steve."

Tony stumbles into the room, half-dressed and half-asleep. "Steve," he says again, voice tight, as he moves into Steve's space. He snakes his arms around Steve's waist and buries his face in Steve's shoulder.

Silently, Steve offers up his mug of coffee.

Tony groans gratefully and whispers, half to the coffee and half to Steve, "I love you."

He downs maybe half of it before handing it back. Voice scratchy, Tony says, "I love you, Steve."

Steve beams pressing a kiss and a soft, "I love you, too," into Tony's hair.

Across the room, Natasha hums and murmurs a soft, "Fitting," into her drink.

Tony raises his head and gives Natasha a smug smile. He taps his shoulder with his fingertips, circles his face with his index and middle fingers sticking out, then points at Steve.

CAPTAIN—HANDSOME—HIM.

Steve's face goes red, "Have you been calling me that this whole time?!"

Tony snickers and nuzzles his face back into Steve's shoulder.

"Love, Steve," he whispers.

Steve melts.


	111. (T) SALLARY - Eat Your Heart Out by Orph

eat your heart out  
orphan_account

Summary:  
Sal's been stuck in room 402 since the start of the plague, zombified and alone(except for his pet cat). Then he meets a human that's strange in his own way, and Sal begins to feel more human than ever before.

* * *

Chapter 01: oh well. enough said

When Sal woke up in the hospital, face bandaged up and hurting, his father had told him, "Don't worry son, it'll all be better now. It's gonna be okay."

When Sal woke up on the floor, face in the mask and numb, his father was on the ground next to him, guts spilled out of him and half chewed.

As a zombie, Sal thinks it's not all that bad. He usually hangs out in 402, where he lived when he was alive. His cat still prawls around too. He ignores his father's room, the door closed. Sal never opened it.

All of the tenants who used to live there were either gone or dead. Or undead. Mrs. Packerton had brought the disease home with her, and infected most of the other tenants. Sal was one of them. He remembers it with hazy recollection. It was the second most tragic moment in his life. Or maybe in his past life. He's not technically alive now right?

At least his face matches with his predicament now.

It's boring mostly. Chug is still here, moaning and groaning for food. Even as a zombie he raided the vending machine when he first turned. Now he just complained over his hunger pains. Sal heard him even up on floor 4.

Sal himself hasn't eaten much of any one. His last meal might have been Miss. Rosenburg, right when he first turned. She hadn't tasted that good. Sal refrained after that. Though, it wasn't as if he had many options now a days.

Sal doesn't know how much time has passed since the outbreak, but it seemed that Nockfell was deserted. He hasn't seen a human in forever. Looks like he was going to wither away in this apartment building, with only the ability to groan. Figures.

After the electricity cut out, Sal was stuck on the fourth floor. The stairs were treacherous when he was human. Now, with barely any ability to walk correctly, he would most definitely end up a splat at the bottom of the stairwell.

It wasn't that bad really. Sal mostly looked outside through his window. The streets were barren. Nothing really changed. Living as a zombie made time irrelevant though. He could go days standing in one place without realizing it. What was left of his mind kind of went dead during those moments.

It kinda sucks.

The day when Sal's heart had went and gone ba-bum was a dark one. It was the middle of Winter, Sal guessed. Blankets of snow covered the entire landscape of what Sal could see from the little window.

Sal mourned for it. He wished he could feel the cold like he used to. When the idea of cold was followed up by hot chocolate and terrible Christmas movies and itchy sweaters. Now Sal was always cold. Having no blood circulation does that to a person.

So instead he watched the outside, standing rigidly. Gizmo slept by his feet. Sal wished he could comfort the cat as much as he comforts Sal. No matter what, Gizmo stayed with his owner.

A loud buzzing began suddenly. It grated at Sal's ears. He hasn't heard something that loud in months. Gizmo hissed and ran from Sal, darting into the bathroom. Sal turned.

The TV was on. Static played. And then Sal realized there was a general hum around him. Light flickered above him.

Sal moaned in confusion. The electricity is back on? What caused that? But then he had another thought. The elevator.

He walked as fast as he could (which wasn't very fast) to the front door. It took him a few tries but it creaked open soon enough. Sal darted his eyes under the prosthetic, but there was no one else. Human or zombie.

He shuffled toward the elevator, and when he saw the bleary red light of the elevator was on, he wanted to jump up and down with joy. But instead, he only moaned again.

Pressing the button to go down proved difficult. By the time he was able to hit it, Gizmo was prowling back toward him.

The elevator groaned and creaked, but the doors opened. He stepped in, feeling brief flashes of excitement in his cold veins.

Another five minutes to move his arm enough to hit the first floor button had him moving slowly down, Gizmo purring next to him.

The elevator lurched to a stop and Sal stepped out. He looked around slowly. The first thing he noticed was that Mr. Addison's door was thrown open. Sal was surprised. He honestly thought Mr. Addison would rather rot in his apartment then escape the zombie festered apartment complex. Then he heard a loud shout, followed by more squeals of excitement.

Sal hobbled forward, intrigued. Who or what made the noise? Was it one of his zombie brethren? Or a human?

At the thought, he stilled. Maybe it wouldn't be a good idea to walk in there. If they were humans, they'd shoot him dead. Right?

He listened more. Voices began to filter into his mind. A girl spoke first.

"You see, I told you this was a good idea. This place is empty and it's stocked to the brim! Food for months!" The voice rang, clearly happy.

"This still seems dangerous. What if the power stirred some of those undead fuckers," another voice replied, and this was clearly a male. Well at least the dude was right. It sure stirred Sal up.

"Whatever, lets go get Todd and Neil. Bet they'll freak out over all this food," the female murmured and she clearly sounded amazed.

"Nah you stay. See if you can find anything else. I'll go get them," the male said. There must have been some type of unspoken communication because the next thing Sal heard were boots scraping across wood floors. And the sound was coming straight toward Sal.

Sal tried to stumble back, but his dead legs decided that was too much, and locked up. He crashed to the floor. There was no pain. Gizmo looked at him with wide eyes.

And suddenly there was a shotgun pointed straight at his chest. He looked up, groaning in protest, only to still entirely.

The man standing over him was tall. His eyes were hooded with bags and were a brown that sparkled in anger. His thick eyebrows were scrunched up, a frown pulling his mouth down.

Sal noticed the long brown hair, and how it was pushed back from his face with a clip, but strands still framed his face. He looked kind of hot, Sal thought. And then he felt his heart beat. He took a breath, the first in months.

The longer they stared at each other, the more the man seemed to grow tense. Sal took another breath, the action hidden behind his mask.

"Who are you?" The man asked. Sal wondered why he hadn't shot and then realized he may look human to the man. A dirty boy in a mask who wasn't actively trying to chew his face off. Sounds like a survivor to Sal.

Before he could do much of anything, Sal saw movement behind the man. In a flash, Sal moved, faster than he thought he ever could, pulling the human toward him. The stranger gasped and almost began to shout, but then he saw the looming zombie that was in the space he just occupied.

Sal had never seen what Mr. Addison looked like, but as a zombie, he didn't really look all that good. His skin was translucent white, and blood caked his mouth and hands. His eyes were a pale yellow.

A shot rang through the building. Mr. Addison keeled over, on top of Sal. Sal groaned in discomfort.

"Shit," the man said, and suddenly the weight of Mr. Addison's corpse was lifted from Sal.

A hand was brought into his vision. He distantly heard the man reassuring his partner that everything was okay.

Sal decided not to take the man's hand. Feeling a cold, clammy hand could clue the dude into what Sal really was.

Sal got up, with some difficulty. It was hard to move with frozen limbs, though the breathing he apparently could do now eased some of the burden.

"Hey thanks, man. Sorry about the whole shotgun thing," the man said once Sal stood up to face him. He was really tall. Sal had to crane his neck.

"I'm Larry, by the way," the man brought his hand back out. Sal knew he wanted a hand shake, but Sal only stared at the hand, before Larry awkwardly let his arm fall back to his side.

"You don't talk much, do you?" Larry murmured, staring at Sal with nice eyes. A complete 180 from the man he saw a minute ago. Sal believed this was just a bit too much to handle right now. He thought about shuffling back to his apartment, closing it and never reopening it again.

"Is that your cat?" Larry asked, looking at Gizmo, who was sniffing disinterestedly at Mr. Addison's corpse. Sal nodded roughly, the action causing his neck to almost creak.

"Hey-" and suddenly the woman who Sal heard before exited the apartment, wide eyed at the scene before her. Her eyes landed on Sal and they pinched slightly in confusion.

"Who's this?" The girl asked Larry, though she still stared at Sal.

"Hm, he saved me from that zombie. He won't tell me his name though," Larry replied, tilting his head slightly.

Sal felt the awkwardness of the situation. They really thought he was human. He knew he couldn't speak, but at that moment he wished he could. Larry seemed genuinely interested in Sal. Sal sure was genuinely interested in Larry.

The elevator dinged at that moment. All three turned to stare, the girl and Larry confused, while Sal felt dread fill up his veins.

Chug barreled out the elevator doors, and Sal heaved in a breath of fright.

Two guns trained in on Chug in that moment and Sal moved without thinking.

His voice filled the stale air of the apartment complex, a strangled form of speech that was hardly recognizable.

He looked at the two humans, who stared at him wide eyed. Well, at least they knew now.

The girl cocked her gun straight at him, ready to fire.

Sal closed his eyes.

He took a breath

.

"Wait, Ash."

Sal opened his eyes. Larry was standing in front of him, his back toward Sal, arms outstretched. Sal could see Ash's glare even still.

"What are you doing, Lar?" Ash hissed through gritted teeth.

"Look, let's just...go. We have the supplies we needed. Plus it'll be a waste of animation. We can leave without anymore bloodshed," Larry explained softly. Sal's eyes widened in surprise.

"They're monsters, Larry," Ash responded in disgust. Sal almost winced at the words, but ignored. She wasn't wrong. Chug groaned quietly to Sal, and he could almost imagine what he said. Something like, _Can I eat these fools? _Sal turned and grunted shortly. It was meant to be a terse _no _. Chug grumbled unhappily.

"He saved my life, Ash. You didn't see it. I was gonna be prime meat if it weren't for him," Larry informed, vouching for Sal. The zombie watched on, wishing he could speak.

"...Fine, we're just wasting daylight arguing here, anyways." With that, the woman turned, leaving the scene with a huff, her back rigid. The darkening sky and snow easily helped her disappear.

Larry turned to face Sal. Chug had wandered away, back to the elevator, probably down to the basement. He had always loved that vending machine, full or not.

"You're a zombie," Larry said to Sal, in what was faintly-concealed wonder. Sal nodded his head slowly, feeling kind of queasy at the stare the male was giving him.

"Why aren't you devouring my insides right now?" Larry asked, and he cocked his head to the left, just a bit, and Sal believed that if he had any blood, it'd probably run all the way to his scarred face at the moment.

To be fair, Larry smelled delectable. Something Sal has never, ever smelled before. Strong, tangy kind of scent. Miss. Rosenburg sure as hell didn't smell like this. But, Sal refrained. Larry didn't deserve it. HIs stomach panged silently.

He said nothing. What would he say, if he could speak? _Yep, defective zombie here!_

"Can you tell me anything?" Larry asked.

Sal looked at his face, the colossal amount of curiosity in those eyes. The twitches of his eyebrows. The mole under one of his eyes. The long nose. He kind of looked like a piece of art. Not built to please everyone, but few would see the true magic, Sal just might be one of those few.

Sal tried. He heaved a harsh breath, and it rattled through his useless lungs and he moved his dead tongue. They were quiet, spoken words. More of a breath that decided to sound a bit different. Barely a disruption in the silence.

"_ Sally... Face"_

* * *

Chapter 02: everyday for us something new open mind for a different view

The electricity stayed on. Whatever whoever did, it worked. Sal traversed through the apartments daily, catching up with his other zombie tenants. He listened to rock music with Robert, played chess with the college kids (Sal thought he was quite good at it), and wandered the halls with Chug, among other things.

It was more stimulating than before for sure, but Sal was still left bereft most days. He wouldn't admit to himself as to why. Wouldn't admit as to why he thought of brown, hooded eyes, a crooked smile, and long limbs most nights, alone in 402.

It's been days since he's seen Larry. Sal knows that he left with his group, left to scour for my food, a place to sleep. Sal has watched enough zombie movies to know his bunch are persistent for food.

Even then, it stung. He's never seen someone look at him the way Larry had. Like he wasn't some freak in a mask, or a zombie in a mask now. He looked at him like Sal was a friend, warm and inviting.

Sal groaned to himself, ruffled. It would be best to forget the survivor. He was gone, probably left Nockfell by now.

A shuffle caught Sal's gaze. He looked down through the window. He just barely saw a figure open the door to Addison's Apartments. Sal felt an instant thrill fill his veins.

He turned quickly, causing Gizmo to stare at him with a sleepy eyed cat glare. Sal apologized with a soft pat on the head. Gizmo meowed and went back to sleep.

Sal's trips across the Apartments these past few days had helped him develop better motor function. He moved with more ease. He was maybe even a little more quicker.

He was down to the first floor in a flash (or at least a flash for a zombie) and when the doors opened, he was hit with that unmistakable scent again. Larry looked at him wide eyed, hand pressed against the button.

Sal stepped out. Larry stepped back, slightly stumbling.

"Hi, Sally Face," Larry murmured, smiling softly. Sal wanted to break out into a grin. He nodded his head instead, urging Larry to speak more.

"I'm sorry, I just… wanted to see you again," Larry admitted, face open and honest. Sal thought he just might melt to the floor in happiness. Sal nodded again, a bit more excitedly.

"Well I'm happy I found you so quick. I was about to look throughout this whole entire apartment," Larry said sheepishly.

Sal shook his head urgently. No, no, no. Sal might not want to chew off Larry's face, but the others wouldn't be so lenient. Chug may even ignore Sal next time.

"What?" Larry asked, frowning. Sal thought for a minute and it was silent. He made a decision, sticking his hand out between them.

" _Knife," _he finally said, the first word he's spoken since _Sally Face _. It was marginally better, though his throat felt like sandpaper whenever he spoke, and his voice was disgustingly hoarse.

"Knife? Why?" Larry asked, eyebrows pinching together. Sal only groaned, and he moved his fingers.

Larry let out a breath and he saw him relax. "Fine," he grumbled, fishing out a hunter's knife from his backpack. He placed it into Sal's hand.

Sal gripped it and looked at it disinterestedly. He plunged it into his chest. It barely felt like a tickle. Larry choked, staring at him in shock. Sal shrugged, pulling the knife out. Thick, ugly zom-blood oozed, the blood from when he was alive. Now it congealed and looked kind of brown.

Sal scooped some up with his other hand and unceremoniously rubbed it on Larry's face. Larry himself looked like he was going to be sick throughout the whole entire experience. Sal handed the bloody back knife to him, happy with his work.

"What the fuck dude?" Larry whined, looking at the knife in disgust. Sal shrugged again.

" _Safe."_

And with that he turned, pressing the elevator button again. He heard it whirring, and it opened with a creak.

Sal stepped in and looked at Larry. Larry sighed and stepped into the elevator. Sal pressed the 4th floor button as the doors closed. It was quite between them.

"You know, if I get acne because of this, I will fight you," Larry promised, glaring weakly at Sal. The zombie huffed out a laugh, though he was positively cackling in his head.

" _Sorry," _Sal murmured halfheartedly. The doors opened and they both stepped out. Sal shuffled to 402, Larry following. The door creaked open and he walked in, releasing some tension he didn't know he had. It was good that they didn't come across some other zombies. They'd want to know about the new addition. Larry closed the door behind him.

"This your place?" Larry asked, looking around. It was disheveled, and everything had a layer of dust coating it. Not really all that special, but it was Sal's. Sal nodded and walked towards his room. He rarely entered the room these days. It was tough to see so much that reminds you of a past life. But, Larry could get to know him through his room. So he'd bare through it.

"Woah!" Larry exclaimed when he entered the room, zeroing in on the guitar that Sal loved so much.

"Can I hold her?" Larry asked, looking at Sal. Sal nodded. The survivor smiled and Sal maybe felt his heart beat.

Larry picked his guitar up like he knew how to handle her. His finger moved across the guitar, brushing off the dust. He fingered the strings, before tightening them here and there. Sal watched with bated breath.

And then Larry strummed her, and Sal knew his baby was in good hands.

The first chords of whatever song he was playing rang, and Sal felt them course through him like blood. Larry looked a bit unsure, but concentrated. Sal watched, enraptured.

And then he started singing. Sal almost gasped. Larry sounded kind of good. Wobbly in some places, weak in others, but there was a current of strength and coziness and warmth that put it all together. Sal finally recognized the song. He wanted to sing along, but disturbing Larry now would be a crime.

Larry finished softly, humming the last bits, looking content. He opened his eyes, and seemed to realize what just happened. He flushed red, and it was suddenly Larry again, not some other being that had stepped into Larry's skin.

"Ah, my bad. I just haven't held a guitar in ages," Larry muttered, obviously embarrassed. He went to place the guitar on the stand again, when Sal shook his head harshly.

"What is it, Sally Face?" Larry asked, tilting his head.

Sal huffed a breath, looking away, " _More, _" he said aloud. Larry laughed a bit. Sal frowned.

"I don't know. It can't be fun for you. It is your guitar," Larry argued weakly. Sal only shook his head again, turning back to face Larry again.

" _Please, _" Sal said.

Larry shook his head, but did as he was told, strumming thoughtlessly as he thought of a song to play.

"Have you heard of Sanitys Fall?"

After an enlightening couple of hours where Larry tried bring Sanitys Fall's music to life with only one guitar, Sal was lying on the floor, chest heaving up and down and he tried to keep his laughter in.

Larry put the guitar back on the stand. "I really didn't think it was gonna be that difficult," Larry admitted, laughing as well.

Sal closed his eyes, trying to calm down. He heard Larry wander around his room.

"Dude, what's with all these pills?" Larry asked and Sal's mood instantly withered away. He got up slowly, staring at Larry. He was holding one of his medication bottles in his hand, face scrunched in confusion.

Sal looked away, uncomfortable. Ugh, Sal regretted bringing Larry up at this moment. Of course he was going to find the pills. Not like Sal hid them well.

"You weren't like...addicted right," Larry said awkwardly. Sal shook his head. He pointed at his mask, and let his hand drop to his lap.

"Oh," Larry said eloquently, "what happened?"

_Oh nothing. Just got my mom killed and my face bit off._

Sal said nothing. It shouldn't even matter. Sal was a zombie. Larry just saw him as an outlier and was intrigued as to why Sal wasn't like the other zombies. He wouldn't really care about Sal if he meant him as a human, right?

"Sorry for asking," Larry apologized after a moment, and he heard the pill bottle be placed on his desk. Sal shrugged indifferently.

"Do you wanna go watch a movie?" Larry asked and Sal turned back to Larry, only mildly annoyed.

"I know cables out of the question, but I found these at a Walmart. Always wanted to watch them," Larry explained, shuffling through his bag.

Out came three movies. _The Evil Dead, Godzilla, _and _Clueless _.

Sal looked at the third in particular, and then looked back to Larry. Larry laughed, "Sorry, but Romcoms are good."

Sal hummed, " _Maybe."_

The sun was coming up just barely when they finished the three movies. Sal had thought _The Evil Dead _was kind of more shock factor than anything, but _Godzilla _and _Clueless _were good. It was obvious Larry enjoyed _Clueless _the most. He chattered throughout the movie, at some points even speaking directly to the characters in annoyance. Maybe Sal had watched more of Larry than the actual movie, sue him.

Larry yawned. "I gotta go," he said blearily, "they'll be wondering where I am."

Sal suddenly remembered the entire outside world. Sal was a zombie. Larry was a human. Sal should be dead at Larry's feet, not trying to cuddle up next to him. Sal nodded in acknowledgment.

"I'll try and be back soon. Ashley already suspects something, but whatever. You're cool, you know?" Larry got up, stretching his long limbs. Sal stayed sitting, watching him, unhappy. He'll have to go back to barely existing. It sucks.

Larry paused, looking down at him, before smiling. "See you soon, Sally Face."

_"Bye."_

Few more weeks passed. Sal walked along. He grunted with everyone, and made himself scarce when they went to feed. Maybe it was the trauma from his past life, or maybe it was feeding on Rosenburg meat, or maybe it was something about a cute, tall idiot whose name rhymes with _fairy _but Sal just couldn't find it in him to eat anyone.

Sal also begins to scurt by Robert's apartment. Even before, when the electricity was off, Robert had always been in a foul mood. For the last couple of weeks, he'd been better, but Sal could see the constant agitation in his eyes again. He growled loudly in the nights.

Larry comes again one night. He brings nothing with him, only an angry expression. Sal meets him downstairs again, and this time he's glad he did. Robert was pacing up in down the hallway when Sal and Larry stepped out of the elevator.

Robert sniffed the air loudly, watching Larry with narrowed eyes, scratching at his neck. Sal growled softly at Robert, hoping to convey _this is zombie meat, can't you smell it? _Larry stayed positively still throughout the whole experience. Robert finally huffed and ignored them again. Sal let out a quick breath before all but shoving Larry into his apartment and closing the door.

"What was with that dude? It's like he knew," Larry said once the door closed and Sal locked it. Sal shrugged, though he himself was rattled. That was too close.

"Ugh, this is crazy!" Larry suddenly shouted, and began pacing. Sal continued to stand, watching him. "I shouldn't be here. You're... you're a zombie! This place is filled to the brim with you undead fucks! What the fuck is so different about you?" he asked angrily. He stared at Sal with knitted eyebrows, mouth in a frown.

Sal shrugged again, feeling cold. Looks like Larry has finally realized that this is kind of fucked up.

And then Larry sighed, and rubbed his eyes. "No. I'm sorry. I shouldn't be putting my anger out on you. You're not the problem. It's just that...our camp has this new leader, and everyone loves him. But, fuck, does he talk shit about zombies. And I get it, mostly. Like yeah, they eat our brains and shit, but then you keep popping into my head whenever he talks and I just… wanna punch him in his smarmy mouth."

Sal's eyes were wide by the end of the speech. That's the most he'd ever heard Larry speak before.

"And fuck is my team up my ass every fucking minute of every single day. Sometimes a dude has got to have some alone time, even in the apocalypse, you know?" Larry asks, looking at Sal. The zombie realized just then how completely drained the man looked.

" _Here _," Sal mutters, nodding to Larry.

"Huh?" Larry murmured, obviously confused. But Sal was already on the move. He shuffled around the apartment as quick as he could, grabbing his old comforter and pillow from his bed, and bringing it to the couch. He put in _She's All That _(which he borrowed from Sierra in 301) before sitting back on the couch, pillow in lap. He patted it and looked at Larry.

The human was looking at him with raised eyebrows. "Really?" he asked.

Sal nodded slowly, " _Relax. Alone." _Sal mimed zipping up the mouth of his mask and throwing the key away.

Larry laughed tiredly, but moved, crashing into the couch, almost falling on top of Sal in the process. He got settled, burrowing into the comforter, and soon Sal had a head in his lap.

Sal looked down at the long brown hair, fingers twitching incessantly by his side. He wanted to refrain, but the brown locks looked so inviting. He placed his hands lightly on top of the crown of Larry's head, waiting for the denial from Larry. When the man said nothing, Sal dug his fingers into the brown locks. Larry didn't say anything, but Sal may have heard him sigh a bit. Sal's lips twitched into a small grin.

The movie seemed good, but all Sal could focus on was the feeling of Larry's hair on the pads of his fingers, the deep breathing, and soft snores of a sleeping Larry.

* * *

Chapter 03: it feels like flying but maybe we're dying

The world continued to turn. Larry came irregularly, whenever he could. Sal began to count the days between. 3 days, 10 days, 1 day, 16…

Soon a month passed like that. Sal grew tired as the weather grew hotter. His flesh felt pinched, nasty. He hoped the heat didn't cause him to smell badly. Larry never said anything.

Robert got worse. Sal tried to help, do anything, but nothing changed permanently. His neighbor only grew more and more pale as the days went on, more hostile than ever.

Chug found his own zombie friend. She had come wandering, arm torn off, stomach ripped open, into the foyer of Addison Apartments. Her name was apparently Maple. Sal had no one to walk around the halls with anymore.

One day, Larry had thrown pebbles at Sal's window to get the zombie's attention. Sal had been too busy trying to throw out a dead bird Gizmo had brought to him.

Sal looked out the window. Larry smiled and waved. Sal opened the window, popping his head out to look down.

"Oh, Sally Face, let down your blue raspberry locks!" Larry called from below. Sal huffed, shaking his head.

"Awh, c'mon, pretty please?" Larry pleaded.

Sally bit back a laugh when he noticed movement behind Larry. Sal's heart chilled as he saw a zombie step out, eyes focused in on Larry.

" _Look...out!" _Sal tried to call out, but it was only a hoarse whisper.

Larry looked bemused, "What was that, Sally Face?"

Sal swallowed, his throat working as it pushed down air. Sal heaved in a giant breath, hoping he could be louder.

"Behind you!" someone suddenly shouted. Larry turned and stumbled backward. He equipped his knife quickly, and sliced at the zombie. It fell back, and Larry ran up on it, thrusting the blade into the zombie's head. It gurgled and fell to the floor.

Sal watched as Ashley came striding out into the pathway, looking furious.

Larry looked shocked at her appearance. "You followed me?" Larry asked.

"Of course I did. You've been disappearing too much lately. Red Eyes-,"

"Did you say something to that dickweed?" Larry interrupted, his own glare fierce now. Sal felt as if he was intruding upon a conversation he should not hear.

"Of course! I'm worried, Lar! You're hanging out with your undead buddy as if he's a real, living person. Does that not sound crazy to you?" Ashley responded, and her voice was less angry, more concerned.

"I know what I'm doing, Ash. It's okay. He's okay. He's… he's human enough for me, okay?"

"This is unbelievable!" Ashley spat before turning around and stalking away.

Larry sighed and rubbed his eyes. He turned up again, facing Sal with a strained smile.

"Sally Face?"

Sal nodded and hurried down to the elevator.

"Here," Larry murmured one night, during a storm. Sal turned. It was dark in the apartment. Sal had a bad day. He had felt nauseous that morning, and the sun had beat down something fierce the whole entire day.

Now that it was dark and storming, he felt marginally better, but the pit in stomach was dark and beyond any help. Larry's presence had seemed the only thing to keep it from swallowing Sal's whole entire being.

Larry was holding a big walkie talkie, the kind that could make a connection miles away.

Sal cocked his head to the side in questioning. Speaking was out of the question that night.

"Just in case," Larry explained and left it at that. Sal looked at the walkie and hesitatingly grabbed it. The pit in his stomach grew.

Sal heard the pebbles being thrown at his window. Three consecutive little taps. That was there system. Sal went down to the elevator, happy. Larry had been here just yesterday. He must have more free time.

When the elevator doors opened, Sal frowned. Larry stood in front of him, looking nervous beyond belief. But that wasn't what caught Sal off. There was an unmistakable other scent, something that clouded around the lobby along with Larry's constant smell.

"Uhm," Larry began, stilted and awkward, "sorry, but my friend wanted to meet you…"

And then a figure jumped out from Mr. Addison's apartment, looking beyond excited. His pale cheeks were flushed red. Larry looked like he wanted to die.

The other survivor walked quickly towards Sal, a heap of equipment sticking out of his bag.

"Hi! You must be Sally Face, or Sal, right?" He asked, hand outstretched. Sal's frown turned down even more. He nodded but didn't shake his hand. The guy didn't look to beat up with it.

"Are you really a zombie? Can you understand me? Do I smell good to you?" the man asked quickly. Sal was decidedly overwhelmed. He looked over to Larry, who was looking at him with a pleading expression. _Please humor him _was written across his forehead.

So, Sal nodded twice and shook his head once.

"Really? What do I smell like?" The ginger asked, so very curious. Sal thought of it for a moment, humming softly.

" _Meat. Not...bad but...not good," _he finally said, and his throat was itchy with overuse by the end of it.

The man was nodding excitedly. "Makes sense. Well, Lar, I got my questions. So I'll keep your secret!" And with that, the stranger turned and left.

Sal turned back and stared at Larry with wide eyes. Larry huffed a short breath. "My bad, Todd caught me sneaking out and wanted to know where I was going. I told him he wouldn't believe me and he said try me...this was the end result." Larry explained, looking very apologetic.

Sal rolled his eyes but extended his hand, and Larry dropped his knife into it.

"Are you sure that doesn't hurt you?" Larry asked, same as every other time. Sal merely shrugged. He didn't like lying to Larry.

It's not like it hurt in the beginning. It had felt like a tickle and then, after a couple times, a pinch and now, every time Sal stuck the knife into his chest, his body ached and a burning feeling spread from the inflected part. But, a little bit of pain was a small price to pay to have Larry in his undead life.

So he shrugged and dabbed the blood onto Larry's face as he always does. Larry doesn't flinch back anymore.

"So," Larry said as the elevator door opened, "what do I smell like, Sally Face?"

Sal rolled his eyes at Larry, even as his heart panged in his chest, just once.

Sal wanted to die. Fuck, he was already dead. Die again then. Get shot in the head and fuck off to zombie heaven.

His whole entire body was burning. The skin felt suffocating today, too little spread too far. He had taken out his eye about a while ago, and it only brought him a mild reprieve. He just felt… gross. As if he really was trapped inside a decaying body.

He heard the distant _tap, tap, tap _from the window, but could barely move off the couch. He groaned miserably instead. He didn't want to see Larry. He didn't want the human to see him like this, weak and primal zombie mush.

He hoped Larry would just leave and come back later. Sal would be better when the sun went down, and the dizzyingly, cloying heat dropped away. It was too much hope, as he smelled the equally dizzyingly, cloying scent of Larry right before a loud knock sounded from the hall.

"Sally Face!" Larry's voice was muffled, but still far too friendly to be directed to Sal. Sal groaned again, loud and very whiny.

"Sal?" Larry's voice called out again, and this time he sounded far more concerned. Sal groaned again. He heard the doorknob twist, and the hinges creak. Larry's scent flooded Sal's nose, and he growled lowly. He smelled _so _good. Too good, really. He'd been able to ignore it, but _fuck _, he doesn't know if he could right now.

"You know, someone could totally break into your apartment," Larry commented, joking at the prospect. Sal heard him move, and Larry's mouth watering scent only grew stronger…

.

.

.

Sal blinked and was suddenly sniffing up Larry's neck. He had him pressed against the wall. Larry was tensed against him. Sal bared his teeth against Larry's sweet skin, skimming.

"Sally Face," Larry whispered, but Sal could barely understand, a bloodthirsty pulse pounding in his head. He watched Larry's adam's apple bob up and down. _God, _how easy would it be to bite into the jugular, feast on Larry, and he could _smell _the fear-

Sal stumbled back, backing up from Larry. _No, _he can't. He can't do any of that. _No,no n o nonono- Stop it, don't thinkdontthink- fleshbloodguts- STOP-_

"Sal."

The zombie inhaled a deep breath, and looked up. Larry was still against the wall, looking at Sal cautiously. As if he was some wild animal. At that moment, Sal believed he really was. His skin itched, his face blazing an angry red underneath his mask.

" _Sorry _," he choked out. It was so hard to talk normally, on a good day. It was torture on bad ones. Sal ruined it. Ruined everything. 'Cause he couldn't control his dumb fucking urges.

Larry smiled softly at Sal, and pushed himself off the wall, walking slowly toward Sal. Sal stilled, tense as Larry stood in front of him, tall and comforting.

The human tilted Sal's face up, the hand coming to rest on the curve of the dirty mask, fingers grazing it softly.

"It's okay."

And Sal felt, looking up into warm, brown eyes, that he could believe the lie.

The next time Larry visited, Sal hadn't seen him, too busy laying on the couch, Gizmo on top his stomach.

A sudden knock on the door startled Sal out of his reverie. He picked up Gizmo and put him on the couch, standing up and walking toward the door cautiously. Whoever knocked sure didn't smell human.

He opened the door, and Larry was there, covered in zombie juice, sniffling. Sal stared.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come," Larry rushed out and even seemed to turn as if he really was gonna leave. Sal grabbed his sleeve and Larry looked back, glassy eyes red.

Sal pulled him into the apartment, closing the door behind him. He guided Larry to the couch. They both sat down, and Gizmo took the chance to jump into Larry's lap, purring quietly.

Larry didn't say anything for a long while. He just stared down at Gizmo, shoulders hunched. He looked a wreck.

Sal took a chance, finding his voice and asking, " _What's...wrong?"_

Larry looked up at Sal, and he looked _so _sad. Sal was very worried.

"I, uhm, saw my mom," Larry began, murmuring, "we had been separated when...everything went down. I haven't seen her in months. We went scouting. It was stupid of us to go to the city. No one was nabbed, thank God, but it was close.

"I saw her. Her back was toward me, but I knew her janitor outfit. I thought, for a second, maybe she was okay. She turned, and I saw her dead eyes, and her pale skin. She just...stared at me. I thought for a second that maybe she was like you, you know?"

Larry stopped for a second. He sucked in a breath, and tears finally fell. Sal thought that if his heart worked, it probably would have broke in that moment.

"And then, she ran at me. I've never seen one of them move so fast. Her teeth were bared. Eyes vacant. It wasn't my mom. She was gone." Larry closed his eyes but still, tears slid down his face.

"I had to shoot her. She was so close. I-," Larry choked, sobbing out, "...her blood…"

Sal groaned his best sympathetic noise. He didn't really know what to do. He thought of when he woke up undead, seeing his dad's lifeless corpse next to him. What would he have wanted in that moment?

Sal hugged Larry tightly, as he crumbled into tears and sobs.

Sal walked with Larry out to the elevator. Larry looked better now. Still pale and ashen, but his eyes were a little be brighter. His cheeks were ruddy by all the crying. Sal thought he looked a little beautiful.

"I had run away. They must think I'm dead by now," Larry muttered. Sal felt an odd pang in his chest. Sal couldn't imagine Larry dead. It didn't seem possible.

" _Soon?" _Sal asked.

Larry nodded, "Soon, Sally Face. Thanks for putting up with me, by the way."

Sal patted Larry's shoulder comfortably, in reassurance.

Larry smiled slightly, and it was wane, but it was there, and Sal was proud of himself. He had made Larry feel better.

Maybe Sal didn't suck so bad.

* * *

Chapter 04: and let me loose, i fear i've finally found a way

Sal stared up at the daunting door. Room 401. His heart panged tightly at the number. He used to have so much fun with Robert, back when they were alive. Robert used to be one of his best friends, a warm presence after the harsh reality of high school. Now, the room permeated a cold feeling, but Sal thought enough was enough. Robert was his friend, and he wouldn't drop him when the other zombie obviously needed help.

His zomb-friend hadn't left his room in days. He was too quiet. What used to be loud banging and moaning at random moments throughout the day and night has been swallowed up by silence. Even Larry had begun to wonder as to why Sal's neighbor had gone ghost out of nowhere. It frightened Sal more than the angry noises. At least the anger was a feeling, an emotion.

So Sal steeled himself and knocked on Robert's door, ready for some backlash. Nothing. Not even a peep. Sal took a steadying breath and turned the doorknob. It opened with a click. The stench of rotting flesh hit Sal's nose and he flinched back in surprise. Sure, zombies were dead meat walking, but Sal had never smelled something so…hopeless.

" _Robert? _" Sal called out, opening the door wider. There was a weak groan from inside. Sal looked at the scene in front of him, unsettled and sad.

Robert was in a slump against the wall, head drooped down and arms splayed wide at his sides. He looked so… decrepit. His skin looked slimy and translucent, like it could slip right off of Robert's body if he moved an inch. And then Robert looked up and Sal felt a sudden sense of deja vu at the sight of Robert's face. Half of his skin was still intact, if by what seems like threads. But the other half was completely picked off. Stark white bone showed through instead. Sal looked down and saw that the zombie's were caked in brown blood, and almost gagged. _DId he do this to himself?_

" _Painful...hopeless, _" Robert whispered fervently and Sal stared in mild shock. He had never heard another zombie talk. Grumbles had always been enough communication for their bunch. " _Hungry."_

Sal felt so guilty. He could have helped his friend early on, instead of hiding away, afraid of the other zombie. He hadn't _tried _and now his friend was suffering.

" _Hope...love...faith, _" Sal tried to choke out, sinking to the ground as well, next to Robert. Robert moaned quietly. " _Sorry _," Sal muttered, his voice a low growl. Robert's hand reached blindly and Sal grasped it.

" _Not your fault. Lost hope… in myself… in life _," Robert replied, voice wavering in pain. Sal felt his eye prick up, and he tried to blink the feeling away. " _Worse _," Robert moaned, and his hand crushed Sal's but the blue-haired zombie didn't object. Robert began to pick at his face again, the noise making Sal flinch.

" _How to...feel better?" _Sal asked, hoping Robert would understand. His friend lolled his head to the side, facing Sal. His eyes were gleaming.

" _You have. _"

Sal visited Robert every day, hoping his presence could fight back whatever was destroying the other zombie. It slowed down considerably, but the damage was done already. Robert was quiet now, and his apartment was silent when Sal wasn't there.

Sal had tried to explain it to Larry, the aching loneliness that festered where your soul once was. For the cold grip of death to have its claws in you at all times. The loneliness that drove worthless thoughts into brains. It feeds on you and all a zombie could do was chomp on brains and hope they'd feel different for one moment. Feel alive.

"Well, you don't eat people and you're fine," Larry had commented curiously, head tilted.

( _FeedfeedfeedfeedEATHIM)_

Sal smiled stiffly behind his mask. " _Have you," _Sal replied. Larry flushed softly.

_(and now,_

_a brief intermission)_

_Sal growled, and Larry stared at him, wide-eyed and frightened. Sal stalked up to the human, backed him up against the couch. Larry's legs buckled and he fell with an oof. Sal grinned and dropped down on top of him._

_"S-Sally Face," Larry choked out, but Sal shushed him. Sal reached up and unclipped the mask, while his other hand covered Larry's eyes. Sal could hear Larry's heartbeat, hear the thrumming of blood in his veins, so alive and sparkling and delicious._

_Sal dropped the mask and leaned in, sniffing up and down the column of Larry's neck. The human whimpered. Sal licked his teeth and grazed them just so at the juncture of the oh so warm neck. He was so close to tasting heaven. Larry moaned softly, and Sal smirked against his neck, and bit down, infecting the prime piece of perfection in front of him, dirtying up his blood, making him Sal's-_

Sal jerked awake, blinking stupidly at the ceiling. He was hot. Disturbingly warm really. What the fuck was that? Was he fantasizing about- Sal swallowed audibly, his mouth clicking.

Then he realized he had _slept _and _dreamt _and zombies don't do _that _, Sal had never slept before and-

_did he like Larry?_

"Sally Face?" Larry's voice crackled through the air, and Sal almost jumped out of his skin in anxiety. He looked around, but no, Larry wasn't there. "C'mon, Sal," Larry's voice muttered again, and Sal was a hundred percent sure he was going insane, but then he realizes _duh _the walkie talkie.

He walked over to it and willed himself to calm down. No, Larry doesn't know about what just happened. Though, he never had called him up on the talkie before. Maybe he's psychic and is about to tell Sal that he's weird and that he can't hang out with someone who wants to _devour _him.

" _Y-yeah," _Sal stuttered out, mouth dry.

"Hey man, thought you weren't there for a minute. Had me worried," Larry's voice murmured back quietly, and Sal relaxed. No, Larry didn't have a clue about Sal's gay panic.

" _Here, _" Sal confirmed, walking back to sit on the couch.

"Sal," Larry repeated, and this time he seemed more serious. Sal _hmmmed _in reply, urging Larry on. No matter what, Sal would be there for Larry.

"I really think something is up with the leader of my group," Larry admitted quietly, much more cautious than before. Larry frowned thoughtfully at Larry's accusation.

" _Evidence _," Sal replied, because hey, sometimes Larry over exaggerated things. Especially in the middle of the night, which it seemed to be. Sal shook his head silently. A sleep-deprived Larry was always a conspiracy theorist.

Larry was silent for a minute, and Sal thought that maybe he was collecting his thoughts. _Wow, how much does he have to say _, Sal wondered, but then the walkie buzzed to life again. Sal listened.

"Well, first of all, he makes us call him Red Eyes, like that's not _totally _foreboding right? And his zombie hate speech! Most of the time, it sounds like he's totally terrified of them, like he's overcompensating for something. Like I've never seen someone want to be kept away from the undead as much as him. He even has bodyguards!" The walkie made a loud static noise as Larry whisper screamed into the receiver.

Larry was quiet for a moment, and began again, "Those aren't even the biggest issues. He's been pushing curfew times so that they'll be longer. And he has an open door policy which basically grants snitches immunity if they rag on anyone," Larry complained, whispering again. Sal wondered if that's why Larry hasn't come to visit him tonight.

_"That fucking...sucks _," Sal muttered into the talkie. He heard Larry laugh bitterly. "The worst issue is the disappearances. They've been happening ever since Red Eyes took over. People who apparently run off into the night or are nabbed by zombs during scouting trips. And it always happens to be the people who speak out against Red Eyes...something is going on here. I can feel it. The whole camp is on edge. It's so depressing."

" _I'm sorry, _" Sal offered in the silence that followed. He wished he could do something for Larry. His heart ached. Being a zombie sucked ass.

"No worries. I just wanted to vent. I'll see you soon, Sally Face," Larry sighed. He sounded so unhappy. Sal wished he could reach across space and time to comfort his friend.

" _Goodbye. _"

Sal had been on the first floor, visiting Mrs. Gibson and her zombie pet rabbit, when the electricity fizzled out into silence. Sal frowned. Sometimes, the electricity was wonky, but it had never completely shut off before.

The darkness of the corridor vanished as the front doors of Addison Apartments were opened, and a duo of men entered, talking loudly to one another. Sal froze in place, hoping that neither would notice him. He didn't really have a place to hide.

"This place is perfect. A nice expansion. The boss will be proud," one of the burly men said, looking around the apartment building admirably. Sal had no choice but to listen.

"Oh yeah, but first we gotta see if there are any zombie fucks," the second one said, an Australian accent lightly sprinkled onto the words. The first man snorted.

"Yeah, we should have a team for that. Who knows how many there are here," the first man explained, and the second one nodded in agreement. They had turned around, and Sal seemed to be in the clear when the first man suddenly swiveled back, eyes locked on Sal.

"The fuck?" the man muttered, and his partner turned and caught sight of Sal too. _Shit _. He couldn't take on both.

"Well looks like we found one already," the first man grinned, hand already holding a pistol up towards Sal's face. _Shit._

"He's not moving. Don't you think that's weird," the Australian commented aloud, frowning at Sal.

The man with the pistol bared his teeth in anticipation, "So, he's a little broken. Still an undead motherfucker," he responded as he pulled the safety back. Sal scrunched his eye, and he then he realized that he never had put his glass eye in after he took it out weeks ago. Huh, and Larry didn't say anything about it.

"Drop the gun, Barnes," a voice suddenly exclaimed, so familiar that Sal instinctively relaxed. He opened his eyes and saw Larry at the door, shotgun pointed straight at the man with the pistol. Sal halfheartedly realized that Todd was there, his own gun pointed at the Australian.

"The fuck do you think you're doin', Johnson," Barnes growled out, eyes sparking in anger. But Larry looked furious. And hot. Sal bit back a curse at the thought. Focus! GUn pointed at your brain!

"Drop the gun and I won't shoot you to pieces," Larry growled out.

Barnes narrowed his eyes, "Why the fuck are you protecting this shit. He ain't human. You can see it in the skin," Barnes asked, but he dropped his gun, and Sal was relieved. He had really thought that was the end.

"I don't give a shit. Get the fuck out of here, Barnes," Larry demanded, voice deep. Sal had never heard him sound like that. Like a true badass survivor.

Hot.

Barnes suddenly grinned, razor sharp and threatening, "You fucking just wait, Johnson," he murmured, tone more cheery than ever. Sal thought it was terrifying.

Barnes stormed out, pushing past Larry and Todd, and the Australian followed, glaring at them all.

When they were out of sight, Larry seemed to deflate. His shoulders hunched up and he almost dropped the shotgun by accident. Todd didn't look like he was in much better shape.

"I should have gotten here earlier, I'm sorry," Larry apologized to Sal, voice soft. Sal walked toward Larry, legs still a bit shaky with misplaced adrenaline.

Sal took Larry's hand in his own before he could think about, and Larry stared at him with wide eyes.

_"Than you...both _," Sal said quietly, and he looked at both, hoping the gratitude could shine through the mask.

Todd nodded shakily, "Yeah, no problem. But, you know, you owe me a bunch of answers now," Todd joked, but he still looked frazzled. Sal nodded. Of course, he'd answer any question he could. "Cool. I'll go try to turn the electricity back on," Todd explained and left. It was just him and Larry now.

"Todd had told me about the plan. I hadn't known. If I had, I could have protected you better. Now _they _know," Larry said fervently, fast and berating. Sal shook his head, and Larry fell silent.

Sal brought his hand up and rubbed his thumb across Larry's chin and up the curve of his face softly, reveling in the smooth skin. They barely touched on most days, but this, this was different. The rules were disrupted for the moment.

" _You're...good. You saved me," _Sal tried to reassure, and he dropped his hand back down and looked at their interlocked fingers. His skin looked so pale against Larry's, almost gray. The blue veins were a stark contrast on his skin, while Larry seemed to be tanned perfectly.

"I feel like something's coming. Something big," Larry murmured into the silence. Sal nodded silently. He felt the same. But here, it seemed like whatever was lurking in the darkness couldn't touch them, not in this moment.

Too bad it couldn't last forever.

* * *

Chapter 05: just loathing in my sweet misery

Sal should have expected his predicament to get worse. Summer was just beginning to hit her peak, and the sweltering heat did Sal so dirty. He never knew how trapped he could feel, in his own body, but _fuck _was it uncomfortable. His body was battling deterioration from the sizzling sun. It was an uphill battle. Sal tried his hardest to cool himself as best he could.

Early in April, Larry had given him a tank top, something Sal was embarrassed to wear around. He loved his layers, but it just wasn't possible now, not in this heat. Larry also brought a fan, courtesy of Todd, and Sal had been so happy, he could have kissed Larry. But then again, he had found that wanting to kiss Larry seemed more and more desirable. Sal tried to stamp down those thoughts, but they grew like weeds in his brain.

Along with the summer heat, Sal grew cranky. The constant warmth muddled his brain, left him bleary and bothered, and he, unfortunately, took it out on his friends. Chug and Maple's apparent love for each other had Sal grinding his teeth. Robert's disregard for the heat made Sal exasperated and jealous. Todd's questioning left Sal uncharastically short-tempered, and Larry's whole entire _presence _made Sal hot and bothered on top of already feeling hot and bothered, which created a tension between the both of them.

The blinding heat had come with another consequence. Sal dreamed almost nightly. It snuck up on Sal like a viper. One moment he was staring at the walkie, or Gizmo, or out the window, and the next he was in Larry's arms, or watching another movie with Larry, or making out with Larry, or biting Larry's flesh off. Larry, Larry, Larry. It was always him. Sal would wake up sweating buckets.

(When he asked Robert if he ever slept, the zombie had choked out a laugh. Sal kept his dreams to himself.)

As Sal's mood dipped, Larry began to keep away, in favor of speaking over the walkie. Sal should have been depressed about it, but he was just relieved. At least he didn't have to endure Larry's sickeningly savory scent that way. Larry seemed to understand that this was best for Sal.

The days rolled over onto each other like thick molasses. They were long and boring, and the only time Sal actually moved from his spot next to the fan was to let Gizmo in and out of the apartment. The wind blew lazily throughout the living room.

The hours passed.

Sal was laying on the couch when his walkie talkie made a crackle and Larry's voice flooded the room.

"Salllllyyy Faceee," he whispered. Sal frowned and swung his legs out, sitting up slowly. The walkie was on the floor, left by the fan. Sal walked over to it. He picked it up, ready to ask what was wrong (Larry never spoke like that) when Larry spoke again.

"I think I'm drunk," he said, and Sal wanted to laugh, because wow, he didn't expect that. Larry kept on talking, "I think… me an' Ash found some _alcohol _. She's asleep now, cause it's two in the morning or something, but I can't," Larry said, before hiccuping slightly.

"I miss you," he murmured, the walkie just barely catching it. "Wish I could make you feel better. You do so much for me, Sally Face."

Sal was surprised. Drunk Larry sure was talkative. Maybe Sal should stop him before he says something he'll regret.

" _Larry Face _," Sal said into the talkie. It was silent for a minute and then Larry opened up the connection, and Sal felt his mood brighten as he heard Larry's peals of laughter.

"I love that. Sally and Larry Face. Like we're married!" Larry babbled. Sal flushed at Larry's comment. "Hmm, marrying a zombie. You'd make killer food," Larry said, before breaking down into laughter again.

Sal rolled his eyes. " _Sleep," _Sal growled into the receiver, hoping the human would listen to him.

"Hmm, your voice is _so _hot," Larry, and then, to Sal's horror, started to giggle. "Oops, maybe I shouldn't have said that."

Sal tried to keep a cool head, though he seemed ready to combust at any moment. Why would Larry say something like that? Did he really mean it? No, it was probably just stupid, drunk rambling.

" _Sleep now, Larry Face, _" Sal repeated, hoping Larry would.

"I'm gonna come see you tomorrow. I don't _care _about what Ashley says or about Red Eyes' stupid rules. I miss you. I wanna watch _Clueless _," Larry rushed out, and by the end of it, he sounded as if he was going to cry. Sal wished he could laugh at the moment, but Larry might actually bawl.

" _Yes, tomorrow. Sleep now," _Sal agreed. The zombie could just see what kind of smile Larry was probably sporting. The lazy one he only showed when he got exactly what he wanted.

"Coooool. See you soon, Sally Face," Larry murmured, and the connection shut off once and for all. Sal looked down at the walkie, a smile of his own twisting his mangled lips up.

Sal was kind of excited to see Larry. They haven't actually hung out in weeks. So, he woke up (yes _woke _up, Sal was still amazed by that) and the first thing he did was walk into his room. He sauntered on over to his jar of eyeballs. He's been eyeless for far too long, and he wanted to...look good for Larry. He hasn't seen him in a while. There was positively no other reason.

He looked at his options and wondered how each would look. The red one was out of the question, the black one had been...a phase, and the violet one seemed too bright and obnoxious. He hummed and settled for the gray one. He had never really used it. It could be a nice change.

He popped it in his socket and tried not to grimace. It was cold, at least. Sal blinked a couple times, rearranging it in the cracked mirror in his room. And then he noticed just what a disarray his whole hair was in. The pigtails he had when he died had fallen apart quickly, leaving his hair down. He never had a reason to fix it.

He could only find one hair tie though, so the pigtails were out of the question. He thought briefly, before going for the bun. He took his mask off quickly, his face breathing for the first time in months. The mask was grimy, and the inside was starting to reek. He decided that the bottled water in the small pantry in the kitchen had to work. Larry had brought them over once for himself, and there was still some left.

Seeing his face for the first time in forever was kind of shocking. He forgot how gruesome he looked. The raised skin on his cheek and neck looked irritated beyond belief. His skeleton like nose. The teeth showing because of the missing parts of his lips. The jagged scars running across his face. Sal had always thought the scars were kind of cool. If it was just those, he would have imagined he looked like some scarred pirate. But the rest of it just made him look terrifying. A circus freak.

Whatever.

Sal twisted his hair up quickly, and the muscle memory was there, and before he knew it, he had a decent looking bun. He hummed contently.

Washing off the mask in the kitchen sink was kind of fascinating. There was just so much grime that washed away. When he finished, the mask looked better and way cleaner. Sal smiled and strapped it back on.

With that done, Sal still had a couple hours till Larry showed up. Then again, he could surprise him whenever. He liked doing that sometimes. So Sal decided to wait by the window. He waited as the day grew hotter and hotter, waited as the sun dragged its way through the sky, waited as the sky went a rosy pink with a sunset, waited as the moon illuminated the sky. Sal waited.

Larry didn't show up.

Sal tried to call for Larry on the walkie the next day, kind of mad but also understanding. Larry _had _been wasted. Maybe he had forgotten.

" _Larry Face, _" Sal spoke into the walkie, and let go of the button, waiting. Gizmo jumped on the couch and nestled himself next to Sal. The zombie absentmindedly petted the cat. He chewed on his jagged bottom lip, waiting.

Okay, so Larry was probably out doing camp things. Understandable. He'll just have to wait till it's dark out.

" _Lar," _Sal's voice called out into the walkie. It was night now and had been for a while. Sal waited. The other line was silent.

_"Larry? _" Nothing.

" _Larry."_

_"C'mon, Larry Face."_

_"This isn't...funny."_

_"Please…"_

Sal growled into the walkie desperately, his throat aching too much to talk. The line stayed cold.

Sal counted the days. _One, five, seven, sixteen…_

He began to lose hope. Larry really was gone. His camp moved on somewhere else, or he was dead, some zombie food, or maybe a zombie himself, wandering the streets of Nockfell, vacant-eyed and hungry. Sal couldn't handle the thoughts.

He grew angry. Who the _fuck _did Larry think he was? Walking out of his life, without so much of a goodbye. Sal bashed the walkie into the wall, breath leaving him in heaves. Robert tried to calm him down, but Sal was so _furious. _Now he understood why Robert had been so angry before. It felt better than staring blankly at a wall, hoping for something that's long gone.

His skin was so _itchy _. He scratched all day and night, leaving angry red marks that lasted for days. He didn't feel the burn of them. He just felt more tight, more claustrophobic. If he could shed his skin at that moment, he would.

The other zombies began to fear him, just like he used to fear Robert. _Don't look at Sal for too long, or you'll go crazy too _. Sal bared his teeth behind his mask, but ignored the stares from the undead, even if they followed him.

He stopped sleeping, which made things worse. At least then he had been able to escape the always current of fury. But, at least he didn't get to wake up, drowsy and hopeful, before he remembered, no Larry was _gone _.

But, bit by bit, the anger vanished. Soon, Sal felt like a husk of despair. He lost his best friend, lost one of the only things he loved about his new life. He spent days in his apartment, and it felt like deja vu. Sal realized he was acting like _before _. Before Larry. Before he had felt human.

When he heard the loud shout outside his apartment, he almost ignored it. It was whatever. What did he care? And then he heard it, unmistakably.

"Sally Face!"

The sadness dropped away for a moment, and curiosity took over, as well as a shred of hope. He walked over to his windows.

Ashley stood below, looking up at him. Sal stared down at her, silent. What did she want? Why was she here? To rub in his face that Larry was gone, or what?

"I need your help!"

Sal's eyes widened, and before he could think, he nodded and made his way to the elevator.

Ashley grimaced at the blood on her face, but she made no comment. Sal didn't even try to explain it. Speaking seemed like such a lost cause lately.

When they entered his apartment, Ashley looked around, seeming to dissect the place. It was a mess. She made no comment on the smashed pieces of the walkie talkie.

"First of all, I would like to apologize," Ashley began, and Sal was already completely confused. So he only continued to look at Ashley.

The woman sighed and sat down on the couch, looking positively uncomfortable. "Okay, so it was really shitty of me to just, disregard you like I did. I just never ever heard of the undead coming back and _not _eating every other living thing. I couldn't wrap my head around it. Larry and Todd had always been better at accepting oddities than me" she explained looking up. Her hair was messy, in the 'raking fingers raking through it' type way. Sal nodded, and she let out a breath.

"I tried to stop Larry from coming here. I just thought that you'd snap, or that he'd get killed on the way here or back, or some other terrible possibility. I wanted to protect him. He was one of the only people I have...had," she looked down, but Sal saw the tears had already built up.

"I just didn't expect this. I thought we were safe," she muttered to herself. Sal sat down next to her and tried the comfort her. He placed his hand over her shoulder. Ashley tensed but didn't pull away.

She looked up and met Sal's eyes. "I think Red Eyes did something to Larry and Todd," Ashley confessed.

Sal's body chilled at the words. If that were true, Sal had been wasting days, _weeks _, acting like a total fucking asshole while Todd and Larry were kidnapped, taken somewhere to what? Be killed?

" _Fuck, _" Sal muttered. Ashley looked surprised, but Sal continued, even with his throat burning, " _he was… drunk. Went to sleep...taken?" _Sal trailed off in a questioning tone. Ashley nodded.

"That's what I think. I was past out. I didn't hear anything. I woke up and he was gone. I had asked Red Eyes and he said that Larry and Todd had run off, but it didn't make sense! Todd wouldn't go anywhere without Neil, and Larry would tell me if he was going to leave. I knew that he was lying, I just didn't know why. Why would he take them?"

Sal shook his head in misery, " _My fault...protected me," _Sal informed. Ashley looked stricken. Sal wanted to cry. Everything was falling apart.

"What are we going to do?" Ashley whispered sadly, shoulders slumped.

Sal thought. What could they do? A zombie and one lone survivor against a tyrannical man and his lackeys.

But, they couldn't quit. Sal thought about what Larry would do. Larry wouldn't take no for an answer. He'd find a way, no matter what. He saved Sal twice already. Sal looked toward the window, where the day was just turning to dusk, and thought long and hard.

" _We find them," _Sal said, his voice stronger than ever. He was resolved. Even if it kills him, Sal would find Larry and Todd. He'd save them, just like they'd saved him.

* * *

Chapter 06: i'm in your head, apart of your being

Ashley seemed kind of shocked. Sal was too. He never sounded so bold before. But right now the pain of speaking was set to the side, the determination coursing through his veins like blood.

"How?" Ashley asked, frowning in thought.

"_ Any buildings at the camp?" _Sal asked instead, thinking of anywhere Red Eyes could have taken Larry and Todd. It had to be close. Larry had explained that none of Red Eye's guards had disappeared along with the missing persons. So, there was a big possibility that they were still in Nockfell, at least.

"Well, our camp is centered around the big church down the road. That's why Red Eye's wants to expand here. It's close enough, but it would be able to hold a lot more people than what we can," Ashley explained.

Sal was kind of surprised at the news. He had always thought Larry lived somewhere far out, on the other side of Nockfell or something. Turns out they were next door neighbors.

"_ The church," _Sal repeats, " _there?"_

Ashley's eyes widened, "It could be a possibility. The priest and his son were kicked out when Red Eyes came to town. He doesn't let anyone but his closest personnel in the place. Even I've never seen the inside of it." Ashley looked grim by the end of speaking, and Sal sympathized with her. If they were right, Red Eyes has been harboring Larry and Todd, as well as all the other missing people, under everyone's noses, right in the middle of camp!

"_ There." _Sal grimaces behind his mask. This was their only move.

"That place is heavily guarded. We can't just sneak in. It'll be suicide. Plus even if we could, the building is giant! We wouldn't make any progress before we would be caught," Ashley groans, head falling into her hands, "it would be impossible!" Her voice is muffled in her hands.

_"We need a distraction, _" Sal tries, but Ashley shook her head.

"Yeah, and where would we get that?" she mutters. But Sal's already thinking of something.

"_ I got it. Wait here."_

Robert was laying on his bed when Sal opened the door, listening to Weezer. He looked up in disinterest.

"_ I need your help, dude," _Sal said in lieu of any greeting. The half of Robert's face scrunched up in contemplation for a moment before it smoothed out again.

_"Is this about your boyfriend?" _Robert asks, and Sal felt his brain halt to a stop.

_"What? _" Sal almost screeched. What the fuck was Robert talking about. Robert got up slowly, shrugging his shoulders.

_"You think I don't remember that big nosed human? I could smell him, even with your blood on him. We all could," _Robert explained slowly. Sal wished he wasn't such good friends with Robert, because if he weren't, he'd totally beat the shit out of him at the moment.

_"You all knew? And didn't attack him? What the fuck!" _Sal groaned out, growling angrily. Half of Robert's face twitched in amusement. Sal found nothing about this amusing.

_"You were happy. Why would we take that away from you?" _Robert's face scrunched up in the first inkling of annoyance _, "though it was annoying hearing you two giggle at all hours of the night."_

Sal felt a flame of embarrassment lick his face, but he ignored it for the time being. There was no time to spare now. The clock was ticking, and with the weeks since Larry's disappearance, any more time wasted was terrifying to think about.

_"Yes, it's about him. He went missing. So did our friend. We need to rescue them," _Sal explained, hoping that Robert would understand.

_"We?" _Robert murmured, looking down at Sal as he stood up. Robert always looked intimidating that way. The shadows that played against the bones of his face made him look ghastly. Sal thought it was cool.

_"Me and another survivor, Ashley. And maybe you guys_," Sal tried, voice trailing off. Without the help of his zombfriends, he and Ashley are kinda fucked.

_"What would… we do, _" Robert asked, and Sal broke out into a smile that was hidden in his mask.

_"Stir up some trouble," _Sal informed and felt that, yeah, maybe they could totally do this.

He tried not to feel too hopeful.

"_ Okay, no actual biting the survivors please!" _Sal growled out the fifth time. All the tenants still living in Addison Apartments were grouped together by the entrance. Ashley was outside, waiting for them to all calm down. Sal thought that it was better for them not to have the smell of human so close yet. Robert kind of looked like this was all so hilarious, standing by his side. Sal wanted to kill him.

Chug was frowning, "_ Self defense?" _he asked. Sal wanted to groan loudly.

"_ You guys can be defensive without biting them! If push comes to shove-" _Sal stopped for a moment, his throat aching. He had never spoken so much for so long. It was becoming torturous. " _-knock them unconscious. The fewer casualties the better."_

The group of zombies grumbled unhappily at the orders, but all seemed to agree with the rules.

"_ Great. Let's go _."

The night was already in full bloom when they left Addison Apartments. Ashley led the way, Sal following right behind and the horde behind them. It was slow going, but they had to be completely silent or else they'd be caught.

Ashley led them all through winding trees and a large forest that surrounded the church. She had explained that there was always a small unguarded entrance at the back of camp that was difficult to spot without knowing what to look for. Ashley had confessed that it was the way Larry escaped without getting caught for so long.

It took maybe half an hour to get there, at most an hour.

Ashley seemed to progressively become more jittery as the minutes passed. Sal placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. She looked over at him, smile wobbly. "I'm betraying my people," she confessed, eyes alight with tears.

"_ You're saving them," _Sal argued softly. Ashley took a shaky breath and nodded her head. Sal watched her steel herself.

"We are going to save them and stop Red Eyes," she vowed, and Sal nodded in agreement.

"_ Let's go," _Sal murmured.

While Robert led the horde of zombies to a hidden location Ashley disclosed, Sal and Ash walked through the camp quickly. They only had fifteen minutes before Robert and the other zombies began their distraction.

Sal had let his hair fall around his shoulders again to hide the gray tinge of his neck and wore his giant hoodie. It was too warm for it, but it hid Sal better, made him look more human.

Since it was past curfew, the only people out were the guards, and Ashley knew just where each was stationed. They weaved through tents, trailers, and bunkers before they arrived at a dingy looking tent. It was big but old looking. Patches of other fabric were sewn into it. Sal thought that maybe it was blue before, but now it was a muddy brown color.

"Travis!" Ashley hissed. There was a quiet groan from inside. "C'mon, Travis, open up!"

There were a few seconds of silence, before the zipper of the tent slide down slightly, and a ruffled blonde head poked out the whole. The head was glaring.

"The fuck, Ashley," Travis grumbled, and Sal would have laughed at the honest look of contempt on his face if time wasn't of the essence right now.

"Get out, we're gettin' your church back," Ashley explained. Travis blinked and suddenly seemed way more awake. He continued to glare at Ashley.

"The fuck are you talking about? And who the fuck is this?" and suddenly his glare was trained on Sal. Sal said nothing.

"A friend. We need your help, dude. You're the only one who knows how the church looks on the inside. We need you," she pleaded. Travis sighed in anger, and his head disappeared back in the hole. Sal felt his hope crash into smithereens.

The zipper sounded again, and the tent opened wider. Travis crawled out, standing up and stretching his back. He looked at Ashley's glimmering eyes with narrowed ones. "I'm only helping you because I'm done sleeping on the floor like some heathen." And with that, he turned and stalked away. Sal and Ashley looked at each other for a moment before running to catch up with him.

"So, you're one of those demons, huh," Travis conversed as they waited for the signal. They were hiding in the bushes by the church, and the signal was the screams of terrified survivors. Travis seemed keen on bothering the shit out of Sal.

"_Sure_," Sal grumbled. Travis whistled lowly at the admission.

"You know my dad told me that the undead rises only if the person was a sinner. So, you a sinner?" Travis asked, and Sal had an inkling that the dude was kind of an asshole.

"Shut up, Travis. You know your dad spews bullshit. No one knows anything about the virus," Ashley shot back, and Sal smiled slightly. He's glad at least he and Ash got along together. He would have never expected it.

Travis sneered, but let it go.

A sudden high pitched scream sounded from across the camp, followed by the moans of the horde. Sal heard sudden shouts from the guards and heard loud boots beat the ground as they ran toward the commotion. It was their chance.

They all sprinted to the church, and Travis carefully opened the doors, holding them just right so they didn't look obviously opened. Sal and Ashley entered the dark hallway and Travis followed, the doors shutting behind them almost silently.

Sal noticed the smell of the place as soon as the doors closed. A rotting, putrid smell. It was almost familiar but twisted in a disgusting way.

"_ Smell," _Sal muttered. Ashley and Travis looked confused, but sniffed the air. They looked at Sal curiously.

"I don't smell anything," Ashley commented. Travis nodded with her assessment. Sal thought that maybe they were going crazy, how could they not smell that? And then he realized that maybe it was a zombie thing.

"_ Nevermind, _" Sal said, dropping the subject.

"Where to?" Ashley asked in a hushed tone. Travis thought for a moment.

"There's a door that leads the basement in the office near the back of the nave. That's our best guess. It's huge and the walls are soundproof," Travis muttered. Sal shivered slightly. Why would Travis know that the basement was soundproof?

"Let's go then," Ashley said, and Travis nodded gravely. They walked quickly and quietly, but still, their steps seemed to echo loudly in the empty hallway.

Travis stopped just beside the doors to the nave. Sal and Ashley tried to walk past, but Travis was quick to stop them. Ashley opened her mouth to speak.

"Shh," Travis whispered, and they all listened. Ashley's eyes widened, as a booming voice shouted from inside the room.

"How the_ FUCK _can a horde of zombies just walk into this place without being spotted from miles away!" The voice was deep and nasty sounding, and Sal realized at once this was Red Eyes. The man even sounded intimidating.

There was a mumble of an answer that none of the three understood before a loud _slap_ echoed throughout the church. Travis backed away silently, looking around wildly. He nodded toward an unmarked room, and Sal and Ashley nodded. They quickly entered the room, just as they heard, "I don't care for your excuses. Go kill them all," and a squeak of shoes against wood floors. They all watched as...oh fuck, Sal thought, was that _Barnes _, exit the room quickly. Sal couldn't believe it. The man that had almost killed him was now fleeing from the room as quick as he could.

They all heard more footsteps and they tensed. Red Eyes' began to whistle, and the chilling sound was terrifying.

He walked by the room that currently held the trespassers. He stopped for a moment, and Sal felt his heart stutter in his chest. He began to walk again, arms crossed behind his back, neck tall and pale, lips pursed and whistling. He was gone.

Sal took a deep breath. He felt the tension drain from the room. He turned and faced the two humans.

"I'm not going down that basement," Travis said quietly. Both Sal and Ashley looked at him in surprise. Travis glared at the ground, hands in fists. He seemed to radiate anger.

"That basement holds evil. I'm done with that room," Travis muttered. He looked up, and Sal was shocked at the tears that threatened to fall in his eyes. "I did my part. Y'all are on your own." He shook his head, and left, his footsteps echoing as he distanced himself.

Sal looked back at Ashley. She looked dismayed, but not for long. She clenched her own fist and looked at Sal determinedly.

"Let's go get them back."

Sal and Ashley entered the nave. It looked for all intents and purposes normal. But Sal could feel it, feel the presence of something dark and disturbing.

"Fuck," Ashley murmured quietly, and Sal knew she could feel it too.

They walked along down the aisle, and it only grew more and more viscous, that darkness. Soon, they were at the door. Ashley reached for her pistol, swallowing loudly. Sal opened the door.

The dim light of the nave barely penetrated the darkness of the basement. It was pitch black in there. So black you wouldn't be able to see your hand right in front of you.

"You ready?" Ashley asked. No, Sal wasn't. He was terrified of what he would find down there. He nodded, at a loss for words.

They descended the stairs.

When they reached the floor, Sal was surprised to see that there was actual light down there. Green lights flickered on and off minutely, giving the whole entire room an eerie feeling. There were two doors at the end of the hall.

Sal and Ashley looked over each one. They were both identical, brown and unassuming. One lock adorned each door.

"Which one?" Ashley wondered aloud. Sal shrugged, and thought if picking by eeny meeny miny moe was inappropriate at a time like this.

"_ You know what they say, always go right, _" Sal muttered. Ashley laughed dryly. Sal didn't think it was that funny.

"And who says that?" Ashley mused, and they both knew they were stalling. Sal shrugged. Ashley sighed, "Right." They walked to the chosen door. Ashley looked over the lock before bashing the end of her pistol to it, and it fell to the ground, useless.

"Zombies first," Ashley muttered half-heartedly. Sal rolled his eyes but placed his hand on the doorknob. It twisted easily.

Ashley physically gagged at the sight. Corpses littered the room, or at least pieces of them. A head here, a leg there, piles of them. It was nasty. The room was cold as ice as well, and Sal thought that maybe it was some type of walk-in freezer/room hybrid.

"Oh fuck," Ashley grimaced. Sal shut the door. Well, not door number one. At least they knew what Red Eyes did with the bodies.

Sal waited as Ashley recovered. There was nothing in that room except for body parts. Which means that Larry and Todd were next door. If not, then they may have just seen where they ended up. Sal felt queasy at the thought.

Ashley gripped her pistol, and the second lock fell as well. Sal took a deep breath, and opened the door.

Larry's scent hit him like a ton of bricks. Sal almost keeled over. He thought he'd never smell it again, so alive and not rotting. Larry was alive. He wasn't dead.

Sal entered the long corridor, Ashley walking behind him, pistol ready in her hands. The corridor opened up into a giant room, and Ashley gasped behind him.

It was a huge room, boxes of food, ammunition, guns and other weapons, and clothing dotted the area. In the middle, chained up to the wall, were Larry and Todd. They both seemed unconscious.

They were both dirty, weeks of dust caking their skin, hair, clothing. The clothing on both of them was cut up and draping around their frames in loose pieces. Lacerations that were barely healed crisscrossed their bodies. Sal could see bruises on Larry's chest and face. Todd was sporting a giant black eye, and his glasses lay smashed on the floor, the glass bloody. They both looked weak and starving. Sal felt as the tears that dropped from his eye were caught by his mask.

"Well, lookie here!" A sudden voice boomed from behind them. Sal and Ashley both locked up, frozen as a hand landed on either of their shoulders.

"You two have caused so many problems for me!" Red Eyes trilled into their ears. His grip tightened bruisingly on their shoulders before he fell away from them, walking forward. He whistled lightly.

Seeing Red Eyes in the light was startling. He was tall, and so pale, as if he never saw the sun. His face was twisted in some sharp way, eyes so deep brown they looked black and Sal wondered how so many people could trust him. He looked hellish.

"I am happy to speak with you finally, Sally Face," Red Eyes murmured. Sal flinched as his name was dropped from Red Eye's mouth.

"_How-"_

"How do I know about your name? How do I know that you're really just some stinking corpse that decided to have a consciousness? It's simple really. I questioned and Larry answered," Red Eyes said cheerily. "Well, of course, first I had to cut into him. He screamed so delightfully. But alas, he was silent about you. When that didn't work I hurt Todd instead, and boy did he start spilling. All about his little side freak of a friend, Sal Fisher."

Sal swallowed back his disgust. Red Eyes sounded so… so chipper about it. It was disturbing.

"_Why? _"

Red Eyes laughed. "Why do you think? I was curious. How could you, an undead motherfucker, go on without eating flesh. Larry had gushed on and on how you were _so _human, more human than I could ever be, and it struck a nerve. After all, I thought I've assimilated well enough," Red Eyes frowned, and Sal had a sinking feeling deep within his soul.

The smell that Sal had noticed. It was...permeating from the man. Sal sniffed and bit back a gag. Red Eyes smirked.

"Yes, now you know why I keep the others back so much. Why I can't let any of you near me. I've evolved," he said proudly.

"What's he talking about, Sal?" Ashley whispered. Sal shook his head, not believing it for a minute.

"Oh, Ashley, haven't you guessed," Red Eyes spoke, and when he blinked, red, carnel jewels stared at the both of them. "I'm not alive."

Sal closed his eyes tightly, feeling nausea roll through him. This was fucked, beyond fucked. A zombie was the leader of a survivor group. A zombie that looked so much like a human, spoke so well...it wasn't possible.

"Now, you both might be wondering how, and since I won't let anyone leave this room alive, I'll spill my secret. I'm the original." Red Eyes confessed merrily.

"I don't remember my past life much, to be quite honest. All I know was that I woke up in a hospital room with an insatiable urge to feed. Eat everything in my way. Well, you know how that ended. But, I kept eating, and soon I realized the more I ate, the more I began to resemble the walking meat sacks I craved. You are what you eat, after all."

"What the fuck," Ashley whispered, staring wide-eyed at the zombie in front of her. Sal shook his head, shaking all thoughts out of his head except for one.

"_ Why Larry? Why Todd?"_

"He challenged my authority. They both did in fact. It's just sprinkled on top that I got to meet you. Though, as one of my own, I am disappointed. This fast you've been on...disgusting."

A noise interrupted whatever Red Eyes was going to say next. Sal felt his heart spike as Larry's head rolled to the side. His eyes opened up, and they were bleary and unfocused.

"Sally Face…" Larry murmured, voice hoarse. Sal hoped it wasn't from screaming.

"Hey, Larry Face," Sal said softly, and he tried to move toward him, Red Eyes be damned, when the zombie in question tsked in mock agitation.

"Look at you. You're weak, boy. Hung up on love for what's supposed to be food!" Red Eyes' cackled. Sal tried to ignore him, but a flash of a knife stopped Sal in his tracks. It was lined up with Larry's throat.

"Don't move, boy," Red Eyes cautioned, voice a sudden deep thing that rattled Sal's bones.

"Now, I bet a weak thing like you just needs some encouragement," the man mused, and suddenly smiled.

The blade flashed in the air, and Larry screamed in pain. Ashley cried out, but Sal barely heard it. His focus zeroed in on Larry. His arm was bleeding, and Sal thought briefly that he never thought that so much blood was in a person, and that maybe losing it wasn't such a good thing.

"Lookie, Sally," Sal trained his eyes on Red Eyes, or more specifically, at the piece of flesh in his hand. His mouth watered at the sight of it. In his other hand laid the knife, glinting with blood.

"You want it? Or maybe you want the knife. I'll let you pick" Red Eyes promised, laughing. Sal's head pounded. He knew he shouldn't. He knew that he should attack Red Eyes because he was holding out his knife too. Take it and stab him in his head. But…

"Sal, don't please!" he heard Ashley scream, but it sounded so far away. He took a step closer. His hands rose up, unlatching the mask on his face with careless precision. The mask fell and dropped to the ground. Red Eyes nodded encouragingly, "Good, Sal. Give in."

"This

is

who

you

are."

The zombie gave a deep growl and snatched the flesh from the man's hands. A cough made it look up from it's meat. It's vision tunneled and all it could do was focus on the human looking at it with dull eyes.

His lips moved, but the zombie couldn't hear what he said. The undead being could feel something in it's brain, something that screamed _NO _to it, told it to stop, but the hunger smothered the doubt. The undead soul didn't recognize the man in front of it.

Sal bit into the flesh.

* * *

Chapter 07: never break the chain

Sal opened his eyes, frowning. _Clueless _was playing on the television. Larry was sitting next to him, spread out to cover most of the couch. He was also slowly but surely spreading onto Sal too. The zombie rolled his eyes at his friend.

"_ You're so...annoying _," Sal muttered. Larry turned, smiling gleefully at Sal. The TV washed him in bright a bright blue color. His eyes sparkled in happiness.

"You still love me," Larry taunted playfully, and Sal grinned lazily, looking at Larry unbiddenly.

_"Yeah, _" he admitted near silently. The truthfulness of it shocked Sal to the core. Yeah, he loved Larry. A blatant fact. Sal felt his cheeks burn. _"I love you. _"

Larry didn't even look surprised. He just looked so happy, so familiar with the phrase. As if Sal has said it before, said it tons of times before.

That, among anything else, is what caught Sal off guard. No, this didn't seem right. He never admitted any of that to Larry.

"Shh, it's going to be okay," Larry murmured, and he moved, laying his head down on Sal's lap, and the action felt secure, normal. Larry yawned. 'You're safe here."

Sal nodded shakily. Of course he was. Larry was here. Larry wouldn't lie to him.

"_With you, it's okay _," Sal voiced. Larry grinned up at him.

.

.

.

Ashley believed that hell had opened up in Nockfell.

The grip on her pistol was shakingly loose as she screamed to Sal, begged him to make the right decision. Red Eyes stared vindictively down at Sal, a hungry glint in his own eyes. This wasn't happening. It couldn't. Sal was stronger than this. He had to be.

Ashley turned her gaze to Larry. Larry, who was chained to the wall, screaming bloody murder, desperate to stop Sal. He was so pale, too pale. Ashley had enough experience in the field to know that Larry wasn't looking good.

"Please, Sally Face, listen to me. I love you, please don't do this," Larry sobbed, tears leaking from his eyes. Ashley waited, hoping and praying for something, anything. Sal's eyes were dead. They didn't register anything Larry said.

Sal bit into the flesh, and Ashley jumped into action. As Red Eyes roared in laughter, Ashley pounced to Larry and Todd, quickly bashing her pistol where chain and wall met. She let them both down easily. Larry was whimpering, and Todd...Ashley felt his neck. She released a sigh of relief. A weak pulse beat against the pads of her fingers.

"Ash…" Larry moaned out quietly, face screwed up in pain. Ashley was quick to rip off the sleeve of her shirt, bandaging it tight around Larry's wound. He choked back another scream.

"It's going to be okay, Lar Bear," Ashley murmured shakily.

"Sal…" Larry uttered and Ashley's heart broke at the inflection in Larry's voice. Larry looked into Ashley's eyes, and the woman stilled. Ashley had never seen that amount of brokenness in a set of eyes. It looked as if Larry has already died.

Ashley looked away, and she set her sights on Todd. She bit her lip for a moment and steeled herself. _I hope he doesn't get mad at me, _Ashley thought. She slapped Todd in the face, hard.

"What!" Todd jumped, eyes jumped and unfocused as he tried to see in front of him. His eyes squinted at Ashley.

"Ash?" Todd asked, and Ashley couldn't help but grin.

"Yes, Todd. I've got you," Ashley promised, dropping a delicate hand onto Todd's shoulders. His face broke out into a nervous grin.

"What about Red Eyes?" Todd questioned, and Ashley's blood went cold. How could she forget she turned her back to their biggest threat.

Ashley turned and gaped at the sight in front of her. Red Eyes and Sal...they were fighting. The noise filtered back into her head, as the adrenaline ebbed for a moment.

"You little shit! What the fuck are you!" Red Eyes screamed in anger, throwing Sal off him with a huff. Sal's body skidded on the ground for a few feet. He got up mechanically. His entire mouth was scarlet with blood. Larry's blood. Ashley shivered.

Sal growled, something deep in fierce in his throat. Sal's body was quick and he attacked Red Eyes with fervor, screaming terrifyingly the whole time. Red Eyes looked shocked, to say the least. Ashley wondered briefly just what Red Eyes created at that moment.

Sal launched himself, throwing himself onto Red Eyes, biting into the neck of the original zombie. Red Eyes screamed.

"You...runt," Red Eyes hissed out. He reached and grabbed onto Sal again, throwing him on to the floor with a resounding slap. The concrete floor cracked. Sal didn't get up again.

Red Eyes began to laugh again, manic and insane. Ashley leveled her gun to his head and shot.

Red Eyes stumbled, and Ashley was kind of proud of herself, but then Red Eyes steadied himself, shaking his head mildly. Horror settled into Ashley's gut.

"You really think a little bullet can stop me?" Red Eyes grinned sarcastically. "I am more powerful than any fucking gun."

Ashley backed away as Red Eyes moved. Shit, they were fucked. Two very unstable zombies versus two malnourished men, one bleeding to death and the other basically blind at the moment, and a woman with a gun. That apparently doesn't work on big, overpowered zombies.

"You know," Red Eyes taunted, "I usually store my food, but I may splurge. After all, it has been a stressful night." He licked his lips, and Ashley drew her gun again, shooting him in the chest. Red Eyes laughed. "Hmm, that one sure did tickle!"

A sudden shriek filled the air. Sal was back on his feet, and Ashley swore she didn't even see him move. He was a ghost. One minute kneeling on the floor, and the next behind Red Eyes. Ashley's mouth dropped open as Sal gave another inhuman scream before plunging his hand into Red Eyes' chest.

Ashley saw the zombie's reaction. His eyes widened, flickered red and deep brown. Blood pooled out his mouth. A squelching sound followed soon after. Red Eyes keeled over. Ashley realized why.

Sal had taken out his heart. Blood to his elbows, Sal bit into the heart, moaning quietly. Ashley didn't take another second looking. She turned and heaved both her friends up. Todd groaned while Larry whimpered again. He was staring at Sal, distraught and pained.

"Sal, please," Larry begged in a hushed whisper. It seemed to echo throughout the room. It was ignored.

"C'mon, we have to get out of here. Who knows if that's the last of Red Eyes," Ashley urged. Larry shook his head, weak. "Please Larry, you can't help him. He's gone," Ashley tried. Larry shook his head.

"No."

And before she knew it, Larry pushed himself away from her with surprising strength. Ashley was already off-kilter with Todd, so she could only gape as Larry shuffled over to Sal. Sal, who seemed to be almost done with the heart. They were running out of time.

"Larry," Ashley hissed, "he's _gone _!" Larry only shook his head again.

.

.

.

Larry thought if there was any way to die, reminiscing and talking about Sal seemed like a good way to go. Red Eyes wasn't very generous with food. It was only a matter of time. But, the more he talked about Sal, the longer he got to live.

"Sally Face," Larry began, placing his hands on either side of Sal's shoulders, The zombie looked up growling at the interruption. "I know you're in there, Sal." The blue eye that stared at him was murky and unfamiliar, the exact opposite of what he was used to. He missed the lively blue eye, one of the only things that were able to clue Larry in on Sal's moods.

Larry had believed that his feelings for his zombie were disturbing at first. How could he feel this way for an undead being? But, Sal showed time and time again that he behaved more human than most people Larry knew.

"Sal, I know this isn't you. You have to fight it. You have to live," Larry continued, tears falling down his face. Sal had to hear him, had to snap out of it...Larry smiled, but it was wobbly and tentative.

Sally had done countless of things. He watched movies with Larry. He listened to Larry. He took care of his cat. He argued. He laughed. He got angry. He cried. He breathed.

"I _can't _lose you too, Sally Face. I won't allow it. I love you too much for that," Larry vowed. Sal continued to stare, unmoving. And then his face screwed up, mouth opening, angry and red, and Larry closed his eyes. He wouldn't fight Sal. He couldn't. A shot rang through the air.

No matter what. Larry knew that deep down, Sal's soul was human through and through. And he loved it. Loved him.

.

.

.

"_ Sa...I know...in there."_

Sal frowned as the words echoed in his mind. They were staticky and barely understandable, but Sal knew that voice.

"Did you hear that?" Sal asked the human below him. Larry looked up at Sal, confused.

"Hear what?"

Sal's frown grew even deeper. He knew he heard something. He tried to shake it off.

Larry seemed to notice the uncertainty because he slowly got up, before settling himself around Sal, bracketing his legs around Sal. Sal's eyes widened. Larry toyed with the straps of Sal's mask. Sal could only watch as Larry unmasked him. There was barely a flinch, but Sal saw it. His heart hurt.

Larry kissed Sal. Sal's eye widened at the act. He had never been... oh but this felt good. He closed his eyes, savoring the taste of Larry on his lips. Even if Larry seemed weary of Sal's face, he didn't act like it.

"_ Sal, I know… fight it… live…"_

Sal frowned into the kiss, but Larry pushed in, tongue licking into Sal's mouth. He moaned, but Sal felt like...he wanted it to stop.

"_ Can't lose you...I love you too much…"_

Sal gasped into the kiss, the connection in his head strengthening enough. He pulled back, "No! Stop," Sal demanded, breaking the kiss forcefully. Sal opened his eyes. Larry looked terrifying. His face had gone sheet white, eyes black as pitch.

"**You could have lived in peace," **Larry snarled out. Sal flinched back. This wasn't Larry...was this…

was this even real?

The first thing Sal registered was the pain. He gasped and realized that he was lying on a cold floor, and the pain was centered around his chest. He lifted his hands to it and they came away bloody. Or maybe they already were bloody? Tears fell from his eyes.

"Sal!" A voice shouted, but Sal could only groan in pain. Fuck, it was too bright in here. Wherever he was.

"Stay away from him," another voice commanded and the tone was like steel. Sal shivered involuntarily.

"Fuck, Ash, why would you do that!"

"He was going to kill you!"

"Now he's...he's bleeding. Oh, fuck!" Ah, so it was his own blood.

A sudden shape blocked out the searing light. Sal blinked and his eyes focused. A man was staring over him, blotchy eyed and pale. His brown eyes were deep with sorrow and Sal's heart clanged in his chest.

"Please Sal, say something," the man murmured, and Sal realized Oh! that was him!

"Hmm, you're pretty," Sal responded, because, man, even looking so disturbed, the dude was rocking it.

"Sally Face, holy fuck," and then Larry laughed wetly. "It's gonna be okay, Sally Face. Just don't go to sleep."

Sal opened his mouth, not really knowing what to say. "Larry Face," Sal ended up with, and just like that, he remembered. Remembered who this precious human was. Remembered where he was. Remembered what he had done. "Oh, Larry Face," Sal repeated, and this time he meant it. The bitter taste in his mouth burned.

Larry smiled, "You're back."

Sal tried to nod, but it only made him dizzy. Come to think of it, he was getting colder and colder too. The chill of the concrete floor wasn't so cold anymore.

"I think I'm dying," Sal confessed and Larry's face seemed to grow even paler.

"No you aren't," Larry argued. But when he tried to pick up Sal, he could only scream in pain. What the fuck was wrong with him. Tears fell freely.

"What happened?" Sal asked, because wow he really checked out for a moment.

"You killed Red Eyes and ate his heart. I...I think you're human, Sal," Larry explained, and Sal felt like laughing in the face of such a big cosmic joke. Which he did. It hurt his lungs. His functioning lungs apparently.

"I don't want to die," Sal whispered brokenly.

"You won't."

That was the last thing Sal heard before his consciousness finally slipped.

Sal opened his eyes up to darkness. His chest still hurt but in a contained kind of way. His mouth was very dry.

He tried to get up, but the pain sizzled when he moved even slightly. He groaned and settled himself again. That's when he realized he was in a bed. A bed that was so comforting. With nothing else to do, Sal fell asleep again.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was bright. He looked around his surroundings, realizing that he was in a sparsely decorated the room. The only decoration to speak of was the cross above his bed.

The window was open, and he could hear the light breeze. It was a cool day out, and he was happy about it. After so many terrible days of just blazing heat with no reprieve, it was a welcoming change.

He looked down and saw that his torso was bare, but gauze wrapped around it snugly. It was pristine white. Sal looked over and noticed his mask was sitting on top of the sheets. He felt a great sense of panic at the sight of it. He hadn't even noticed before...and Sal thought of how Larry, the real one, not the figment of imagination his brain tried to create, didn't look away, back down in that basement, where he was off his rockers. He didn't look away.

Sal broke down into sobs.

Sal was just securing the mask back onto his face, hands tangled in his hair (which as washed, holy _shit _, someone washed him), when the door opened. Larry stared at him with wide eyes.

Sal took the moment of silence to regard Larry. He looked better, but still way too thin, way too pale. The dark bruises were fading to an ugly yellow color, and the dark purple bags under his eyes were stark against his pale skin.

"Sally Face," Larry greeted, a ghost of a smile on his face. He moved forward, sitting on the edge of Sal's bed. He looked disgustingly overwhelmed. Sal felt the same.

"Hi, Larry Face," Sal murmured, and fuck, he was still very thirsty, but it felt good to talk. Felt natural for once.

"You're awake," Larry noted, and Sal nodded. Larry seemed a bit in shock, looking over Sal as if he wasn't real. Sal didn't feel real. He thought that maybe this was another dream.

"What happened?" Sal asked because it was still a bit fuzzy. He knew he went off the deep end, knew that Red Eyes was dead, knew he was shot.

"We got out. Everyone survived. Todd recovered startlingly quick. Kinda blind as a bat until we can find him new glasses. Ashley is… gone. Took her motorcycle and said she had to be alone for a while. I can't blame her. She wished you a fast recovery, though, and sincerely apologizes about the whole… shooting you in the chest thing."

Sal shrugged it off, "Can't really blame her. It was a fucked up situation." Larry nodded, but Sal could see it was forced. His mouth was set in a thin line.

"All it took was that meat room for all the rest of the survivors to believe us about Red Eyes. Oh, and something about the fact that all the zombies somehow turned back," Larry suddenly smirked, and Sal was shocked. All of them?

"How?" Sal asked.

Larry shrugged, "We really don't know. Todd thinks it could have been a curse that spread through bite. Kill the original, save the rest type thing."

"Holy shit," Sal exclaimed.

"You saved them, Sal. You did it," Larry murmured, looking soft. Sal smiled behind his mask. '

"You don't smell good anymore," Sal sighed. Larry looked shocked, before throwing his head back to laugh. Sal blushed, "I meant...smell...uhh." He was so embarrassed.

"Wow thanks," Larry said sarcastically, but he still had an easy-going smile. Sal smiled back, the reaction hidden by his mask.

"You know, I miss your face," Larry mused. Sal tensed at the confession, staring at Larry with wide eyes. Larry shrugged, "What? At least I could read your expression more easily. You know how hard it is to gather your emotions just by looking at your eyes. Plus-" Larry stopped for a moment, and Sal watched as a flush of red crept up Larry's neck, "the mask kind of ruins the post-near-death experience kiss trope."

Sal giggled nervously. Holy fuck, did he really just _giggle _? Apparently. "Oh uhm, I…" Sal trailed off when Larry looked back down at him again. His eyes were glinting, a warm amber.

"Don't worry about it," he assured. Larry leaned down and kissed the side of Sal's mask. Sal felt like he was positively burning.

It was good. He felt human. And maybe the world was really fucked up right now, but none of that mattered, not now. Not when Larry was here, safe, warm, and alive. Not when Sal could breathe in peace, could feel his heart beating, could feel the blood pumping in his veins.

Sal feels warm, and loved.


	112. (O) GERASKIER - Redwood and Dandelion by

Redwood and Dandelion  
sharkhette

Summary:  
"The Witcher's bought a room for the night, and says he'll pay double for anyone who can bed him without stinking of fear the whole time."

"Oh, I've fucking got this," Jaskier promised.

Or, the one where Jaskier works in a brothel and falls head over heels for the stoic, not-actually-that-scary Witcher who comes in requesting his services.

Geralt doesn't know what he's getting himself into.

* * *

The brothel where Jaskier worked was an upscale establishment, because he appreciated the finer things in life, even if he was earning them on his back. It wasn't such a terrible way to make a living, not when the high price point deterred most of the rougher, less savoury clients, and the bawd had a vested interest in keeping her girls happy and safe.

Well—her girls and Jaskier.

He was the only man working there, which suited him just fine. Most nights, he provided entertainment by way of his lute and his voice, fully clothed and almost respectable. On the rare nights a john came in looking for a cock rather than a cunt, they generally knew better than to rough him up in the process of bedding him. If they didn't know, they quickly learned, and the bawd barred them from any return visits.

So truly, it wasn't the worst way to earn a few coins. Jaskier had a warm bed, a roof over his head, and all the sex he could possibly desire, and now that his debts were paid, he was free to pick and choose which clients he wanted, and turn away those he found distasteful.

He didn't turn away very many. In most cases, even a shoddy lay was better than no lay at all.

And if it was a living that most others judged or sneered at, well, he had learned to adapt. He had run from the aristocracy long ago, even before he'd accrued the debts that had pushed him onto his knees or between the sheets, and it wasn't so different anyway, whoring and entertaining. Would he have preferred singing of knights and kings and the occasional wanton maiden? Certainly. But, like a weed, he managed to thrive in all manner of situations that might have withered a more delicate soul.

The night the Witcher came to the brothel, Jaskier hadn't had anyone in over a week, excluding the few times he'd tumbled his colleagues out of equal parts boredom and attraction. It was fun, but it didn't quite scratch the itch that came from bedding a total stranger, learning their desires by touch and taste as he went along.

And the Witcher was very much a stranger.

Jaskier spied on him through the beaded curtain that separated the sitting room, where he and the girls gathered nightly, from the entrance where the guard and the bawd greeted each visitor. The Witcher was tall and solidly built, the kind of frame that spoke of violence and the long hours spent perfecting it, with windswept white hair turned silver in the darkness, heavy leather armour and a deceptively light tread.

"Fuck me, that's the Butcher of Blaviken."

Beside him, Ana gasped, one hand over her mouth as she peered over his shoulder. "They say he slaughtered a dozen men in the streets."

"They also say he's hung like a horse," Jaskier countered, not taking his gaze off the man—if the Witcher could be called a man at all—discussing terms with the bawd in a low voice. "Do you think he's come here to kill us, or fuck us?"

"He's a Witcher. Do you think he knows the difference?"

"I'll let you know come morning," he replied sunnily.

They both pulled back from the curtain at the bawd's approach, her heels ringing out over the floorboards. Parting the beads with an imperious wave of one hand, she fixed them all with a steely look.

"The Witcher's bought a room for the night, and says he'll pay double for anyone who can bed him without stinking of fear the whole time."

"Oh, I've fucking got this," Jaskier promised.

She sighed. "Alright, line up and look sharp. Let him get a look at you. And for the love of the gods, keep your mouths shut. I could hear you whispering back here when he came in the door."

"If you could, he definitely could," Jaskier pointed out. "Enhanced senses, and all that."

The bawd pinched the bridge of her nose before turning and beckoning the Witcher into the room. "See what pleases you, sir, and take your pick."

The Witcher wasn't what Jaskier had expected. He knew all too well that appearances could, and often were, deceiving—he couldn't count the number of times a handsome young lord smelling of sweet perfume and bedecked in silks and gold had taken him for a tumble, only to leave him wholly unsatisfied. Looks had no bearing on ability, in or out of bed.

Not that the Witcher didn't look capable. He did—intimidatingly so, all broad shoulders and solid muscle, moving with animal grace and regarding them with cool, golden eyes. But Jaskier had thought he would look older, or more ragged, disfigured by scars, maybe, or holding back a barely contained rage. People told all kinds of stories about Witchers, and the Butcher of Blaviken especially.

But the sight of him didn't inspire fear. Maybe it should have, but Jaskier's sense of self-preservation had always been lacking. No, what he actually inspired was…

Well.

Jaskier surreptitiously shifted his weight from one foot to the other. Being so easily attracted to anyone and everyone was a blessing in his line of work, but he did wish he weren't always so bloody obvious about it.

But there was something else, too, buried under the arousal. A sense of familiarity, almost, a tugging from behind his ribs, like a flower turning towards the sun—but Jaskier had never met the man before, nor any other Witcher. There was nothing familiar about him.

The Witcher turned to look at him unblinkingly. They studied each other for a moment, and Jaskier took the time to memorize his face, his stance, the way he stood so still yet seemed to contain a tightly coiled energy, like a panther waiting out its prey.

Jaskier was more than willing to be that prey. Gods above, was he willing.

"You," said the Witcher.

"Me," Jaskier agreed.

The Witcher turned without another word, heading for the stairs to climb to his appointed room. Jaskier threw a wink to his companions before trotting after him, anticipation blooming as he followed his Witcher up the stairs.

Those trousers were tight, though. Oiled leather that looked soft as butter, and gods, what an arse. It was rare that anyone half so attractive came to patronize their fine establishment, and rarer still that they chose Jaskier. And for Jaskier to actually be excited by the prospect of taking his client to bed? Nigh unheard of. Oh, he was always _enthusiastic_, to be sure—but that wasn't quite the same thing. Looking forward to an orgasm (sometimes faked, and otherwise most often by his own hand) and looking forward to actually climbing a man like a tree were two very different beasts. Jaskier smiled brightly as he traipsed into the room behind his client.

It was spacious and lavishly furnished, with a great wide bed piled thick with furs, and a bath large enough for two (or three, for those with enough coin) waiting in the corner, its water still steaming. Rugs overlapped one another on the floor, and velvet curtains hung over the window, which, during the day, offered a pleasing view of the city's rooftops and steeples. Few clients bothered to appreciate the scenery, of course, but Jaskier liked a room with a view. He'd never stayed in one place for so long since he'd ensconced himself at the brothel, and some days the thought of new towns and open roads tugged at him harder than others. The windows helped, those days.

The Witcher ignored the curtains and the window, though he gave the room a cursory investigation which seemed more habitual than out of curiosity. Checking for exits or vantage points or hidden assassins, perhaps. Jaskier waited in the middle of the room, content to watch him until he settled.

Finally, the Witcher stilled, half-turned to face Jaskier with his back to the bed.

"What's your name?" he asked. His voice was lovely, low and rough like he was used to threatening people, and even more used to not speaking at all. It hit just the right pitch to send shivers down Jaskier's spine.

"Jaskier, at your service. Shall I call you Master Witcher this evening, or do you prefer something more…personable?"

Jaskier knew his name. Everyone knew Geralt of Rivia, the Butcher of Blaviken. But clients often preferred to play at anonymity, and he could respect that. It's not as if Jaskier was his given name, after all, though he'd used it for so long that it felt realer than the old name that came with a title attached.

"Geralt."

"Geralt? Lovely. Nice to meet you." He sidled closer, making sure to sway his hips as he moved, dropping his voice to a sultrier tone. "Now, why don't you tell me how you'd like to spend your evening? You've got the pleasure of my company for the whole night, so your options are…wide open, as it were."

Geralt just snorted and began unfastening the clasps of his armour. "Right now, my priority is that bath. Everything else can wait."

"How unimaginative. Here, let me help."

Jaskier walked straight into his space without hesitation, reaching for the buckles that held his shoulder pieces in place. The leather was stiff and the clasps were uncooperative, but he hadn't spent so long playing the lute for his fingers to fail him now. Geralt held still, bemused, as Jaskier tugged the first piece free and set it aside on the floor at their feet.

"So?" Jaskier prompted, making quick work of the armour now that he knew how to work the buckles loose. "Tell me what you like. What do you want tonight, other than your bath?"

"Peace and quiet."

"Eh, should've chosen Rebecca for that. The redhead," he added helpfully.

Geralt grunted. "She was afraid of me."

"Lise could have taken you on," Jaskier continued contemplatively, moving on from the shoulder pieces to the breastplate. Lise had been tense, but she hadn't been afraid like Ana had been.

Geralt unstrapped the swords on his back, shrugging out of the harness that held them in place before allowing Jaskier to continue. "They were all either nervous or scared to death. I don't want that."

"Well then, you'll have to make the best of what you've got."

Jaskier dropped the last of the armour and curled his fingers around Geralt's shirt collar. The material was worn soft, open at the chest and just begging to be torn off to reveal the body underneath that Jaskier frankly couldn't wait to get his hands on—if only the Witcher would give him some sign that he was actually interested, rather than standing there watching Jaskier like he couldn't figure out what to make of him.

Jaskier prodded him in the chest. "Are you just enjoying the view, or?"

Geralt looked unimpressed. "You talk too much."

"Yeah, so I've been told. But you don't talk nearly enough. I'm not a mind reader—am I supposed to guess what you want from me?"

"I told you. I'm taking a bath."

Geralt took a step back, just far enough to pull his shirt over his head. Jaskier let his jaw drop.

"Gods above. I was going to ask if you enjoyed the Witchering business, but I can see that the lifestyle agrees with you." Except for the scars, maybe, but there was no need to bring those up. Yet. It was a miracle the man's face had escaped relatively unscathed.

Geralt just grunted before flicking open his belt and stepping out of his trousers. How a man so large could get out of trousers so tight without tripping over himself, Jaskier had no idea. There was a reason he preferred looser styles, himself—much easier to get in and out of, and not to mention more comfortable around the delicate bits.

His train of thought didn't get much further than that, because high heaven have mercy, Geralt lived up to every legend Jaskier had ever heard.

"Just to be clear," Jaskier said faintly, "you _are_ going to fuck me tonight, yes?"

Geralt glanced at him for a bare second before stepping into the bath. "Yes."

Jaskier blew out his breath. "Good. That's good. That's excellent. Because—has anyone ever told you this? Your body is—whew. Wow. I mean—really, it's slightly unnecessary, if I'm being honest. No man _needs_ to look like _that._ It's hardly fair. I'm going to compose an entire ballad to your biceps by the end of the night, just so you know."

Geralt sank into the water. "No."

"I'm going to wax lyrical about your abs."

"Don't."

"I'll pen sonnets to your cock."

Geralt looked exasperated.

Jaskier bit back a smile. "Or," he offered, slinking up to the side of the bath. "You could give me something better to do with my mouth."

He didn't get turned down flat that time. Maybe it was just because Geralt was finally soaking in the steaming-hot water, but he tilted his head to one side like a bird of prey and spread his arms over the rim of the bath, regarding Jaskier with a cool, assessing air. It shouldn't have made Jaskier so helplessly hot, being looked at like a tender morsel of prey, but fuck him sideways. He was easy. It's why he was good at what he did.

"That's the longest you've been quiet since we got up here," Geralt observed.

The more words Jaskier could pull out of him, the better he got at reading the Witcher's tone. That, there, was a warm thread of amusement underneath the barb, and it lit a grin on his face. He wanted to find out what else he could make Geralt's voice do. The Witcher wasn't going to be much of a talker during sex, that was glaringly and painfully obvious, but Jaskier talked enough for at least two people anyway. He wanted to pull a growl out of him, though. If he could make him moan—

His stomach flipped at the mere thought.

Picking up a box of bath salts, Jaskier sauntered closer. "You could always gag me," he suggested. "But something tells me, despite your endless protests, that you actually like the sound of my voice." He sprinkled a handful of salt into the water with a flourish. Geralt looked at him balefully. "Oh, stop playing so hard to get. You chose me, after all."

Setting the box aside, Jaskier traipsed around the bath to stand at the Witcher's back, not missing the way Geralt's shoulders tensed infinitesimally at the new position. Less than ideal, but fine. It was hardly the first time Jaskier had had to coax a man into relaxation. Humming a soft tune, he settled on the edge of the bath and rested his hands on the Witcher's shoulders.

At the first touch of skin on skin, a shock jolted through him like lightning and he flinched back, not hurt but startled. Geralt tensed, his muscles locked in place, but he didn't say a word, so carefully, Jaskier returned his hands to his shoulders. The shock didn't come again, and if Geralt was going to pretend nothing had happened, so could he. It probably didn't mean anything, anyway.

Though he remained tense, Geralt didn't move out from under him. With a pleased smile, Jaskier began kneading the knotted muscles there, humming a little louder, and gradually, Geralt began to unwind.

When Jaskier judged him relaxed enough, he said, "Duck your head down, let me wash your hair."

Geralt grunted, but—wonder of wonders—he obeyed, submerging his head and lifting it a moment later, his hair hanging heavy with water.

"You're filthy; do you know that?" Jaskier asked, moving his hands to the Witcher's head, scratching his clever fingers against his scalp. He was good at this; his fingertips were calloused from years of contact with lute strings, and dexterous, besides. He knew just how to touch a body—any body, anywhere—to make them feel good, and hair washing was naturally intimate. The Witcher was helpless against his talents.

"I killed a kikimora in the last town," Geralt said flatly. "They paid me for it but didn't have a room for me to sleep."

"What gratitude. Well, it's a good thing you came here. And not just because we could offer you a bath."

"Hm."

Jaskier pressed his fingers in a little harder and was finally rewarded with a low, pleased-sounding hum.

"I never thought you were all that scary, personally. Witchers, I mean."

"I can see that."

"You go out there, risking your life to keep the rest of us safe—you'd think we could repay you with something better than a few grudging coins and a load of crass rumours."

"It's my job."

"Well, I, personally, am very grateful." Jaskier dropped his arms around Geralt's neck, leaning in to press his lips to the shell of his ear. "Would you like me to show you just how much I appreciate your services?"

Geralt half turned towards him, making no attempt to escape the loose circle of Jaskier's arms, and Jaskier's heart leapt at the prospect of finally getting a taste of the man—

But Geralt only said, "I thought you were washing my hair."

Jaskier huffed and released him, standing to set his hands on his hips. From the bath, Geralt watched in quiet amusement.

"Yes, fine, I will finish washing your hair, but first, answer me this: You said you were going to fuck me, but I get the sense that you don't really care about that. Did you hire me for the night just as an excuse to get a nice bath? I can't blame you for it—you desperately need one—but there are cheaper places to get clean. Is it just company you want?"

"I have my horse for company."

"Yes, but there are things you can do with a person you can't do with a horse. Well—I say can't. I mean shouldn't."

For a long moment, Geralt didn't answer. Finally, he said, "You're not afraid of me."

"No. You can smell that, can't you?" Jaskier bit his tongue before he could add, _Like a wolf._

"Fear smells sour. Like sweat and panic."

"Not much of a turn-on. What else can you smell?"

"Arousal." Geralt looked him up and down. "I know you're telling the truth when you say you want me to fuck you."

"Well, yes. Have you seen yourself?" Jaskier paused. "Have you just been waiting for the other shoe to drop? Like, I'd suddenly come to my senses and realize you're the monster everyone says you are, and high-tail it out of here?"

"Or shut your mouth and take it anyway." Geralt's mouth twisted to one side. "That one is worse. Where they pretend they're fine with it, because they need the money, but they're shit liars."

"I couldn't lie to you," Jaskier pointed out. "Not with you sniffing around like that. So." He leaned in, planting both hands on the edge of the bath, bringing his face level with Geralt's. Close enough to see the lines on his face, map the scars that littered his skin, see his own reflection in the dark amber of his glowing eyes. "I find you attractive. I want you to fuck me. And I'm not scared of any of it. Am I lying?"

"Hm."

"Hm," Jaskier agreed, and, straightening, set to work shedding his clothes. "Don't worry," he added, as he stepped out of his trousers and kicked them aside. "I am going to finish your hair. I just thought we might move things along while I did it. Multitasking, you know?"

Naked as the day he was born, he flashed Geralt a bright smile before climbing over the edge of the bath to settle into the water. Still deliciously warm, and made warmer by the bulk of the Witcher's body. Inching forward on his knees, Jaskier deposited himself directly into Geralt's lap, straddling his frankly enormous thighs and dropping his arms around his neck. Geralt moved his hands from where they rested against the rim of the bath to hold onto Jaskier's hips, seemingly more driven by instinct than any sudden need to get close to him. Jaskier shrugged internally. He'd take what he could get, and if Geralt wasn't pushing him away—

"Did you know you have intestines tangled in your hair?" he asked conversationally, running his fingers through the knot in question.

"Yes," Geralt grunted.

"Kikimora, or something older?"

He shrugged.

"Lovely."

Reaching around him, Jaskier located a bar of scented soap and scrubbed it over Geralt's scalp, ignoring the noise of protest the Witcher made. He had meant the hair-washing to be sexy and intimate, but he was not about to fuck a man wearing something's internal organs as a hat, no matter how attractive the man or how much he was getting paid. Some things took priority.

"Hold still," he muttered, clenching his thighs around Geralt's as if he could hold him still like that. The man's legs were like tree trunks, they were so thick. "This is disgusting, let me just—"

Geralt suffered his ministrations with surprising patience, allowing Jaskier to work his hair this way and that, rubbing at him with the soap and finally dousing his entire head with water. He heaved a sigh, but he never moved to dislodge Jaskier from his lap.

"Better," Jaskier determined. "And look at that: the water hasn't even turned black from your layers of filth. A miracle."

"Happy now?"

"Yes, actually." Bracing his hands on the Witcher's shoulders, Jaskier looked down at him. "And I can tell you're feeling better for it, unless that's a sword you smuggled into the bath with you."

Geralt rolled his eyes and Jaskier grinned.

"No, I thought not. Oh, stop looking like such a martyr. I'm sure I can think of something to do with you."

Jaskier, of course, had been at half-mast since hitting the water, and only grown more attentive the longer he stayed pressed up against Geralt's body. The Witcher ran hot, like a natural furnace, though his pulse was so slow Jaskier might have thought him comatose were it not for the very stiff evidence of his interest. Pleased by the reaction, Jaskier turned his smile up a notch and offered up a slow, rolling rhythm of his hips against Geralt's.

"Not that I don't love a good soak, but if we moved things to the bed, I could blow you."

"Mm."

"Just an option." Jaskier glanced down. "Maybe sooner than later? I think that's a bit of kikimora floating in the water, and I don't love the thought of getting intimate with it."

"Fair enough."

Geralt stood, hooking Jaskier under the thighs and lifting him up in a single motion. Jaskier yelped and flung his arms delightedly around Geralt's neck, holding on tight with his knees as Geralt stepped out of the bath, carrying him like he weighed nothing at all.

"This is _unfair_," Jaskier gasped. "We're practically the same height, how do you—"

Geralt cut him off by dropping him onto the bed in a heap of limbs, which Jaskier had to admit was more of a turn-on than it should have been.

"You have no muscle mass," Geralt said flatly. "Have you ever even lifted a sword?"

"I'll have you know I've handled plenty of swords, thank you. In fact, I was just about to handle yours."

Jaskier held out one arm, beckoning him down to the bed. Geralt stepped closer, though not quite within reach, looking more amused than annoyed. But, listen—it was hard to look any kind of serious standing stark naked, dripping wet, and half hard. Not that Jaskier was laughing. His breath seemed to have got caught in his throat, in fact, and speechlessness wasn't something he was used to. The number of men he'd bedded at the brothel—the number of bodies he'd seen, and touched, and tasted, fucked and been fucked by—

After all this time, it wasn't fair that anyone should reduce him to _wanting_ like this.

"Can I kiss you?" he blurted, then was immediately mortified.

But something in Geralt's expression softened, and he finally came within reach. He stayed standing, waiting until Jaskier climbed to his knees so they were face to face again. Geralt's hair hung in his face in wet tendrils; tiny rivulets of water ran from his temples to his chin, mapping the planes and angles of his cheeks and jaws. His eyes glowed gold, soft and patient as Jaskier studied him, one hand on the Witcher's chest and the other hovering beside his face. Jaskier knew he could touch—knew the whole point of him being there was to touch—but there was something wild and ancient about the Witcher that held him back. It was like looking a wolf in the eye: he could recognize something of the tame dog in there, but it was so far removed as to be in a whole other world.

"Oh, fuck it," he whispered, and leaned in to press their lips together.

It was electrifying. It was like every other kiss he'd ever had was burned away, like they'd never mattered and could never compare.

Geralt kissed him back firmly, without hesitation, one hand coming up to cup Jaskier's face, the other settling back at his hip. He tasted like bonfire smoke and salt water and, underneath that, a little like blood, which Jaskier was trying not to think about. He wanted to focus on the wet heat of Geralt's mouth, the slide of his tongue and the way that he smiled against Jaskier's mouth when Jaskier nipped at him, teasing, just to see what he would do.

It was Geralt who moved first, sliding his hand from Jaskier's hip to his cock, wrapping his fingers firmly around it and eliciting a smothered gasp.

"Get down here," Jaskier murmured against Geralt's lips. "Perfectly good bed. Stop standing."

Geralt allowed himself to be pulled down, bracing himself against the bed with one knee as he pushed Jaskier down under him. Jaskier went willingly, wishing Geralt still had his shirt on, if only to give him something to hold onto. The Witcher was all impossibly broad shoulders, cut abs and thick biceps, acres of pale, scarred skin that Jaskier could barely get his arms around. It made it difficult to hang onto the man and get him in the position Jaskier wanted—namely, on his back, sprawled out for Jaskier to admire and finally—finally!—get his mouth on.

"Fuck's sake, you'd think you didn't want me to suck you off," he muttered, earning a smile from Geralt.

"Go ahead. Anything to shut you up for a minute."

"Oh, are you planning to finish that quickly?"

Geralt put one hand in the middle of Jaskier's chest and shoved, pinning him to the bed in a single move. Breathless, Jaskier stared up at him, hot all over and far too obviously bothered.

"Get on with it already, if you want it so much."

"You absolute brute. Yes, fine, I _will_ get on with it. Move." Scrambling up, Jaskier shoved and pulled Geralt into position, laying him out flat with his head on the pillow, propped up on one elbow. "Now stay," he said sternly, flattening himself to lay between Geralt's thighs.

Up close, his cock was even more impressive. Jaskier gave it an experimental stroke, and was gratified to see Geralt immediately melt under the first touch.

"Good," he said approvingly, and then set to work seeing how much of it he could fit in his mouth.

After some efforts, he had to conclude that the answer was, sadly, not very much at all.

"Short of unhinging my jaw like a snake, I don't know how much of this I can actually take," Jaskier said apologetically. "Was this one of your magical Witcher-potion side effects, or are you naturally this well-endowed?"

"You'd have to ask the other Witchers to compare," Geralt deadpanned.

Somehow, Jaskier doubted they could measure up.

"Well, never let it be said that I don't try my best. I won't be singing tomorrow night, in any case."

"You don't have to—"

"Shut up, of course I do."

He eventually found a rhythm in which he stuffed as much into his mouth as he could, and worked the rest with his fist, moving both up and down in tandem until the Witcher was panting, and gods, but what a thrill to reduce a man to _that_. It spurred him on faster, and alright, it was far from the best blowjob he'd ever given—he was drooling more than he'd like, and he really was a bit upset that he couldn't deepthroat the bastard, as it reflected poorly on his skills—but from the noises Geralt was making, it didn't seem to be a problem. Geralt's chest was heaving, his hands clenched into fists in the sheets, but he was altogether far better behaved than Jaskier had expected. Maybe the only reason he wasn't actively fucking Jaskier's mouth was that he didn't want to choke him to death, which, fine, Jaskier could appreciate, but—

He pulled off with a wet pop, folding his arms over Geralt's thighs. The Witcher looked at him, bewildered.

"You can pull my hair, if you like," Jaskier said matter-of-factly. "I like that." And then he sank straight back down onto his cock as if he hadn't spoken at all.

"Fuck," Geralt groaned, but he moved both hands to Jaskier's head, petting him for a second before tangling his fingers in his hair and holding on tight.

It sent shivers across his scalp and Jaskier hummed appreciatively, running scales (less sexy and more habitual, unfortunately), and moving his tongue just so to make sure Geralt knew how good it felt, until Geralt swore and tried to tug him off.

"Wait, wait—"

Jaskier took him an extra inch, glancing up just long enough to see Geralt's face as he came. Jaskier swallowed, because he could do that much, at least, and sucked him through the aftershocks before pulling off.

"I told you to wait," Geralt said, but he didn't look overly upset.

"Sorry," Jaskier said innocently, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I got caught up in the moment." He laid Geralt's cock down against his thigh, where it twitched once more before going soft. "You know the stories they tell about Witcher stamina…"

"I'm not getting it up again that quickly."

Jaskier gave it an appreciative pat before crawling up the bed to sprawl beside Geralt on the pillows. He crooked one elbow under him, propping his head up in his hand as he lay on his side to watch the Witcher, who—oh, fuck, his eyes were already drifting closed. He was one of those, then.

Jaskier prodded him in the shoulder and was rewarded with a long blink.

"Are you falling asleep already?"

"Mmhm."

"This is less than impressive. The one chance I might ever have to get a Witcher in my bed, and you're going to spend it sleeping!"

"Should've thought of that before deciding not to wait. I could be fucking you right now, but you had to finish me off too soon."

Jaskier's jaw dropped.

Geralt cracked one eye open. "You want me to get you off?"

"No, I can take care of myself, thanks."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself." And, to all appearances, drifted straight into sleep.

Jaskier studied him. He needed the rest, clearly—even freshly bathed and glowing with that post-orgasmic haze, he looked exhausted. The last town hadn't let him stop there; Jaskier wondered how many other towns before that had hired him, let him kill their monsters, and then driven him back onto the road. Too many, he warranted. It was unjust, is what it was. Even setting aside Jaskier's apparent bias for the Witcher, who could meet him and dismiss him as no better than the beasts he hunted?

So, Jaskier let him sleep. He could wait for another chance to ride him like a pony; they had all night, after all. It's not like he was achingly hard and unsatisfied.

"Fuck," he muttered, shifting around to rub himself against the sheets.

He'd been such an idiot to pass up that offer. Not that being left unfinished was anything unusual. Though he always tried his level best to get off alongside his clients, their pleasure was his priority, and sometimes they didn't care to return the favour. That was fine. At least Geralt had offered. And Jaskier had no doubt he'd have made good on it, too. He was a considerate partner, really, willing to meet Jaskier halfway. Kissing him when he asked, pulling his hair just right—

"Fuck," Jaskier repeated, with slightly more feeling.

He recognized that swoop of butterflies in his stomach, the way they warmed him from the inside out. Idiot, idiot! He knew better than to fall for his clients. He'd even steeled himself against the regulars, the ones who met him with a smile and a kiss. The ones who made him feel wanted, cherished. It wasn't real outside the bedroom, and he knew that. He'd built up walls around his spaniel heart.

But apparently all it took to crumble them was an hour with a taciturn Witcher who wasn't nearly so hard on the inside as he looked from without (and he _was_ hard: Jaskier had firsthand proof of just how hard he could get). The man had walked in all stoic and steely-eyed and covered in blood and guts, absolutely disgusting, and apparently—apparently, that did it for Jaskier.

And then there was that other feeling simmering underneath it, drawing him to the Witcher like a magnet before they'd spoken a single word to each other. Something stronger than an infatuation born of endorphins and serotonin, something older and far harder to fight.

Well, shit. Alright.

"I can tell you're going to be terrible for me," Jaskier said softly, reaching over to smooth Geralt's hair back from his face.

"Hm?" Geralt said, barely stirring.

"I'm singing you a lullaby. Hush."

He began to hum, more to keep himself from saying anything ridiculous or incriminating than out of any belief that Geralt of Rivia needed a song to lull him to sleep. The tune was an old one, half-remembered from his childhood, rocked in his mother's lap. Something about yellow flowers dancing in the sun. When he couldn't recall the words, he sang shapeless sounds, soft and barely more than a whisper, one hand resting on Geralt's chest as it rose and fell with his steady breaths. When he ran out of one song, he trailed into another, until Geralt finally groaned and opened his eyes.

"Singing."

"Yes, I've been gracing you with the beauty of my voice. You're welcome."

Apparently resigning himself to wakefulness, Geralt sat up, leaning back against the headboard. "You trained for it?"

"I was a bard, before this, though I never managed to make much of a name for myself."

"You earn better coin whoring than singing?"

"A bard without a muse is like a whore without a cunt. Not impossible to earn a living without, but it does make things more challenging."

Geralt looked pointedly between Jaskier's legs.

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Yes, alright, or any other hole. But I do earn significantly less than my female compatriots. Not everyone takes your 'any port in a storm' approach." He nestled in against Geralt's side, tracing patterns over his ribs. "Do you actually have a preference, other than 'not scared of you?'"

Geralt shrugged. "Not really."

"More interested in the soul than the body?" Jaskier guessed, then sat up and prodded at him excitedly, keeping his voice light to hide his interest in the answer. "Is the great Geralt of Rivia a secret romantic, under all that grime and armour?"

Geralt swatted him away. "No. I don't take lovers outside of brothels, and when I'm in them, I don't care what my partner has between their legs, so long as we both get off." He paused. "I am sorry about that. It's been…a long day."

Jaskier bit back his disappointment. "I accept your apology, and I'm sure you can think of some way to make it up to me. Have you had enough time to recover? I mean, I know I give good head, but I can admit that wasn't my best work." He chanced a look down Geralt's body. "Eh, you seem fine. Let's go."

He climbed on top of Geralt, chest to chest, their legs tangled together as he folded his hands over Geralt's sternum and began pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to his jaw.

"Are you sure it's your lack of a cunt that makes you less popular, and not your godawful manners?" Geralt asked pleasantly, holding him by the hips.

"How dare you. My manners are excellent." Jaskier dug in with his teeth for a second before sitting up just far enough to look him in the eye. "You weren't complaining when I had my mouth on your cock."

"So do that again. I liked the quiet."

"Oh, fuck off. Listen: I've been very patient, but I'd really like to ride you until we both pass out, so if you don't have any more objections, that's what I'm going to do. Alright?"

"Don't hurt yourself."

"Please. I'm a professional."

And he was, but that was beside the point. As much as he loved living in the lap of luxury, and as much as he enjoyed being admired and fawned over, he really didn't mind a little pain along with his pleasure. When the stretch was just a little too much, the fucking just on the side of too rough—it was like getting manhandled or having his hair pulled. It never failed to send a delicious shiver all the way down his spine. So no, maybe he couldn't fit Geralt down his throat like he wanted (pesky jawbones ruining his fun), but he'd be damned if he wasn't going to take it up the arse.

He slicked Geralt up with oil from the nightstand, bringing him to full hardness with a single touch, pushed two fingers into himself, and called it ready. He could probably use more than the standard prep work he gave himself every evening on the off chance one of his regulars stopped by looking for a quickie, but honestly, he'd waited long enough, and if he didn't get Geralt in him right that minute, he might actually die.

"No, you won't," Geralt replied when he said it aloud, but he was starting to look a bit undone around the edges too.

"You want this as much as I do," Jaskier said, straddling his hips as he held Geralt's cock in one hand behind him, getting everything lined up. "So stop faking."

When he sank down onto it, Geralt's fingers clenched around his hips, digging in, and the Witcher moaned, his head falling back against the pillow. Jaskier moaned too, more theatrically, though he hadn't taken more than an inch yet. He might be desperate for it and he might like a little pain, but he didn't actually want to tear himself in half.

"Oh, fuck that's good," he gasped.

His thighs were shaking with the effort of holding himself up, and he wanted nothing more than to sink down and take it to the hilt, but it was too much too soon. Biting his lips, he rolled his hips in tiny circles, working his way down a fraction of an inch at a time. Under him, Geralt growled—the sound was as good as he'd imagined, and fuck, the temptation to let Geralt flip them over and fuck him into the mattress was a powerful one.

"Hang on," he said, either to Geralt or to himself, he couldn't be sure. He splayed both palms out over Geralt's chest to steady himself, leaning forward as he took it deeper. "Almost there."

"Fuck," Geralt bit out. "Come on—"

Jaskier's arse hit Geralt's thighs as he finally bottomed out and they both held still for a second, panting. It was overwhelming, how full he felt and how tight it was, burning hot and all but splitting him in two.

"Okay," he gasped, his head hanging forward as he tried to adjust. "This is good. This is fine."

"You alright?"

"Yes, fuck, I'm—I'm great. I'm fantastic. Just give me a moment."

"This was your idea," Geralt reminded him.

"Ah, yes, I'm well aware."

Taking a deep breath, Jaskier set a slow, rocking rhythm that was soon excruciating for the both of them. He didn't get to ride on top very often, and he was determined to enjoy the view. And Geralt responded beautifully under him: desperate but trying to look unaffected, even as his skin shone with sweat and his nails dug crescents into Jaskier's hips. The biting pain was a lovely contrast to the deep ache inside him, and between the two sensations, Jaskier writhed and moaned and panted and rode Geralt like he was determined to wring every ounce of self-control from the man—which was exactly true. He wanted to see Geralt come apart and be the cause of it, hear what he sounded like when he really unravelled. The blowjob had been a nice trial run, but neither of them had been at their best. Jaskier wanted to really fuck him and see what happened.

"You're so weirdly polite when you have your cock in me," Jaskier panted, rolling his hips. "Do you not want to pin me down and ravage me? I have to admit, it's what I expected."

"I thought this was what you wanted," Geralt ground out.

"Yes! It is! And I'm having a lovely time up here, riding you like a—" Not a pony. Bigger and much more impressive than a pony. "A stallion. I just—you know, the stories you hear—"

"You thought I'd fuck you like an animal," Geralt supplied.

"Well, yes, rather. Not that this isn't perfect," Jaskier added hastily.

He was getting good at reading the nuance in Geralt's expressions, which generally ranged from flat annoyance to outright glares, but now he looked shuttered, like he had closed himself off. Ah, fuck. Probably shouldn't have compared him to an animal when it was clearly a sensitive issue. Why did he have to open his stupid mouth? Geralt had seemed content to let Jaskier ride him, happy to let him set the pace, and they both could have worked their way up to a really spectacular orgasm if Jaskier had just held his tongue for once in his bloody life.

Idiot.

"I didn't mean—" he began, fumbling as he tried to right their course, but Geralt didn't let him finish. He flipped them over like it was nothing, pulling out and pinning Jaskier on his back, his hands wrapped around Jaskier's wrists and bearing down with his full weight. Jaskier squeaked and held very still, staring wide-eyed up into Geralt's glare.

"Is this what you want?" Geralt asked.

"I'm here in your service," Jaskier breathed. "You should do whatever pleases you."

With a growl, Geralt turned him over, forcing him face-down against the pillow. Jaskier went pliant at his manhandling, thrilled when he should be scared. Even when Geralt bit down, digging his teeth into that junction of muscle where his neck met his shoulder, Jaskier couldn't be afraid of him. He shivered and moaned and spread his legs, wordlessly encouraging Geralt on.

"Fuck," Geralt muttered, the word hot against his skin, and he drove back in, all the way in a single thrust. It would have hurt if Jaskier weren't so turned on. As it was, it felt amazing: like being emptied out and filled with nothing but the Witcher, through and through.

Jaskier keened and buried his face, pushing back for more of it as Geralt crushed their bodies together, holding him close as he fucked him at a punishing pace. He wasn't going to be able to walk tomorrow, maybe longer, and he sure as hell wasn't taking any clients for a few days. He couldn't regret a thing. Distantly, he was aware that he was chanting Geralt's name, almost voicelessly, interspersed with a desperate chorus of _fuck, fuck, fuck_.

Stars burst across his vision as heat flooded his limbs, tensing from the inside out as he writhed on Geralt's cock, desperate for him to hit that sweet spot again. Geralt doubled down, biting and mouthing at him as they both teetered on the brink. Jaskier was ready to beg for it—fuck, he was ready to die for it, he was so close. He hadn't come earlier, a whole evening of pent-up energy boiling inside him, and now that he was finally at Geralt's mercy the way he'd wanted, the damned Witcher wouldn't let him come.

"Please—"

His voice broke on the syllable, but Geralt didn't let up. He kept Jaskier's hands pinned by his head, rubbing up against his prostrate with every thrust, but never enough to bring him over the edge. While they had started fast, Geralt fucking him hard and relentless, now he was agonizingly slow, like he wanted to torture Jaskier to death rather than have mercy and let him finish.

"Not so talkative anymore?" Geralt asked, his voice low in Jaskier's ear.

"Fuck you," Jaskier sobbed. "Please, fuck, I'll do anything you want, just—"

"Tell me you want it."

"Oh, fuck! I do! I want it—I want _you_. Stupid, perfect, gorgeous Witcher, with your perfect, ridiculous body and your growling and the way you act like you're so stoic and untouchable but you're really not—fuck—and your giant cock, want that too, obviously— Gods, please, Geralt, please touch me—"

Geralt shuddered and released one of his hands, sliding his own underneath Jaskier's body to finally, finally grasp hold of his cock. Jaskier pushed his hips up and back to make space, nearly crying by the time Geralt had his fingers wrapped around him. It was fucking bliss, having something warm like that to fuck against, especially with those sword-callouses just the right side of rough against his sensitive skin.

"You're perfect, you're so good, Geralt, you feel so good—"

Geralt tightened his grip and Jaskier came with a shout, the pleasure whiting out his vision for a moment as he went limp and collapsed against the mattress. He felt tingly all over, his limbs leaden as pleasure coursed through him from top to bottom and back again. When he returned to himself, lax and exhausted, Geralt had his teeth buried in the meat of his shoulder, marking him like an animal. He came with a growl before dropping down against Jaskier, their bodies sticking together with sweat. Gradually, their breathing synched, and they lay together for a while, panting as they tried to catch their breath.

"Alright?" Jaskier asked eventually.

Geralt grunted and rolled off him, which was no less than expected. Jaskier stretched from his fingers to his toes, luxuriating in the full-body ache that was barely distinguishable under the pleasantly warm glow of a good orgasm. Oh, he would hurt tomorrow, to be sure, but for now, he felt delicious. He almost didn't want to ruin the moment by investigating the damage done, but he wasn't foolish enough to fall asleep without checking. Gingerly, he pressed one finger between his legs, wincing at the tenderness there, then blushing hot at the feeling of Geralt's seed wet and sticky against his fingers. But there was no blood, so despite his best efforts, he hadn't in fact managed to split himself in two. Good. Excellent. He could go ahead and sleep, then.

Geralt was already asleep, to all appearances: laying on his side, facing away from Jaskier, and not making a sound. Jaskier couldn't shake the feeling that, though they'd both been satisfied, he had somehow managed to fuck things up.

He curled up against Geralt's back like a shell, a hair's breadth away from touching him, and ran one hand delicately over his shoulder. "Geralt. Geralt?"

"Hm?"

"Don't ignore me."

"You told me to do what pleases me."

"Oh, for—"

Taking a grip on Geralt's shoulder, Jaskier turned him onto him back, or rather, Geralt allowed himself to be turned.

"You've got me till the morning, so don't go giving me the cold shoulder until the next time you're ready to fuck me."

Geralt looked impassive.

Jaskier bit his lip. "I'm sorry."

Geralt just watched him.

"For suggesting you'd be an animal in bed. Or at all. I didn't mean it like that. People talk about Witchers like they're uncivilized beasts or that they have no emotions, but they can't both be true. I don't think either of them are." His voice was soft, his eyes downcast as his gaze drifted over Geralt's myriad scars. Bites and claw marks, deep gouges across his body—but knife wounds, too, clearly made by more human fights. Carefully, he traced the marks with one finger, his touch ghosting over Geralt's skin. "You're not a monster, and I didn't want you just because I thought you could fuck me like one."

"You wanted me because I could pay." Geralt's voice was rough, but calm, like he'd expected nothing less.

"A bonus," Jaskier confessed, "but if I saw you in the street or in a tavern, I'd have wanted you just as much. I'd have followed you around like a stray dog until you paid attention to me, and then I'd have worked my way into your bed sooner or later for no coin at all. I'm very persistent."

"I can tell."

Jaskier hesitated. Geralt's skin was warm under his hand, and though he hadn't actually forgiven him—or even admitted he'd been hurt in the first place—he hadn't moved away, either. He had to feel that same magnetic tug that Jaskier did, like their bodies wanted to be joined every minute they were together.

"Kiss me?" Jaskier whispered.

Geralt slowly turned towards him, raising one hand to Jaskier's face, though he waited for Jaskier to close the distance and press their lips together. Jaskier shut his eyes and leaned into it, quietly desperate for that closeness. It wasn't the earlier desperation of wanting to come, but he hated being left alone after sex. If they had a bed as big and rich as this one, it was downright criminal not to take advantage. Without breaking the kiss, he groped for the furs they had kicked to the bottom, pulling them up over their legs as he pressed his whole body against the Witcher, entwining their legs and trapping him there.

"You can't be ready to go again already," Geralt murmured, still kissing him.

"Gods, no. But I'll be damned if you think you can sleep on the far side of the bed without holding me till the next round."

Geralt's eyes blinked open. "You're a cuddler." He sounded resigned.

"Yes, I am. And tonight, you are, too."

Geralt sighed and settled onto his back as Jaskier made a contented noise and nestled in against him, laying his head on his shoulder as Geralt obligingly wrapped his arms around him.

"You make a very good pillow," Jaskier informed him, patting his chest. "Nice and firm."

"Thanks."

His tone was dry, but Jaskier could tell he wasn't actually displeased.

"What are your feelings on Destiny?" Jaskier wondered aloud. He wouldn't have asked if he weren't so close to sleep, but everything felt hazy and unreal, like the words he spoke didn't have the same meaning as they would if he said them in the daylight.

"We're not on speaking terms."

"My mother used to tell me a story about soulmates. How sometimes, two people's fates are so entwined that they can recognize each other at a glance, without a word spoken."

"Sounds like a fairy tale."

Jaskier yawned. "Yeah, it does. Still sounds nice, though."

Assured that he wasn't going to be ignored or neglected, Jaskier shut his eyes, feeling inexplicably safe in the Witcher's arm.

"Does that have a scent, too?" he asked sleepily.

"Does what?"

"Contentment, or…happiness, or what have you." He imagined it smelled like sunshine, or wildflowers. Whatever warmth and brightness smelled like.

Geralt was quiet, and if he answered, it wasn't before Jaskier fell asleep.

xXx

Dawn broke gently, her fingers slipping over the horizon until the whole sky was painted gold and periwinkle blue. Normally, Jaskier slept straight through the morning, especially when he'd been given as good a workout as the one he'd got, but this time he woke early. Geralt was already awake, though he hadn't moved. His eyes looked warm in the dawn light, glowing in the few rays that had made their way around the curtains, and his hair looked silky now that it was no longer damp or filthy.

"Morning," Geralt rasped. If Jaskier had thought his voice was gravelly last night, that had nothing on it now. "We slept through the last of our appointment."

"I'm sure we can fit in one more round before the bawd comes to kick you out."

Jaskier stretched, and there was that ache he'd been expecting. He couldn't move an inch without a reminder of what they'd done. If he had to get up and function like a human he might actually die, but what a way to go.

"Hm. Maybe."

"Let me call you another bath, at least. Even I can tell we stink of sex."

"In a minute. Come here."

Geralt drew him into a lazy kiss, his hands roaming and his tongue pushing to meet Jaskier's midway between their mouths, despite the sour taste of morning breath. Jaskier wrinkled his nose but didn't push him off, even though he wished they might have washed their mouths out first. Gods, he could still taste Geralt from last night, which was partly disgusting but mostly hot.

Instead of saying any of that out loud, he slipped his hand between their bodies, working his way south to find Geralt's cock where it was pressed up hard against his thigh.

"Very good morning," he murmured, mouthing at Geralt's jaw and enjoying the rasp of stubble there. "How do you want it? I'm up for anything."

"You can't fit it in your mouth and I don't think your arse is in any state to get fucked right now."

"How dare you, sir—"

Geralt silenced him with another kiss, pushing him onto his back to rub against him. It was nothing like the night before: just lazy warmth and rolling hips like they had all the time in the world. Jaskier wrapped his arms around Geralt's shoulders and enjoyed the ride. They smelled like sex and sweat, but he was still relaxed and pliant from before, and Geralt's hair still smelled like that perfumed soap he had washed it with, so much cleaner than the leather oil and horse he had stank of when he'd first come into the brothel.

Jaskier kind of wanted to get fucked by him when he smelled like that, though, monster guts and all. It was possible he had a problem.

"Fuck," he muttered. He'd really hoped those butterflies had been an illusion born of a good orgasm, and would have dispersed overnight.

"Hm?"

"Nothing, I just—"

_Might have fallen in love with you after a single night. My bad?_

No. Couldn't say that.

_I'm pretty sure we're destined to be together, because I've never felt this way about anyone before. It feels bigger than lust, brighter than love, like you've burrowed your way into the heart of me, and I don't know how to cut you out again._

"Just fuck."

There was nothing better than lazy morning sex, and after they were done, they lay side by side, watching the dust motes dance in the sunbeams.

Eventually, Geralt said, "I should go. Before your bawd comes to make sure you're still in one piece."

"I'm sure she's had someone checking in through the keyhole," Jaskier said dismissively.

He'd be surprised if the girls hadn't been glued to the door all night, waiting to see if the big bad Witcher was going to eat him alive. He hoped they'd got their fill of entertainment. At least no one had come barging in to save him, thank the gods.

Geralt snorted and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed and heading for the bath where he'd left his clothes. Jaskier sat up too, watching him go as a strange feeling coiled its way through his stomach. Not fear, but nerves. Could Geralt smell nervousness? Surely.

On cue, Geralt glanced up in the midst of pulling on his boots, a frown creasing his brow. Jaskier plastered on a hasty smile.

"What," Geralt said flatly.

"What?" Jaskier repeated, his voice pitching up. He winced as Geralt's eyes narrowed. "It's just a shame you have to go, that's all."

"I'm flattered," Geralt said dryly, "but your prices were high enough already without my doubling them."

"You wouldn't have to pay."

He lifted one eyebrow. "Thanks, but I know better than to take compliments from a whore."

The hurt must have shown on Jaskier's face, because Geralt sighed and stepped closer. "It was a good night. I'll be sure to stop here next time I'm in town."

"Sure. We're the best whorehouse on the continent, you know." But his words rang hollow, even to his own ears.

Geralt studied him. "I've insulted you."

Jaskier heaved himself from the bed and donned his own clothes. He disliked being naked for serious conversations, and it seemed Geralt wasn't going to leave without trapping him in one. "It's fine. We both know I'm a whore. I know how I look, and I know how to use that to my advantage around certain types of men. It's why I'm good at this."

"What type of man is that?"

"The ones who like to feel big and strong and powerful, and have something pretty but meaningless hanging off their arm or in their lap for a night. That's not you, though. I don't see a man like you having any need for something pretty. And especially not something useless."

"I don't."

Jaskier smiled. It felt brittle. "And yet, here we are."

"You're not useless."

"No, I'm not, actually."

Geralt had slept through the night like the dead, but he suddenly looked exhausted again. "What do you want from me?"

"Take me with you." He—he hadn't meant to say that. Oh, fuck.

"You're good, but you're not that good. I've no need for a personal whore."

The words were harsh, but the tone was strangely gentle. Well, there was no taking it back now. Jaskier doubled down.

"Your cock thinks otherwise, but that's not what I was suggesting. I told you I was a bard, before this. Let me come with you, and I'll build you a whole new reputation. People look at you and still see the Butcher. With me by your side, I can weave you a new image. Something—not friendly, but less demonized."

"You want to save me." Geralt's voice was wry. "Isn't this conversation supposed to go the other way around?"

"I have quite a comfortable life here, I'll have you know. Have I dreamed of something with considerably more glory and heroics? Yes, naturally. But I'm not asking you to be some sort of white knight for me. I've been getting by happily enough without you."

"Happy getting on your knees for any stranger rich enough and sad enough to pay for a scrap of your company?"

"I like sex! A shocking concept, I know. Do I always have the most ideal partner with whom to get it on? Unfortunately, no, they can't all be Geralt of bloody Rivia. Though rich and sad is hardly the most flattering description of them—you do realize you're including yourself in those words, yes?"

Geralt looked at him, long-sufferingly.

"Whoo boy, we do not have time to unpack that clusterfuck of a self-image. Look: I want to come with you, which means I'm almost certainly going to follow you out of here whether you like it or not. So make it easier on both of us, and just say yes."

"No."

Jaskier rolled his eyes. "Oh, go on. I'm not asking out of sentimentality. This is purely practical."

That was a lie. Falling in love was a fucking terrible quality in a whore, but the Witcher didn't need to know there were feelings involved, and he definitely didn't need to know it was Destiny. He might not be the emotionless machine people said he was, but he wasn't the type to fall for a one-night stand, and he certainly wasn't the type to be bullied around by fate. Idiot, Jaskier.

"You'll get yourself killed, tagging along with me."

"I can look after myself."

"I need a bard even less than I need a whore."

"Now you're just grasping at excuses."

Throwing caution to the wind, Jaskier crossed the room and closed the space between them, putting both hands on Geralt's chest. He was dressed now, the leather hard and cool under Jaskier's palms. He wanted to strip it off, to get them both in the bath again, to bury his hands in Geralt's hair and say _Look, I know you can be soft. I know you feel things. Just let me in._

"Take me with you," he said softly. "Even if you don't want a bard or a whore or a bedwarmer or someone to sing your praises—don't you want more company than your horse, for once? We don't have to fuck. I could just be your friend."

"I don't have friends."

"Then I can be your first. Go on. Say yes. Let me prove myself."

The Witcher looked lost. "Why?"

"Because—"

He was sick of hearing stories of the world from other people, and only seeing it through windows, and imagining all the things he could be doing, the lives he could be living, people he could meet and monsters and kingdoms and glories he could see if only he weren't cooped up between these four walls.

And because every time they touched, it felt like magic sparking underneath his skin, thrilling and warm, and he had the unshakable feeling that he'd never feel that again with anyone else.

"Because my debt is paid and I have no reason to stay here anymore, besides complacency, which has never really been my thing. And I can't think of anyone I'd rather travel with to see the world than you."

"We've known each other twelve hours," Geralt said tiredly. "Pin your hopes and dreams on someone else." He turned for the door.

"Bollocks—Geralt, wait!"

Geralt paused, one hand on the door.

"It's true that we've only known each other twelve hours, but it doesn't take that long to recognize a muse. You may not be on speaking terms with Destiny, but if you walk out of here, I will follow you. And our paths will keep crossing until one day, even if it's years from now, you'll realize it's inevitable."

"It's not Destiny. It's a whim, and it will pass."

"Like fuck it will." Jaskier spread his arms wide. "Tell me you don't feel a single thing when you look at me. Tell me it means nothing that I'm not afraid of you when everyone else in the world thinks you're a heartless monster. I can make them see you differently! Let me make them love you."

"Like you love me?"

Jaskier's mouth snapped shut.

Geralt shook his head. "That's not real. Goodbye, Jaskier."

Jaskier felt his heart stop, stood still as if struck as Geralt walked away and shut the door behind him. The seconds lengthened into minutes before he could will himself move, and when he finally broke the stillness, he swore and scrambled into action. He grabbed a handful of belongings—a bag, into which he stuffed his favourite clothes, and his lute, which he packed with far more care—before slinging them both over his shoulders and lunging for the door.

"Which way did he go?" he demanded, dashing through the sitting room.

"Here, take this." The bawd pressed a coin purse into his hands. "Your pay from last night. Why? What did he do?"

"He's trying to break my fucking heart. Where did he go?"

"To the stable, for his horse."

Jaskier tore from the brothel, rounded the corner, and dashed to the stable as fast as his feet could carry him. But Geralt had a head start, and if he got his horse ready quickly enough, he'd be lost before Jaskier ever even had him.

"Fucking Witcher, allergic to his fucking feelings," he muttered, skidding to a halt outside the stable.

Geralt was leading a handsome chestnut mare to the road, looking ten times more the great Witcher of legend than he ever had in the soft, dark shadows of the brothel. In the daylight, his black leathers looked battle-hardened, and alongside his mount, he seemed ready to ride into death and glory without looking back. Seeing him like this, Jaskier could hardly imagine him indoors at all. It was like he belonged in the woods and the wilds.

And Jaskier knew how he looked: slight and delicate, flamboyant in his silks and velvet, too accustomed to life's fineries to ever hack it on the open road. A spring flower that would shed its petals after a single season next to Geralt's everlasting redwood. He understood why Geralt turned him down.

But looks were deceiving. He wasn't a garden flower so much as a weed, determined to cling on even in the most inconvenient of places.

"Geralt of Rivia!" he called.

The Witcher paused, his shoulders tensed. "Go home, Jaskier."

"I told you I'd follow you if you left me behind. I'm a lot of things, but I'm not a liar. So think of it this way: either you accept your fate and acknowledge that your horse isn't the only one who enjoys your company, or cast me aside and let the first monster you come across tear me apart, because I'm not leaving. You're it for me, Geralt. You're the one."

There was a long pause. The sun shone; the birds sang. The horse huffed and flicked her tail at the flies before butting her head against the Witcher's shoulder, as if telling him to get on with it already. He gave her forelock a gentle tug and murmured something in her ear before turning to fix Jaskier with a flat glare.

"Stop being so fucking dramatic. I wouldn't let anything kill you."

Hope surged in his chest like a tidal wave. "You'll let me come, then?"

Geralt snorted and Jaskier waved one hand through the air. "Yes, yes, very funny. But—you'll let me accompany you? As a bard or—I don't care what use you put me to, a whore or a barker or a friend, whatever you like. But I can come?"

"A friend," Geralt said slowly, like he was testing out the word.

Jaskier beamed and bounced forward, taking hold of Geralt's arm. "Don't hurt yourself; we can work up to that. So, where to first?"

"The next town is twenty miles out. We'll reach it by sundown."

The elation of being accepted as a travel companion abruptly plummeted as the reality set in. Normally, fresh air and exercise were lovely, especially in this weather. But at the moment, when he was feeling more than a little tender in certain places… "Ah. That's quite a bit of walking, isn't it?"

Geralt swung into the saddle and nudged the horse forward without looking down. "If you can't keep up, you can't come."

"Right. Well. I can't ride right now anyway, so that's fine. I'll just—wait, hang on, don't leave yet!"

He trotted after the horse and rider, clutching his bags as they flapped around him. Geralt didn't rein his horse in, but Jaskier wasn't imagining the smile that lurked in the corner of his mouth, either.

"You, sir, are a tease."

"Am I."

"A tease and a menace, I'll have you know."

"Save your breath," Geralt advised. "You'll need it, walking at this pace all day."

"Walking all day, fighting monsters all night—or are we fucking all night? You never did specify."

"Shut up."

Jaskier laughed but shut his mouth, adjusting the shoulder straps of his bag as he settled in alongside Geralt's stirrup. But he couldn't help but notice, as they left the streets and buildings behind, that despite Geralt's threats of abandonment, he never urged the horse faster. She walked along sedately, pausing here and there to investigate a weed or a flower sprouting by the roadside, and Geralt never hurried her on.

Jaskier smiled to himself and looped one hand around the stirrup, the sun-warmed leather soft and comforting against his skin. As they left the town behind and the road beneath them turned from hard-packed grey dirt to soft red soil, green fields opened up to either side, broken only by trees in the distance. And in the fields, sunning themselves in between the shady spots of the great tree trunks, were dots of cheerful yellow dandelions, which bloomed without a care in the world.


	113. (E) STUCKY - With His Educated Eyes, and

with his educated eyes, and his head between my thighs  
spacebuck

Summary:  
Living with an alpha was usually … difficult. The last alpha he'd shared a building with, some asshole whose name Steve had forgotten almost immediately, had been pushy – scenting the entire building, walking up and down the hallway of Steve's floor on regular days, let alone when Steve was in heat. After a week of the guy literally scratching at his door, Steve had packed up and left, and the landlady hadn't blamed him – had even given him back his bond, though she had been entitled to keep it given the circumstances.

The worst part had been when they had crossed paths as Steve had been preparing to move out. The alpha had leered at Steve, catcalled and coaxed, puffed up and made his scent that much more potent. Convinced for some reason that Steve would mate him just because of his designation. Fat chance. Steve had held his breath the last time they had been face to face, refused to look at him, thrown the guy's hand off when he'd tried to stop Steve from leaving.

Bucky though? Perfect. Fucking. Gentleman.

And it drove Steve nuts.

* * *

At first glance, Steve Rogers was the perfect omega. Small, elegantly thin, a soft mop of blond hair and big, almost childlike blue eyes. If he let you close enough, you could trace the blue spiderwebs of veins, standing out starkly against the pale skin, and long, artistic fingers, free from any calluses bar those from pencils and paintbrushes.

But that's as far as the 'perfect omega' ruse goes. Because Steve Rogers knows exactly how he looks, and exactly how an omega _should_ behave.

And he does the opposite.

Ask anyone why and they'll just say "That's Steve for ya," and leave it at that.

Steve's always been a contrary sonofabitch.

The phone ringing brought him back to himself, and Steve sighed, gave one last look at the canvas he was working on, before leaning over and grabbing it. "This is Steve," he answered, wedging his cell between his ear and shoulder. He wiped his hands off on the rag beside him as he listens to his landlord on the other end.

"Hey, Rogers, you know that empty apartment down the hall from you?"

Steve hummed his assent, knowing exactly where this was going. The landlord wouldn't be calling _him_ for any other reason than- "We've had interest, but it's from an alpha. Are you okay to come meet him?"

A polite way of asking _are you approaching heat_ if ever there was one.

"Yeah, he there with you now?" At the landlord's affirmation, Steve sighed, started to pack up his brushes. "Alright, I'll be down in a minute."

He hung up his phone, took a deep breath, let it out nice and slow. His landlord was a good guy, a beta, and he was just following protocol. Following the _law_ in fact. Omegas, rare as they were, had more than a handful of laws protecting them, and protecting their space. An alpha moving into their apartment block had to be approved by _every_ omega in that block, and he was the only one in this building. Steve shuddered to think why _that_ law existed.

No matter how much he told himself this, Steve was still mildly annoyed when he headed down the stairs five minutes later, refusing the part of him that wanted to preen at simply the _idea_ of meeting an alpha. He paused at the top of last flight of stairs, took a deep breath. The faint alpha scent reached his nose, and he hummed. If the guy was only a single flight down, it should've been stronger, and by that, Steve assumed it was an older alpha. As he headed down the stairs, he realised he couldn't have been more wrong.

The alpha had his back to him, and Steve took the opportunity to let his gaze drift, across and then down. He was big, bigger than Steve, and his long hair was pulled back into a loose bun. He was relaxed, comfortable, but even then Steve could see that he was broad as well as tall. When Steve realised he was in incredibly well-fitting jeans, he dragged his eyes back up with a gulp, refusing to stare at his frankly _fantastic_ ass.

_This could be interesting_.

Steve cleared his throat, put on a smile, and announced his presence with a "Hi, sorry to keep you waiting."

The guy turned, and Steve's mind stuttered to a halt. He smiled, and Steve's fingers itched to draw him, to let his pencil follow the curl of his lips, the cleft of his chin, up along the perfect curve of his nose. He itched to follow his pencil with his lips.

Before he could make a fool of himself, the alpha stepped forward, right hand extended. "Hey, I'm James, but I go by Bucky most of the time." Internally, Steve whined. _Even his voice was attractive_.

"Steve, nice to meet you," he said instead, shaking the offered hand before tucking his hands in his pockets.

When the alpha inhaled deeply, almost certainly scenting him, Steve raised an eyebrow, and the alpha- Bucky – flushed, caught. "Sorry," he murmured, and Steve nodded slightly, not about to start a ruckus over something instinctual like that. Even if it was rude.

Steve looked at the landlord, nodded slightly, and the man smiled, leading them both towards the interview room.

An hour later, Steve looked at the landlord, and said "I can live with him."

Bucky moved in a week and a half later.

It _worked_. Steve continued like he usually did, smiled at Bucky if they passed each other in the hall. Bucky kept to himself for the most part, even managed to keep his scent controlled. Steve could only smell him if he was passing Bucky's door, or if they were within arm's reach of each other. For the most part, it was like another beta had moved in. Normal.

And that's what had Steve stunned.

Living with an alpha was usually … difficult. The last alpha he'd shared a building with, some asshole who's name Steve had forgotten almost immediately, had been pushy – scenting the entire building, walking up and down the hallway of Steve's floor on regular days, let alone when Steve was in _heat_. After a week of the guy literally scratching at his door, Steve had packed up and left, and the landlady hadn't blamed him – had even given him back his bond, though she had been entitled to keep it given the circumstances.

The worst part had been when they had crossed paths as Steve had been preparing to move out. The alpha had leered at Steve, catcalled and coaxed, puffed up and made his scent that much more potent. Convinced for some reason that Steve would mate him just because of his designation. Fat chance. Steve had held his breath the last time they had been face to face, refused to look at him, thrown the guy's hand off when he'd tried to stop Steve from leaving.

Bucky though? Perfect. Fucking. Gentleman.

And it drove Steve nuts.

Hell, even when Steve could smell the rut-scent on the guy, he'd just smiled, albeit a little strained, waved a little, and locked himself in his apartment for a week. Steve had barely been able to tell that there was anything different, beyond the other man's absence.

So, when a week had passed, Steve knocked on Bucky's door, hoping he wouldn't be unwelcome, armed with an offer for dinner and a smile. Bucky had answered, somewhat surprised, looking exhausted, and Steve had managed to coax him into coming over for a proper cooked meal. Bucky had seemed surprised at the offer, and Steve understood. Not many omegas would be willing to let a unbonded alpha into their space, let alone one fresh out of rut. Honestly, Steve was surprised with himself, but he held his ground, smiling as Bucky hesitated, then nodded, before he slipped back into his apartment with a "Gimmie a minute," and leaving the door open, inviting.

From that point on, they were often around each other. Not expecting anything, not trying anything, just enjoying each other's company. Steve would frequently go bug Bucky if he hit an art-block, Bucky would come to him if he couldn't sleep. They talked, a _lot_, and Steve learned that the reason Bucky always wore long sleeves, always had his hands tucked in his pockets, was the high-tech prosthetic attached to his left shoulder. One sleepless night had held the confession that Bucky had been honourably discharged after an ambush on his squadron's camp. A lazy day had earned Steve admitting his ailments, from asthma to mild scoliosis to a now-repaired heart valve defect. (Bucky had stared at him for that, shocked, until Steve had tugged down the neckline of his shirt to show the scar on his sternum. Bucky had looked like he'd wanted to touch. Steve hadn't let himself think too hard about that).

They became unexpected friends, and when Sam met Bucky, he gave an approving nod, making the omega blush when he realised what Sam had thought, but he hadn't tried to explain, knowing the beta wouldn't have believed him.

When Steve met Nat, Bucky looked like he was regretting introducing them as they hit it off immediately, the alpha's concern making Nat pat his hand and tell him not to worry. Given the matching smirks Steve knew he and Nat were sporting, Steve could tell Bucky didn't believe her.

Honestly, Steve was pretty much gone for the alpha, and he was so focused on working that out for himself that it almost came as a surprise to Steve when the tickle in his spine started. It only took a couple of hours for that to build up to an itch, and only a day more for Steve to get snappy with the beta next door. With an internal grumble, he accepted the fact that he was indeed in preheat and starting locking the windows down, muttering under his breath about _inconsiderate biology_ the entire time.

He sat on his bed, staring at his phone, opening his messages before hesitating. Would it be too forward to ask Bucky to come over? Normally, no, but the alpha could probably smell the preheat from his room already, if he was there. Asking Bucky to come over now was pretty much a booty call, and they'd both know it. Even if they'd made plans to see each other that night.

Instead, he quickly typed out a message, sending it before he could change his mind.

_Steve:_ _hey, sorry I can't make it tonight, something's come up. Have fun without me (:_

It only took a few minutes before his phone buzzed in his hand, Bucky's reply coming up on his screen.

_Bucky:_ _sure thing, hope everything's okay!_

Steve considered responding, then sighed, locked his phone, and sat it on the dresser before standing, starting to strip the bed methodically. _Might as well get everything ready_.

Two days later, Steve woke with a gasp, shuddering as he came, hips rolling forward against the mattress. As he reluctantly opened his eyes, squinting in the dim light, the last traces of his dream fled, and he whined, fingers clenching in the pillow. All that remained was an impression of long hair, strong hands holding him down. _No prizes for guessing who that was,_ he thought to himself, pushing himself up with a groan as the overbearing need of heat faded slightly. Using the reprieve offered him, he wiped the faintly plasticky sheets off with a cloth before heading to the bathroom.

As he washed his hands, he stared at himself in the mirror, eyes narrowing at the obvious heat-flush on his cheeks. Before he could look too closely, he turned away, wiping his legs down before grabbing his favourite plug. A sigh, wiggle, and aborted moan later, he clenched around the silicone, biting his lip, waiting for himself to calm down as much as possible before heading for the kitchen as soon as he was sure he wouldn't be slicking up the chairs. Again.

He managed to heat up one of the microwave meals he had stocked for this very reason, and get through it without grinding back on the chair, and the plug, all too much, though that was more stubbornness than anything else. With a huff he threw the container in the bin and headed back to his bedroom, kicking the covers down to the end of the bed before falling back on it. He bit his lip, hands landing on his stomach as heat started to curl there again, dragged them down slowly as his eyes fell closed. Just as he reached one hand between his legs to tease at the base of the plug, a scent hit him, and he _whined_.

Steve's mouth fell open, and he took a ragged breath, the burn in his gut increasing as he registered Bucky's- an alpha's- scent. He whined again wordlessly, legs falling open and hips pushing back against the mattress, pressing the plug deeper.

A shudder ran through him as a low howl echoed, followed by a soft keening that he barely registered as coming from himself. The alpha scent increased, lingered and flared, and Steve whimpered, finally grabbing the plug and tugging it out, pressing three fingers into himself in its place. A twist of his fingers, and his head pressed back against the pillows, a moan catching in his throat.

And then- nothing.

Bucky's scent faded abruptly, and Steve mourned its loss with a whine, fingers pausing. Then the _need_ of heat pressed him on, and he curled them, working them in until he could drag them over his prostate, rubbing them as he wrapped his other hand around his cock, movements jerky as he brought himself off quickly. Flopping back against the sheets, he let out a shuddering breath, toes curling and uncurling as he tried to work out what had happened.

Bucky had gotten home, reacted to Steve's heat just like any alpha would. He'd approached, definitely. Then … left? He'd just… left?

God, Steve hoped that wasn't because he didn't want him like that. _God_ he hoped so.

Three days in, and Steve was a mess. Showers had led to interesting objects being put in interesting places, which despite his heat Steve was absolutely mortified about, and he'd been increasingly grateful to his past self for having given in and bought that vibrating dildo the year before. He was eyeing said dildo for the second time that hour when he heard- a knock?

Before he could respond, if he'd even have been able to, he caught the faint trace of alpha-scent, and then heard Bucky's voice - nearly an octave deeper, tense as anything, but Steve could tell he was forcing himself to actually use his words.

"Steve… Stevie." A pause. "I was gonna come past earlier but…" Bucky trails off, and Steve can almost _hear_ him grinding his teeth. "If you need anything, text me, let me know. Within reason of course," he added with a strained laugh. "I ain't robbin' a bank for ya." There's another pause, and Steve's starting to squirm, refusing to touch himself with Bucky there, refusing to do _that_ to Bucky, but everything in him is telling him that he's gotta do _something_. "Oh, uh there's a basket here? From…" there's a pause. "The lady down the hall. Think she likes you Stevie." There's another faint laugh, and Steve realises he should respond, but he doesn't think he can speak with heat clawing at his throat. So he grabs his phone, types out a garbled reply that, thankfully, autocorrect catches.

_Steve: thanks i will_

There was a pause, and Bucky laughed softly. "Alright then, see you in a few days." There was the sound of footsteps, Bucky's front door closing. Steve's once again stunned by this man, everything about him.

Or, he would have been, had he not been wrapping his fingers around his toy in near desperation.

The next day, in a moment of lucidity, Steve fussed. Phone in hand, he was torn between just texting Bucky, taking him up on his offer and more, and just leaving it for now, testing the waters when Bucky knew he wasn't jacked up on hormones. Shoving his face in his pillow, he made a noise of frustration, before finally giving in.

_Steve: please come over_

Before Steve even has a chance to regret it, there's a reply.

_Bucky:_ _r u sure?_

Jesus _Christ_ this man. Steve took a breath, pushed himself upright.

_Steve: you better hurry_

Steve hit send, then got to his feet. In some attempt at modesty, he tugged a shirt over his head, far too big and hanging to his knees as he haphazardly buttoned it halfway up his chest. He headed for the front door, swinging it open, and braced his feet, looking down the empty hall to Bucky's door. _C'mon c'mon c'mon._

A click echoed down the hall, and Bucky's door swung open. Steve met the alpha's gaze, holding it, holding his breath, and the moment seemed to last forever. Then Steve saw Bucky take a deep breath, eyes closing for a fraction of a second, before opening again, and there was something different there, something Steve couldn't place.

Steve took a step back, inviting. Bucky started forward, slow at first, but by the time he was within reach of Steve, he was nearly running. Bucky's hand landed on Steve's shoulder, gentle but immovable, and he pressed back, herding Steve into the apartment and away from prying eyes, kicking the door shut behind him. Then Bucky let go of him, and Steve caught a whine in his throat, looking up at the alpha with wide eyes.

"Are you sure?"

Steve shivered at Bucky's voice, low and smooth, and took a step back, until his back hit the opposite wall. Bucky froze at that, but Steve just tipped his head back, baring his throat, half in instinct, half in answer.

"Please. Yes, _please_ Buck." His voice cracked, and his eyes closed. Waiting.

Bucky broke the silence with a hoarse noise, almost a growl, and Steve was pinned to the wall before his eyes could open. He moaned, and Bucky dropped his head, mouth touching the bump of Steve's Adam's apple before trailing up to lick at Steve's racing pulse. A heavy hand landed on Steve's hip, gripping tight, and Steve shuddered, pressing forward against the line of Bucky's body. Bucky's teeth closed around Steve's pulse point, and a soft growl escaped Bucky as the alpha hooked his arm under Steve's ass, lifted. Steve gasped, taken aback by the strength in the prosthetic, before wrapping his legs around Bucky's waist, grinding their hips together. His head dropped, seeking, and Bucky rewarded him, lips sliding over Steve's as he carried the omega to the bedroom.

Steve sucked on Bucky's tongue as the alpha knelt on the bed, before slowly leaning forward until Steve's back hit the mattress. He blanketed the smaller man, mouth sliding across his cheek, then hummed in his ear, "You smell good."

Steve didn't respond, couldn't, instead rocking his hips up, rubbing himself against Bucky with a faint whine.

"Something you want Stevie?"

God, if Steve had known that Bucky would be a fucking tease… The thought trailed off as Bucky's mouth found Steve's again, as Bucky's hand stroked up Steve's side.

"Look at you, so needy baby. I got you," Bucky murmured, voice low, and Steve's head fell back, Bucky taking the opportunity to follow the line of his throat with his mouth. "Any other time and you'd hit me for saying it," the alpha murmured, pausing to suck a mark on Steve's throat. "But _fuck_ Stevie, you're gorgeous, look at you."

Steve made a noise in the back of his throat, one hand hitting Bucky's shoulder lightly, distractedly, and Bucky laughed. "Pretty baby," he purred, and Steve absolutely melted at the tone. "You know what I'm gonna do baby?" Bucky breathed, mouth ghosting over the jut of Steve's collarbone.

"Knot me hopefully," Steve managed to gasp, and Bucky huffed.

"I will baby, not just yet. M'gonna get my mouth on you first, taste your pretty little nipples," Bucky murmured, and paused to do just that, shoving the shirt out of the way to lick one of Steve's nipples, causing the omega to whine. He sucked, toyed with the nub between his lips, then grazed his teeth over it, causing Steve's back to arch up, pressing up into Bucky's mouth.

"Buck _please_," Steve whined, and he felt Bucky laugh against his skin, mouth dragging down further. Bucky licked over each rib, fingers working on the buttons of the shirt as he moved, and he shoved the fabric out of the way, the last button popping off in his haste.

"Wanna taste you Stevie, see if you taste as good as you smell," Bucky purred, and Steve whimpered, fingers tangling in Bucky's hair, yanking the hair tie out before clenching in the soft strands. Bucky nuzzled his nose along the crease of Steve's hip, licked at the gathered sweat there before tucking his nose against it, breathing in the scent of Steve, of omega, of _heat_.

Just as Steve started to relax, Bucky tipped his head, looked at Steve's cock for a moment before dragging his tongue up it, from base to tip.

Steve gasped, back arching and fingers tightening, yanking, and Bucky groaned, half at the feeling, half at the taste. Pleasure rolled through him as Bucky took it upon himself to spend long minutes licking and sucking at his cock. He only stopped when Steve gave a particularly brutal tug on his hair, lifted his head as Steve looked down at him and whined "_Please._"

As Bucky obliged, Steve bit his lip, breath speeding up as he felt Bucky's tongue trace up his thigh, following a cool trail of slick. "Roll over," the alpha murmured, and Steve did without hesitation, arms catching on his shirt before he managed to strip it off, throw it aside. Reaching one hand back, Steve curled his fingers in Bucky's shirt, stopping him before he could lean back in.

"Please, I need-" Steve cut himself off, but Bucky worked out what he wanted, sitting back and stripping his shirt off. Steve looked back over his shoulder, half focusing on the revealed skin of Bucky's chest, half watching Bucky's hands as they dropped to his jeans. Steve bit his lip as Bucky shoved his pants down, kicked them off, eyes tracking Bucky's dick, an encompassing feeling of _I need it in me **now**_ taking over him. He whined, low and demanding, ass lifting up and pressing back, only stilling when Bucky slid a palm over the curve of his hip, hushed him softly.

"You'll get it," Bucky murmured, as though he knew exactly what Steve was thinking, and leaned forward, pressed a kiss to the dip of Steve's spine, the slight twist. His mouth dragged down, and Steve held his breath, whimpering when Bucky palmed his cheeks and spread him wide, just staring for a moment that stretched into an eternity. "Look at you," Bucky whispered, voice catching. Before Steve could think of a response, Bucky leaned forward, and Steve wasn't thinking anymore as he felt the drag of Bucky's tongue, flat over his hole. He shuddered, pressed back, but Bucky leaned back slightly. Before Steve could question it, Bucky dived back in with a groan, rolling his tongue over Steve's hole, pressing against it, finding it loose from Steve's fingers mere hours ago. He flicked his tongue in, around, over the pucker, before working it into Steve, dragging moans from the omega. When Bucky moved a hand, pressed a thumb against Steve's hole, Steve shuddered, whimpering as he came sharp and sudden. Bucky paused, pressed a kiss against one cheek, before he licked again, working Steve through it, one hand stroking up and down Steve's side. Steve moaned, sensitive, and Bucky gentled slightly, stroking his thumb around the rim until Steve gave a soft sigh. Then he curled his thumb slightly, pressing the tip into Steve's hole, and Steve gasped. He pressed deeper, then gently tugged down, pulling Steve open so he could work his tongue deeper, and Steve shuddered, head tossing as he fought conflicting sensation, _more_ and _too much_ warring in him.

"_Please,"_ he whimpered, and couldn't decide if he was pleased or disappointed when Bucky listened, both tongue and hand pulling back. Then, before Steve could complain, Bucky pressed two fingers into him, murmuring wordlessly as he curled them. Steve could feel his mouth curve into a grin against his back when Steve jerked, Bucky's fingers finding their target before rubbing relentlessly.

Steve felt Bucky's laughter, didn't care as he whimpered again, grinding back. Bucky stroked once, twice more, worked a third finger into him just to be sure, before pulling them out. Bucky's hand stroked up Steve's back, and Steve pressed into it, before lifting his ass higher, swaying slightly.

"Buck," he whined. "Bucky. _Alpha_. Please."

Bucky gripped his hips, leaned forward. Just as Steve felt the head of Bucky's dick brush his ass, Bucky stopped. Steve let out a frustrated little howl, and Bucky rubbed his hand over Steve's hip in apology.

"Stevie, Steve, baby you're on-"

"Birth control yes, _fuck me_." Steve snapped, a hand reaching down and dragging over the length of Bucky's cock.

"Impatient," Bucky murmured, but he sounded strained, so Steve counted that as a win. A hand on Steve's hip disappeared, Steve's hand was knocked away, and Steve held his breath, anticipation building until he felt the firm press of Bucky's cock against his rim. Steve immediately pushed back, not wanting Bucky to pull away again, but Bucky tightened his grip, holding the omega in place. "Shh, I got you," Bucky said, voice dropping into a growl, and Steve whined.

"_Alpha._"

Steve keened, eyes jerking open in surprise, as Bucky pressed forward, firm and fast. Bucky swore behind him, and Steve shuddered, head falling forward, baring his neck.

Bucky paused, halfway in, before sliding back smoothly, fucking back in the rest of the way. Steve trembled as he felt Bucky's lips brush the nape of his neck, down over his scent glands, and Steve's head tipped more, offer evident. But Bucky only kissed the spot before straightening again. Bucky's hand moved to Steve's shoulder, the left one still gripping Steve's hip steadily. He rocked his hips forward, almost experimentally, and Steve whimpered, unable to move in Bucky's grip, hoping Bucky wouldn't make him wait any longer.

He didn't.

In an almost unexpected move, Bucky drew back, slammed forward, and Steve shouted wordlessly. Bucky did it again, sending Steve's hands scrabbling for purchase on the mattress, before settling into a rhythm that had Steve screaming. It wasn't long before Bucky had Steve coming over the sheets, shouting Bucky's name hoarsely, Bucky didn't even pause, bared his teeth as he kept moving, a hand dropping to stroke Steve's dick in careful counterpoint. Steve whimpered as he went straight past oversensitive, head tossing against the pillow, mumbling "Please please please…" under his breath.

Bucky's thrusts stuttered, and Steve clenched, coaxing Bucky without even being aware of it, Bucky's scent filling his nostrils, the sound of Bucky in his ears, everything in him _begging_ for his alpha's knot.

When Steve finally vocalised, babbling "Knot me please Bucky please I need it c'mon, fill me up, _breed me_" Bucky's hands clamped down his thrusts became erratic, and he finally let himself go with a shudder, a hoarse cry of Steve's name escaping him.

The feel of Bucky coming, of his knot swelling, catching, _locking_, dragged a moan from Steve, and he jerked weakly, body clamping down despite the mere dribble of come leaking from his dick.

The room was filled with the ragged sounds of breathing, and neither of them moved, beyond Bucky's instinctive half-thrusts, and Steve's muscles trembling. After a moment, Bucky's hand slid off Steve's cock, dragged down Steve's spine, tracing each nob carefully before he tipped his hips forward, careful. Steve murmured quietly, pressing flat under Bucky's weight, and one of Bucky's arms wrapped around him, snuggling him close. Bucky pressed his lips to the nape of Steve's neck, and Steve gave a sated sigh, head lolling back, seeking Bucky's lips with his own. He drew a kiss from Bucky, soft and sweet, before dropping his head back to the pillow, a shiver running through his body. He shifted slightly, breath catching at the tug of Bucky's knot inside him.

"You okay?" Bucky breathed, and Steve nodded, murmuring wordlessly. "Comfortable?" Steve smiled, lifting a hand to pat Bucky's cheek lightly, not trusting his voice. Bucky smiled back, twisting his head and kissing Steve's fingers, before dragging his hand up and down Steve's side slowly, gently. Petting.

After a few minutes, Steve stirred, tilted his head again. "You didn't-" he started, hesitant, and Bucky kissed his shoulder lightly.

"I wanted to, I want to. But I wanted to talk to you first, wanted to make sure it's something we both wanted. Not just the heat talking." Bucky's voice was soft, his lips gentle as they pressed to the spot Steve had offered. "The bond isn't something you can break," he murmured, and Steve sighed, letting Bucky reassure him.

"I know," Steve said softly, running his fingers over Bucky's left arm, tracing the pattern of interlinking plates. "I do want it though. Want you." Bucky hummed, smiled, nuzzled his nose against the curve of Steve's throat. They fell silent again, neither of them moving until Bucky's knot went down enough for him to slip out, fall sideways next to Steve. The first thing he did was tuck Steve against him, and Steve went willingly, kissing Bucky softly before burrowing against his chest. Steve smiled as Bucky started running his hands up and down his back, the touch gentle, and he yawned.

"Go to sleep baby, I'll clean up," Bucky murmured, and Steve smiled as he felt the press of lips against the top of his head. He hummed in wordless agreement, let himself start to drift, taking advantage of the respite from heat.

The last thing he heard, murmured against his hair was quiet, but it might have been a soft "_I love you_."


	114. (E) STUCKY - Constantly On the Cusp of T

constantly on the cusp of trying to kiss you  
spacebuck

Summary:  
"Nuh uh, you gotta get up," Steve murmured, and Bucky grumbled, not moving at all. "Don't give me that," Steve chastised, and Bucky ducked his head, tucking back in against Steve's shoulder. Dealing with Early Morning Bucky was always an exercise in patience, most of all at this time of the year.

"Don't wanna," Bucky mumbled against his skin, and Steve felt the alpha inhale deeply, before he let it out on a rumbling sigh.

"Why's that, Buck?"

"Warm." Steve snorted at that, taking advantage of the inattention to the rest of his body to turn and face Bucky fully. A warm hand immediately slid down to cup his ass, and Bucky's nose tucked in against his throat.

"I'm sure that's the only reason," Steve snorted, wedging a knee between Bucky's, pressing it against Bucky's crotch. The hand on his ass shifted, dipping under his boxers to rest against skin, and Steve shook his head. "Nuh uh, you'll be late for work. Again."

"Don't care," was the mumbled response, and Steve thumped a hand against Bucky's chest lightly.

* * *

Steve woke to an incessant tickling at the back of his neck. He mumbled a protest, ducking his head slightly, and the tickling feeling increased. Something warm and heavy draped across his waist and tugged him in closer, and Steve sighed softly, reluctantly opening his eyes. He took a deep breath, the scent of him and the alpha behind him wrapping around him and making him smile.

The man plastered to his back made a soft snuffling noise and pressed closer still, lips against Steve's shoulder and hair tickling the back of Steve's neck. Steve slid his fingers down the arm over his waist before linking them with the ones resting over his stomach. He turned his head, tilting his chin down, and smiled wider when he saw the sleepy grey eyes looking back at him.

"Hi," he murmured, and Bucky responded by lifting his chin, pressing a gentle kiss to Steve's lips. Steve twisted further, until he could wrap an arm around Bucky's shoulders, and sighed happily when Bucky took the opportunity to kiss him again. When Bucky went in for a third kiss, Steve turned his head away, pinching Bucky's shoulder lightly.

"Nuh uh, you gotta get up," he murmured, and Bucky grumbled, not moving at all. "Don't give me that," Steve chastised, and Bucky ducked his head, tucking back in against Steve's shoulder. Dealing with Early Morning Bucky was always an exercise in patience, most of all at this time of the year.

"Don't wanna," Bucky mumbled against his skin, and Steve felt the alpha inhale deeply, before he let it out on a rumbling sigh.

"Why's that, Buck?"

"Warm." Steve snorted at that, taking advantage of the inattention to the rest of his body to turn and face Bucky fully. A warm hand immediately slid down to cup his ass, and Bucky's nose tucked in against his throat.

"I'm sure that's the only reason," Steve snorted, wedging a knee between Bucky's, pressing it against Bucky's crotch. The hand on his ass shifted, dipping under his boxers to rest against skin, and Steve shook his head. "Nuh uh, you'll be late for work. Again."

"Don't care," was the mumbled response, and Steve thumped a hand against Bucky's chest lightly.

"I do. On me or not at all," Steve bargained, willing to bend just a little, just for Bucky. Bucky rumbled, a low, sleepy thing, before kissing Steve's throat.

His fingers didn't move for a good minute, almost long enough that Steve thought he'd gone back to sleep, then slowly withdrew so he could palm Steve's hip, dragging the smaller man with him as Bucky rolled onto his back. As soon as Bucky had settled, Steve shifted to straddle his thighs, looking up at Bucky with a little smile.

Bucky immediately reached up, cupping Steve's jaw and pulling him down into a kiss, and Steve relaxed against him, curling his fingers against Bucky's chest and letting Bucky lead.

Being with Bucky wasn't difficult by any means, especially not compared to a large number of alphas. He wasn't domineering, pushy, or overly demanding. He gave Steve his space, didn't push Steve around or use his designation to control Steve. Despite that, he was still an alpha, and allowances had to be made. Especially when he was close to rut. Like now.

When Steve normally would have left Bucky to his own hand, he sat straddling Bucky, kissing him and letting Bucky touch. He let Bucky scent him, nose against his pulse, rubbing himself against Steve until Steve couldn't smell anything but the alpha. He let Bucky mark him, lips on his jaw, sucking at his throat, bruises blooming on pale skin as Bucky made his claim.

And, when the shifting of Bucky's hips got impatient, he slid down Bucky's body, sucked him off slow and steady until Bucky's breathing started to catch, his hands clenching the sheets as his hips rocked up into Steve's mouth. Steve swallowed around him, then pulled back, wrapping a hand around Bucky's cock and stroking just the way Bucky liked it, until the alpha was tensing, coming over Steve's hand and lips and cheeks.

Bucky's hands on his shoulders were eager, tugging him up until he straddled Bucky's waist again. "Mine," he purred, and Steve was halfway through his response, _not yet_, when Bucky's mouth covered his. Bucky licked him clean meticulously, before snaking a hand between them, back into Steve's boxers. And even if Steve had wanted to resist him, he couldn't, not when Bucky knew exactly what he liked, stroking him until he came with a whimper, noise muffled in Bucky's mouth.

It took a few minutes before his heart rate settled enough to push up, and when he did, Bucky's expression was more than a little smug. "Yeah yeah," Steve mumbled under his breath, and Bucky laughed quietly, rubbing his nose against Steve's cheek. "I stink of you now, happy?" Steve grumbled, not at all bothered by it, and Bucky snorted.

"Over the moon," he said with a laugh, rolling them until he was cradled between Steve's thighs. "Can't I stay in bed with you?" he mumbled, and Steve sighed, stroking his fingers through Bucky's hair.

"Nope, you have a job, remember?"

Bucky groaned, forehead hitting the pillow beside Steve's head for a moment, before he withdrew his hand from Steve's boxers, licking it clean. He pushed himself upright, then stumbled to his feet, heading for the bathroom completely, unashamedly naked.

Living with an alpha was a lesson in give and take, even when it was an alpha like Bucky.

After Steve had finally given in and asked Bucky to get him through his heat six months before, Bucky had all but moved in with Steve. There were still days when Steve didn't see him, when the alpha holed up in his own apartment and refused to come out. When Bucky had needed his own space, things that were his and his alone, to keep him out of his own head. But those days were getting rarer and rarer, and Steve was glad for that, glad he was helping in some way.

They hadn't really discussed going _further_, both of them knowing they wanted the bond, neither of them knowing how to bring it up. But that was ending, today, Steve had decided. Their cycles were syncing, a result of them being both compatible and around each other for so long, and Steve could feel the itch under his skin as much as he could smell the approaching rut on Bucky. Sure, they didn't have to be synced to bond, Bucky didn't have to be anywhere near his rut in fact, but Steve had always been told that them being in sync created a stronger bond. So, Steve was done waiting, stepping around the topic, having but wanting _more_.

So when Bucky came clattering up the stairs of the apartment building after work, Steve knew what he was going to say about it, knew exactly how he was going to approach the conversation. Even so, seeing Bucky struck him a little dumb, as it always did. Steve smiled dopily, dropping his tablet on the couch and pushing to his feet, padding over on bare feet.

As soon as Bucky had the door shut and locked behind him, he was turning, arms coming up and pulling Steve in, a happy little noise rumbling up out of him. "Hi baby," Bucky murmured with a smile, always so sweet just before he went into rut, and Steve couldn't help but stretch up, press a kiss to that pretty mouth.

Considering the hormones flaring on both sides, it really wasn't surprising that the kiss dragged out, Bucky's hands catching Steve's hips and pulling in, lifting, Steve's legs easily wrapping around Bucky's waist. Bucky's mouth would wander, lips brushing Steve's chin, his cheeks, the tip of his nose, but kept returning to his mouth. Eventually Steve had to lean back, hand covering Bucky's mouth to stop him chasing, and shake his head to actually get a word in.

"Couch, c'mon, I want to talk to you about something." Steve knew Bucky would be able to smell the excitement, the love – though neither had actually said the words aloud, not yet – but he still clarified, cutting off any potential spike of anxiety. "It's good, I promise."

Bucky narrowed his eyes, obviously trying to work out what it was, then kissed Steve's palm, hitched him up a little higher, and headed for the living room. Steve dropped his hands to Bucky's shoulders, kissed his cheek, then held on for the ride, grinning when Bucky, predictably, sat on the couch and kept Steve on his lap.

"Go on then, spill," Bucky said with a raised eyebrow, and Steve snorted, dragging one hand up into Bucky's hair and stroking through it. Bucky sighed softly, eyelids drooping for a moment before he forced them back open, pouting. Steve snickered, pressed a quick kiss to Bucky's lips, then touched their noses together.

"I'm tired of dancing around it," Steve started, eyes on Bucky's. "So I'm not gonna do that anymore. I love you. Probably have since before we properly started dating, definitely did by the time we actually got our heads out of our asses and did something about it." He closed the distance, dropping a kiss on Bucky's lips when they parted, cutting the other man off before he could speak. "I'm not done, hold on." Bucky nodded, closing his mouth again, but the softness in his face, the adoration in his eyes and the possessive swell of his scent? They all told Steve exactly what Bucky had been about to say. So, he kept talking.

"Our cycles are syncing, and I know you can smell it on me, just like I can smell it on you." He flushed, just a little, as he said that, but soldiered on, eyes holding Bucky's as Bucky started to realise exactly where this was going. "I wanna be yours, Buck. I wanna be yours and I want you to be mine, and I want the whole damned world to know it."

"I thought the alpha was supposed to do the asking?" Bucky murmured, voice low and hands tightening around Steve, pulling him in tighter.

"The alpha was taking too long," Steve retorted, before dropping his chin, looking up at Bucky through his lashes. "Plus, I ain't heard any questions yet. From either side."

Bucky hummed, soft and quiet, arms tightening around Steve's waist for a moment before relaxing. "Look at you," he said after a moment, smile creeping across his face. "Always the braver of the two of us." Steve snorted, but Bucky lifted a hand, setting it on the back of Steve's neck, squeezing lightly.

Steve settled immediately, melting against Bucky, then scowled when he realised what Bucky had done. "Not cool," he mumbled, but Bucky hushed him with a kiss.

"I love you," Bucky said as their lips parted. "Steve Rogers, will you be mine? Will you bond with me?"

Honestly, Steve hadn't expected it to be that easy. He'd expected Bucky to dig his feet in, wait until _he _was ready, like the alpha he was. But, fuck but he'd asked. He'd asked, and he wanted this.

"Buck, I've been yours this whole time, waitin' for you to ask." Steve murmured, leaning forward and resting his forehead against Bucky's. "Of course I will."

It didn't happen right then, like in the movies. Steve's heat was still burning low and steady in his gut, almost cresting but not quite there. Bucky finally gave in and called into work, taking his rut-week, and stayed within reach of Steve for nearly three days straight as they waited. Anticipation settled in Steve, want darkening his gaze and pulling his eyes to Bucky almost constantly. Bucky didn't look like he was much better. They could blame it on their cycles, but it was more than that, because this time, _it_ was more than that.

Bonding wasn't marriage, because it was _more_ than marriage. Bonding was permanent. For life. No take-backs, no divorces, no refunds. Some married couples bonded, some bonded couples married. But at this point, there was no ceremony between them. Just a plan to tie themselves together for the rest of their lives. No big deal.

To say Steve wasn't nervous was to make him a filthy liar. He _was_ nervous. He was scared, he was expecting Bucky to turn around and pull out at every moment, even though Bucky had been the one to ask in the first place. The days between their agreement and Steve's heat starting were full of reminders as to why Steve wasn't worth Bucky's attention. Wasn't worth Bucky's bond. Though Steve never mentioned it, Bucky must have known _something_ was up, because he absolutely _doted_ on Steve, and Steve _let_ him.

Bucky carried him everywhere Steve would let him, was constantly touching him, feeding him by hand, dragging his fingers through Steve's hair. He whispered compliments and sweet comments in Steve's ear when he thought Steve wasn't paying attention, and did it twice as much when he thought Steve was. He reminded Steve again and again through his words and actions exactly why Steve loved him, and spent no small amount of that time reminding Steve of Bucky's love.

It was as Steve was coming to terms with it that preheat finally moved into full-blown heat. He woke with a soft moan on the fourth day, Bucky's scent in his nose and Bucky's hand firmly on his ass.

"Is it?" Bucky murmured, voice hoarse with sleep, eyes blinking open lazily as he nudged Steve closer.

Steve didn't respond, not verbally. Instead, he dropped his head slightly, licked over Bucky's collarbone, before nuzzling his cheek against the scent gland there.

"Steve," Bucky said again, a little firmer, and it send a shiver through Steve's spine. He arched slightly, pressing himself against Bucky's body a little harder, and Bucky's fingers dug into his ass just a little.

"Just," Steve mumbled after a moment, mouth slowly moving up Bucky's throat.

There was a rumbled sigh, and Bucky dropped his chin, dropping a kiss to the top of Steve's head.

"You're not," Steve continued, and Bucky shook his head slightly, bringing his free hand up to cup Steve's jaw.

"Not yet," he murmured, tipping Steve's head up and pressing a kiss to his lips. "You wanna wait?" He checked in, and Steve smiled, if a little strained.

"Yeah, wanna wait for you."

Bucky rolled them carefully at that, settling between Steve's thighs and nipping along his jaw. The heat settled low in his gut, skin starting to itch as Bucky settled over him, pinned him down. Bucky dropped his head, sucked a mark onto Steve's neck lazily, and Steve shifted, subconsciously trying to get Bucky to move down.

He didn't though, knowing all too well where Steve wanted him, just kept sucking and licking and biting at Steve's neck until he was satisfied. He shifted lower then, and only then, as Steve started to shift impatiently. Steve could feel himself starting to slip, surrounded by Bucky, by alpha, and he whined, high and reedy.

"Be patient," Bucky murmured in response, and Steve lifted a hand to hit him. Before he could, Bucky's fingers wrapped around his wrist, the metal cool and unyielding. He pressed Steve's hand back against the mattress, and Steve's breath caught on a gasp, his hips hitching up as a Bucky applied slight pressure. "Be. Patient." Bucky said again, voice a growl, and _oh_.

Steve had never been in heat and around a rutting alpha before. He assumed that this, the thrill in his spine and the catch of his breath as he fell still, was all part of the deal. He tipped his head back, submitting to Bucky, only to Bucky, and the responding growl was deep, but pleased.

There were lips against his throat, oh so gentle, then Bucky hummed quietly. "Not long now," he murmured, voice going scratchy, and Steve felt himself slick further in response.

"Bucky," he whined, and Bucky kept moving, mouth trailing up, dusting over his chin, before covering Steve's lips with a hum.

They stayed like that, Bucky cradled between Steve's thighs, and kissed as Bucky's rut set in. Steve can feel the difference almost immediately.

Bucky's kiss became more possessive, and his hips pressed forward against Steve's almost absently, and Steve moaned in response. He could smell the difference on Bucky, could smell the rut on him, could taste the pheromones on his tongue as they kissed.

Bucky broke his mouth away, leaving Steve to gasp for breath, and planted his hands on either side of Steve's head. His hips rolled forward, and by the look on his face it was deliberate this time, a slow grind that had Steve's hands flying to Bucky's shoulders, and a whimper tearing out of his mouth.

"Buck-" He started, but Bucky did it again, and Steve gave up speaking, just clung to Bucky as his legs fell open a little further. His hips shifted, and he instinctively tried to roll over, to present, and Steve let it happen, knowing there was no need to hide his need from Bucky. Bucky, however, seemed to disagree with that plan. He rolled his hips forward again, cock sliding against Steve's, and kept his weight down, holding Steve in place.

"Not yet, want you to come like this," Bucky purred, before he dropped his lips to Steve's throat again.

"Pleas-" Steve started, but what he was trying to say was cut off with a moan, as Bucky rocked forward again. Considering how sensitive he was, it didn't take long after that, the slick slide of Bucky's cock against his own, slicker with each passing moment, making him moan and arch and beg. And then, and then he couldn't hold it back any more, breath catching in his throat as his whole body tensed, before he shuddered, coming between them with a moan.

"There you go." Bucky's low rumble was pleased, and his hips slowed, stilled against Steve's. Steve's breath was heavy, deep, shuddering breaths falling from his lips as he slowly focused on Bucky again.

"Fuck," Steve mumbled, back arching slightly as his heat only flared with the empty orgasm. "_Bucky._"

There wasn't much else Steve _could_ say at that point, but Bucky seemed pleased, nuzzling his lips along Steve's jaw. One hand dropped to Steve's hip, tucking him in closer, and Steve whined softly at the possessive touch. Then- then Steve was flying.

He hit the mattress on his stomach with a soft thud, and a quiet yelp, but as soon as he realised what had happened, as soon as he realised what Bucky had done, his fingers were curling into the sheets, and he was shifting up onto his knees. "Buck," he whined, barely able to think with heat crawling though him and anticipation sitting in his gut. "C'mon Buck."

Either Bucky's rut was starting to hit him fully, or he was just tired of waiting, because a heavy hand slid up his back, pressing Steve's shoulders down a little before stroking down again, over his flank. A thick finger slid down the crease of his ass, and Steve's whine almost drowned out Bucky's responding growl.

"God, Steve, bet you taste so good," was the rumble from behind him, and Steve couldn't help but growl in annoyance. He kicked a foot out, just wanting Bucky to _hurry up_, and Bucky laughed softly behind him, before pressing a kiss to the curve of Steve's ass. "Okay, okay," Bucky murmured, amused, and then that thick finger was dragging through the slick on his thighs and pressing up, and _in_.

Steve moaned, loud and shaky, and Bucky immediately added a second finger, scissoring them carefully. "Already so wet for me Steve," Bucky murmured, voice lower than normal, grating over Steve's skin as he fucked his fingers into Steve. "You want it that bad, huh? Want my cock, want my knot?" he purred, pulling his fingers out, sliding in with three. Steve jerked at that, hips hitching forward, before he pressed back, relishing the slight burn before it faded into pleasure.

"Yes," he whined, only one part of his mind actually sure about what Bucky was asking, the rest willing to say anything to get _more_. "Want it, can I have it _please_ alpha," he mumbled, pressing back onto Bucky's fingers, clenching around them before relaxing, hindbrain trying to coax Bucky into fucking him properly.

"Want my bite?" Bucky's voice went silky, fingers pulling out and two big hands, hot and cold, caught Steve's hips. "My bond?" Bucky tugged back slightly, and Steve went willingly, pressing back as the head of Bucky's cock slid up over his perineum. Steve's head rocked forward, baring the back of his neck, and he shuddered, submitting to his alpha in a way he rarely did, even in heat.

"Fuck me, bite me, bond me, alpha- Bucky – please," Steve whined, pressing back.

A shout tore from his throat as Bucky pressed forward, filling him up so suddenly, so completely, that everything narrowed down to the slick glide of Bucky's cock working into him. Steve shuddered, forehead pressing into the bed as he silently begged Bucky to bite.

Bucky's body draped over Steve's as Bucky bottomed out, cooler metal of his left arm winding around Steve's waist, holding him tight. He nuzzled his lips against the back of Steve's neck, pressed a kiss to the spot, like he had the very first time. "Mine," he growled. And bit.

The pain of the bite was immediately overwhelmed by something _more_. It shimmered in Steve's mind, a bright exclamation that swirled through him, lighting every nerve on fire. He gasped, shocked at the intensity, momentarily forgetting everything else.

Then, Bucky drew his hips back, and Steve let out a shocked little noise, attention suddenly zeroing in on the drag of Bucky's cock, out, then snapping in deep. Pleasure ran through him, every nerve on fire, and he felt a shocked little burst, deep in his chest. Bucky shuddered over him, and Steve pressed back, grinding himself as much as he could against Bucky, demanding more. Bucky's hands were heavy on his hips, holding him still, and Steve gave a whine of demand, instead clenching around Bucky's cock as Bucky pulled out again, fucked back in.

There was the drag of something against his cock, tight and unforgiving, and Steve moaned, head rocking forward. He could feel Bucky's mouth against his nape, kissing and licking the spot, and he could feel Bucky's hands, twin points of pressure, on his hips, and still the feeling against his cock continued, increased. Bucky's moan was stuttered as Steve rocked back again, as much as he could, then Bucky was propping himself up on one hand, and Steve wasn't thinking about anything anymore.

There was just the slick slide of Bucky's cock, the coiling heat in his stomach, the need thrumming in every inch of him, and he realised he was begging, _pleading_ for more, soft gasps interspersed with "c'mon Buck c'mon please," and "knot me Bucky _please_."

It wasn't falling on deaf ears. Bucky was swelling inside him, making him whine, and Bucky's breaths were getting harsher, Bucky's murmured words getting filthier and filthier as he dragged them both closer to orgasm. Bucky's hand on his hip coaxed Steve's ass up a little further, his shoulders down a little more, and Steve cried out as Bucky grazed what he was searching for.

Bucky's thrusts became relentless then, rut driving him harder, faster, _longer_, than usual, and despite the knot tugging at Steve every time Bucky pulled back, he fucked Steve through one orgasm, then another, without even a hint of stopping. Steve, heat-driven and still missing what he needed, moaned "Knot me, knot meknotmeknotme" until Bucky jerked, teeth latching onto Steve's shoulder as he finally, _finally_, came, shuddering as his knot locked them together.

Steve barely contained a scream, the noise coming out as a hoarse moan instead, the feeling of Bucky swelling, catching, locking, inside him and the knowledge that his alpha was filling him up sending a wave of heat through him. His heat started to settle as soon as they tied, but Bucky slid a hand under Steve, warm fingers wrapping firmly around Steve's cock, and he whispered in Steve's ear, "One more."

When he came it was with a punched out noise, almost a gasp, and Bucky soothed his free hand over Steve's shoulder, propping himself up on an elbow. "There you go," he purred, hips rocking forward slightly, and Steve whimpered as Bucky's knot pressed deeper.

Bucky sat back, hauling Steve up with him, the action causing his knot to tug in Steve, making him moan shakily. Bucky nuzzled his lips over Steve's neck, kissing the spot he'd bit, the spot that must hold the imprint of Bucky's teeth now. Steve felt a flash of possessive pride, weaving through his chest, and he gasped softly, hand reaching back to cup Bucky's head.

"Was that…-" He managed, voice hoarse, and Bucky hummed softly, nipped the skin.

"Mmmhmm," was the response, and Steve felt the exact moment Bucky actually thought about the question. What it meant.

"We-"

"It's the-"

"I can _feel_ you." Bucky's words rushed from his mouth, one big hand flattening over Steve's chest, right in the centre. The silver stood out against Steve's skin, and _God_ but he wanted Bucky's hands all over him. "Right here, I can-"

"Feel you," Steve finished, hand covering Bucky's, head rocking back against Bucky's shoulder. He looked up at Bucky, breath still coming hard, eyes wide, and Bucky stared down at him for a moment, before a smile broke out on his face.

"You're my"

"Mate."


	115. (M) KLANCE - Love Bug and Stuff by WhatT

Love Bug Stuff  
WhatTheBodyGraspsNot

Summary:  
Keith is bitten by an alien love bug that makes him fall in love with the first person he sees. And just guess who the heck that first person is?

(Inspired by art by eyugho's Love Bug AU on tumblr!)

* * *

They should see it coming, honestly. Things are going _way _too smoothly on this new high-techy-nature-planet. Lance has learned by now that it's only a matter of time before the proverbial shit hits the fan, which is why he's already on his guard as they stand around on the paved forest floor, minding their own business before Shiro and Keith have to go talk to some Big Important Person who's already occupied behind the glass partition a little bit away.

Hunk and Pidge are in their own little world, fawning over some sort of nature/tech hookup sprouting out of the ground at their feet. But nothing's more intense than the pacing Shiro's got going for him closer to the glass. It's a pace that isn't helping that uneasy feeling in the pit of Lance's gut in the slightest. Because something's gonna happen. It's gotta. The hair on the back of his neck doesn't stand up like this for just any-

_Smack!_

Lance flinches at the sudden clap of Keith's hand coming down over the side of his own neck a few feet away, the red paladin's wince turning into more of an inconvenienced scowl than anything as he brings his hand in front of him to inspect the remains of whatever he's just smashed into oblivion.

It's not all that interesting - Lance isn't sure if he's so focused on this because he's waiting for the bomb to drop, or because they've been standing here for a trillion ticks now and he's bored as hell. Either way, it's got his attention. And it's gonna keep his attention. Even as Keith squints at the squished remains in his palm, and then slowly - ever so slowly - lets his vision fan out over the spaces of his fingers to lock onto his single audience member between them.

It all happens in this kind of surreal slow motion - something weirdly out of time - and Lance wants to look away and leave Keith to whatever weird shit is going on in his head right now, but there's something about the way his gaze softens instantly when he sees him - when their eyes lock - when the eye contact just fucking keeps up and keeps up and keeps up and-

"Keith?"

It's Shiro.

But Keith's not mentally present… Not responding… Just totally and completely focused on Lance, to the point that Lance's fingers are starting to itch a bit because what-...what the hell?

He chances a glance over to Hunk and Pidge, but they're too engrossed in their discussion to even notice the weird shit that's unfolding right in front of them-

"Keith."

His blink is slow. Eyelids heavier than they should be. And it's not every day that he ignores Shiro. Especially in foreign territory. Especially when it's obvious that they've got a job to do. But the only thing that seems to be registering in Keith's head right now for some godforsaken reason is...well…

Lance fidgets. Is about to force something out of his mouth to snap this shit out when Keith takes a step forward - a very _determined _step forward - a step forward that has Lance's pulse quickening uncharacteristically until-

"Keith." - Shiro - "Jesus, let's go." - a hand grabbing at Keith's wrist and a helpful tug that has Keith stumbling back stubbornly, definitely not of his own volition, and then turning when he has no choice but to follow Shiro into the meeting space behind the glass.

Lance takes a breath.

Shakes his head a little bit now that he's got the space to.

What in the fuck was _that._

"Are you guys serious?" he wastes no time in getting in his friends' faces, "You didn't see _any _of that just go down?"

Hunk's response time is annoyingly slacking. "See what, dude?" Because apparently a flower sending out light signals is more important than Lance getting stared down within an inch of his _freakin' life._

"Keith!" he explains, arms thrown up in the air because _hooooooow? _How was he the _only one _who saw what just happened?

Pidge is next to speak up, typing something into her handheld before slipping it into her pocket. "You plan on giving any detail at all or are we supposed to be guessing?"

"Honestly I'd love to, Pidge! I'd love to give detail but I-" he-...what even-...

Lance's frustration leads his eyes back to the source, back to the meeting area but ultimately back to Keith. Or more importantly, back to where Keith is standing with Shiro, the Big Important Person chattering away in front of them, but Keith's head is turned, eyes locked heavily onto Lance through the glass.

Again!

_"Look," _Lance whispers it, standing stock still like he's been spotted by a bear, or a t-rex, or something else. But Keith's just staring away, brows furrowing in what looks like curious concentration as his eyes trail down Lance's front and then back up again as conversation continues on next to him.

Hunk huffs a chuckle, obviously not convinced of his friend's claims until he turns to look up to the meeting space as well. "Wh-_ oh…" _Because he must see it then.

And so must Pidge, because she's tilting her head just the slightest. "That's...weird."

"Yeah no shit - that's what I've been trying to tell you."

Hunk makes a hum of thought, then spreads his arms wide and waves them over his head as a visual distraction - a disturbance.

Lance is the only one who's unsurprised Keith's eyes don't leave him even once.

"Wow, what the hell?"

"Why're you laughing?" Lance's outrage is justified, he thinks, his squawk enough to draw attention from some winged children heading toward a tree-structure down the road.

It's also almost enough to distract from what's happening in the meeting space, if it wasn't for Pidge's helpful, "Hey hey hey," as well as the smack to the shoulder that has everyone tuning in at the same time. It's right as Shiro's finally getting Keith's attention again, his mouth moving but the words muted by the partition. Probably something along the lines of politely making sure Keith's ready to add to the discussion while simultaneously trying to figure out why he keeps staring longingly out the window.

Keith's not really interested in what he has to say, eyes to the floor as some sort of answer leaves his lips. And Lance is just close enough to notice the way his gaze slips slowly in his direction, as if making sure he's still there out the corner of his eye.

It's when the Big Important Person smiles, tilting their head and then reaching over to examine the side of Keith's neck without touching it - a gesture that has Shiro squaring his shoulders just a bit until whatever they're saying seems to register in his head. Because then he's turning a pale white, glancing down at Keith and then, worryingly so, straight over his head to where Lance is watching.

"Uh oh," says Pidge.

"Well _that _doesn't look good."

Lance's mouth has gone dry at this point - far too dry to offer any sort of verbal reaction to how fucked he feels right about now. Because honestly, he knew something was gonna happen. He _knew _it. You fucking heard him say it at the start of this, right?

The sun's reflection gleaming off turning glass has him snapping back to it, pulse bulldozing into overtime as his brain realigns back on track to the terrifying sight of Keith _sprinting - spriiiintiiiing down the path _towards him, feet barely skimming over the ground and holy shit wHAT THE FU_-_

The impact is as hard as it is all-enveloping, Keith's arms closing tightly around him and his body pressing against him so abruptly that it sends Lance down to his ass with a grunt, the ground painful as he catches himself with his hands and-

And-

"Uhhh…"

Hunk's uneasy shock is nothing compared to what's currently going on in Lance's head. Fucking _nothing. _Because Keith. He's… They're...

He's _hugging _him.

"Shit," Shiro mumbles it under his breath as he comes to a stop in front of the scene, clearly too late to stop the embrace.

And Lance…

Is…

"Uhh…" the crack in his voice betrays him, but how can he swallow it down when he's got Keith Kogane in his lap, arms wrapped snugly around his chest and head buried in the crook of his neck like...like he…

"Alright good, you got your hug Keith," Shiro says carefully, taking it upon himself to try to rescue Lance from the smothering hold. And Lance says 'try' because he's got both hands under Keith's arms and is pulling - with a good amount of Shiro-sized strength too. But like a knot in a chain, the more he pulls, the tighter Keith wraps himself around. "Oh lord…"

"Care to explain?"

Lance hears Pidge ask it - hears the slight lilt of amusement in her question - but he's finding it more and more difficult to pass air in and out of his lungs with the tightening around him and- "Shiro-" he wheezes, "Shiro for fuck's sake stop pulling."

It's a cry for help but it works, Shiro doing as asked and backing up to give them space. It has Keith's arms easing into something more breathable. And if all else fails, at least Lance can blame the redness of his face on the lack of air in his lungs. Because that's what it is, you know. He just couldn't breathe is all.

"Shiro. Explanation please."

Pidge's second prompting gets things back online. For them, at least. Lance is still struggling with the fact that Keith's hugging him. _Keith. Keith _is _hugging _him. Why the fuck is Keith hugging him?

"There's this beetle that's native to the planet. Apparently Keith's been bitten and is having…" Shiro glances over to their spot on the ground, "...side effects."

Hunk joins the conversation right about the same time the topic of said conversation wraps his legs around Lance's back to complete the full-body embrace. "A bug? What, like, a love bug?"

It's a joke.

Lance recognizes Hunk's joke-delivery voice.

He also recognizes Shiro's it's-not-a-joke face.

And also the sinking feeling in his stomach that plummets a little too deeply for his liking.

"The councilwoman said it affects the host immediately. Like...as in the first person the host sees…"

Keith nuzzles against Lance's neck, the intimacy sending shivers up his spine like none fucking other because- "Whoa whoa whoa. You're telling me Keith thinks he's in _love with me?"_

There's no way. Not Keith. Not-

"Just for a few days," Shiro says like it's supposed to help even a little bit. Which is _doesn't, _thank you very much. Because he's still got Keith clinging onto him like a baby koala and if he doesn't get some space really soon his heart is going to burst into a huge gooey mess.

"I suggest we go back to the ship for a bit to sort some things out." Allura's voice joins them so seamlessly that Lance doesn't even realize he _didn't _realize she was here too. "We've already caused quite the scene here."

"We?" Lance is insulted. "I didn't even do anything! I haven't even touched him!"

"Maybe you should." Hunk's suggestion is...poorly received. "I'm just sayin', maybe that's what he's waiting for."

And whoa, why are they suddenly talking about Keith like he's not here?

Lance frowns, grumbling to himself as he picks his hands up from the ground, briefly dusting them off on an area of his pants that he can actually reach. Then slowly, ever so slowly, he brings them up to rest awkwardly on Keith's back.

One…

Two...

And then…

...silence.

"Wow."

"Shut up, Pidge, I swear to g-"

_"Mm…"_

The light little hum of satisfaction against his neck strikes an alarming warmth in Lance's chest. Because _whoa. _Whoa um… That was…

Okay focus.

"Can you let me up, dude?" He tries it. "Can we like...walk? Like normal people?"

"But this is nice…"

It's the first thing Keith's said. For a while now. And it's so quiet that the others must not hear him, because they don't seem to respond to the look Lance is flashing them.

Okay, on his own then.

"Um…" he fakes a chuckle. _"Yeah, _for sure but like...we gotta go back to the castle so-"

"I love you so much."

Oh boy. Oh boy oh boy oh boy there goes Lance's nerves again. "Uh...nice! That's awesome- yeah! Let's go back to the castle and you can tell me all about it."

That has Keith's head lifting from Lance's shoulder and coming _waaaaay _way way too close to his own, Lance's eyes widening from the close quarters as he says: "Really?"

Swallow it down. Ignore everyone staring. See this through. "Y-yeah dude! Let's go, okay?"

He's subconsciously leaning his head away. He knows he is. So maybe it's not subconscious, but whatever it is he's doing it and he _does _it until the sweet relief of Keith's body peeling away from his brings his nerves back down a few thousand clicks.

Because Jesus. Jesus, holy shit.

And oh wow so this is what breathing is like again.

"C'mon, Keith. Give him some room." Shiro says it, nicely-toned and everything. Even reaches out to help guide him away and all that.

And as they finally walk, Lance isn't sure if he appreciates the very obvious way everyone positions themselves between the two of them or not. Because it might stop the touching, but nothing can get Keith to look anywhere except Lance, a small, shy smile dancing over his face.

So. List of things that are not good:

this

They don't make it five minutes behind the privacy of the castle doors before Lance feels the startlingly needy hands slide around him from behind, his back arching in surprise with an uneasy: "Wwww-fuck, Keith-Keith-Keith!"

It sends Pidge into a snort, her handheld up and at the ready for a picture until Shiro cuts it off with a tired: "No."

And it's obvious why Lance's reaction is so...well _much. _He just simply doesn't get _touched _like this anymore. It's just not a thing. And it's suddenly going from not-a-thing to an all-the-time-thing, and more specifically an all-the-time-with-Keith-freakin-Kogane-thing. And that's just a whole lot to deal with for one poor boy in such short notice.

So he _has _the reaction. And he _tenses _up when Keith drapes himself over him from behind. And he _fights _down the uncomfortable blush, because Pidge is snickering and Shiro is shaking his head and Hunk is giving him this _look. _This _pity _look. Because he _knows. _And it's all a lot and Lance is just one poor boy and he pats Keith's arm with a shaky hand and then excuses himself into a different room for as long as humanly possible.

And he knows. He's fucking himself up because he knows it'd be easier to just get used to it instead of hiding for days on end. If he could just reach a comfortable medium where Keith could cling and he didn't feel like there were thirty thousand boy scouts making bonfires in his chest, that'd be ideal.

But.

Lance is just one poor boy.

And these boy scouts are like..._god-tier _at making bonfires.

Night comes.

Like it does on lots of the planets they visit.

Like it does on Earth.

Or did.

Does.

Anyway, night comes, and the walk to the kitchen is kind of a journey, but Lance isn't sleeping too well regardless. The water helps a little. So does one of the snack bars Hunk made in mass quantities. It helps enough that the silent walk back is more pleasant than the walk in, his footsteps masked by the constant, quiet hum of the castle's power.

He's reached a certain level of ease when there's a shift in the air behind him, fingers smoothly threading with his in the dark and sending his pulse to the fucking ceiling in a minor freakout-

_"Oh m-... _Keith, jesus _christ…" _He sighs it, his free hand coming up to settle over the thumping under his ribcage. "What're you-"

"You keep avoiding me…"

Lance is about to deny it hard when his words get stuck in his throat, the clear disappointment in Keith's voice something he's never heard in his life. It matches the telltale bags under his eyes and it's actually…wow, why is that so sad?

"What?" he goes for a disarming half-smile. "I'm not avoiding you."

"You don't like when I touch you." His gaze is to the floor, the fire that normally lurks beneath it gone completely cold.

Lance frowns. His palm's already gone sweaty in their hold. "I do."

It's got Keith looking up, a little spark of hope returning. "You do?"

Which is what makes Lance feel like such an asshat. It's not that he _doesn't _like Keith touching him...fuck, that's a whole other story. It's just… "I uh…" he swallows - clears his throat, "Yeah, I _like _it...when you touch me..."

Fuck…

Oh lord…

Keith's smile is small. Honest. Another thing Lance hasn't really had the opportunity to see too much before. And now that he has… "Can I sleep with you?"

Lance blinks. Glances up and down the hallway. Doesn't realize he's been slowly backing up step by step until he's feeling the wall against his shoulder blades. "Um...I dunno if that's a good idea." And now he's trapped.

Keith joins their other hands together. A full circle. "Why not?"

And ohh, those boy scouts are really doin' their thing aren't they? "Well uh," it's fine, Lance has always been a fast thinker, "my bed sheets are really dirty. Haven't gotten around to washing them in a while." Keith watches him speak. Lets his eyes trail down to his mouth. Then back up. It keeps the nervous-talk spewing at top speed. "Keep meaning to. Always something getting in the way, though. Space stuff - you know how it is."

What...is he even talking about.

Keith blinks, letting the excuse sink in. Then: "...oh."

"Yeah. Sorry, man. Maybe tomorrow night." Fuck? Literally-... Lance wants to punch himself in the face. There's literally no reason to tack that last part on there.

But he did. And it's keeping the hope alive. He can see it. Especially when Keith smiles just a little - just a tiny grace of a smile under the otherwise disappointed fall in his demeanor. "...okay."

"Yeah it's uh-..." Lance slips one hand out of the hold to mimic looking at a wristwatch for some reason. "It's almost morning anyway. It'd be kind of a waste _now, _right?"

He just needs to shut up.

He just needs to _shut the fuck up._

Keith stares at Lance's gesture with confusion. But there's none of his usual responses. No eyebrow raise. No _"The fuck are you doing, idiot? You're not even wearing a watch." _It's just...confusion and confusion only. Because you don't do those things to the person you think you love. And that's what freaks Lance out the most, he's pretty sure.

"Alright well...see you in the morning, dude." He overcompensates with a massive clap to the shoulder. One that has Keith buckling a little bit under the weight. But it frees his other hand and it opens things up and gives him just the right amount of time to slip down the hallway and into his door before feeling like a complete and utter douche-canoe.

Because that's what he is.

A double-wide douche-canoe, zipping down the Douche-Canoe River.

* * *

It's like the hallway event never even happened the next morning, everyone at their place for breakfast when Lance appears. His arrival sets Keith into motion, his spoon clattering onto his plate and his chair legs screeching as he stands immediately. The only thing that holds him back is the lightning quick reach from Shiro, his hand shooting out to grab Keith's wrist without even looking as he continues to eat.

"Morning, buddy," Hunk says in between it all. "Made your plate with what was left."

Lance eyes his spot, 'what was left' actually turning out to be more than what everyone else seems to have gotten in the first place. "Oh. Thanks, Hunk."

"No prob."

It's about enough time for Keith to give one good twist of his wrist, spinning out of Shiro's grip without so much as a wince and making his way calmly over to Lance for a hug.

"Morning." He's gentle today. Sleepy, maybe.

Lance returns it with more confidence than their last embrace. "Mornin'."

He pats his back and Keith leans away, arms still wrapped around him. "You smell good."

"Oh." So apparently there's no hard feelings from last night? "Thanks, man. Just my normal stuff."

"I like it."

There's a little lock of Keith's hair that's fallen from behind his ear. It's only polite to fix it, quickly making sure to tuck it back without getting distracted. "Uhh thanks, me too."

Lance chances a look over Keith's shoulder, not exactly sure when this particular endearment will run its course, and getting stuck on the interested blink from Hunk, who has halted his full spoon halfway to his mouth in order to watch this all unfold.

Lance throws him a narrow-eyed look. Not nearly long enough before Keith's back at it.

"When you're done eating will you train with me?"

Train? Like one-on-one? Because that's never gone too well. "Uh…"

"Actually, we need to establish more of a presence with the people today," Shiro interjects helpfully. "Not sure if there'll be much time to train."

Lance nods, bringing his attention back to the boy in his arms. "Ah, okay then I guess we'll have to see, right?"

"Okay."

"Cool."

There's a long pause. Some clattering of silverware against plates. Then:

"Hey Keith, mind letting me eat please?"

"Oh. Yeah, sorry."

It pulls a genuine laugh out of Lance, the little tinge of red in the tips of Keith's ears actually kind of cute as he reluctantly lets go, all save for one hand as he leads them back to the table.

Lance has never eaten a meal with only one hand before - and his non-dominant hand too.

He thinks he should get some sort of intergalactic medal of accomplishment for it.

Shiro says no.

So 'establishing more of a presence with the people' is so obviously 'keep Keith away from Lance' that it's painful. Not that Lance is _complaining, _per se. Exploring a cool-ass planet with his best bud in the universe is not exactly a chore. It's just...really obvious. And Lance feels coddled, is all. Which is not something he likes.

"So how is it having a second shadow?"

They've reached a lake of clear water, the surface shimmering prettily under the light of several floating orbs above it.

Lance throws him a look, twirling the blade of vegetation that he's plucked from the ground between his fingers. "You really gonna ask me that?"

"Wouldn't be doin' my job as BFF if I didn't."

A group of small white creatures swim by the shallow bank, keeping Lance's attention, but not as much as he'd like them to. "I mean...it could be worse."

"Could it?"

They move in sync, little legs propelling them forward. "It's like...just really…" He doesn't even know. He doesn't know what he wants to say. How much he wants to give away. How much he himself is willing to acknowledge. "I dunno."

The familiar hum of Hunk chuckling at him is usually enough to make him feel better. Even now it's working wonders, regardless of the fact that it's being completely directed at him.

"What! It's not like you'd be any better if you were in my place!"

Hunk's eyebrows raise, his smile absolutely knowing. "I mean, yeah I totally would because unlike you, I don't have a balmera-sized crush on Keith."

Lance throws the plant stalk at him, cheeks heating. "I- shut up!"

"It's why I ask!" Hunk's laughing still, his voice ringing out over the sparkly lake and the little white creatures swimming inside. "You've got the dude you're hot for lovin' all over you and I just wanna make sure you're not freaking out too much."

Lance's brows are etched together. "I'm not." (Freaking out too much, that is. Hot for Keith? There's-...well that's-...) "The bite is gonna wear off in a few days anyway and then he'll be back to being a _complete asshole _so it's fine."

Hunk hums. "Mm. Because it's easier to deny your feelings when he's being an asshole, right?"

Lance digs the toes of his boot into the soft, sandy ground beneath them. Whatever. It's whatever, honestly. As he said, it'll be done in a few days so why even worry. "I'm not worried." He's not.

"Okay, we'll just let him loose with you unsupervised then."

Lance huffs a nonplussed laugh.

He…

Okay maybe a little. Maybe he's a little worried.

"Anyway, we haven't actually talked to any people and it's almost time to go. Is this gonna be one of those white-lie things or are you gonna feel guilty?"

Hunk finally flicks the piece of vegetation that was chucked at him off his shoulder, watching it fall to the sand with a shake of his head. "_Nice subject-change, _and yes this can be a white-lie thing. I'm totally fine with that."

_"Not changing the subject_, and sounds good because I don't wanna talk to anyone today."

_"Yes you were, you're totally in love with Keith, _and sweet neither do I."

Lance piledrives into Hunk's side with an enthusiastic shout.

Lance does _not _have a balmera-sized crush on Keith, alright?

He doesn't know if he's made that clear to you or not but.

He doesn't.

The two of them meet back up with the others just as the moons are starting to come out nice and bright. Lance expects the little jog up from Keith. Expects the sweet little hug. Doesn't expect the press of his cheek warmly against his and the little, "Hey, I missed you," that sounds so sincere that Lance almost feels guilty hearing it. Like it's something Keith would never verbalize without the love bug stuff in him. To anyone, that is. Not that that person would be Lance specifically. Because Keith doesn't like Lance very much. It's just… Where was he going with this?

"Pidge wants to watch a scary movie tonight."

The offer of nonchalant conversation is still new to Lance. Still a little surprising. Which it shouldn't be, because Keith is here literally in his arms so why should a simple sentence be so unexpected, but… "Oh. Does she...have one? I didn't think she did."

"She traded for one while we were out." Keith's eyes are a weird color in this light. Not exactly purple. Not exactly navy. "Can you watch it with us?"

Focus, Lance. "Yeah." Scary movies aren't really his thing but, he _does _like chill time with the squad. "Yeah, sounds fun."

Keith smiles. A real one. A warm one that has no business being this up close and personal and directed at Lance. "Oh good, I didn't think you'd want to."

Lance scoffs. "Of course. Why do you say that?"

"You don't like scary movies," he casually explains without missing a beat. "You told me once that they're your least favorite kind, and action-adventure is your first. Especially Marvel movies. But not the first couple Hulks."

Lance blinks, his hands still hanging at his sides even as Keith hangs onto him because… "Wait...you remember that? I didn't even think you were listening to me."

Keith nods, brows furrowing at what seems like the thought of him ignoring Lance when he speaks. "I always listen to what you say."

Another blink. And forgive him, he just… That was so long ago. Months before the love bug stuff was in Keith's system and he had an inclination to pay attention. Not to be dramatic but it's kinda blowing Lance's mind right now. "Do you know my favorite superhero?"

"Spiderman," Keith answers without needing to think.

And it's gotta be a fluke. Some sort of enhanced memory thing from the bug stuff. "Least favorite food?"

"Tomatoes."

"Best beach?"

"Varadero."

"Number of cats?"

That one has Keith pausing. Not because he doesn't know, but because it's obvious he needs time to think, his eyes wandering as he seems to count in his head until reaching the grand total of, "Four."

Lance stares, mouth hanging open like an idiot because: "Keith, what the fuck?"

"We good over there?" Hunk asks it as an afterthought, clearly tuning into the disbelief in Lance's tone and the hands that have come to rest on the small of Keith's back.

And, "Yeah," he answers, right about the same time that Keith's eyebrows furrow in concern as he says:

"Wait, are you mad at me?"

And it's so completely stupid that Lance has to laugh because: "No, I'm not mad at you. You're just kinda blowin' my mind right now."

Keith's relief is visible. As is the way he leans into the touch that Lance _still _doesn't remember returning. "Ask me another one."

"Alright, let's head back," Shiro chimes in before Lance can conjure one up, Pidge zooming past so fast that it knocks Lance back into reality a bit. A little. A _lot _actually - why is he so hung up on this memory thing?

He drops his hold, ready to have to pry Keith off of him, but the need never arises, the baby koala in question instead unwrapping himself on his own and simply satisfied with a hand.

And that's how they walk. Through the streets of a gorgeous, glowing planet. Hand in hand.

Lance drops a few more trivia questions on the fly.

Keith, curiously, nails them all.

So remember when Lance said scary movies weren't his thing? Yeah, he still stands by that, stretched out in the corner of the adjoined couches, an elbow propped to surreptitiously cover his eyes with one or two fingers.

It's not that the movie is scary plot-wise. Actually, he has absolutely no fucking clue what's going on plot-wise, given that it's in an alien language and there's a lot of cultural barriers that his brain is slamming straight into while attempting to read four-armed body language. It could be _very _scary plot-wise for all he knows. It's just...it's the jump-scares that are getting him. The jump-scares that he doesn't know how to see coming because he can't read fucking _four-armed body language, holy shit._

So, true to their name, he jumps. And is scared. And he's glad he's hidden away in the corner of the couch because the only one picking up on his bullshittery is Keith, which, in itself is its own brand of bullshit. Because normal Keith would be on the opposite end of the couch from him. Fuck, normal Keith probably would've bailed out on this movie a long time ago.

But this is not normal Keith. This is love bug Keith. And love bug Keith is very touchy feely. Which means love bug Keith is plastered against Lance's side, head pillowed on Lance's chest and an arm around Lance's waist. And Lance isn't really one for dead-arming it through an entire movie, which means he has no choice but to pull his arm out from underneath Keith's back and fit it around his shoulder, his hand coming down just about at his hip.

So now that you know the setup - now that you've got this _great fucking picture painted for you _\- you can understand that every time Lance succumbs to a jump-scare from this absolutely _stupid-ass movie, _Keith 100% feels it. He knows about it. Every _god. damn. time. _And to be honest, Lance is actually grateful that this is love bug Keith and not normal Keith. Because normal Keith would've dragged his ass up and down for how many times he's jumped so far. But love bug Keith? This Keith's actually got his back, giving him a little squeeze every time there's a pop-up on the screen and Lance's soul is momentarily ripped from his body.

It's actually kind of...okay.

Kind of nice.

_Fuck, _okay yes it's very nice to have someone calming him down in between each scare. He likes the security of a body over him. And the squeeze of reassurance. And the constant, soothing stroke of Keith's thumb over his side as they watch. And it's so dark in here, the screen only blessing them with a significant amount of light every once in awhile, that if you would plop Lance down into this moment with no prior knowledge of the past day's events, the _last fucking person _he'd guess this to be would be Keith.

And yet, here we are.

Here they are.

Here's Lance, tensing as a scream and a flash rip across the screen and pluck his heart up into his throat. Keith's hand smoothes over his side...makes its way up his chest...rubs calming circles over fabric and stalls just over the pulse of his heart.

It's gotta be embarrassing up there - gotta just be dubsteppin' away like a fool because Keith looks up at him, chin resting gently on the other side of his chest.

Lance lets his breath out through his nose, steeling his expression before glancing down at him. "What."

And there's something about it. Something about the screen lighting up Keith's face like this - so soft and so close - the warmth of his body against him. It doesn't help Lance's heartbeat at all.

"Do you wanna go do something else?"

It's such a considerate question. Really sweet, if he's gonna be honest. But Lance dismisses it instantly. "Nah it's fine. You wanna see the end."

"You're scared, though…"

"It doesn't matter, you said you-"

The shift of weight rolling off of him is almost as alarming as one of the jump-scares, but not as much as the hand that reaches down for him as Keith stands, and the absolute absence of hesitation in Lance's mind before taking it.

He lets himself be pulled from the couch, passing the others as Keith leads him by the hand. It gets every single one of them to perk up on alert, the very obvious connotations of leaving a dark room to go to another dark room hand-in-hand with someone else prompting Hunk to mumble an unsure, "Uhhhh…"

But Lance waves it off. Because that's not what this is. And he gives Hunk a confident pat on the shoulder as he passes the end of the couch. "It's good."

That's all that they seem to need, because no one follows them out. No one watches them as Keith gently leads him toward the door and then they disappear behind it without another word.

The hallway is dark too. A little darker, even, and Lance isn't too sure he's into that. Because his anxiety is still wracked up, body still on high alert for an incoming scare. And it could possibly come from one of the blackened corners on either side of them, right?

"Hey…" Keith's voice is so calm. So collected. So close as Lance lets himself be backed against the wall. "You okay?"

"Yeah, for sure." He shakes his head, trying to laugh it off, but it's too keyed up and-

"You're really bad at lying." Keith's eyeing him up and down, slowly fixing whatever needs to be fixed...hands moving calmly but with purpose. He brushes a thumb over Lance's cheekbone...tucks some hair behind his ear...straightens the way his shirt collar falls over his shoulder.

It feels nice. Feels comfortable. Too comfortable, actually. But he's gonna be a bad person and ride this comfort train for a little bit. At least until his anxiety lets up a little more. "You don't have to do this, you know."

Keith's hands continue to soothe. "I know, but I love you."

It's so clear that he isn't aware how detrimental that phrase is to Lance's already keyed up nerves. So so clear. "I-..." Lance lets his eyes close. "You don't, though."

"Yeah I do-"

"No, I mean… You only think you do. You were bitten by a weird alien bug and it's making you feel things."

"Why don't you just focus on calming down…" It's more of a statement than a question. More of an order than a suggestion. More Keith than anything he's done or said in the past couple days. The _real _Keith. "Are you hungry?"

"No?"

"Thirsty?"

Lance frowns. "What? No, why're you asking?"

"Are you tired?"

"N-...I guess."

"You guess?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm tired, Keith. So what?"

"So I'm trying to figure out how to make you feel better." He answers Lance's snappy question with a stern face, eye contact never failing as he presses forward a little closer. "I don't like when you aren't yourself and it's-...I never know how to help you so just-... Fuck, let me _help _you, Lance!" The glossiness that the light catches in Keith's eyes is sudden. Troubling. Has him blinking it away, gaze dropping down to search empty space before he's taking a step back, voice gone soft again. "Sorry. I don't, uh…"

Lance watches it all happen in front of him - sees the switch and the switch back - sees how Keith reaches up to rub at his own chest in discomfort for a moment before letting it drop again.

"I'm really tired…" he says then, almost like he's not sure who he's saying it to. Not sure where he is exactly.

And there's something about it that has Lance's brows coming together in concern. "Okay…" he tries, "Let's go to sleep then."

It seems to take a moment, but then it reaches the boy in front of him, his hand dropping from his chest again as he nods, and then looks back up. "Yeah. Okay." He reaches out for the hem of Lance's shirt. "We can sleep together, right?"

And at this point, Lance is so fucking drained from all this shit that he's positive he'll be out like a light as soon as his head hits the pillow, so. "Sure. Yeah, we can sleep together."

It's what Keith wants to hear. So he isn't sure why he looks like he's struggling with something in his mind the entire walk to his room.

Lance was incorrect.

About the whole 'being so drained it doesn't matter' thing.

Because as soon as Keith shuffles into his room ready for bed - soft t-shirt, loose shorts, hair mussed - it's got Lance's nerves working overtime again.

Because this Keith is really..._soft, _he guesses is the word. And cozy? Maybe? But still Keith and still looking at him with those big emotional eyes of his and it makes Lance draw his legs up on the bed a bit, wondering just how completely he's fucked himself over by agreeing to this.

He doesn't get a lot of time to debate it in his head, because in contrast, Keith has absolutely _zero _issues with this, and makes it very well known with the way he approaches the bed like he's done it a thousand times, the mattress dipping under his weight as he crawls on his knees closer and closer up to where-

Well where Lance is trying really hard to be cool, honestly. But wow, Keith's moving fast. And wow he's ready to get what he wants. And Lance kinda makes this noise from the back of his throat as he tenses while Keith knees himself between his parted legs, clearly impatient with Lance's position because he plants both hands on his shoulders and he - _oh god - _he just pushes Lance straight backwards onto the bed and wow this was not a good idea at _all._

"W-...Keith, hang on dude," he tries to laugh but it's so pitifully on edge that it physically hurts to hear. And he's got his hands wrapped around Keith's wrists, eyes wider than they should be as he comes to grips with the fact that he's in bed with him. Keith's towering over him. Has him pressed against the mattress and okay, maybe Hunk is a little bit right about a couple things. "Didn't you say you were tired?"

Keith blinks down slowly at him in the dark, like he's trying to comprehend why the question is being asked. "I am."

Good. Good good good. "Okay cool - you just kinda seemed like you're, uh…"

Uh.

Keith's eyes narrow. "Like I'm what."

And Lance can't help the little shake of his head, mouth open but nothing really coming out because _dunno, _maybe like he's about to fuck him within an inch of his life? But he can't say that. Right? He can't put that idea in his head if it isn't already there. Even if it's already in Lance's. Like _really, really _in Lance's. As weird as it is. Because it's Keith. And this is just-

The feeling of Keith's hands leaving his shoulders is quickly replaced by the much heavier weight of his entire top half coming to settle down on top of him, his head resting once again on Lance's chest. It's a lying down version of their position on the couch, and all Lance knows is his chest is doing some particularly weird shit right about now. His chest and his lungs. And his...uh...other...more lower...parts…

"Wow. You're a-...a super clingy sleeper, aren't you…?" He goes for an attempted shuffle. Doesn't really get anywhere. Stares at the ceiling instead until he feels Keith pick his head up, because then he has to focus on the deep burn washing over his cheeks as meets the up-close gaze. "What."

Keith shakes his head, hair fallen in his eyes so bad that Lance _has _to fix some of it. But he doesn't say anything. He just watches, slowly taking in every single inch of Lance's face as he lays there between his legs.

And it's a lot. It really is. It's so much that Lance lets out a weird little groan and uses his hair tucking hand to cover over Keith's eyes, finally getting some relief. It has the corners of Keith's mouth curling a bit - the softest smile he's ever been forced to see - but then he catches the hint and lies his head back down.

And that's how he falls asleep. Keith, that is.

Lance, on the other hand, is up for several more hours, hands fisted in the sheets at his sides as he wills his heartbeat to ease the fuck down for once please.

* * *

The weight is off him when he does finally fall asleep and wake back up again, the planet's suns casting their rays through the window flanking his bed. It's nice to be able to breathe. Nice to be able to just calmly open his eyes and take in the-

Lance inhales sharply through his nose, eyes wide and blinking quickly as he shoots up from the pillow at the absolutely terrifying sight of Keith just- fuck, he was just...fucking-...

"How long were you watching me?" His voice is scratchy - hair probably a mess with how quickly he's sat up.

But Keith is calm as ever, propping himself up as well and mouth opening for a response when Lance's hand flies over it, stopping any and all information because:

"Wait. Actually, don't answer." He doesn't know what he'd do if the answer's anything longer than 'just a few seconds'.

One thing about the people on this high-techy-nature-planet? They sympathize when there's been a love bug attack - Lance'll give them that.

The fact that he's been walking around for a few days now with Keith either on or around him 24/7 is completely accepted as normal and no one gives it a second thought. It's kinda awesome, especially since Lance has now reached the point where the constant clinging attempts are getting kind of annoying, so he just ends up carrying Keith around on his back like a little Yoda or something.

It's surprisingly doable. And also surprisingly successful, because it means Lance can move around wherever he needs to go, and Keith doesn't trail after him trying to get body contact. It also means he can use both of his hands, which is...really not something he thinks he'll ever take for granted again.

Oh, and another thing? Keith's actually like, _super insightful _about a lot of stuff when he isn't busy being a complete asshole or only deciding Shiro needs to hear his ideas. Lance knows, because he's got the commentary coming in first hand, Keith assessing situations and making observations in Lance's ear whenever the need arises. Half the time, they're surprisingly on the same page. The other half, it's stuff Lance never would've even _thought _of. But it's _good. _It's _smart, _Keith reaching out over his shoulder to point at something in front of them that will help. And it's giving Lance impending FOMO for when things go back to normal and Keith isn't casual about his ideas with him anymore.

But that's something to angst about another time.

Because right now, they're on the forest floor, the celebration for some sort of bi-annual moon thing going strong for what feels like its fifth hour now. But Lance isn't complaining, because it's super chill but super fun and the atmosphere is just _so _freakin cool - lots of warm floating orbs of light and the stars twinkling prettily in the sky and the trees, the trees tower over them and cast interesting shadows and Lance is in his element. Feels really fucking good. Sips honeyed liquid from the blossoms of offered flowers and can't help but notice the sweet smile on Keith's face as he watches him from across the floor.

Because there's space between them now, where there wasn't for the whole day. And Keith's expression is so serene but warm, eyes locked calmly on him and lit from the lightning bugs glowing in the leaf crown someone placed on him several hours ago.

It's like a scene out of a movie. Like that ending Star Wars scene on Endor where everyone's happy and smiling at each other and Lance is-... Keith looks really-...

Hunk might be even more right about things that he originally thought. And if that isn't a thought that deserves a moment to step away and breathe, he isn't sure _what _is.

The lake with the little white creatures is so clear that it looks like glass in the moonlight, its water undisturbed at the late hour. Lance contemplates skipping a rock through it. Just to fuck with it. Wonders what kind of person that makes him, tossing the rock back down onto the ground because he doesn't wanna be that - constantly stirring the pot for absolutely no reason whatsoever.

It takes way less time for the arms to wrap around him from behind than he was expecting. Which means Keith followed him out immediately. No hesitation. Why would he when they'd been so caught up in watching each other from across the gathering?

"I'm okay," Lance answers before it can be asked, because he knows it's coming, and he'd rather just head it off at the pass than deal with it.

Except… "No you're not."

It's knowing. Insightful like the commentary he's heard in his ear all day. Lance turns in the hold, not surprised when it doesn't let up in the slightest, just shifts so it's a front embrace instead.

And Keith…with his hair and the leaf headband and the way the floating orbs pick up the glints of violet in his irises...

Jesus...how in the hell can one person look so…

"What's wrong?"

Lance sighs, "Nothing," reaching out to readjust a leaf in the crown, "You just…" don't say it… "You just look really nice..."

It's defeated in tone - in Lance's chest. Because he really shouldn't have said it, but...the way it lights up Keith's eyes more than the orbs ever could…

Fuck. He's getting sappy.

"We can go back now. Just needed a little breather."

Keith's boots kick up a small cloud of dirt as he shifts closer, chests pressing firmly. "It's okay, we can stay. I can tell you want to."

And isn't that nice, but: "You were having a good time back there."

The hug tightens a little. "Yeah, but I like this better." And there's not enough time to answer before he tacks on, sincerely: "I've always liked being alone with you, Lance."

It pulls Lance's heart up into his throat with a tiny tug. Because it's these sweeping declarations that get him confused. That hit him heavy and fast. And it's a lot to-

Keith's moving forward so confidently that Lance almost doesn't react in time - almost doesn't get his hand up quickly enough, eyes widened and pulse taking off as he intercepts and Keith's lips press against his palm just at the last second instead because-

What-...

He was just about to…

Keith's eyes open, brows furrowing in what's either hurt or frustration - Lance doesn't know - because he's still trying to grasp the fact that he was just two inches away from being kissed.

And he's gotta explain himself. He's gotta explain that this just isn't something that-...that he-... "You don't-...sorry. I'm sorry, it's just you don't normally..._do..._that…"

Keith's frowning when Lance feels it's safe to finally drop his hand, the barrier between them disappearing for now. "I want to."

Fuck. "Yeah you want to _now _but-..." Fuck, can Lance's pulse _please _just stop going ham for one second. "Keith, you can't do this shit. Normal-you would beat the crap outta me if he knew I let you-"

"Lance." There's definitely frustration there now. It's plain in the way Keith's arms have dropped to his sides. The very obvious furrow of his brows. "Do you wanna kiss me or not? Because I wanna kiss you so bad that my chest hurts. Like..._all _the fucking _time. _I just want you to-...ah…" The quick head shake he does is one of recalibration - paired with the hand grabbing at the same spot on his shirt as last night after the movie.

Lance sighs. Wants to help, but... "Keith, listen. You're not gonna be in love with me really soon. You're not gonna want anything to _do _with me, actually. And I don't-...I don't want you to look back and be mad that we-...did anything." Mad at _Lance _for letting it happen, either. He doesn't want any of it. Even if he really..._really _wants to kiss him right now, he's secretly decided.

Keith's hand drops, eyes closing for a moment before finally looking back up at him again. The heavy gaze has returned. Pink cheeks. "I'm not gonna be mad."

And as much as Lance wants to believe that, he's been with normal Keith infinitely longer than love bug Keith. And he knows for a fact that: "Yes, you are."

But Keith's pressing back against him again, hands snaking up to spread on either side of Lance's neck, a thumb running over his jawline. Lance has to swallow down the pulse in his throat. Has to keep his hands at his sides because he didn't realize how into this he'd be until right this second.

And Keith's the impulsive one. Always has been. Stays true to character as he tilts his head just a bit to brush his lips over Lance's bottom one - feather light and barely there but tempting enough for Lance to swallow, inhaling unsteadily through his nose because: "Keith-"

But by then it's too late.

By then he's already lost and he should stop it - he should stop it - he should stop it but Keith's lips are really soft...feel really nice pressing against his own...have his hands lifting to either reciprocate or stop it because he _should_ stop it but they get lost halfway...just sort of hang there, fingers trembling as their mouths slowly start to move even though-

He should stop it.

Lance's eyes flutter closed.

He should stop it but he's too lost in it to find his way. Too eager to keep up with the unsurprisingly addicting slip of Keith's tongue - the concept of Keith being into him - just Keith, in general. And he should stop it - he really should - but the atmosphere is pressing them together and he finally gets his hands on him - finally clamps down onto the sides of his shoulders. And he should stop it but he uses the hold to push instead. To walk him backward. To keep their mouths moving and his breath heavy and he walks him backwards until Keith's colliding with the glass partition, a breathy grunt escaping between them like it's a secret because it _is _a secret because they shouldn't be-

Lance wrenches himself away - has to physically tear himself off and run a hand through his hair, gaze everywhere but where Keith's watching him against the glass.

And…

And _fuck. _"I shouldn't've done that." He says it and feels it but his voice is weak. "I shouldn't've-... That didn't happen, okay?"

His hands are shaking.

Breath is labored.

Heavier than Keith's as he stares at him pace from his spot, but doesn't say anything.

And Lance just needs to get a hold of himself for a second because: "Okay, I'm sorry. I'm sorry Keith I just-...kinda got caught up but please remember that it was an accident." He doesn't even know what he's saying. Who he's trying to convince. Where he's going with this whole thing. All he knows is he's got this huge pit in his stomach and, "We can't do that again, okay?"

Keith's trying to follow it. Trying to understand what Lance doesn't even understand. But the last part is self explanatory. And even if there's a significant drop in his expression, he nods.

And it's gotta be enough.

Gotta be enough for now.

Gotta be enough to move on and hope for the best and they just need to- "Let's go back."

Because he can't stand here one more second. Can't look at Keith like this in this light with the stars and the fucking leaf crown without wanting to go right back against his own word.

Thankfully, Keith nods again. "Okay," and then, very quietly, "Can I still hold your hand?" like he needs to check if it's alright or not.

And it's enough to make Lance's heart twinge a bit in his chest, the tiny white creatures fast asleep as he walks by, his hand unfurling in Keith's direction.

* * *

Okay, so whoops.

That was a big ol' whoopsie daisy and Lance knows it.

BUT.

It's cool now.

And he's cool.

And Keith's cool.

And everything's really really cool and nothing bad will ever happen again :)

* * *

"Keith, I literally can't feel my ass."

It's going on Hour 2 on the couch and the resident baby koala is having a particularly clingy day, straddled comfortably over Lance's lap and nuzzled against his neck like the time he full on sprinted toward him and knocked him on his ass. Which. Speaking of.

"Keith...my butt."

He's like 73% sure he's not even awake, the sassy remarks revolving around the shaman they met with today dropping off into nothing at least half an hour ago. But Lance has _got _to move around a little. For the sake of blood circulation.

"Okay buddy, hang on." He heaves a breath, patting Keith on the back and then supporting him under his bottom as he lugs them both up to stand.

For someone two and a half inches shorter than himself, Keith sure weighs a lot when his weight isn't being distributed on Lance's back properly. Lance grabs blindly at the backs of Keith's thighs, pulling them up until Keith sleepily gets with the program and wraps his legs around Lance's middle for support.

After that, _shit, _they're good to go. Lance can carry him around like it's no big deal, sauntering into the kitchen for a snack with absolutely zero care and even less interest in the stares being directed toward him as he reaches up for a snack bar, the other hand holding Keith's back in support like a mother with her toddler.

The staring is not stopping. Especially when Keith seems to rouse a bit from the smell of food, eyes still closed and mumbling sleepily into Lance's neck until a piece of the snack bar is broken off for him and passed over his shoulder.

After a long stretch of silence, Pidge is the first to speak up.

"What am I seeing."

But Lance just continues on his way, his ass now properly thawed and back to functioning and his cargo in tow.

It's the third night Keith's managed to get them to sleep together, and as trying as it is, Lance has gotta say he's getting pretty good at not losing his _fucking mind _when he feels their legs tangle together, or a hand on his hip, or Keith's hair soft against his chin.

He's getting pretty good, but he's still got a long way to go. Especially when all three of those things are mixed in with "you always smell so good", or "can you rub my back for a minute", or Lance's least favorite: "you're shaking a lot...are you okay?"

Tonight's position is more doable than the first night's, because Lance had just frankly told Keith that he couldn't fall asleep when his body was draped directly on top of him like that. What they've got going now is a lot chiller - Lance on his back, an arm around Keith's shoulders as Keith wraps himself against Lance's side. It puts his head right back onto Lance's chest - a favorite of his, it seems - and it's just comfy enough that the fuzzy tendrils of sleep are ebbing their way across Lance's mind when he hears it, mumbled against him.

"Night, asshole. I love you."

It registers at the surface level and then a little deeper, Lance's eyes opening toward the ceiling. But then it's gone. Lost in the hazy inbetween. And he slips under, his mouth pressing a kiss to the top of Keith's head.

He's the first to wake.

The suns are still obnoxiously bright and he's still not used to them yet.

A little shift shows that they haven't moved much in their sleep, Keith still curled around his side, but his legs no longer tangled with Lance's. It's starting to get oddly comfortable, sleeping like this. Like a life-sized stuffed animal or a body pillow or something. Which doesn't make sense, because technically Lance would be the body pillow in question… Either way, his mouth is dry as fuck from sleeping on his back all night, the tiny clear of his throat coming out way louder than he meant it.

He knows because it has Keith stirring next to him, his small hum of coming-to actually kinda cute as he drags his fingers over Lance's stomach to clench his fist, then pick his head up, then stall for just a split second before meeting Lance's gaze with a look of confusion, which quickly spirals into wide eyes and a furrowed brow and-

"Shhhit- what the _fuck _Lance!" The shout and the scramble up that he immediately launches into puts a pit in Lance's stomach, unable to question him before- "Why the hell are you-"

Keith's voice drops off, his eyes scanning desperately around the room as he must realize that he's in fact _not _where he thinks he is. And that he's very much here. Very much in Lance's room. With Lance still very much here as well.

Which means…

"Okay," wow, this came sooner than Lance thought it would, "Okay, before you freak out - you got bit by a bug-"

"Oh god…" Keith's not screaming anymore, overtaken instead by a tone of dread as he seems to scan memories in his head at the polar opposite end of the mattress, a hand clenched over his chest with a little hitch of pain in his throat and-

"Keith, I can explain it to you, will you just listen to m-"

"We didn't do anything, did we?"

_"What-"_

"We didn't-"

"-no," Lance shakes his head with a frown, finally understanding what he means and running a hand through his hair to calm himself down because- "No. You were just really-"

"Fuck." He's already halfway to the door, jamming his finger at the keypad and refusing to look at-

"Jesus, Keith you're freaking out over nothing-" _door slide open _"-you might as well-" _door slide shut._

...

Lance sighs.

Well, so much for that.

Great to see that Keith's right back to normal.

He lets out another breath, crashing back against his pillow and staring at the ceiling.

It's the perfect time for his morning wood to remind him that it's been present this entire time under the bed sheets.

"Really?" Lance asks, sitting up _just _to gesture in frustration at it now that he's alone. "Still?"

The castle is unsurprisingly vacant of Keith's presence when Lance finally musters up enough willpower to set off and find him. Shiro's not there either. Which means Keith probably went running to him for the rundown of all the shit that happened instead of just staying put and hearing it directly from the source.

Lance doesn't wanna say he's jealous (because he's not), it's just that it'd be nice to be included in the rundown since he was the one who had to suffer through the attention this whole time. That's it.

He ends up finding Keith in a little shop close to where they need to meet the councilwoman from their first day to tie up loose ends, the familiar presence turning from a display of questionable-looking weapons when he must notice Lance's as well.

"Hey man. Can we talk for a sec?"

Keith's entire demeanor has changed, no longer light and open, but he nods anyway, and then follows Lance to a clearing of trees out back.

"I just wanted to make sure we were okay." Well, that's not all. Lance wants a lot of stuff. But most of it just simply isn't in the cards. So he settles for this. And hopes that he can get at least a sliver of it. "So uh...are we okay?"

He braces for an answer that would reside in Keith's norm. Something short. Maybe even cold. What he gets instead, is Keith's gaze falling elsewhere, his tone burdened down by something Lance can't place.

"Listen Lance…" he cracks a knuckle… "Sorry. ...for being all over you. For a lot of stuff, actually…" It's pieced together kind of sloppily. Almost...shy?

Lance can't help but smile. "Oh my god, dude. It's fine, okay? It's not like you had any control over it."

"Yeah, it's just…" He's looking for a word. Can't seem to figure it out. Lance wants to help him but he honestly doesn't know where he's going with this. "Thanks for not being a huge dick about it, I guess."

"Hey, no problem." He slings an arm over Keith's shoulder as they start to walk back toward the front, something that feels right at home for him, but has Keith visibly tensing under his touch. "Just don't think you're getting free rides around the castle anymore."

He laughs at his own joke. Even gets a little huff of a chuckle from Keith. And damn, maybe this actually did work out in his favor. Maybe this was just the bonding experience they needed in order to reach a mutual appreciation of one another.

Lance hopes so, at least. Because as much as he hates to admit it, he already misses Keith clinging all over him. He misses the touching. Misses the sweetness. Misses Keith telling him he loves him every hour on the hour. But he knew that was never going to last - knew that right from the _beginning _\- which is why he's trying not to be too disappointed that he's going right back to square one with his super secret pining. Maybe now they can be friends, at least. Cool with each other.

"Ah, I see the toxin has run its course," the councilwoman greets them once they make their way back to everybody.

It must be obvious with the very distinct lack of physical contact between the two of them. No hand holding. No piggy back rides. Just their normal, everyday walking with zero amounts of love bug stuff.

"I think we're all relieved it's out of his system," Hunk says, clapping Keith on the shoulder and subtly winking at Lance as the councilwoman carries on.

"Yes, the first bite is always the worst. But we cannot complain _too _much. Many of our strongest marriages were borne from the toxin's influence."

"Hm," Lance nods in interest. Because that's pretty cool, he guesses. Having something good come out of- ...wait. "Hang on...you said people have gotten married because of it?"

"Yes."

"But…" that doesn't seem right, does it? "They really got married because they were the first person someone saw after getting bit?" That seems kinda…

The councilwoman frowns, her head tilting to the side right about the same time that Shiro steps in. "Well, I think it's time to-"

"My dear paladin, there's nothing random about it," she smiles with almost pity.

To which Lance-...wait… "What? I'm so confused. Shiro said-"

"The matter of seeing someone first or not has nothing to do with it," she explains, speaking over Shiro's last attempt to interject. "The toxin simply increases the chemical levels that are already present in the host's body."

Shiro sighs, swearing quietly under his breath like he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be.

And Lance...is still… "Already present…"

"Yes, my dear. Many of the bonds are formed after the toxin's effects have pushed the host to act on their already present attraction. Much like with this boy right here."

Lance follows the councilwoman's gesture toward where Keith has gone positively crimson, his eyes trained desperately to the forest floor because…

Because...he…

Lance's stomach sinks low, then his heart, then pretty much everything else because holy-...holy shit? Holy shit- wait. Keith really does actually love him? "Oh...my god…?"

Why would Shiro tell them that-...

Oh. He was covering for him. He's been covering for Keith from the very beginning.

And _holy shit Keith's in love with him._

"It seems I've said something wrong…"

Hunk's chuckle is just as astounded as Lance feels. "Uh...no I think you said exactly the right thing, actually."

"I honestly can't believe this is happening," Pidge chimes in. "Shiro, is this actually happening?"

"Oh," Shiro sighs in defeat, "it's happening alright."

"Keith loves me." Lance can't help but say it out loud. Can't help but let the giddy smile dance over his face as he turns to the boy in question and says it again. "Keith, you love me."

"Fuck, can you please shut u-"

"No, I love you too."

"You-" what starts out as a grimace quickly morphs into disbelief as the realization drops in Keith's head. "You what?"

"Wait hang on," Pidge is chiming in again. "This is a mutual thing?"

"Why don't we actually give you guys some space." Shiro's the only voice of reason, although Lance can barely hear it because there's about three trillion things buzzing around in his brain right now.

Like 'holy shit!' and 'he loves me too!' and 'fuck is this a dream? Am I still sleeping?'

In fact he doesn't really tune all the way back in until they are literally left alone, Keith's face the same shade as Red and a hand slung over his eyes and Lance feels like he's about to explode with happiness because: "Is it true? Do you actually feel the same way?"

And it takes a good fifteen seconds - a solid moment - but then Keith is grumbling it, still hiding behind his hand. "...yeah."

And fuck! Holy hell, Lance can't contain the burst of excitement that has him lurching forward, his arms flying around Keith's middle and lifting him up a bit too high and Keith's gone livid, feet kicking as he screams at Lance to put him down but they both can't deny the warmth swirling around in their chests, those boy scouts going for the Largest Bonfire Ever badge.

"I'm literally so happy right now," Lance grins, setting him down but not letting go. Nope, it's gonna be a loooong time before he does that. "This is the best day of my life."

Keith mumbles something under his breath, but then his arms come up to settle around Lance too. "I'm...I guess I'm pretty happy too."

And it's way more than Lance expected, honestly. This whole thing is. Just literally everything about what's happened has been such a rush and a weird journey and he squeezes Keith maybe a little too tightly. But there'll be time for better hugs later. It's Lance's turn to be baby koala.

"I love you," he smiles.

And Keith simply lets out a long breath, one that seems to steady him rather nicely, and then he buries his face right back into Lance's neck where it belongs.

"I love you too, asshole."

The End


	116. (G) KLAPOLLO - Good Advice by foxysquid

Good Advice  
foxysquid

Summary:  
Romance-impaired Apollo is ready to give up on dating altogether, but Mr. Wright has a better idea: why not get advice from an expert? And who could be more qualified than the charming and internationally famous Klavier Gavin?

* * *

"Hey there, kid, where you off to?"

Apollo paused. He hadn't noticed Mr. Wright sitting there. The piles of-What were those piles of? They looked like boxes of confetti, but Apollo didn't want to ask-obscured the chair the man was slouching in. "Oh, just out."

"Out? That's not very specific."

Mr. Wright's lazy tone didn't indicate that he was actually interested in Apollo's destination, but Apollo clarified anyway. "Since I don't have a case, and a client probably isn't going to walk through the door in the next few hours-or days-I thought I would go look for something productive to do."

Mr. Wright raised his eyebrows. "I see. Industrious of you. Good luck. Just be careful-you don't want to turn into an ambulance chaser."

Apollo was pretty sure this was another of Mr. Wright's jokes. "Um no, I don't."

"That's how it starts-lawyers going out looking for work, hitting the pavement. Next thing you know, you've got a TV commercial and a catchy slogan. Something like, 'Been in an accident? You need Justice!'" He paused. "No, wait. That's no good. I'll think of a better one for you."

"I don't want to be an accident lawyer," Apollo said mournfully.

"That's where the money is," said Mr. Wright.

"Is it?" Apollo didn't know how he allowed himself to get caught up in these conversations.

Mr. Wright shrugged. "So I hear. I wouldn't know. I'm not a lawyer."

Apollo dutifully stifled a sigh and restrained himself from rolling his eyes. "Yeah, I guess you wouldn't have any idea, then."

Mr. Wright smiled and nodded. "You go out, Apollo. Have fun being productive, or whatever it is you young people do. Take all day if you want. I'll be around. If any clients show up, I'll take a message for you."

"Thanks," said Apollo, refraining from restating the simple fact that there would not be any clients showing up. "You're the best, Mr. Wright."

"Don't I know it."

Outside, the air was fresh and the sun was bright. It was a welcome change. The street was calm and quiet, no one in evidence but a few people out for walks and some parents or nannies with their young children. Older children were still at school, and men and women with regular day jobs were busy doing them. Apollo was technically on the job, but his "job" was vague enough that he might as well say he was always at work. He was always a lawyer, and a job might come up at any time. Freelancers were never truly free. Though they could slack off very easily, which was what he was doing now, although he was keeping his eyes open for possibilities. Not ambulances, though. Definitely not.

Apollo wasn't sure what he'd meant by telling Mr. Wright he was looking for "something productive to do". Above all, he'd wanted to get out of the office for a while, and he'd thought he could find something remotely useful to occupy his time, something that didn't involve being sawn in half by Trucy or completing whatever weird busy work Mr. Wright happened to think up for him. Inventing a filing system for Mr. Wright's leftovers had been-he didn't know what it had been, but it hadn't been educational or enjoyable.

Apollo eventually drifted into a little café near Ivy University. It was the kind of place frequented by students, the decor cluttered and weathered and presumably meant to be arty. The music they played was too jarring for Apollo's taste, but the smoothies were good enough that he could put up with that shortcoming.

Not that it mattered, because he forgot about the music when he saw the cashier. Why did the guy have to be so cute? Apollo felt his face heat as he ordered his usual strawberry and banana smoothie, though he tried to seem cool and unconcerned. After placing his order, he remained by the counter, waiting for the barista to make his drink. He looked at the cashier. The cashier looked back. The situation wouldn't have been as awkward if there had been other people waiting in line, but no, he'd come in during a lull, and there was no one else to save him.

He tried to think of something to say. "Do you like working here?"

The cashier smiled. "Sure, it's not bad."

"Yeah, it seems like a nice place. I like the smoothies." Apollo's every word echoed in his ears, sounding so obviously forced and foolish to him.

"Do you have a job?" the cashier asked. Still smiling, still friendly, so probably Apollo hadn't been too stupid. "Because if you're looking for one, we're hiring."

"Oh, yeah! I've got a job. I'm-uh, a lawyer."

"A lawyer?" The cashier laughed. "You're kidding, right?"

"No!" His already heated face got hotter. His ears were burning. "I'm a defense attorney. Look, here's my badge."

"Oh, sorry." The guy hadn't stopped smiling, though the smile was less friendly now. "You look kind of young, is all." He laughed again, though weakly. "You don't have to shout."

Apollo realized he had raised his voice without meaning to. He brought the volume down, quickly. "I-I'm not. It was an accident. Sorry." He wished his order would arrive and put him out of his misery, but there seemed to be a hold up with the bananas, and his drink still wasn't ready. He decided to shut up and wait for the smoothie in silence. He'd always been terrible at chitchat.

He was expecting the cashier to remain silent as well, which was why he was surprised when the man suddenly spoke to him again. "Oh my god! Look who it is!"

Apollo looked. A couple had walked through the door. He didn't recognize the young woman, but the same could not be said of the man with her. All smiles and light, it would have to be Klavier Gavin, exactly when Apollo was at his most embarrassed.

Since Apollo was standing right next to the cash register, with no place to hide, Gavin spotted him at once and breezed over. "Apollo Justice, how nice to see you."

At least the man hadn't called him by a stupid nickname this time. "Hi, Gavin. Good to see you, too." Finally, his smoothie was ready. He grabbed it. He noticed the cashier was gazing at him with new respect. But at what cost? "Sorry, I've got to run. I'm working on something." Not exactly a lie, as his vague mission of looking for something productive to do counted as something. Not exactly the truth, either, but this wasn't a court of law. "I'll see you later."

"Ah, yes. I understand what it's like to be busy." If Gavin suspected that he wasn't being completely honest, it didn't show on his face. "Good day, Herr Justice. I hope we'll meet again soon."

When he reached the door, Apollo glanced over his shoulder. Gavin seemed so at ease with his pretty date, and he was already joking with the cashier, who was plainly smitten with him. How did he do it? Yes, he was famous, which helped, but it was more than that. It was charisma. Confidence. Charm. It was also irritating. At least the smoothie was good. Apollo drank it in deeply as he turned his back on the café, and the sweet taste was some consolation.

The Wright Anything Agency was quiet when Apollo returned, and he wondered if that also meant it was deserted. It was too early for Trucy to be home from school, but Mr. Wright had said he'd be around. Not that that necessarily meant anything, as he often wandered off without any notice and even less explanation. "Hello?" Apollo called out, clutching the cup that contained the dregs of his smoothie. "Anybody here?"

"Yes, one minute." A familiar, muffled voice came from the back rooms. Apollo rarely ventured there, and never when he was by himself. Those were Mr. Wright and Trucy's bedrooms, and it would have felt weird to go in there while they were gone.

Mr. Wright shortly emerged from the mysterious depths of his room. "You're back early." For once, he appeared visibly surprised. He also wasn't wearing his hat. His hair was sticking up in the back. Apollo tried to remember if he'd seen Mr. Wright with his hat off before. "I thought you'd stay out a few hours, at least. You seemed so determined to chase ambulances."

Apollo didn't bother to contradict him. "I found out pretty quick that I'm useless," he declared, plopping himself down on the couch in what he hoped was a forceful and forthright manner. He folded his arms over his chest, cup still clutched in one hand.

"Already? Wow, that was fast." Mr. Wright returned to the chair he'd been sitting in earlier. "It takes most people years to figure that one out."

"I'm a fast learner," Apollo shot back.

"Ha. I guess so." The colorful boxes stacked around him made it look like he'd been playing at building himself a fort with adult-sized blocks, though they were probably related to Trucy's act. "Want to talk about it?" As usual, he didn't sound particularly interested.

Apollo suspected he was being humored, but he didn't care. He did want to talk about it. "Yes! I'm giving up."

"Giving up?" Mr. Wright ran a hand through his hair and glanced to one side, as if he wasn't giving the conversation his full attention. Apollo would never have guessed Mr. Wright had such spiky hair. "I get the idea you're not talking about practicing law."

"No, I'm not."

"So what is it you're so keen on giving up?"

"Dating."

"You were-on a date?"

"No, I wasn't on a date. That's the point. I'm never on a date. I can't get a date!"

Mr. Wright glanced away again. Apollo was expecting a snarky answer, but instead, Mr. Wright said, "Now, Apollo. You don't mean that."

"Yes, I do."

"What happened?"

Apollo felt too embarrassed to recount the incident in the café. If he tried to explain it, he'd seem stupid all over again, and this time in front of Mr. Wright. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything. "Nothing, really. I don't know how to talk to people, that's all."

Mr. Wright crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. "Is there anyone in particular you wanted to talk to?"

Apollo's doubts about broaching this topic increased tenfold. He hadn't thought of what it would actually be like to discuss the matter with Mr. Wright. "Just-someone cute. Forget it."

"No, no, this is an important subject. Relationships are the spice of life, isn't that so?"

Enthusiastic Mr. Wright was worse than sarcastic Mr. Wright. "I guess," Apollo admitted miserably.

"So, who is the lucky object of Apollo Justice's affections?"

"No one in particular! I mean it!"

"Okay, calm down." Mr. Wright held up a hand. "Don't get all bent out of shape."

Flustered, Apollo tried to explain. "It's just that Gavin-"

Mr. Wright blinked, appearing surprised for the second time today. "Prosecutor Gavin?"

"No, it isn't him! That's not what I meant!"

"Sure, I believe you!" This time, Mr. Wright put up both hands in a gesture of surrender. "I only wondered how Gavin fit in to your decision to renounce dating forever."

"Oh, he came into the café when I-I was trying to talk to someone, but it wasn't going well, and then Gavin happened to come in, and he's so great at talking to everyone."

"So Gavin's mastery of romance has you feeling insecure?"

"You could put it like that," Apollo admitted, though he wasn't too fond of the phrases "mastery of romance" or "feeling insecure".

"I think I understand. All right, I have one piece of advice for you, Apollo."

Apollo was wary. "And that is?"

"Be yourself."

"Be-myself." That was terrible advice. It was a cliché. It didn't help at all. "That's your big advice?"

Mr. Wright nodded. "It always worked for me. Back in the day. When I was a young man like you."

Once again, Mr. Wright was talking as if his life was already over. Apollo decided not to challenge him on it this time. "I think that's terrible advice," he snapped.

Mr. Wright took this criticism in stride and smiled. "Fair enough. If this old man's way of doing things is too old fashioned for you, I've got another idea."

"What is it?" Apollo asked, without much hope that he was going to hear anything helpful.

"I find that if I need help with something, it's best to go to an expert. Go to a plumber when the pipes explode, go to a mechanic when your car blows up, go to a lawyer when you're accused of murder. If you need help with dating, why not go to someone who's good at it?"

"What are you getting at?" Apollo narrowed his eyes. Mr. Wright's examples were too dire for his comfort.

"You did say Prosecutor Gavin was 'so great'."

Apollo recoiled. "Go to him for advice? No way! I can't do that."

"Why not? He seems friendly towards you."

"Yeah, but it's embarrassing!" He groaned. Gavin would probably be insufferable about it. So smug and confident. "Anyway, he's probably too busy to help me with something dumb like that."

"Are you kidding me? Do you even know Gavin? I bet he'd set aside a whole day for something like that."

"Maybe." Mr. Wright was probably right about that. Gavin was known to go on about romance and poetry and love. "But it sounds annoying."

Mr. Wright shrugged. "Suit yourself. Hey, what do I know about romance?"

Apollo looked at him sharply, suddenly thoughtful. He'd never thought about Mr. Wright and romance together. Did Mr. Wright-go on dates? He did go out a lot, and most of the time, Apollo had no idea where he'd been. He'd assumed the man was out working, playing piano poorly and playing poker a lot better-or, since he'd started preparing to retake the bar exam, studying at the law library. Apollo felt a question hovering on his lips, but he decided not to ask it. Mr. Wright wasn't going to answer him, and he'd end up more embarrassed than ever. "Not much," said Apollo dryly.

"Think about it," said Mr. Wright, but he shrugged again, as if he didn't care, then got to his feet. "Since you had such a hard time, why don't you go home, take the rest of the day off? Like I said, if a client shows up, I'll pass the message along."

"Sure, fine, why not? It's not as if I have anything else to do." Someday, maybe, he'd have another case, but it didn't look as if today was going to be that day.

As Apollo was reaching for the doorknob, about to leave, Mr. Wright's voice sounded again. "Apollo." Apollo turned. Mr. Wright was standing in front of the door leading to the mysterious other rooms, pointing at him. His spiky hair all but bristled. "Think about it," he said again.

What was with Mr. Wright today? "Okay, okay! I'll think about it."

Apollo was true to his word. He thought about it. He didn't want to, but once he had the idea in his head, it proved impossible to get rid of. That was why, a few days later, he found himself standing in the Prosecutor's Office.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Justice, Mr. Gavin isn't here," he was informed by Gavin's secretary. He'd been to Gavin's office before, but the secretary hadn't been present at the time. She smiled at him pleasantly over her desk. He was not surprised by her good looks. "He's at lunch."

"Um. Do you know how long he'll be?"

"Usually he's back by one." Her gaze flickered to the clock. "So it won't be long. You're welcome to wait."

Apollo wondered if Gavin was the only prosecutor with his own personal waiting room. He seated himself in one of the chairs across from the woman's desk. He scrutinized the magazines that had been left out on the small table next to the chair. They all seemed to have something to do with guitars. Apollo really, really wasn't interested in guitars, but he flipped through one of the magazines wearily, as if it were his duty to do so.

He hardly looked at what was written on the pages as he flipped. He was having second and third thoughts about showing up here. Maybe Mr. Wright's advice had been a joke, designed to put him in this ridiculous situation. He had no idea what he was going to say to Gavin, and he was starting to think he had been right before, when he'd decided to renounce dating forever.

"You're very interested in that article, ja?"

Apollo started, his head snapping up. Klavier Gavin stood before him, regarding him amusedly. "Oh, I didn't hear you come back," Apollo said, quickly putting the magazine to one side.

"I had no idea you were such a music lover."

"I'm not," Apollo blurted.

Gavin laughed. "I see. We won't talk about music, then. Instead, I will ask you, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"It's-" Apollo grew very conscious of the secretary's presence. "It's a personal matter."

"Personal?" The man's eyebrows went up. "How intriguing. Very well, I have time for a personal matter. If you will follow me into my office, we can discuss it there."

Apollo continued to tell himself that he shouldn't be doing this, but he nonetheless followed Prosecutor Gavin into his office. The room was messy, but artfully so, almost as if its occupant wanted to seem casual and unconcerned. However, the man's displayed guitars, which took up an entire wall, told another story: carefully locked away, pristine.

Gavin pulled out a chair with a flourish. "Please, have a seat. I'm very glad to see you. I'm sorry we didn't get to talk more the other day."

"Oh, right." He had no intention of telling Gavin why he'd left the café so quickly. "Yeah, you caught me in the middle of something."

"And now, here you are in my office. Very mysterious, seeing you twice in a few days after I haven't seen you in a few months. And for a 'personal matter', no less. You interest me, Herr Justice." Standing over him, Gavin apparently had no intention of finding a seat of his own, preferring to fold his arms over his chest and shift his weight slowly from foot to foot.

"I do? I didn't mean to." This was definitely a bad idea. Even though Gavin's band had broken up, he still loved to make a big production out of everything. "It's no big deal, I swear."

"No big deal," the prosecutor repeated. "Got it. Then what is the little deal?"

"I wanted to ask your advice about something, that's all."

"My advice? Does this have to do with a case? I'll have you know, I won't be giving you an unfair advantage over the other prosecutors." He paused and winked. "At least, not too much of one."

"No, it's nothing to do with legal stuff at all."

"I'm even more intrigued now. Please, don't keep me waiting."

He'd come all this way, and at this point, he couldn't think clearly enough to formulate a believable alternate explanation. He might as well say it. Delaying would only prolong his suffering. "I was wondering if you'd mind giving me advice about dating."

Gavin's eyes widened. For one long, painful moment, he didn't say anything, and his face was a blank, except for those wide eyes. Apollo made himself sit still and steady, though he wanted to cringe and sink into the floor. "My advice? About romance?" said Gavin at last. Then light spread across his face, and he smiled, like the sun rising. "But this is wonderful! I'd be happy to assist you."

His delight didn't make Apollo feel any more at ease. "Uh, thanks."

Gavin leaned in, a conspiratorial note in his voice. "And is there someone in particular-"

"No." Apollo cut him off before that line of questioning could get started. "I meant in general. Advice about dating in general."

Gavin nodded. "Very good. I understand." He bowed his head. "You don't need to worry. With my guidance, we will soon have women eating out of your hand."

Oh. Right. Apollo supposed he should say something about that.

"In fact," Gavin went on before Apollo had decided on his wording, "I know a fair number of women I could introduce you to, if you'd like. I'm sure any of them would be delighted to have a date with a handsome young attorney."

"Um," said Apollo.

"Tell me, do you have a 'type'?"

"Yes," said Apollo, seeing his chance to be succinct and seizing it. "Men."

Gavin hesitated for only a moment. "Ah, I see," he said. "Forgive my assumption. We will soon have men eating out of your hand, then."

Apollo nodded, though Gavin's confidence didn't lessen his own embarrassment. An unexpected distraction, however, did. Apollo blinked. His bracelet: it was-reacting? To Gavin? His gaze on the man sharpened, but he stopped himself. It wouldn't be fair. If Gavin was uncomfortable for some reason, that was his business, and Apollo wasn't going to pry.

"I have some work to finish up now," said Gavin lightly, as if nothing in the world was wrong, "but if you'd like to meet with me tonight-say, around seven?-we can begin your education."

Tonight? He hadn't thought Gavin would be able to help him that soon, the man was so busy. He remembered what Mr. Wright had said about Gavin putting a whole day aside for him. Maybe Mr. Wright had been right about that. "That would be fine."

"Good. I'll pick you up. Will I find you at Mr. Wright's agency?"

That would be easier than giving directions. "Yes, that's fine." It wasn't until Apollo was on the sidewalk outside, unlocking his bicycle, that he realized this meant he would have to tell Mr. Wright and Trucy that the prosecutor was picking him up. He was determined to heap embarrassment on his own head today, wasn't he?

"Is it a date?" asked Trucy for the third or fourth time.

"No, it's not a date!" Apollo snapped in reply, also for the third or fourth time.

"Then if you're not dating him, maybe _I'll_ date him," she said.

"He's a little old for you, isn't he?" Apollo asked.

"He's older than you, too, Apollo."

"Only by two years! And I'm _not_ dating him, I already told you that, so it doesn't even matter how old he is."

"Then maybe I should date him," said Mr. Wright, appearing from the back room. "Or do you think I'm too old for him?"

"Daddy, you can't date Mr. Gavin."

"Oh? And why's that?"

"You know why." She stuck her tongue out at him.

"Ah, that's right, I forgot. I can't date men you think are handsome." He winked at her.

Those two were so weird sometimes. Apollo pretended not to listen to them. They weren't making this any easier. It was hard to pretend, however, when Trucy stepped in front of him, commanding his attention. "I don't see why you'd date another boy if you could date Mr. Gavin."

"Because I don't want to!" Apollo shouted.

"Your voice is always so piercingly unmistakable, Herr Justice," said a voice that he'd been expecting to hear, but not so soon.

Apollo started and turned towards the door. "What? Don't you knock?"

Gavin gave no signs of being hurt by this less-than-warm reception. "I was expected. And the sign on the door did say 'open'."

"Oh yeah, I always forget to turn that sign around," Mr. Wright murmured to himself.

Apollo glared at him. "An agency doesn't need one of those signs, anyway."

Mr. Wright was unmoved by this criticism. "I think it adds a nice, welcoming touch."

Gavin did not join in this argument. "A pleasure to see you, Phoenix Wright, Fräulein." He nodded to each of them in turn. "And Herr Justice. Are you ready to go?"

"Yes," he said, ignoring Trucy, who had stepped aside to where Gavin couldn't see her and was mouthing something about it being a date. At least she wasn't trying to show Gavin her newest magic trick.

"You two kids have fun," said Mr. Wright, but he had strategically waited until Apollo and Gavin were almost at the door, meaning that Apollo couldn't shoot him an irritated look without being obvious about it.

"Thanks, Mr. Wright."

"A lovely family," said Gavin as they left the office. Apollo couldn't quite tell if he was being sarcastic. The prosecutor generally seemed cheerful and sincere, but sometimes Apollo caught a trace of something else in his manner.

"Yeah, they're nice."

"I meant you as well."

"Oh. Right. Thanks." Sometimes he didn't know what to say to Gavin. They knew each other, but not all that well. Fortunately-or unfortunately-he was distracted from thoughts of his ineptitude by the sight of Gavin's motorcycle parked at the curb. Oh no. He was supposed to ride on that?

Gavin must have seen his face fall, for he said quickly, "Don't worry, I brought an extra helmet for you."

"But I can't-"

"Nonsense. I have people ride with me all the time. It's very easy and safe. All you have to do is hold on."

"Couldn't we go somewhere close by-and walk there?" Apollo suggested desperately.

"If you want my assistance, you must put yourself in my hands, Herr Justice. Trust me."

Apollo sighed. "You don't have to keep calling me that."

"Hm?" Klavier raised his eyebrows, and Apollo realized he'd been muttering to himself. "What was that?"

"I said," Apollo replied, raising his voice and speaking distinctly, "you don't have to call me Herr Justice. We're not in court."

"Ah. Very true! Then, while we are not acting in any official capacities, I will call you Apollo, and you will call me Klavier. Better, ja?"

"Yeah, that's definitely better."

Klavier was already at the motorcycle, helmets in hand. Apollo caught up to him, reluctantly. He accepted the helmet Klavier offered him. Like Klavier's own helmet, it was purple and emblazoned with a stylized G. Apollo hesitated.

"Do you need any help, Apollo?" Klavier asked, his voice low and teasing.

"No, I think I can manage to put a helmet on."

"I know what the problem is. Worried about your hair?" He laughed. "I think it'll spring right back up."

"I don't care about my hair!" said Apollo, with vehemence, and all but slammed the helmet down on his head.

He'd never ridden on the back of a motorcycle before. He was uneasy about it. It was so-close. Since he didn't know the prosecutor that well, it felt strange to wrap his arms around his waist. At least, once they were speeding down the street, the urgency of holding on overwhelmed his feeling of awkwardness.

"You don't have to hang on so tight!" laughed Klavier, raising his voice to be heard over the wind and the engine. "I'm not going to let you fall."

Apollo did not loosen his grip.

"Are you sure about this, Klavier?" Apollo asked.

"Sure, I'm sure! This is the perfect place for me to teach you good techniques."

Apollo glanced around the bar. Yes, it was a gay bar, and he understood what Klavier intended, but he didn't want to learn to pick up guys in bars. In fact, that was almost the opposite of what he wanted to learn to do. Not that he had any moral objection to picking people up in bars. It was fine! For other people. Like Klavier, for instance. Apollo couldn't help but notice that all gazes were already fixed on the recently retired rock star. He saw people murmuring to each other, and he could guess what they were saying: "Is that Klavier Gavin?" "Oh my god, it is!"

Apollo scratched the back of his head, nervously. "I don't know."

Klavier ignored him. "Come with me."

Though he was trying to formulate a better objection, Apollo followed him to the bar. A bartender appeared instantly, fawning, and Klavier turned to Apollo. "What will you have?"

"Oh. Orange juice."

"Orange juice? With?"

"Um, nothing?"

"I see." He smiled at the bartender. "A vodka tonic and a plain orange juice, bitte."

Apollo wondered if anyone had ever made drinks so quickly, though he guessed it wasn't hard to mix a plain orange juice. The bartender tried to refuse payment, but Klavier overtipped him outrageously, then leaned back against the bar and sipped at his drink. "Now, Apollo, look around and tell me what you see."

Apollo didn't need to look around, but he did so, dutifully. What he saw was a bunch of people drooling over Klavier, and a few disinterested people who already had someone else to drool over. In short, it did not look promising. "A bar," he told Klavier, trying not to sound miserable.

"Sometimes I think you don't have enough imagination. What you see before you is a room full of possibilities. Any one of these men might be your next lover or the love of your life. There's no way of telling."

Apollo was pretty sure he could tell.

Klavier leaned in closer. "Do you see anyone you like?"

Apollo did not. "I'm not sure."

"I see. Well then, can you tell me the kind of man you like?"

"Yes." Apollo brightened. He'd thought this over many times. "He should definitely be smart and funny. Like to read. Not obnoxious. Really sweet. And it would be great if he were a professional and we had a lot of interests in common, so we'd have a lot to talk about."

Klavier didn't say anything for a moment, and Apollo gave a start as, once again, he felt his bracelet respond to something the prosecutor was doing. He couldn't help it-it happened so naturally these days-he glanced over and very distinctly saw Klavier bite down on his lower lip. Before Apollo could say anything about it, Klavier asked, "And how about physically?"

That one took Apollo a second to answer. "Nice eyes?"

"Nice eyes. I see. That might be a bit more difficult to discern, with this dim lighting, but I'm sure we can find someone suitable." Klavier's gaze swept the room, then he nodded in the direction of someone Apollo could barely see. "How about him?"

"Why him?"

"I noticed him when we came in. He seems nice, and he's by himself."

"Uh, okay." Apollo wasn't feeling any better about Klavier's teaching methods, but he had asked him for his help, so he might as well attempt to follow his advice. "What should I do?"

"First of all, you must remember to smile. No matter what, don't stop smiling. And give compliments! That's very important. Find something about him to compliment, and mention it. Above all, you must remain confident. Approach the man in question with no hesitation. Show no sign of weakness. You must completely believe that you will achieve your goal."

"And what's my goal?"

"To win the man's interest."

"But I don't really want it."

"That's not the point, Apollo. I'm trying to teach you how to romance men. And as I said, you should keep your mind open to the possibilities. You never know who you might find yourself falling for."

"I just think it sounds mean."

One of Klavier's rare scowls shadowed his face. "It is not 'mean'. That is what people come here to do. To flirt and have a good time."

"Okay, okay. Sorry." The last thing he wanted to do was upset Klavier.

Klavier seemed placated by this. His scowl disappeared. "Do you feel ready to give it a try?"

"Not really. What should I say first? I'm bad at openings."

"How about 'hello'? That usually works."

"I know about hello," said Apollo. "I've got that part covered. I mean after that."

Klavier considered. "Maybe you should introduce yourself. And compliment his eyes."

"Are you completely sure about that?"

Klavier played idly with his hair as he nodded. "Yes, I think so."

Apollo swallowed. "Okay, I'll give it a try." He had a bad feeling about this. But it couldn't hurt, could it? He reminded himself that the busy prosecutor had set aside a whole evening for him. And he did want to get more comfortable around men he was interested in. That probably meant he should practice, right? He took a deep breath, steeling himself and trying his best to exude massive amounts of confidence, then walked over to the man Klavier had pointed out. What was the worst thing that could happen?

Mercifully, the ordeal was over quickly. The "hello" part went fine, but once he made the remark about the eyes, the man laughed at him. "Are you joking?" he asked. Face burning, Apollo turned on his heel and strode back to where Klavier was waiting.

Klavier took a sip of his drink. "How did it go?"

"I think you can probably guess."

"Not well? I'm sorry about that. This is all part of the process, you see. Nothing for it but to try again."

"No. No way."

"Oh no?" The prosecutor's face was unusually emotionless. "And why not?"

"Because. Your advice-is terrible!"

Klavier's eyes widened slightly, but he did not seem offended as he asked, "Is it?"

"Maybe it works for you, but that's because you're Klavier Gavin, and you're a rock star-or you were-and it's easy for you! People automatically like you. You don't even have to try."

"I suppose not."

"I don't want to go to bars and pick up guys," Apollo continued, annoyed that Klavier wasn't even bothering to disagree with him. "I don't like that kind of thing at all!"

Klavier made a quick, encompassing gesture with his hands. "But this is dating, Herr Justice. This is going out and meeting people. What is it that you want advice about, if not this?"

"Talking to guys, and-and I don't know. I don't even know, because I can't think!"

"The orange juice went right to your head, didn't it?"

"Very funny," said Apollo, but he didn't think it was funny at all.

"So, talking to guys. I can do that. Come." Klavier reached out to tap on the bar, indicating where Apollo should go. Apollo didn't know why he did as the man said, but he went to stand next to him. "Talk to me."

"What?"

"I'm a guy, in case you haven't noticed. Talk to me."

"But I know you already. It's not the same."

Klavier smiled again. "Then pretend. Pretend I'm someone else, someone you might like."

Apollo didn't pretend. His bracelet was reacting again, and he didn't know why. He stared at Klavier.

"Don't stare so much," Klavier chided him. "Men don't like that. Your gaze is very-intense."

"You _know_ your advice is bad, don't you?" said Apollo slowly. It was difficult for him to believe that the prosecutor would intentionally deceive him, but it had to be true. What other explanation could there be for what he was sensing?

"What do you mean? Of course it isn't."

Klavier had bitten his lip again. Apollo had seen it, very clearly. "You're giving me bad advice on purpose," he said. "And I don't know why, but I don't like it. I should have listened to Mr. Wright instead-I mean, the first thing Mr. Wright said."

"What did Mr. Wright say?" Klavier asked.

Apollo wouldn't let him change the subject. "That doesn't matter now! That's not what I'm talking about, I said it by accident. You don't want to help me, so I don't know why you agreed to do this. I'm going home."

Klavier straightened, frowning. "No, don't go home. I'll help. I promise."

"No! I'm leaving!" Apollo headed for the door.

"Apollo, please stop." Apollo didn't stop. Klavier followed him out of the bar. "At least let me give you a ride home, Herr Justice-please."

"No. I'm going to take a walk. By myself." Apollo shoved his hands in his pockets and hurried down the sidewalk. He didn't look back-at least, he didn't want to look back, but he was unable to resist sneaking a single glance over his shoulder before he turned the corner on the next block.

Klavier was still there, standing alone beneath a streetlight, watching him leave.

Apollo slammed the door on his way into the office the next morning.

"What's the matter?" Mr. Wright asked, glancing up. He was sitting at the piano, as if he was contemplating playing it. He would have had to remove all the junk he'd piled on top of the poor instrument first, but it looked as if he was at least considering doing that.

"Nothing."

"Hmm," said Mr. Wright, then turned back to the piano.

"_Hmm?_ That's all you have to say to me?"

"Huh?" Mr. Wright looked up again. "Was there something else you wanted me to say?"

"No, I guess not."

Mr. Wright picked up one of the knickknacks on top of the piano, examined it thoughtfully, then put it back down. Apollo wondered what he was trying to prove. "Oh yeah," Mr. Wright said at last, "how did the lesson with Gavin go?" He turned. He was almost smiling, but not quite. "That's what you wanted me to ask, wasn't it?"

Mr. Wright was at his most annoying when he was right. "It didn't go well. It was awful! First he took me to a bar, and I hate bars. They're too loud and crowded, and I don't like all the smoke. It's bad for my voice. Also, I don't like drinking."

Mr. Wright pursed his lips. "You know, Apollo, I don't think I'm too clear on your opinion of bars yet. Could you tell me a little more about it?"

Apollo ignored that sarcastic question, because that was what it deserved. "And then he gave me terrible advice. On purpose!"

"Really. That doesn't sound like him at all."

"That's what I thought, too! Why would he do something like that to me?"

"Apollo," said Mr. Wright, "let me give you a word of advice. Prosecutors-they're not like us. Defense attorneys-and once and future defense attorneys-we're plain, simple, hearty folk."

"We are?"

"We are. But not prosecutors. They're strange, delicate, unpredictable creatures. No one ever understands them, so don't begin to try."

What was he supposed to say to something like that? "I think _you're_ the strange one."

Mr. Wright laughed and didn't deny it. Instead, he asked, "So why do you think he'd do something like that?"

"I don't know."

"I mean, what would possess a man to take you out to a bar and then foil your attempts to pick up other men?"

Apollo stared. When he put it like that, it sounded horrible. "But it wasn't like that. Not at all!"

"You don't think so?"

"But I-but I-but you said-?"

"Me? Don't go blaming this on me."

"I get it," said Apollo, trying to calm himself down, though he could already feel the sweat at his neck, making his collar stick to his throat. "This is one of your jokes." But he remembered. His bracelet. The tension. Klavier's teeth bearing down on his lower lip. The little things Klavier had said: _Pretend I'm someone else, someone you might like._ Oh god, what had he done?

"I do make a lot of jokes," Mr. Wright agreed, but his tone was not reassuring.

"It's not possible," Apollo protested. He knew what had happened, what he'd seen, but it didn't make sense. "I don't get it! Why couldn't he just tell me what he was thinking?"

Mr. Wright sighed and put a hand over his chest, in what Apollo felt was an uncalled for dramatic gesture. "Oh, young Apollo. What a grand adventure awaits you. I don't envy you."

"What should I do?" Apollo asked. He was starting to feel a bit frantic.

"Hey, you didn't want to follow my original good advice." Mr. Wright was not exactly brimming with sympathy. "Don't go asking me for more now."

"But then why did you give me that other bad advice on purpose?"

"Is that what I did?" Mr. Wright asked.

Apollo was coming to loathe the man's pointed questions. "Ugh. Okay. I guess I have to figure it out myself."

Phoenix turned back to his piano. He picked up another knickknack. This one, he set down on the ground. "I know how you feel," he said.

Apollo wondered if today would be the day Mr. Wright would finally start practicing. He wasn't about to bet on it, though he'd never seen the man succeed in moving one of the items on top of the piano before. "I'm going out," Apollo informed him.

Mr. Wright turned again, hand hovering over one of Trucy's trick cups. "Oh? How long do you think you'll be gone?"

"I'm not sure. A few hours, maybe?"

"More ambulance chasing?"

"Yeah, exactly. I'm gonna chase them down on my bike."

"Hey, that's good." Mr. Wright smiled. "I like to see some initiative from you, Apollo. Keep it up."

Apollo had no intention of chasing anything, but he hadn't been lying about riding his bike. He climbed on and cycled all the way to the Prosecutors' Office. It wasn't a long ride, and fortunately the weather was good, but his mood was less pleasant and made the route seem longer. Sometimes he questioned the wisdom of bicycling in his vest and tie, but what else was a lawyer to do? Once he'd found a place to chain up his bike and had taken a few deep breaths, he felt cooled down and relatively collected. He held his head up high as he entered the building.

Apollo didn't have any trouble finding Klavier. Klavier was right there, standing in the hall by the lobby, talking to someone. Apollo recognized the other man at once: what lawyer didn't know Mr. Edgeworth? Apollo stepped out of the way of the doors and stood next to one of the lobby's many tall potted plants. He didn't want to interrupt them. He tried very purposefully not to listen to anything they were saying, because he hated eavesdropping, but he couldn't help catching a few phrases.

"...wasn't a good idea," Klavier said, shortly followed by, "...so angry."

Were they discussing a case? Apollo looked for somewhere to stand where he would be less noticeable, so he wouldn't be suspected of spying, but unfortunately, his red suit and the muted colors of the lobby had nothing in common, and no matter what he did, he was going to stand out, just as Klavier and Mr. Edgeworth did. He considered ducking behind a plant, but that would have been silly. Instead, he strolled towards the wall in what he hoped was a casual fashion and pretended to examine the molding.

"Can I help you with something, Mr. Justice?"

Apollo started and turned, to find himself pinned beneath the cold gaze of Miles Edgeworth. "Who, me?" he asked.

Mr. Edgeworth folded his arms over his chest. "Is there another Mr. Justice in the vicinity? I wasn't aware it was a common name."

"No," Apollo had to admit, "probably there's only the one."

The man looked him over consideringly. "So I see. And what do you want, Mr. Justice?"

"I wanted to talk to Mr. Gavin. Briefly. But I saw that you were already talking to him, and I didn't want to interrupt, so I thought I'd wait until you were done." He smiled hopefully.

Mr. Edgeworth did not return his smile. "As a matter of fact, Mr. Gavin and I were just concluding our conversation. Were we not?"

Klavier acknowledged this with a bow of his head. "Ja, Herr Edgeworth. I am very grateful for your counsel."

Mr. Edgeworth's smile was so small and brief, Apollo almost missed it. "I am always happy to advise a colleague." He opened his mouth to say something else, then paused and held up a hand. "One moment." He reached in his pocket and extracted his phone, which must have been set to vibrate. Both Apollo and Klavier waited as the man examined whatever message he'd received. His eyebrows rose, and he returned his phone to his pocket. "If you'll excuse me, I must be going. I have business to attend to."

"Sure!" said Apollo. "Nice to see you."

Mr. Edgeworth inclined his head. "And you, Mr. Justice." He turned to Klavier and inclined his head again. "Remember what I said, Mr. Gavin."

"Yes, of course. Thank you again."

The man exited the building briskly, and Apollo was left facing Klavier. "Uh, hi," he said.

"Yes, as you say-hi." Klavier's smile was polite, but not particularly warm.

"Look," Apollo began. "I'm-"

"No, it's all right." Klavier interrupted him. "You don't have to apologize. I'm the one who should apologize. I'm sorry I was rude and upset you. It wasn't my intention to cause you any distress."

As Apollo stood before the man himself, he began to doubt what Mr. Wright had hinted at, and what he himself had begun to suspect, back at the office. Klavier seemed coolly unconcerned, as usual. "Yeah, I kind of overreacted. I shouldn't have left like that." He paused. He wasn't sure what to think right now. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course. Whatever you like."

"Why did you tell me that stuff-your advice, I mean?"

"Ah, my advice." Klavier slipped his hands in his pockets, then pulled them out again. He glanced around the lobby. It was relatively empty, but there were security guards on duty, and at this time of day, people kept coming and going through the doors. "Maybe we should discuss this in private. If you'll follow me."

Klavier's office was completely silent. Apollo remembered the man telling him that it was soundproofed. Again, Klavier did not take a seat. He offered one to Apollo, but this time Apollo decided to remain standing too.

Klavier seemed reluctant to begin speaking. He glanced at the walls and the window before he would meet Apollo's gaze. "You were right," he said at last, "my advice wasn't particularly good. What else could I tell you? There is very little genuine good advice. Not where matters of the heart are concerned. But when you asked me, I thought it would be a chance to get to know you better, so I agreed."

"You could have just said."

"Could I?"

Apollo blinked. There it was again, stronger than ever: his bracelet felt so tight on his wrist that it almost hurt. Apollo tried not to show his confusion. "Yes, you could have. Why not?"

"Why not?" Klavier shook his head, his tone incredulous. "You do everything you can to avoid me outside of the courtroom. You never make any effort to contact me. If I meet you in public, you hardly speak to me. Like the other day, when I saw you in the café. You couldn't get away from me fast enough."

"But you were on a date," said Apollo.

"No, I was not. I do go on dates, it's true, but that girl was a friend of mine. I have many friends."

Looking back, Apollo realized that he'd had no reason to assume they were dating, except for the fact that they'd been a man and a woman walking into a café together. She had had her arm in his, but Trucy was always taking him by the arm and pulling flowers out of his ear. "Oh. Sorry."

Klavier was not finished. "I don't understand it. Every time I ask you to do something with me, you politely refuse. At first, I thought it was because you weren't interested in men, and you were trying to be nice about it, but yesterday, you told me you're _only_ interested in men. What was I to think? Obviously, nothing but that it is me in particular you are not interested in." Klavier sighed. "Which is fine. I may be confident, but I don't expect everyone to be interested in me. But I couldn't help it-I was curious. I had to know more, to know why it was you didn't have any interest in me. To know what kind of man it was that could command your attention."

"Are you serious?" All that time, Klavier had been pining for _him_?

"I am quite serious." It had to be true; Apollo could tell by looking at him. The customary smile had faded, and Klavier was regarding him with an open expression. Apollo had seen the man visibly upset only a few times. This was one of those times. "I don't know why I kept giving you that advice! I didn't know what else to do. It didn't seem like the worst advice ever. Honestly, I don't know what to tell you when it comes to romance. I've only had bad luck with it. I suppose, contrary to appearances, I'm not too good at it. Flirting and friendly dating, yes. Romance, no. So I am sorry for any inconvenience I caused you. It wasn't fair of me to take you out under false pretenses."

Apollo looked down at the ground. His face was burning, his heart beating quickly. He knew he had to say something now, but what? All he could think of was Mr. Wright's cliché advice: _be yourself_. What did that mean, from a practical standpoint? Maybe he was beginning to understand. He looked up again. Suddenly, he felt calmer. "That's all right. I forgive you."

Klavier's smile returned, though it was a dim shadow of itself. "I'm glad. We're friends, ja?"

"Ja-I mean, yes."

"Cool." Klavier extended his hand. "Let's shake on it, then."

Apollo looked at Klavier's hand but did not take it. "Can I tell you something first?"

Confusion made Klavier's smile falter, but he nodded. "What is it?"

"You have nice eyes."

Klavier's shock was visible. He all but recoiled with it. Being Klavier Gavin, however, he was able to recover quickly. His smile recovered, widening into something bright and genuine. "Do I? How very charming of you to notice."

It was funny, but all this time, the thought that Klavier would be interested in him had never occurred to Apollo. He hadn't even considered dating him, because Klavier had seemed to belong to another world entirely. He had so many interests, so many friends. Apollo had written off the times the man had gone out of his way to talk to him as the result of sheer friendliness. He'd been wrong. "The reason I came here was to ask you if you might be interested in going out with me sometime." Before Klavier could say anything in reply, he was quick to add, "But not to a bar."

"Yes, I take it you don't like bars. Fortunately, there are many other places in the world."

"So, do you want to go?"

"I would be delighted." Klavier stretched his hand out again. "Should we still shake on it?"

"All right." Apollo took his hand. Klavier's skin was warm, from his smooth palms to his callused guitarist's fingertips. Instead of shaking his hand, on an impulse, Apollo pulled Klavier close and rose up on the balls of his feet to kiss the other man on the cheek. Once he realized what he'd done, he drew back quickly, embarrassed. "Sorry."

"You shouldn't be sorry for that." Klavier was beaming. "In fact, you can do it again, if you want."

Apollo did just that. "You've got the nicest eyes," he murmured against Klavier's skin.

"The student has surpassed the master, I see." Klavier's laugh was low and sweet.

Phoenix rolled over onto his side, sliding his arm around Miles' waist and burying his face in Miles' hair as he indulged in spooning him. "You smell good."

"Thank you."

"Do you think I smell good?" Phoenix asked.

"I think you like fishing for compliments," Miles observed.

"Very funny." He ran his hands over Miles' bare stomach and was rewarded with a shudder of pleasure from the other man. "We've got at least an hour or so before Apollo comes back."

"I think we have a lot longer than that," said Miles.

"Oh? And why's that?"

"When I received your message, he was at the Prosecutors' Office with Mr. Gavin."

Phoenix laughed. "Yeah, I wondered if that was where he was going."

"That is indeed where he was. And I had just counseled Mr. Gavin to be honest with him."

"You did? Really? Wow, Miles Edgeworth giving advice to the lovelorn. That has got to be a first."

"For your information, Phoenix, people often ask me for my advice. Why, just the other day-"

"If this is going to be a story about Detective Gumshoe, you can stop telling it now." Phoenix was unsurprised when Miles did not finish his sentence, but made a quiet noise of displeasure. Phoenix knew better than to laugh. Instead, he said, "As a matter of fact, I was advising Apollo about the very same thing."

"Were you? And what was your advice?"

"I told him to be himself."

Miles snorted. "Be himself? What kind of advice is that? It's one of those clichés that doesn't even mean anything."

"Hey, it was good advice!" Did Miles have to criticize absolutely everything? "The best advice I know. Like 'be honest' is any better."

"At least honesty is a specific concept, making it an instruction that can be easily followed."

"I think being yourself is pretty specific."

"Why do you have to be so difficult, Phoenix?" Miles snapped.

Phoenix could feel Miles' arms moving to fold themselves over his chest, so he held on to them gently, preventing the gesture. "Me? I'm not the one being difficult."

"Yes, you are."

"Fine, Miles. I'm always the one who's boorish and mistaken."

Miles didn't say anything. Those arms of his still wanted to cross. Phoenix could feel the tension in them. He knew he was going to be in trouble if he didn't give in, so he did-sort of. "I guess they mean the same thing, more or less," he admitted at last.

"Maybe you're right. Although my advice was more concrete."

"Yes, Miles, your advice was astoundingly concrete."

"I'm going to ignore your sarcasm, Phoenix."

Phoenix laughed and nuzzled Miles' neck. He could feel the tension leave Miles' arms. Good. That was better. "You're so cute when you ignore my sarcasm."

"Thank you."

"It's cute when you say 'thank you', too."

Miles was silent in reply, as Phoenix's remark had effectively blocked him from saying 'thank you' again. Phoenix was glad Miles' back was to him, because he couldn't suppress a grin. "Anyway, I hope things work out between those two. I think they'll be good for each other."

"I suppose so."

"It's a good thing I decided to work on setting them up."

"_You?_ I was the one who-"

Phoenix moved his hands again, this time sliding them up over Miles' chest. Whatever Miles had been about to say remained unsaid, replaced by a quick indrawn breath. Phoenix kissed the back of his neck. "And now that they've finally figured each other out, they're bound to find us out sooner or later."

"You know," said Miles, "we could simply tell them, Phoenix."

"Come on. It's funnier this way. I mean, I thought they would have figured it out already, but they're a lot denser than I gave them credit for."

"You have an odd sense of humor."

"Possibly true. But at least I give good advice." He knew Miles was going to argue with him on that point, so he was quick to give him another kiss, and then another-to which Miles had no objections.


	117. (G) GUMSWORTH - To Have And To Hold by f

To Have And To Hold  
forkflinger

Summary:  
Edgeworth tried not to get involved in others' personal affairs. But if he let Gumshoe go to his ex's wedding alone, the man would be miserable and useless. And he was hardly going to get someone get away with humiliating his detective.

He could play pretend for one night. And that's all it was, of course. Pretend.

* * *

Some people were open books; Gumshoe was a billboard. You hardly needed to be as insightful as Edgeworth to tell when something was bothering the man, the way he moped around. The absence of his usual cheery smile and goofy laugh was as obvious as a neon sign hung around his neck.

Generally, Edgeworth was of the opinion that other people's personal problems were no business of his. He knew absolutely everything he needed to about how the detective spent his leisure time, which was to say, nothing. His work was complicated enough to keep him well occupied, and he preferred everything else to be simple. Which meant not embroiling himself in whatever petty drama a man like Gumshoe managed to stir up.

Unfortunately it didn't seem as if he had much of a choice. Gumshoe had been positively morose for the better part of a week, going about his duties with an aura of gloom. He was currently in Edgeworth's office organizing a set of old case files and issuing intermittent deep sighs. Edgeworth, seated at his desk, tried to focus on the paperwork before him but the sounds had escalated from irritating to infuriating. Finally, after what seemed like the millionth sigh, Edgeworth set down his pen and said, "Is something the matter, Detective?"

Gumshoe turned towards Edgeworth, looking surprised. "W-why - n-nothing, sir!"

Edgeworth leveled his gaze. He didn't have to say anything else. All he had to do was wait.

"It's - it's not important," said Gumshoe, rubbing the back of his neck. "It's just a personal thing."

Edgeworth waited.

"It's just - " Gumshoe sighed again and set down the binder in his hands. "I got invited to somethin' this weekend and I haven't found anybody to go with."

"That's all?" Edgeworth raised an eyebrow. "Hardly seems worth all this sighing."

"It's, uh." Gumshoe looked away and mumbled something.

"I can't hear you," said Edgeworth.

Gumshoe didn't look up. A little more clearly, he repeated, "It's my ex's wedding."

That gave Edgeworth pause. He wasn't exactly an expert in exes, or weddings, but he certainly knew enough to understand that such an invitation was, at least, crass. One did not invite one's ex-lover to the wedding without a good reason. Perhaps the ex still harbored feelings and planned to cause a scene; perhaps they simply wanted to rub it in how happy they were. None of those potential reasons boded well for poor Gumshoe. "Still hung up on this ex, are you?" asked Edgeworth.

"Nah, sir, it was a long time ago." Gumshoe shook his head. "I didn't want to go alone, though."

Edgeworth frowned. "Why even accept the invitation?"

Gumshoe chuckled. "Ah, well, you know how it is, sir."

He didn't. He usually found Gumshoe easy to understand, but sometimes the man made baffling choices. "Enlighten me."

"Oh, uh." Gumshoe glanced around the room as if the answer was hidden somewhere in the carpet. "I mean, if I didn't go, that'd be rude, right? And I didn't want to look like I was hiding or something." He'd started sliding into that puppy-dog look of his, gazing up at Edgeworth past furrowed brows. "I thought I could show 'em I was doin' all right." He sighed again, his shoulders slumping. "But I couldn't even find a date."

Edgeworth nodded. He supposed he could understand the impulse that would drive Gumshoe to agree to something as seemingly innocuous as a wedding. He could also understand how humiliating it would be to show up at the celebration of your ex's true love without a companion. But to fail to attend would be to admit defeat, that one who you had parted ways with had succeeded and you had been left behind. Edgeworth could sympathize, albeit not romantically.

He did have a thought, a way to spare Gumshoe some part of that humiliation. It was a foolish plan, to be sure, and likely completely inappropriate - but, he reasoned, if he didn't do something Gumshoe was likely to be useless for weeks.

"I could go with you," he said, lightly.

Gumshoe's head snapped up. "You, sir?" he asked, gaping.

"Why not? It would be better than going alone, and I don't have any other plans for this weekend." He paused for a calculated moment. "Unless you'd rather go alone."

"N-no, sir! I, uh, I - " Gumshoe shook his head like he was trying to knock an idea loose. "I mean, if you want, then I - "

"It's settled, then." Edgeworth turned his attention away from the stammering detective and back to the file open on his desk. "You can provide me with the details later."

"Y-yes, sir!" From the corner of his eye, he caught Gumshoe saluting, and a smile twitched at his mouth. The man was so easy to please. He could certainly spend an evening in his company for the sake of their working relationship.

The wedding was scheduled for Saturday afternoon, with a reception that would last into the evening hours. Edgeworth hadn't been to many weddings, but he'd attended his share of social events and could at least glean the general idea. He dressed himself in a magenta suit, custom tailored for his frame, accessorized with gold details and one of his simpler cravats. At first glance it wasn't very different from his daily wear, but someone with an eye for quality could note the fine details that elevated the outfit. He'd been leaning more towards elegance instead of opulence, lately.

Detective Gumshoe was scheduled to pick him up at one, and his rattling junkheap pulled up only a few minutes late. The man who stepped out was dressed a good deal better than Edgeworth would have ever thought Gumshoe could be. His suit wasn't tailored or a designer brand but it was clean, relatively new, and fit well enough. His hair was slicked back, and he'd shaved off his ever-present layer of stubble to reveal his square jawline. All in all he cleaned up nice, and Edgeworth nodded in approval as he stepped out of the door.

"Hiya, Mr. Edgeworth!" said Gumshoe, standing at attention and saluting.

Edgeworth straightened his cuffs as he walked down the drive. "I think you'd better call me Miles," he said. "Wouldn't it look strange to be referring to me as 'Mr. Edgeworth'?"

Gumshoe's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "I, uh, I guess I can try that. Uh." He cleared his throat. "M-Miles."

It would probably be a struggle for Gumshoe to call him by his given name. But he was hardly any different - even now, he was thinking of Gumshoe, not Dick. "Dick," he said out loud, giving it a try. It did feel strange, and not just because it was a ridiculous name (what was wrong with 'Richard'?). But he could hardly spend the whole evening addressing Gumshoe by his last name. He was supposed to be a companion, not a boss. He could make it work for one night.

As he approached Gumshoe, he fished his car keys out of his pocket. "We'll take mine," he said, handing them off. "We can't have you showing up in that wreck."

"Aw, it's not a bad car," said Gumshoe, but he closed his fist around the keys and followed Edgeworth to the side of his sleek silver sport car anyway. Edgeworth slid into the passenger seat without discussion. It was a mutual habit they'd developed; Gumshoe always drove, even in Edgeworth's car. During work it left Edgeworth's attention free to look through case files or answer emails on his phone. Gumshoe wouldn't wreck the car, and liked to talk while driving, and fortunately didn't seem to care all that much about getting any responses.

The venue was set in a vineyard just about an hour and a half outside the city, far enough to get a considerable distance from the lights and noise. A dirt road wound up a steep hillside to reach an unpaved parking lot, already half filled. Edgeworth and Gumshoe followed signs adorned with ribbons to a spot overlooking the rolling hills beyond, with rows of chairs arranged facing an arch made of flowers.

"This would appear to be the place," said Edgeworth, looking around.

"Wow." Gumshoe was gazing out at the vista before them. "Say, this is a real nice place! Gosh."

Edgeworth quirked an eyebrow and followed Gumshoe's gaze. It was nice enough, he supposed. Certainly not the most beautiful setting he'd ever been in, but a pleasant change from the grime and clutter of the city. He almost laughed at the rapturous look on Gumshoe's face. You'd think the man had never been outside before.

They selected a pair of seats towards the back. Gumshoe fidgeted with the hem of his jacket and looked around like he was on guard. His face bore an uncharacteristic frown of concern that didn't suit him or the occasion. Edgeworth leaned over. "Relax."

Gumshoe nodded. "Sorry, sir," he said, lowering his head. "I'm just kinda nervous, you know?"

Edgeworth raised an eyebrow. "I know. Everyone who looks at you knows. Calm down, or at least sit still."

"Right. Okay." Gumshoe took a deep breath and his hands stilled in his lap. "I wish I could be as calm as you sometimes, sir."

"I'm not always calm," Edgeworth answered. "I've simply learned to control myself."

"Yeah, I guess you'd need to! In court and all that." Gumshoe was looking a bit happier. If he couldn't act cool then at least a little distraction worked to keep him from looking outwardly miserable.

Edgeworth wondered briefly if everyone could see through Gumshoe this easily or if he had an advantage due to their relationship. Regardless, it seemed like Gumshoe was unwilling or unable to act nonchalant. If one assumed ill intent - as Edgeworth was always prone to doing - that was probably exactly what this ex wanted to see. Edgeworth didn't feel inclined to give them that satisfaction at his detective's expense, so if Gumshoe couldn't handle it, well, that's what he was here for.

"It's certainly important," he said, endeavoring to keep up the chat. "It serves me well enough outside the courtroom too."

"There's less call for that sorta thing as a detective. Don't need to trick the bad guys, just gotta catch 'em!"

Edgeworth wasn't sure he agreed with that assessment, but it didn't seem like it'd be worth it to push the point. "It still might do you some good to learn a bit of acting."

"Hmm. Well, I guess that's what I've got you for, Mr. Edgeworth!" Gumshoe grinned widely and Edgeworth forgot what he was going to say next. Instead he shook his head with an exaggerated sigh of exasperation. It was so difficult to be genuinely upset or even irritated at Gumshoe. He was just always so eager; Edgeworth never knew how he could keep it up.

Only a few minutes after they took their seats, the music faded out and restarted with an orchestral piece piped through the speakers. Edgeworth turned towards the aisle as the procession started. First came some elderly women, presumably the couples' parents or relatives. A series of bridesmaids in bright pink dresses marched down the aisle, escorted by groomsmen in navy suits. Then another man in a similar suit, albeit with a more elaborate corsage on his lapel, who took his place in front of the officiant and gazed expectantly down the aisle.

At last the music changed again, slipping into the traditional bridal march. The audience rose from their seats as an precocious little girl in a white tulle dress scattered white rose petals across the floor, and in her wake finally arrived the bride.

She wore an elaborate white dress with extensive lace detailing that hugged her ample form and flowed out behind her. Her brown hair was tied up in a series of braids adorned with little sparkles of crystal and a veil that cascades down her back. Her face was round and pale, with rosy cheeks and brown eyes that glimmered in the light. Edgeworth watched her pass with silent judgement. He wasn't exactly an expert in what made a woman attractive, but if he'd had to make a blind guess at what kind of woman Gumshoe would have liked he apparently wouldn't have been far off the mark. Edgeworth started to doubt his assessment of the situation. She didn't look like the type to invite her ex to her wedding for a cruel purpose. Perhaps he had misjudged. If so, all the better.

He cast a sideways glance at Gumshoe, who was following her with his eyes. He didn't look upset or embarrassed; he seemed genuinely happy for them. Infinitely forgiving, apparently.

Once the bridge had reached her destination the officiant bid them all to sit. Another of Edgeworth's talents was the ability to feign polite interest while paying absolutely no attention to what was being said. He slipped into it now; there wouldn't likely be anything said he cared about. Just the traditional nonsense about love and trust or whatever. Nothing of value. But nothing was required of him at this point, so he let his mind wander to thinking about a case from the previous week. He'd won, of course, but the defense had put out some interesting arguments and they merited consideration for the future.

Something caught his attention. It took him a moment to realize that Gumshoe was sniffling. "Are you all right?"

"It's just so beautiful," Gumshoe answered, his eyes visibly watering.

Edgeworth pulled the silk handkerchief from his suit pocket and wordlessly handed it over. It was really supposed to just be decorative, but he couldn't exactly ignore the tears. Gumshoe accepted it with a whisper of thanks and dabbed at his eyes. It wasn't really a sentiment Edgeworth could identify with, but crying at weddings seemed common enough. Idly, almost unconsciously, he patted Gumshoe on the hand to comfort him.

Eventually, the couple at the front said their vows, to have and to hold and all that, and kissed. Edgeworth joined the rest of the audience in applauding. As the bridal party started filing back down the aisle, he turned to Gumshoe, who was blubbering pretty openly now. He wanted to tell him to pull himself together, but that seemed a bit harsh, so instead he just rested a hand on his shoulder.

"She was so beautiful," Gumshoe said at last, holding Edgeworth's handkerchief out. "Don't you think?"

"Yes," Edgeworth said, eyeing the sodden wad of fabric. "You can hold on to that for now. You might need it again."

Gumshoe shoved the handkerchief into his pocket. The audience had started to filter out now. There would be a cocktail hour before dinner, but first the couple had elected for a reception line to greet their guests. Edgeworth and Gumshoe joined the line. There was enough time for Gumshoe's face to clear up before they reached the couple.

"Dick!" said the bride, smiling brightly when she spotted him. "I'm so glad you made it!"

Gumshoe hugged the bride, wrapping her in his massive arms. "You look so beautiful, Patty!" he said. Then he turned to the groom and extended a hand. "Hey Chris, long time no see!"

"Dick." The groom took his hand between both of his in an enveloping handshake. "So good to see you." Edgeworth picked up on a strange edge to his smile. He glanced at Gumshoe, whose grin had fallen just a little, and where their hands met and lingered longer than necessary. And Edgeworth realized he'd made some very incorrect assumptions about Gumshoe's relationship with this couple - namely, which one was the ex.

He cast a suddenly much more critical eye over the groom. The man was solidly built, not quite as large as Gumshoe and perhaps a bit flabbier. His hair looked coarse and roughly cut, and his jawline was a bit too round. Worst of all, though, was the way he was looking at Gumshoe, his eyes bearing a combination of pity and smug superiority. This man had discarded Gumshoe, then invited him to his wedding, and he dared to look at Edgeworth's detective with such contempt?

Then he turned his gaze on Edgeworth, glancing up and down as if evaluating him. "And who's this?" he asked, the faintest tone of judgement in his voice. Edgeworth made a very quick decision regarding his role at this wedding.

He stood a bit straighter and swapped his look of polite interest for a well-practiced charming smile. "Miles Edgeworth," he said warmly, taking the groom's hand in a perfectly firm handshake. "It's such a pleasure to meet you. Dick has told me so much about you."

"Oh, has he?" answered the groom, glancing back at Gumshoe. A note of doubt had crept into his voice. Perfect. Edgeworth shifted his stance just slightly to stand barely closer to Gumshoe. "So you're…?"

Gumshoe opened his mouth to respond, but Edgeworth cut him off to answer, "Yes."

The bride grinned. "Oh, Dick, that's so great!" She threw her arms around Edgeworth for a quick hug, and he didn't even flinch. "See?" she said, withdrawing and addressing her new husband. "I told you he'd have someone."

"Hey, good for you," replied the groom, not sounding terribly pleased about it. "Glad to see you're doing well. Thanks for coming."

"So nice to meet you," said Edgeworth, gently taking Gumshoe's arm. "Congratulations again." He guided Gumshoe away.

Gumshoe, showing a level of tact Edgeworth wouldn't have expected, waited until they were well out of earshot to say, "Uh, what just happened?"

"I didn't appreciate the way he was treating you," Edgeworth answered.

"Yeah, but you said - I mean you made it sound like - "

"Yes," Edgeworth interrupted. "As far as this evening is concerned, I am your date."

"Oh." Gumshoe paused to consider this. "But, Mr. Edgeworth, isn't that - "

"You should call me Miles."

Gumshoe froze. Edgeworth waited, trying not to show a hint of irritation as he watched the gears grind. "M-Miles," Gumshoe finally said, stumbling over the word. "Isn't that - I mean you don't have to - um." He rubbed the back of his head. "Is this weird?"

"Just relax," Edgeworth answered. "I'm on your side here. We'll have a nice night and demonstrate to your dreadful ex that you're doing perfectly fine without him."

"But that's like lying! I'm not - I mean, I am fine, I'm just - I don't - just because I'm not dating anyone doesn't mean - "

Gumshoe was building to a shout, so Edgeworth motioned downward with his hand, bringing the tirade to an end. "Trust me, I know perfectly well that one doesn't need to be romantically involved to be happy. But I also know that the groom would be delighted to think of you as alone and miserable without him, and I don't feel inclined to give him the satisfaction." He looked sideways at Gumshoe. "Unless that's a problem?"

"No, I… it's fine," Gumshoe answered, his face slipping dangerously close to a puppy-dog pout. "I mean I don't want him to think I'm miserable. I'm not! I guess if you think it's a good idea, Mr. Edge - Miles."

Edgeworth nodded. "Now then, Dick," oh that did still feel weird, actually, "the cocktail hour is well under way, and I'm feeling inclined towards a glass of wine."

"Ah, yeah." Gumshoe sighed. "I think I could use a beer."

Edgeworth soon had his hands around a glass of mediocre Chardonnay. He took delicate sips, mostly to keep himself occupied while he and Gumshoe loitered at the edge of the crowd. Occasionally someone would come up to Gumshoe and shake his hand, exchange a few words. Edgeworth hung back and allowed people to assume what they would.

Eventually the call came for dinner, and the crowd moved in from the stone patio to a large central room, dotted with tables, with a dance floor set up at one end and expansive windows that allowed for gorgeous views of the landscape outside. Before they could find their seats, however, someone bellowed in their direction.

"Dick! Dick Gumshoe!"

Edgeworth flinched backwards just in time to get out of the path of a large man charging at Gumshoe. The stranger tackled Gumshoe into a hug, squeezing hard. Another man was two steps behind him and threw his arms around both of them; a third appeared and couldn't quite reach all the way around, so he settled for reaching through to pat Gumshoe's shoulder. Edgeworth took another step back.

Eventually the knot broke apart. Gumshoe was grinning broadly at the men clustered around him. "Oh my gosh, you guys!"

"I was hopin' you'd be here!" replied one of the men. "Haven't seen you in ages!"

"Ah, well, you know - " Gumshoe started to reply, but he was cut off by another of the men, who hooked an arm around his neck.

"You missed us, you know it!" he said, messing up Gumshoe's already failing hairstyle.

Once the original shock wore off, Edgeworth watched the group with some amazement. Gumshoe wasn't exactly a small man, and suddenly there were four of him. They seemed to share his exuberant spirit and lack of volume control. He waited at a careful distance while the group chattered.

Eventually one of the men noticed him. "And who's this?" he asked in a meaningful tone.

"Oh! Uh." Gumshoe cleared his throat, and Edgeworth took a sip of wine to help keep his face neutral. "This is, ah, Miles. Miles, this is Jimmy and Mike and Tom. Buddies from college."

"Pleasure to meet you," said Edgeworth, extending a hand. He had no idea which name belonged to the man who took it. The man had a firm grip, and cast an appraising eye over Edgeworth.

"Well, nice to meet you too!" he said, winking for some reason Edgeworth couldn't begin to grasp. "Looks like ol' Dick is doing all right after all, eh?" The man turned his attention back to Gumshoe, sparing Edgeworth from having to come up with a response. "Not bad, buddy!"

"Hah, yeah." Gumshoe wrapped an arm protectively around Edgeworth's shoulders, and Edgeworth found the gesture strangely comforting. "He's pretty great."

The man slapped Gumshoe on the back so hard it jostled Edgeworth. "You're at our table, obviously, and we'd rearrange some seating if you weren't! C'mon!"

He led him to one of the tables at the edge of the room. Two women were already seated, chatting amicably.

"This is my girlfriend Lucy," said that same man, gesturing towards one of the women. She wasn't exceptionally petite but next to a guy that big she looked practically frail. "Lucy, this is my buddy Dick and his boyfriend Miles."

Edgeworth withheld a wince at the juvenile term as the woman extended a hand. "So nice to finally meet you, Dick," she said, shaking the detective's hand. "Jimmy's told me so many stories."

"Ah, hopefully he didn't tell you _all_ the stories," Gumshoe replied, and they both laughed.

"And I bet you've never met Karen," Jimmy continued, indicating the other woman, "Mike's _wife._" He put a meaningful emphasis on the last word that drew a loud guffaw from Gumshoe at some joke Edgeworth didn't get.

"When did that happen?" he asked, turning to one of the other men (presumably Mike, which would make that one Tom).

"The jerk went and eloped!" Jimmy said as Mike went to stand bashfully by his wife. "Can you believe? Outta the blue, I get a call that he ran off to Vegas!"

"Well, if Mike was gonna get hitched, that was gonna be how, right?" Tom chimed in, elbowing Gumshoe.

"Oh, yeah. Talk about _stories._ Er, or maybe not," Gumshoe added with a glance at Mike's wife.

Mike groaned. "C'mon, I've tricked her into thinking I'm a good guy. Don't blow it for me."

Edgeworth watched the men banter, jostling and loud. The two women had returned whatever conversation they'd been having, so he was left largely to his own devices, which suited him just fine. He suspected he wouldn't have much in common with this crowd in regards to small talk.

In the middle of someone else's sentence, Gumshoe caught his eye and gave a little wave. Edgeworth nodded in acknowledgment. It was actually nice to see Gumshoe this lively, especially in a situation where he wasn't screwing things up for Edgeworth, and he appreciated the little check-in.

A massive hand clapped him on the back, startling him and knocking him off balance. "Gonna grab another round before they start serving," said Jimmy. "What're you drinking?"

Edgeworth glanced down at his nearly empty glass. Yes, with company like this he could certainly do with another. "Chardonnay," he answered, although he didn't hold out too much hope for actually getting it. He'd be satisfied if the man could remember "wine." He nodded, though, and took a few more orders.

"Mike, Tom, come help me carry drinks," he said. "Be right back," he added, slapping Edgeworth again. Edgeworth rubbed his shoulder as the men walked away, leaving him with Gumshoe and the two women. They were still talking to each other, so he took a seat next to Gumshoe.

"Looks like I didn't need to come after all," he remarked.

"Huh? Oh! I guess you're right!" Gumshoe smiled. "Didn't know those guys would be here. I'm still glad you came, though. I-if that's okay," he added, doubt creeping into his eyes.

Edgeworth rolled his eyes. "If I didn't want to be here, Dick, I wouldn't be."

Gumshoe perked back up. "I guess you wouldn't! Never knew somebody who could make you do anything you didn't wanna."

That wasn't, strictly speaking, true - he had met Von Karma, and Franziska, both of whom had a pretty decent grasp of how to force Edgeworth to do something. But that wasn't a topic he felt like exploring at the moment, so he just nodded.

Moments later, a glass of white wine landed on the table in front of him. He picked it up and sniffed it delicately before taking a sip. Chardonnay. Would wonders never cease.

The men passed out the round of drinks before taking their seats arrayed around the table. There was one empty seat left, next to Tom. He wasn't the only one to notice.

"So where's Lizzie?" asked Jimmy, leaning across the table.

"Aw, she wasn't feeling too good," Tom answered. Edgeworth was more than capable of spotting a lie, but there didn't seem to be much point to pointing it out. Gumshoe certainly seemed fooled.

"Hang on, Lizzie?" he asked. "Not Lizzie Adams?"

"The same!" Tom replied, beaming with pride.

"Wow, you guys are still together? Gosh, that's gotta be, what, ten years now?"

Tom nodded. "Ten years next month. Oh, and she said to make sure I tell you hello from her."

"Aw, that's sweet. Too bad she wasn't able to come. Would've liked to have seen her!" Gumshoe leaned over to Edgeworth, finally deigning to fill him in. "Lizzie and Tom've been dating since college."

"But somehow, _Mike_ got married first!" Jimmy roared with laughter, and Edgeworth ducked another slap on the back. Jimmy got Gumshoe instead, shaking him by the shoulder, and Gumshoe responded by punching him on the arm. Edgeworth briefly wondered if he could move to the empty seat.

Dinner was starting to be served, waiters making their way around the room, so Edgeworth just sat back with his wine and allowed the others at the table to reconnect. Eventually he was served a plate of dry salmon and asparagus and busied himself with avoiding as much conversation as he could. This was easy - Gumshoe's friends were much more interested in talking to Gumshoe. Eventually, though, someone was bound to decide it would be polite to reach out.

"So," asked Jimmy, addressing Edgeworth directly, "how'd you guys meet?"

"We work together," Edgeworth answered smoothly, ignoring Gumshoe choking on a mouthful of asparagus next to him.

Jimmy didn't notice. "Oh, are you a cop too?"

"A lawyer, actually."

"Oooh, fancy." Jimmy waggled his eyebrows. "How's a fancy lawyer end up with a schlub like Dick?"

"Aw, Jimmy," Gumshoe started, but Edgeworth cut him off.

"We spent a lot of time together, and I suppose I just found him charming."

"C'mon, be real. Was it the eyes?" He adopted a pouty caricature of Gumshoe's doe-eyed mope. "Those beautiful baby blues?"

Mike snorted. Edgeworth raised an eyebrow; he had no intention of admitting that Gumshoe could, in fact, be adorable. "His eyes aren't blue."

"Oh, alright." Jimmy leaned back in his chair. "So it was his ass, then."

Mike burst out laughing as Gumshoe stood and slapped his hands on the table, his face bright red. "H-hey, Jimmy - !" The rest of the table burst into giggles; even Edgeworth couldn't help but smirk. Gumshoe looked around and sank back into his chair, pouting.

"Ah, I'm just teasing ya," Jimmy said, slapping Gumshoe on the shoulder, a gesture that he seemed very fond of. "I'll buy you a beer later to make up for it."

"It's an open bar," Gumshoe mumbled.

"Ain't that convenient?"

Edgeworth cleared his throat. "So," he said, endeavouring to change the subject, "I'm afraid Dick hasn't told me much about you all. You met in college?"

As he'd predicted, this set off Jimmy, who started in on some story about a sport they'd played together. Once attention was off Gumshoe, Edgeworth quietly rested a hand on his elbow. It seemed like the kind of gesture a boyfriend would make, a gentle reassurance that he recognized Gumshoe's genuine discomfort and was on his side. The subtle redirection of the conversation, too, even if he wasn't sure Gumshoe would pick up on it. These were the kinds of things Edgeworth would do in this situation with someone he loved - or so he assumed. He didn't really have the experience to be sure. Gumshoe glanced down at the hand, then up at Edgeworth's face, his cheeks still a bit pink. He sat up a bit straighter, and Edgeworth pulled his hand away before leaning back.

The rest of dinner passed largely without incident, as the friends fell into a rhythm of banter and camaraderie, sharing stories of their lives since college. Gumshoe gave enthusiastic descriptions of some of their more unique cases, although he showed a tendency to exaggerate Edgeworth's role in investigations. Edgeworth tried not to interrupt, but he couldn't help but correct some of the more egregious details. The bulk of the conversation was on Gumshoe, though, and Edgeworth was glad to leave him to it. He'd never found it easy to keep a conversation going for more than a few minutes without a clear topic for discussion. Gumshoe was positively glowing at the opportunity to reconnect with old pals. It turned out that the energy that so often frustrated Edgeworth at work was put to good use in a social setting. Edgeworth even found himself actually _enjoying _the conversation.

It helped, too, that every time his wine glass emptied somehow a full one took its place. By the end of dinner he was too pleasantly buzzed to even be annoyed when the DJ demanded their attention. It was time for toasts, or something. He listened dutifully, raising his glass when indicated and clapping along with the crowd. The toasts were probably fine, the usual drivel about how the couple were perfect for each other and love is so beautiful and blah blah blah. But they were over soon enough, and Edgeworth could stop pretending to pay attention.

He realized, with some alarm, that Gumshoe had left the table. In fact they all had with the exception of Tom, who had scooted a couple seats closer. A quick scan revealed that Gumshoe and Jimmy were chatting near the bar. Edgeworth sighed with relief that he hadn't been abandoned, then jumped at the hand that appeared on his shoulder.

"Hey," said Tom, leaning in close and slurring slightly, "I just wanna say, you and Dick look good together."

"Uh." Edgeworth pulled away as much as he could. "Thank you?"

"Nah, I mean - he seems happy. 's good to see him happy. Can I - " He dropped his voice to a hoarse whisper. "Can you keep a secret?"

Edgeworth blinked. "I - "

"Lizzie's not really sick." Tom nodded his head. "She didn't wanna come because she didn't - she never liked how things wound up between Dick an' Chris. I mean, none of us were exactly _happy_ about it, but she always had a lil' bit of a grudge against Chris for it. And then she found out that he'd invited him and thought it was kinda mean, y'know?"

"I see." Edgeworth had no idea what the man was talking about, but now he was curious. Gumshoe hadn't mentioned anything about the relationship, and apparently there was more drama than he ever would have imagined Gumshoe getting involved with. "How things wound up?"

Tom leaned back. "Dick never told you? I guess that's not surprising. He was pretty cut up about it, took it rough. And then the group kinda fractured, and, well, we lost touch." He sighed. "Been thinking of getting back in touch but it's just one of those things. So it's good that he's doin' good. I'll make sure he gets a plus one to my wedding too," he added with a wink.

Edgeworth shook his head. "Sorry, your wedding?"

"Oh, that's a secret too!" Tom leaned in close again, and his breath wasn't great. "Me 'n Lizzie got engaged! We just weren't tellin' people yet. Don't wanna mix up wedding news!"

"Congratulations," Edgeworth said dryly. Another wedding? Unless Gumshoe found somebody else (and that didn't seem terribly likely, based on his running luck) it seemed Edgeworth would be doing this again. Well, if it made Gumshoe happy. He could at least plant the seeds of an enjoyable evening. "Invest in a better wine."

Tom laughed. "I'll ask you for a recommendation! An' I'll set aside a couple special bottles, just for Gumshoe's guy."

Gumshoe's guy. Hmm. At least it sounded better than "boyfriend." Edgeworth nodded. "I appreciate the gesture."

Jimmy's face appeared between them. "Say, what are you two talkin' about?"

"Secrets!" answered Tom, punching Jimmy's arm.

Jimmy sat on the far side of Tom and immediately launched into a discussion of some long-ago antics. Gumshoe sat next to Edgeworth.

"You were gone for a while," said Edgeworth.

"Just catching up with Jimmy," Gumshoe answered. He chuckled. "He said we're a cute couple." He frowned. "Tom wasn't bothering you, was he?"

"Secrets," Edgeworth answered.

The music grew quiet and the DJ's voice blasted through the speakers. "And now, why don't we get all the couples on the floor for a slow dance?"

Lucy appeared, tugging at Jimmy's shoulder. "Oh, let's dance!"

Jimmy groaned as he allowed himself to be guided from his seat. "Alright, alright, but Dick, you're not leaving me alone out there!"

Jimmy's hand clamped around Edgeworth's wrist and yanked him out of his chair so quickly it was a wonder he didn't fall. As it was he stumbled ungracefully and couldn't recover in time to resist a shove on his back propelling him straight toward Gumshoe. Gumshoe caught him, holding him upright as Edgeworth shook his head and tried to reorient himself. They were standing on the dance floor now, and the space around them was filling with couples. Edgeworth looked up at Gumshoe, who looked positively terrified, and sighed. Then, in a practiced motion, he placed one hand on Gumshoe's shoulder and the other on his waist.

"I suppose we'll dance, then," he said.

Gumshoe raised his hands defensively. "I-I'm sorry, Mr. Edgeworth," he stammered, "you don't have to - Jim gets a little - "

"You're not supposed to call me that," Edgeworth interrupted. "And it would look suspicious if we ran off now. Come on, then, the music's starting."

A slow tune had begun to play from the large speakers at the end of the room, rich and gentle. Gingerly, Gumshoe rested a hand on Edgeworth's side, well above the waist. This close, Edgeworth could see that Gumshoe's stubble was already shadowing his chin, and his hair was a mess. He couldn't hold back his natural scruffiness for long, it seemed. Edgeworth had expected a cloud of cheap cologne, but it seemed Gumshoe had decided against it. There was something different, though, about him. Normally the man smelled like cigar smoke, even though as far as Edgeworth knew he wasn't a smoker, and something like car exhaust. It wasn't exactly a pleasant smell, but somehow Edgeworth found himself acutely aware of its absence.

"Not much of a dancer, are you?" said Edgeworth, glancing down at their feet.

"Nope," answered Gumshoe, swaying awkwardly.

"Mmm. Well, it's not a competition." Except that it was, to an extent. Somewhere in this room, a man had his eyes on the two of them, so Edgeworth pulled Gumshoe closer until their chests were touching, wrapping one arm around his waist and grabbing his hand with the other. There wasn't much point in trying to guide Gumshoe through even basic steps, but they didn't have to look like middle-schoolers scared of the chaperone. Gumshoe's broad chest was firm and warm - well of course he was warm, people are warm, nothing special there. When Edgeworth looked up again he saw that Gumshoe's face was warm too, turned pink with blushing.

"S-sorry about this," he muttered. "I didn't think it'd get this complicated."

"It's not all that bad," replied Edgeworth. "In fact I've actually had a pleasant evening."

Gumshoe's eyes went wide. "Really?"

"Yes. It's been…" He paused. "Nice."

Gumshoe chuckled. "That's good. I was kinda worried. I mean you've probably been to way fancier parties than this one."

"True," Edgeworth mused, "but an event is less about the decorations and attire and more about the company. And I have found the company quite agreeable."

Standing this close together, it would have been difficult to miss the flicker of expression on Gumshoe's face. It was impossible to miss the pink blush creeping up his cheeks. He just looked away, though, and kept swaying.

Edgeworth wasn't a tactile person. It had been years since he'd been this close to another person for any length of time, probably during one of the interminably dull events Von Karma had trotted him out to as a display of his perfection. He'd been taught to dance for the sake of those things so he could spend a dreadful few minutes waltzing around with the daughter of someone important. This, though, he didn't mind nearly as much. In fact it was comfortable. He could see the appeal in a way he never had when his arms were around the waist of some debutante. Here, with Gumshoe, he could imagine closing his eyes, letting his cheek rest against the man's chest, leaning his head back and reaching up to press their lips together - he blinked hard and shook his head. He was letting his mind wander, and maybe buying into the charade a little too much. There were still boundaries.

Eventually the music came to an end. Around them, couples separated. Gumshoe released his hold on Edgeworth and took a half-step back, and Edgeworth found himself missing the contact. A new song started up, peppy and fast, and the dancing grew energetic to match. Edgeworth and Gumshoe joined the folks streaming off the dance floor to make room for the livelier dancers who stayed. They wound up standing near their table, trapped in an awkward in-between of whether they should sit or keep socializing. Edgeworth had been playing into this little illusion of theirs a little too strongly, and he wanted - wine. He wanted another glass of wine. To clear his head, and never mind that it usually had the opposite effect.

"I think I'll go refill my glass," he said airily, as if it was barely a consideration. And it was, of course, why wouldn't it be? This whole evening, this whole event was nothing but a trifle. A way to spend an evening, a favor to a coworker. Nothing more.

Gumshoe nodded maybe a bit too enthusiastically, but then, that's how he did most things. "I'm gonna go hit the john."

Edgeworth wrinkled his nose. Crass. Still, he wasn't annoyed as Gumshoe lurched off, not as much as he would have expected. A lot of things were not as he expected tonight, and he refused to acknowledge it. He chose instead to sweep off to the bar and soon he was standing at the edge of the room with a glass of wine in his hand, alone.

He was used to being a focus of attention, so he barely registered the feeling of being watched. He swept his eyes over the crowd anyway until he spotted the groom, staring at him openly. Edgeworth shifted his weight and took a sip of the wine, not acknowledging the brief eye contact. Good. He was supposed to be watching, wasn't he? He was supposed to see who had replaced him. He had cast Gumshoe aside and now Edgeworth had snatched him up, and he was sure to regret it. Or something like that anyway. Edgeworth knew damn well all the things that made him a terrible romantic partner, but if nothing else, he could put on a show. Von Karma'd taught him that much. Keeping up appearances.

Edgeworth wondered, briefly, what kind of man the groom was. He'd never put much thought into Gumshoe's romantic tastes; the man ceased to exist when he left the precinct each evening. Perhaps, once or twice, Edgeworth had wondered, but not to any serious extent. So, who would Gumshoe choose? Something much like himself, perhaps, boisterous and loud, energetic enough to keep up. The groom seemed like he could fit that description, although there was a cruel glint of intelligence behind his eyes that just didn't seem to suit Gumshoe. So maybe he'd chosen a compliment instead, someone to make up in the areas he lacked, someone clever or cunning. It seemed more likely that such a person would choose Gumshoe, really; he didn't seem like he'd make the first move, as it were. And someone looking for a partner could certainly do worse. Yes, he could understand how a certain kind of man could lure in Gumshoe.

His wine glass was empty; he wasn't sure when that had happened. He'd lost track of the groom, too, and Gumshoe hadn't returned. Edgeworth made another trip to the bar to refill his glass, then set out to find his date. He couldn't have gotten into too much trouble here, but Edgeworth felt a certain obligation to keep an eye on the man. He couldn't take care of himself half the time. Edgeworth ambled around the edges of the building, peering down empty hallways and around corners.

Eventually he rounded a corner in the back of the venue, tucked away far from the noise and crowd. There was Gumshoe, his bulky frame unmistakable even in the dark corner where he stood with another man. Edgeworth couldn't see Gumshoe's face, but he could identify the groom as the other man and watched as he reached forward, wrapped his arm around Gumshoe's waist, pulled him closer, and leaned in to - oh.

Edgeworth's stomach lurched. He tried to tell himself he was mistaken, that the darkness made it hard to see or the angle just made it look worse than it was, but he knew otherwise. It was quite clear why the pair had stolen off to this isolated spot; they were doing something they didn't want anyone to see. And the way they were pressed together, the way the groom's hand tugged at Gumshoe's hip, the downward angle of Gumshoe's head, all painted a perfectly clear picture of what that something was.

Edgeworth backed away, waiting until he was out of line of sight to turn and flee. He was suddenly feeling very lightheaded, but the weight in his gut kept him from floating away. He needed air. He skirted the edges of the crowd until he broke out onto the stone patio, overlooking rolling hills shrouded by the night. The only other people in sight were a couple huddled together on a stone bench, who didn't so much as glance at Edgeworth as he passed them to lean on the stone railing framing the patio. The air was just beginning to chill, not enough to cause a shiver but enough to sober him up. Which, he realized, was not what he wanted, so he drained the wine glass he was still somehow clutching in one gulp.

He wasn't sure what he was feeling. No, that wasn't true, he knew exactly what he was feeling, he just didn't know why. Why should he feel betrayed? Why would this hurt? Gumshoe owed him nothing. If anything, he should be pleased. He'd done his job. This was probably what Gumshoe had wanted all along, and Edgeworth had helped him achieve it. Why else would he have even come? Gumshoe'd be happy, and that meant he'd do his job well, and that was all Edgeworth cared about.

He'd probably just had a little too much to drink, which explained the queasiness and the way he didn't seem to be making sense to himself. That was all. He'd stay out here for a while, and then go back to playing the part he'd been acting so well until now. Because that's all it was. That's all any of this was.

"There you are!" The voice was jarring in the quiet, as was the hand slapping him on the back. Edgeworth didn't turn but Gumshoe appeared anyway, leaning against the railing and into his line of sight. "I've been lookin' everywhere for you, pal."

"Have you," Edgeworth said, focusing his attention on the empty wine glass dangling from his fingers.

Gumshoe, stupid Gumshoe, didn't pick up on the edge in Edgeworth's tone. "Yeah. I gotta talk to you." He sighed one of those deep tragic sighs, accompanied by the sinking of his shoulders. Edgeworth didn't look at him but he knew he'd be wearing those damn sorrowful puppy-eyes. "I got a problem. Somethin' happened."

Edgeworth snorted. "I saw." He'd really underestimated Gumshoe, all this time. He'd thought the man was honest, and it turned out he was just a better actor than Edgeworth thought.

Gumshoe's jaw dropped open. "Y-you did?" he stammered in a way surely as calculated at the eyes and the shoulders, a long con to radiate helplessness and elicit sympathy. "Aw jeez. What do I do? Should I tell her?"

Edgeworth inspected the empty wine glass, desperately wishing it was full again. To think he'd trusted this man. To think he'd thought him guileless, and honest. As if any of it was anything but an act. As if anyone could honestly care about Edgeworth like Gumshoe had pretended to. "What did you have in mind?" he asked. "Surely you must have had something planned."

Gumshoe frowned. "Planned?"

"Yes, obviously. You've got your man, now what?" Edgeworth rolled the wine glass back and forth along the rough stone. "Were you intending to keep him, or just ruin the marriage? You've certainly got the opportunity to make a scene now, so if you're just here for revenge, it seems like the perfect time. But if you want to keep him, a little more delicacy may be in order."

There was a long pause. At some point the young couple had gone back inside, so there was no sound aside from the muffled music from the dance floor inside and the grating of glass on stone as Edgeworth toyed with the glass. He didn't bother to look at Gumshoe. He knew better now than to think the expression on the man's face really meant anything.

Eventually Gumshoe would have to say something, and eventually he did. But not something Edgeworth was expecting. In a quiet, low tone, Gumshoe said, "You really think I'd do something like that, Mr. Edgeworth?"

Edgeworth flinched. There was genuine hurt in that voice like nothing he'd ever heard come out of Gumshoe before. He turned, but before he could even open his mouth Gumshoe was gone.

In that instant everything he'd been thinking collapsed. What the hell was wrong with him? He was suspecting Detective Dick Gumshoe? Of course he wouldn't have planned any of this. The man didn't have a malicious bone in his body. He would never be so rotten, so manipulative, so cruel. It wouldn't even occur to him. Not like it had to Edgeworth.

He didn't realize how tightly he was gripping the wine glass until it gave way. He heard the sound of broken glass hitting the ground and looked down to see the remains of the glass, splattered with blood. He lifted his gaze along the dripping blood until he reached its source, a long deep cut across his palm. A shard of glass stuck out of it. Some long forgotten first aid training told him not to remove it, but the idea of leaving it in sickened him. With a hiss, he gripped the shard with his other hand and yanked it out, letting it drop to the ground with the others. Predictably, this did indeed increase the blood flow.

He stood there, gripping his wrist, watching the blood pool on the stone, and he laughed. It wasn't funny, but he couldn't do anything else. The worst night of his life had happened decades ago, he was sure of that, but this was easily in the top five. He'd broken a wine glass, he'd wounded his hand, and he'd destroyed his relationship with one of the only people in the world who honestly seemed to care about him. Almost impressive, really, how quickly he could ruin his own life. So he laughed.

The pain in his hand throbbed, and he lifted it above the level of his heart to slow the bleeding and inspect it. Experimentally, he flexed, and all five fingers responded. No tendons had been severed, so it could have been much worse. It was still bleeding freely, however, and he would need to tend to it. He returned to the building and grabbed a discarded napkin from the table nearest the door, pressing it against the wound to staunch the flow. Then he set his eyes on a young woman in the crisp black uniform of the staff who was circling tables with a tray, collecting used dishes.

He approached her slowly. "Excuse me," he said, "is there a first aid kit available?"

The woman turned, frowning. "Do you need a bandaid or something?" she asked.

"I was hoping for something a little more substantial," he answered, lifting his hand. The blood had soaked through the napkin, staining it bright red.

The woman's eyes went wide, and she set down the tray. "Are you okay?" she asked, frantic. "Should I call an ambulance?"

"It's just a cut," Edgeworth answered. "Nothing drastic."

The woman nodded. "Okay. We've got some gauze and stuff. Wait here."

"Thank you. Oh, and there's some broken glass on the patio," he added. "Someone will need to clean it up."

She nodded again, then took off at a brisk walk. Edgeworth took a seat at one the tables furthest from the dance floor. The cut, at least, was manageable, a clear source of pain with a simple solution. He could focus on that, and the rest could be dealt with later. Or never. Preferably never.

The woman returned, carrying a plastic case emblazoned with a red cross. He accepted it, but waved off her attempts to help him with the bandaging. The idea of being coddled by a stranger did nothing to help his mood, and he was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Still, it was clumsy work with one hand, so he was still wrangling a length of gauze when Gumshoe appeared. He had a determined glare on his face, and planted his feet and spoke before Edgeworth could even acknowledge him.

"Mr. Edgeworth, sir!" he declared firmly. "I have something to say to you! And you're going to listen!" He looked down and his eyes went wide when he spotted the blood. "W-what happened?" he shouted, his stony demeanor dropping instantly.

"No need to shout," answered Edgeworth. "It's just a cut."

"Just a - " Gumshoe landed in the chair next to him and reached out a hand. "Let me see, sir!"

Edgeworth sighed, but he extended his arm. Gumshoe grabbed him around the wrist, inspecting his palm. "This is bad! I gotta get you to the hospital!"

"That is not necessary," said Edgeworth, pulling his hand out of Gumshoe's. "It just needs a bandage."

Gumshoe shook his head. "You're gonna need stitches." When Edgeworth didn't respond, he frowned. "At least let me help bandage it?"

Edgeworth glanced over at Gumshoe. The damn puppy-dog eyes. Did he even know he was doing it? Did he even know how hard it was to resist? With a largely performative eye roll, he extended his arm again.

Gumshoe's hands were gentler than Edgeworth expected. He dabbed at the edges of the wound with a cleaning wipe before pressed a wad of absorbent cotton against it. His face was screwed up in concentration, his tongue sticking out from the corner of his mouth. Edgeworth realized he was staring and looked away.

"You had something to say?" he asked, trying to divert himself.

Gumshoe paused for a second. "I think I forgot it. Sorry, sir."

Edgeworth smiled. "Then I suppose I have something to say instead." He rested his chin on his undamaged hand, watching from the corner of his eye as Gumshoe cleaned away the blood. "I owe you an apology."

Gumshoe's head jerked up. "No, you - "

Edgeworth hissed in pain as the cleansing pad passed over the wound. Gumshoe looked back down and wiped it away. "Sorry, sorry!"

"It's fine," said Edgeworth, taking a deep breath. "It just stings." He cleared his throat. "I need to apologize for my behavior." He couldn't hold up a hand to stop Gumshoe from interrupting so he just spoke over his objection. "I shouldn't have accused you of plotting something nefarious. You wouldn't do something like that, and I know that perfectly well. I - " He hesitated. He what, was hurt by Gumshoe kissing another man? He couldn't say that. He didn't have any claim to his affections, no right to be hurt by the way he chose to spend his personal time. "I don't know what I was thinking," he said, aware of what a weak explanation it was.

But this wasn't court, and Gumshoe wasn't a lawyer. He just bent over Edgeworth's hand, arranging a layer of cotton. "Thanks for sayin' that," he said, "but this is all my fault anyway. This was a dumb idea. I don't know who I thought I could fool into thinking a guy like me could get a guy like you." He started wrapping bindings around the cotton, too focused on the task to see the frown creeping onto Edgeworth's face. "Sure didn't fool him. Wasn't good enough for him, not good enough for you." He said this last bit with a chuckle, but that did nothing to soothe the anger building in Edgeworth's chest.

"Not good enough for - " Edgeworth reached out with his uninjured hand to grab Gumshoe by the shoulder, forcing him to look up. "That man invited you to his wedding with the intention of humiliating you and cheated on his wife before the ink was dry on the certificate, and you think you're not good enough for that? You? You're one of the best men I've ever known, and you deserve much better than some cruel philandering asshole." He was on the verge of rambling now, feeling a bit light-headed from the drinks or the blood loss or some combination thereof. "You deserve someone good, someone as good as you, someone kind and brave and loyal. You deserve someone who will love you the way they should, true and strong. Someone who would fight for you, someone who would defend you, someone who - who - who you can trust." At some point he'd locked eyes with Gumshoe, and he was suddenly very aware of how close they'd gotten, and the way Gumshoe was still cradling his hand, and the strange look in his eyes. It completely derailed whatever nonsense he was saying, it was all nonsense anyway, it didn't matter. Nothing mattered, not the pain in his hand, not Gumshoe's stupid ex, not a damn thing, because that was when Gumshoe leaned forward and kissed him.

It was quick, just a few seconds before Gumshoe pulled back, looking terrified as if he hadn't been the one who started it. "I - "

Edgeworth couldn't let him say it, whatever it was. If he did it would be ruined, the moment would be gone and this would just be an awkward memory. They'd never have the chance again, and Edgeworth couldn't stand it. So he grabbed the back of Gumshoe's head and pulled him back in.

Gumshoe's lips were ridiculously soft in comparison to his hands. There was a taste to them, almost sweet, that enticed Edgeworth to open his mouth and draw him in deeper. His hair was cropped too closer to grab but he clutched at it anyway, holding him tight. They could have stayed that way for hours.

Eventually they broke apart, gasping for air. Edgeworth wasn't sure where to look and wound up gazing down, at where Gumshoe still held his wounded hand. His heart was racing, and he wasn't sure why he'd done that. Or rather, he knew _why_, but he didn't understand the swelling in his chest, the warmth of Gumshoe's skin, the craving to do it again. He was sure he'd never felt it before; he thought he might have known what it was called.

Gumshoe was starting to speak again, and this time Edgeworth was inclined to let him. He'd answered Gumshoe, and now had no idea what to say. Something had been confirmed. The moment was less tenuous now. He caught his breath and waited.

"I, uh." Gumshoe rubbed the back of his head, where Edgeworth had just grabbed him. "Wow."

It took a lot for Edgeworth not to laugh. "Wow?"

"Y-Yeah. I don't… really know what else to say." He ran a thumb across Edgeworth's fingers. "I didn't think you, uh. You'd do that."

Edgeworth did laugh, this time. "What did you think I would do?"

"I didn't. Think. I'm sorry, Mr. Edgeworth, I shouldn't've done that. It's just that you were - you've been so nice all night, and you were sayin' all those nice things about me, and I got carried away."

"I meant them, Dick. Every one." He raised his hand to Gumshoe's cheek and guided him to look into his eyes. "And I meant this, too." He kissed him again, softly this time. He kept expecting to come to his senses and push the man away, to label this all an unfortunate accident - Detective Gumshoe, for God's sake, of all people? Ridiculous - but it didn't happen. The part of him that managed propriety had gone silent. All that was left was a strange sense of security.

His thumb brushed against Gumshoe's cheek and came away wet. Edgeworth pulled back sharply to see tears streaming down Gumshoe's face. "Why are you crying?" he asked.

"S-sorry, sir," said Gumshoe, wiping his face on the sleeve of his suit jacket.

"I don't think you have to call me sir," said Edgeworth, plucking an unused napkin from the table and handing it over to spare the suit.

Gumshoe buried his face in the napkin, sniffling. "Sorry, si - sorry. I - " He blew his nose noisily and Edgeworth winced. "I didn't think this could happen." He dropped the napkin and grabbed both of Edgeworth's hands. "I really like you, sir!"

"You don't need to shout," Edgeworth answered, "and you don't need to call me sir. But yes, I'm beginning to understand that."

"I've liked you for a while! For - for years, really." Gumshoe lifted Edgeworth's hands, pulling them close. "I didn't think you'd ever even think about me like - like that."

"I suppose I didn't," Edgeworth answered, gazing at Gumshoe's hands. "Tonight, I..." Gumshoe was looking at him hopefully, and Edgeworth felt exposed under such a starkly honest look. His cheeks grew warm. He had the urge to pull away, to hide, but that would be a mistake. Gumshoe would be hurt, and somehow that seemed like the worst possible outcome. Instead, he took a breath and tried to figure out how to put into words what he was feeling.

He hesitated long enough for Gumshoe to speak up instead. "You don't have to say nothin' right now, Mr. Edgeworth. I know you're not a real mushy guy."

"Mushy. Yes." Edgeworth shook his head. "I feel as if I should make myself clear, but I'm still… this was unexpected."

"I'll say! Boy, what a night. I got kissed by two guys in one night!" His eyes went wide and he raised his hands defensively. "N-not that I wanted to, Mr. Edgeworth! I mean, I wanted to kiss one guy, I mean, b-but not _any_ guy, I didn't - "

"Please," said Edgeworth, dropping into the stony glare his face seemed to default to, "for the love of God, stop calling me Mr. Edgeworth. We're well past that."

"Sorry, M- " Gumshoe blushed. "Sorry, Miles," he mumbled.

"Thank you." Edgeworth leaned on the table again. The exhaustion creeping over him had been kept at bay by the adrenaline of the last few minutes. Now, with that fading, it had leapt at him. "I think I'm ready to leave," he said, his eyes half-closed. "If that's okay with you."

"Yeah, I'm ready to get outta here." Gumshoe took Edgeworth's hand, frowning at the bloody bandage. "Can I please take you to the hospital now?"

Edgeworth chuckled. "If you insist."

Gumshoe helped Edgeworth to his feet; he was feeling a bit dizzy now, and leaned against Gumshoe for support. Gumshoe wrapped an arm around his shoulders to hold him up as he guided him out of the venue into the cool night.

Edgeworth didn't make it home for several hours, most of which was spent sitting in the emergency room waiting room. He did, in the end, need several stitches, although the nurse had nice things to say about Gumshoe's bandaging job. He was sent home with a prescription for antibiotics and strict instructions for keeping the wound clean. Gumshoe was at his side the whole time, sitting next to him in the uncomfortable plastic chairs in the waiting room, holding his other hand while the stitches went in, and at long last, driving him back to his home at a completely unreasonable time of morning.

Gumshoe helped Edgeworth to the door and waited patiently while he fumbled with his keys, having trouble operating them with his off hand. "I guess I should go," he said, shoving his hands in his pockets.

"Don't be ridiculous," said Edgeworth as he finally pushed the door open. The alcohol had long since worn off, but his head still swam from exhaustion and the after effects of blood loss. "Come in."

Gumshoe followed him in, looking around the lavishly decorated space. "Nice place you got here," he said.

"You can spend the night," said Edgeworth. He paused as the implication of that statement sunk in. Having Gumshoe with him, comforting him, taking care of him, it had all felt so natural that he'd almost forgotten about the evening's developments. "If you don't want to drive home," he added, hoping it might clarify his intentions. "It's late."

"Uh, thanks," Gumshoe answered. He hadn't reacted at all; maybe Edgeworth was overthinking. Maybe he was always overthinking. Gumshoe never seemed to have that problem. He found he had wandered over to the leather couch in his living room, and sat heavily. Gumshoe followed after, sitting gently next to him. "You feeling okay, boss?"

"Don't…" Edgeworth gave up. "I'm tired." He leaned his head against Gumshoe's shoulder and closed his eyes.

Gumshoe lifted his arm to drape it around Edgeworth's shoulders. "It's okay. You just rest."

"Mmm." There were a whole series of things that Edgeworth should be doing before going to sleep - brushing his teeth, getting undressed, reaching his actual bed - but he couldn't have managed any of them. There was simply no way he could have forced his tired body away from Gumshoe's warm form.

When he woke, he was in his bed, and sunlight streamed through the curtains. His jacket and shoes were gone, but otherwise he was still dressed. Gumshoe lay next to him, snoring loudly, an arm flung across Edgeworth's chest. Edgeworth sat up just enough to see the clock. It was well past time for him to be out of bed. He looked back down at Gumshoe, still sleeping soundly. Slowly, Edgeworth lowered himself back down to the pillow and slid closer to him. He could stay here a little longer. He'd had a long night.


	118. (T) STEREK - The Way to My Heart (French

The Way to My Heart (French Insults)  
orphan_account

Summary:  
Letting out a long sigh, Derek turns away and braces himself for the next hellish filming segment. After all, apparently he's going to have to smile while greeting twenty-five contestants. Shit, what if they try to hug him? Or, god forbid, kiss –

He doesn't get any further with that thought, because a limo pulls into the driveway. He braces himself for the worst. The worst, who… actually doesn't look that horrifying.

"I've been dying to meet you!" she exclaims as she catches sight of him.

Then, she flings herself at him and ensnares him in a bone-crushing hug.

Scratch that – she's completely horrifying. And Derek's pretty sure he can hear errand boy what's-his-face laughing in the distance.

(Or: In which Derek gets roped into being the 'eligible bachelor' on a dating show and instead falls for one of the show's interns.)

* * *

Derek Hale hates the world. Really, the only thing he hates more at the moment is his family – specifically Peter and Laura, the conniving bastards. He could be giving his favorite lecture to his Linguistics 321 students right now on the viability of the Chinese logographic writing system, but _no_.

When he'd discovered that the two of them had signed him up to be a potential 'eligible bachelor' on some stupid dating show, he'd done his absolute best to completely fuck up the interview. Unfortunately, the director had apparently taken his glares and grunts to mean that he was lonely and sorely in need of love. He also suspects that they wanted to capitalize on the publicity they'd gain from the fact that his mother is the CEO of HaleTech, and one of the richest women in the world.

Apparently his looks and trust fund fulfill the 'eligible' part of being an 'eligible bachelor' – sparkling personality not needed.

Of course, the director – Finstock or something – is beginning to look more and more like he regrets taking Derek on. After all, this is the fifth time they've had to retake his introduction.

"Everyone, take five!" Finstock yells, finally giving up. Score one for Derek.

Derek attempts to make off in a random direction – anything to get away from the cameras and annoyingly bright lights – but Finstock gets to him before he can go more than a few feet.

"Erik!" he calls, stomping over in Derek's direction.

"It's Derek," Derek grumbles, but his glare doesn't seem to have any effect on Finstock.

"Right," Finstock replies, waving a hand dismissively. "I need you to cut it with the serial killer vibe."

"Serial killer," Derek repeats flatly.

"You're supposed to be getting ready to meet the love of your life," Finstock replies, prodding Derek in the chest with a thick finger. "Act like it."

"I _am_ acting like I'm about to meet the love of my life," Derek grits out, still glaring at Finstock.

"Fine, then stop acting like you're being castrated with a rusty spork," Finstock retorts. "I lost my left testicle to exposure a few years back – I know that expression!"

Derek nods grudgingly and tries not to be sick at that mental image.

"Good," Finstock continues, clapping a hand on Derek's shoulder. "Take a moment to get your noggin in order and then I expect a perfect take."

"Right," Derek replies, grimacing. He makes a beeline for the bathroom instead, wondering how long he can lock himself inside before someone comes to find him.

It turns out to be six minutes.

"Uh, Mr. Hale?" a voice calls, a fist tap-tap-tapping on the bathroom door, making Derek look up from the latest issue of _Popular Mechanics_. (They're filming at his apartment first, and he'd thankfully had to foresight to stash some essentials in various overlooked places, in case of emergency.) "Mr. Hale, are you in there?"

Derek frowns and wonders if he should answer or not.

"Dude, seriously," the voice whines, a little bit of anger seeping into their tone. "We have shit to do today. Like, a _lot_ of shit. You're fully booked."

Derek sighs, glancing down at his magazine and then back at the door.

"Look, I know you don't want to be here," the voice continues, catching Derek off guard, "but can you at least respect everyone else who's working on set? I mean, this is our _job_. At least you're getting pretty much a free vacation to a bunch of fancy resorts in foreign countries."

Derek closes his magazine and opens to door to reveal a young man, probably in his early twenties. Idly, Derek can't help but think that he's kind of cute.

"My mother's a billionaire," he says, giving the guy an unimpressed look. "I could easily go anywhere in the world and stay at any resort, if I wanted."

The guy blinks at him for a moment, surprised.

Then, he says, "Wow, you're an asshole."

Derek feels remarkably unapologetic. In fact, it's almost a little refreshing. God knows none of his students have ever been brave enough to say that too his face, even though he knows that quite a few of them have thought it. Quite forcefully, in fact.

"Let's get this over with," he sighs, pushing past the guy.

"We're all watin' on you, buddy," the guy mutters.

"Well, like you said, it's not as if I want to be here," Derek retorts as they make their way down the hallway. "Why can't you just find someone else?"

"Not enough time," the guy replies. "And trust me, after today I'm sure Finstock would get rid if you immediately if he could."

"Trust me, we share the sentiment," Derek grumbles, his expression growing dark. Peter and Laura are going to die as soon as soon as he gets away from this damn camera crew.

"Yeah, well, the sooner you get this right, the sooner we'll be out of your hair," the guy says, quirking an unimpressed eyebrow at him, and Derek has to admit that he has a point. "So get your ass into gear and go be charming. Your stupidly attractive face has to be good for something."

Part of Derek can't help but be pleased that a not unattractive man finds him "stupidly attractive." The rest of his commentary makes Derek scowl, though.

Either way, he has the feeling it's going to be a long, long day.

Of course, after gritting his teeth and fake smiling his way through his introductory video comes an even worse part – namely, meeting contestants vying for his love.

"Right, Erik! You're going to stand here and look pretty and wait for the ladies and gentlemen to arrive," Finstock barks, positioning him near the entrance to the extravagant house he'll apparently be staying in for the next two godforsaken weeks. "Try to be polite."

Derek's pretty sure he hears a muffled snort from somewhere nearby. He turns to glare and really isn't that surprised to find that the guy from earlier, the one who called him an asshole, is the culprit. He doesn't even look like he's doing anything productive, the bastard.

Letting out a long sigh, Derek turns away and braces himself for the next hellish filming segment. After all, apparently he's going to have to smile while greeting twenty-five contestants. Twenty-five!

Shit, what if they try to hug him? Or, god forbid, _kiss_ –

He doesn't get any further with that thought, because a limo pulls into the driveway.

He braces himself for the worst. The worst, who… actually doesn't look that horrifying.

"I've been _dying_ to meet you!" she exclaims as she catches sight of him.

Then, she flings herself at him and ensnares him in a bone-crushing hug.

Scratch that – she's completely horrifying. And Derek's pretty sure he can hear errand boy what's-his-face laughing in the distance.

The cocktail party afterwards, in which Derek is supposed to mingle with his suitors, is quite possibly even worse.

"So, you're a _professor_," a man who's all but dragged Derek out into the courtyard purrs. Derek's willing to admit that he's more than a little terrified by the glint in the guy's eyes.

"Yes," Derek replies stiffly, leaning away slightly. "Linguistics."

"_Linguistics_," the guy (Tom? Tim?) repeats, leaning in enough to completely negate the small amount of personal space Derek had managed to regain. "Do you know any French? It's the language of _love_, isn't it?"

"Va te faire foutre," Derek grumbles, trying subtlety to scoot away. The man passing out drinks nearby chokes on his laughter and nearly drops an entire tray of crystal champagne flutes. Derek squints at him, frowning, as he recognizes the guy from the bathroom.

"What does that mean?" Tom/Tim asks, his cheeks a little flushed.

_Fuck off_, Derek thinks, behind a painfully fake grin. He doesn't even care that he's probably being filmed right now.

"It's a pleasure to meet you," Derek improvises.

"Oh! Let me try," Tom/Tim replies. He proceeds to butcher the French language. Derek isn't even _French_ and he's offended.

Meanwhile, halfway across the courtyard, Bathroom Guy has set his tray down on a nearby table and looks like he's about to keel over from laughter. And, for the first time that day, Derek's smile softens to something almost genuine.

"I'm more of a sociolinguist, actually," Derek says, his smile turning a little more pained as he focuses his attention back on Tom/Tim.

"Ah," Tom/Tim replies, nodding. His expression is a little blank.

"I study how society affects languages," Derek explains. Idly, he wonders if launching into a detailed description of his current research will drive the guy away.

Probably not, actually. He knows that there are a handful of students every year who take one of his lecture courses just to stare at his ass the entire time.

He's almost glad when another contestant comes to whisk him away.

It continues like that for god knows how long. He gets passed around from suitor to suitor like a soccer ball, but just as he begins to think he can't take it any longer, the mingling comes to an end. Not that all of them were completely horrible – Jennifer, the high school English teacher, seemed nice enough.

"I have to _what_ now?" Derek asks, frowning at Finstock as he waits outside of the room all of the contestants have been corralled into.

"Rose ceremony, Erik!" Finstock exclaims, waving him in the direction of the room.

"Rose ceremony?" Derek repeats, lost. Unfortunately, Finstock has already marched off to join the suitors, presumably to explain the ordeal to them. Looks like he's just lucky, then.

"You're supposed to pass out roses to eighteen of the candidates to decide who gets to stay," a voice supplies, and Derek turns to find that the guy from the bathroom and the courtyard has sidled up next to him. For a moment, he's distracted by the guy's large, whisky-colored eyes, but then his words sink in.

"What, in front of all of them?" Derek asks, scowling.

"Hey, you didn't seem to have any trouble telling them to 'va te faire foutre' earlier," the guy replies, a small smirk on his face.

"Point," Derek concedes, his lips twitching up into the barest hint of a smile. "You speak French?"

"College langue requirement," the guy answers, his tone a little flippant. "Oh, and as much as I'd love to see you make an ass of yourself on national television, there are at least two girls and one guy in there who've also learned French."

"How'd you know that?" Derek asks, arching an eyebrow.

"I may or may not have snuck a look at some of the applications," the guy replies.

"Coquin," Derek says, his smile growing a touch wider.

"Sorry, but my vocabulary's pretty much limited to 'va te faire foutre' and 'merde'," the guy answers, his tone wry. "Now you should probably get going if you don't want Finstock ripping you a new one. Va te faire foutre."

"Va te faire foutre, yourself," Derek shoots back, flashing the guy his first, fully formed, genuine smile of the night.

However, as soon as he spots the tray of roses sitting on a small table in front of him, the smile slides off his face. He stands awkwardly in front of the women and men lined up in neat rows. It's not like he's ever had trouble rejecting people before, it just feels like he's been lured into a wolf's den, surrounded by a pack of suitors who've spent the entire night treating him like a piece of meat.

He forces another fake smile and braces himself for the proceedings as Finstock finishes his vaguely menacing spiel about seven contestants getting sent home.

In the end, he gives out roses almost at random. There are a few who made very negative impressions who he's sure to avoid, and even fewer who made marginally positive impressions who he's sure to include, but most were just neutral, nebulous, and Derek struggles to even remember their names.

Tom/Tim does not get a rose, and not just because Derek can't recall his actual name.

Va te faire foutre, indeed.

Bright light assaults Derek's sleeping face.

"Up and at 'em, sunshine," an annoyingly cheery – and unnervingly familiar – voice crows from somewhere to Derek left. He grunts and blinks his eyes open, squinting at the intruder. It takes him a moment to orient himself, but as soon as he lays eyes on the guy, everything comes flooding back.

"What do you even _do?_" he wonders aloud, still squinting at the guy. "Or is your job just to torment me?"

"Please, if my job was to torment you I'd be doing a much better job," the guy snorts. "And I'm an intern, thank you very much."

"So you're a gopher," Derek translates, earning him a look from the guy which is dangerously close to a pout.

"Shut up," he shoots back, while Derek pushes himself up into a proper sitting position on the edge of the bed. He runs his a hand through his hair and tries not to grimace at the thought of what he must look like right now. No one's seen him unkempt as he rolls out of bed since… well, since he and Braeden called it quits. Which is kind of sad, actually, considering that was nearly a year ago.

"Dude, we have a full day of filming ahead of us, so hurry up and get your ass out of bed," the guy says, shooing him along in his pre-coffee daze. "Chop, chop."

"Jesus, are you always this annoying?" Derek groans, but he reluctantly gets up and wanders over to the chest of drawers.

"This is me on a good day, honey bear," the guy replies with a sharp smile.

"Don't call me that," Derek grunts, stripping off his shirt before rummaging through a drawer for another. "What's your name anyway?"

"Mine?" the guy asks, and maybe it's just Derek's imagination, but his voice sounds a little strangled.

"No, I'm talking to the other guy who dragged me out of bed at – " He glances at the clock on the bedside table. " – seven in the morning."

"Har har," the guy replies, and Derek can _hear_ him rolling his eyes. "It's Stiles."

"Stiles," Derek repeats, glancing back over his shoulder to give the guy – _Stiles_, apparently – his best skeptical look. "Your parents named you Stiles."

"Fuck, no," Stiles snorts. Derek's momentarily distracted by the way the soft light filtering through the window makes his eyes look bright and whisky colored. "But you wouldn't be able to pronounce my first name, ergo."

"I'm a linguistics professor," Derek replies, his lips quirking up into a smirk. "Try me."

"Uh, no," Stiles shoots back. "I'm not that easy, buddy boy. Now get some pants on so I can hustle you over to hair and makeup before they start screaming murder at me for letting you take too long."

"Derek," Derek says, Stiles shooting him a confused look. "It's my name. Try using it."

"Sure, big guy," Stiles replies, a glint in his eyes just the wrong side of mischievous. "How about you get your ass in gear so we can get you ready to meet your adoring fans?"

"I'll pay you to figure out a way to get me off this show," Derek says, fastening his belt securely. He doesn't miss the way Stiles' eyes dart down to track the movement for just a moment.

"And miss the expressions you make whenever someone gets into your personal bubble?" Stiles snorts, finally turning his back to Derek to lead him out of the room. "Also, this is a paid internship, so I'm doing okay."

"I guarantee I can pay you more," Derek replies, following him and trying not to feel like he's being marched to his own execution.

"I'm sure you could," Stiles says easily, not even batting an eyelash. For some reason, though, Derek doesn't even feel that bad about giving up on convincing him.

Or, at least, he doesn't feel bad until he's ushered into a room with more makeup in it than he's ever seen in his life, and he remembers Cora's goth faze. Vividly.

"Well, well," a woman with bright red lips and wavy blonde hair says, looking him up and down in a way which makes him feel like a slab of meat (more so than normal, at least). "It's good to know that I won't have to do much work this season."

Derek narrows his eyes and glowers at her, but unfortunately that doesn't seem to deter her much.

"Get your impeccable buns of steel in that chair. We don't have all day," the woman continues, indicating the seat in front of the large mirror. "I'm Erica, and I'll be your personal makeup artist for the duration of filming."

Derek grunts but doesn't give any further response as she sets to work painting his face with all sorts of gunk he can't begin to put names to.

"While Erica does her thing, I'm gonna need you to pick out who you're going on your first date with," Stiles says, producing an overstuffed binder from god knows where.

"What's the date?" Derek asks, a wave of dread washing over him as he imagines the horror before him.

"What's the date?" Stiles parrots, his nose scrunching up in a way Derek refuses to find mildly cute. "Dude, you're the one who made the list."

"The list," Derek says, his tone flat.

"Yeah, you know. When you got accepted as the bachelor you had to fill out all those forms about date ideas and likes and dislikes and stuff," Stiles explains, frowning. "Normally we have to change around the dates a bit because Finstock complains about them being too boring, but he thought all of yours were good enough, which is why we haven't had to discuss them with you."

"Fuck," Derek mutters, his scowl deepening.

"So I take it you didn't come up with these," Stiles says, holding up the list. The first bullet point says 'beach volleyball' and Derek has to resist the urge to audibly groan.

"No," he replies through gritted teeth. "My sister and uncle probably did."

"Well, I'm afraid there isn't much we can do about today's dates," Stiles says. "We already have everything set up. I can talk to Finstock about getting the later ones changed, though."

"I hate sand," Derek mutters, trying not to grimace as Erica starts to attack his eyebrows with a pair of viciously sharp tweezers.

"If you're doing beach volleyball today, you're going to need a wardrobe change," Erica announces as she pulls back for a moment to admire her handiwork. Derek has to admit that his eyebrows look a little less intimidating, but then again, he kind of prefers intimidating, particularly considering the crowd of camera-mongers he's about to face.

"Wardrobe change," Derek repeats, already disliking the direction this conversation is going in.

"That shirt _definitely_ needs to go," Erica replies, a wicked grin on her face, "and you better have brought swim trunks."

Derek had, but only because he'd been forced to take nearly his entire wardrobe. Really, he's lucky that he caught Laura trying to switch them for a speedo before he left. Trust his older sister to try and completely humiliate him on national television.

"Why can't I wear a shirt?" Derek asks, crossing his arms over his chest defensively.

"I mean, you could, but Finstock'll have you take it off to raise viewership, so," Stiles butts in, shrugging.

This is how Derek finds himself standing on a beach, shoeless and shirtless and surrounded by overzealous suitors in similar states of undress. He'd done his best to pick the least annoying ones, but he'd had to make a few guesses, considering he'd forgotten at least half of the contestants' names.

The fact that Stiles is lounging just out of the camera's view on the side of the court in a folding chair doesn't improve Derek's mood at all – particularly when Stiles catches him glaring and retaliates with a cheeky grin. It's surprisingly difficult for him to prevent himself from doing something immature, like sticking out his tongue at Stiles.

"I assume everyone knows the rules of volleyball," Derek says, clearing his throat. "We'll be playing casually, though."

"Teams?" one of the men asks (Danny, Derek thinks his name is).

"We'll go four on four," Derek explains. "The team which wins will get to have dinner with me." He tries not to grimace as he explains the second part, but judging by the amused expression on Stiles' face, he's not terribly successful.

"You can just count off," Derek finishes. He doesn't want to aggravate anyone by trying to pick teams himself.

He zones out for a moment while they organize themselves. Thankfully he's not too worried about embarrassing himself in this event, because even though he's not anything close to an expert, he can play most sports passably. Peter and Laura probably just put it on the list so that his suitors would be more forgiving of his prickly personality with his half-naked body on display.

The game itself doesn't start too horribly. It's clear that a few of the contestants don't have much experience with volleyball, and Derek feels a momentary pang of guilt as Jennifer – one of the only suitors he's actually liked so far – takes a nose dive into the sand while going after the ball.

"Are you alright?" he asks, as he helps her up.

"Yeah, I'm okay," she replies with a small, embarrassed smile. "I just overestimated my skills, I suppose."

"You're doing fine," Derek grunts, which is about the closest to praise anyone here will likely get. Jennifer seems to understand this, if the pleased look on her face is any indication.

When Derek turns around to get back in position and continue the game, though, he finds Stiles standing directly behind him, holding the ball. Stiles tosses it to him, and he catches it easily, raising an eyebrow at Stiles.

"Got tired of lounging around?" Derek asks, his lips quirking up into a slight smirk.

"Yeah, well, technically I'm supposed to be retrieving the balls which go offside so the camera guys don't have to keep swiveling around to capture all the action," Stiles answers, crossing his arms over his chest.

"You must be pretty bored so far," Derek says, his amusement growing. "Maybe I should start making your job more interesting."

"You wouldn't," Stiles replies, his eyes narrowing. Derek shrugs nonchalantly.

His next shot goes wide. The sour look on Stiles' face is priceless.

"Consider it payback for dragging me out of bed this morning," Derek says as Stiles shoves the ball into his hands, his voice too low for anyone but Stiles to pick up. The annoyed look Stiles gives him is almost endearing.

It's remarkably easy for him to ignore the bickering and infighting between the contestants when he instead focuses on making purposefully difficult or bad shots in order to keep Stiles running back and forth. Stiles, of course, seems less than amused by it, but the only part Derek feels bad about is how often his eyes end up drawn to Stiles' nicely shaped buttocks whenever he bends over to get the volleyball.

"I hate you," Stiles wheezes, collapsing on the sand when Derek calls for a short break.

"Like I said, payback," Derek replies, but he drops a cold bottle of water on Stiles' chest as an offering at the same time.

"Dude!" Stiles squawks as the cold bottle hits him, making his eyes fly open again as he flails. "Give a guy some warning!"

"What, like how you woke me up?" Derek asks, his tone falsely innocent. It earns him another glare from Stiles.

"Fuck you," Stiles grumbles, unscrewing the water bottle cap. "It's my job."

Derek lets out a noncommittal snort and takes a sip of water.

"You should put some more sunscreen on," he says, looking down at Stiles, who's still sprawled out on the sand. "Your nose is getting red."

"Your _face_ is getting red," Stiles retorts. Derek rolls his eyes. He's about to reply when he catches sight of the contestants starting to make their way over to him. Some of them have disturbingly predatory glints to their eyes and, not for the first time, Derek wishes he was anywhere but here.

He ends up restarting the game in an attempt to avoid actually talking to anyone, but he knows he's avoiding the inevitable. He distracts himself by making Stiles run to retrieve the ball until he's flushed and panting. And for a moment, Derek almost wishes Stiles was a contestant.

Somehow he survives the rest of the week. It's far from the best week of his life, but it could be worse, he supposes. His one-on-one date with Jennifer was even kind of nice, although during certain lulls in the conversation he couldn't help but let his eyes stray to wherever Stiles was, zipping about the sidelines as he brought crew members equipment.

The next week, though… well. The stakes are getting higher, so contestants are bound to get more competitive, more aggressive.

Which is why Derek is currently hiding in his room.

It's not exactly dignified, but Derek could honestly care less about dignity at the moment. He can barely walk five feet without getting accosted by someone. They're practically _throwing_ themselves at him – and he means that literally.

"Derek!" a familiar voice calls, followed by a loud burst of knocking on his door. "You have a two-on-one date with Kira and Harrison in half an hour!"

Derek tears his eyes away from the TV screen for a moment to stare at the door, but he doesn't bother to respond. Kira seems nice enough so far, but he just can't deal with people clinging to him anymore today. He's also pretty sure that Harrison is the one who keeps trying to fellate random objects in a (failed) attempt to be sexy.

"Dude," Stiles continues, frustrated. Derek feels a little bad about that. A little. "C'mon, seriously? I get that most of them are like leeches or whatever, but Kira's sweet."

On screen, Obi-Wan Kenobi and Darth Vader engage in a lightsaber duel. Which, really, is far more interesting.

Behind the door, Derek hears Stiles mutter something impolite, but he also hears the telltale sound of footsteps moving away from the door and fading in volume. Mission accomplished.

Or at least it is until his window creaks open and Stiles comes tumbling through. Derek blinks at him dumbly for a moment, staring at the way he's splayed awkwardly on the floor under the windowsill.

"Okay, first of all, fuck you," Stiles announces, pointing an accusing finger at Derek. "Second of all – " He cuts himself off, gaze drawn to the TV screen. "Are you watching Star Wars?"

"No, I'm watching Dora the Explorer," Derek snorts, tensing slightly as Stiles drops himself down on the bed next to him, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"Watch it or I'll tell everyone that it's your favorite show," Stiles replies idly.

"Whatever it takes to get them to stop harassing me," Derek says. He can't help but feel strangely pleased as Stiles lets out soft snort of laugher.

"Seriously, though, as much as I'm a fan of blowing off everything to watch Star Wars, Finstock will have my head if you don't get to that date on time," Stiles sighs, tearing his eyes away from the movie momentarily.

"I thought the whole point of reality TV was to create false drama," Derek snorts, scowling. "Won't me not showing up do that?"

"Sure, but that's not the sort of drama Finstock wants," Stiles replies, shrugging. "He wants _romantic_ drama. You're supposed to be angsting over who you're truly in love with, not completely indifferent."

"Well, then he chose the wrong bachelor," Derek retorts.

"Tell me about it," Stiles says, rolling his eyes. "You're such a pain in the ass."

Derek has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at that. The two of them sit there on the bed for a moment, watching as Darth Vader kills Obi-Wan with one smooth swing of his bright red lightsaber.

"Alright, let's get you over to Erica," Stiles says, looking away from the screen where Luke is screaming and shooting at the Stormtroopers. "Consider the rest of the movie a reward for making it through the date without maiming anyone."

"And if I do maim someone?" Derek asks, quirking an eyebrow at Stiles.

"Then you'll probably be kicked off the show, so congratulations," Stiles replies, a lopsided grin on his face. "Then again, you'll probably also get arrested, so…"

"I'm pretty sure I'd prefer Jail at this point," Derek snorts.

"Wow, you really do hate this," Stiles says, scrunching his nose as he frowns at Derek, a considering look on his face.

Derek gives him a look which translates roughly to, _You think?_

"Right, well, I'll try to help you out if anyone starts getting too handsy again, okay?" Stiles continues.

"You'll have your work cut out for you," Derek replies, a hint of bitterness in his tone.

"Couldn't you at least be a little bit grateful?" Stiles huffs, his expression almost a pout. "I'm trying to help you out."

"I'll be grateful when you actually succeed," Derek retorts. "They're more difficult to deal with than you'd think."

"Alright, alright," Stiles replies with an eye roll. "I'll keep that in mind. We have, like, ten minutes to get you read for your date, though."

Derek manages no to complain as Stiles pushes him out the door.

As for the date itself, well, Stiles is right about Kira being sweet, but the only time Derek actually cracks a genuine smile is when Stiles 'accidentally' spills ice water all over Harrison's lap while he tries to seductively eat a carrot.

The show moves to Denmark for the following week. Derek's never actually been to Denmark before, and he'd be thrilled to wander the streets of Copenhagen all day, but unfortunately he's been on a bit of a tight leash lately. He resigns himself to another torturous week.

That is, until he finally manages to take the date ideas into his own hands.

"A running tour of Copenhagen," one of the contestants repeats, his tone flat.

"It should be around a ten kilometer circuit, so hopefully all of you heeded my advice when I told you to wear clothes you can exercise in," Derek said. He eyes a woman in high heeled tennis shoes dubiously. She also looks like she's regretting her choice of attire.

Matthias, their guide, also looks like he's not entirely sure taking on this group was a good idea. Derek can't really blame him.

"Alright," Matthias says, his smile a little forced as he gathers everyone. "I'll try to keep the pace relatively relaxed because we appear to have a variety of skill levels here. The tour should take about an hour and a half, and we'll be hitting all the main sights, such as City Hall, the National Museum, and the Opera House."

Derek tunes out for a moment as Matthias explains a few more rules about sticking together to the group, instead scanning the crowd for Stiles. Unfortunately, he's unable to catch sight of him anywhere before the tour commences.

"So, Copenhagen," someone says, distracting Derek from his thoughts. "Have you ever been before?"

He tears his eyes away from the boats lining the side of the canal in order to address the speaker, a little disappointed when he finds that it's Danny jogging beside him instead of Stiles.

"No. Have you?" Derek asks diplomatically, although truthfully he doesn't really care about Danny's answer. Sure, he's one of the nicer contestants, but Derek generally doesn't have that high an opinion of people who try to find their significant others via reality television.

"This is the first time I've been out of the country, actually," Danny replies with a smile. Derek's never had much of an opinion on dimples, but Danny's are sort of cute, he supposes. "My family's lived in Hawai'i since before it was a state, though."

"I've been once," Derek says. "It's a beautiful place."

"Hey, well if I'm still around in four weeks you'll get to visit again while meeting my family," Danny replies with a wink.

They chat for the rest of the tour, and Derek has to begrudgingly admit that Danny isn't completely horrible. He's… nice. Of course, a small voice in the back of Derek's head can't help but point out that 'nice' isn't exactly his type. The memory of Stiles saying, 'Va te faire foutre' flashes through his mind, but he pushes it away.

Invariably, though, there's some drama when one of a member of the camera crew realizes that the woman with the high heeled tennis shoes is missing, probably because she wasn't able to keep up with the pace. Finstock doesn't look very happy when Derek has a less than sympathetic reaction to her getting lost. It's not like it's _his_ fault, after all.

Derek and the rest of the contestants are herded back to the hotel while Finstock sends out a search party for the missing girl. Over the next couple of days, Finstock's sure to keep a close eye on the whole group, apparently not eager to have to keep them in line. Derek's pretty sure he hears him make a muttered comment about how they fight like cats and are about as easy to keep track of.

Which is why Derek hasn't been allowed out on his own yet, and he's starting to stir crazy. Scratch that – he went stir crazy a while ago, and now he's gotten to the point where he's contemplating trying to escape via window. His room is on the fifth floor.

"Oh my god, what are you doing?" Stiles' (now all too familiar) voice exclaims as Derek leans a little too far out over the balcony railing.

"I haven't been allowed out without supervision for the past four days," Derek snorts, looking over at Stiles, who's out on the balcony of the room to his right. "I'm going to end up doing something I'll regret if I'm not able to get away from everyone for at least a few hours."

Stiles is silent for a moment, giving him a contemplative look.

"I, uh. I might be able to help you with that," he finally says. Derek frowns, skeptical. "Look, just – I mean, if you don't mind me hanging around with you I should be able to bust you out for a bit. As long as I know where you are, it should be okay."

"They'll just let us walk out?" Derek asks, unconvinced.

"Hey, I never said my plan wouldn't involve a few white lies," Stiles answers, leaning over the balcony edge, bringing him a little closer to Derek. "If you're okay with that."

"I'm okay with anything as long as it gets me out of here," Derek snorts.

"Right, well, grab your stuff and meet me in front of your room, then," Stiles replies, his lips turning up in a small smile. "We have a city to explore!"

This is how Derek finds himself trying to sneak down the back stairway with Stiles. They actually manage to make it as far as the lobby before anyone stops them, which is much better than Derek had originally anticipated.

What can he say? He's not exactly an optimist.

"Stilinski! What the fuck are you doing?" one of the cameramen asks, his eyes flicking between Derek and Stiles suspiciously.

"Finstock needs him for an extra interview thingy," Stiles improvises, his tone impressively casual.

"Trust me, I wouldn't spend extra time with him voluntarily," Derek adds, his voice deadpan.

"You wound me, buttercup," Stiles replies, mock offended. "I know I'm secretly your favorite."

"Right," Derek snorts, which is apparently enough for the cameraman, because the tension goes out of his shoulders.

"I can believe that," he laughs, but his words make a bit of annoyance swell up in Derek. As difficult as Stiles can be, he's really not that bad overall. God knows he's better than the vast majority of the contestants on the show.

"You didn't have to sound so sincere," Stiles grumbles, elbowing him in the stomach as the cameraman walks away. Derek just shrugs, a small smirk on his face.

"Please," Derek snorts as they make their way out of the hotel. "As if you enjoy spending time with me any more than I enjoy spending time with you."

"Well, maybe I _do_ enjoy spending time with you, asshole," Stiles mutters, a small, pink flush spreading across his cheeks. Derek stares at him for a moment, unsure how to respond.

Then he says, "Let's go. There's a place I want to visit."

He takes Stiles by the hand and drags him along.

"Dude, what is this place?" Stiles asks once they reach their destination. There's a hint of awe in his voice as he gazes up at the large glass and metal building, and Derek can't help but smile a little at such a positive reaction.

"It's the Danish Royal Library," Derek answers, taking his time to look over the beautiful architecture himself.

"Oh my god, you're such a _nerd_," Stiles laughs, but there's nothing cruel or mocking about his tone. "You would sneak out to go visit a library."

"It's an amazing library," Derek protests, walking towards the entrance to the building.

"I don't doubt it – I just…" Stiles starts, trailing behind him. "Most people probably wouldn't sneak out to see something like this."

"Most people are idiots," Derek retorts, drawing another short bark of laughter from Stiles.

"I can't argue with you there," he replies, his tone wry. "The only problem with this setup is that I can't read Danish."

"I can," Derek says, smirking at Stiles.

"So that means you're gonna translate everything for me, right?" Stiles asks, his tone faux-innocent as he bats his eyelashes overdramatically.

"Half the fun's the architecture," Derek says, shrugging. "I also want to take a walk through the garden outside of the old library building."

"Sounds good," Stiles replies as they enter the atrium. A small smile stretches over Derek's face as he watches Stiles crane his neck to look up towards the ceiling of the atrium, his mouth hanging open. He continues to gape as they make their way up the ramp to the upper levels, and Derek can't help but find it a little endearing.

"One of the more famous librarians was known for stealing books from monasteries and other libraries to add to the collection," Derek says as they walk through the more modern section of the library. It's amusing to watch Stiles as he alternates between peering into reading rooms and then zipping over to the other side of the walkway, looking down into the atrium below.

"Is that you trying to convince me that you're not actually boring?" Stiles snorts, pulling back from where he'd been leaning a little too far over the railing for comfort. (Derek appreciates it. He was five seconds away from pulling Stiles back from the edge himself, and that would be a little too Titanic-like for his tastes.)

"I'm not a librarian. I'm a linguist," Derek replies, quirking an eyebrow at Stiles in challenge.

"So what you're saying is that you _are_ boring," Stiles retorts, grinning cheekily.

"Va te faire foutre," Derek shoots back, trying his best not to smile. He fails, but it's not much of a loss.

They wander through the rest of the new library building before moving on to the old one. The calm atmosphere relaxes Derek, although Stiles' energy level seems to be about the same as normal. Still, Derek can't help but notice that he seems more settled, in a way.

As he listens to Stiles try to read from a randomly selected book – absolutely butchering the pronunciation – he realizes that this is probably the best date he's ever been on.

Not that it's actually a date.

By the time they're down to six candidates, Derek's already realized that none of them are going to cut it. Sure, Kira is sweet and Danny seems like a nice guy. Jennifer is easy to get along with, too, and, really, none of the remaining contestants are horrible, but they're also…

They're just not right. (Derek tries not to think too hard about _why_ they're not right.)

Apparently, though, now comes the time for the remaining candidates to meet his family. In Beacon Hills. Derek really isn't sure how he's going to survive this week which such a disastrous combination.

"Home sweet home," Stiles says as they get off the plane, stretching in a way Derek finds thoroughly distracting.

"That's one way of putting it," Derek snorts as they walk towards the baggage claim area. Technically they're not quite in Beacon Hills yet – they're a few towns over, because that's where the closest airport is located – but they're close enough, he supposes.

Stiles hums noncommittally, and Derek can't quite tell if it's in agreement or dissent. They gather their bags and start heading over to the limo, which will take them the rest of the way to Beacon Hills, but Derek pauses as he realizes that Stiles has veered off in a different direction.

"Stiles?" he calls out, frowning. "The limo is this way."

"My dad's picking me up," Stiles replies, gesturing to an idling police cruiser.

"Your dad?" Derek repeats, confused.

"You're not the only Beacon Hills native, you know," Stiles answers, shooting Derek a slightly lopsided grin. "My dad's the sheriff."

"Sheriff Stilinski?" Derek asks, surprised. "How have I never run into you around town before?"

"I mean, I've been off at school, and even before that I looked pretty different," Stiles says with a small laugh. "I had a buzz cut and everything."

"I'm having trouble imagining that," Derek replies, mirroring Stiles' smile.

"Yeah, well, my dad has plenty of photographic evidence," Stiles admits. "Not that you're ever going to see it."

"Oh, now I _have_ to see those photos," Derek says, his tone a little teasing.

"Nope," Stiles replies. "Not gonna happen. You'll be too busy running interference with your family and adoring suitors anyway."

"Don't remind me," Derek snorts. "You're still going to be around this week, won't you?"

"Yep. I wouldn't miss your baby pictures for the world," Stiles laughs, a wide grin stretching across his face. "I'm sure you were adorable."

"No one's going to be seeing any baby pictures," Derek huffs, watching over Stiles' shoulder as a man in a police officer's uniform steps out of the squad car.

"Wanna bet?" Stiles asks, quirking an eyebrow at him in challenge. Derek tries not to grimace and avoids thinking about how no, he really doesn't want to bet, knowing his family.

Behind them, the limo honks.

"Enjoy the two hour drive surrounded by your adoring fans," Stiles says, far too cheerfully for Derek's tastes. Derek huffs and rolls his eyes.

"At least I won't have to spend the entire time in the back of a police cruiser," he quips, making Stiles let out an indignant squawk.

"Hey! I get to sit up front, thank you very much," Stiles huffs, his expression almost a pout.

"What was that about you sitting up front, kiddo?" an older man in a police officer's uniform asks, coming up behind Stiles and clapping him on the shoulder. Stiles' whole face lights up in a way that Derek's never seen before, which really shouldn't be that surprising, considering they've only known each other for a handful of weeks. Still, Derek can't help but feel a bit out of place as Stiles turns to sweep the man into a tight hug, gripping him so hard that Derek almost wonders how he can still breathe.

"Derek's just being mean to me," Stiles says as he pulls away, but his tone is light.

"And I'm sure you did absolutely nothing to annoy him," Sheriff Stilinski counters, smiling.

"Moi?" Stiles replies, mock offended. "C'mon, dad, you're supposed to be on my side!"

"John Stilinski. Nice to meet you," Sheriff Stilinski says, ignoring his son as he extends a hand for Derek to shake. "I hope my son hasn't been giving you too much trouble."

"Sheriff," Derek replies, gripping Sheriff Stilinski's hand firmly. "Derek Hale. And don't worry about Stiles. At the very least, he makes things interesting."

"That's one way of putting it," Sheriff Stilinski laughs. For a moment, Derek feels pleased about having made a good impression on Stiles' father before remembering that Stiles' family really isn't the one he should be focusing on.

Behind him, the limo honks again.

"Sorry, but I – " Derek starts, but Sheriff Stilinski cuts him off with a wave.

"It's alright. We shouldn't be holding you up. Stiles keeps telling me about how busy the filming schedule is," Sheriff Stilinski replies. "I would invite you over for dinner, but from the sounds of it, you don't get much time to yourself. If you're ever in town again, though, we'd be glad to have you."

Derek glances over a Stiles, a little confused. There's a hint of red coloring Stiles' cheeks, and Derek can't help but wonder how much he's talked to his father about them – if he'd mentioned Derek specifically by name or if he'd just come up in passing.

"I'll certainly remember that," Derek says, nodding respectfully. "I'll see you later, Stiles?"

"Yeah," Stiles answers, his face still a bit red. "In a few hours, probably."

"Oh, a few hours. I'm not sure I can make it by myself that long," Derek says, his tone dry. It earns him an eye roll from Stiles, along with a shoulder nudge.

"Can't survive without your wait staff, princess?" he snorts, but there's no malice to his tone.

"Just for that I'll start hanging out with Erica instead," Derek replies, trying not to smile.

"Please, she's even more difficult to deal with than me," Stiles retorts, which is actually a valid argument.

"I'll see you later," Derek finally says.

"Bye," Stiles replies. Derek starts to turn to head over to the limo, but before he can make it more than a step, Stiles darts in and gives him a quick, one-armed hug. Derek barely has time to register it before Stiles' back is to him as he drags his dad back to the squad car.

A warm, fuzzy feeling stubbornly warms his chest for the entire drive to Beacon Hills.

"So," Laura says, five days into the family week. They're sprawled out in front of the TV in the living room, _Firefly_ playing almost as background noise. "You've got the hots for intern-boy."

"What?" Derek asks, stiffening as his eyes dart around quickly, looking for ever watchful cameras. "I do not."

"Please, you spend twice as much time with him as you do with your actual suitors, which shouldn't even be possible, considering the scheduling," Laura snorts. Derek wonders how many other people have noticed, if they're being so obvious.

"Don't worry, it's not that noticeable," Laura assures him. "I just know you too well. Although I have to say, when Peter and I signed you up for this dating show, we thought you'd fall for one of the contestants instead."

"You really thought I'd fall in love with someone on a _dating show_," Derek retorts, his voice flat.

"Yeah, well, you met your last two girlfriends at bars, so I think it's a step up," Laura counters. Derek glares at her.

"And look at how well those turned out," Derek mutters, lips turning down in a scowl.

"Hey, I like Braeden! And you're still friends, aren't you?" Laura replies, indignant.

"You like Braden because you have a _crush_ on Braeden," Derek retorts, trying not to grimace as he remembers the one time Laura had crashed one of their almost-dates and spent the entire time making eyes at Braeden across the table.

"Shut up," Laura grumbles, hitting Derek with a throw pillow. "She's nice."

"Cora thinks she's nice too, but she doesn't try to initiate eye-sex whenever she's in the same room as Braeden," Derek argues, blocking another pillow hit with his arm and grabbing a throw pillow of his own for retaliation.

"_Fine_, you know what?" Laura says, eyeing Derek's pillow-weapon warily. "I bet you fifty bucks that I can gather the courage to ask Braeden out before you can tell Stiles…"

She trails off, her gaze fixed somewhere behind Derek's shoulder.

"Ask me what?" an all too familiar voice inquires.

"Nothing!" Derek says, practically shoving the pillow into Laura's face in an attempt to keep her from saying anything.

"Right, well, Finstock wants you to – " Stiles starts, giving Derek an odd look.

"You know what, this sounds like a really important conversation, and I really shouldn't be intruding," Laura interrupts, clapping Derek on the shoulder. "I'll leave you guys to it." She leans in close to Derek. "Don't forget the bet we have."

With that, she all but prances out of the room. Derek glares after her.

"Your sister's weird," Stiles says after a moment. "Cool, but weird."

"Take out the 'cool' part and I'm inclined to agree," Derek snorts, making Stiles crack a small smile of his own.

"It's nice to know it's not just me you're mean to," Stiles quips, moving to plop himself down on the couch next to Derek. "Is it how you show affection?"

"If it was, I'd be a lot nicer to you," Derek snorts.

"Wow, big guy, you wound me," Stiles replies. "And here I thought we had something special."

"Depends on your definition of 'special'," Derek counters, trying to focus on their banter and not how close together they're sitting.

"Ugh, whatever," Stiles huffs, rolling his eyes. "Seriously, Finstock did want me to talk to you about something, though."

"So are you actually going to tell me or do I have to go ask him myself?" Derek asks.

"Smartass," Stiles mutters. "He wanted to tell you that you need to kiss someone within the next few days."

"Kiss… someone?" Derek repeats, blinking at Stiles owlishly.

"Yeah, you know, it's a thing where you press your lips to someone else's. Sometimes there's tongue involved," Stiles replies, snark uninhibited.

"I meant _why?_" Derek huffs, folding his arms over his chest.

"I don't know. Something to do with viewership and drama," Stiles answers, shrugging. "Seriously, though, I've watched some of the other seasons and there are makeouts starting in, like, the first couple of days."

"I thought this was a dating show, not a hookup show," Derek grumbles. It's not that none of the contestants are attractive, he just has no desire to make out with someone on camera. He's not a porn star, thank you very much.

"Yeah, well, apparently a lot of people overvalue sexual compatibility, so," Stiles says. "Not that sexual compatibility isn't nice and all."

"I can find out if someone's sexually compatible with me after we start actually dating," Derek replies firmly. He tries not to think too hard about the fact that he's talking to Stiles about sexual compatibility.

"Right, but what if you get to the end of the show and there are two people you really like and you're having a hard time deciding, but then you pick one and they turn out to be a furry?" Stiles says. It comes out all in one breath. Derek's morbidly fascinated.

"Why, is anyone here a furry?" Derek asks, quirking an eyebrow at Stiles in question.

"How would I know?" Stiles retorts.

"Well, I'm not actually planning on dating anyone from the show once it's over," Derek replies, making Stiles frown.

"What about Jennifer? You seem to like her," Stiles says. There's a certain edge to his tone Derek can't quite place.

"She's nice, but I'm not sure," Derek answers, shrugging. "Cora doesn't like her, and neither does Laura."

"Huh," Stiles replies. "Well, according to Finstock, you still have to kiss someone."

"Anyone?" Derek asks.

"Well, yeah, I mean – " Stiles starts, but he's cut off when Derek leans over presses their lips together for a long moment.

"There, I kissed someone," Derek says when he pulls away.

"But that – that doesn't count!" Stiles sputters, his face turning bright red. "I'm not – "

"Um, excuse me?" Derek looks up sharply, drawing back from Stiles, to see Kira standing tentatively in the doorway.

"Kira," Derek says, heart pounding as he wonders how much she saw.

"I, uh, was wondering if I could talk to you for a moment." She glances at Stiles. "In private."

Derek opens his mouth to ask her how important it is, if they can talk about it later, but Stiles is already standing up from the couch.

"Right, I'll let you two – " He waves a hand between them vaguely. " – talk or whatever."

"I didn't mean to interrupt – " Kira starts, but Stiles cuts her off with a wave of his hand.

"Nah, it's alright. I shouldn't be here anyway," he says and walks out the door. Derek feels like he's been slapped.

"What did you need to talk to me about?" Derek finally asks, nodding for Kira to sit next to him on the couch (in Stiles' recently vacated spot).

"Right, um, so you're a really nice guy – " Kira starts. Derek gives her an unconvinced look. "No, really, you are! I like you! I just don't think that we're really, um, compatible."

"I'm not going to take offense if you point out that I'm an asshole," Derek replies, a little amused.

"Well, I mean, you kind of are, but you're nicer than people give you credit for," Kira says with a soft smile. "You've always been polite to me, along with Jennifer and Danny, and I completely understand you snapping at some of the, um…"

"More aggressive suitors?" Derek supplies, making Kira blush a little.

"Yeah," she agrees. "I just – I was in town today and I ran into the guy. Like, I literally spilled my coffee all over him, and I just…" She pauses, a slightly wistful look on her face. "I don't really believe in love at first sight, but we hit it off. He's really sweet, and I – "

"Kira, if you want to leave the show, that's fine," Derek reassures her.

"Thanks," she says, smiling shyly. "Do you think we could still be friends, though?"

"Sure," Derek replies, a little thrown by the request. He likes Kira in a friend sort of way, but he hadn't really expected the sentiment to be mutual. He hasn't exactly been at his friendliest over the past few weeks. "Do you mind if I ask who you met, though?"

"His name's Scott," Kira answers, her face brightening. "He's going to college at UC Davis and is back for the summer to work with the local veterinarian."

"Oh, Dr. Deaton?" Derek asks, nodding. "He's a good judge of character."

"Well, I'm glad to know you approve," Kira teases, nudging him with her shoulder. "I like him a lot."

"He still likes you after you dumped your coffee all over him?" Derek asks, eyebrow raised.

"Hey!" Kira protests, her face going red again. "I apologized and helped him clean up! He said it was alright."

"I'm joking," Derek huffs, but his lips twitch up into a small smile.

"Yeah, well, I expect you to, like, text me more jokes or something when we're no longer forced to be around each other twenty-four/seven, alright?" Kira tell him, her voice firm.

"Alright," Derek replies. "You go have fun with the man you're leaving me for."

"I will," she laughs. "We're having dinner tonight."

"Already?" Derek asks, surprised. "You scheduled dinner before you even told me you were leaving the show?"

"Sorry," Kira replies, sounding a little sheepish. "I have to go now, though, if I don't want to be late." She leans in and brushes a light kiss over his cheek before bouncing up from the couch. "I'll see you later!"

"Have fun!" Derek calls out after her, and she flashes him a bright smile, which Derek can't help but return.

But it slips off his face once he's alone again and Stiles' parting words come back to him.

Stiles is avoiding him. There's no other way of putting it.

Derek's been whisked around between each remaining candidate's hometown with barely enough time to breathe in between, and Stiles has been nowhere in sight. The few times Derek has managed to catch a few minutes with him Stiles has always cut it short, citing some duty or another. Derek can hear his excuses getting thinner and thinner every time.

Basically, it's time to stage an intervention.

"Oh my g – " Stiles yelps as he opens the door to his hotel room to reveal Derek standing there. Derek shoves his way inside, closing the door firmly behind him. "What the _hell_ are you doing here? Get out!"

"Not until you tell me why you've been avoiding me," Derek says, his voice unwavering. He crosses his arms over his chest, standing stock still.

"I'm not – " Stiles protests weakly, a flush rising on his cheeks. Derek shoots him an unimpressed look. "Why does it matter?"

"Besides the fact that I thought – " Derek cuts himself off. He thought what? That Stiles liked him? That they had something together?

"What, that I was down for fooling around with a guy who's about to get freaking _engaged_ to someone?" Stiles asks, slouching in on himself defensively.

"What?" Derek answers, caught off guard. "What do you mean I'm getting engaged?"

"Dude, this is kind of how these shows work," Stiles snorts, a certain bitter quality to his tone. "I mean, you don't technically have to get engaged, but you have to pick someone. That's the whole point of it."

"Well maybe I don't want any of them," Derek snaps.

"Then what the fuck _do_ you want?" Stiles yells, throwing his hands up in the air.

"_You_, alright!" Derek exclaims. "I want you."

Stiles stares at him for a moment, wide eyed and slack jawed. He finally manages a meager, "What?"

"Look, do you know what the best date I had on this trip was?" Derek asks. "When we went to the library together in Copenhagen."

"That wasn't a date," Stiles protests.

"So two people who are romantically interested in each other spending time alone together isn't a date?" Derek counters, frowning at Stiles.

"Yeah, well, I'm pretty sure that to qualify as a date, the participants have to know that it's a date beforehand," Stiles says, crossing his arms over his chest in a way that's less defensive and more like he's trying to comfort himself.

"Did you not want it to be a date, then?" Derek asks, the fight draining from his as he wonders how he'd managed to misread the situation so spectacularly.

"I mean, yeah, I do, I just – are you sure this is what you want?" Stiles replies, making Derek frown, his brow furrowing. "Danny and Jennifer are pretty amazing."

"They're not you," Derek says simply. Stiles blinks at him for a moment, gaping.

"Oh my god, that is seriously the _cheesiest_ line I've ever heard," he finally says, and although he's biting his lip to keep from smiling, he's less than successful in concealing his amusement.

"Va te faire foutre," Derek mutters, his cheeks flushing red.

"I'm pretty sure you just told me you didn't want me to va te faire foutre," Stiles replies, openly grinning now as he finally moves closer to Derek, right up in his personal space. For once, Derek doesn't mind sharing it.

"So is that a yes?" Derek asks, anticipation swirling in his gut.

"To what?" Stiles replies.

"To dating me when I finally get off this fucking show," Derek says, reaching out to place a hand on Stiles' waist.

Stiles stares at him for a moment, examining his expression carefully, before leaning in and pressing a light kiss to his lips.

"Yeah," he replies as he pulls back. "Yeah, that sounds – amazing."

"I'm warning you, I'm even more of an asshole during finals week," Derek says, rubbing small circles on Stiles' waist through his t-shirt.

"You think we're going to make it an entire semester?" Stiles asks, quirking an eyebrow at him.

"God, I hope so," Derek replies. "We at least have to get through the rest of the Star Wars trilogy together. That should take a few dates at least."

"Uh, no, that'll only take one date," Stiles counters, shooting Derek an unimpressed look. "Only the weak watch movies over a series of days instead of marathoning them."

"That'll only work if we don't get distracted," Derek murmurs before pulling Stiles in for another kiss.

He plans on learning all the best ways to distract Stiles.

It's the final day of filming and tensions are high.

For everyone but Derek, that is.

Not that he isn't a little tense, of course. Danny and Jennifer both seem nice and he doesn't think that either of them are going to go into hysterics, but, then again, he'd thought Kate was nice too. Still, as he catches Stiles' eye across the room, he can't help but smile.

"Alright, Erik! Tell me you're ready for this," Finstock booms, far too loud considering the fact that he's standing right next to Derek. Derek still finds it mildly amazing that they've been filming for over a month and Finstock still hasn't figured out his real name.

He catches a glimpse of Stiles laughing in the background. Derek glares. Stiles winks back.

"Now, we're definitely not doing any second takes," Finstock announces. "So get your emotions in order! I know you generally have the emotional range of an ice cube in the arctic, but make it count!"

The cameras start rolling and Derek realizes that he probably should have spent his time coming up with a speech instead of making out with Stiles.

Not that he regrets it all that much.

"Danny," he says. He sees Jennifer tense. "Jennifer."

He grips the rose in his hands a little tighter.

"You both seem like wonderful people," he continues, trying to think of something more polite to say than 'you're just not my type.' "But I'm afraid that this rose isn't for either of you."

Derek's pretty sure the only reason the entire crew hasn't started murmuring is because they cameras are still rolling.

"This rose is for Stiles," he finishes, and all of the cameras swivel with his gesture.

Stiles is staring at him, wide eyed, with half a doughnut sticking out of his mouth.

"Oh my god, you _asshole!_" Stiles squawks, his face going bright red. "I already said yes!"

Derek grins and dodges the other half of Stiles' doughnut.


	119. (T) JAGISA - Butterfly Wings by garbage

Butterfly Wings  
garbagecannot

Summary:  
It seems like a terrible thing to say, but Nagisa doesn't think he even knew Jataro existed until a couple of days ago.

* * *

Jataro Kemuri is an enigma.

He's been that way since the first day of high school; lingering at the back of the classroom with a leather mask pulled over his face, and screwdrivers in his hands where pencils for schoolwork should be. He never really speaks to anyone without being spoken to, and whenever he does say something it rarely seems to make any sense beyond the pure ramblings of a small child. But he is 15, like the rest of them, and it grows more concerning as time passes on.

At first, the teachers had pestered him about it, even more so than the students ever did, but it all faded with the passing days - when they realized that the mystery is all just part of who he is, and some things are simply better to be left alone.

And it seems that Jataro is always, always seen alone.

Perhaps it's the mask, or the stunted way he talks. Perhaps it's because he paints such beautiful pictures, but shakes whenever he needs to write a sentence, or trips constantly when he needs to play a sport (if you could call flailing movements and getting hit by flying balls a sport).

But perhaps it is none of those things at all.

In the end, Jataro's presence is simply a very small one indeed. He draws eyes to him only on first appearance; and then they forget. He's just 'that one strange kid' or 'that one quiet kid'. Always reduced to a jumble of adjectives or names or nouns. He's almost insignificant, in the grand scheme of things.

It seems like a terrible thing to say, but Nagisa doesn't think he even knew Jataro existed until a couple of days ago. It was when he witnessed the guy being the subject of ridicule, to which Jataro responded with such delight that his bullies fled in confusion, that he first truly took notice of the other young man.

It had caught him off-guard, initially, as he wondered who that weird, scrawny kid was - and it was to his surprise when he entered his mathematics classroom to see the same student seated in the far back corner, drawing on the desk.

"Are you in this class?" Nagisa had blurted without thinking, crossing his arms and tapping his foot as if the other student had been in the wrong.

The boy had looked up, bright eyes curious behind that thick mask of his, and had tipped his head to the side in question. "Are you ... talking to me?"

"Are you dense?" He sighed, but lightly, as to not offend the other; though it looked like it was impossible _to _offend him, from what he had seen. "You're the only other person here."

"Oh ... sorry. I'm not used to people talking to me. Sometimes it makes me wonder if crickets really live underground or do they blend in with the grass when they chirp? The world may never know."

Nagisa blinked, entirely lost as to where on earth the guy could have pulled crickets out of their conversation. "What are you talking about?" He asked, with a frown setting in his features. "That doesn't make any sense."

That was met with a shrug of shoulders, and a stretching of sleeves over pale hands. "Ah, well, I guess you don't know, then? That's okay. I don't know either. But if I was to catch a cricket, then I would still never know, right? Because it would be with me, and not in the ground where it should be..."

"Anyway, you didn't answer my question."

"You asked me a question?"

"I asked if you were in this class."

"I am." He smiles, albeit a little shyly. "I don't expect you to remember someone as hated as me, Shingetsu-kun. In fact, feel free to hate me all the same."

"You know my name." It's more of a statement than a question. Nagisa feels a little guilty for not knowing the other's.

"Ah, well, would you prefer for me to call you Nagisa? It's a nice name. It reminds me of butterfly wings. I wonder if butterfly wings are thinner than paper or not?"

* * *

His interest in Jataro only grows as time goes by. It's nothing beyond curiosity, mind you, but after mentioning the name one time too many - Nagisa accidentally get his friends involved in his conquests to gather intel on the isolated artist; with both Kotoko and Masaru making unnecessary comments the whole way through.

"I wonder if he's got like, burn scars or something?" Kotoko muses aloud, tapping a finger to her chin in a gesture of deep thoughts. "Or maybe he's bald! Or has worms in his hair?"

"That's totally gross," Masaru wrinkles his nose, kicking his legs up on Nagisa's desk. "I bet he just has some really ugly tattoo or something!"

"Like yours?" Kotoko teases.

"Hey! Uncalled for! My tattoo is mega cool!"

"You literally have a red star on your shoulder. That is neither cool nor necessary. Now get off my desk."

"Shut up, Nagisa!" Masaru puffs out his cheeks, but obeys anyway, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair. "You're no fun."

"Your definition of fun is throwing my book onto the ground and yelling, 'well, now we both can't read'. I hardly think you're one to talk."

Kotoko snickers, "What the heck, Masaru? You can totally read, anyway, so the jokes wasted?"

"Shut up," he grumbles, puffing out his cheeks. "You guys are just jealous of how great I am."

"Totally." Kotoko agrees with a tinge of sarcasm, rolling her eyes.

* * *

They don't really interact much, but Jataro and Nagisa slowly establish some sort of quiet communication during class, and if he notices how the artist is slowly paying more attention in class he doesn't say a word about it. It would be good for his grades, and that was the important thing.

But somewhere along the lines, when Nagisa isn't taking excessive notes, or trying to placate the class president Monaka's wishes, they sit in companionable silence and work together.

Jataro talks sometimes, and Nagisa listens.

If that constitutes as friendship, he thinks, then they would already be well on the path of becoming good friends.

Although, he's now aware that half the time, Jataro doesn't even think he's paying attention to what he's saying anymore, and he goes on some strange rambles. It would be amusing, if it didn't make him feel like he was missing something. Nagisa kind of likes the random trivia, but it gets a little morbid when he least expects it.

In any case, he supposes one day he just realizes that they're closer than he remembered.

Gradually, Nagisa begins to start their conversations, and it's a surprise to many in class when he willingly chooses to invite Jataro to join their little ragtag crew. He accepts after a total of 5 tries; innocently assuming that nobody would want him around anyway.

Masaru now greets him with a punch to the shoulder every day. Pranks get popular between these two, especially because the redhead is always ready to shoulder the blame and then point fingers later (for the laughs and for the prospect of being challenged to a fight or whatever Masaru Daimons liked to do, Nagisa supposes).

Kotoko tries to order him around. Sometimes they draw stuff together though, and she manages to convince Jataro to join her on the team for the school play; as nobody could make props quite as effectively as he.

Monaka, when she's not busy flouncing around other friendship groups, generally chooses to make him happy with that odd sort of reverse psychology; where negativity turns to positivity in Jataro's eyes, and so, once again, Monaka is clearly attuned to everyone's emotions. How thoughtful of her.

So then it's fine to call it friendship at that point. And Nagisa is just glad it turned out okay in the end.

* * *

But sooner or later, of course, they all begin to question the mask.

It's not the casual guessing like before. Not now, because they know Jataro better and he isn't shy in the slightest, even when he pretends to be.

Nagisa remembers almost getting a heart attack when Masaru dared him to yell 'Masaru Daimon is the best' from the tree in the schoolyard, and Jataro actually went to do it, before Kotoko told him not to tell lies and pulled him back.

So naturally, the question arose - what did he hide behind the mask and why?

"Nothing," was a common response.

Gross descriptions of a melting candle, the face of an alien and a lumpy loaf of meat were others.

The question eventually faded over time though, when everyone just decided the mask was as good as his face was ever going to get, so it was fine to just leave him be.

But friends were friends, and it was bound to come to light eventually.

And it's possibly the absolute opposite of what he - or anyone else - had been expecting.

Beneath the worn leather mask, Jataro Kemuri is, in a word, beautiful.

The three of them discover purely by chance. Masaru got detention for throwing his schoolbag onto the roof in order to get out of class. Kotoko got detention for climbing onto the roof to get it back. Nagisa just decided to stand there, and he got detention for 'not stopping them'. Seriously. Hope's Peak needed to sort out their priorities.

So it's half an hour after school on a Friday when they see Jataro's face for the first time.

Nagisa's mind goes completely blank at a single glance at that face of his; but the social studies prodigy doesn't realize this until it is too late.

Jataro stares, and the shock can finally be seen written across his entire countenance.

He blinks back at Nagisa in the most curious way, lashes feathering across softly defined cheekbones, framing silver eyes full of such life and innocence that it's hard to believe that this is the same mysterious person he'd been intrigued by all semester. The same young man who garnered names like 'turtle head' and 'bag face'. The same one he invited into his friendship group, and could tolerate his scolding to do homework.

Masaru and Kotoko's jaws visibly drop, and Nagisa immediately steps on Masaru's foot to stop him from saying something stupid.

"Ah… you guys saw…" A frown plays across Jataro's lips, as he reaches back to retrieve his mask. "You see... it's horrible! Isn't it? Just by seeing my face, your eyeballs will melt off... I'm sorry you had to witness such a horrifying sight."

"What is wrong with you?!" Cries Kotoko, and Nagisa just refrains from hissing at her.

"No way! He's so pretty!" She whispers, loud in the silent room. Masaru nods in agreement.

"I'm going home," Jataro says quickly, covering his face and speeding out of the classroom. "I-if the teacher comes, can you tell them I was busy? Or, well, you don't have to. It's fine if I get in trouble again… maybe they'll even wanna call my parents… hehe…"

"Have a nice night." Nagisa says.

"Bye bye, cutie-pie." Kotoko chirps, already doing a heel-face turn from the big bully act she so liked to pull. Clearly this unsettled more than just Jataro, as while he's fled the room, Nagisa and Masaru just give her this _look_. "What?" She asks, tipping her head to the side. "You gotta admit he's cute."

None of them say anything. She's not wrong, after all.

* * *

Nagisa has never been a fan of people – take Masaru for example – who often take pride in 'seeing things first', or 'getting things first', or simply 'knowing that thing before it was popular'. It's silly, and he knows it, but he despises the thought of superiority coming from simply 'being first' to find out. That was all up to chance. He'd always preferred the certainties in life.

But knowing Masaru, he brags up a storm.

If Jataro was only being mildly harassed before, it got a whole lot worse. Yet strangely enough, it goes in a completely bizarre direction that nobody could have predicted.

He gets confessions.

Is it the prospect of being mysterious, Nagisa wonders as he watches Jataro fumble with another letter and have no idea what to do with it, or is it just high schoolers being grade schoolers again?

Sometimes, Jataro lets him read the letters, and they're really just… embarrassing, frankly.

Most of the time it ranges from idiots waxing poetic about how _beauty comes from within_, to the blunt _you have pretty eyes so I bet the rest of you is pretty too, _and even the occasional _I want to pick you up and carry you off into the sunset, my love_. The final ones are the worst. He knows how easy it would be to just pick Jataro up - but those were borderline threats of kidnapping.

It's not like everyone's even seen his face either, but Kotoko helps Masaru spread rumors – and those two, along with Monaka, being alarmingly popular, just get their words believed at face-value. Kotoko seems to get the biggest kick out of it, being a total sucker for gossip, and sometimes asks if she can pin some of the letters to the billboard.

Jataro says no, because he doesn't want to humiliate the person who's written it.

It's sweet, if the underlying reason didn't read as he'd _'rather be the one humiliated because everybody hates him anyway._'

But whatever, Nagisa thinks, it's not really any of his business.

* * *

Against his own nature, he gets jealous.

Why he would get jealous of those creepy letters or those weird looks is beyond him.

Hitting 16, and then turning 17 must have made him hyper-aware of these sorts of things, Nagisa reasons, especially since nowadays he gets his own confessions and he's no good at that whole love business so he can't ever accept any of them. The attention is nice, but he's just Nagisa. He doesn't want to disappoint anyone who's built him up to be some suave prince of romance, or someone who will help them pass their final exams in exchange for public displays of affection. That's just not his game.

Masaru has probably dated everyone at this point - everyone outside their friendship circle at least - but Nagisa doesn't really question it. They're all growing up in different ways, and it's not like he's the star athlete's father. Nor would he want to be. Masaru's father is an asshole.

Perhaps what actually triggered this change was the concept of growing up.

Kotoko and Monaka have matured too, though they had a dispute at 16 that formed a rift in their friendship that never quite healed, and Jataro's taller, and certainly less reserved, but he's never seen sitting alone anymore and Nagisa is glad for it.

So why on earth is he jealous?

"Are you okay?" Jataro confronts him about it one day, having grown attuned to Nagisa's emotions during the past two years and eventually noticing something was up. He may not understand what's going on, but he'd certainly try, and in a way, Nagisa wishes he wouldn't.

"I'm fine, just... tired."

The artist pulls a face. "Oh, that's not nice. Did your parents make you pull an all-nighter again?"

"No. And don't give me that look."

"Say, do you wanna hear what happened to me today?"

"Are you going to give me a choice?" Nagisa smiles wryly.

"No," Jataro grins. "Y'know I finally managed to make a tower out of those letters, by the way! It's in the art room, if you want to see it, maybe you don't, whatever, anyway, but uh, that's not what I was going to talk about..."

He suppresses whatever ill feelings he may hold towards the letters and smiles again. "Congratulations."

"Hehe, it's nothing much... oh yeah!" The artist chuckles, waving his arms for emphasis. "I'm going to make a new mask! That's what I was going to tell you. And now I've forgotten what I was going to say about today... ugh... remind me later, I'm not going to remember it now. It's like that time with the bicycle..."

Nagisa gestures to his face, attention caught by this new tidbit of information. "Your ... that mask?"

"Yeah," Jataro comes back on track, blinking his bright eyes. "It's been really stuffy for a long time, and I guess I just had to ask my mom if I could change it? And she said it was fine, as long as I did all the work myself and never bothered her about it again. And I said yeah! Okay! That's fine! You wouldn't want to see me around anyway! So yeah! I'm making a new one."

"Is that ... the only reason?" He peers imploringly at the other boy. "You've been wearing that since forever."

"It's the only reason, sorta?" He giggles. "It's not like I care that much, but next year's our last year so I thought I might as well. And maybe someone told me I should? And it got me thinking, that hey, even if I don't listen to a lot of the things people say -"

"Someone told you to?"

"I _do _read all the letters, you know," He rolls his eyes, "Even if some of them are almost as much a piece of garbage that I am."

That's new. He'd assumed Jataro had never cared about the letters, but now he's changing because of one? Against his will, Nagisa feels the jealousy twist in his gut. Even he couldn't get Jataro to do things just by saying the word. Though, now that he thinks about it, Jataro often endeavored to stay out of trying to aggravate him anyway. That was Kotoko and Masaru's jobs.

"It's your mask." He shrugs, nonchalant.

"You're right." Jataro beams, fingering the strip of fabric falling off the mask he's already wearing. "You're definitely right."

* * *

Jataro's new mask draws way too much attention.

His mouth and jawline, and pretty much the entirety of his face from the tip of the nose down is suddenly on full display - and even if it's not supposed to, Nagisa (and Kotoko and Masaru and Monaka make the same comment) feels like it's a little too revealing.

It's stupid, but the fact that he's suddenly realized that even the lower half of Jataro's face is actually kind of attractive on its own makes him cringe both internally and externally; especially because it finally enables him to recognize the source of his long-suffering jealousy.

He likes him. Likes the boy who related his name to butterfly wings (though they had no relation whatsoever). Likes the boy who is gorgeous behind the mask but hates to show it off. Likes the boy who talks too much, and creates beautiful works of art.

And now he knows, he knows that he is also screwed.

Now, it is not only because Nagisa is famously bad at hiding his emotions.

He's good at avoiding questions (maybe), but faced with the dilemma of _bottle it up forever _or _tell Jataro eventually_, Nagisa chooses option c - which is _freak the hell out._

Masaru is the first to notice, and obviously, because it's Masaru, he makes it a big deal. Or a bigger deal than before.

"What's got your panties in a twist?" The conversation starts, ever the most eloquent.

"Leave me alone." Nagisa tells him, flipping through his textbook but not quite processing what he's reading.

"I think something's bothering you," the redhead sings obnoxiously, getting right up into Nagisa's personal space until he bops him on the head with the book.

"I think you should mind your own business."

"It can't be your grades," Masaru croons, "Your grades are always perfect. Is it your hair? Your lack of my greatness? Your heart?"

"None of the above." He grits his teeth, but the reddening of his cheeks is all Masaru needs to catch the fish and reel it in.

"Oooh, Nagisa, are you in loooove?"

Nagisa doesn't miss the "about damn time" that his friend mutters either, but chooses not to call him out on it. He could attack Masaru's love life later, maybe when the athlete decided to finally take his relationships seriously, as he's been avoiding for quite some time now.

"I'm not going to say this again. Mind your own business."

"So you are!" Masaru grins like he's won the lottery and leans over his desk without invitation. "Who is it?"

"No."

"It seriously took you this long! Why can't you tell me?"

"B-because you're wrong."

"You stuttered."

"No, I didn't!"

"You know, Nagisa, if you were gay for me -"

Nagisa bops him with the book again, and frowns. "I am _not_."

"Chill, man," he raises his hands in surrender. "It was a joke. Kotoko, then?"

"No. I am not playing 'guess who' with you."

"Monaka?"

"Masaru, I already told you not to - "

"I'm just messin' with ya," The athlete grins, a little too wide for comfort. Nagisa narrows his eyes suspiciously. "I know who you're into, pal. You've been into her since 10th grade."

"W-what?"

"Hatsune Miku, right?" Masaru winks, and then gets hit again and glares at Nagisa. "Hey! Can't you take a joke?!"

"If you're going to be annoying, then leave."

"As I said," Masaru clears his throat, scowl still gracing his features. "I was just messin' with ya. I just know you can't deal with this on your own, so I thought I'd lighten the mood."

"I can deal better than you can." Nagisa sighs.

"But I know you'll never be able to say your problems out loud until it's too late." The redhead echoes his sigh, scratching his cheek. "You like Jataro, don't you?"

Nagisa stills, feeling his face heat involuntarily all the way to the tips of his ears. Dammit.

"I... it's not like I... what are you..."

"Shh, Nagisa. Don't start." Masaru crosses his arms. "Don't even question me. The great Masaru Daimon knows all."

"Well, now that the great Masaru Daimon has sufficiently made his friend uncomfortable, can he get out?"

"Ouch, Nagisa. Wow."

"... sorry."

The redhead only laughs. Then, raising Nagisa's suspicions, he winks. "I don't care what's going on in that big brain of yours, man. But if you gotta do any explaining, go explain to Jataro." He jerks his thumb to the door with a grin. "Go on, lover boy. Stop doubting yourself, and just do it."

He hates that he's listening to Masaru of all people, but he stands, and accepts the pat on the back begrudgingly. Nagisa doesn't want to fuel his ego either, so he doesn't exactly thank the athlete for the support, but he knows Masaru gets it, because the redhead winks again and pushes him towards the classroom exit.

Which opens by itself, and Jataro trips in through the door.

"W-wait, hold on a sec - " the artist twirls and calls behind him, but a flash of pink hair is all Nagisa sees, before the door closes behind him and peals of laughter can be heard in the corridor. Nagisa's eyes flicker back to where Masaru was standing, but damn his stupid P.E. skills, the redhead has already somehow made it out the window and is running towards the school entrance, arms raised in joy. "Oh," Jataro whispers. "There they go."

Nagisa's gaze meets his, and he raises an eyebrow. "Kotoko?"

"Yeah..." Jataro nods. "She was gonna lock me in a closet, actually... but then, she said something came up, and I just let her drag me here because I thought...! Well, never mind. I'm here. And you're here."

"Is the door locked?"

Jataro shuffles his feet. "Well, I'm standing in front of it?"

"So you're not going to let me out until you get something out of this conversation?"

"I, uh..." the artist averts his gaze. "Heard. What Masaru said. Earlier..."

Nagisa feels his face heating up all over again. This could not be healthy. "Oh, that."

"I know you didn't exactly _agree _to it, but... can I just ask you directly?" He looks uncharacteristically nervous. "I know... I shouldn't assume things, but for some reason, my heart felt like it was going to jump out of my ribcage, so I thought maybe I should just settle this? Do you like me, Nagisa?"

"U-uh, like, that is, if you put it that way..." he trails off, not trusting his own voice. This is not the conversation he wants to be having right now. Or ever. It was easier when he could just freak out about it on his own.

"Ah, but I'm pretty unlikable, huh?" Jataro tips his head to the side, loose locks of sandy hair slipping out through his mask. "Forget about it, maybe I should just -"

"I, I, no, wait, hold on, just let me," Nagisa holds up a hand, trying to sort his words out and for gods' sake, stop stuttering. "There's really... no easy way to go about this."

"You could always say that you hate me..." Jataro's eyes seem to light up a little, but it's not the same flare as usual.

"No, no, that's not it. I... I do, I like you. I mean. I just. I don't know..." Great explanation. Gold star for trying.

"Nagisa." With a firm tone of voice, Jataro says, almost out of place, "Do things the way you want to. I trust you, y'know? Even if you wanted to turn me into roadkill, I -"

"Jataro, that's beside the point."

"Whoops, hehe, sorry..."

A moment of silence passes.

"Can I... do you mind if I..." Nagisa takes a deep breath, trying to keep his sentences coherent. "Do you mind if I ask you the same question? Do you like me?"

"Oh," Jataro blinks owlishly. "Of course I do. I like you more than anyone else in the world."

The other chokes, hiding his face in his hands. "Do you have to be so blunt?"

"I'm just being honest. What's wrong?"

"I think... this form of 'like'..."

Jataro cackles. "You're just... it's like... wow. I didn't think I'd know more about something than you would, ever, but here it is! Huh... this is weird...! You are surprisingly innocent, even though you read the things that you do...!"

"W-what do you mean?"

"Let's just say," the artist grins, "I've learnt a lot more than I should have through those letters, hehehe. And I'd say, I like you in a number of really, really complex ways! So I don't mind, when I say do whatever you want. I mean it. Do whatever you want! Whatever you want is fine."

Nagisa swallows, hoping Jataro is well aware how his phrasing would sound to the average person. But with the mischievous smile on the artist's face, he can't really doubt it.

"I think... I do, like you, I mean." Nagisa breathes, aware of how elementary the words sound from his mouth. This is harder than he thought. "I wouldn't mind ... going out with? Dating? You. Uh, yeah, no, sorry, that probably doesn't make any sense, but..."

"Mm," Jataro hums. "You drew a big long circle, but you got there in the end! Okay, I guess that's fine then. I like you, so I'll go out with you if you can stand me. And if you can't... you can take my original idea and turn me into -"

"I am no turning you into roadkill. Nor am I ever turning you into roadkill. Now stop bringing that up, you're ruining the mood."

"There's a mood?"

"Jataro, just - just hold still for a second."

He can't bring himself to kiss the other - oh god, Nagisa you're just about 18, what the hell is this - so he just brings him into a hug, but Jataro seems pleasantly surprised, so maybe that's okay. They can take it easy, just like they've always done.

"I like your hugs," the artist murmurs. "And I like you."

"Same," Nagisa replies softly, still a little embarrassed that his first choice action was a hug.

"I'm kinda - kinda glad. Even though someone like me doesn't deserve this... from the very start, you made me feel like... I mattered... to someone. Sorry, it probably sounds pathetic... I should just sew my mouth shut and stop talking..."

"No, I'm... glad, too. You're important to me, and I'm happy that I met you." He knows his face is probably burning beyond help by now, but he feels like it has to be said. Even if it's just once, he has to say how he really feels. And when Jataro squeezes him closer, his chest feels light. "Say, do you remember what you said when we first met? About my name?"

"About... about the butterfly wings?"

"Yes." He smiles. "I think, in the end, they suit you more than they suit me."

"I don't understand what you mean..."

"It's okay. Just accept it for now. Maybe one day I'll find the words to tell you what I mean."

Jataro laughs. "In a letter?"

"Well." He rolls his eyes. "Maybe, in a letter."


End file.
